Primal Gambit

Chapter 4: On Altai

The snow-capped summit loomed in the distance. Ridgelines gave way to death-fall heights, pebbles and rocks shifting beneath three sets of worn combat boots. Blisterclouds peppered the sky, irritating skin and tearing unprotected eyes. They turned the sky from a healthy blue to a polluted, malnourished yellow. The three men stepped carefully toward the nearest peak – bits of mountain crumbling with every pace. There was a lone outpost atop the peak, and the three killers that made up Wobbegong Squad were going to take it out. With the tower under new ownership, the fog of war would clear.

Hanging snowfall seemed still in the sky, painting white doom around them. Were they to encounter overwhelming resistance from the tower, a pack of J-38 Grackle Bombers was a radio request away. The men scaled the cliff-side, the air thin and crisp, their masks working overtime to compensate for increased consumption. They were prepared however, the hefty duffel bag hanging beneath Renault's pack was filled with spare filters. Doerrman wrapped his rifle strap around his forearm to ensure repeat accuracy and stability. It was not a nervous air between them but rather something closer to anticipation. They were ready.

When the team found their checkpoint high atop the ridgeline they nestled deep into the dead white brush, out of sight. Renault leaned against an emaciated tree, his equipment by his side. His weapon of choice, a pair of tactical binoculars, pressed against his eyes and watched through a gap in the wind-flushed leaves – observing the Charlie. Vikhr detached his mask and pulled it from his face, breathing deep the icy air. His counterparts never agreed with it but the husky warrior claimed it to be an integral part of becoming one with the land around him. He then knelt like an animal over a kill, gutting an MRE and consuming it offensively. It was never wise to eat before battle but the Siberian was hungry and government issued MREs were designed to stay down.

Beasts brayed, the howls resonating throughout the canyon. Doerrman radioed his men, prone and watching through the scope of his rifle from atop a boulder.

"Prepare yourselves – the three of us are going to take the tower alone." He whispered into his shoulder-mounted radio. The man was a purist, opting to accomplish tasks without the help of air support. He wanted to see a fair fight. Carpet bombings, which would drown the entire summit in white phosphorous, negated the idea. Grackles were ugly planes and the way they performed their cleansings seemed just the same. Vikhr came in next, replacing his gasmask and talking in a guttural, mechanical wheeze:

"You and your manners, always wanting to do everything by the book. If we have the option of dousing the entire mountain in fire, then why not save the ammunition? This is a dirty war, welcome to it." Vikhr was familiar with the lack of humanity necessary to commit such atrocious acts. It was the kind of rationale necessary to survive.

"If you want to opt out of the fight and have the pavers come in, then I'll see you at the bottom." Doerrman was intent on finishing the mission, with or without his men. The outpost served a crucial role in releasing the fog of war and the marksman was going to see to it that the mission was done by the book. The scorched remains of a watchtower were of no use to them.

Vikhr understood. He crouched down and opened his mighty cannon. From his pack, he retrieved a different type of ammunition, loading the gun while he mumbled in native tongue. The new rounds he fed into his weapon were coated in a necrotic compound – giving grazing shots the ability to maim. When Doerrman and Renault took notice, they realized he was unhappily on board.

The marksman loaded his rifle and pulled the bolt back, letting it slide forward with a metal shriek. As Renault read targets in the distance Doerrman zeroed in. He turned the safety off.

"Opening up," Doerrman growled into the radio before finally pulling the trigger. Snow plumed around the muzzle of the rifle. The marksman never enjoyed watching his shots land, as each successive time it occurred he felt himself losing a little more humanity. Instead he awaited radio confirmation.

Renault was always watching, observing the changes in the battlefield to keep his men on point. After a moment, the spotter whispered back: "Tango down." It took him a moment to turn and see if the warrior had finished his preparations.

"Vikhr move up to the boulder with Doerr." Renault shouted over Doerrman's firing weapon. Each shot emitted from the gun was a metal jangle and Renault struggled to keep pace with the number of casualties the marksman was inflicting. Vikhr shuffled forward, lugging his weapon with him as Doerrman reloaded his rifle. The Charlie, alarmed and confused as to what angle they were being attacked from began peppering the side of another ridgeline. Mortars thumped from the outpost, arcing into the air before exploding into the adjacent mountainside. Vikhr let out a burly laughter that overworked his mask.

"Support, release fire." Renault barked into the radio, awaiting a response.

"With pleasure," Vikhr snarled as he opened fire on the outpost. His rounds ripped through the air, howling as they clapped the Charlie. He wrestled with the quaking weapon, struggling to keep on target as the deafening roar made it impossible for them to communicate. Without the ability to have Renault clear his shots Doerrman was forced to watch his rounds tear into beating hearts and breathing men. He cringed with each hit, his insides rattled with the fire of Vikhr's cannon.

In mere minutes the outpost was nearly rinsed. When the hail of gunfire ended, Vikhr opened the cannon and began to reload it. He spoke aloud, but the other two men could not hear: "I think she caught fire by the end of that rally!"

"Mount up, we're moving on it." Doerrman shouted after replacing his magazine and filter. He struggled to catch rhythm with his breath, closing his eyes and swallowing.