ARCI Petroleum Research Facility
Three Humvees crawled up the cracked desert road and pulled into the yard of a two-story white research facility. Their diesel was almost gone. The engines sputtered to a stop beside a dusty old weapons truck parked out back. The rear wall of the building was half-collapsed, the concrete split like it had taken heavy shelling.
A man in a gray headscarf stepped out the back door—definitely not U.S. military.
"Al-'aduu yansahib al-aan, lakin laa tufrid al-hirsa![1]" he shouted inside in a thick local dialect.
Brian, Dan, and the remaining soldiers spread out to secure the perimeter while Sergeant Walsh climbed down from the Humvee, sniper rifle slung over his shoulder. He walked up to the local commander.
"What's the situation?" Walsh asked.
"They've pulled their troops back," the Warfly rebel leader replied in rough English. "We believe they're rearming somewhere in the dunes. We've got thirty-eight men left. Lost a few, but… we can't let our guard down. They're dug in behind that ridge over there."
Walsh gave a curt nod. "Got it. Anything else we should know?"
"I have something to show you. Please, follow me."
He led Walsh inside the battered facility and down a narrow stairwell into a hidden basement. The air was stale and pitch-black until the Marines clicked on their rifle lights. A tunnel stretched ahead, stacked with over a hundred barrels of crude oil.
"We will not let Karsz take our resources," the rebel said firmly.
Walsh gave one of the barrels a hard shake. "You got a plan for how to keep it safe?"
The rebel frowned. "That's what I wanted to ask you."
Walsh folded his arms, thinking for a moment. "We'll deal with that when the time comes." Though his tone made it clear he already had something in mind.
When they returned upstairs, the soldiers were already in position, waiting for orders.
"All right, people!" Walsh shouted. "You're in your assigned spots. From now on, you'll take orders from me and the Warfly commander here. He'll handle things after me. Understood?"
"Aye, sir!" the Marines shouted.
Brian broke off from the group—he was on heavy gun duty. He took the west wing, where the walls were full of holes and bomb craters. Each room connected through dug-out crawl spaces, good for cover and escape. A couple of Warfly fighters sat nearby, reloading magazines with ash-stained hands.
"Hey, American!" one of them said with a grin. "Ready to spray some lead?"
"Hell yeah," Brian replied. "How long have you guys been holed up here?"
"Three days. They sent goddamn bomb drones at us last night and blew half the second floor. Karsz loves surprises."
Brian frowned. "They really want the oil that bad? If they wanted it, they'd have taken it by now."
The rebel shrugged. "Who knows. But one thing's certain—we're not letting them have this place. Karsz will lose his mind when he finds out his men died at the hands of their own."
He tossed Brian an ammo belt. "You're up, big guy."
Brian smirked. "You used to serve under Karsz, didn't you?"
The man gave a dark chuckle. "Yeah. 'Warfly' isn't just a name."
Brian loaded his advanced heavy machine gun, slid it into position behind a reinforced window, and peered through a narrow gun slit. Beyond the electrified fence, the sand dunes rippled under the scorching sun—perfect ground for an ambush.
Downstairs, Walsh took cover near the main entrance, setting up his sniper post behind a half-shattered window. Meanwhile, Dan climbed the central staircase to the second floor, stepping over debris and shell holes. The stench of burnt flesh and diesel filled the air. When he leaned over a broken ledge, he could see the cratered desert outside—smoke and charred remains rising into the heat.
"Ugh! ¡Qué puta asco!" he gagged, covering his nose. Then he froze.
Something was crawling up from behind the dune.
"Sniper! Get down!" he yelled, diving behind a cracked wall as bullets sliced through the air, chewing into the ceiling.
"They're coming!!" the Warfly commander roared.
Dan yanked a grenade, popped the pin, and hurled it out the window. The explosion echoed through the desert, scattering sand and limbs. Meanwhile, Walsh crouched near the broken glass, raised his long-range rifle, and scoped in. His lens locked onto a flicker of black cloth peeking over the dune. He squeezed the trigger—cluck!—
BAM! the bullet punched through the hood, bursting the skull beneath in a red mist.
"One down! Everyone, stay low!" Walsh shouted.
[1] Stay vigilant even if the enemy's retreating!