2042_POST-WW3 - GIRLS' FRONTLINE FANFICTION.

INTERMISSION_01: IGNITED_FLAME_.

"The Al Guesraz Incident"
July 6th, 2042

The mission brief was straightforward, or so it seemed. Specter Harrison sat in the briefing room, eyes fixed on the tactical display in front of him as the commanding officer laid out the operation. They were to deploy deep into Al Guesraz, a volatile region infamous for being an insurgent stronghold. A unit from the 75th Ranger Regiment had been trapped in the valley, caught in an ambush during a routine reconnaissance mission. Their extraction had become priority one.

"They've dug in at this point, here," the commander said, tapping a point on the map with his laser pointer. "But they're surrounded on all sides. Insurgents are using the valley's terrain to funnel any relief units right into their kill zone. You'll have air support for evac, but the ground is too hot for any prolonged engagements. You get in, grab them, and get out. No heroics. Understood?"

Specter gave a brief nod, his gaze scanning the details on the screen. 75th Rangers weren't just any infantry unit; they were well-trained, hardened soldiers. If they were pinned down, it meant the situation was dire. Still, Specter had been on missions like this before—plucking out trapped soldiers from impossible odds.

"Piece of cake, right?" Sgt. Matthew Quinn, the team's medic, said from the seat beside him, flashing a grin as he packed his gear.

Specter glanced at him, the corner of his mouth twitching into a rare smile. "Easy day," he said, though something in his gut told him otherwise.

The mission wasn't supposed to be complicated, but Specter knew better than to trust an op that looked too simple. The insurgents in Al Guesraz were known for their unpredictability. Al Quassa Islamic Insurgents were relentless, masters of using the rough terrain to their advantage, and they had a penchant for traps.

"I don't like this," Lt. Michael Hayes, their squad leader, muttered under his breath, leaning over the map. "Something feels off. Too quiet for too long. They're baiting us."

Specter met the lieutenant's gaze, his jaw tightening. "We'll be ready, sir. Whatever they throw at us, we'll handle it."

The sound of rotors filled the air as the MH-60 Black Hawk helicopter sliced through the skies above the desert, the dust swirling in clouds below. The mood inside the chopper was tense but familiar, the kind of tension that came before every mission—a mix of nerves, adrenaline, and routine.

Specter sat strapped into his seat, his rifle resting between his knees, his mind running through the details of the operation. Next to him, Sgt. Quinn was cracking jokes, trying to lighten the mood.

"I bet they've got tea waiting for us down there. What do you think, Specter? Maybe some fresh baklava too?"

Specter didn't respond, his eyes focused ahead, scanning the horizon. He wasn't in the mood for small talk. Something about this mission felt wrong, and the nagging sense of unease had only grown stronger as they neared the drop zone. He glanced at Lt. Hayes, who was sitting across from him, the same unease etched into his face.

"We'll be in and out in ten minutes," Hayes said, though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than anyone else. "The Rangers have dug in. We get them, and we're out. No one plays hero. Got it?"

The rest of the squad gave curt nods, but the air was thick with unspoken worry. Specter checked his gear one last time, his fingers brushing over his sidearm and the extra mags strapped to his vest. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the desert below, and the valley of Al Guesraz stretched out like a deep scar in the earth.