Chapter 3 – Bird On The Deck

Sadr City Outskirts
Baghdad, Iraq
0754 Hours (Local Time)


Lieutenant Frank Farrel, callsign: Scorpio, leant against the desert camouflaged HMMVW, a slight breeze making the fur on the back of the old Husky's head sway in the wind. The golden bars indicating his rank shone in the morning sunlight, although the sun was well into the sky by now, blaring down on the column of vehicles assembled to the side of the highway. On his other shoulder a faded American flag was embroidered onto his desert fatigues.

Farrel moved to a group of men, sitting in the open back of the second HMMVW in the column. The men huddled in the back, around a small box of 5.56mm ammo, used as a makeshift table for a game of poker, the open boot acting as a shield to block the heat. One of the men, a young human chap from Detroit, turned and gave a casual salute to Frank. He returned the salute before the man looked at the smoke, that seemed to have gotten thicker now, and turned back to the Lieutenant, flicking his head towards the smoke.
"Looks like it's gonna be a hell of a day, ‘ey sir?" The young man was from Detroit, but the Irish accent gave his origin away too easily.

"Ah shut it Eysah". (Pronounced Eye-Sah, like Sir, but with an ‘Ah' instead of an ‘ir'). Another trooper butted in, using the Irish troopers callsign, which was a mockery on how he pronounced Eye-Sir. "It's always gonna be a hell of a day for you!"

The troops laughed at the small joke. It got used far to often anyways, but it was still good when there was nothing else to do but wait around. Farrel climbed into the tray of the HMMVW and another hand was dealt. Farrel leaned around the trunk lid, using a paw to stop himself falling out, and looked towards the city. It was then he noticed something. He turned back to the other troop's playing cards.
"Hey, anyone seen our chopper?"



Sadr City Market Square
Baghdad, Iraq
0800 Hours (Local Time)


The surviving marines had pulled together some of the market stalls after the shit had hit the fan to form a small square of cover. There were only 6 of them left, at least, left and able to move. 2 bodies lay besides the northernmost cart, a black tarp thrown over them. Of the 10 man squad, dead or alive, only Six-One's body wasn't in the square of stalls. It lay 20 meters from the cover, a gaping hole in the back of the man's head; dried blood caked the ground where it had pooled around him. Six-Five and Three where under the tarp. And Six-Four, aka, Sgt.Warcroft, lay behind a stall, his face growing whiter, as a middle aged Vixen knelt next to him, med kit sprawled out next to her, working franticly to stem the blood flow from the hole in his chest.

Lance Corporal Gant Newman's paws were red with blood, as she put a final stitch in and gauzed the Sergeants chest. The IV she had hung on the stall was running out. Gant quickly switched it over, and gave the sergeant another dose of morphine.
"That should keep you smiling for another hour" She thought. Assuming they were still alive in an hour....

A human male slid in next to her.
"How's the Sarge doing?" asked the young private. Honor student Caleb Taylor never saw himself in the army when he was in collage. He was the geek back then, short brown hair, brown eyes, olive skin, and a pair of square frame glasses to complete the look. Before Gant now though, he had hair that just hung down to his eyes, that was matted by sweat, a pair of contact lenses, and eyes that gave away just how scared he was. Gant on the other hand, Had dark orange, almost brown fur, with white fur from under her chin to the bottom of her feet. Her eyes were golden, and she was calm and collected, and had a white band with a red cross just below the flag on her shoulder. The kneepads on her leggings were scuffed from constantly having to kneel down in her line of work.

"He'll live. Assuming we don't get killed before evac gets here..." she mumbled.

"Glad to know someone's optimistic" Caleb muttered under his breath, but Gants fox hearing allowed her to here it as if he had said it normally.

"I heard that" Gant laughed as she unslung her M4-Carbine from her back. The weapon felt familiar in her paws, as she peaked over the side of the stall to look around.

"CRACK!"

The wood next to her splintered as the snipers round missed by inches.
"Right" Panted Gant, who had dived back behind the stall, the shock quite clear on her muzzle.
"Their still out there."

Caleb was laying on the ground, hands holding his helmet down.
"Yeah...No shit."


Sadr City Market Area
Baghdad, Iraq
0815 Hours (Local Time)

Pvt.1st Class Danny West was in a world of hurt. His left leg felt like someone had gone over it with a steam roller. It was obviously broken or shattered. His head felt like he'd been hit with a sledge hammer. And his left arm....well, he couldn't even feel it. And he hadn't even opened his eyes yet. As he slowly came around, he was on dirt. He could feel the small rocks and gravel underneath him, before him, the floor of the Blackhawk was inclined at about 50' upwards, the roof of the cabin had slid down, forming a makeshift cave. He slowly turned his head towards the cockpit... and just as quickly turned away. Mac sat in the pilots chair, his face had been shredded by the glass crumpling inwards when they had hit the building. A trickle of blood ran down his muzzle, staining his shirt. He was defiantly dead. Henry was nowhere to be seen.

"Maybe he got out already" thought Danny, moving his left arm to grab onto the floor above him, in an attempt to pull himself up. He let out a loud yelp as he fell back down, clutching his leg. He'd need to make a splint for that first. He moved his right arm this time, the feeling having returned, and pulled his M-16A4 towards him, the rifle had fallen into the cockpit, however he kept his eyes away from Mac's lifeless body. Quickly stripping down the rifle, he tore off his sleeves and tied the rifle's barrel to his leg. Footsteps drew his attention away from his leg. He almost yelled for help, until he heard voices in Arabic. West drew his M9 from his holster and aimed it towards the opening above him.
Clunk, clunk
Footsteps on metal, they were on top of the helicopter. West sat, silently hoping they wouldn't look inside.

No Dice.

A Face wrapped in a traditional muslim Turban appeared over the side, brandishing an Ak-47 aimed down at him. The man squeezed down on the trigger before...
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
The mans face was reduced to mush as his lifeless body slid over the outside of the Blackhawk's wreckage and landed with a dull thump into the dirt.
Frantic footsteps running and West knew the other had fled. The only sound was a few gunshot's in the distance, and the occasional explosion. With a sigh, the pistol dropped to the ground beside him.
A sudden bolt of pain shot through his leg, and West passed back into unconsciousness.


Sadr City Market Area
Baghdad, Iraq
0820 Hours (Local Time)

Hunter limped around the corner that led to where the Blackhawk had crash landed, The Ak-74u Held in his right hand leading the way. The weapon swept back and forth around the area, and hunter quickly moved up behind a dumpster, his talons scratching the dirt as he ran. Peering around the side, the Blackhawk lay crumpled on it's side, smoke still coming from the broken tail section. However, just as Hunter peered out, a man with an Ak-47 came running past him, almost knocking him over. Hunter span on his talons and fired a short burst into the mans back. His body jerked around as the rounds impacted, and still running, he tripped, lifeless into the ground. A Yelp came from the helicopter and Hunter, ignoring the burning in his ribs, sprinted to the wreckage. He nimbly climbed up onto the wreckage and moved over the opening that was once the right ride door, and peered inside.