Fragrance of Rebellion (2)
The flood of living things was a natural disaster unto itself. The ground trembled with a droning drdrdrdr—and the chorus of bellows from the buffalo herd pierced even the roar of the helicopter engines, carrying up to our high altitude.
What set this rampaging buffalo stampede apart from a typical natural calamity was that we could interfere with its flow to a certain degree. In real time, no less.
"Number 8, that way! Block it!"
The trailing choppers darted nimbly into position, unleashing suppressive fire to disrupt the buffaloes' advance. With the herd's collective momentum, charging head-on would be folly. To divert the flood's path, we had to give it space, letting the lead animals veer off course.
This time, Kyung-tae bellowed.
"Number 9! Climb! You're too low!"
As he shouted, he fired a precision shot from his special grenade launcher, thwarting the herd's attempt to split. For terrifying awakened water buffaloes, a single 35mm high-explosive grenade's blast outdid even a heavy machine gun burst laced with tracers and AP rounds.
One blinding flash-boom, and the splintering tendril snapped back into the main flow.
On the ground below, pandemonium reigned. Black Sea Party rabble sprayed bullets at the herd, but their puny small-arms fire couldn't dent hundreds of tons of inertia.
'Even ordinary buffaloes shrug off revolver rounds.'
In southern China, buffalo accidents were commonplace—even in the suburbs, where the beasts doubled as farm machinery for peasants lucky to earn over 20,000 yuan (about 3.3 million won) a year. No way could they afford pricey tractors. Thus, after mosquitoes and dogs, enraged water buffaloes topped the list of man-killers here.
In short, this scene was a disaster birthed solely by the Communist Party's imperialist exploitation.
The horned black beasts trampled human resistance mercilessly. Each time a thick horn gored a gunman, blood and sand sprayed skyward.
The sand? Poor Awakened fighters' armor—thick vests stuffed with it.
How else could the hastily swelled Black Sea Party equip its hordes with quality gear? Those half-foot-thick sand-filled monstrosities were too bulky even to aim properly.
'Filling ranks took priority, after all.'
Metal was pricey. The Party had to ration limited resources and production wisely.
"Kyung-tae! AT rocket!"
Boom-boom-boom!
Spotting my tracer-marked target, Kyung-tae didn't swap weapons.
"This'll do!"
The target shrugging off tracers and AP rounds was a narco-tank: a civilian SUV plated in armor with a turret slapped on. Not Mexico, though—better call it a technical.
Kyung-tae neutralized the improvised APC with one grenade. The high-velocity round traced a gentle arc straight into the turret's tiny observation port.
A sharp warning crackled over comms.
"Watch out!"
Internal ammo cooked off, blasting the turret nearly a hundred meters high. Dozens of shells' worth of pressure in that sub-meter hatch.
The stunned herd's vanguard slowed, but the crush from behind merely nudged its path slightly askew.
"Fine shooting!"
"Thanks!"
Kyung-tae swapped mags, grinning at the praise. I'd known he was skilled, but nailing that slit? Innate talent. Even with unfamiliar ordnance, he'd mastered its ballistics after a few mags.
The Black Sea Party's push here was effectively stalled. They'd meant to drive drugged buffaloes through to Guangzhou, but with the herd veering southeast, northern paths ground to a halt.
Detours were possible. But scrapping the shortest-route blitz meant delays.
A few kilometers east crossed six waterways to another northward lane.
'But sudden plan changes aren't easy.'
Most Party forces were untrained rabble—doubtful they'd even finished basic schooling. Redirecting tens of thousands? A nightmare.
Their only play: rigid, scripted assaults. Keep pressing before they regrouped, and their command crumbled inevitably.
Despite the numbers, battlefield control shifted to us.
On the ground, Party elites surged forward. Iron shields first, they leaped rooftops, hosing our skies with every gun they had.
"Units 2 and below, fall back!"
I baited their fire to my lead chopper, prioritizing heavy-weapon wielders. More like marking targets with tracers than direct kills.
But machine-gun range limits couldn't touch AA missile crews hunkered at the edge.
They powered up launchers, waiting for IR seekers to cool.
"Flares, ready!"
Prepping countermeasures, I telekinetically wielded a laser rangefinder, beaming coords.
"Console! Fire support on transmitted coords! Targets: MANPADS crews!"
Them aiming at me was fine. Others? Unacceptable losses. Even allied Chinese police choppers falling meant headaches for us.
My console guy typed furiously. Seconds later, cutting-edge IFVs guarding Guangzhou bridges ripple-fired mini-cruise missiles.
Reverse-engineered Israeli tech: four stabilizing wings deployed, swarming targets.
But prop-driven missiles lagged behind MANPADS seekers. Cool autumn winds sped cooling—three seconds to lock.
Party gunners shouldered tubes, peeking from cover.
My ears rang with imagined old Russian seeker beeps: beep, beep, beep-beep.
Kilometers-off killing intent surged my veins.
'Shoot me!'
I surged the lead chopper forward, hosing crews at range with the minigun.
Boom-boom-boom-boom!
Large-caliber rounds nailed two on the trigger verge. Then, nine azimuths flashed nine launches.
"Flares away!"
Pilot reacted instantly. Pop-pop-pop—blinding hot decoys jettisoned port and starboard. Brighter than anything to IR heads.
I'd popped early to lure all incoming my way.
Sure enough, white rocket trails hooked like hooked fish under the hazy moon.
All nine converged on me.
I yanked cyclic, retreating upward, musing: 'Salvo was their mistake.'
Outdated missiles. Al Qasim couldn't forge MANPADS, so smuggled—likely North Korean licensed knockoffs flooding black markets.
Coordinated volley, sure, but staggered launches could've drained my flares.
No one expected superhuman prediction pre-launch.
"Again! Fire!"
Fresh flares burst hot. Eyebait enough.
I ignited an ignition incantation, superheating them. Pure heat sans light would've been ideal—but mana flames smoked wrong.
Simultaneously, I spread gentle telekinetic push over dozens of meters around us.
Arcing missiles dove savagely at the tumbling flares.
Whiiiiiine!
In under a second, nine streaked past in the near sky. TK proved unnecessary—dumb seekers, sun-chasers by day, bit every one.
"Whoa. Thought we were toast..."
Kyung-tae's mutter. Nine inbound? Even trusting me, hearts skipped.
Overwhelmed by the sight. Adrenaline flooded my veins; his must've boiled.
Missiles rocketed skyward, fuel for max altitude.
Whump! Boom-boom!
Our cruises finally struck. All hits. Camera-guided, manually correctable minis—six grenades per pop, no misses.
'Good.'
Damn Israeli Jew-Nazis made killer weapons. Chinese copies too.
Plenty AA left, but this sector's crews massacred—useless for now. Few trained operators; skip procedures, no guidance.
One flare pack spare, I buzzed low, signaling Chinese cops: no major AA threat.
Emboldened, they pressed, smashing Party resistance.
The area dissolved into utter chaos: frenzied buffaloes milling roads and streets, splintered Party goons clashing haphazardly with cops.
Less organized battle, more headless riot.
Cops crushed the outbursts from air and ground. Advantage flipped; they shone.
But Party hadn't lost full control. Riverine command held.
"Console! Notify Riverine Flotilla's 592! Suspicious activity starboard ahead, port astern! Multiple fast small boats!"
Console relayed to Lujou (hull 592)—one of two patrol boats I'd eyed at Huangpu Naval Academy pier.
Main guns swung; armed sailors bustled. Aft deck prepped blue-painted ASW chopper.
'But small boats are feints...'
True aim: Awakened divers' underwater assault. Pirate classic, proven worldwide.
Navy/Coast Guard prepped: mana-field sensors split across seven small escorts hugging the patrol boat. Shallow river—no deep infil.
But swarm them, and overmatch crumbles.
I eyed distant Becklux astern.