The pace through the minefield was slow. Just like before, every step had to land in the footprint of the person ahead. Throughout the entire crossing, all sentries—both visible and hidden—were under Omega's sniper control. Thankfully, nothing unexpected occurred during the passage.
Just as the group cleared the minefield, the unexpected happened. A deafening roar erupted from another direction—explosions, followed by the unrelenting chatter of gunfire.
What the hell?
For a moment, everyone thought the guerrillas might be turning on them. But the nearby guerrilla had his radio in hand, listening intently—then he turned and ran without saying a word. The members of Omega exchanged glances in confusion.
"Boss, the one I was watching just ran too…" came Swagg's voice through the comms. Owen turned to Herman, who looked visibly anxious.
"I didn't catch everything, but it sounded like someone's attacking us. They're going to reinforce the camp," Herman said, clearly referring to the guerrillas as "us."
Owen thought for a second and spoke into the comms. "Bullseye, Soothsayer, regroup. We're going in to check it out."
There was a rustle, and Fred emerged from the underbrush, jogging toward them. On the other side, Swagg climbed down from a tree and came running with his sniper rifle in hand.
With Herman leading, they crossed the minefield, and Omega regrouped.
"Alright team, let's check it out. Stay sharp."
The noise of battle grew louder as they neared. Even from a distance, they could hear artillery fire and the distinct rumble of diesel engines.
The team hit the ground and crawled to the treeline to observe. The scene outside was one-sided slaughter.
One side was clearly the guerrillas—poorly armed, mostly with just rifles and minimal support weapons. The other side was a well-equipped military unit. Three tanks led the charge, with infantry moving behind them.
Based on the equipment, the outcome of this battle was a foregone conclusion. Bourbon's forces had overwhelming superiority, and their firepower was pushing the guerrillas back step by step.
One of the three tanks was a mine-clearing tank, easily identifiable by the massive steel roller attached to its front. As it moved, it detonated any hidden landmines in its path.
A constant stream of explosions followed in its wake.
Thick smoke belched from the tanks as they advanced. With every meter, more mines detonated beneath the rollers. Owen now realized the explosions they had heard earlier were just the mine-clearing tank doing its job.
Herman watched with increasing dread. Mines were the guerrillas' most important asset, and now even that was being neutralized.
The tanks' roof-mounted machine guns never stopped firing—each tank had one, and the two flanking tanks lagged just slightly behind the mine-clearing one. Three steel beasts moved forward in perfect formation.
Suddenly, one of the flanking tanks—on Owen's side—set off a mine under its track. A loud boom erupted beneath its belly.
This wasn't the mine-clearing tank, and the mine was triggered by direct contact. Up to this point, that tank had shrugged off every blast, relying on its heavy armor to soak the damage. But even steel can only take so much. After several hits, the cumulative effect finally broke through—the right track snapped.
The tank operator seemed oblivious and kept trying to move. Without the track, the tank spun uselessly in place. The soldiers behind it laughed and jeered, and the tank finally realized something was wrong. It stopped turning and fell silent.
The other two tanks paused only briefly before continuing their march, undeterred. Their mission: clear the minefield and destroy the guerrilla stronghold.
Most of the infantry regrouped behind the remaining two tanks. Bullets continued to ping off the armored surfaces—useless. Even RPGs with good aim only scorched the exterior, leaving little more than blackened soot.
From a patch of grass, a burst of fire lashed out. The bullets targeted the infantry behind the tanks, but they were well-protected. The tanks absorbed 90% of the fire.
The moment gunfire came, one of the tanks stopped. Its turret rotated with a mechanical growl, and with a shriek, a shell blasted from its barrel, slamming into the patch of grass. The shooting stopped abruptly. Bits of flesh and dirt flew into the air.
One guerrilla position wiped out—just like that. The tank resumed moving as if nothing had happened. Mines continued to explode beneath the rollers, leaving craters in the ground, but the tanks carved out a safe path behind them. A few guerrillas, desperate and defiant, leapt from cover to fire, only to be cut down moments later by the machine guns.
Tank cannons were actually limited in killing power—used primarily to eliminate bunkers and hardpoints. The real executioner was the medium-caliber machine gun mounted on top. Whenever a guerrilla was spotted, the gunner would pivot and unleash a storm of lead. Death followed swiftly.
Some tried to get close to the tanks with explosives, but they were all taken down by the machine gunners. The guerrillas were losing badly. With those metal monsters shielding the infantry, they had no way to reach their true enemies. Meanwhile, their cover was slowly being eaten away.
"Help them! Please, I'm begging you—help them…" Herman pleaded, almost in tears. He knew those fighters. They were friends, comrades, and brothers. Yet their weapons were useless against the enemy—every one of them fell helplessly. Every time one dropped, Herman felt like a piece of his soul went with them.
Owen didn't respond, and Herman's face collapsed in despair. He grabbed a rifle, ready to charge in recklessly. If he had to die, he'd die with his people.
Bayev tackled the wiry man and pinned him down. Everyone turned to Owen. He was calculating.
According to what Herman had said earlier, there was a fragile balance between the guerrillas and Bourbon. The guerrillas wanted to kill Bourbon, but lacked the strength. Bourbon could wipe out the guerrillas—but the cost had always been too high.
Now that balance was broken. Bourbon was willing to suffer casualties to attack the guerrillas. Why?
Owen had the answer. Bourbon must believe—perhaps even know for certain—that the pilot was with the guerrillas. Or at least close.
The realization lit a fire in Owen's chest. Their mission finally had a lead. He took out the signal detector and checked—still no signal. The pilot was clearly more than 200 meters away.
Up ahead, the tanks kept moving. A guerrilla dashed forward with a bundle of grenades, getting within three meters of a tank. He was gunned down, but still managed to pull the pin before death.
A deafening explosion erupted. Everyone turned toward the smoke—hoping for different outcomes.
The smoke hadn't cleared yet when the rumble returned. A black silhouette emerged—one of the tanks, intact.
The regulars cheered. The guerrillas looked crushed. Their comrade's sacrifice had been in vain.
The two mobile tanks moved forward. The one with the broken track remained behind, struggling. Without tracks, it couldn't move an inch.
Most of the infantry had followed the two functioning tanks. Only a few remained with the disabled one, trying to repair the track—still holding out hope that it could be fixed.
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