"Pft-pft~"
Owen's MK18 barked, taking down a crewman in an instant.
For this boarding operation, everyone had chosen compact weapons. Owen was using the close-quarters variant of the MK18 carbine; Ghost had his MP7; others carried MP5s, Kriss Vectors, or UMP9s. The only exception was Bayev—he'd brought a 330mm CQB-version AA-12 automatic shotgun.
The squad moved forward in tactical formation with brisk, measured steps. After descending one level via the internal stairwell, they passed the room from which Owen had just eliminated a threat. Carefully, they approached the open door. Through the gap, they could see it was a rest area—several men were cramming themselves into narrow bunks for sleep.
The team covered the door while Heartbeat slipped in with his Vector. A few quiet "pft-pft" sounds later, he returned. The squad continued down the passage.
Soon, the corridor ended. Owen had expected another staircase leading to lower decks, but there was none. The only door ahead led outside—to the open deck.
The team exited through the door and found themselves back in the rain, water hammering against the deck with wild intensity. The storm made the lighting even dimmer and visibility worse. Owen led them from cover to cover between scattered deck equipment, quickly approaching the bridge.
"Pft-pft, pft-pft~"
They continued dispatching enemies along the way, still undetected.
"Ratatatatat~"
Gunfire suddenly erupted from the stern—B Team had made contact. The AKs barked louder as more enemies joined the firefight.
But the gunfire didn't alter their objective. With the ship's complex interior layout unknown, they had anticipated the risk of exposure. It only made the rescue slightly harder.
The weather worsened. Waves battered the hull, rocking the ship. Rain became a torrential downpour, and seawater occasionally splashed high up the sides, bursting into droplets against the storm.
Through their NVGs, the world glowed green. The bridge was just ahead. The squad kept a 360-degree security watch as they crept closer.
After weaving around a few more containers, a barrage of gunfire suddenly rained down from above. Fiery orange tracer rounds lit up the sky—the enemy had set up a machine gun on the bridge roof.
Everyone ducked behind a container. Though it offered good cover, the elevated gun position could easily sweep the entire area. Bullets clanged against the container's surface.
Then, the sound of rotors cut through the storm. Hammer 1—one of their supporting Chinooks—moved into position. A spotlight locked onto the enemy emplacement, and a 20mm Gatling gun opened up. The torrent of fire turned the rooftop into a ball of flames, obliterating the threat.
Taking advantage of the chaos, Omega team surged forward and breached the bridge's lower level. At the entrance, Owen signaled. Heartbeat stowed his Vector, turned the hatch valve, and slowly opened the door.
Bayev took point, stepping inside with his massive AA-12. The rest followed in a tight formation.
Cover. Advance. Cover. Push forward.
They cleared corners systematically, moved down another level, and encountered numerous pipes and maintenance panels. Owen heard movement. Ghost, in the lead, signaled for caution and crept toward cover. He lobbed a double-flash grenade.
Two blinding pops and bright bursts of light later, the team stormed the room. A chaotic yet synchronized flurry of suppressed shots rang out, dropping several enemies in seconds.
"Reloading..."
Owen ducked back and swapped magazines. Fred took his place, laying down suppressive fire. Ghost called out a reload as well—Bayev instantly stepped up.
Boom-boom! Bayev's AA-12 roared to life. While the rest of the team used suppressed weapons, which mostly filled the space with the clink of brass hitting metal, Bayev's shotgun was a snarling beast.
The AA-12 was heavy, but Bayev was a beast of a fire-support specialist—he usually lugged around a paratrooper-config M249. By comparison, the AA-12 was child's play. He handled it like a submachine gun.
The shotgun's cyclic rate was six rounds per second—nothing could survive that. Its recoil was laughably minimal, and Bayev used a 32-round drum mag.
Sure, the thing looked like an ugly beast, but its firepower was unmatched. Even more terrifying, Bayev wasn't just firing buckshot—he'd loaded FRAG-12 high-explosive rounds. Each one hit like a mini-grenade. With them, Bayev was a walking artillery unit, blowing enemies apart wherever he went.
With the hallway clear, the team pressed on. Around a corner, they found a straight corridor ending at another machinery room. Their silhouettes were backlit by a flickering lamp at the far end.
As soon as they appeared, gunfire lit up the passage. Sparks flew from the walls—deadly and indiscriminate.
No one dared step forward. A single lucky bounce from a ricochet could be fatal.
They threw three double-flashbangs in quick succession. The corridor exploded into light. Omega surged forward again.
They entered an open room with a staircase leading downward. Enemies were firing from both upper and lower levels.
Owen activated full concentration—his "bullet time." Every squeeze of his MK18 took down an enemy. But with multiple shooters returning fire, he had to break contact and seek cover—sparks flew all around him.
On the other side, Bayev and Heartbeat had charged down the stairs.
Bayev's AA-12 spat flame. In these tight quarters, its wide spread maximized lethality. The shrapnel tore through enemies and ricocheted into others. It was chaos incarnate.
Heartbeat's Vector fired silent, precise bursts of .45 ACP. He ran a 45-round extended mag, but even that didn't feel like enough in this carnage.
A hidden enemy behind cover tried to ambush them. Heartbeat's shots clipped his leg, causing him to stumble into the open—just in time for Bayev's blast to hit him center mass, exploding him into a mist of blood.
"Bayev, second floor! That fire point's pinning us down!" Fred yelled. He'd just emptied his MP5 and was now using a Glock 18 to keep up the pressure.
Two AKs on the second level had established a deadly crossfire. Their cover was tight, and in the chaos, returning fire was difficult.
"Understood!"
Bayev roared. He'd just emptied his previous drum. With smooth efficiency, he reloaded with a 10-round mag—this one loaded with high-explosive shells.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Four HE rounds tore through the second-floor gun nest. The shooters were vaporized, their bodies reduced to pulp and debris.
The fight wasn't over, but Bayev had just changed the battlefield.
He wasn't just a fire support specialist today—he was a damn mobile turret.
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