🚁 Choppa Inbound - Ten minutes

 

🚁 Choppa Inbound

Time: 12:55 PM. Status: Ten minutes.

A bead of sweat, salty—naturally—traced a path down Commander “Salty” Flynn’s temple. It wasn't the mid-day sun in this nameless, jungle-choked valley that caused it; it was the digital clock mounted to the wall of the dilapidated concrete structure they were holed up in.

00:09:58

“Alright, misfits!” Salty barked, slamming his fist onto the chipped Formica table. The table, a relic of some long-forgotten pharmaceutical office, vibrated under the impact. “Ten minutes until ‘Choppa Inbound’—our extraction window. If you’re not on the roof pad when that bird touches down, you’ll be sharing a foxhole with the local flora and fauna for the next month. Got it?”

The "misfits" were an assortment of highly effective, highly eccentric specialists.

First was “Fuse”, a spindly demolitions expert currently fiddling with a complex tangle of wires that looked suspiciously like a broken toaster element connected to a stick of C4. He wore thick, corrective spectacles taped precariously to his nose and hummed the theme song to a children's cartoon.

“Got it, boss,” Fuse mumbled, not looking up. “Just gotta finish wiring up this little surprise for our pursuers. Think they’ll appreciate the artisanal touch of a triple-redundancy fail-safe?”

Next was “Needle”, their medic and infiltration expert. She was perched on an overturned filing cabinet, calmly sharpening a collection of surgical knives, her face a mask of serene, almost terrifying focus. Her signature move was rendering enemies unconscious with a single, perfectly aimed jab from a specialized syringe.

“I’ve pre-loaded three hypos with the good stuff, Salty,” Needle reported, her voice quiet and steady. “Enough to put a rhino to sleep, or a dozen of those heavy-set mercs. And my extraction pack is ready.”

Finally, there was “Rook”, the heavy weapons specialist and communications wizard. Rook was a mountain of a man, draped in tactical gear, but his eyes were always glued to a series of glowing screens. He had a penchant for quoting obscure poetry while disassembling an automatic grenade launcher.

“Comms check complete,” Rook rumbled, tapping a key. “I'm painting the extraction zone now. Call-sign 'Albatross' confirms a clean flight path, but the ground forces are closing fast. As the poet said, 'The hounds of hell are on our trail, and we must rise before the gale.'”

00:07:35

Salty pulled his custom sidearm—a heavily modified .45 affectionately named The Sea Serpent—from its holster and checked the chamber.

“Needle, you’re the rear guard. Use the sleep darts, we don’t want a mess. Fuse, get that perimeter cooked off and haul your skinny butt to the roof. Rook, you’re covering the ascent and relaying coordinates until we’re wheels up. Move!”

The trio snapped into action. Fuse, whistling louder now, placed his homemade explosive device near the main entrance, securing it with duct tape and a small, hopeful pat. Needle melted into the shadows of the hallway, her knives flashing as she began her silent surveillance. Rook hefted a massive rotary cannon onto his shoulder, its barrel the size of a drainpipe, and positioned himself at the top of the stairwell leading to the roof.

00:04:12

“Contact! Front door, two squads, moving fast!” Rook’s voice boomed over the comms.

“Fuse! Light ‘em up!” Salty yelled.

“Affirmative, Commander,” Fuse chirped. He mashed a detonator on his belt, then immediately sprinted toward the stairs. A deafening roar echoed through the valley. The explosive wasn't just loud; it was engineered to confuse and disorient, kicking up a blinding curtain of dust and shrapnel.

00:03:00

Salty and the now-assembled misfits scrambled onto the rooftop. The pad was marked by a faded, hand-painted 'H'. The air was thick with the smell of scorched earth and cordite.

A lone figure, a burly, helmeted mercenary, burst onto the roof landing, firing wildly from an assault rifle.

CRACK-HISS.

Needle, appearing as if from thin air, was already there. She didn't fire a shot; she flicked her wrist. The mercenary stumbled, his eyes going wide with confusion before his muscles failed. He collapsed silently, his weapon skittering across the concrete.

“One down,” Needle breathed, her face unreadable.

00:01:45

WOP-WOP-WOP.

The unmistakable, beautiful sound of heavy rotors began to dominate the air. Salty raised his binoculars. A black, twin-rotor transport helicopter, Call-sign 'Albatross', was dipping over the ridge.

“Rook, give me some suppression!”

“With pleasure, sir!” Rook leaned over the roof ledge. The rotary cannon unleashed a fearsome torrent of fire, not aimed to kill, but to pin the remaining forces. Tracer rounds stitched lines of burning light into the jungle canopy below.

00:00:30

The helicopter hovered, kicking up a powerful gale of dust and debris. The ramp slammed down.

“Go! Go! Go!” Salty pushed Fuse and Needle toward the ramp.

Just as Rook turned to follow, the sound of a heavy machine gun ripped through the air, BRRT-BRRT-BRRT! A hail of bullets hammered the concrete near Rook’s feet.

Salty glanced down. A surviving squad, led by a fearsome figure with a cybernetic arm, was emerging from the smoke.

“Commander! They brought the big guns!” Rook roared, bringing his cannon back to bear.

00:00:10

Salty didn't hesitate. He pulled the pin on a flashbang and tossed it down. "Rook! Move!"

The flashbang detonated, bathing the roof in an instant of blinding white light. Rook, momentarily disoriented but trained to recover instantly, scrambled up the ramp.

00:00:01

Salty was the last man. He leaped onto the ramp just as the chopper banked sharply upward. The cybernetic mercenary below fired a final, furious burst, the rounds chewing into the metal ramp.

00:00:00

The ramp rose with a hydraulic hiss. The Albatross pulled G's, accelerating out of the valley and into the clear sky.

Salty dropped into a seat, pulling a tattered, waterproof map from his pocket. “Next stop, Zanzibar,” he announced, the adrenaline finally starting to recede.

Fuse was already arguing with Needle about the structural integrity of his explosive device. Rook was humming along to a melancholic folk song while cleaning his cannon.

Salty looked at his three brilliant, chaotic teammates and smiled. Mission complete. Misfits saved.