------------
A H-47 Chinook helicopter was blasted out of the sky, instantly cutting the air support in half. The other Chinook pilot saw the disaster and bailed on his attack run, gunning the engine and climbing for altitude, spinning away from the deadly ridge. He had no clue what had taken his buddy down—if it was a precision-guided missile, things were about to get real ugly.
With the air support gone, the militants on the hillside felt the pressure vanish. Cheers broke out as they popped up from their hiding spots, spraying their AK-47s, RPGs, and even Chinese Type 65 rifles at the retreating Chinook. The whole hillside turned into a wild, deafening gunfight, hundreds of militants filling the sky with a crazy barrage of bullets.
The surviving Chinook took a beating from stray bullets, but its altitude and tough armor kept it safe. Still, the pilot was sweating—one big missile and he’d be toast. He circled, dumped all his remaining ammo on the ground, and hightailed it back to base.
With air support gone, Colonel Jackcott and his twenty-something Delta Force operators were suddenly in deep trouble. Armed militants started swarming the hills, closing in from all sides. Sure, these guys were elite, but even Delta Force can't hold out forever against a mob with way more bodies and plenty of fight in them. Their only hope was their top-shelf gear and killer teamwork.
Dudarev crouched behind a rock, grinning like a devil as he watched the Delta Force guys slug it out with waves of militants through his binoculars. He shook his metal prosthetic right hand and roared, "Ha! Delta Force bastards! You broke my hand back in the day—now none of you are getting out alive!"
He turned to his bodyguard and barked, "Hand me my SVD Dragunov! Time to play sniper games—hehe!"
His bodyguard hurried over and handed him the SVD Dragunov sniper rifle. Dudarev grabbed it, sprawled out on the rock, and lined up a shot on a Delta operator peeking out. Cool as ice, he squeezed the trigger—BANG! The poor guy was blown off his feet, half his head bursting like a smashed watermelon. Bad luck, pal.
"Ha! That's the stuff! Killing's just like riding a bike!" Dudarev crowed, crawling seven or eight meters to a new rock for cover. He scanned for targets through the high-tech scope on his custom Dragunov—this beast had a souped-up range, two hundred meters farther than standard, and the latest optics for pinpoint shots. Dudarev was ex-Spetsnaz Vympel, so his sniper skills were top-tier.
"Ah, fuck! Damn it! Sergeant Austin from Team B is down! Backup sniper, take his spot! There's a pro out there—keep your heads down!" Colonel Jackcott nearly puked blood watching Austin get his head blown off, but the wound screamed Dragunov SVD. He forced himself to chill—anyone wielding a Dragunov like that was no joke.
Meanwhile, more and more militants poured in from every direction. Down in the poppy fields, the last Afghan special forces and American DEA agents ran out of ammo and got wiped out—beaten to death by the mob of reinforcements.
Colonel Jackcott spotted two JSOC hotshots, Ruffman and Mr. Martin, heading down the slope like they had a death wish. He shouted, "Hey—you two crazy or what? The valley's crawling with hostiles and there's a sniper waiting for you! Stay put! Wait for my air support call! If you get smoked, it's on me!"
Ruffman just sneered and kept going. Mr. Martin turned back, "Colonel, don’t worry about us. Just look after your own guys!"
Martin followed Ruffman down the hill. "Damn, those two are nuts!" Colonel Jackcott stared as they strutted through the gunfire like they owned the place. Suddenly, he caught a glint off a distant scope—sniper! He jumped up behind cover and yelled, "Martin—get down! The sniper's got you in his sights!"
Martin nodded, "Got it. We'll watch ourselves. You take care too, Colonel."
BANG—! A sharp gunshot. Hot blood splattered across Martin’s face—he froze, stunned, his eyes blazing with fury.
Colonel Jackcott’s body slowly collapsed. He clutched his bleeding throat, blood spurting between his fingers. He fell flat on his back, eyes wide, staring in disbelief as the sky faded to dark gray. Memories of his wife and daughter back in America flashed before him—picnics, laughter, family outings—like a movie reel. Jackcott gasped for breath, but his strength drained away. He couldn’t even breathe anymore…
"God! Colonel Jackcott's been hit! Lieutenant Charlie, get over here—move!" yelled the nearest Delta operator, his voice nearly cracking.
Lieutenant Charlie, the Delta medic, spun around and dove toward the barely-breathing Colonel Jackcott, rolling and crawling at top speed. He reached the Colonel, grabbed his shoulders, and started dragging him back.
BANG!—another sniper round tore through his thigh, tossing him two meters into the open. Lieutenant Charlie clutched his bleeding leg, rolling on the ground and howling in pain.
Nobody dared help him—no one knew where the sniper was hiding. Lieutenant Charlie rolled and screamed, blood soaking the earth. His cries stabbed at the hearts of the Delta Force guys, torturing their sense of brotherhood.
BANG!—another bullet nailed his other leg, blood spraying everywhere. Charlie’s screams got even more desperate. One Delta operator couldn’t take it anymore and yelled, "Charlie, hang in there, damn it! I’m coming for you! I’ll save you!"
The guy burst out from cover, racing toward Charlie. His teammate tried to grab him but missed, so he shouted, "Get back here! Jack! Jack, you idiot! Don’t fall for it!" The other operator fired his MP5 wildly over the rocks, hoping to give some cover.
But it was hopeless. As soon as Jack reached Charlie and grabbed his shirt—BANG!—the hidden sniper fired again, drilling a bullet right through Jack’s temple. He collapsed, clutching Charlie’s uniform, eyes wide with unwillingness as death took him.
"Oh—God! Damn you bastards! I’ll take you all down!" With both legs busted, Lieutenant Charlie lost it, raising his MP5 and spraying bullets at the hillside.
BANG—another shot. Charlie flipped over, a bloody hole in his forehead. Colonel Hank Han reloaded his sniper rifle in a shadowy corner, a wicked smile on his lips. He’d taken out Colonel Jackcott and Lieutenant Charlie, while Dudarev finished off the impulsive Jack. This hill was now officially Sniper Ridge.
The Delta Force operators were pinned down, too scared to even poke their heads out. The militants tightened their noose from all sides—both Delta Force teams were staring down total annihilation.