by Uncle Sam
originally published at 08:32PM on Tuesday, March 20, 2007

This was it. We’d been fighting our way deeper and deeper into the facility, too panicked to contemplate that we might not make it out. More than half our platoon was dead, most of them killed when we were shot down. We crash landed, fought our way to a side entrance. Making our way down was hell. Booby traps were everywhere, but those were minor annoyances compared to the security. Black ops type – gas masks, black everything, silenced MP5s. They would appear, kill a few of us, then vanish, into the maze of maintenance corridors and ventilation shafts.
We just had to find our target and get out. But hell, we didn’t even know what the guy looked like. We were just supposed to pick him up and leave. But we had to find him. There was no point in returning if we didn’t.
We’d worked our way to the bottom of the stairs before it hit us. We hadn’t found him. There were six of us left. And there were eleven floors of those black ops troops between us and the surface. As if the surface was safe. We were doomed.