There wasn't much cover in that particular segment of the Frontlines. Loose sand overlayed bare shrubbery reaching from the ground like skeletal fingers. There were a few hilly areas, and a tree every now and again, but they were sparse.
Due to the presence of a canyon only a few miles away, it was deemed a strategic position, since enemies would likely have to cross through the area to reach camp.
However, the approaching soldiers had foregone that idea, instead deciding to circle around the canyon to the east.
Though this gave them less cover, it also let them split into multiple groups ahead of time, intending to cut off the camp from escape by having each one run rank-file and set up position. They had timed their march with the rising sun to lower sniper visibility without affecting their own.
Little did they know they would be the ones surrounded.
Knowing their rough plan and direction, Mack and the other riflemen had spent all night digging out shallow trenches in the silt to lay flat in. They would cover themselves with a camouflage tarp matching terrain patterns, painted muzzles poking from the end, waiting for the first troops to appear over the horizon.
Ahead, there were small outcroppings of sandbag windows spread out to provide cover for ambush support, and for any gunners who were forced to change location or move to short-range munitions.
The assault members would start there as well until ambush supports threw the first flashbang, at which point they would begin the arduous process of cracking skulls until no infantry remained.
Roughly speaking, since the layout was a bit spread out, the close range fighters from Squads No. 9 and 10 were situated at either side, while the gunners were centered more directly at the sun. This was because the pincer attack would hopefully drive them closer together at the middle, making them easy pickings for Mack and the others.
Of course, all of this was easier said than done.
Mack lay flat on his stomach, arms stretched around the butt and barrel of his gun. Lifting up the tarp slightly with its muzzle, he could see the first splashes of color drive away night before the sun rose.
As the coolness of night gradually faded, beads of sweat began forming around where his helmet met his forehead. Mack was glad he'd defogged the inside visor earlier.
The sun's crown appeared, sending haloed rays into the sky above. Staring at it through the scope, it took mere minutes before he spotted the first few assailants.
They strode low to the ground and wore full camouflage, only noticeable by the fluid movements they made and the faint outline of sun at their backs.
Not yet.
The first men Mack spotted were likely disposable soldiers meant for setting up the assault, for determining position, scoping terrain, and leading the assault. The enemy cared not about a few feeble lives lost.
Behind them was likely the main close-combat force, and somewhere beyond would be the snipers. And--
Mack paused.
A row of starkly visible riot shields appeared behind the first line. Encircled within it were six men rolling forward what looked like a machine gun on steroids.
Shit.
That was going to be problem. The first shot hadn't even been fired, and their snipers weren't in view, but he knew he had to deal with that before they could set it up.
The ambush and assault members wouldn't be able to get close enough.
Screw it, I'm shooting.
Crack!
One of the men holding riot shields crumpled to the ground, blood pooling into the ground.
The battle had officially begun.
And all hell broke loose.
The rest of the sheilders scrambled to fill in the gap where their comrade once stood, Mack readjusted his scope, and the front row of enemies rushed forwards in a mad dash.
They're trying to distract us from the weapon. He knew this instinctively.
But knowing did not change the fact that they were soon rushing directly towards the sandbag formations, to where other Squad members lay in wait, not knowing that the riflemen had swapped positional strategies.
Still a hundred feet safe from the main line of battle, Mack aimed to take his next shot at a shielder. Simultaneously, a simple device on his wrist buzzed thrice in short succession.
It was only meant as a local means of communication, not as some complex interface.
And the signal that had just been sent indicated this: flashbangs would be thrown soon.
Mack already had noise-muffling headphones protecting his ears, but the light was a different issue. Quickly, he hid his head below the tarp, losing sight of his quarry.
Within seconds, a dim light seared through his shut and covered eyelids, and several muted bangs rang in his ears.
When he looked through his scope again, the scene had broken out into chaos.
Loose dust had been kicked up by panicked soldiers and scattered by explosives thrown about by both sides, obscuring up until below each soldier's knee.
The assault team members had also begun engaging enemy forces, brandishing blades and keeping pistols at their hips.
New bulletproofing techniques had turned part of the battlefield back into a melee contest.
While it was possible to get a headshot off, since they still needed to see and bulletproof glass wasn't really impervious to all bullets, the much easier and quicker method was to dispatch them through the gaps in armor joint.
Though that didn't mean Mack's job had been entirely replaced. After all, the materials were incredibly expensive, reserved for elite close combat forces. The average soldier was still nothing more than a fleshy moving target.
Before Iris and the other ambush members released another round of flashbangs, Mack was busy finding such targets.
Ahead of him, blades clashed, boots stomped, men screamed, and the sun continued to rise.
The commotion had briefly disturbed the shielder's line, exposing some of their heads.
Crack!
And with that, several more.
Crack! Crack!
The other riflemen had caught onto Mack's plan, and were helping him fell those that were disadvantageous to hit at his angle.
A single long buzz at the wrist. Grenades. Knowing it was meant to warn the assault members, and not him, Mack ignored it and repositioned, getting off one more shot before--
BANG!
A plume of dirt erupted from ahead, knocking back several enemy soldiers to the ground and leaving a tire-sized crater in the earth.
Adjusting his view, Mack tried to find more backline targets. In his periphery, he saw as No. 9's assault members leapt out from where they had just taken cover and descended upon the defenseless, prone soldiers.
Tack! A high-caliber bullet buried itself into ground merely a few feet away from Mack's position.
Shit. They've caught on. He was too greedy with the shots, and it had allowed them to pinpoint his general location. Based on how imprecise it was, he estimated he hadn't been spotted yet. But it wouldn't be long.
Mack estimated he had, at most, two more times to fire before he had to change position. And when he did, he would be a free kill until reaching the first sandbag structure, just over a hundred feet away.
Well, I've already been shot once, haven't I?