Chapter 1 – Shooting Hoops


U.S ARMY BASE – BASEPLATE CHARLIE (3rd Base)
20 Miles West of Baghdad, Iraq
0530 Hours (Local Time)

The base was quite this particular morning. The only people out of their racks were an odd mix of officers, watchmen, and the few troops who liked an early morning jog or exercise. Like any other day, squad leaders prepared briefings; officers roamed the pathways between the barracks and other buildings. 3 large aircraft hangers stood, looming ominously over the smaller buildings that surrounded them. The solid concrete ground led out to an assembly area and the helo landing pads, next to the hangers. However, some activity was present in front of the eastern most hanger, on the form of a hastily chalk drawn basketball court, where two Force Recon troops bounced the orange ball around the court. The court itself was as hastily made as it was drawn. A pair of long ago used Humvee rims that had had the spokes cut out to create a makeshift hoop stood either end of the court, and a few scattered fuel drums made makeshift seats. A few of the engineers, 3 Fox anthros and a dark grey Wolf, the chief engineer on the base, rested against the nose of a Blackhawk in the hanger, watching the pairs game. The First FR Troop, was a typical orange fox, at 5' 9", and average build, he could easily have been mistaken for any other ordinary soldier at the base. The Master Gunnery Sergeant stripes on his shoulder stated otherwise however. Indeed, the British born Henry Townsville was about as ordinary as they come. His opponent however, was a bit of a rarity to see around. At 6' 8", the large Falcon towered over Henry, his sandy brown wings fully extended from the holes in his modified desert camouflage vest reached over 8" with ease. The Falcon was well built, his well muscled chest showed through the vest that was still open to vent the heat that came with first light every morning, save
winter. The temperature had already soared to 30'C. Although he'd opted for a vest today, normally, the large Falcons modified shirt would have also show Master Gunney stripes on the shoulder. Born to Australian Parents who moved to the U.S.A when he was still just a hatchling, Hunter Ryan enlisted the same day as Henry. They'd had a friendly rivalry since boot camp. Both went to active service at the same time, however, Hunter had been sent to Iraq a month ahead of Henry. Hunter glared at Henry through his reflective Aviators sitting atop his beak, stretching his wings to form a wall to block Henry for getting to his hoop.

"Ha-ha, what now, Gunney?" One of the engineers shouted from the hanger. Gunney was a nickname given to just about anyone with the rank of Gunnery Sergeant. Henry summed up his options quickly, before diving into a roll under Hunter's left wing, springing to his feet and flicking the ball cleanly into the hoop. Hunters gaze was impressed, until the fox started to gloat.

"Three points Bird-Brain, Oh YEAH!" Henry gloated in a mocking voice, his British accent easily noticeable.
Hunter snuffed a laugh.

"But your still behind 16 points Trailblazer" Hunter used the fox's callsign, stretching it out as a mockery to how far behind he was. Henry had earned that callsign during an incident with about 20 Insurgants and an off-road escape in a stolen Ute.

"Burn Gunney, burn..." a second engineer yelled out. A quick glare and he went back to refueling the Blackhawk.

"Horse Shit!" Henry Laughed. "I was 8 behind last point!"

"Just checking.." Hunter scooped up the ball with his wing and gave it a few dribbles before the ball started to sag.

"Oh for Christ's sake, can't they get us a ball that lasts for more then a week?" Moaned Hunter.

Henry simply laughed. "Ha, that'll happen the day they promote me to General!"
Hunter looked to the ball, and then up to Henry and a pair of engineers, both Fox's (Fox's seemed to be more common due to their natural color and tolerance to the desert heat)
A broad grin crossed his face...

"Firing Range anyone?" He said, holding the slowly deflating ball in one hand.
One of the engineers, a young Private by the name of Danny West, who was also the local heavy weapons expert on base, answered back.

"Yeah......I think I've got a better idea though.." The smile on the young Fox's face said it all as he turned his head to look at the Blackhawk in the hanger...



1 Mile south of Base Plate Charlie.
Iraqi Desert
0620 Hours.

As the big Blackhawk landed in a cloud of sand and dust the rotors kicked up, and a lone Fox jumped out with a hammer, a star picket, and a small orange basketball. 40 seconds later, the ball stood on the picket 20m from where the Blackhawk had landed. Private First Class Danny West clambered back into the Helo before it rose into the air and began to circle the picket and the ball.

"Ok!" West shouted into his helmet mic. "Who wants first shot?"
Henry was on the Minigun dangling from the side of the chopper almost the moment Danny had finished asking.
"Well.... I guess that answers that..." said West, sliding back into his seat, a slight look of shock on his face at the speed Henry had moved.
Hunter laughed, his large build almost forcing him to duck while sitting in the chopper.
The move didn't surprise him; Henry had always fancied anything that could pump out more lead then a foundry.
"Aim just before the target, the movement will throw the rounds off if you aim for it" Hunter yelled over the constant whirr of the rotors.

The second engineer, also the pilot, looked back. "Music anyone? Heh heh heh..." The pilot, Known to most as Mac, leant forward and pressed a button his dash, next to an iPod that had been wired to the speaker system in the crews helmets. Mac was an older Fox, having joined the armed forces before Desert Storm, his orange fur had taken a darker tinge with his age, and the occasional grey hair poked through. For his age though, he was as fit as any other person or anthros on the base. Almost instantaneously, ‘I fought the law' By the Bobby Fuller Four began to play. The helo banked sharply and tilted at about 30' to the left, began flying circles around the lone picket, and their target, the now almost flat basket ball, sitting atop it.

The 6 barrels on the Vulcan Minigun began to whirr and spin, before, in all its glory, a white hot tongue of fire spat forth from the barrels, now just a blur of motion, and shell casings flying from the ejector.
"Hahaha!" Henry yelled over the mic. "Take that ya little orange bastard!" The ball, now battered by 2000 rounds per minute of lead, flew from the picket, jumping wildly as it was shredded to pieces by the barrage. "Haha, Hey Hunter, you've gotta try this!" yelled Henry, offering the gunners seat to Hunter, who more then willingly accepted it.

"Just press the red buttons on the grips and hold ‘em down" Laughed Henry, as he slid back into the seat behind the pilot. Hunter, using the highly maneuverable feathers at the end of his wing, griped the gun just a bit tighter, before jamming down on the trigger button.

"Yee-Haw!" He shouted, the already shredded ball being reduced to almost nothing, as the barrels spat forth their fire once again. The radio unexpectedly came to life, cutting off the song and Hunter eased back on the trigger, the revolving barrels slowing to a halt.

"Uh, Hammer Two-Four, This is Baseplate Charlie. Comeback." The voice belonged to a human, one of the many at the base, who by the sound of it, hadn't had his coffee just yet.
Mac pressed the intercom.

"Hammer Two-Four reads you Five-By-Five. SitRep." Mac's older voice took on a more serious tone.

"Uh, Alpha Six-One reports small arms fire in the market district downtown, and confirms that he saw RPG fire. Your orders are to proceed to Alpha Six-Ones position, and evaluate the situation."

"Rules of engagement sir?"
The radio operators' voice sounded firmer now, more confident.

"There will be civilians down there Two-Four. Fire only if fired upon. Repeat, fire only if fired upon. Confirm?"

Mac gave a sigh.
"Confirm Baseplate. Hammer Two-Four going on station."

Mac turned in his chair, and looked at the three men behind him.
"Right lads, we're going for a day trip into the market, grab a vest from that compartment in the floor. Small arms are behind the far seat, code is 1-2-4-8." Hunter leant forward and dropped the seat rest forward on the chair, revealing a small locker with a keypad. He quickly punched in the code and the pressure sealed compartment gave a hiss as he opened it. Hunter quickly pilfered a pair of M-16A4's and handed one to West.

"There you go Private, she's cocked, locked, and ready to rock!" Hunter also handed a smaller M9 Pistol to Henry, who had taken up the gunner's seat once more, who quickly cocked the pistol and placed it in the holster of his newly acquired flak vest. The vest was only a crew's vest, a lighter version of the standard infantry vest, but instead of desert camo, the vests were khaki green. They might stop some fire, but anything larger then a pistol was out of the question. Hunter quickly inspected what else was in the weapons locker. A few frag grenades and a pair of night vision goggles, but then his eye caught on something else. An Armalite Maghook sat silently at the back of the locker. Hunter brought it out and gave a shout to Mac.

"And where exactly did you get this from, Mac!?"
Mac looked back, his head coked to the side, a look of puzzlement upon his muzzle.

"One of you Force Recon boys put it in there on my last sortie. Dumb Bastard must have forgotten to collect it!"

Hunter gave a laugh at this before attaching the Maghook to his back.
"Ahh well, His loss"
The Maghook looked like a rifle from a sci-fi movie in the sorts, however, the Maghook fired a small grappling hook on 150 feet of titanium cord and the grappling hook also housed a incredibly powerful magnet in the top of it, used to attach to flat metallic surfaces where the grappling hook couldn't. The mixed group of troops looked at each other. 2 Force Recon troops and an army engineer wouldn't be much if they had to get on the ground. Henry just hoped it didn't come to that, as he watched the flat desert scenery rush by underneath him.

The Blackhawk banked to the East, and powered off towards the city, a small column of smoke rising slowly from the Market district in the distance.