Post by Archer, Frankie J. on Oct 29, 2015 20:57:07 GMT
Gibson Pass hadn’t been a particularly dangerous route to travel. The going wasn’t easy, but compared to the journey they had endured thus far from Minnesota, a few rocky hills were nothing to complain about. It had been two days since the last time the 32nd Light Rifles had encountered a hell bug, and nearly two weeks since the last skirmish with Irathients. They were almost there. A few more miles and they would be making contact with the citizens of Defiance, and starting what would hopefully become a trading partnerships that benefited both sides. They just had to make it in one piece.
From his spot atop a hill over looking the long stretch of woodland that separated Gibson Pass from the Rymer Plateau the young sniper could see any trouble that may have been on the horizon. The high powered scope on his rifle flicked from one spot to the next in an attempt to identify any snipers or lookouts occupying the obvious areas within sight. His spotter, a truly intimidating woman by the name of Archer lay beside him on the rough dusty ground, doing here part to keep an eye out for anything dangerous.
The rest of their squad was split between two armored rollers slowly making their way down toward the woodland path that led to Defiance. They were heavily armed and well trained, but it would be up to Thomas and Frankie Archer to make sure nothing caught them off guard. It was a high stress job, but one they had both had to do many times in the past. At this point, it was as easy as breathing. A low exhale escaped his dry cracked lips as he switched to another location a few hundred meters away. It was hot under his camouflaged blanket, much hotter than he was used to up north, and played havoc with his concentration. He had been out here for two days already, and if he didn’t get to shoot something soon, he was liable to be put in a worse mood than he already was.
Had the earth not been terraformed the arch of Defiance would be in sight. Instead it was hidden behind hill formations. Frankie was curious to see what kind of terrain surrounded the town. That is to say what natural protection the town had.
As she rested her face in her hands, her fingers held the binoculars to her eyes. Archer and Doherty had scouted forward of the 32nd two days prior, communicating activity every few hours. Since the squad had disembarked from Minno the trail had been clear save a hellbug and some spirit riders. At this spot they'd been scanning for an hour.
It seemed quiet but Archer's gut told her something was out there. They waited patiently. The feelings Frankie got never failed and it was only a matter of time. The squad rolled over a trail saddle about a mile behind the two. The vehicles could barely be heard at that distance but it was enough to alert a group of badlanders. One stirred in his hiding spot, two, three, another, and four more were ready to ambush and rob anybody that would have travelled that road.
Lying to Doherty's right, Archer whispered what she observed as the badlanders betrayed their positions, "Target. One-nine-zero meters. Under that purple fuckin bush. Target five meters behind. Opposite side of the road near the tree... I see three. Five, six. I see eight targets, Sir," Archer kept her eyes fixed on them through the binocs while one hand used her comm system to radio the rest of the team, "Three-Two, Forward. Opposition ahead. Slow your approach."
“Copy,” replied Thomas calmly. He shifted his weight enough to bring the targets she had called out into view, making careful note of each enemy’s position. The rollers that the rest of the 32nd were on were quickly approaching the bandits, but he still had time to plan out his shots. A lot of work went into training a sniper. You had to learn to compensate for wind, for barometric pressure and temperature variations. Hell, if you were making a long enough shot the rotation of the planet could throw your bullet several meters off target even if everything else was done right. Thomas had that knowledge, he had the practice, but most importantly he had the patience to plan his movements and make sure that one shot truly could equal one kill. At one hundred and ninety meters much of the calculations were removed from the equation. His rifle had a high powered scope, and was firing military grade ammunition. An amateur could make that shot, and Thomas Doherty was no amateur. He was a Light Rifle, and proud of it.
He placed the crosshair of his scope at the bottom of his targets throat and squeezed the trigger. The rifle barked a short angry report, and all hell broke loose on the ground across from them. Thomas knew his rifle, he knew the terrain and he knew about the parabolic arch that affected his weapon at this range. At this range, aiming down, his bullet was going to rise four or five inches. The crosshairs were aimed low, but the bullet still tore through the right eye of a bandit carrying a light machine gun. The wound didn’t look terrible from where Thomas was laying, but he knew from experience that the back of the mans skull was in ruin.
Thomas was already cycling to his next target before the body hit the ground. He had started at the back, picking off the bandits that were farther away and easier to spot. During WW1 an Army Corporal named Alvin York silenced thirty machine gun nests and captured 130 German soldiers. Single handedly, and armed only with a basic rifle. Thomas had always liked that story, and tried to adopt the simple tactics that York had whenever the opportunity allowed. Kill the men in the back, and the enemy won’t realize how much they’d lost until it was too late.
Of course, with their only being six enemies, and no loud machineguns to mask his rifle, they caught on pretty quick. The man closest to the first target turned around and stared at his friend in disbelief before a round from Thomas’ semi-automatic rifle ripped through his spine and chest. Thomas wasn’t bothering with fancy headshots, his weapon killed just as effectively punching through organs and bone as it did brain matter.
By the time the second bandit fell to the ground the other had caught on to what was happening. They opened fire with submachine guns and pistols, spraying at the surrounding hilltops blindly as they broke for cover. It was stupid move. The 32nd members on the rollers spotted them easily as they ran for it and opened up with the light machinegun they had mounted on the lead vehicle. Two more went down before the rest scattered into the underbrush.
The rollers managed to pass by the poorly staged ambush without much difficulty after that, the light machinegun firing short bursts into the tree's for good measure, but Thomas and Frankie were still stranded on the hilltop. They were hidden of course, but couldn’t afford to move in case the bandits were still watching from the forest across from them. That was fine. After all, Thomas was a patient man.
“Confirmed four hostiles down,” stated Thomas quietly as he searched for movement in the underbrush across from them. “Eye’s on the other two?” he asked plainly. This might have been exciting to some people. But to professional soldiers, it was just another day on the job.
If the range was farther out Archer would have assisted the sniper with specific adjustments. Under approximately 300 meters Doherty was perfectly capable of making the shots without any guidance.
While he fired on two bandits Archer did her best to track the others. The two Snow Ghosts stayed perfectly still as rounds peppered the hill. Archer was confident, 'You don't know where we are.' To the badlanders there could have been one; there could have been one hundred. Archer and Doherty were camoflaged so well it was impossible to be sure. When the 32nd opened fire and neutralized two more Archer kept count and locations of all EIGHT enemies, "One-seven meters beyond the road. Five meters out. Pattern right... Pattern right."
Archer watched each round kill each target while the mounted gun faded slightly. When the area was clear she felt it. She rose to a knee and stored her binocs then roughly rolled her blanket before stuffing it into her backsack she was laying on.
"Forward, Three-Two. We're coming back to swoop you."
Archer touched the radio that she preferred to fasten directly under the front of her neck. Instead of it being on a shoulder to one side, Frankie liked it almost right in front of her mouth, "Copy." Was her acknowledging response.
Her gun had a sling on it which was looped snugly around her right shoulder. It could hang there comfortably without bothering her or getting snagged. Her sidearm rested in a dropleg holster on her right thigh. Her blade lived in its sheath on the waistband horizontally behind her lower back.
Frankie was adapted to colder climates. She was glad they would only be in Defiance for but a few days. She'd already begun to experience the awful heat rash needles on her back. There are still things that will humble a person.
The sniper listened intently to his spotters directions, his body moving mechanically as he sighted in the next target. There was little wind thanks to the over abundance of vegetation, and his bullets were heavy enough to compensate for what remained. His weapon discharged again tearing through the small branch of tree he couldn't readily identify. The branch exploded into several thousand splinters before tumbling to the ground, the round that hit it remained on target, slamming into the back of a fleeing bandit Frankie had called out and blowing a hole the size of Thomas' fist out of his chest. The sniper didn't need to see the bandits front to know what kind of damage the target had suffered. Men all tended to respond the same way to military ordnance.
He caught the majority of the conversation that took place between Frankie and the rest of the 32nd, but his blue eyes were still focused intently on the wood line. He barely noticed flash of red from beneath the leaves and attempted to bring his magnified scope to bear on the source. Not one, but two bandits were sprinting through the underbrush.
'Son of a bitch.' He thought to himself.
Frankie was to good to mess up a count. She was a solid spotter, whereas Thomas just put holes in things. The several days sleep deprivation had apparently effected him more than he thought, and now he had no idea how many more targets were out there. Sadly, that wasn't his biggest concern, the rocket launcher on the bandits shoulder was. It was hard to tell from here exactly what the weapons capabilities were. The Votans had brought so much tech, and the humans had tried to compensate with such enthusiasm that a shoulder operated munition could have literally any kind of payload.
Fortunately Thomas knew how to handle this complicated situation, and it started with chambering another round. He sighted in his target, he emptied his lungs, and right as he squeezed the trigger the second bandit stopped walking and placed himself in the way of the shot. The round hit him in the shoulder, blowing it to ribbons in a puff of red mist. The round carried through of course, but not to where it should have. Instead of striking the rocketeer in the chest center mass, it struck him in the side, taking a good portion of his abdomen with it. But not enough to kill him on the spot. Both bandits fell to the ground, but the one with the rocket recognized the direction the shot had come from. He leveled the large weapon at Thomas' location, and Thomas put another through his skull.
Whether due to luck or skill, the bandit still managed to launch the munition. The rocket flew launched into the air in a stream of grey smoke towards them, but to high to be of any real threat. Up until it exploded.
"Incoming!" bellowed Thomas as he sprung to his feet. It was dispenser, a rocket designed to rain smaller droplet munitions over an area. The weapon had detonated high, giving them a few moments to vacate their area and make it to the other side of the hill. He just hoped there weren't more bandits around to notice their retreat.
Archer had only enough time to grip some fabric of her backsack and bolt in the direction of their predetermined fallback position. The weapon detonated a few meters above and behind them, close enough to ring the ears. The forward patrol team Archer and Doherty were quick enough to avoid the majority of the high velocity langrage. A small sharp piece caught Archer in the right elbow, “Mmgh!” The injury was going to affect her effectiveness using all her weapons. It would take at least a week for a full recovery. She was just glad to keep her arm.
Frankie used her hailer updating the 32nd, “Three-Two, Forward. Known hostiles eliminated. How copy?”
“By five, Forward. Good shooting. Area hostiles as you say. Thirty seconds.”
“Copy. Two-nine seconds.” She acknowledged.
A few seconds ago the air echoed with gunfire and yelling. Now it was quiet with only the sound of the 32nd’s rollers on approach and the sounds of the native wildlife in whatever form nearby. Taking a breather and a second to pat down the dust and debris from the explosion, Frankie kept her left hand pressed hard on the wound sustained to the back of her right elbow, “Son of a bitch.” It wasn’t extremely serious; it just hurt and bled a little. The sweat that was already on her skin made it barely sting. The only thing that really hurt her was the temporary loss of the use of her right arm for most tasks.
After remounting the rollers, Archer changed sides with her sidearm holster, shotgun sling, and knife sheath. Thanks to her ambidexterity, she was just as capable with her left hand and eye as she was with her preferred right. The forward patrol team usually rode in the lead roller. As both vehicles navigated the road toward Defiance, Archer absently observed the surrounding terrain while conducting a forward team ‘debrief’ with Doherty, “…and no roller that I saw. Some hardcore badlanders, Sir, lugging RPGs around.” She humored. Her jokes had a flavor of her own, rather dry and without a grin. When she joked with others, only the 32nd really knew. They were used to her delivery and context. Her years with the Light Rifles have weathered her too much for smiles and laughter. Children were the only kind able to make her smile and laugh.
From his spot atop a hill over looking the long stretch of woodland that separated Gibson Pass from the Rymer Plateau the young sniper could see any trouble that may have been on the horizon. The high powered scope on his rifle flicked from one spot to the next in an attempt to identify any snipers or lookouts occupying the obvious areas within sight. His spotter, a truly intimidating woman by the name of Archer lay beside him on the rough dusty ground, doing here part to keep an eye out for anything dangerous.
The rest of their squad was split between two armored rollers slowly making their way down toward the woodland path that led to Defiance. They were heavily armed and well trained, but it would be up to Thomas and Frankie Archer to make sure nothing caught them off guard. It was a high stress job, but one they had both had to do many times in the past. At this point, it was as easy as breathing. A low exhale escaped his dry cracked lips as he switched to another location a few hundred meters away. It was hot under his camouflaged blanket, much hotter than he was used to up north, and played havoc with his concentration. He had been out here for two days already, and if he didn’t get to shoot something soon, he was liable to be put in a worse mood than he already was.
Had the earth not been terraformed the arch of Defiance would be in sight. Instead it was hidden behind hill formations. Frankie was curious to see what kind of terrain surrounded the town. That is to say what natural protection the town had.
As she rested her face in her hands, her fingers held the binoculars to her eyes. Archer and Doherty had scouted forward of the 32nd two days prior, communicating activity every few hours. Since the squad had disembarked from Minno the trail had been clear save a hellbug and some spirit riders. At this spot they'd been scanning for an hour.
It seemed quiet but Archer's gut told her something was out there. They waited patiently. The feelings Frankie got never failed and it was only a matter of time. The squad rolled over a trail saddle about a mile behind the two. The vehicles could barely be heard at that distance but it was enough to alert a group of badlanders. One stirred in his hiding spot, two, three, another, and four more were ready to ambush and rob anybody that would have travelled that road.
Lying to Doherty's right, Archer whispered what she observed as the badlanders betrayed their positions, "Target. One-nine-zero meters. Under that purple fuckin bush. Target five meters behind. Opposite side of the road near the tree... I see three. Five, six. I see eight targets, Sir," Archer kept her eyes fixed on them through the binocs while one hand used her comm system to radio the rest of the team, "Three-Two, Forward. Opposition ahead. Slow your approach."
“Copy,” replied Thomas calmly. He shifted his weight enough to bring the targets she had called out into view, making careful note of each enemy’s position. The rollers that the rest of the 32nd were on were quickly approaching the bandits, but he still had time to plan out his shots. A lot of work went into training a sniper. You had to learn to compensate for wind, for barometric pressure and temperature variations. Hell, if you were making a long enough shot the rotation of the planet could throw your bullet several meters off target even if everything else was done right. Thomas had that knowledge, he had the practice, but most importantly he had the patience to plan his movements and make sure that one shot truly could equal one kill. At one hundred and ninety meters much of the calculations were removed from the equation. His rifle had a high powered scope, and was firing military grade ammunition. An amateur could make that shot, and Thomas Doherty was no amateur. He was a Light Rifle, and proud of it.
He placed the crosshair of his scope at the bottom of his targets throat and squeezed the trigger. The rifle barked a short angry report, and all hell broke loose on the ground across from them. Thomas knew his rifle, he knew the terrain and he knew about the parabolic arch that affected his weapon at this range. At this range, aiming down, his bullet was going to rise four or five inches. The crosshairs were aimed low, but the bullet still tore through the right eye of a bandit carrying a light machine gun. The wound didn’t look terrible from where Thomas was laying, but he knew from experience that the back of the mans skull was in ruin.
Thomas was already cycling to his next target before the body hit the ground. He had started at the back, picking off the bandits that were farther away and easier to spot. During WW1 an Army Corporal named Alvin York silenced thirty machine gun nests and captured 130 German soldiers. Single handedly, and armed only with a basic rifle. Thomas had always liked that story, and tried to adopt the simple tactics that York had whenever the opportunity allowed. Kill the men in the back, and the enemy won’t realize how much they’d lost until it was too late.
Of course, with their only being six enemies, and no loud machineguns to mask his rifle, they caught on pretty quick. The man closest to the first target turned around and stared at his friend in disbelief before a round from Thomas’ semi-automatic rifle ripped through his spine and chest. Thomas wasn’t bothering with fancy headshots, his weapon killed just as effectively punching through organs and bone as it did brain matter.
By the time the second bandit fell to the ground the other had caught on to what was happening. They opened fire with submachine guns and pistols, spraying at the surrounding hilltops blindly as they broke for cover. It was stupid move. The 32nd members on the rollers spotted them easily as they ran for it and opened up with the light machinegun they had mounted on the lead vehicle. Two more went down before the rest scattered into the underbrush.
The rollers managed to pass by the poorly staged ambush without much difficulty after that, the light machinegun firing short bursts into the tree's for good measure, but Thomas and Frankie were still stranded on the hilltop. They were hidden of course, but couldn’t afford to move in case the bandits were still watching from the forest across from them. That was fine. After all, Thomas was a patient man.
“Confirmed four hostiles down,” stated Thomas quietly as he searched for movement in the underbrush across from them. “Eye’s on the other two?” he asked plainly. This might have been exciting to some people. But to professional soldiers, it was just another day on the job.
If the range was farther out Archer would have assisted the sniper with specific adjustments. Under approximately 300 meters Doherty was perfectly capable of making the shots without any guidance.
While he fired on two bandits Archer did her best to track the others. The two Snow Ghosts stayed perfectly still as rounds peppered the hill. Archer was confident, 'You don't know where we are.' To the badlanders there could have been one; there could have been one hundred. Archer and Doherty were camoflaged so well it was impossible to be sure. When the 32nd opened fire and neutralized two more Archer kept count and locations of all EIGHT enemies, "One-seven meters beyond the road. Five meters out. Pattern right... Pattern right."
Archer watched each round kill each target while the mounted gun faded slightly. When the area was clear she felt it. She rose to a knee and stored her binocs then roughly rolled her blanket before stuffing it into her backsack she was laying on.
"Forward, Three-Two. We're coming back to swoop you."
Archer touched the radio that she preferred to fasten directly under the front of her neck. Instead of it being on a shoulder to one side, Frankie liked it almost right in front of her mouth, "Copy." Was her acknowledging response.
Her gun had a sling on it which was looped snugly around her right shoulder. It could hang there comfortably without bothering her or getting snagged. Her sidearm rested in a dropleg holster on her right thigh. Her blade lived in its sheath on the waistband horizontally behind her lower back.
Frankie was adapted to colder climates. She was glad they would only be in Defiance for but a few days. She'd already begun to experience the awful heat rash needles on her back. There are still things that will humble a person.
The sniper listened intently to his spotters directions, his body moving mechanically as he sighted in the next target. There was little wind thanks to the over abundance of vegetation, and his bullets were heavy enough to compensate for what remained. His weapon discharged again tearing through the small branch of tree he couldn't readily identify. The branch exploded into several thousand splinters before tumbling to the ground, the round that hit it remained on target, slamming into the back of a fleeing bandit Frankie had called out and blowing a hole the size of Thomas' fist out of his chest. The sniper didn't need to see the bandits front to know what kind of damage the target had suffered. Men all tended to respond the same way to military ordnance.
He caught the majority of the conversation that took place between Frankie and the rest of the 32nd, but his blue eyes were still focused intently on the wood line. He barely noticed flash of red from beneath the leaves and attempted to bring his magnified scope to bear on the source. Not one, but two bandits were sprinting through the underbrush.
'Son of a bitch.' He thought to himself.
Frankie was to good to mess up a count. She was a solid spotter, whereas Thomas just put holes in things. The several days sleep deprivation had apparently effected him more than he thought, and now he had no idea how many more targets were out there. Sadly, that wasn't his biggest concern, the rocket launcher on the bandits shoulder was. It was hard to tell from here exactly what the weapons capabilities were. The Votans had brought so much tech, and the humans had tried to compensate with such enthusiasm that a shoulder operated munition could have literally any kind of payload.
Fortunately Thomas knew how to handle this complicated situation, and it started with chambering another round. He sighted in his target, he emptied his lungs, and right as he squeezed the trigger the second bandit stopped walking and placed himself in the way of the shot. The round hit him in the shoulder, blowing it to ribbons in a puff of red mist. The round carried through of course, but not to where it should have. Instead of striking the rocketeer in the chest center mass, it struck him in the side, taking a good portion of his abdomen with it. But not enough to kill him on the spot. Both bandits fell to the ground, but the one with the rocket recognized the direction the shot had come from. He leveled the large weapon at Thomas' location, and Thomas put another through his skull.
Whether due to luck or skill, the bandit still managed to launch the munition. The rocket flew launched into the air in a stream of grey smoke towards them, but to high to be of any real threat. Up until it exploded.
"Incoming!" bellowed Thomas as he sprung to his feet. It was dispenser, a rocket designed to rain smaller droplet munitions over an area. The weapon had detonated high, giving them a few moments to vacate their area and make it to the other side of the hill. He just hoped there weren't more bandits around to notice their retreat.
Archer had only enough time to grip some fabric of her backsack and bolt in the direction of their predetermined fallback position. The weapon detonated a few meters above and behind them, close enough to ring the ears. The forward patrol team Archer and Doherty were quick enough to avoid the majority of the high velocity langrage. A small sharp piece caught Archer in the right elbow, “Mmgh!” The injury was going to affect her effectiveness using all her weapons. It would take at least a week for a full recovery. She was just glad to keep her arm.
Frankie used her hailer updating the 32nd, “Three-Two, Forward. Known hostiles eliminated. How copy?”
“By five, Forward. Good shooting. Area hostiles as you say. Thirty seconds.”
“Copy. Two-nine seconds.” She acknowledged.
A few seconds ago the air echoed with gunfire and yelling. Now it was quiet with only the sound of the 32nd’s rollers on approach and the sounds of the native wildlife in whatever form nearby. Taking a breather and a second to pat down the dust and debris from the explosion, Frankie kept her left hand pressed hard on the wound sustained to the back of her right elbow, “Son of a bitch.” It wasn’t extremely serious; it just hurt and bled a little. The sweat that was already on her skin made it barely sting. The only thing that really hurt her was the temporary loss of the use of her right arm for most tasks.
After remounting the rollers, Archer changed sides with her sidearm holster, shotgun sling, and knife sheath. Thanks to her ambidexterity, she was just as capable with her left hand and eye as she was with her preferred right. The forward patrol team usually rode in the lead roller. As both vehicles navigated the road toward Defiance, Archer absently observed the surrounding terrain while conducting a forward team ‘debrief’ with Doherty, “…and no roller that I saw. Some hardcore badlanders, Sir, lugging RPGs around.” She humored. Her jokes had a flavor of her own, rather dry and without a grin. When she joked with others, only the 32nd really knew. They were used to her delivery and context. Her years with the Light Rifles have weathered her too much for smiles and laughter. Children were the only kind able to make her smile and laugh.
