Into The Rift

Mutual Losses (35)

"Tartarus Command to Strike Blue, green light for Operation Silent Reception. All units verify status," the voice says, the cautious tone evident through the radio.

"One-three, good to go."

"One-Four, green for deployment." The squad leaders of first platoon's third and fourth section answers respectively, the local battlenet capturing the determination in their voices.

"Received, Strike Blue you are cleared for south departure. Best of luck, Tartarus out." The sentence seals the deal for me, there is no second-guessing myself from this point on.

I head into the troop compartment, rifle clutched in both hands with a mindset zeroed in on nothing but the mission parameters. The rotors begin to increase into a blur, cutting through the cold midnight air in preparation for take-off. A similar scene plays out with the other squads on their own Jaguars.

Outside the technicians watch from a distance, whether they are only curious, subtly rooting for us or something else, I can't accurately discern. Still, it feels good to know at least a few people will be watching us depart.

A thin sheen of sweat forms on my neck, the nerves getting a slight hold on me. Head downcast, I maneuver to rest my main weapon between my knees, the butt touching the floor making doubly sure safety is on. A swarm of possible scenarios invade my thoughts, stemming from the briefing of the possible threats we are expected to face.

Each moment passes by with the constant pounding in my chest, and the constant hum of a helicopter's engines. This particular setting prior to most missions never fails to shift my mood into a state of clarity.

"Last man in!" Robert sounds out, sealing the door shut. The internal lights turn on, a dim red casting a comforting shine onto the utilitarian spacing of the cabin, revealing the various supplies and a med-kit stored on the overhead compartments.

I turn off night vision, getting my men to do the same as I experience the slight dip of gravity towards the cockpit, indicating the beginning of the aircraft's long journey.

The stifled silence from my team within the cabin anchors my attention to the muffled sounds of the other two Jaguars, flying closely on both sides. Through the window slits, their strobe beacons flicker in a predetermined pattern, helping the pilots maintain the tight aerial formation.

"Exiting Tartarus Airspace in three," one of the pilots inform through the intercom. Unexpected, but I appreciate the surprise gesture in keeping us situationally informed.

The three minute mark hits as I look to the weary three sitting beside me, already armed with a solution in mind to get them better prepared before landfall. With an established cruising speed of approximately 135 Knots, this leaves just over four hours of travel time for us, more than enough for what I am about to suggest.

"We're almost at four thousand feet, nothing with wings fly this high up. Good time for some sleep," I start, nudging a tired looking Douglas on his shoulder.

"No room if we all lie down at the same time," James points out a flaw that I overlooked.

The solution to it comes easily after a short pause, "Shifts, two at a time. One gets the floor and the other takes the seats across me, rotate in roughly two hours."

With this proposal, feet space for those staying awake will be negatively affected, but the reduction in comfort is a price we all silently agree on. For each other's sake.

Two hours later, my turn on the shift begins, the constant tug of fatigue easily draws a heavy weight over my eyes. As I lie on the seats, the last thing my eyes take note of is the soft glint of sunlight filtering in from the window slits, a peaceful visage of morning.