'Penetration'

27-Nov-2030, 2100U

LCDR Percy Jackson, US Navy, Son of Neptune

Joint Operation with Task Force 101 and Legio XII Fulminata

Airspace of Southeastern California, USA

Tyson really pulled through on this one... not only did he stand up his own special operations force in the form of Task Force Redeye, but he had made it into a combined arms unit on par with a Marine Air-Ground Task Force. I'll bet SOF legends like Demo Dick and Chargin' Charlie, along with conventional legends like Ike, Daly, Patton, and Van Riper, would be proud.

Hell, I was proud of him, prouder than I'd ever been in my life. Not just because he'd created a modern warfighting force on his own, but his sheer nerve, leadership, and intelligence was utterly awe-inspiring, on par with only a few leaders I'd ever met.

Okay, enough of the sentimentality. Now, onto Operation Clairvoyant Trident... which came not from me, not from Leo, but from Tyson's XO: an eight-foot cyclops built like an Abrams tank named Chad. Chad was heading up the joint operations center (callsign "Overlord") as something of a "battle captain" alongside Minerva, constantly receiving, analyzing, and distributing information throughout the entirety of Joint Task Force 12. This freed up Tyson and his deputy commanding generals (who are apparently different from an executive officer) to handle their own tasks. Tyson was leading the assault on Mount Othrys (with limited support from Father, who was in the Gulf of the Farallones for some reason), the Deputy Commanding General-Operations was coordinating the assault on the Mojave staging area from a P-3C orbiting overhead, and the Deputy Commanding General-Support was working closely with Mercury to conduct mission sustainment and resource management on the operational level.

Okay, now that I think about it... how the hell did the Torrent Troopers figure out the bureaucratic nonsense of the United States Armed Forces in just a few months while I still don't understand most of the jargon after two decades?! I thought to myself for a moment, before ultimately shaking my head. Wait, that shit doesn't matter right now... time to focus on the present.

And the present was pretty important, considering that we were about to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. "We" referred to two of the four recon teams, Yankee 1 and 2, shoved in the back of a C-130 with our Polaris DAGOR UTVs and a shitload of extra equipment (with the latter two strapped down to pallets), ready to static-line jump into our drop zone and roll in the darkness to find the bad guys and kick off the op... all without getting killed. We couldn't HALO or HAHO in, since most of us weren't qualified or trained for that. Jason, who was actually snoring in the seat to my left, along with Frank, who was sitting in the seat on the opposite side of the plane, were probably the only non-Torrent Troopers (apart from me) who could've carried out a high-altitude jump just fine... but of course, it wasn't like they needed parachutes.

Simply put, once we arrived at DZ-1 (just north of McCullough Mountain, around 10-15 miles northeast of the California-Nevada border), the vehicles would be launched out and we would follow. Yankee 3 and 4 would be doing the same at DZ-2 (just west of Spirit Mountain, also 10-15 miles northeast of the California-Nevada border). X-Ray and their Light Strike Vehicles would be dropped at DZ-3 and DZ-4 via HALO (the Clipper Mountain and Dead Mountains Wilderness Areas, respectively), since they all had learned high-altitude parachuting and it was too risky to attempt static-line jumps in those DZs, as they were fairly close to outermost enemy positions.

Now I know what you're thinking: so the recon teams (Yankee), responsible for finding the bad guys and supporting the snipers already present, are using static-line jumps. The anti-armor teams (X-Ray), responsible for carrying out hit-and-run attacks with their TOW missiles and other heavy weaponry from their dune buggies of doom, are using HALO jumps. What about the super-scout platoon (Zulu) responsible for establishing mini-firebases and providing additional sniper overwatch all throughout the AO?

Well, those beautiful audacious bastards had another idea. They commandeered the two MC-130s tasked with combat logistical support (i.e., supply drops for ground forces and mid-air refueling for aircraft) in our AO. Their idea? Jump out at various points in the MC-130s' flight paths and glide 20-40 miles—weighed down by all kinds of crap to include sniper rifles, machine guns, and even fucking automatic grenade launchers and mortars—to various locations all across the desert, ultimately creating overlapping sectors of fire with their weapons.

Was it ridiculous by normal mortal standards? Absolutely. But considering these were the Torrent Troopers—handpicked by Tyson and his inner circle from Father's cyclops armies—I didn't doubt that they could pull it off. It also helped that Jupiter, the king of horny sonsabitches himself, was also providing support in the form of fair winds and fair skies that somehow also restricted the enemy's ability to effectively see us. Because if you can be seen, you can be targeted, and if you can be targeted, you can be shot, and if you can be shot, you can be killed.

And in terms of how in the fuck Jupiter is giving us clear skies and the enemy dark skies, I have no fucking clue... I suspect Trivia was involved in some bullshit-ass Misting process. It was basically just a one-way sky: clear for us, obscuring as fuck for the enemy.

This is gonna be one interesting op...

"TEN MINUTES!!" the loadmaster—a Torrent Trooper who was also acting as the lead jumpmaster—shouted, holding up ten fingers.

"TEN MINUTES!!" we replied, repeating his words and actions.

"GET READY!!"

"GET READY!!" Remembering our rehearsals, we turned on and lowered our NODs so we had the next ten minutes to get properly accustomed to them (okay, not so much me and the Torrent Troopers as everyone else).

"STAND UP!!"

"STAND UP!!" we shouted as we stood, folding our seats and preparing our universal static lines. I was at the front of my stick, preparing to jump from the port-side paratroop door, while the other stick, Yankee 2, was preparing to jump from the starboard-side paratroop door. Each door had one Torrent Trooper next to it, being the assistant jumpmasters and safeties standing by to make sure we jumped out correctly. I'd never conducted a static-line combat jump before, but I still understood the basic fundamentals... and it seemed a helluva lot easier than HALO or HAHO.

"HOOK UP!!"

"HOOK UP!!" we shouted, hooking our universal static line to the anchor lines over our heads.

"CHECK STATIC LINES!!"

"CHECK STATIC LINES!!" Each person formed a bite in the universal static line modified, ensuring he (or she, in Piper's case) had a good four in the hand and two below the bite. Every jumper traced the line modified over the appropriate shoulder and covered the ripcord handle with his or her nonstatic line hand.

"CHECK EQUIPMENT!!" the lead jumpmaster yelled.

"CHECK EQUIPMENT!!" we responded. There was nobody in front of me to check, so I tried to double-check that the gear hanging off my front was squared away while Jason, who was standing behind me, checked my chute and gear, after which he gave me the "seal of approval:" a hard tap on the hip/ass area (because it's basically the only part of you that isn't covered in gear).

"SOUND OFF FOR EQUIPMENT CHECK!!"

"OKAY!!" each person shouted with an accompanying tap, starting at the rear of the stick before it finally made its way up to me, at which point I shouted "YANKEE 1 IS ALL OKAY!!"

"YANKEE 2 IS ALL OKAY!!" Frank shouted from the opposite side of the C-130.

"ARE WE HAPPY?!" the loadmaster asked.

"HELL, YES!!" the Torrent Troopers, Sinful Sixteen members, and I yelled back. We had all trained together for nearly a week, and we were ready to finally just go ahead and get it over with... especially the Sinful Sixteen, by the looks of it.

I glanced across the cargo bay, looking over the members of Yankee 2. Frank was the de facto team leader, with the second "old dog" in the nine-man team being none other than Piper, who was tasked with carrying all the medical shit plus some extra batteries and ammo. That was one of the nice features of immortality, apparently: increased strength, speed, endurance, and general energy. Of course, there always seemed to be some strange inconsistent rules surrounding it—even as a goddess, Piper couldn't just pick up a building randomly (providing, of course, it didn't collapse with all of its weight being supported by only one or two dainty hands... remember, I did get my bachelor's in mechanical engineering)—but I digress.

Piper, of course, looked scared shitless, even with her face partially covered by her binocular NODs. And who could blame her? She was about to jump out of a perfectly good airplane, trusting a military-grade parachute to save her from hitting the dirt hard and getting knocked unconscious for a while.

Because... that's apparently what happens to gods that fall really far. They don't go "splat," they get K.O.'ed. Remember that story about the Roman postal service going to shit because Mercury fell around 20,000 feet and knocked himself unconscious for six months? Yeah, we were trying not to have a repeat... of the knockout, I mean, not a postal service shutting down.

As the time to drop approached, the cargo bay door and paratroop doors were opened. The safeties/assistant jumpmasters got to work, standing in the doorways and making sure our egress was clear while the loadmaster/lead jumpmaster ensured our pallets were ready to be parachuted out.

"JUST LIKE OUR FOREFATHERS IN WORLD WAR II, LADIES!!" I yelled as the red light shone inside the cargo bay. My grip on the bite in my static line tightened as I took several deep breaths, steeling myself for my first-ever static line combat jump. "WE'RE GONNA HIT THE GROUND RUNNIN', OR WE AIN'T GONNA JUMP NO MORE!!"

"HELLUVA WAY TO DIE!!" the Torrent Troopers bellowed, apparently getting the reference.

"WHAT THE FUCK, PERCY?!" Piper screamed from the starboard side of the aircraft.

"NUT UP AND DEAL WITH IT, WOMAN!! REMEMBER OUR TRAINING!!" Joker shouted back from behind me, making me smirk. That little shit certainly had his moments, I'll admit.

"ENOUGH OF THIS!!" the lead jumpmaster shouted. "STAND BY!!"

"STAND BY!!" we shouted back over the roar of the C-130. I made eye contact with the port side safety/assistant jumpmaster, whose job was to take control of the universal static lines modified while we put both hands on the ends of our reserves. I remembered what the Black Hats (the Army Airborne School cadre) told me nearly twenty years ago when I went to Jump School: "upon exiting the aircraft, snap into a good tight body position. Keep your eyes open, chin on your chest, elbows tight into your sides, hands on the end of the reserve (fingers spread), bend forward at the waist, KEEP YOUR FUCKING FEET AND KNEES TOGETHER, hands locked in the rear, and count to six thousand."

And finally, the light went from green to red. The loadmaster then proceeded to launch the pallets holding our DAGORs and extra equipment out the back. And a few seconds later, he gave us his final command: "GO, GO, GO!!"

With a "seal of approval" from the assistant jumpmaster, I turned at a 90-degree angle into the door and just walked out into the icy blast with a spring in my step. One minute I was aboard the bird, the next minute I was outside of it, completely at the mercy of the chutes and the riggers who packed them.

One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand, four-one thousand, five-one thousand, six-one thou—

I felt a jolt that interrupted my mental count: I had a good canopy above my head, and now I was in the clear. Now, all I had to do was wait until I hit the ground. I was the first man out, so I couldn't see the rest of my stick, but I could definitely see Frank through my white phosphor binocular NODs, the first man of the starboard-side stick, if I craned my neck. Further up ahead were the pallets holding our vehicles and gear. But apart from that, I was alone over a thousand feet up in the sky, descending faster than a leaf but slower than a meteorite.

Parachuting never failed to be an interesting experience. I didn't have to worry about Jupiter's pansy ass blasting me out of the sky, but even after doing a shitload of jumping in the Teams (seriously, we do a lot of jumping... more than any other unit, by some estimates), there was always a tiny voice in the back of my head telling me that I needed to get the hell out of the sky ASAP.

But honestly, I felt fine. I thought of my stepfather, an old paratrooper and Airborne Ranger himself. When I earned my commission and became an officer, Dad told me two very important principles he learned and applied throughout his years in the Army: first, in the paratroopers (at least, in the old school paratroopers), officers' boots were the first to hit the deck and last to leave; secondly, in the Marine Corps (once more, probably more so the old school Corps), officers ate last. Despite being in the Army and serving in a time when the old school was slowly getting phased out, Dad followed the same principle as a commissioned officer: his men, enlisted and subordinate officers alike, always had their share before he stepped into the chow line. And whenever he went out on ops, he was first in, last out. I followed his example as a troop commander at DEVGRU, and now in the mythological world, it seemed that I was applying the first principle yet again.

Goddamn, I wish he was here helping me out right now...

I refocused on the present when I realized that I was almost at the end of my descent. My boots hit the deck and I executed a parachute landing fall around fifty yards from the pallets, which had landed around ten seconds before me. I released my canopy, pulled out and down on the safety clip, pulled out my Noveske—one with a 16" barrel this time—and worked on recovering the parachute harness. Before long, the rest of Yankee 1 and 2 began landing, hitting the deck one by one as I recovered my parachute and moved to secure the supply drop.

"Yankee 1, this is 1-1. Head count," I whispered, communicating with my left radio. I was carrying two: the one on my left for communicating with my team and other AFO elements, and the one on my right for communicating with fire support elements. And yes, the audio from the left was in my left ear and vice versa.

"1-2, on the ground," Jason replied as he struggled to remove his parachute harness.

"1-3, good," Cassius replied, the cyclops machine gunner having already packed up his jump gear and transitioned to holding security with his M60.

"1-4, good," Titus replied, the Torrent Trooper getting to work in detaching the DAGORs and gear from the pallets.

"1-5, good," Nestor replied, the big one-eyed sniper already gathering up the pallets, parachutes, and other jump gear and moving to cache it.

"1-6, up and running," Probatio Joker confirmed as he loaded a mag and racked a round into his M16.

"1-7, ready," Probatio Chico muttered as he adjusted his NODs.

"1-8, fine," Probatio Knoxville grunted as he helped load our equipment aboard the DAGOR.

"1-9, all set," Probatio Casanova replied, jettisoning and packing his jump gear with lightning speed before he moved to assist Joker and Cassius with holding security.

"Bossman 3, this is Yankee 1-1. I pass Phase Line Adam," I radioed to the P-3 that was tasked with supporting the Mojave offensive operation—with "Phase Line Adam" indicating that my men and material were all present and accounted for at the DZ, with no enemy around—walking towards the DAGOR.

"Roger, I copy Adam," the DCG-O replied on the AFO net. "Be advised, all X-Ray and Yankee elements are on the deck. Some Zulu teams are still airborne. No casualties."

"Roger. Do we have any fires or ISR at this time?"

"No other air on station at this time, but we've established a good orbit. Enemy has not deviated or altered patterns at this time."

"Roger, Bossman 3. Yankee 1-1 out."

"Sir, we're almost ready to begin our approach to the enemy staging area," Titus reported, securing an M134 to the turret as I walked up to him.

"Sounds good, Titus. Frank, your boys ready to roll?" I asked, looking at Yankee 2's team leader.

"Almost. Tony's just prepping the minigun... it's interesting being the one wearing camouflage this time," he lightly laughed, tapping his MultiCam kit. Glancing at his kit, I couldn't help but grin.

"You're rockin' Old Glory on your shoulder, I see."

"Hm? Well, it came with the combat shirt."

"I knew you had freedom in you, brother."

"Ah, get outta here with that, Perce," he scoffed, making me chuckle.

"And you're still carrying a machine gun. Accuracy by volume: the American way."

"I was able to pick up this thing called a... Mark 48. Heavier, but it shoots a bigger bullet and has longer ranges, apparently. I think I might want to try using something more precise at some point."

"We'll get there eventually, Grizzly. Watch your six," I said, giving him a fist-bump.

"Will do. Be safe, Percy. Yankee 2, let's get going," Frank ordered.

"Alright ladies... let's hit the ball before we turn into mice and pumpkins."

Cassius manned the M134; Titus got in the driver's seat; I got shotgun; Joker and Nestor got behind me; and Jason, Knoxville, Chico, and Casanova loaded up in the very back with all the extra gear—some rucksacks, ammo cans, water jugs, a gas can, and a toolkit, along with some random miscellaneous equipment. Yankee 2 would be taking a long, indirect route to scout out the northern portion of the Mojave Desert. Yankee 4 got the western part, Yankee 3 got the southern part, and Yankee 1 got the eastern and central sectors... I supposed since it was my bright idea, I might as well take my team to handle the most risky areas.

While we had snipers already positioned throughout the AO and ISR from Bossman 3, we still needed ground-level eyes to paint the best picture possible, hence why we were rolling in on our DAGORs. The Light Strike Vehicles of X-Ray were already rolling, and were ready to launch TOW missiles to assist with the initial strikes. And right when my team had crossed the border into California, Bossman 3 reported that all Zulu elements were in position.

To put it simply, if we had to kick things off early without air, artillery, or armor support, we had enough force to sucker-punch the enemy. In other words, we could cause enough damage and confusion that, if we couldn't keep the enemy from escaping, then we sure as shit could deprive them of their most useful and deadly assets.

"Yankee 1-1, Bossman 3," the DCG-O suddenly called. "We're picking up some activity around two miles from your position. Just dropped a pin on your ATAK, over."

"Stand by, checking," I replied, checking my ATAK to see a new red pin 2.2 miles south of us. "Roger, we see it."

"It's the site of a short-lived mining town called Vanderbilt, east of Ivanpah Road. There shouldn't be anything there, but we've got some heat signatures. Snipers are repositioning to get eyes on, but you can see it faster."

"Roger, we're en route. 1-1 out," I signed off. "Titus, take us towards Vanderbilt. Southbound."

"Check," he acknowledged, turning left. We drove a little while longer before I called for us to halt: we couldn't get too close without the enemy hearing us, so we'd have to move on foot. For a second, I considered dismounting with the whole team, leaving Titus and Cassius behind as a skeleton crew, before deciding against it. We weren't trying to even carry out a hit-and-run attack: just investigate, maybe designate a target, and get out.

"Joker, Nestor, you guys are with me," I whispered as I dismounted. "Sparky, we've got Ivanpah as one of the roads marked for booby-trapping?"

"Uh... yeah, that's right," Jason confirmed, hearkening back to our final planning session. "So is Lanfair."

"Good. Titus, you know the best places to plant the charges and mines?"

"Yessir," Titus replied. "We shall take care of it. We can deny the enemy these routes of egress quite easily."

"Get it done. RV at the New York Mountains rally point in one hour."

"Good hunting," Cassius said as Titus steered the DAGOR to the northwest, leaving Nestor, Joker, and I to proceed southward to get eyes on the mysterious presence at Vanderbilt. We moved in a staggered formation, with Joker holding rear security, Nestor taking point with his designated marksman rifle, and myself in the middle covering our loose formation's flanks.

I was very confident in Nestor's abilities as a sniper and point-man, but Joker was ultimately a rookie. But something told me that the young probatio wouldn't let me down, using sheer guts and ingenuity to compensate for his lack of tactical proficiency. I can't quite explain it.

To be fair, the general strategy of American troops historically has been to show up and improvise... guess that's what he'll do.

Some patrolling later, we were finally close enough to the site where the mining town of Vanderbilt once stood. And when we got low to start observing, it was pretty easy to see what had aroused Bossman 3's suspicion: a dozen enemy foot-mobiles, laying low around what appeared to be tarp-covered munitions and armament. By Nestor's approximation, there were two hwachas and two ballistae, with quick-releases on the tarps so that they could be fired almost instantly.

"Maybe it's a lookout post," Joker whispered. "Early warning, or whatever the fuck it's called."

I nodded in agreement: it didn't make sense to have such a small weapons cache this far from the main enemy camp. They could look out for any incoming forces, send up some flares, and give an attacker something to shoot while the main body prepared a larger response. Nestor agreed, but he didn't think that was the full picture.

"Sir, there's something odd about this," he muttered. "I think this outpost is housing a greater threat than we can see... do you feel it?"

"No...?" I replied. But I supposed it made sense: many of my demigod abilities, to include hydrokinesis and general sensory capabilities, were diminished when Trivia got rid of the Scent that made me instantly detectable to monsters.

"It feels old... older than I've ever felt in my life. Older than the gods."

Now that was odd. I didn't know what Nestor was feeling in his bones, but it was definitely confusing me, dare I say unnerving me.

"Okay... what's your recommendation?" I asked.

"I can go in," Joker suggested. "Look, I'm smaller and faster than both of you. And I'm probably harder to detect."

"I have no Scent, so your last point is invalid."

"Sir, you need to stay in the fight. You may be Yankee 1-1, but you're still the overall AFO commander. I can go in, plant the demo charge in my pack, and sabotage their shit."

"... stay out of sight. Don't engage anything. Maintain radio silence."

"Sir, yes sir," he affirmed as he began low-crawling towards the enemy camp. Joker was an audacious bastard... guess it was time for his trial by fire (even though there was a lack thereof). For several agonizing minutes, Nestor and I covered Joker from our barely elevated position as the probatio slowly advanced on the small outpost.

"1-6, stop," Nestor quickly radioed. "Tango approaching your position. Stay down and stay still."

The approaching Tango was a cynocephalus—in the same black armor as the monsters in Mendocino—which was very bad news... those guys could smell like no other. Now, Trivia had given all the AFO troopers (except for me, of course) Scent-suppressor potions prior to us making the trip to the airstrip and loading up in the C-130s. But the potions could only suppress their Scents so much before it started having negative permanent effects—and we sure as shit didn't have the time to get rid of everyone's scent like mine—so only time would tell just how well the damn things worked.

We were around 300 yards away from the enemy encampment, but I readied my rifle all the same, just in case. The cynocephalus was getting a little too close to Joker. But somehow, the dog-headed man turned away, returning back to the encampment.

Holy shit, Trivia... the damn thing worked.

Once Nestor gave the word, Joker continued his low and slow advance, being extra careful as he skirted around the enemy personnel. He disappeared underneath one of the tarps, apparently fiddling with the enemy weapon system beneath, before moving to the next one. He only had one shaped charge to work with, so he either managed to rig a booby trap with one of his frags or engaged in some other form of sabotage... either way, I was surprisingly confident in that crazy bastard. Hell, he could probably teach the Stolls a thing or two about making trouble.

"Yankee 1-1, there's a coffin here," Joker suddenly whispered over the radio, his message being intriguing enough that I couldn't even tell him off for breaking radio silence. "Wait... there's another one. Both of 'em side by side, hidden under a big tarp, by some ordnance. Looks like Greek writing on the side."

Coffins? Greek writing? ... oh, fuck.

"Perhaps that is what has been setting off my... internal alarm bells, so to speak," Nestor muttered beside me.

"1-6, plant the charge on those coffins. If you've got any frags, set 'em up too," I ordered. "We're gonna blow that shit to kingdom come."

"What do you think it is, sir?"

"I dunno, Nestor. But if it's what I think it is, we may be in for a bad time."

"Wait... I recall learning some history about the second Titan War... you can't possibly mean—"

"I don't think there's any fucking way Kronos, or Saturn, or whatever the fuck he is, is back, but... can't be too careful. We better mark this area to be hit."

"All stations, this is Bossman 3," the DCG-O suddenly called on the AFO net, as if on cue. "Spooky 1 is in a holding pattern just outside the AO at this time. Be advised, if there are any calls for CAS, they will need a maximum of 5 minutes to maneuver into position to deliver fires."

"Roger, Bossman 3. Any word on our UAVs?" I replied.

"Stand by... Cobalt 1 through 4 will be on station in seven minutes. All UAVs are Hellfire-equipped."

"Okay, requesting fire mission from any Cobalt: Vanderbilt location, twelve foot-mobiles, tarp-covered weapons and munitions, plus two coffins with contents unknown."

"Solid copy, Yankee 1-1."

"Sir, if we cannot remain here, I suggest we have a Zulu or Ghost operator maintain eyes on the target," Nestor whispered before getting on the AFO net himself. "Any Ghost, any Zulu, this is Yankee 1-5. Does anyone have eyes on the point known as Vanderbilt, east of Ivanpah Road, over?"

"Yankee 1-5, Ghost 0-9," one of the snipers prepositioned by Nico replied. "We're having some trouble acquiring the target."

"Stand by, lazing at this time with IR."

"Uh... okay, we see your laser. Stand by... roger that, we have eyes on. We'll direct the Hellfire, over."

"Thanks for the assist, Ghost 0-9. Yankee 1-5 out."

"1-6, get your ass back here ASAP. I don't know what those coffins are, but I don't think we should be anywhere near them," I ordered as I switched my left radio from the AFO net to the team net. "Stay silent, just come back."

Joker maintained radio silence this time, peeking out from underneath one of the tarps and beginning his slow crawl back to us. While Nestor watched the enemy troops, I switched my left radio back to the AFO net and briefly checked my watch: we had twenty minutes left to make it to the rally point. It wasn't a far walk, but we still had to watch out for monsters, even with the Scent-suppressors. But a mere ten minutes later, Joker was back with us, and we began moving towards the rally point.

Once we were a good distance away, I quietly radioed the rest of Yankee 1, warning that we might be a little late to the rally point. And late we were as we crossed Ivanpah Road and moved towards the New York Mountains, patrolling through the dark—during which Joker tripped and almost face-planted a few times (NODs take away damn near all your depth perception)—but we were able to rendezvous with the rest of our team at the rally point hidden behind the rocky landscape. And even better, Titus and Jason had some good news.

"Hey Perce. Just reached Phase Line Boris: we've set all sorts of traps, so the roads are basically unusable," Jason reported as I walked up to the DAGOR. "We've got something else, though: we confirmed the presence of an ammo dump that our aircraft and snipers weren't able to see, apart from some random heat signatures: enemy cyclopes walking to and from the cache."

"Is it buried?" Joker asked.

"Yup. The hole is well-covered, but the top isn't really durable. We're giving the target to Spooky 1."

"Yeah, the one-oh-five oughta take care of that shit," I chuckled, referencing the AC-130U gunship's 105-mm howitzer. "Any other targets?"

"We didn't see anything else that wasn't already visible from above. Ghosts and Zulus have been hard at work while we were booby-trapping Ivanpah and Lanfair."

"Well... so what do we do now?" Casanova asked. "I mean, our whole thing is getting on the ground, finding the bad guys, and lining up the shots."

"Not so fast, Casanova... still gotta go into the central sector," Chico reminded, pointing at the map Jason was holding. "And I don't think we can drive all the way there. The DAGOR's quiet, but not that quiet."

"We could drive up as close as the mountains will conceal us, then Nestor takes his sniper rifle and gets up high, we move forward, and Titus and Cassius just wait here, ready to come out engine roaring and guns blazing," Knoxville suggested. "I mean, they could just charge in all crazy like we're in Jackass or some shit... tossing grenades and spraying with the minigun would certainly cause a ruckus."

"... this is why I call you Knoxville, you weirdo," I scoffed, rolling my eyes. "But the first half does have merit. I assume Watson Wash hasn't moved at all?"

"The encampment hasn't changed in the slightest," Titus confirmed. "Ghost 0-4 confirmed it, along with Bossman 3. There is a formidable presence there, however, though the overall center of the encampment appears to be at the location known as 'Dispersed Campsite' on open-source satellite maps. Lots of personnel, weapons, ammo, and vehicles. We must begin racking and stacking targets in preparation for H-Hour."

"How much time we got?"

"Approximately two hours."

"Then let's get to work. Mount up, boys."

We loaded up once again into the DAGOR and began our bumpy ride through the rocky, mountainous landscape that was the New York mountains. We were able to move surprisingly quickly through the rugged terrain, not encountering a single monster. The enemy troops had planned the layout of their camp network well, but according to the findings of one of the Predator drones overhead—Cobalt 3, to be specific—the enemy had neglected to cover the mountains or even establish their own OPs. It didn't make sense, but I took it as a blessing. Considering that JTF-12 was effectively a hodgepodge of personnel, we needed every advantage we could get.

Sometimes, the enemy is just stupid... such is the way of life, I guess.

But our journey came to an end when we reached the end of the big hills that concealed our approach. Titus and Cassius remained in the vehicle, standing by to speed in and deliver fire support if need be. Nestor, having traded his DMR for a bolt-action .300 Win Mag MK13, began scurrying up to a peak (as much as a cyclops could "scurry") to provide overwatch. As for the rest of us, we dismounted and began the slow, but steady trek towards the heart of the massive, spread-out enemy encampment.

I took point, with Joker right behind me. Casanova, Knoxville, and Chico stayed on our heels, doing a surprisingly decent job at maintaining a tactical formation. And Jason was bringing up the rear, an M4 in his hands and an M3E1 Carl Gustaf (which was apparently also known as the "M4..." because the military just can't keep shit simple) on his back, as I'd designated him as our assaultman. Simply put: he could carry heavy shit and demonstrated a surprising aptitude with the recoilless rifle during training, working pretty well as a gunner with Chico as a loader.

We descended down a slope, constantly watching our flanks as we bounded from cover to cover while maintaining noise discipline. Of course, my teammates were less than graceful—they still weren't all that used to NODs—but I'll be damned if they didn't do okay at skirting around the enemy position... we hadn't been spotted yet, at least.

As we got closer and closer towards the outer edges of the central camp—no closer than one klick out—I began racking and stacking targets for the initial strikes: no radio, just some lazing, pin-dropping, and ATAK chatting. There was infantry, weapons, and vehicles in the open; temporary buildings housing additional munitions; and upon closer inspection, yet another tarp-covered pit. The only issue was that we had no idea what was inside this pit, dead center of the central camp.

"1-5, this is 1-1," I whispered on the team net. "Do you have eyes on the tarp-covered pit?"

"Negative. Where is it?" Nestor replied.

"Dead center of the camp, right in the middle of the pack of sleeping hellhounds."

"Searching... okay, I have eyes on. It's pretty decently camouflaged. Unable to see what's inside."

"Same here. But I'm not sensing any sort of real aura, so to speak," Jason added. "It's just... nothing. Could just be more armament or material."

"Another thing to consider is the significantly denser monster population," Nestor threw in. "I'm seeing significantly more enemy personnel. It could help mask any Scent or aura."

"Whatever the case, it's probably something we want off the face of the planet. Spooky n' Cobalt are gonna have their hands full, so we'll give it to Basher," I decided, referencing the callsign of our M777 battery. A brief check of my watch revealed that we had 60 minutes to H-Hour, so I made the call on the wider AFO net to check on the other elements. "X-Ray, this is Yankee 1-1. Send SITREP, over."

"This is X-Ray 1-1," one of the LSV-driving Torrent Troopers replied. "We have successfully prepared targets for mortar strikes and are searching for additional targets, over."

"This is X-Ray 2-1. Same situation here," came another reply.

"This is X-Ray 3-1, we have a problem," the Torrent Trooper replied. "One of our men had to dismount and assist in reconnaissance by getting close to the enemy. He is still watching them, but just reported in: the enemy will evacuate the desert in one hour, but they need time to break down their encampments."

"X-Ray 3-1, are you recommending that we push H-Hour up?" I asked, wanting maximum clarity.

"Affirmative."

"Okay, tell your guy to keep his eyes and ears open, and be quick to evacuate him when we kick things off."

"Solid copy, Yankee 1-1."

"Yankees, you hear that?" I asked on the net.

"Yeah, that's not good," Leo's voice crackled through my headset. "We attack too late, the enemy is in the best position to escape. Too early, and our dudes don't have enough force."

"We need to initiate the assault sooner rather than later," Reyna added. "No later fifteen minutes before the original time."

"Stand by. Bossman 3, Yankee 1-1," I called on the net, hailing the DCG-O.

"Go, Yankee," he replied.

"Patch me through to Overlord. We need to push up H-Hour."

"Roger, stand by... Overlord is now up."

"This is Overlord Actual. Are you receiving me?" Chad, Tyson's XO and the overall second-in-command of TF Redeye, replied.

"Affirmative, Actual. New intel indicates the enemy force will evacuate at H-Hour. We need to strike early, but no later than fifteen minutes before the original deadline," I informed.

"Copy, stand by," Chad replied. While he went silent on the radio, I can only assume he was disseminating this new intel throughout his joint operations center and trying to get in contact with all other subordinate elements. But after standing by for two minutes, he was back on the air. "Yankee 1-1, be advised, we are moving H-Hour up by thirty minutes. I say again, we are moving H-Hour up by thirty minutes, over."

"Roger, Overlord. Confirm H-Hour at zero dark thirty," I replied, no pun intended: we were changing H-Hour from 0100 to 0030, so I needed to be completely certain.

"Affirmative: H-Hour at zero dark thirty. Good luck everyone. Overlord Actual out."

As a chorus of acknowledgements came back from individual persons and team leaders alike, I refocused on the task at hand: carefully watching the encampment we'd come so close too. Since we were recon and FACs/FOs foremost, we didn't plan on actually firing on the enemy. But nonetheless, I silently motioned for my team to spread out and be ready for a firefight just in case, all while preparing the call for fire from the artillery battery.

"Yankee 1-1, Bossman 3. Be advised, Basher is dug in and ready for tasking," the DCG-O called. "Spooky 1 is preparing to move on station and will be available for tasking after it completes its initial fire missions. Ground units are standing by to make entry into the AO and establish blocking positions, over."

"Roger, Bossman 3. How's our assault force at the other objective lookin'?"

"They're ready and waiting for H-Hour. Everyone's in this AO, however... sounds nervous."

"Well, it is the first real battle for many of 'em. Alright, patch me through to Basher."

"Copy, stand by... Basher is now up."

"Yankee 1-1, this is Basher," the artillery battery—I think specifically its fire direction center—called. "Standing by for fire mission."

"Basher, Yankee 1-1. Fire for effect, over," I said.

"Yankee 1-1, Basher. Fire for effect, out."

"Grid, 1-1-Sierra-Papa-Uniform-4-6-0-7-6-7-0-8-4-9, over."

"Grid, 1-1-Sierra-Papa-Uniform-4-6-0-7-6-7-0-8-4-9, out."

"Target: concealed material, troops in the open, structures, vehicles. Fire on my command, over."

"Target: concealed material, troops in the open, structures, vehicles. Fire on my command, out."

Based on the chatter over the next several minutes, the 6-gun battery had a lot of targets stacked up for them—courtesy from the AFO teams who had penetrated the battlespace from multiple directions—with each gun apparently pointed at a different sector of the Mojave Desert. As for the rest of the high-value targets, there was either a TOW missile, Zulu mortar, Stryker MGS, or a flying weapon system trained on it. The targets on my ATAK? Bossman 3 received and disseminated them, passing them on to the Apaches, Predators, and Spooky gunship. The monsters had the numbers advantage, so we were hitting them with everything we had.

"Attention all stations, this is Overlord Actual," Chad the cyclops called, tapping into every last frequency from his transmitter at the JOC. The XO of the Torrent Troopers didn't have an ounce of worry or nervousness in his voice: he was calm as a summer breeze, like this whole thing was a milk run. "Stand by to execute on my command. You know your missions, you know your teams. So let's go to work."

Inhale.

"Five..."

Exhale.

"Four..."

Just another night.

"Three..."

Nothing new.

"Two..."

Just on a bigger scale.

"One..."

Easy day.

"Execute."

And all hell broke loose.

Hello there!

Happy Mother's Day! To all the wonderful women who take up the duties of motherhood... God bless you all, and I love you.

Sorry for the relatively slow-paced chapter. Not much action in this one, but that seems to be the reality of AFO and recon in general: preparing the battlespace and not getting caught. I hope all of you are excited for things getting kinetic... because that's what's next.

This is late, but happy anniversary to Operation Neptune Spear, with a huge shout-out to the boys of Dam Neck, Langley, and Fort Campbell. 

https://youtu.be/Vm0fAae8x7Q

And, of course, May the Fourth continue to be with you... always.

Until next time,

- ADF-2