Anti-Terror Operation (1)

Battlefields constantly shift, and the weapons we use evolve with the times. But there's one thing in this world that never changes easily. No matter what form a weapon takes, in the end, someone has to pull the trigger.

Kkiiik! The rusty iron ladder screamed like it might collapse any second. I glanced up and grumbled.

"Aigoo, what a pain."

The ladder was pretty damn long. And with all my heavy gear, it took forever. Scaling the crumbled steeple wasn't a walk in the park. Every grab flaked off rust from the rebar. Peering down sent a dizzying tingle through my soles. But hell, I liked the feeling. It got my cold blood pumping warm.

By the time my body felt toasty, I'd reached the top. I adjusted my shoulder straps and set my load down on the iron grating.

Barrett MRAD. Sniper rifle from America's Barrett Firearms. Used by all sorts of special forces—I didn't know the specs, but damn, it handled nice.

I unfolded and locked the tripod, checked the mag for live rounds, chambered one. Then I hit the PTT on my radio.

After my report, a sharp click! Then the reply came through.

I finished the report and checked my wristwatch. Five minutes till go-time. In the meantime, other teams chimed in.

Listening to the chatter with main HQ, I popped the lens cap off my scope. Night op, so thermals it was. Peering through, the pitch-black world bloomed into rainbow hues.

I knew the layout from the pre-op briefing, but seeing it live was different. Shanties cobbled from wood planks, corrugated iron, concrete walls—plastered together like a massive mansion. Or a Tetris game tipped on its side. From up here on the steeple, it looked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠riddled with holes, one wrong block from game over.

I scanned the patrols. Every one packing an AK assault rifle.

I swung toward the zone from the op brief, lettered out like a map. Shorter than my perch, but there was a wooden guard tower.

HQ's request—heave ho. I pivoted the barrel. Scope picked up the red smoke trail puffing skyward.

HQ's orders were ballsy. Standard ops minimize failure odds. Target at 400 meters—not tough for a sniper. But if I whiffed, the plan goes tits up, shit hits the fan. On the flip side, it meant the commander trusted me. He knew I'd never miss at this range.

Mark given. I exhaled, held, eased the trigger slow. Thung! Round ripped air at Mach whatever—900 m/s. Hit target in half a second. Tower sentry sprayed red mist everywhere and dropped.

Teams poured through the shanties. Meanwhile, I picked off night patrol stragglers one by one. Thung! Thung! They panicked like they never saw it coming. Some rushed blindly into my sights; others sprayed wild and lit themselves up for the kill.

Albatross—military drone loitering a klick overhead. Battlefield god-eye, instant sitrep.

"Phase one clear. Now, where's..." I set the rifle down a sec, flipped down the goggles over my helmet. Integrated action cams from the assault teams—twelve feeds, first-person glory.

Smooth as silk: breaching doors, pinching angles, mopping tangos. Pro shit. But inside? Way sketchier than the ramshackle exterior.

"Tch, figures Albatross couldn't penetrate... "

Modern mil drones see through walls. Unless lead-lined shielding. This place was a fortified maze—barricades, kill zones prepped like they knew we were coming. Stalemate in four minutes flat.

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Team voices edged sharp. MG fire hosing from the strongpoint. From outside, sounded like popping corn.

"They really bunkered down nice. These guys got this in 'em?"

I eyed the multicams, rifle back up. Perimeter kills, block reinforcements—that's peak sniper support. But push a little, and remote like me could do more. Spotted a seam in the bullet storm feeds.

Enemy fort was pro-level infuriating. Only way through: RPG or a god-tier grenade into the gap.

"Not my style."

One spot. They fortified for intruders, but overlooked the weak point. Wood-and-sheetmetal patch, even reinforced—my round would punch it.

Thung! Bullet drilled wall, puff of dust, straight through. Didn't need eyes; the chattering MG went silent.

Cheers from the teams. But the CO's ice voice shut 'em up quick—good news rolling.

My breach opened the floodgates—other positions flanked, enemies abandoned posts, retreating. Cleared zones snowballed like a burst dam.

Mission: extract VIP snatched by terrorists. Probably behind shielding, but no ping yet. Sectors D and F left. They couldn't waste the VIP—turns exfil into wipeout, goals fucked. Still, cornered rats bite hardest. Tension maxed.

No matter how a rat thrashes, it don't beat the cat. Alpha Two's cam caught the terrified VIP.