SubZero61992
February 22nd, 2006, 07:05 PM
I had to get this idea to paper, and I feel like its been rushed but then again it is an idea, about two snipers who are thrown into 'hell' and have to rely on their traning and bond to survive. The whole written thing is horrible, but I want you to give opinions on it and tell me how you felt when you read it. Did you gag at the horrible writing, or words, or what?
Chapter One
Sergeant Otega looked sorrowfully at the long line of soldiers standing at the only telephone located in the Klacid desert. He had sworn to call his wife before every mission, just in case it was his last. His partner and best bud, Sergeant Whitaker, was reaching for the phone when he saw Otega and paused.
Whitaker swiped his hand across his wrinkled forehead and waved for Otega.
Otega’s spirit jumped, and he felt a rush of love for his brother. His gear clinked and clattered as he made his way to the phone.
“Thanks man.” he nodded to Whitaker.
Whitaker had no wife, just a sister who lived in a major metropolis that was built over water. He turned to look at the line who was complaining impatiently for letting Otega pass. Whitaker stepped out of the line and sat on a bench to load more magazines for his sniper rifle.
Otega saw all of this and although he felt guilty, he punched in the number to his house. He listened as the phone rang until the answer machine picked up. He muttered an angry profanity as the machine asked for his message.
“Sweetie, you home?” he said hopelessly in his scratchy, country accent . She wasn’t there, if she was the phone would have only rang once.
“I guess I’ll call you when I get back, love you.” and he hung up the phone.
He hung his head for a brief moment then left the line. He took a seat beside Whitaker and began discussing his plan to him. Whitaker was a quiet man with faded brown hair. His eyes were light blue and his rough skin aged in at thirty seven years old.
“Probably won’t be much in it for us. Ground team’ll breach and clear the weapons facility and in probably less than thirty seconds will be the hell out of there.” Otega said. Snipers rarely ever left HAV’s, or Hovering Assault Vehicles, unless they needed to stake out someone or something. Whitaker pushed a mag into his rifle and cocked the bolt. Otega shook his head and slid his own rifle from his tactical black straps. It was about the length of two pizza boxes lined up on their sides. Small, effective, deadly. Most people called them Seds for short.
Otega had ten magazines stored in his black vest. Each of them held thirty, two inch long bullets that could stop a man dead in his tracks. Whitaker’s rifle on the other hand used longer bullets that could go straight through a man’s body.
After thoroughly inspecting his rifle, Otega pulled his .45 pistol and slapped a seven round magazine into it. He never used it, but he thought it added a more professional look to his bad-ass looking gear. Whitaker had his own modified .45 that was a sleek silver color, but his was for show too.
Otega pushed his dark brown hair off of his sweaty forehead and relaxed on the bench.
“The engineers equipped the ground forces with rocket launchers, they’re expecting something.” Whitaker yawned as he leaned back.
“Nah…they were probably requested by those gun ho punks who want to blow **** up.” Otega joked. Most of the ground force was young men, from eighteen to twenty three on average. Snipers or special forces had the more veteran men.
Chapter One
Sergeant Otega looked sorrowfully at the long line of soldiers standing at the only telephone located in the Klacid desert. He had sworn to call his wife before every mission, just in case it was his last. His partner and best bud, Sergeant Whitaker, was reaching for the phone when he saw Otega and paused.
Whitaker swiped his hand across his wrinkled forehead and waved for Otega.
Otega’s spirit jumped, and he felt a rush of love for his brother. His gear clinked and clattered as he made his way to the phone.
“Thanks man.” he nodded to Whitaker.
Whitaker had no wife, just a sister who lived in a major metropolis that was built over water. He turned to look at the line who was complaining impatiently for letting Otega pass. Whitaker stepped out of the line and sat on a bench to load more magazines for his sniper rifle.
Otega saw all of this and although he felt guilty, he punched in the number to his house. He listened as the phone rang until the answer machine picked up. He muttered an angry profanity as the machine asked for his message.
“Sweetie, you home?” he said hopelessly in his scratchy, country accent . She wasn’t there, if she was the phone would have only rang once.
“I guess I’ll call you when I get back, love you.” and he hung up the phone.
He hung his head for a brief moment then left the line. He took a seat beside Whitaker and began discussing his plan to him. Whitaker was a quiet man with faded brown hair. His eyes were light blue and his rough skin aged in at thirty seven years old.
“Probably won’t be much in it for us. Ground team’ll breach and clear the weapons facility and in probably less than thirty seconds will be the hell out of there.” Otega said. Snipers rarely ever left HAV’s, or Hovering Assault Vehicles, unless they needed to stake out someone or something. Whitaker pushed a mag into his rifle and cocked the bolt. Otega shook his head and slid his own rifle from his tactical black straps. It was about the length of two pizza boxes lined up on their sides. Small, effective, deadly. Most people called them Seds for short.
Otega had ten magazines stored in his black vest. Each of them held thirty, two inch long bullets that could stop a man dead in his tracks. Whitaker’s rifle on the other hand used longer bullets that could go straight through a man’s body.
After thoroughly inspecting his rifle, Otega pulled his .45 pistol and slapped a seven round magazine into it. He never used it, but he thought it added a more professional look to his bad-ass looking gear. Whitaker had his own modified .45 that was a sleek silver color, but his was for show too.
Otega pushed his dark brown hair off of his sweaty forehead and relaxed on the bench.
“The engineers equipped the ground forces with rocket launchers, they’re expecting something.” Whitaker yawned as he leaned back.
“Nah…they were probably requested by those gun ho punks who want to blow **** up.” Otega joked. Most of the ground force was young men, from eighteen to twenty three on average. Snipers or special forces had the more veteran men.