Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare

Chapter 3

"Charlie Don't Surf."

Listen up Marines! Spotters have a possible fix on Al-Asad in a building in the west of this town! We're gonna move in, secure the perimeter, and grab Al-Asad. Oo-rah? Lock and load!

XXXX

Sergeant Paul Jackson narrowed his eyes through his goggles, as he stared out of the window of Black Super-Four-One. He brushed a hand through his hair, and licked his dry lips, before replacing his MICH helmet back onto his head, moving the goggles back over the top of the headgear. He took a deep breath, and steadied himself against the side door the vehicle, taking in the breathtaking view on in front of him.

They were flying over crystal blue ocean, the sun reflecting gloriously off the water, casting glittering diamonds of foamy spray as the draft from the rotorblades tore through the liquid. It was almost beautiful, had it not been for the twenty-four Black Hawk's, twelve Cobra's, and eight British Royal Navy Merlin helicopters that screamed overhead, loaded up to maximum on weapons or men carrying weapons.

The invasion had begun. A Coalition, consisting of US, British, Canadian and German forces had been waiting in a massive naval fleet for the better part of a month now, off the Persian Gulf. Plans had been drawn up in record time to facilitate this latest invasion of a Middle-Eastern country. And once again, Sergeant Paul Jackson was being sent to take out yet another Arab dictator.

Like all members of Second Squad, First Marine Force Recon, Jackson had fought in the Iraq War, and had been to Afghanistan on several occasions, so they were experienced fighting in the desert, and would acclimatise quickly. As for the others, he wasn't so sure. Checking his M4A1, rigged with an M203 and EOTech, he looked out of the porthole of the Black Hawk as a Cobra hovered into view next to them. The gunner looked up from the controls, and Jackson could see that it was a woman there, and thus, was probably the Cobra callsigned "Vicious". The only other Cobra he knew piloted by a woman was callsign "Deadly".

"Well, hello there, Vicious." Jackson murmured to himself, taking a sip from the Camelbak on his back as he did so. "And how are you today? Are you going to be giving me cover fire as I hoof it across the ground and hold down the Grid Squares that you remove from the map?"

Of course, there was no reply. The Gunner simply frowned behind the sun visor on her helmet, and gave a cheery wave, which Jackson and Private West, who was sitting with his legs dangling out of the edge of the helicopter, returned. West was their Javelin man, though they had elected to leave the Javelin behind for this mission, as intel hadn't reported any armour in the area, and besides, they had the Cobra's. The Private clutched onto the rope that they would be using to descend to the street floor once they reached their location. Second Squad had an important job, as they would be the ones kicking down the door of where Al-Asad was supposedly staying. They would have to be quick. They knew there were Anti-Aircraft defences on the shoreline, so once they reached that, the word would quickly pass around that the American's were coming, and thus, Al-Asad should get the hell out of that building if he wished to remain alive.

The plan was reasonably simple. Marine Force Recon would head into the town, and kick the door in, and that would give them enough time to secure the house and await support from other units. Six of the Merlin's contained members of the Royal Marine Commando section of the Special Forces Support Group, and would take and hold the harbour in preparation for their armoured support to arrive. The remaining two helicopters were transporting Britain's elite, the Special Boat Service, further inland, so they could rendezvous with Delta Force and SEAL Team Six, and begin their push to the capital city, wiping out enemy positions along the way. If MFR actually found Al-Asad though, then hopefully, any further incursions would be unnecessary, and they could pull out within the day.

"HQ, this is Outlaw-One-Two, we have reached the shoreline." Jackson heard the voice from the cockpit over his headset, and turned to check. Indeed, they were just about to head over the shoreline. As the massive assault force got ever closer to their target, Jackson was reminded of October 3rd, 1993. "The Battle of the Bakali Market". "Malinti Rangers". Whatever one called it, the situation was uncannily similar. A modern, heavily-armed American Assault Force was screaming their presence deep inside enemy territory they weren't completely familiar, surrounded by a civilian population would most likely side against these invaders, despite the fact that the Americans and their allies were here to help them. Everyone dreaded those three words that would signal the end of the mission, and the loss of the initiative. Black. Hawk. Down.

He turned, and looked inwards at the Marines that sat inside the belly of the Black Hawk, awaiting their chance to get into the fighting. Most carried the M4A1 carbine, with M68 Aimpoint or EOTech red-dot-sights. Some had M203's. Others carried W1200 Shotguns, that they would use to breach through doors. Jackson and three other men had M203's mounted to their weapons, and two men carried M249 SAW's. They should, by all rights, have been carrying the M16A4, the standard issue USMC weapon, but the Squad had insisted they be given the shorter, more compact M4, especially in close-quarters such as this. One or two men had NLAW rockets as well.

Each man wore a set of Desert issue MARPAT, or Marine Pattern Camouflage. Over the top this, most had the Marine issue MTV, or Modular Tactical Vest, a set of body armour with the pouches rigged via a Modular PALS system. A couple however, were wearing the smaller, lighter Weesatch vest, in coyote brown colour. Their helmet was of relatively new design, known as the MICH, replacing the older PASGT helmet that had served the US Army for many years.

The only man still to carry an M16A4 was Lieutenant Vasquez. A big, hulking Latino bear of a man, Vasquez sat, squashed into the front of the helicopter. His body armour was a myriad of pouches, containing mostly ammunition and his two water bottles, plus his HF Radio that allowed him to get in contact with HQ, as well as his own men. On his back was a sawn off Remington shotgun strapped through the back of his body armour. He wore no helmet cover on his MICH, only the metallic coloured Kevlar covering, with several little chalk lines on the back, in groups of five; the number of people he had killed over his years in the Marines. The number was surprisingly small, considering the fact that Vasquez was thirty-four, quite possibly the oldest Lieutenant in the world, though no-one was sure if this was because he was passing up promotion or being passed over. Either way, they were just happy that he still remained as their CO. He was tough, fit, and an excellent leader, and Jackson was proud to be his number three.

An RPG streaked past the helicopter, the signature trail of smoke lazily wafting through the rotorblades. Jackson began patting down his gear, making sure all his buckles and pouches were done up, everything was still attached to his vest, his weapon was cocked, with rounds in the chamber and in the magazine. Across from him, the Merlin's flared as they stopped above the harbour, ropes quickly being dropped from the inside. A Royal Marine, with no helmet, just his Green Beret, leapt from the helicopter, clutching hold of the rope, and swinging down to the ground, his SA80A3 strapped tightly over his front. More men followed, these ones wearing Kevlar, and Jackson could only assume that the first man had been an officer…a nutcase. He shrugged it off, and turned back to his own men.

"Alright, here's the plan, one last time." Vasquez leaned forward to speak to his other men, his M16 now in his hands. "We rope down into the street and head to the target building. First Squad are hitting the front. We're hitting the rear. We clear through while Third and Fourth establish blocking positions. Then we hold down and await further orders. Oo-rah?"
"OO-RAH!" They all yelled, the bravado coursing through their veins. The helicopter was suddenly filled with the sounds of weapons cocking, and shouts of encouragement and excitement from the men of Second Squad. They saw another Black Hawk across from their own begin to hover, and dispense the Marines inside, roping down the fifteen metres or so onto the sandy ground beneath them. This was it.

The Black Hawk pilot pulled back on the controls, pulling the helicopters nose into the air, and slowing it to a halt. West wobbled slightly from his precarious perch on the side of the helicopter, before he pushed his coiled rope out from the side, and it plummeted to the surface, curling slightly at the bottom as the excess hit the ground.

"Green light!" The crew chief yelled, still holding onto his M137 Minigun, actively hunting out targets. Jackson took a moment to grin at the chief's aviator shades, before slinging his weapon over his front, and pulling his gloves tighter over his hands. "Green light, go, go go!" The Chief patted West on the back as he slid out onto the rope, holding on tight at first, and then reducing his grip, allowing himself to slip down. Moments later, Jackson was right behind him, his goggles keeping the sand and dust from entering his eyes as he carried on down, before his Converse boots made contact with the sand.

He instantly dropped to one knee, bringing his carbine up into his shoulder, eyes narrowed, teeth gritted, and aiming down the street. He could see Super-Four-Two deploying it's own men about two-hundred metres up, through some alleyways, and then West darting in front of him, M4 in his shoulder, heading down the street. Jackson nodded, before getting to his feet. The young Private had his head screwed on right, that was certain. Jogging slightly to catch up, and leave as little a gap as possible (a more desirable tactic during OBUA), the two men proceeded down the side of a wall, though not completely pressed up against it, with West covering the front, and Jackson pointing his weapon slightly to the right of him.

Some movement just at the edge of his vision made him shift his aim to across the street, but as the people got closer, he identified them as Corporal Thompson and Private Zampella of Third Squad, pulling a massive coil of barbed wire behind them, several metres long. Another Marine knelt by the corner, covering them as they pulled it across the street.

"GO, GO!" Lieutenant Connor yelled as he emerged from the alleyway, covering the other arc, down from where Second Squad had come from. "Set up the blocking positions, let's go!" They knew the barbed wire would do nothing against a vehicle, but they weren't expecting any trouble from that. Second Squad turned around the corner, and out into a courtyard, surrounded by wooden fences and covered in scrub.

"There's the target building! Stack up!" Vasquez jabbed his hand in the direction of the doorway as they picked up pace. Private Anderson slung his M4 over his back, and instead took his W1200, pumping it to bring a round into the chamber. "Left side door breach!"

They did as ordered, with Vasquez taking the first position, Anderson second, and Jackson third. West, Hobbs, and Walker turned to give cover, and they would hold down the door of the building while the other three went inside. Vasquez turned, and nodded at Anderson. The Private stepped forward, and placed a small, C4 breaching charge on the handle of the door, before returning to his position as the second man.

"Standby." Vasquez readied his M16. "Standby…execute." Anderson clicked the detonator in his hand, and the charge exploded, knocking the door in, splinters of lock and door spraying around. "Breaching, breaching!" the Lieutenant cried as he entered the room. Anderson followed quickly, and Jackson heard seven shots, before silence. By the time he had gotten inside, the first two men had already cleared the room, and were standing on opposite sides of the door, checking for more targets. Three dead men, heads wrapped in multi-coloured shemagh scarves, lay on the floor, with blood and brain spattering all across the wall behind them.

"Clear?"
"CLEAR!" Jackson responded. There was a single door to the right of where they had entered, and the three men stacked up once more, as their remaining fireteam piled inside to secure the door and cover their six. "Let's move."
"Jackson, take point." Vasquez ordered, and the Sergeant moved to the head of the group, patrolling through carefully. There was a staircase leading downwards, with an open door at the end, where they could hear shouting and the sounds of weapons being loaded.

Jackson knelt down once they reached the base of the stairs, and peered carefully around the corner. The room was larger than he could see from where he was, leading off to the right, with several tables moved edge to edge. He could see one Insurgent, with a red beret on his head, loading seven-six-two into an AK-47 magazine. He was wearing British Army CBA, or Combat Body Armour, with an Arktis assault vest over the top. His sleeves were rolled up, and he had a pistol strapped to his belt, probably a Beretta. The Sergeant's eyes darted about, taking in other details. There was another door, this one to the left, and some crates just inside the door they were about the go through which could provide some decent cover. He fumbled around on his body armour, before finding the PTT for his radio, and clicking it down.

"I've got contact. I have eyes on one Tango, but I can't see the rest of the room. There are some crates to the right of the doorway, and a door in the far left hand corner. There's shouting, so there's gotta be more men inside."

"Roger that." Vasquez swapped positions with Anderson, coming down to Jackson. "We're going to move in and clear the room. Throw a grenade, but be on the lookout for Al-Asad. We'd rather have him alive."
"Yes, El-Tee." Jackson nodded. "Flash or frag?"
"Frag."Jackson grabbed one of the grenades from his thigh rig, and removed the pin carefully, his M4 dangling to his right.

"Ready?" He looked behind him. Vasquez nodded grimly, before shouldering his M16. "Then let's go." He tossed the explosive into the room, before turning, and slamming his back up against the wall, loosening his jaw. The vibrations the grenade could cause would rattle his teeth enough loosened, if he kept his jaw clenched then there was no telling what might happen.

The explosion caught the man loading his magazines unawares, and he was sent flying forward, slamming the bridge of his nose onto the table from the force of the grenade, before being killed by the bursting shrapnel of the grenade. Jackburst in, kneeling by the right hand side of the door, and aiming, eyes wide, hunting for targets. One man burst through the door to the right, G3 in his hands, firing wildly, before he was put down by a double-tap from Jackson's M4. Vasquez was next in, kneeling by the left of the door, killing two men who tried to approach from the opposite end of the room. When they were certain the room for the moment was clear, they moved forward, Jackson leaping over the crates, assaulting it from both sides. He swapped hands with his M4, leaning out to the left around a corner, and getting his first glimpse of the rest of the room. There was afire extinguisher on the wall, as well as two more doorways, and the tables ran all the way to the end. He stood up to get a look at them, and found huge quantities of small-arms and tactical gear, even some old US M69 Flak Vests. Jackson made a mental note to mark the building for a more thorough search later, as there was no telling what else could be in the upper levels.

Regrouping, Jackson, Vasquez and Anderson shuffled down the wall, listening to the hushed whispers that came through both of the doorways.

"Jackson, throw a flashbang." Vasquez ordered. "That should put them on their asses."

"Roger that." Jackson turned to Anderson, who passed him the distraction device, and he flung it into the room, where it detonated instantaneously. There were screams and shout from the men inside, as Jackson slipped through the doorway, moving as far right as he could, until he reached the corner of the room. Two enemies were stumbling about that he could see, and he hurriedly thumbed his weapon to fully-automatic, depressing the trigger, and dispatching his foes with several accurate shots. He knelt down, and leaned around another corner, in time to see another Tango's head explode from the force of one of Anderson's shotgun shells, before all was silent in the room. The smoke was still clearing as Vasquez loosely held his weapon by the pistol grip, using his other hand to depress his talk button on the radio.

"All Callsigns, check the bodies. We need a positive ID on Al-Asad."

Jackson rolled over the nearest corpse to him, pointing his MEUSOC pistol into the body's face. The man's tanned features and shaven chin were most certainly not those of Khaled Al-Asad, and he seemed a bit too tall in any case. The three men worked quickly, turning over all the people they had encountered so far.

"Negative here sir." A Marine informed them as they checked the last of the people in the basement.

"No sign of Al-Asad here, sir." Vasquez looked visibly disappointed.

"Fuck." Was all he said as he kicked a discarded helmet across the room, and holstered his MEUSOC back into the pouch on his thigh rig. He brought his M16 back into his hands, and reloaded the magazine, putting his empty into the dump-bag on his left leg. "Command, this is Red Dog. Target building is secure, but we don't have Al-Asad. Over." He turned, and began heading up another set of stairs to the rear of the building, back up to the surface. Jackson and Anderson looked at eachother, shrugged, and followed him quickly. "Roger that HQ. Out."

"Heads up! I just got word that Al-Asad is broadcasting at a TV station half a click west of here. We're gonna move in on foot, and take down the package. Move it." They emerged back into the blinding sunlight, and Jackson suddenly realised that his goggles were still pressed down firmly over his eyes. He pulled them up and onto his helmet, and wiped away the rings of sweat on the back of his glove. "Fall in, we're moving to regroup with First Squad back on the crossroads." The three elite soldiers fell into line, joined a few seconds later by the remains of the squad, who dropped into position on their tail. The crossroads were back the way they came where Third had established their blocking position, and the enemy had obviously counter-attacked as they had gone into the building. Vasquez led the way, back across the courtyard, and through a mesh gate which he kicked open with his foot. His huge frame had to turn slightly in order to fit through, and they followed on in awe of their officer.

Things weren't looking very good as they reached the stronghold. Lieutenant Connor was firing his M4 slowly, on single shot, with a nasty looking wound in his shoulder. Next to him, much to Jackson's dismay, lay two dead Marines, both staring up at the sky, sightless eyes taking in the clouds and Black Hawks that spoiled the beauty of the blue sky. Jackson and Vasquez knelt next to Connor, and began helping him, as First, Second and Third Squads commenced the defence of their objective.

"Sitrep." Vasquez ordered. Connor stopped firing, and turned to look at the older Lieutenant.

"They came out of nowhere, sir, honest to God they did. They took out Marvin and Carlton, and we've got Jamieson and Parker wounded down the street."

"I see. OK, here's what's going to happen. Al-Asad is broadcasting at the TV station, to the East of here. You and Lieutenant Wilson of First are going to hold this position until reinforcements arrive, Command ETA's they will be here in twenty, both US and British. Once that has happened, you will provide dismount support for the armour." Connor nodded, and fitted a new magazine to his weapon.

"What about you?"

"Second Squad will ride the initiative and make the push towards the TV Station. We will link up with the other men of our Squad with Staff-Sergeant Griggs."

"Roger that."

"We'll flank around to the right down this street." Vasquez indicated to both Jackson and Connor. We'll clear the area, house by house if necessary. I'll call in some air support to give us assistance as we go. Jackson, prep the men. Connor, pop smoke."

The Lieutenant lobbed the Smoke Grenade over their heads, and it landed a few metres down, while Vasquez spoke frantically into his radio headset, kneeling down behind a wrecked car.

"Roger that…I understand…OK, Dragon-One-One, roger." Just as he spoke, an Apache Longbow roared overhead, firing a salvo of sixty-millimetre rockets and cannonfire. The ordnance tore through the buildings down the street, taking out many enemy sniper positions. A few survivors tried to fire RPG's, but to no avail, and they were cut down having revealed their positions to fire. Vasquez gave a thumbs up to the helicopter that was rapidly moving away from them. "Thanks for the assist Dragon-One-One, we owe you. Red Dog out."

"Alright, let's move out Marines. Griggs is waiting for us." Jackson waved his hand above his head, and leapt over their cover, breaking right down the alleyway as soon as possible, Vasquez and the rest of Second in tow.

They twisted and turned down alleyways, being given a little guidance by aircraft in the area, but for the most part, they were on their own, Vasquez guiding their route with his Garmin GPS. Jackson wasn't afraid to admit that, for the most part, he was absolutely terrified. Enemy fire could come from any angle, and a single RPG or trip-mine could take them out in seconds, rendering the assault force down an entire squad.

"Griggs, this is Vasquez. What's the situation?" The Team Leader spoke over the mic in a whisper. The tones of their second-in-command, Staff-Sergeant Griggs, who was currently on the other side of the city with the second half of Second Squad.

"We're movin' in on the target building, sir. We'll wait for you before we go in."

"Red Dog this is Command, are you the callsign moving East down an alleyway, over?" Vasquez didn't bother stopping as command interrupted, just thumbing his pressel.

"Roger that Command, Red Dog is moving East." Only gunfire for a moment. Then…

"Red Dog, be advised, possible spotters tracking you, we have multiple enemy contacts moving parallel to your position and establishing ambush points along the way."

"Jackson, hold up." Vasquez stopped the Sergeant, who nodded, and pressed himself into a doorway as far as he could go.

"Say again, Command."

"Red Dog, you have multiple contacts moving parallel of your position in the street over to your left, in preparation to ambush."

"Roger that command, please advise, over." Jackson listened to his Lieutenant as another helicopter flew over, and sand swarmed around them for a second.

"Red Dog, there is a small shanty town approximately one hundred metres in the direction you are heading, you should be able to sweep through and eliminate the ambush from there. If we can we'll get some air support over to you but don't hold your breath as a lot of other units are bogged down worse than you, over."
"Roger that command. What's the ETA on our armour?"

"We're having some trouble off-loading the tanks right now, apparently Captain Carr and his Commando's are taking a lot of fire."

Vasquez called a quick huddle with Jackson.

"Command says the tanks are going to be a little while longer, and there's a possible ambush site up ahead. We're going to move in and take up firing positions along the edge of the shanty town, and press through from there. With luck we should be reinforced by members of Second Platoon after that, and then we'll press on to the TV Station."

"Roger that. Actions on reaching the shanty town?"

"Hold your ground, and three-by-three advance once I give the order. Move 'em out, Sergeant Jackson."

"Yessir." Jackson turned, and pointed at two Marines, before waving his hand in the air, signalling for them to follow. The fireteam quickly sloped off further down the street, stopping at the corner. Jackson could see a mass of corrugated iron walls surrounded by more permanent looking buildings. Anderson moved up another few metres and knelt down, aiming through a tear in the iron, as the rest of Fireteam Alpha got ready, narrowing their eyes, reacting to every little movement or sound across from them. Vasquez checked his M203, before sliding the barrel shut again, and getting the rifle comfortable in his shoulder.

There was nothing. Not a sound, save for the crackle of gunfire around them, and the occasional yell. Jackson's face was twisted into an expression of readiness and determination, his fire-retardent finger gently stroking the trigger on his weapon, pushing it tighter into his shoulder with every passing second. He caught a glimpse of a boot in a doorway, before it disappeared back into the darkness.

"Possible hotspot. Doorway on the right."

"I see it." Anderson nodded, but didn't look. He was busy covering his own arcs.

The first rattle of Kalashnikov fire came from a balcony above them. Jackson cried out, turning to his left, and aiming up, pushing the safety of his M203, and hammering the grenade through the window. It exploded, sending a huge cloud of dust out, followed swiftly by the remains of an AK-74.

There was a huge cry of "ALLAH AKHBAR!", and insurgents came flooding from doorways to their front and rear.

"Shit! Return fire! Head to the centre, find some cover!" Vasquez yelled. He put a powerful boot into the nearest bit of corrugated, and it flew from it's post on the ground. The officer leapt into the centre of the shanty town, find a bit of cover near a mound of sand there, also protected by the rest of the sheet-metal.

"You heard the man!" Jackson yelled. "Get to the centre, find some cover! Anderson, GO!" Jackson grabbed Private West's Weesatch, and sprinted off as fast as he could, favouring his MEUSOC over the M4 so as to fire accurately. He missed most of his shots, but a single .45 round ricocheted through the cheek of one of his targets. He dragged the confused Private over to Lieutenant Vasquez, and put him down behind a wrecked car, even pointing out the targets to him, before going around and ensuring everyone else was in a good angle to begin their defence. Jackson had to admit, it wasn't looking good right now. Six men versus they didn't know how many. He scanned the rooftops for hotspots, and exit positions.

"What now, sir?!" Jackson shouted. Vasquez didn't reply. "SIR?!" The Sergeant turned to yell again at his CO, before realising that the Lieutenant was deep in conversation with someone on the radio, once again. Which was exactly what they needed right now. Some support. Preferably not "Broken Arrow", but some more CAS would be good.

Jackson left Vasquez alone for the moment, instead focusing on his own problem; remaining alive, and keeping his squad alive. He fired his M4 until the bolt rang out with a satisfying "clink" as his magazine emptied, and he quickly swapped it, stuffing the empty in the drop-leg pouch on his thigh. He slapped the bolt home and resumed shooting.

"RPG!" Someone yelled out, and Jackson instinctively turned to look. Sure enough, on the rooftop, was a man dressed in brown fatigues, kneepads, and Arktis tactical vest and a Shemagh scarf. "Get down!" the man launched the rocket, and it whooshed down towards them. Jackson ducked down, curling up into as small a target as he could as the missile burrowed into the sand in front of him, before exploding, sending the grit all over them. Jackson suddenly wished he still had his goggles on as it sprayed into his eyes, and then down the front of his jacket and up his sleeves.

"Fuck!" someone yelled out, and Jackson hurriedly shook himself down. He forced himself back up onto one knee, and he and one other Marine fired relentlessly at the RPG man. His chest convulsed and was sent back and forth, before he fell forward, off the roof, and onto the ground.

"Sir, we can't sit here much longer!" West yelled over at his Lieutenant. "We're takin' a beating!"

"I hear you, Private!" Vasquez pointed down towards an alleyway, through the centre of the shantytown. "Everyone, follow me! Break for cover and occupy that building!"

Vasquez got to his feet, and patted Jackson on the shoulder, before hurrying down the thin corridor of iron. Jackson ensured that all the other men got to their feet, and he sent them down the right direction, following their officer closely. Bullets ricocheted off of the metal with high-pitched whines and sparks, but none made contact with any of the Marines as they forced their way down their perilous cover, holding their own against their enemy with accurate, well-placed rounds.

"C'mon West!" Jackson yelled. Private West was struggling, he could see. "C'mon dude, we gotta be less than two-hundred metres now, we gotta keep moving!"

"I hear ya sir."

"Don't call me sir, Goddamit!" Jackson screamed.

That earned a laugh. It was important for them to remain as at ease as possible in the combat situation. Jackson ran towards a doorway, and planted his foot against the wooden door, before piling straight in. There was no-one inside, luckily enough, so there was no need to shout and plasticuff civilians, or shoot anyone else.

"Inventory." Vasquez commanded. "How are we doing for ordnance?"

They sounded off their ammunition statuses, and redistributed as necessary, before heading outside to the end of the houses, back into the blinding sunlight. The dust swirled in the air, and helicopters and fighter jets soared over the rooftops, barely clipping the tiles and bricks. The squad spread out into a line, before going prone in a dip just behind a tarmac road. They could see the top of the TV station off in the near-distance, but between them and it was a myriad of other buildings, no doubt filled to the brim with enemy contacts.

The sound of a Browning M-2 firing made them all look off to the right, and a Toyota flatbed truck came haring towards them, crewed by three men; driver, passenger, and gunner. The passenger was leant out of the window with a Skorpian Machine pistol, firing wildly and with abandon.

"Incoming technical!" West yelled out, ducking down just as one of the massive fifty calibre rounds shattered a mud brick just to the left of his head.

"Jackson, let's get him!" Vasquez raised himself up on one knee, and fired his 203, with Jackson following moments after. The first grenade hit the vehicle as it went to turn a corner, and the gunner was blown from his perch, flying forwards from the blast, and in front of the vehicle. Before he could get run over, Jackson's explosive nailed it right through the back window, into the inside, and exploded as it made contact with the dashboard, peeling back the roof and sending it across down the main street.

A flash of AK-47 caught Jackson's eye on top of a small building, topped with some sort of fuel container. More contacts were now visible, and the squad was spoilt for targets. The choice was made them for quickly enough, however, as a Cobra sprayed the road with it's cannon and rockets, taking out a large proportion of enemies, leaving the route reasonably clear for the Marines to proceed. Vasquez got onto his feet.

"On me, Ladies!" he waved his hand, and ran across the road towards one of the buildings.

"C'mon kids, hustle, let's go let's go let's go!" Jackson watched each man go across the road, before following, his M4 up in his shoulder, fumbling to reload his 203 as he went. Arriving on the other side of the road, they saw clouds of dust approaching from what was now the left-most side of the road. "Hell is that?"

"HQ this is Red Dog. We have visual on approaching vehicles, possibly armoured, down the road advancing on our position, please identify, over."

"Copy that Red Dog, we have ID'd them as Charlie Squadron QDG, that is British Forces inbound to your position." They breathed a sigh of relief. Friendly armour, with Bushmaster cannons and more infantry.

They twisted and turned through the back alleys of the buildings, before the rest of the squad came across two Marines holding down the edge of an alley, weapons pointed up at the TV Station. Jackson dashed towards them, and tapped one on the shoulder, leaning behind him, and aiming his own carbine.

"We got the whole place locked down. Al-Asad is inside."

"Roger that. We have armour moving in as we speak. British and US."

"Orders?" Jackson asked.

"The rest of you will stay out here. Second Squad will move in and link up with team two."

"Alright, stack up." Jackson's voice suddenly lowered secretively, and he hunched himself over, moving from cover to cover towards a small side-door on the edge of the building. The TV station was the only modern looking building he had seen so far, made of concrete and glass instead of simply brick. It was grey instead of sandy and sun-bleached, and the cars were different colours other than white and rusty orange outside. The rest of the men followed him, and stacked up on the left hand side of the door.

"Standby, Standby…" Vasquez gave a hand-signal, and a Marine from another squad shifted forward, quickly moulding the C4 charge to the doorway, before tucking himself back in amongst the squad. "Go. Breaching!"

The familiar procedure, drilled and rehearsed countless times, was carried out again. The charge detonated, the squad moved in, and the corridor into the TV station was clear. Jackson gave a quick hand signal. Move up. He and the rest of the group moved forward, slowly and steadily. This was different to the buildings they had cleared before; this one had been fortified and prepared specifically for an assault of this kind, and would no doubt be mined and booby-trapped to hell. A certainty that was demonstrated barely moments after they had entered.

"Hold up." Vasquez whispered. "Eyes-on. IED. Microwave, left of doorway." Jackson moved across so he could get a better look. Sure enough, a hastily prepared IED had been slapped down on the side of the door. Anyone who would approached it from the left would surely have missed, and thus tripped it, setting off the explosives.

"We can skirt around." Jackson indicated another door about halfway down the corridor that Private West was near. They opened the door slowly and carefully, moving through.

"It's too quiet." Jackson whispered over the squad net as they headed through another door, and went into what appeared to be the main, central area of the building; a vast open room, dotted with tables and cubicles which would normally no doubt be busy with journalists and news staff collating news reports and filing them, ready to be broadcast on Al-Jazeera.

"Spread out." Vasquez gave a couple of hand-gestures, and the Marines spread themselves across the wall of the office, aiming directly ahead. "Move forward, clear out anything you come across."

"Roger that El-Tee."

Jackson moved forward slowly, keeping an eye on the ground in front of him for tripwires and microwave emitters, as well as an enemy that had almost as many hiding places inside this room than he had outside. He absent-mindedly checked his safety catch, before doing a running total of ammunition in his mind. He couldn't have had more than three magazines left, and a couple of forty-millimetre grenades.

"Shhh…" a voice whispered over the net, the entire section stopped. Jackson looked around, to see West holding up a clenched fist. "I hear something."

Over the noise of the incoming vehicles and sporadic gunfire outside, they listened.

"I hear nothin'…" one Marine complained, turning around, his shotgun scanning the adjacent rooms for targets. "Just stuff that's outside."
"RPG!"

"RPG!"

Like the buildings they had cleared before it, the entire news centre exploded into a hail of blinding light and deafening sounds the Marines saw the three men on the upper balconies armed with RPG's.

"Motherfucker!" Jackson cursed loudly as one the RPG men fired directly at him. The Sergeant yelled out, and ducked down, instinctively dropping his weapon, and curling up into a ball on the floor of the newsroom, inbetween two of the cubicles. "Fuck-fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck!"

"Fire your weapon Jackson!" Vasquez deep, commanding voice screamed out of nowhere. Paul Jackson quickly pushed himself back onto his feet, covered in foam and bits of plastic, and regained his composure, bringing his weapon back to bear on the nearest enemy. "I have multiple contacts to the right!" he yelled, as more targets appeared, flooding from the doors on the outside of the room. He stood as high as he dared behind his flimsy cover, somewhere in-between crouching and standing, so that just his head and weapon was pointed over the top. He half wished that he wasn't carrying the M203 so he could get even lower, but no such luck. Within moments, he had a two people either side of him, firing their own weapons in support of oneanother. Glass shattered all over, and the previously cool interior of the building was now stiflingly warm, filled with smoke and flame as the carpeting caught fire.

"Not good." Someone murmured as the flames began to spread, the enemy fire slowly becoming less and less constant. The militia fighters were simply outclassed by the US Marines, and they were once again back on track, heading towards the upper levels of the TV station.

"Get that door down." Vasquez ordered, and Jackson dashed towards the double set of doors, and slammed his foot against it. It opened easily, banging across on the wall that it was bolted to, and Jackson was through, almost running, rifle at the ready, as aggressive as he possibly could be. They came out into an open reception area, well-lit and almost entirely glass.

"Those are our boys!" West yelled out in jubilation, looking out of the windows as three Abrams MBT ploughed into view. Their heavy armour and size belied their speed, and they tore across the car park, crushing and pushing other cars out of their way. They were followed on soon behind by a pair of Marine LAV's, and six Warrior Armoured vehicles, which stopped in a combat line, and released their cargo of Royal Marines. The twelve or so men from each IFV took up their own defensive positions, as Jackson and the others move on across the reception area.

"Hold up." A dark, African-American sounding voice ordered through their headsets. Griggs. "Friendlies comin' out, hold your fire." Jackson and Vasquez looked around the room.

"There." West indicated with his hands, and a door next to the front desk opened. Eight more men, dressed in desert MARPAT, moved through, led by a well-built black man carrying an M249.

"Staff-Sergeant." Vasquez nodded in greeting as Staff-Sergeant Griggs moved towards him. Griggs was a relatively young Staff-Sergeant, and as such, still retained a lot of the rebellious traits that he had had when going through basic training. His moustache was untidy and thick, adorning his upper lip, and he wore no shirt underneath his body armour, completely bare skin, with his pilot gloves covering his hands. He had aspirations of becoming a rap artist, and would often subject the almost always unwilling members of Second Squad to his lyrics.

"Situation Report?" Griggs asked, coming to kneel down next to his officer.

"Nothing in the rooms back there, we think he's upstairs. Armour has the entire area outside locked down, we're gonna move in and take the position upstairs."

"Roger that. Team two, fall in with team one." Griggs waved a hand in the air as if to illustrate his command. "We'll follow you on sir."

He turned, and he seemed to notice Jackson for the first time. "Hey, Paul, you alright man?"

"Always, braw." Jackson slapped Griggs' helmet playfully as they passed eachother to move into position. "You watch my back, oo-rah?"
"Oo-rah." They formed up in a line again, with West taking point up the stairs, and clearing the route forward. They met little resistance as they hit the upper levels, though a few remaining bad guys had tried their luck with the Royal Marines outside. It had not gone well. Jackson paused for a moment to watch as seven soldiers had charged the British soldier's position, and had been met with a hail of machine gun fire from two GPMG's, what the American's would have called M240B's. He gave a slightly morbid smile, before continuing. Harriers screeched overhead, leaving vapour trails in the sky, on their way to bombing runs elsewhere in the city.

"We're getting close." Vasquez informed them as they headed onto the roof. "Intel says that the transmission is coming from this corridor here."

There was only one door as they went inside, and instantly, everyone of them fell completely silent. Jackson and Vasquez took point, with one of Griggs' team with them acting as their shotgun man.

"This room." Vasquez barely whispered. "I can hear 'em."

"Copy that." Jackson replied, shifting forwards. "OK, stack up and standby." West darted to the other side of the doorway, his weapon in his shoulder. "OK, one my command, you're gonna hit the door. Hinges and the lock. West, Flashbangs. We'll break left and right as we go in. I'll grab the bastard and flex-tie him, get him on the ground while the rest of you keep me covered. Oo-rah?"
"Oo-rah, Sergeant." The Marine with the Shotgun nodded, and gingerly stepped in front of the door. He was particularly exposed now; if the enemy heard them and opened up, then the poor guy would be screwed. Jackson hoped he was quick with reloading his shotgun. "Go."

The Marine fired his first round on the hinge, and blew an entire chunk of the door away. He quickly pumped the action on the bottom of his weapon, and fired again, this time aiming low. Another chunk was blown in, followed swiftly by the lock and handle on the door. Not bothering to reload again, he twisted, pressing his back up against the wall, his shotgun pointing down at the floor. "GO GO GO!" Jackson yelled. Griggs tossed his flashbang, and it detonated as he and West burst through, scanning their sectors. West fired at an enemy as he broke right, Griggs heading left. Jackson was third in, followed swiftly by Vasquez, the four of them moving to the corners of the room, firing on fully automatic on anything that moved or possessed a weapon.

"Clear right!"
"Clear left!"
"Room clear!" Vasquez yelled, and Jackson sprinted forward, kicking bodies over carefully, keeping his M4 pointing at them at all times. "Anything?" Vasquez asked as he rolled the last one over.

"Nega-" something caught Jackson's eye, and he looked up at the TV Screens. Every single one of them possessed Al-Asad's image, speaking in his deep voice, yelling in Arabic. Jackson shook his head in disgust, as if he'd suddenly realised what was going on. "It's a fuckin' recording!" he yelled, kicking a discarded helmet across the floor. "Fucking son of a bitch…" he slung his M4, and wiped his face with his hands.

"Motherfucker…" Griggs pulled off his helmet, indicating for his men to do the same. One by the one, the men of Second Squad became a little more human as they unclipped their MICH's and strapped them to their belts.

"Command, this is Red Dog." Vasquez muttered into his radio. "We've cleared the TV Station, but no sign of Al-Asad. It's a fake. Further orders…Griggs, turn that shit off."

"Roger that. Got something better anyways." Jackson watched as Griggs reached into his pocket, before his eyes widened.

"Oh come on Griggs, fuck no man, not now."
"Shut it Sergeant." Griggs ignored him as he placed the CD into one of the players in the room. A moment later, and Al-Asad was gone, replaced with Griggs voice, singing one of his rap songs.

"Fuck no…"

"Aww, come on Staff-Sergeant."

"Shut up, all of you!" Vasquez turned, hefting his M16. "Command wants us to re-arm, reload and then commence foot patrols on the streets. The Commando's are gonna set up in here as our Forward Operating Base for now. Humvee's are en route, West, you're back on the Javelin."

"Oo-rah." West nodded, leaning back and taking a breath. Jackson checked his gear. Four mags left, three two-oh-threes.

"OK, Team One, get out link up with the Brits. Rest of you, reload and rehydrate, we move out in six-zero Mikes."