story im writing in my freetime, please review and rate, subject to change all the time also if it wasnt clear story is that china and north korea invade the US
Peter climbed through the rubble, 1911 in his right hand. Kicking rocks aside, he approached a window in the collapsed building. Quickly surveying the street below, he pulled the Mosin from his back, leaving his Colt on the concrete floor. The fighter brought the old Russian rifle up to his shoulder, looking towards the street.
After a quick study of the ground below, he placed the crosshairs of the PSO-1 scope on the upper back of a Chinese soldier, one lingering among two others and about 8 North Korean soldiers. He squeezed the trigger, and the man shouted, crumpling to the ground. Peter hit the deck as the other soldiers in the street scanned over the area, then opened fire on the building with their Type-88 rifles, a shower of bullets slamming into the wall just behind where the resistance soldier was just kneeling.
Gunfire randomly erupted from the laundromat behind the Asian soldiers, showering the Norks (slang for North Koreans) and the Chinese with lead. The growl of the M249 eventually stopped as all the soldiers fell down, their life slipping from their bodies. Peter reached up to his shoulder, turning on the radio on his backpack’s strap. “Good work, Monroe. I would’ve gotten killed if it weren’t for you.”
“Yeah, yeah, I saved your -” Monroe was cut off as an explosion bursted from the rubble wall at the western side of the street. A Type-59 Chinese tank drove through the dust cloud, a bit of smoke rising from its barrel. The coaxial Type-59T MMG opened fire on the store Monroe resided in, and a scream was heard but cut short quickly. Peter stood still for a moment, frozen in shock, before noticing the tank commander aiming the .50 on top of the tank towards him. He grabbed his Colt, and took off running.
oO---Oo
Peter rushed through the derelict neighborhood, hopping fences and breaking through dilapidated walls, finally reaching a cul de sac with camo netting and tall, barbed-wired fences. He approach the front, where multiple soldiers wearing US military fatigues or plainclothes with combat gear draped over them tensed a little, bringing the muzzles of their firearms up a bit. He put his hands up. “It’s me, guys, it’s fine.” They lowered, and one, dressed in a red t-shirt, khaki pants, a shemagh around his neck, black kevlar vest and an M14, shouted, “Hey, man, where’s Monroe?”
The finally-home soldier looked towards the interrogating man. “Hey, Sock.. Monroe didn’t make it.” A look of horror from Sock. “T-59 got him. Did everything I could, we took out that patrol, though.” Chinese helicopters circled the area of the skirmish, soldiers repelling from the rears of the Harbins. This clearly unnerved the guards of the camp, the soldiers atop the Humvees aiming their machine guns towards the skies. “C’mon, Sock, let’s get inside. Did Liz ever make that coffee?” A nod from Sock.
Entering the camp, Peter looked it over, acknowledging that it was the same. Camp Populi was a cul de sac of two-story houses and their backyards, draped with camo and thermal netting. The street was covered over with dirt about 4 feet down (wooden sidings) where trees and poles were put up to support the netting. The biggest tree had tire swings and was the location for the few (17) children of the camp to converse. The houses to the direct right and left of the entrance had American flags hung from them, and were the security houses.
The house to the front was the command center. The two houses flanking that one were the civilian barracks, and the two between those and the security were the medbay and the kitchen, respectively. Machine guns were mounted on rooftops and balconies, and a recoilless rifle was mounted on a small wooden tower near the front. There were a few soldiers drilling in the designated parade yard, the driveway of the HQ. Humvees and pickup trucks lined the edges of the cul de sac.
Sock and Peter began a slow trot towards the security barracks, and eventually arrived. “Sock, wait in the living room, I have to go tell Scott that Monroe was KIA.” Sock nodded as he plopped down on the tattered red couch, digging for the remote.
After a brief visit to the HQ, Peter gave a report to Colonel Scott about what had happened, and as Peter was leaving, he picked up the phone to call Liz, Monroe’s wife. That would be a sad call. The smell of cooking meat drifted from the kitchen’s backyard, and our “hero” sniffed in, taking the smell as he returned to the security barracks.
Entering in the front screen door, he walked back into the living room, where Sock was now playing an annually-released first-person shooter series. Peter sat down next to him, watching casually. This continued on until about 3:41 AM (They had returned to the camp at 9:21 P.M. and started playing at midnight) when four soldiers, fully geared up, walked downstairs. “Oi, Sock, Zayk, suit up, we’ve got a mission.”
The two stood up, grabbing their weapons. They continued outside into the night, and hopped up into an M35. Six soldiers sat in the back, and the engine was running. The driver, Lieutenant Zalkovsky, looked back. She looked over the men, then nodded curtly. “Alright guys, we’re hitting a Nork guard tower four blocks away. Four stories tall, reinforced, with gun ports all along the side. Type sixty-sevens, type eighty-eights, the likes. Possibly a type fifty-nine. Owen next to me has a SMAW, that’ll be used to take out the tower and the tank, if it’s there.” She paused, looking over a map. “I’ll be just around the block, engine running. We do not want to take this tower, so use grenades and rockets as much as you want. Alright, let’s move!”
As the truck left the camp, a humvee pulled in front of it, leading the way. “Oh, I forgot to mention, you’ll have these guys too. They all have AT4s. .50 on top.” The miniature convoy drove through the night, and spotlights soon were visible as they were a corner away from the tower. “Alright, guys, this is your stop.” The men piled out.
“Oi, Peter, help me onto this house,” Owen called out to Peter. Sock and Peter lifted up Owen onto the house, then one of the guys from the Humvee, Regis. Regis drew his binocs and looked at the tower. “No tank, we’re in luck. Hit the middle of the tower with the SMAW.”
Owen pulled up the SMAW just as Sock, Peter and the rest climbed up on the roof, except for Zalkovsky and the Humvee’s gunner and driver. “Clear backblast..” The rocketeer whispered the command, and there was a light shuffling. He pulled back on the trigger, and a thump was heard, the rocket zoomed forward, and slammed forward, racking the tower with an explosion, although no bodies or screaming. Owen looked around in surprise. “What the fu-” He was cut short as lights turned on all around them, and three shots tore his head apart, coming from a nearby office building.
Peter ducked, screaming “Sniper!” as they dove off the roof, a good idea as it was soon blown apart. Four rockets hit the Humvee as it tried to back up, and the soldiers sprinted towards the M-35, screaming, “Drive, drive!” as they literally leaped into the back.
One soldier, a newbie, was running a bit short as it drove off. “Help!” He sprinted towards it, as fast as he could. Sock reached a hand out, and the soldier reached out, grabbing Sock’s wrist. He started pulling the newbie on board, when the rookie got shot in the back of the knee, screaming as his knees dragged against the asphalt. “Pull me on!” Two more soldiers, one of them Peter, rushed to the back, lifting the soldier on board. One of his legs had been torn off and the other was badly injured, the kneecap exposed. “..How bad is it.. C’mon just.. just tell me!” The corpsman rushed to him, applying a tourniquet and cleaning up the wounds as best as he could.
The truck screeched to a stop, and two men rushed out with a stretcher, alerted via radio. They loaded the rookie, now identified as Private Shoemake, onto the stretcher. Nearly the entire camp rushed out to the front, awaiting whatever would come to get them. Nothing came. For two hours, they waited, and nothing happened, not even a bird. The sun was rising by the time they entered the camp, the rest of the night survived with energy drinks.
Everyone in the security barracks was awoken by the hellish sound of Chinese helicopter gunruns on the neighborhood near Camp Populi, Chinese scouts again getting the location of the camp wrong. As those in the barracks filed outside, they soon noticed nearly the entire camp, civilians too, clustered around a recently arrived pickup truck. As they pushed their way to the front, Colonel Scott was showing off three Milkor grenade launchers that the Resistance Movement had recently acquired via the black market.
Peter looked at the Colonel as he showed them the revolving firing mechanism. Four of the camp’s children were sitting on the pickup truck. Scott glanced down, looking at Peter. “Ah, Sergeant, glad you could come!” The Colonel briefly reached down, tossing a heavy sack and one of the Milkors down to Peter. “This will be your new secondary weapon.”
“What about my Colt?”
“Don’t worry, you can still keep that on you too.” Scott dismissed Zayk and he walked up to the front gate, where Sock was already standing on guard.
“What’s up ma- Oh hell, you got one of the Milkors?” Sock gaped his mouth in surprise as Peter approached the gate.
“Yeah, I like it. Kind of bulky, but it’s lightweight, and it puts out some nice firepower.” The only sounds were quiet and distant bursts of gunfire, and the occasional passing helicopter. Down the long road from the camp, a military truck, with boxes and bags hanging off the sides and back, a machine gun mounted on top, crested the hill, stopping just outside the gate.
The gunners atop the humvees trained their machine guns on the truck, and an Arabic man leans out of the window, speaking broken English. “Hi, we are trading, you wanting buy our stuff? We have oranges, fresh orange. Cereal. All many goods!”
It was now clear that the goods lining the sides were boxes of food and bags with gasoline drums in them. Two armed guards stood in the back, cramped between more piles of boxes and loose things. Colonel Scott walked out to the front, holding his Milkor tightly. In his slow, southern drawl, Scott spoke out to the trade group. “Now, how can I help ya’ll nice men?”
“We want to trade you! You give us stuff, we give you too!” Scott nods, and waves Sock and Peter over, and they investigate the truck. The two Middle-Eastern men in the back tense as the two approach, and look over and under the truck, looking for bombs or traps.
“Now you can stay right out here, folks, we’ll have our men come out to you.”
He sent one of the rookies inside to tell everyone else what was going on, and some people started forming a line. The driver climbed into the back, smiling.
“Yes, yes, very good! Now we can start!” He rubs his hand together, him and one of the armed guards making quick sales. Sock managed to grab a box of assorted 7.62 rounds and a pack of double-a batteries, while Peter bought some fake flowers to give to Liz in lieu of her husband’s death.
The trader had arrived at noon, and it was now 5:31, and he was just now closing up shop. Very few people remained except for the guards, and his truck was just as full, if not more. The two armed guards, the gunner and the salesman began chattering away, as if arguing, in Arabic. One of them suddenly reached into his vest, pulling out a cellphone. Sock looked around, and leaned over towards Peter, whispering, “Hey, what the forget? Why the cellphone? There’s no working cell towers around here.”
Peter nodded, looking perturbed as well. One of the Middle-Easterners said something, then glanced around suspiciously, and coughed, quickly continuing his conversation, albeit nervously. “Hey, that sounded like Chinese, man.”
Sock shot back with, “You’re just being paranoid.” The man started dialing and right before he pressed “SEND CALL,” Peter noticed a device on the inside of the truck. He quickly dropped the Milkor and ripped the M14 from Sock’s hands, putting three rounds into the man’s torso. “What the forget Peter?!”
“Open fire, just loving do it! It’s a trap!” The gunners on the Humvees open up on the truck, tearing apart its operators before a shot was fired, while civilians ran screaming. The Colonel ran out with his two personal guardsmen, and asked for a report.
“It was a bomb, sir, I’m sure of it.” He had his personal guard search the truck, and, sure enough, there was a Chinese-made bomb, rigged up for cellphone activation. In the glovebox was directions in Chinese, Arabic and English on what to do. Soldiers began peeling apart things from the truck, and returning them to whoever had used them to purchase things. The ammunition, food and weaponry were sent to the storehouse and armory. The truck was parked outside the security building and painted blue, with American flags hung on the sides, and the machine gun on the cab’s roof had “OL’ FAITHFUL” stenciled on it. Civilians nicknamed it “The American.”
During a routine foot patrol led by Peter and Sock, as they were passing through a back yard, two birds suddenly fluttered out of a broken window on the house next to them, screeching. All the men crouched down, aiming towards the window. A barrel stuck through and the four men quickly opened fire, showering the building with lead, and the man dropped dead, his Type-88 falling to the ground. Sock slung it over his shoulder to be returned to the armory.
As they began to leave, the door was kicked open,
