"Open fire!"
Steve Owen gave the order, and at the same instant a round snapped out of the M200. In the crosshairs, a guard's head burst a spray of blood and the man toppled off the roof.
The reticle swung; another shot cracked. The second guard's steel helmet flew off, his neck nearly snapped by the round's force as he pitched backward, blood trailing after the helmet in a long arc.
At the same time, the Omega team burst out of the trees and sprinted toward the camp buildings. Steve's latest command came over the net.
"Spectre 6-4, request sweep on plaza targets."
"Spectre 6-4 copies."
Guards in the two barracks, jolted awake by the gunfire, stumbled out in panic and saw Omega breaking from the treeline. Before they could raise their weapons, a skyborne monster began to roar.
The gunship's 105 mm howitzer, 40 mm cannon, and 25 mm Gatling opened up at once, unleashing a massacre across the ground. Many fighters never even made it out of the barracks before the howitzer turned their buildings into rubble; the few who did were shredded by the Gatling's metal torrent, reduced to red pulp.
The AC-130 heavy attack aircraft is called a gunship for a reason. Under a single pass of its guns, the earth below turned into hell.
Tat-tat-tat—
Tat-tat—
Omega pushed fast. The few who slipped through were cut down in seconds. In moments the team had blown past the barracks.
They jogged along the wall—Ghost on point, Steve second. For this op, the two of them led the stack; the tail went to Ela, who hadn't trained with them much.
Ahead stood the target building. At the corner, Ghost peeked—and a burst sawed past, chewing the wall and kicking gray chips. The enemy had the doorway locked down; the whole approach was sealed, at least four guns trained on that angle. Steve listened to the fire. Calling air would waste time. He drew a breath, snapped half his body out, and squeezed.
The M203 slung under his HK416 gave a heavy thump. The grenade detonated in the cluster of men; bodies popped up and then flopped like rags. With the firing point cleared, the team flowed around the corner and stormed the building.
After raking the west barracks, Spectre 6-4 shifted to pamper the east. Under that firepower, the structures couldn't take a punch—every hit blew flame and smoke out the windows.
In pure kill efficiency, the AC-130 was worth ten of them. Precisely because they had that beast, Omega ditched their usual stealth for a direct assault.
In the narrow interior corridor, the five spread into a line.
Clink-clatter—
Any room that returned fire—and wasn't Makarov—got a frag at the door.
A concussive boom rocked a cramped room; smoke jetted out and, before it cleared, Ghost, skull mask and ballistic goggles on, rushed in. His ACR called targets one by one—living or not, everyone inside got a bullet.
With clean roles and timing, they cleared rooms on both sides of the hall. Flash-bangs paired with frags made it fast work.
Dust hung everywhere. Steve and Ghost advanced left and right, covering each other. If a shadow stirred in the haze—it took a round. The two up front didn't finish kills; the trailing shooters confirmed no Makarov and then put in the insurance shots. Even so, the pace was ferocious.
Ela was frustrated. This was her first op with Omega, greenlit by Steve himself—not pulled from the reserve pool.
She'd hoped to show her value. She could barely find a chance to fire. Truth was, not just her—the ones in back all felt it. Steve and Ghost vacuumed up ninety percent of the targets. Bayev, third in the stack, snagged one or two. Heartbeat and Ela mostly handled finishing shots.
At a branching corridor, Steve flashed hand signals and split the team. He took Ela left; Ghost took Heartbeat and Bayev right.
"Finally opened the account…"
Ela dropped a figure who popped out and let out a long breath. Steve was a freak—fast and precise. Next to him, she felt superfluous.
Up ahead, the two elements rejoined. Everything along the way was clear. Only one room remained. Ghost had just blown the doorman's head off, and a guarded door meant the room mattered. They hadn't seen Makarov yet—this was the last hope.
Steve waved. Heartbeat stepped up with charges. The two elements stacked to either side.
With a thunderous crack the door blew inward, and a nine-banger sailed through.
The flash-bang's cascade hammered senses inside—sight and hearing gone. Steve and Ghost snapped up and scythed down the last three heads in the room.
They flowed in, put in finishing shots—and found no Makarov. But there was a man tied to a chair. He'd caught the nine-banger full-on and hadn't recovered.
The walls were covered with material on Sheremetyevo Airport—layouts, emergency exits, police numbers and deployment. This looked like the place where Makarov had planned the airport massacre.
Steve yanked off the captive's blindfold. "Who are you?"
He didn't get an answer. A chill surged up his spine—the instinct that had saved him countless times.
"Move!"
He shouted, scooped the man up, and bolted into the hall. He had the feeling this guy would be useful.
The others didn't know what was wrong, but they trusted Steve. They ran too. A heartbeat later, the C4 hidden under the desk went off. The room turned to rubble.
The blast seemed to be a signal. At the same moment, fighters burst from the treeline around the camp. Men with G36s formed a ring and drove on the building where Steve's team had been.
"Steve, it's a trap."
From orbit, Becky saw it and called it out. Steve's team had just cleared the doorway. One look at the swarm and Omega knew they'd been played.
On the slope, Swagger was dropping targets one after another—but the numbers didn't seem to thin.
Below, Bayev hauled the hostage while the others laid down cover. Using the wall for shielding, Omega punched for an exit.
"Spectre 6-4, open us a lane!"
"Spectre 6-4 copies."
Steve called air again. Grenades blossomed across their front. A gap tore open in the ring.
"Go!"
It was their only shot. The team dashed through and sprinted for the exfil LZ. Bayev led; the others turned and fired in bounds. But there were too many—like they'd never run out. Steve was about to call Spectre 6-4 again when a white lance shot up from the ground.
"Stinger!"
He recognized it instantly. The gunship did too—flares spat in a dazzling chain and the pilot kicked a hard maneuver. A bloom of fire in the sky marked the first missile going off.
But a second white trail clawed upward—much closer than the first, shrinking Spectre's reaction time.
It arrowed straight, visible to the naked eye, right at the airborne fortress—and blossomed into a fireball before the crew could respond.
______
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