"—Don't resist it, Captain. We need your voiceprint on file. "
"—I know the rules."
"—Continuing the previous question: have you observed any team member exhibiting physical distress or compromise?"
"Negative."
"—Has anyone broken formation without authorization or been left behind?"
"—Negative. We fight back-to-back. "
Cheek welded to the stock, breath fogging in thin white ribbons against the night.
Noise discipline was absolute, yet there was still the faint metallic tick of sling swivels and the soft rasp of nylon against plate carriers.
Rust in the air, old iron and blood, but it couldn't cut through the hot-rubber reek rolling off the flare stack. Without a word, every man pinched his shemagh higher and sealed it across nose and mouth.
John Hastings swept the sector through quad-nods and snapped a closed fist skyward.
"High drill-floor catwalk, north-east. Two tangos."
"—Visual."
"Designate precision fire."
Far right-rear, the designated marksman dropped prone on Hastings' hand signal. She planted the bipod of her M110A1 CSASS, rolled her torso behind the rifle, and settled into the glass.
Crack—crack.
Two cold, measured shots. Pale blue flashes strobed across the reticle. Both silhouettes flared white-hot and folded.
Second casing spun away smoking, clinked off grating as recoil rocked her back into battery.
"Two down."
Logan, left of Hastings slapped his captain's plate twice and pivoted hard the opposite direction.
Hastings read it instantly, stepped forward to cover the shorter engagement envelope, snapped the Mk 18 up, locked his core, and acquired.
Crack-crack—crack-crack.
Four fast, surgical doubles marched across the catwalk rails. The suppressor jerked upward in tiny spasms, coughing vapor and sparks. White smoke laced with orange embers vented across his gloved support hand and vanished into the damp night.
"Push."
Catwalk cold. Gray element flowed forward at combat glide.
Boots hammered open steel stairs in staggered cadence.
"Ballistic breach."
Logan and Hastings stacked opposite the hatch. Logan drew the stubby 870 breacher from its backpack scabbard; Hastings posted high-ready with the carbine. Rest of the stack angled muzzles skyward, ready to flood.
"—Set."
"Go."
BOOM.
The 12-gauge Hatchet load flashed white; the lock disintegrated into ceramic dust.
"All Gray—nods up, lights hot!"
Whitebeard kicked the door wide and sliced the fatal funnel hard, teammate welded to his hip. Low ready, reverse grip on the fore-end—two fast pairs.
The mercenary in olive plates never cleared leather. Level III Kevlar split like canvas; tan backing burst outward in a brief cloud and ruptured nearby steam lines.
Superheated vapor jetted in violent cones, swallowing the compartment.
"Three down."
Hastings sliced left, shuffling sideways.
Peripheral caught two heat signatures sprinting the window line toward the pump gallery. He rolled the carbine, trusted the IR laser, double-tapped blind through glass.
Two more triggers—muzzle blast scorched his nostrils. The entire pane crazed and blew out in a glittering sheet.
Nods flared white with overbloom; incoming snapped past and whined off steel.
"Cover."
Hastings slapped Whitebeard twice, pushed through the steam wall, and advanced abreast with Logan, MPX now at compressed high ready.
"Three o'clock—heavy fire."
7.62 tracers whipped the mist like burning lashes, carving slow spirals in the vapor.
Both operators dropped into night-vision clarity and returned fire on the move. Half-second bursts chewed the corner and forced the gunner down behind an overturned steel table.
Hastings read the silhouette, stitched a triple through the tabletop, dropped him.
Logan hosed controlled full-auto, walking 4.6 mm into the table until it dimpled and sparked, secondary frag keeping the second man pinned.
"Logan—shift fire right."
Click. Empty.
Hastings let the Mk 18 hang, ripped his Staccato XC from the Safariland 6354DO, locked his core, and advanced shooting.
"Reloading—cover!"
Logan peeled right, dropped another tango, reached for a fresh mag—just as the table flipped upward and a steam-shrouded AK rose behind it.
Hastings was already closing. He flipped nods up, took three long strides, and center-punched the rising gunman.
Bang-bang—bang.
Textbook failure drill—two center mass, one to the face—then transitioned smooth and serviced the second mercenary before he could traverse.
Slide locked back on a tongue of flame, lighting the captain's face like a wolf in strobe.
"Clear—reloading, cover me."
He holstered, dropped to a knee, stripped the empty mag with a flick, rocked a fresh one home, hit the paddle one-handed.
"Doorway secure—move in."
Whitebeard tapped the Black machine-gunner on the shoulder. The gunner lifted his M250 off the sandbagged parapet and flowed inside.
The marksman safetied the M110A1, transitioned to her Glock 19 with X300 and RMR, and followed.
The three posted in deep shadow, muzzles high and low.
"Gray-1, get high, own overhead. Watch the low ground."
—Gray-1 moving to ladder.
Hastings threw his element a quick status check—no limps, no red.
"Gray-2 on me, ammo check."
He dropped nods again and led right, magazines clacking home all down the line.
At the next hatch Hastings sliced the pie; Logan covered and slapped his shoulder—clear.
"Left corridor clear—move."
They stepped into bright external floodlight.
"Need UAV eyes."
The intel specialist let his carbine hang, flipped down the chest-mounted tablet, and cycled the micro-drone feed to thermal.
"—Five heat signatures second deck power block, ground floor unknown. Two stationary on drill-floor catwalk, bearing two-niner-zero, three hundred meters from pump house."
Hastings keyed the mic.
"Gray-1, you set?"
"—Gray-1 set. Awaiting tasking."
"North-west drill floor, one hundred meters. Sniper you visual?"
"—Copy. Camo netting, possible fire team."
"Fifteen seconds. Gray-1 gunner—suppress that hide on my mark."
"—Gray-1 has clean picture, ready."
Hastings' element hugged the wall beside the final hatch.
"Gray-2, bound across the kill zone on my mark. Ten… nine…"
High above, the M250 gunner settled his cheek weld, finger indexed.
"Seven… six… five… four…"
Hastings brought the Mk18 to compressed high ready. Logan rolled his sleeve, Hawaiian ink flashing.
"Three… two… one—"
The M250 opened with a ripping, cyclic roar.
"Execute!"