Toreth had braced himself for the bumpy ride, fingers gripped upon the bench beside him tightly as the tires screeched and skidded into motion. He had given his orders, and his job now was to listen carefully to his comms chatter as his team carried them out. As they reversed, he counted the seconds before the firing started, half-listening to Carter's sudden observation of the enemy being entrenched somewhere within the trees. Well, that would've been fucking helpful five seconds earlier.
The shooting had started after about three seconds, and Toreth was more than a little surprised to note just how much shooting there actually was. Where in the fuck did these guys get all their guns? AKs. They at least had to be some sort of organised unit -- not the pathetic, mismatched outfit that Toreth had originally imagined, and maybe SimTech needed to be more fucking forthcoming with their information from now on.
Outside the gunfire continued, the sound of the enemy's gunfire becoming overwhelmed by the sound of his own team's suppressive fire. The shots at them appeared to falter against the barrage, their frequency falling, and Toreth could hear muted screaming from outside that indicated that some of his team's shots had found their mark. He calmly looked at the asset, apparently unfazed and unbothered by the possibility of the Mastiff's defences being penetrable. The enemy would've opened with an RPG or any other real threat if they had one, was his logic. His look was questioning.
"How much do the natives know about what it is you do here?" Also known as, are you publicly advertising the fact that you help the British Army and Royal Marines with their killing? Their government-sactioned killing, of course.
no subject
The shooting had started after about three seconds, and Toreth was more than a little surprised to note just how much shooting there actually was. Where in the fuck did these guys get all their guns? AKs. They at least had to be some sort of organised unit -- not the pathetic, mismatched outfit that Toreth had originally imagined, and maybe SimTech needed to be more fucking forthcoming with their information from now on.
Outside the gunfire continued, the sound of the enemy's gunfire becoming overwhelmed by the sound of his own team's suppressive fire. The shots at them appeared to falter against the barrage, their frequency falling, and Toreth could hear muted screaming from outside that indicated that some of his team's shots had found their mark. He calmly looked at the asset, apparently unfazed and unbothered by the possibility of the Mastiff's defences being penetrable. The enemy would've opened with an RPG or any other real threat if they had one, was his logic. His look was questioning.
"How much do the natives know about what it is you do here?" Also known as, are you publicly advertising the fact that you help the British Army and Royal Marines with their killing? Their government-sactioned killing, of course.