September 16th, three o'clock in the afternoon—the sun bore down over the landscape, its rays reflecting off the fuselage of a Boeing CH-47 Chinook as it cut a determined path through the skies near the TPLEX.
Inside the dual-rotor craft, the cockpit was a bastion of controlled urgency. "Two mikes to LZ," came the clipped, authoritative voice of the pilot. His hands were steady on the thrust levers.
"Eagle Actual to Iron Horse, we copy," Richard's voice responded over the comms, the connection crackling slightly under the strain of distance. "Be advised, tangoes are still lying on the ground, dead but do proceed with caution."
"Roger that, Eagle Actual," his eyes scanned the gauges and the terrain ahead.
Two minutes later, the landscape of the expressway was marked with craters and blackened scars from the earlier engagement.
