PNB Chapter 914: Hunter? Prey!
Chapter 914: Hunter? Prey!
……
Two weeks later.
Sunsets in the Caribbean are always exceptionally magnificent. Large clusters of fiery clouds dye the entire sea surface a mixture of lava-like gold and blood-red colors.
"Isn't this a beautiful view, Jack?"
The speaker was a burly white man with his face covered in greasepaint, who was lying on the edge of a black rubber boat.
He chewed gum, casually leaning the imposing-looking M14 automatic rifle against his lap.
"If you don't mind the damn salty smell and the mosquitoes, I wouldn't mind buying this place and turning it into a resort."
Jack's companion chuckled, looking at the noisy group of Cuban exiles on the other ship behind them with the kind of look one would give a country bumpkin.
This joint commando unit, composed of the so-called "Sword of the Sea God" special forces and exiled troops, was quietly approaching a remote bay in southern Cuba under the cover of dusk.
As the world's most "advanced" special forces, the US military is very confident in its gear, which has not yet been officially deployed.
From waterproof tactical boots to the somewhat bulky first-generation night vision goggles on their heads, everything demonstrates the power of the US dollar.
"The intelligence says that the defenses in this area are almost non-existent. At most, there are a few fishermen with harpoons."
The commander—a captain who had served in the Korean Peninsula war—issued orders over the communications channel.
"Group A, go to the woods on the right side of the beach and set up a perimeter."
"Group B, those local friends, you're in charge of being the vanguard and pushing straight through."
"The guerrilla camps were located in a valley less than three kilometers from the coast."
"Get moving, lads. This is easier than hunting in Arkansas. Just be careful not to get your shoes dirty."
This relaxed and carefree atmosphere permeated the entire fleet.
The rubber boat slowly approached the shore.
The military boots made a soft, rustling sound as they stepped on the soft, fine sand.
A group of heavily armed invaders began to advance inland along the beach.
The distant coconut groves were dark and dense, like countless towering ghosts, swaying slightly in the humid sea breeze, making a rustling sound like waves.
And deep within that unnaturally dark forest.
On a huge forked tree trunk, three meters off the ground.
A "hand" devoid of any body temperature quietly grasped a composite material gun barrel, as thick as an adult's thigh, which was covered by rough tree bark and camouflage netting.
Accompanied by an extremely faint hum of electricity, almost completely masked by the sound of the sea breeze.
A holographic thermal imaging world with light blue and orange-red as the main colors.
The clusters of bright, moving human heat sources on the beach were as clear as fluorescent powder sprinkled on a black curtain.
One of the individuals, seemingly impatient, was making a urination motion towards the woods.
The minute changes in heat from the splashing of the warm liquid on the sand were clearly visible from this vantage point.
"Reporting to the commander, the prey has entered the 'dinner table'."
A slightly immature, even heavily accented, Spanish voice softly rang out through a neurally connected microphone on a local encrypted communication channel.
"Number: 305. No heavy firepower. Thirty of them are high-value elite units. Confirmed."
"very good."
A deep and resonant voice came from the other end of the channel, the unique quality of a voice that had been smoking cigars for years.
"This is 'Freedom One'. Attention all squads, this is our home. As hosts, we must not be impolite."
The voice chuckled, a laugh carrying a chilling quality that could freeze a tropical sea breeze.
"Alpha Team, go and greet these guests who have come from afar."
"Got it, give me the loudest voice possible."
The enormous, monstrous black shadow on the tree moved, and the optical camouflage coating on the armor surface rippled slightly like water.
The metal T-shaped sensor mask lit up with a red light for a moment.
Then, the six-barreled rotary machine gun, which Fang Yu called the "jungle scalpel," began to slowly warm up and rotate in the eerily quiet forest.
This is a showdown that bridges a two-decade-long technological gap.
However, it is Death itself, wielding a scythe.
This time, someone else did it.
……
The humid Caribbean breeze swept the last rays of the setting sun beneath the dark sea.
The dense, impenetrable darkness characteristic of the Maestra Mountains, accompanied by the chirping of countless insects, formed a thick net, enveloping the long line of people infiltrating inland from the coast.
The snapping sound of military boots breaking dry branches was particularly jarring in the silent forest.
"Damn it, this place is like God's backyard for dumping garbage."
Walking in the middle of the group was the vice-captain of "Sword of the Sea God," the burly man who had been chewing gum on the ship earlier.
He was now irritably swinging his machete, cutting down a vine growing horizontally in front of him.
The initial ease on his face was gone; the sticky feeling that had followed him ever since he stepped into the forest made him feel uncomfortable all over.
"Shut your mouth, Mike."
Captain Jack lowered his voice, holding his seemingly advanced but bulky infrared searchlight-equipped rifle, and warily scanned the surrounding dark bushes.
The searchlight's dim beam could only reach a dozen meters, and the shadows of the surrounding trees looked like menacing ghosts as the beam swayed.
"We've been walking for three hours, and we haven't seen a trace of the stronghold mentioned in the intelligence. But we've run into no fewer than ten of those damn bamboo skewer traps along the way."
Mike grumbled and kicked a tree trunk hard, shaking off a few dead leaves.
"I bet those Cubans heard the noise and were scared into hiding in a hole."
At the front of the column, several "Free Hunter" exile soldiers, who were responsible for clearing the way, were pointing forward with their guns at the ready.
They were joking loudly in Spanish, so loudly that you didn't even need to listen carefully.
In their view, this was just another triumphant "homecoming," and those impoverished guerrillas would probably be terrified at the sound of gunfire from the Americans.
"Somewhat something is wrong."
Jack suddenly stopped in his tracks.
As a veteran who had crawled out of piles of corpses in the Pacific theater, a chill ran down his spine, and he suddenly raised his fist, signaling to stop advancing.
"What's wrong, boss? Did you see some squirrel giving you the middle finger?" Mike chuckled as he walked up.
“It’s too quiet.” Jack ignored his joke, his eyes scanning the shadowy canopies of the trees around him like a hawk.
The noisy chirping of insects from before has disappeared without me noticing.
"And... I always feel like there's a pair of eyes. No, there are many pairs of eyes, always watching us from above."
"Huh? Looking at us?"
Mike laughed exaggeratedly and took off his heavy, single-person night vision goggles.
"Come on, boss, you should see a psychologist about your PTSD."
"This is a pitch-black jungle where you can't see your hand in front of your face. Even if their eyes are bigger than an owl's, they can't see you picking your nose from fifty meters away."
"If those country bumpkins really had the ability to monitor us without being discovered,"
The exile commander in front also turned around and spoke in a fawning yet slightly disdainful tone.
“Then I’ll eat these boots right now. Commander Jack, you’re overthinking it. They probably can’t even afford batteries right now, let alone thermal imaging…”
The commander only said half of what he wanted to say.
Right at this moment.
A sound suddenly rang out from the dead silence of the jungle.
"Om-"
It was a very unique, teeth-grinding sound of a high-speed motor running.
It looked like some enormous mechanical monster taking a deep breath before breathing in the pitch-black abyss.
Everyone's expression froze at that moment. That ingrained, instinctive reaction to danger made them instinctively want to find cover.
But it's too late.
"Puff puff puff puff puff—!"
There was no warning, no shouting.
Just moments ago, the exiled commander was mocking them in the direction of darkness, less than fifty meters directly in front of the group.
A thick, otherworldly tongue of fire instantly tore through the thick darkness of the night.
Amidst that devastating, tearing sound, a storm of three thousand death shots per minute poured down without warning onto the unsuspecting crowd.
The first seven or eight exiled soldiers didn't even have time to scream.
It was as if they had been hit head-on by a giant combine harvester harvesting corn.
The massive 12.7mm bullets not only pierced the body, but their terrifying kinetic energy also tore the torso apart and exploded it.
Flesh, bone fragments, and internal organs, mixed with shattered gun parts, instantly exploded into a horrifying crimson mist in the air.
That's not called being shot.
That's called dismemberment...
"Enemy attack!! Three o'clock position! Machine gun! Heavy machine gun!"
Jack fell to the ground almost instantly, screaming as a gash appeared on his cheek from flying pebbles.
Mike, who was a step too slow, was grazed by a stray bullet that ripped away half of his calf muscle.
But this is just the beginning.
The first gunshot rang out as if it were the opening bell of some kind of death feast...