On a hillside, the team was taking a short break.
"Check your ammo. Report any injuries."
"Handgun ammo intact. One rifle mag left."
"I've got less than three."
"I've got two left."
"I've still got four quick-change mags left."
The last to speak was Bayev. He'd brought eight quick-change mags, which meant sixteen 40-round magazines in total, but machine guns burned through ammo fast. In just one skirmish, he'd already used up nearly half.
Everyone's ammo reserves had taken a serious hit. Owen was no exception—he was down to his last magazine, and it wasn't even full. The most urgent priority now was to find a way to resupply.
Infiltrating deep into enemy territory, logistics were always a critical part of the mission. When selecting their weapons, they'd taken that into account. Bayev's RPK used 7.62mm intermediate rounds, and the AK-12s they'd chosen were also chambered in 7.62mm, specifically to make resupply easier. Most of the enemy's AK-47s used the same caliber. As part of the AK family, many weapon components were interchangeable. If a rifle broke down, they could salvage parts from enemy weapons to keep going.
Fred was tending to everyone's wounds. Nearly every member of Omega was injured, though nothing life-threatening. Fred gave everyone a basic field dressing before turning to Herman, whose wound was the worst—but, since he wasn't one of them, he came last.
"Th-thank you…"
Herman was still shaken, but his voice was sincerely grateful. In that moment on the bridge, he'd truly believed he was going to die.
"Herman, are there any small enemy units nearby? We need to resupply."
Owen merely nodded in response to the thanks, quickly cutting to the chase.
Herman thought for a moment, then answered, "The Serbs recently changed their deployment to search for the pilot. But if you're looking to resupply, I know a resupply point used by our guerrillas. I can take you there…"
Owen exchanged a look with his team and nodded. The skirmish had been unexpected, but at least it proved one thing—the enemy hadn't captured the pilot yet. That was good news.
As for why the Serbs had been there in the first place, it wasn't hard to guess. The pilot probably figured it out too, which was why he shut off his radio. That would explain why Owen hadn't been able to make contact.
After a short rest, the team resumed their advance. Along the way, Owen periodically checked the signal detector. They'd brought along the US military's latest signal recognition device. The pilot was carrying a signal emitter, but its range was limited. Unless the pilot was within 200 meters, the device wouldn't pick anything up. Right now, the screen was blank—clearly, the pilot wasn't nearby.
Owen clipped the detector back onto his belt. Ahead, Herman stood on a slope, orienting himself before leading the group toward another hillside.
They reached a valley. As they passed through a low area, Herman signaled for them to stop, pointing to a patch of nondescript ground. "This is a minefield. Be careful. Follow my footsteps exactly. The spots with grass rings mark the mines."
The Omega members leaned in to examine the ground more closely. Sure enough, some patches of grass had small circular weaves hidden among the blades—easy to miss if you weren't looking for them.
Guerrillas couldn't compete with war criminals and their regular forces in terms of training or equipment. What kept them in the fight were these kinds of hidden, hard-to-counter tricks.
"Wait a sec…"
Just as Herman was about to proceed, Owen stopped him. He pulled out a knife and cut the ropes binding Herman's hands. Herman glanced at him—neither offering thanks nor receiving any words in return.
Shaking off the remaining rope, Herman stepped forward into the minefield. He moved slowly, carefully analyzing each step. Behind him, the rest of Omega followed with utmost caution, placing their boots only in proven footprints.
Crossing the minefield was the most dangerous part. Any attack during this moment would be disastrous. Fortunately, they made it through without encountering a single shot.
Once across, Herman led them further. On a slope halfway up a hill, partially concealed by sparse woods, he brought them to a particularly thick tree.
"The ammo's buried at the base of this tree. It's not a lot, but it should be enough for you guys."
The team got to work using their tools. The cache wasn't buried too deep; before long, a shovel struck a hard object shaped like a box.
Working together, they unearthed three ammo crates. Each was tightly wrapped in oilcloth. When Owen and the others opened them, they found the rounds inside in good condition.
Guerrilla teams usually operated in squads of ten or so. The amount here was just about enough to restock Omega's six-man unit.
Of the three crates, one contained loose rounds. The other two were packed with pre-loaded AK magazines, mines, and other supplies. Having a decent resupply lifted everyone's spirits.
Refilling ammo took time. Even though the rounds were all 7.62mm, different guns had different mag curve profiles. Technically you could use mismatched mags, but they'd often jam. For safety, the team prioritized original mags.
They never discarded empty mags in the field—they always carried them for just this reason. They began refilling with the loose rounds. If they ran out, they'd strip rounds from the AK mags.
"Uh… I don't know who you really are," Herman said suddenly, clearing his throat, "but I think we should work together. You're trying to rescue the pilot. My people have always wanted to overthrow Bourbon. See? Our goals align."
Owen was reloading magazines one round at a time. The rest of Omega showed no reaction. Only Owen looked up at him.
"Of course. What kind of cooperation are you offering?"
He nodded. A mission like this, deep behind enemy lines, without local support—it would be a nightmare. But Owen needed to know exactly what kind of 'cooperation' Herman had in mind. He wasn't about to accept a liability.
"Hmm…"
Herman chose his words carefully, then spoke with what he hoped was convincing sincerity. "You see… you guys are strong. You probably killed at least dozens in that last fight. But you're not familiar with the terrain. I can help you with that. I grew up here—I know every rock and tree. And I can reach out to our guerrilla networks and village contacts. Maybe I can help you locate the pilot…"
Owen didn't reply. He continued reloading calmly, but Herman knew he was saying exactly what Omega desperately needed. Rescuing someone was hard—but finding them first was even harder.
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