Anticipation (Ambush - Part 2)
The Plasma Bolt Launcher rested heavily on Henry’s shoulder; its smooth, cylindrical surface brushed his unshaven face. He peered through the display that folded off the left side of the tube in front of him. This ten by ten centimeter LCD showed Henry an olive drab turret carving a path above the yellow and brown of the sea of grass. The view was magnified a great deal considering the tank was a good twenty kilometers out. One of the heavy tanks was leading the pack, surrounded by small trails that quickly moved forward. Dust glided over Henry propelled by a gust off the windy plateau. Fredrick was prone several meters to Henry’s right, PBL armed and ready. Boxes of plasma canisters sat between giving them a total of eight bolts between them. It was the same for the other twenty-three soldiers under Fredrick’s command. The armor moved past the fifteen kilometer mark and Henry’s grip tightened around the pistol grip of the PBL; being careful to keep his index finger out of the trigger guard. The guided rockets that would propel the bolts towards their target had a ten-kilometer range and each man had their own target to kill. Once it was dead they would help with another. When the supply of bolts dwindled, it was up to their Pulse Rifles to finish off the survivors. Thirteen kilometers. A bead of sweat rolled down Henry’s left cheek and he glanced over to see how Fredrick was doing. Henry found him gazing almost unblinking into the LCD, focused on his objective. Even in the morning sun it bathed his face in a blue tint. Sensing Henry’s gaze, Fredrick glanced back over and the two met eyes. Twelve kilometers. A voice whispered over their earpieces intergraded into their helmets reporting all targets accounted for. Fredrick nodded at the news and went back to the mission at hand. Henry turned back to his LCD. The sensors had kept his target on screen but red indicators suggested where the tube should be facing for the best kill. Eleven kilometers. He shifted until the indicators disappeared and a green “On Target" blinked in the upper right corner. Weeks of tracking had led them to this final confrontation, this slaughter. Another gust of wind blew his brown hair into his eyes. Ten kilometers. A muffled thump followed by the blinding light of the jet blast of a rocket interrupted Henry’s train of thought. Several more muffled imploding thumps complimented the first. In response he gently squeezed the trigger letting his rocket fly.
[size="1"][ 02. May 2005, 08:47 PM: Message edited by: EnDYmiON ][/size]
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