The Assault Force made good time to the base of the mountain, but it took longer than expected to stash and camouflage the ATVs. Both of the overland routes into the city, the railroad track and the paved road, were too narrow to allow the Task Force to ride up the mountain with any sort of speed. The result was that all but two of the four-wheelers had to be hidden, with the remaining pair being used to haul mortar rounds up to the city. The task of concealing the vehicles in the small patch of woods proved more difficult than anticipated, and as a result the Task Force behind schedule.

After stashing their vehicles and posting a squad of Rangers to guard them, the Task Force ordered itself into a loose column. The formation was based around the Ranger Company with First, Second, and Third Platoon placed in line numerically. Weapons Platoon and the Heavy Mortar Platoon with their mortar-laden ATVs were in the center. Commander Rustler, as Task Force Executive Officer, stuck close to the Heavy Weapons Section. His responsibility during the attack would be ensuring the two platoons coordinated their supporting fire effectively.

AFO teams were interspersed among the group with a concentration in the lead. Three of the four S-L-1 observation teams would be in the forward element to act as guides, with the fourth staying with the Heavy Section. Though all the units in the Task Force had spent a solid day studying the maps available of the city, the four S-L-1 teams knew the layout better than anyone. Months of watching through scopes had that effect.

“Kilo 1-1 in position. Targets in sight. Ready to engage on Forager 6. Over.”

Near the front of the column, Moose was a unique combination of relaxed and tense as he listened to the sniper team in his earpiece. The first obstacle the Task Force had to overcome was a guard station at the base of the mountain where the road began to wind its way upwards. The station was manned day and night by a handful of sentries and was impossible to sneak by. The post was the first of three interspersed along the mountain that monitored road traffic, and each had to be eliminated without allowing the alarm being raised.

“This is Forager 6. All elements are set. Kilo 1-1, cleared to engage. Over.”

Moose breathed deeply to calm his nerves. He had learned early on that allowing the adrenaline that arose before a battle to overwhelm you could get you killed, so he simply let the nervous energy flow through his body.

All around him, the 253 men of the Assault element were each doing last second checks of their equipment. Radios, plate carriers, helmets, weapons were all strapped into place, shouldered, and adjusted. They faced a long, uphill march before the battle even began, and no one wanted to have to stop halfway up to go back and grab a dropped magazine.

“Check.” The radio was silent for several moments, and Moose’s ears picked up the distinct sound of suppressed sniper rifles. Contrary to popular belief, suppressors don’t actually reduce gunfire to a whisper or a quiet cough. Instead, they merely reduce the permanent ear damage-inducing jet engine volume to the level of the average police siren. However, the devices do make it more difficult to pinpoint the origin, and over distances help disguise the gunshot as another sound source.

“Tangos down. Clear to move. Over.”

“This is Forager 6, roger. All Assault Force elements, begin the assault. Out.”

As one, like a tide rolling onto a beach, the Assaulters rose to their feet and began to march up the road that spiraled into their target. They passed the guard station without breaking stride. As he passed, Moose glanced at the unmoving corpses surrounding the whitewashed station. The rifle rounds had not been kind to them, and he didn’t let his gaze linger.

Their pace wasn’t particularly fast, a slow jog more than a run, but the incline was too steep to move any faster, nearly thirty degrees in some places. The men could make it to the city in record time, but if they made the attempt by the time they finished they would be too exhausted to carry out their mission. The road spiraled up the mountain for a combined length of nearly eight miles, so pacing was critical. Eight miles of flat terrain would be next to nothing, but eight miles of running up a mountain could sap the strength from even the most hardened warrior.

While steep, the road was well constructed and in some places tunneled through the mountain itself. Torches illuminated the insides of the tunnels, and low wooden guard rails lined the cliff edges. Heads swiveled around in search of hostiles as they trudged along. The four-lensed rigs of the Operators and the Rangers’ two-lensed NODs searched every visible crawlspace and corner. The force was dispersed to such an extent that they covered nearly an entire circle around the mountain.

Beowulf, designated for the duration of the mission as Kilo 5, was third from the front of the column. Together with Kilo 2 and Kilo 4, both of them S-L-1 teams, they acted as the vanguard of the Assault Force. The Task Force made good time, and reached the second checkpoint without incident. When they neared the post, Kilo 2’s leader, who Moose knew as Boozer, raised his fist for the Assault Force to stop. The signal was passed quickly down the line as the men ground to a halt just short of a sharp bend in the road. They spread out and formed a quick perimeter with their weapons pointed into the darkness.

“This is Kilo 0-2. We have reached Objective Yancy. Preparing to engage. Over.”

Without speaking, Boozer motioned for Moose and Kilo 4’s team leader to come forward. They crept forward quietly, their boots crunching against the loose rocks on the road. Using only hand signals, Boozer communicated that Kilo 4 would initiate the attack, with 2 and 5 providing cover. Moose and Toss Up, Kilo 4’s team leader, nodded and drew their pistols. Their teams did likewise and attached suppressors to the ends of their weapons.

They had suppressors for their rifles, but the attack on the second guard post was one of the most critical portions of the operation. If they were detected, they were still too far away from the city to attack before the natives could prepare serious resistance. The second checkpoint was, however, close enough to the city to mean that even suppressed their rifles could give them away. As a result, it had been decided the second guard post would be eliminated using side arms, as the .45 ACP rounds were subsonic and quieter when suppressed. Fortunately the guard post was no more than forty feet from the bend, easily within pistol engagement range.

The twelve men stacked up against the wall, ready to assault. Toss Up gave the ‘go’ signal, and as one the twelve men spread out along the road and knelt. They were far enough away from the guard station's torches to stay concealed in the darkness, and their smooth movements gave away no sound. Twelve side arms leveled at the half dozen guards, all of them appearing bored and tired. Dark purple armor reflected torchlight as the unaware soldiers lazily conversed, their spears shouldered casually.

"Go."

The radio command unleashed a ripple of .45 caliber rounds that tore the horses to pieces. Slugs passed through thin metal armor like it was nothing. Blood splashed against the wooden guard station as the sentries dropped, dead before they hit the ground. After several moments of silence, the men stood and quickly advanced with their weapons poised.

As they reached the guard station, a twitch of movement caught Moose’s attention. His pistol, as well as three others, immediately trained themselves on the source. On the ground behind the short wooden fence that surrounded the post, one of the sentries stared up at them in terror. A pair of pistol rounds had torn through his throat and blood was gushing out of the wound. By Moose's guess, he had less than a minute to live. His front foreleg twitched again as he tried to push himself away from them, but all his strength had already deserted him.

Moose’s finger snapped back on the trigger and put a bullet between the suffering alien’s eyes. He didn’t bother burdening his conscience with it; in this case he considered the act a mercy killing. The poor soldier had simply had a bad case of wrong place, wrong time. Moose didn’t give it another thought. Toss Up and one of his men kicked in the door of the guard station and disappeared inside. A moment later the men heard “Clear,” from inside.

Boozer reached for his radio, “Forager 6, Kilo 0-2. Objective Yancy eliminated. Task Force clear to move. Over.”

“Kilo 0-2, Roger. All Task Force Eleme-“ The transmission cut off abruptly into static. Further down the mountain, gunfire split open the night. Before the Operators at the guard post could react, a heavy weight slammed into Moose from behind and tossed him to the ground. His helmet bounced off a loose road stone and brought stars to his eyes. On instinct alone he rolled himself over and brought his pistol to bear.

The can smacked against the muzzle of one of the alien creatures. The creature was viciously slashing at him with two pairs of hoofguard-mounted blades. The impact of the suppressor barely registered with the creature which continued its attempts to disembowel Moose. Unable to bring his pistol to bear, he instead resorted to bashing the side arm against the side of the alien’s head. The blows didn’t so much as faze the horse soldier, and only resulted in one of its hoof blades catching Moose’s wrist.

Out of the corner of his eye, Moose saw a flash of movement and suddenly the weight on his chest was lifted. In its place was Clumsy with his rifle raised. Clumsy fired a burst which lit up the dimly lit tunnel opening. Shadows danced across the walls as the horse soldier whinnied in agony and collapsed. Clumsy fired two more rounds into its torso and another round into its forehead to put it down for good. Without pausing he readjusted his aim at something outside Moose’s field of view and fired again.

Adrenaline spiked through his system and numbed the pain in his right arm. Moose jumped to his feet, rifle at the ready, and scanned for targets in the direction Clumsy was aiming. The sight he saw was shocking; there were dozens of aliens in dark purple armor mixed in among First Platoon and the AFO teams. The sounds coming from around the bend in the road indicated there were more he couldn’t see. Rangers and Operators were firing their weapons point blank into aliens, who in turn were hacking and slashing at anyone they could get close enough to maim. Many were locked into individual fights, knocking fists and rifle butts and knives against hooves and hoof-mounted blades.

Moose shouldered his rifle and moved between Lowball and Chainsaw, who, along with the rest of the two other vanguard teams, had formed a rough firing line. He raised the weapon and lined up the holographic reticle on an alien hovering above the melee, claws extended and slashing at any head within reach. Most of the strikes skidded off helmets, but in the split second Moose was lining up his shot the horse brought its blades down on the neck of a distracted SEAL.

A fountain of bright red arterial blood gushed onto the dirt as the sailor dropped to his knees, his hands going to his throat in a desperate bid to staunch the flow. Moose slapped the trigger three times and unleashed a stream of death that knocked the alien out of the air and over the edge of the road. Moose turned his attention to searching for more targets, and didn’t hear the sound of the body crashing against the rocks down the mountain.

The line of men advanced at a normal walking pace as they cleared the lead platoon of infiltrators. The aliens had achieved surprise, but as the three vanguard teams moved forward they acted as a plow that gave the ambushed soldiers a point to rally around. The Ranger platoons were separated by thirty yard intervals, which meant that each platoon was able to sort itself out without having to worry about rolling into another unit. The AFO teams between each platoon pivoted and turned to help their comrades clear out the attackers from their ranks.

In seconds it was over. Bodies in purple armor and tan pixelated uniforms blanketed the road. The few enemy soldiers that hadn’t been killed leapt from the mountain and spread their wings. Soldiers and SEALs turned their weapons on the rapidly fading silhouettes. A few fell from the sky, but the enemy’s steep dive quickly took them out of effective range.

Calls of "Clear!" echoed over the radio as the Task Force reformed its perimeter, this time closer to the edge of the road. The horses had concealed themselves above and below the road on the cliff face out of sight, and when the time to spring their ambush arrived had been able to close the gap between the two forces before the Assaulters could react. Learning from their mistake, the humans kneeled on the edge of the road, checking both above and below their position.

They were not used to fighting against enemies capable of 360 degree movement, but they would not make the same mistake again.

The aftermath was horrific. Puddles of blood ran together to form morbid streams that flowed downhill. Hot brass casings rolled off the mountain in a grim impression of waterfalls. The few medics of the Ranger Company ran among the piles of bodies performing triage. Operators with advanced medical training joined in to help the overwhelmed medics. Everyone else either applied pressure to bleeding wounds and offered what medical care they could or took spots on the line to protect the wounded.

Moose took a place at the edge of the road near the spot he had been attacked when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He glanced back to see Lowball standing behind him expectedly.

“What’s up?” he asked, completely business.

Lowball pointed to his arm. “You’re hurt, dumbass.” Moose glanced down at his arm and, sure enough, his sleeve was stained dark red. It wasn’t a hemorrhage, but it was enough to be a problem.

“Clumsy, take my slot,” he ordered as he stood and backed away from the edge. Clumsy wordlessly moved up and took up the position as soon as Moose vacated it. No way in hell was anyone going to leave a perimeter gap after an ambush.

Moose removed his glove, which was ruined, he noted glumly, and extended his arm for examination. Lowball shined a small LED flashlight on the wound. It wasn’t horrible; a three inch gash along the side of his forearm. He’d definitely had worse. Hell, he’d been shot before. A wound like the one on his arm was practically a paper cut after that.

Regardless, Lowball ripped open the small medical kit on his gear and cut away the bloodstained sleeve. Moose washed the blood away with the spigot from his CamelBak and allowed Lowball to apply gauze and a pressure wrap to stop the bleeding. He would have a bit of soreness, but despite it being his shooting arm it wouldn’t be an issue. Uncomfortable, definitely, but not unmanageable.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the SEAL whose neck he had seen slashed open on the ground. His eyes were closed and a lake of blood surrounded him. A black tag hung on his vest, hastily applied by a passing medic.

Moose quickly forgot about the ache in his arm and rejoined the line.