Chapter 16: The Black River Raid

The underground river rushed past, cold and relentless, water echoing off stone. I drifted in the current, a shadow among shadows, submerged in pitch-black caverns.

I was like an alligator, barely raising my head—just my nose above the water. I drew a slow, careful breath, then slipped beneath the surface again. I waited. Waiting for "prey."

The third time I surfaced, just my nose and helmet above the water, I heard footsteps—muffled, but distinct even through the roar of the river. North of me, Reaper surfaced too, breathing slow.

They're here.

I sank back down—just below the waterline this time. Any deeper, and I wouldn't hear a thing.

Soon, the footsteps grew louder. Even moving quietly and in sync, a group leaves a mark in this black stone world.

Their scouts had already passed us—a good sign. They hadn't noticed the gear raft floating mid-river. That raft was just a nine square feet, inflatable, piled with our sensitive gear, weapons and tools, covered with a black field jacket. In the dark water, you'd never spot it.

The footsteps faded. I counted their progress, ticking off the distance in my head—like a clock hand, tick-tock, tick-tock.

Distance matters—a foot here or there can mean the difference between life and death. I remembered an instructor's story: they once got within 15 feet of an enemy bunker but misjudged distance. The heavy weapons team didn't keep up, and the front squad got chewed up. If the support had been closer, the enemy's main guns would've gone down, and the team would've survived.

I counted to seventy, then swam over to Castor. "Flares ready. Sniper rifles on my mark—two shots, fifty seconds apart." Castor tapped my shoulder, got it. He pulled a grenade launcher from the raft.

I swam to Nox and Buzz. "When the shooting starts, you two head downriver fast, toss all your grenades onto the bank at the first fire, then close in for the kill."

They nodded and readied themselves.

Then I reached Reaper and the European, asked them to follow me .

Bolt was the starting gun for this ambush.

Finally, I gave Anchor his orders: slip out on the north bank, sprint behind their column, cross the river in the confusion, cut off escape or hit their rear. "Once the chaos starts, hit them from behind. After your shot, ditch your night vision."

My mental clock hit a hundred. The enemy was maybe 130-150 yards out.

Bolt crept up the bank first, finding a good sniper's nest on the south cave wall.

I followed, body pressed tight to the stone. Reaper lay by the edge. The European behind us, silent and ready.

When we were all set, Bolt opened fire.

A flash of white gas from his rifle in the dark.

BANG! A scream tore through the cave—louder than the river, louder than the rest of the gunfire, louder than the blackness itself.

A searing white flare shot overhead.

The sudden light burned my eyes, probably because we'd been in darkness too long, maybe because we were too close, maybe because I'd missed my safety gear.

Two seconds later, the second flare popped, but this time the light was gold—filling the riverbank.

I loaded a grenade into the launcher, aimed for the illuminated spot, and fired.

Whoosh! The grenade moved faster than the flare—by the time I pulled the trigger, the explosion was already lighting up the rocks.

Boom! The blast drowned out the enemy's screams, the river, everything.

"Fire!" I shouted, snapping in another round.

"Keep shooting! Don't give them time to react!" I yelled again.

From high up, Bolt's rifle barked, methodical and steady. Reaper's shots from the riverbank echoed close by. The European moved past me, tight to the wall, laying down covering fire.

Whoosh!—a second grenade arced out.

Reaper used the distraction to advance, searching for a better angle.

The European leapfrogged past, returning fire with every step, glued to the cave wall.

The flares began to fade. Enemy fire answered—erratic, panicked.

A few seconds later, darkness closed in. Only a dying red flare glowed in the distance. Someone tried to snuff it out, but Bolt had him in his sights before it went dark.

I loaded my last grenade and moved up. The enemy was pulling back—I could hear it in the shouting, the shifting feet, the wild gunfire.

"Sniper! Heads up!" Bolt called.

He barely finished before a distant explosion rocked the cave.

That was Buzz and Nox—they'd made it downstream, lobbing grenades up onto the bank from the water. The enemy fire stopped cold, replaced by a string of detonations.

BANG! Another flare went up—Castor's second shot. He was good; both flares landed fifty yards apart, tracking the enemy's retreat exactly. Better than anyone's grenades—he'd been managing the distance while towing the gear raft, keeping his aim perfect.

In the chaos, my mind wandered. Castor always seemed lazy, a joker, but he delivered—right when I needed him most. To command men like this was an honor—a blessing for any leader.

"Grenade launcher! Buzz and Nox can't get up the bank!" Reaper shouted, firing as he moved.

I snapped back to the fight, grabbed another grenade—but bullets chipped the stone around me. I fumbled, dropped the grenade.

Reaper emptied his mag, but the enemy had spotted Buzz and Nox—they jumped into the water, closing for the kill.

I lunged for the dropped grenade, just as a flare exploded overhead—enemy illumination. I dove into the river, rolling away from incoming fire.

Reaper glanced over, swore at me.

The place where I'd been, and where Bolt was perched, was shredded by sniper rounds.

I reached up, grabbed the grenade, loaded up underwater.

Reaper yanked the European forward, then charged into the chaos.

The European looked stunned but fired wildly, advancing.

I climbed up and yelled, "Bolt! Take out the enemy sniper!"

Bolt leapt down, charging into the melee.

I grabbed my rifle and rushed forward.

Ahead, Reaper moved low—ducking, dodging, climbing, creeping closer.

The European saw me push up and followed, sprinting at my side.

With the second flare dying out, I saw Reaper leap from a high point, tossing a grenade, knife ready in his other hand. Then the light was gone.

I slung my rifle, drew my knife, and joined the charge. The European did the same, pulling a combat shovel from his back as we ran.

Then it was chaos—cold steel in the dark, hand to hand.

Through my night vision, all I could see was a green haze. I tried to switch on my rifle light—nothing. I cursed, fixed my knife to the barrel, and plunged into the brawl.

No tactics, no plans—just kill whoever was in front of you.

Breathing, screaming, running, swearing—all of it blurred together. Two more figures clambered onto the bank behind me.

Buzz and Nox emerged from the river, passing me. I waved them forward—"Ahead!"

They surged past, into the fighting.

Bolt, carrying his rifle, dashed by me, launching himself into the melee.

Occasional flashes—someone's flashlight, then darkness, then fall in to water.

I didn't move forward, just planted my rifle—knife in the dirt—watching the carnage unfold.

Watching the devil take souls, in the blackest night.