Into The Rift

Mutual Losses (35)

Perception drags to a grinding halt as the last traces of thought leave me, a dark veil left to drape over my mind.

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-0932 Military Hours
-Approaching Visegrad Island

"Get ready, we're here." The first signs of land appears over the horizon, easily discernible against the constant blue of the ocean. I relieve my eyes from their constant vigil outside the windows, neck muscles experiencing a dull ache in the process.

"Hopefully this qualifies us for hazard pay." Douglas attempts to lift the tension with a joke, the act rather uncharacteristic of his personality.

"Points for effort," I remark, giving him credit where it is due. It can hardly be called a joke, but the thought behind it is something I have to respect.

"Thanks..." he replies, the leveled tone absent of embarrassment or anything else for the matter. More than likely, there isn't anything deeper to it.

Everyone remains anxious and more than a little on edge as I watch the waves lap up on the distant shores of our target Island. The foliage covers the land further inward, the terrestrial carpet of green being a maze of trees and branches fitting around one another.

"Visual on Point Nemo, drop in one. Strike Blue standby," the pilot says, the intercom resonating in the cabin, shaking up my senses into a state of readiness.

"Standby rope," I declare, the words directed to Robert with his proximity to the door. With a firm nod to acknowledge me, he coils up the tough cord into a bundle in anticipation for the drop.

"Rope is secure," he eyes the LED lights just above him waiting for the red to turn green, standing by for the signal.

I shift more weight onto my legs, the rest of my men doing the same. Glances of reassurance shared between the four of us, we affirm the unspoken level of trust we placed on each other, communicating in a medium that required little other than our attention.

The hidden determination behind our helmets is here for the world to take note of. And with that, as if to cement the notion, the red flickers into a bright green.

The battlenet springs to light, "Drop, drop, drop." Robert slides the door open, tossing the rope out to the side of the aircraft. Fresh air rushes in as I get on my feet, briefly admiring the exterior view.

In a burst of speed, I latch onto the rope allowing my gloves to take the heated friction as the ground rapidly approaches.

Feet eventually getting contact, I assume the high kneel position, eyes peering over and into the vegetation leaving nothing out of my field of observation. The downwash from the three Jaguars kicks up a sizable cloud of dust, obscuring visibility to a certain degree.

More footsteps hit the ground in quick succession, a quick look back after they stop confirms the entirety of Strike Blue is now deployed. A total of twenty men including me, a substantial force given the relative size of the Tartarus Garrison.

"Gentlemen, we've got twelve and a half klicks of forest to traverse through, everyone stay in line. Eyes up and be alert, this is a blind op," I emphasize, giving the strike force a little push in motivation.

We all know the scope of the mission. Ever since that midnight briefing, the frequency of jokes and banter dropped down to zero, I can tell it was more than just because we had to pack up for the long duration mission.

Dropping off at the eastern-most point of Visegrad meant the only thing we can expect in terms of initial resistance would be the local wildlife, most prominently Titan Crabs. Fortunately, the aggressive decapods are notably absent in this area.