If anyone shows I'll hit them with sound-suppressed fire. That'll help conceal my position when the next skirmish starts. The suppressor will also hide most of the pistol's muzzle flash.
It's not a full-blown ambush setup. Granted. I'm not using anti-personnel mines or night-vision optics. It's not textbook but it should be enough to blunt an enemy advance. At least in theory. If my aim's true and I spend my ammunition with skill.
After a moment there's brand-new motion. Troops advance through the trees. I count five in total. I choose the pointman as my first target.
I hold Black Thunder's sights steady and draw the pistol's trigger. An FMJ slams through the Bravda's sternum and crimson spews and he's already dead as he topples.
Black Thunder's as quiet as technology can make it but there's a clacking sound for every shot. Also a small muzzle flash. Each time I pull the trigger I'm giving my enemies a chance to spot me. That means I have to work fast.
The remaining men shoot erratic bursts on full-auto. It seems they're hoping random fire will keep my head down or spoil my aim. I won't retreat. Not yet. I keep Black Thunder braced across the cypress knee and aim and hit its trigger. Another Bravda spews blood and falls dead.
Two gunners charge toward my position and slog into hip-deep water. It's a determined charge. But running's difficult in the scum-thick water and clinging mud. Now I'm grateful for the topography I cursed minutes earlier. It slowed my progress but now it's hindering my opposition.
I brace my arms atop the cypress knee and level Black Thunder's sights. I need to stop the advancing gunners. I pick the taller man and trigger a rapid double-punch. FMJs core the Bravda's face and he hits the water with a solid splash.
His comrade slogs ahead and fires a short burst on the move. But his wobbly footsteps throw off his aim. I trigger another double-punch and FMJs drill the man's upper torso an inch apart. He spins with arms flailing and loses his AK and goes down.
A cold tremor tells me my danger's about to increase. A surviving Bravda drops to one knee and braces a green tube over his shoulder. It's an RPG. That means rocket-propelled grenade.
The man hits the RPG's trigger and the rocket hurtles toward my position. I grimace and dive underwater. Above me there's a muffled explosion. Doubtless the rocket struck the cypress bole I used for cover. That spares me from the brunt of the blast and shrapnel but I'm not unscathed.
Shock waves drive the air out of my lungs and mud engulfs me in a swirling vortex. l lose orientation. I can't tell up from down or left from right. My boot snags on something sinewy and I'm trapped underwater. I twist and kick but my boot's stuck fast.
My chest thumps and my lungs ache and I'm running out of air. Colored spots swarm in front of my eyes. It's a sign my brain's oxygen starved and soon I'll lose motor function and black out.
The colored spots grow bigger and they're fat pulsing blobs. I'm seconds away from losing the last of my air and drowning. In which case by corpse will feed the swamp. I'll serve the food chain even if I fail my mission.
My boot slips free and I kick up and break the swamp's surface. I gulp air and my chest heaves and my lungs reflate. My head sticks above the water and I drift downstream. My vision tunnels and the world around me's a spinning blur.
I gulp more air and my tortured lungs recover. The swamp stops spinning and my vision ripples back into focus. My boonie hat's gone but I've kept my grip on Black Thunder.
I wipe scum and silt off my eyes and scan 360. There should be two Bravdas left to battle. Of course other men might've joined the hunt. If so they might've surrounded me already and cut me off. In which case I'm doomed.
I shut down the grim thought and focus on my next move. I need a position I can defend. A shape looms twenty feet ahead and it spans the water. A fallen tree. It's the best cover I'll find on short notice.
I shift toward the moss-covered log and I'm submerged from the neck down. My chin cuts through the floating layer of scum that veils the water's surface.
Floating algae swirls around my head and coats my skin and clogs my ears. It seeps through my closed lips and there's a rancid taste in my mouth.
I don't care. I forget about gators and snakes and leeches and rats and flukes. Nothing in the water's more threatening than Zorin's blood-hungry hitmen. I wade ahead and a sluggish current tugs at my shoulders and limbs. My progress stirs decaying vegetation and there's a stink like rotten eggs.
At last I reach the log and slide beneath it. I hang onto it with one hand and I'm chest-deep in black sludge. The log and the sludge help conceal me until I make my next move.
There's motion downrange. I glance across the log and spot the two remaining Bravdas. They're squelching across marshy turf but they haven't seen me. Not yet. They're searching trees and undergrowth. I wedge myself between the log and a clump of peat and that frees both my hands.
I raise Black Thunder and detach its suppressor. The need for stealth's over and the pistol handles faster without a sound can. Besides a water-clogged suppressor won't work as designed. It might even pose a danger to the shooter.
I grip the pistol tight and watch the advancing thugs close to a distance of ten paces. I aim Black Thunder at the nearest man and hit the pistol's trigger. FMJs core the Bravda's gut and chest and punch him onto waterlogged muck.
His partner tries to leap the fallen corpse but he never makes it. FMJs drill him in midair and he plunges headfirst onto the muck and goes stiff.
I probe for more threats. There's brand-new motion upstream. Three more troops wading toward my position. I level Black Thunder across the slimy log and aim and trigger an FMJ.
The slug splits the target's face and punches him off stride. His legs turn to rubber and he topples and sinks under scummy water. Doubtless Black Thunder's muzzle flash gave away my position. That's bad but it's also beyond my control.
The hostile troops spot me and loose a blazing barrage. Bullets flay the log that covers me and it breaks into sodden fragments. That leaves me exposed and I'm as good as dead unless I get moving.
I gulp a breath and submerge and push back as bullets plunk the murk around me. I keep my eyes closed and feel my way along with one hand.
I grip Black Thunder with my free hand and hope the gun will work when I resurface. Likewise the rest of my gear.
I travel maybe a dozen yards underwater. I resurface and suck air and push back a few more yards. The Bravda gunfire's stopped. At least for now.
I ease into a screen of reeds and grasses and cattails and there's eerie calm. Have my enemies lost contact? I can't be sure but I've got to keep moving. In motion there's hope of survival.
I shift behind a peat mound and huddle into the moldy-smelling niche and hunker low. The gunfire restarts and bullets drill the mud and slimy fluid sprays overhead. My gut pulls tight with grim realization. In a few moments my enemies will flank me.
I need shock and awe. I arm an M-67 and hazard a glance downrange. The Bravda thugs close at thirty feet. I lob the bomb in their direction and it splashes down between them. The explosion raises a hissing water spout and thrusts a broken figure skyward.
The other man screams and spews blood and staggers and drops his rifle. He uses both hands to claw mud and scum from his eyes. An FMJ drills his forehead and he drops to his knees and topples and disappears underwater.
I keep Black Thunder up and probe for more hostiles. Nothing's visible but instinct tells me my danger's not over.
A sound hits my ears. It's baffled and distorted by the swamp's acoustics. A weird unnerving drone. It seems to come from all directions at once. It reverberates off the water and echoes through the trees.
The drone grows louder and an airboat explodes into view. A Triton Air Ranger. It's one of two I spotted at the camp. It skims over the black water and its drone deepens into a heavy-metal snarl.
Three Bravda gunners crouch at the Air Ranger's bow. Their weapons follow a searchlight beam that sweeps the hummocks.
White-hot light
flashes in my direction and I slit my eyes and stay low. Mud mounds and tall reeds give me decent cover but none of it's bulletproof. None of it gives me a solid shooting position.
I stow Black Thunder and shift sideways and reach another stout cypress. As I settle into position the Air Ranger swings wide and hurtles away. Has the pilot disengaged? What's he planning?
The boat rocks to port and turns back toward me. The pilot drops his throttle into rumbling idle and floats in place. He's two hundred yards downrange.
There's another whining drone and another airboat flashes into view. It's the second Air Ranger from the camp. Its spotlight wobbles in the dark as it turns and slows and pulls alongside the first boat. The Bravda pilots seem to be communicating. Doubtless they're plotting tactics.
I face a choice. I can hide and hope I'm not discovered or I can attack. There's no choice at all. I'll attack.
The nearest Air Ranger speeds toward me and its searchlight burns and its fan roars and it closes fast. Gunners on the boat's deck cut loose with autofire. Another barrage of heavy bullets rips through the jungle around me.
I palm my last M-67 and release the grenade's pin. The airboat skims closer and its engine throttles with a hoarse metallic growl. Its lamp blazes and it reaches the trees and speeds in a straight-arrow line. I prep the M-67 for a low looping toss.
Now! I lob the bomb at the passing boat and there's a white-hot flash. Bloody men spill from the Air Ranger's deck and splash down in murky water and disappear. Their guns sink with them and no trace remains.
The injured Bravda pilot in his high seat grapples with his controls. He pulls the Air Ranger through a wide sloshing U-turn. It's unclear what he's planning. He shouts something and accelerates in my direction at flank speed.
Black Thunder's in my fist with its hammer back and I aim and trigger a rapid-fire salvo. FMJs slam the pilot back and he strikes the fan cage and its bars give way. His skull hits the rotors and it's vaporized into crimson mist.
The unguided Air Ranger rams a hummock and the great blades break off and twang into the swamp. The engine stalls and dies and the vessel tips sideways and sinks in a few feet of muddy water.
I scan downrange. The second boat looms and its engine revs. Doubtless the pilot's priming for attack. I check Black Thunder. Its slide's locked back on empty.
I reload the pistol with its final magazine and stow it and grasp my UMP. The subgun fires 600 rounds per-minute on full-auto. But the situation calls for more precise shooting. I set the weapon for two-shot burst and level it across a stout cypress knee.
There's a moment of dead quiet and even the night birds and insects and reptiles go silent. It's as if the swamp knows a final showdown's looming. A final reckoning. The Air Ranger's fan revs like a giant buzz saw and it surges ahead and its searchlight glares.
I squeeze off a Black Talon burst and the searchlight shatters and goes dark. I glimpse the Bravdas covering their faces against sharp fragments.
The Air Ranger roars past and kicks up churning waves and water rushes at me like a mini tsunami. I'm drenched and coated in phosphorescent plankton. I keep the UMP up and track the enemy vessel.
The pilot pulls hard to starboard and the airboat trembles and builds momentum. Its engine roars louder and it hurtles in my direction and it flattens sawgrass in its wake. Its gunners level their AKs and rake the swamp with salvo after blazing salvo.
They're probing but they haven't found me. Not yet. I grit my teeth and swing the UMP into target acquisition. Above my gunsights the airboat looms and it's etched in silhouette. On its bow the Bravda riflemen unleash new autofire and flames stab from their weapons.
Bullets sizzle low overhead and one slug hums past my ear. I've got to kill the threat or die trying. I aim the UMP at the Air Ranger's pilot in his tall perch and trigger a two-shot burst.
Black Talons split the pilot's throat and his deadweight pushes the throttle to max power. The swamp buggy rears on its tail and hurtles toward impact with the shore. It strikes a hummock and goes airborne and its rotors thrash empty sky.
The bow gunners tumble from their crouched positions into freefall. One ragdoll figure slams a tupelo and slithers flaccid down its trunk.
Meantime the stricken airboat nosedives onto hard-packed mud. Its hull crumples and its engine dies and its broken rotors wind down and freeze. The air reeks of gasoline from the ruptured fuel tank.
I level the UMP and search for threats. Two men fell from the Air Ranger's gunwales but I lost them in the flurry of the crash.
There's sudden movement near the wreck and an AK rises in my direction. I swing the UMP toward my danger and hit the subgun's trigger. FMJs stitch the Bravda's thorax and dump him into dark water and he rolls facedown and sinks.
Simple math tells me there's one gunner left intact. I need to drop the thug before I move ahead. I can't risk leaving him alive. He might follow me and put a bullet in my back as I retreat.
I pull the UMP's half-empty magazine and feed the subgun a full thirty-shot stick. There's no point taking chances.
I leave my cover in a fighting crouch and circle the airboat's wreckage. My finger's on the UMP's trigger. I narrow my eyes to slits and send out combat feelers. There's motion on my left and I pivot with the UMP leading.
A figure's crouched on the mud and he's dazed and injured. A Tokarev pistol sprouts from his fist and that makes him a lethal threat.
I peer closer and make a positive ID. It's Anton Zorin. He joined the hunt instead of fleeing the camp. I can respect that decision but there's no free pass. I mean to kill the SOB. He's marked for death and no mistake.
I brace the UMP against my shoulder and take aim. I set my sights for a lethal shot.
Zorin gapes at me through a seeping veil of blood. "It doesn't have to end like this. We can make a deal. Right?"
"Wrong." I hit the UMP's trigger and Black Talons bore in at near point-blank range.
Zorin's face explodes into scarlet fragments and one eyeball erupts from its socket. Another Black Talon barrage hammers his chest and wrenches him off his feet. He twists like a human corkscrew and twitches on the mud and goes stiff. The Tokarev spins free and vanishes into the swamp.
I step close and empty the UMP's magazine into Zorin's mangled torso. It's not overkill. It's making sure.
I spit a curse. I've won this battle but the war's far from over. The Bravdas will continue their invasion. They'll continue to violate American soil. There's more work to do and more blood to spill. I reload the UMP and turn my back on grim death.
THE END
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Copyright © 2019 by Zeke Mitchell. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, brands, places, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead or actual events is purely coincidental.
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