Three walking wounded. It could be worse, a lot worse I tell myself.

Time to move.

We slide through the jungle, no machete path, no broken fronds. After 30 minutes we have covered 400m from the last firefight.

Then another click in 30 minutes as the terrain opens up. We cant see the stars, and we are thankful for our NV goggles, our pace quickens the team stays alert.

0100

Another 1500m is covered, now fallen tree trunks bar our way. Moving through means careful slow movement if we want to remain unseen, un trackable. Nearly two clicks on we pause. In front of us is an unforeseen obstacle. Swamp stretches left and right. Knee deep back in the much. In the back of my mind I wonder is GPS broken, or we being hacked? WTF? Or is it just a jungle?

Its now 0200 and we take a breather. Everyone ammo checks and grabs some food and water. I walk among the team whispering sweet nothings to them. All of them are leaders, each could do this job. We are a true machine.

Over the next 500m we hit some hard slogging, grim lines replace our cheery smiles..Shit we never really smile on mission, well always at some one on the teams mis fortune. One of the easiest ways to stay on track on pace is pace counting, But was we have seen, I might get distracted on occasion. I turn and signal for a pace count.

Then damn it, flashes of light presage the incoming. WTF… Seriously I’ll throat punch that son of bitch INTEL guy. That’s when the round smashes into my hand. Later on I’ll realize it was really just a ricochet off of a tree, an entire round probably would taken my hand off. So there goes my left pinkie finger, off into the mold, my gun drops from port with out the support, I take some cover. “Hit” I say. “Cooper is on me super quick, I’m not feeling anything yet, no real pain. He grabs the hand. “Jesus dude hope you rub it out with your right.” Is all he says.

He tourniquets the stump, jabs me with a 1/2 dose of comfy juice and asks me for a good to go? I laugh through gritted teeth say “roger that”. Ok. Yeah it aint macho, its just I always wanted a pinkie ring…. Now its gunna be a rightie. At least its not my trigger hand. But now I’m seeing red, angry. Seriously f$5k this. Being level headed is what I get paid for but getting shot well that just is a whole ‘nother level. “Move and assault ” I roar. “Attack Plan Lima,” a left hook, we move and fire and fall on their right. I’m too far up, but I’m pushing some mags at these bastards. While the Mgs provide covering fire and the flank security keep eyes peeled for tangoes and squirters. “go, go, go.”

Our 3 M4’s burst fire in an awful symphony of violent action. 3 shot bursts make short work of a man with no body armor. I lob a grenade at the retreating men. “run you fucker, where is my pinkie bitch…” The guys stop and look at me, then my hand, and yeah we all bust a gut laughing. More rounds zoom by, “work to do fellas, we can find the finger later.” I clip some meat bag with a burst to the torso. He falls down all screaming and shit. I step over flip my select to single shot as he says “amigo” through anguished pain wracked grimaces “Por favor, Por favor amigo”..

” Yeah, amigo indeed.” One round to the head.

We advance the remaining distance and eliminate the rest of the men who had quickly dropped weapons. No questions asked, we cant manage prisoners and these pricks were torturing our boys when they got to them. Fear us you bastards.

I’m sweating, panting and my left hand is shaking from the shock of losing its pinkie…I flex into the pain. Yeah…. Breathe…Breathe… “Ok, security halt, ammo checks, wounded check in, lets get squared away.”

My main concern is we are within 1 or 2 clicks of our planned Objective Rally Point. Once we police the weapons, and bodies we need to haul ass and get clear. I issue a FRAGO, zig zag route to the team and we haul ass, switching now from staggered file to a slower bounding overwatch.

Forty five minutes later.

Well, my compass and map tell me this clearing is the rally point. Now our job can begin.

Time to recon our Objective, set a grid and let the boom sticks do their thing. There is no let up. We have to roll, we have used a lot of ammo and blown quiet a bit of time.

It takes us over an hour  and a half of slow careful movement around the objective to id the best spots for left and right flanks security and our observation teams. Claymores were placed to our rear, and flanks and as the sun began to break in through the heavy canopy above we got our first real look at the Comms site.

Crisply uniformed Russians, well look, I assume that the tall blonde white dudes with blue eyes and thick set shoulders were Russian ok. The history book might say otherwise but these were not who we had fought all last night, no sir. These were not 5′ 4″ lean dull eyed militia. No sir. Spit and polish, crisp and organized. With images taken, notes made, co-ordinates check more than once we marveled at the amount of equipment under nets, generators belched fumes and cabling was strung from make shift huts and all that led into one van. It was the size of a US massive mobile home. A full 40 feet long, it looked armoured or at least shielded and Russians guarded the doors. Yeah this was our spot.

Inching back, sweat pouring into my eyes, I’m satisfied this is what is keep our men on the run and breaking our codes. The left hand throbs. My bandage is soaked. We should hit this thing. The urge is strong. But with 3 troops tagged including myself we need to do this right and eviscerate the comms site from the air, or with a cruise missile. Boom, Shacka, Boom, Boom.

I recall the teams, we exfil thirty minutes from the site. In daylight we make excellent time. Our exit is a few clicks away and requires 2 road crossings. Each go smoothly. Once we hit the exit site we burst our coded data packets. Then we request EXFIL from our designated Pickup Zone. Of course we are told to hurry up and wait.

Sixty minutes later we are picked up. I know right now Mission planning is hopefully winding up a strike plan.

We board in daylight, racing from the nose to the entry of the choppers. We are off mission in 30 seconds from skids down to skids up, door gunners scan the jungle.

Me? I look South, hoping and praying that I get to see the fulfillment. Sure, enough ship battery rounds whistle through the air and bloom in the distance, huge orange balls of incendiary, flammable matter spray our objective point. Then not one but two cruise missiles strike for added effect. An inferno erupts. Secondary’s bloom as well. I think about those Russkies, and the raider rebels.

Screw them. I never did find my pinkie.