When Swagg took a hit and still managed to get up, Owen knew he was okay—for now. But looking around, he realized grimly: every member of the team except himself was wounded. The situation was growing more dire by the second. The enemy had more people, heavier firepower, and relentless reinforcements. After such high-intensity combat, their ammo was running dangerously low. Owen checked his watch—dammit, only a minute and a half had passed…
"Reload!"
Ghost swapped his magazine; Owen immediately filled the gap with suppressive fire. Members of the team were taking hits one after another, but so far their body armor was holding up—no major casualties yet.
The same couldn't be said for their attackers. Dressed lightly in Costa Rican heat with short sleeves and shorts, most of them dropped dead as soon as they were hit. But the problem wasn't their lack of armor—it was the sheer volume. More and more kept coming.
The fight had grown increasingly desperate. Two more enemy trucks roared up, their rear beds loaded with more RPG gunners.
Whoosh-whoosh!
Several trails of white smoke shot toward them. Most missed, but two landed close, blasting the team with debris and shockwaves. Their burned-out pickup was now a fireball—no longer usable for cover.
Under heavy fire, they retreated slowly, using trees on either side of the dirt road for partial cover. Monica periodically launched grenades to slow the enemy advance.
At the roadside, Owen dragged Catherine to the base of a thick tree and left her behind cover while he took a position behind another to return fire. They couldn't go too far—if the extraction helicopters arrived, they'd need to be on-site.
But fighting without cover was brutal.
Bullets zipped past them constantly. Owen noticed several shooters with accurate aim—definitely not local thugs. These had to be Mikhail's private guards or mercenaries. That raised the stakes significantly.
Owen focused on them. He dropped two with quick shots but couldn't confirm kills—they looked armored. He didn't have time to double-check. He aimed for a third target—but was suddenly thrown back as pain exploded across his chest. He'd been hit.
Heartbeat and Ghost covered him as Swagg pulled Owen behind cover. After a quick check, Swagg confirmed the round hadn't penetrated. It shattered Owen's trauma plate, but the armor had held. Still, the impact left him gasping.
More RPGs flew overhead. Most struck trees, unable to navigate the dense forest effectively. Trees blunted the rockets, but also became deadly when splinters and shrapnel flew with the blast.
Tat-tat-tat!
Owen managed to drop another target, but immediately drew return fire. Bullets pounded the tree trunk in front of him like angry drums.
The enemy now held a clear advantage—and it was growing. They began to spread out in a 120-degree arc, trying to encircle the Quick Response Team, likely hoping to take prisoners.
The team fought back furiously. Enemies dropped, but the tide wouldn't turn. Owen looked into his teammates' eyes—and saw desperation—but not surrender.
Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
Suddenly, the deep thrum of rotor blades filled the air—and the GAU-17 miniguns mounted on the Black Hawks unleashed hell.
With the helicopters' arrival, the miniguns became the gods of the battlefield. Owen watched as glowing tracers raked across the dirt road, turning enemy positions into clouds of blood and limbs.
The cavalry had arrived—Thunderbird was here.
Two Black Hawk helicopters swept in low, both armed with GAU-17 Vulcan miniguns—each capable of firing 6,000 rounds per minute. "Metal storm" wasn't just a figure of speech.
The twin streams of bullets tore through the jungle path. The enemies, once in total control, were now annihilated. Against helicopter gunships, even elite infantry stood no chance—Mikhail's militia didn't stand a chance at all.
Bodies were torn in half or shredded completely. Some tried to return fire, but their bullets bounced off the helicopter's armor. The gunners simply turned their sights and erased them.
After two full sweeps, resistance on the ground all but vanished. Wrecked vehicles burned along the roadside. Corpses littered the path.
"Woohoo!!"
Heartbeat shouted gleefully. The crushing despair of minutes earlier was gone.
Above, the two Black Hawks hovered, scanning for remaining threats. Apart from the steady chop of the rotors, the world fell silent.
"Unicorn, prepare for extraction..."
A voice came through the comms—the pilot.
One helicopter descended slowly, while the other held position and kept watch. The miniguns kept firing, but now in short bursts—targeted suppression fire to prevent enemies from regrouping.
Owen signaled the team. He grabbed Catherine and sprinted toward the LZ.
As the Black Hawk touched down, Owen carried Catherine aboard from the side without a gunner.
"Damn, you guys showed up just in time…"
"Lucky traffic was clear," the gunner replied coolly behind dark shades.
Owen smiled despite the chaos—he'd never seen a more beautiful grin.
He helped the rest of the team board, one after another. Finally, he pulled himself inside.
"Little Bird One, package secured. Taking off. Two, maintain overwatch."
The pilot lifted the helicopter as he called it in.
"Copy that, Two maintaining cover."
Just as the second pilot confirmed, several white smoke trails suddenly streaked up from the jungle below.
"RPGs!!"
Little Bird One saw it first. The warning came just in time. Though already lifting off, their altitude was still low. One of the three rockets actually hit.
Luckily for them, the RPG struck the belly of the second helicopter—its most heavily armored section.
Inside, everyone tensed. The first chopper's gunner immediately raked the launch site with minigun fire. Glowing red tracers danced across the treeline. When the dust settled—nothing remained.
Miraculously, the second Black Hawk was fine. Armor held. Engines intact.
Now both helicopters began a final sweep. They unloaded another storm of bullets. The jungle erupted again in fire and chaos.
A few tried to counterattack. More RPGs launched skyward—but missed entirely. Hitting a moving helicopter with an RPG was a one-in-a-million shot—and they'd used their luck already.
Every shooter that exposed themselves was instantly lit up by the miniguns.
The sky belonged to Thunderbird. And the ground? That was now a graveyard.
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