Lilith
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 8: Survival
FORWARD OPERATING BASE LIGHTNING
NOVEMBER 3, 2015
The briefing was routine. Intel indicated a Taliban logistics hub in a village twelve kilometers north—weapons, ammunition, supplies moving through to fighters in the region. The mission: destroy the cache, capture or kill any high-value personnel present.
Standard raid. Second Platoon had done dozens like it.
Lieutenant Vance walked through the plan: “Chinook insert at 0300, two kilometers from the objective. Move in on foot, hit the compound fast, secure materials, call for demolition. Exfil by 0500, same LZ.”
Master Sergeant Kozlov added: “Lilith, you’ll provide overwatch from the hillside west of the village. 600-meter standoff, good elevation, clear sight lines. Keep us covered during the assault and exfil.”
“Yes, Master Sergeant.”
Nothing about it felt unusual. Just another night in Afghanistan.
But something was wrong.
0300 HOURS - THE INSERT
The Chinook flew through the darkness, rotors thumping a steady rhythm. Shira sat with the Rangers—sixteen of them plus her, all veterans now, comfortable with each other after months of operations.
Corporal Davis sat beside her, checking his M4 for the hundredth time. “You ever get used to this? The missions?”
“No,” Shira said honestly. “You just get better at managing the fear.”
“That’s not encouraging.”
“It’s honest.”
The crew chief called back: “Two minutes!”
The Rangers stood, checked gear, moved toward the ramp. The Chinook began its descent into a narrow valley—walls of rock on either side, the LZ a flat area near a dry riverbed.
Standard approach. Nothing unusual.
The helicopter flared, settling onto its wheels. The ramp dropped.
“Go, go, go!”
The Rangers poured out into the darkness. Shira followed, CheyTac case in hand, moving fast toward cover.
The Chinook’s engines spooled up for takeoff—
And then the world exploded.
The first RPG hit the Chinook’s cockpit, punching through the windscreen in a flash of fire and shrapnel. The second RPG hit the starboard engine. The third struck the tail rotor.
The Chinook lurched sideways, engines screaming, rotors still spinning. It tipped, slamming into the ground on its side with a metallic shriek that echoed through the valley.
“AMBUSH!” Kozlov screamed. “TAKE COVER!”
Automatic weapons fire erupted from the surrounding ridges—PKM machine guns, AK-47s, RPGs. The valley lit up with muzzle flashes. Tracers arced through the darkness like deadly fireworks.
The Taliban had been waiting.
Shira dove behind a boulder as rounds cracked overhead. Around her, Rangers were scrambling for cover, returning fire at enemies they couldn’t clearly see.
The Chinook lay on its side, rotors still windmilling, fuel leaking. Through the shattered cockpit, she could see the pilots—both motionless, almost certainly dead.
“We need to use the bird for cover!” Kozlov yelled. “Move to the fuselage! Now!”
The Rangers displaced toward the downed Chinook, using it as a shield against the incoming fire. Shira ran with them, keeping low, rounds snapping past her head.
She reached the helicopter and crouched behind the fuselage. The metal hull provided some protection, but Taliban fighters were on three sides, firing from elevated positions.
This was bad. Really bad.
Vance was on the radio: “Lightning TOC, this is Reaper Two-Six, we are in heavy contact! Chinook down, crew KIA, multiple enemy positions, requesting immediate QRF and air support!”
The response crackled back: “Reaper Two-Six, QRF is spinning up now, ETA thirty minutes. Air support en route, ETA twenty minutes. Can you hold?”
Thirty minutes. They had to survive thirty minutes.
Kozlov assessed the situation, shouting over the gunfire: “We’ve got eight enemy positions—machine guns on the ridges, RPG teams in the rocks. They’ve got elevation, numbers, and they knew we were coming!” He looked at Shira. “Lilith, we need those guns silenced or they’ll cut us to pieces!”
Shira analyzed the battlefield. The Taliban had set up a perfect ambush—semicircle of firing positions from 200 to 800 meters, all with overlapping fields of fire. If they all opened up simultaneously, the Rangers would be massacred.
But they weren’t all operational yet. Some positions were still setting up. Some were moving. She had a window—maybe five minutes—to disrupt them before they coordinated.
“I need to move,” she told Kozlov. “I can’t engage all positions from here.”
“Then move! Do what you do!”
Shira grabbed the CheyTac case, crawled to the rear of the downed Chinook. Machine gun fire raked the helicopter’s hull, rounds pinging off metal.
She spotted her first target: PKM machine gun team, northeast ridge, 450 meters. They were set up, beginning to pour fire into the Rangers.
She deployed the CheyTac quickly—bipod down, magazine in, round chambered. Found the position through her scope. Two fighters—gunner and assistant.
Breath. Press. The gunner dropped.
The assistant grabbed the gun, trying to continue firing—
Second shot. Down.
Position one neutralized.
“Lilith just took out the machine gun!” someone yelled.
But six more positions were still active.
THE FIGHT
Target: RPG team, east rocks, 380 meters
Two fighters, one loading an RPG, aiming at the helicopter. If that rocket hit, it could ignite leaking fuel and kill everyone.
Shira fired. The RPG gunner collapsed. The loader grabbed the weapon—
She fired again. Both down.
Position two neutralized.
But now the Taliban knew someone was countering them. They started concentrating fire on her position.
“Lilith, you’re taking fire!” Davis yelled, shooting back at muzzle flashes.
Rounds hammered the Chinook around her. She had to move.
“Covering!” Davis fired suppressive bursts.
Shira grabbed the CheyTac and low-crawled around the helicopter’s nose, emerging on the opposite side. Different angle, different targets visible.
Target: Machine gun position, south ridge, 600 meters
Set up, firing at Rangers. She engaged—gunner down. Assistant took over the weapon. She fired again—assistant down.
Position three neutralized.
But she’d exposed herself. A Taliban sniper somewhere in the rocks had spotted her. Rounds cracked past, close enough to feel the pressure wave.
“Sniper!” she called. “I’m taking sniper fire!”
“Can you locate him?” Kozlov asked.
She scanned desperately. Where? Where was he?
There—muzzle flash, 750 meters, elevated position behind rocks. Good hide, good shooter.
They saw each other simultaneously through their scopes.
Counter-sniper duel. Whoever shot first and accurately would live.
Shira calculated faster—wind, distance, his position. Fired.
The enemy sniper’s rifle fell silent.
Position four neutralized.
“Sniper down!” she transmitted.
“Outstanding! Keep going!”
But she was running out of positions. The Chinook was taking massive fire. She needed a better angle.
The only option: go through the helicopter.
“Davis, I’m going through the bird!”
“It’s full of—” He stopped. Dead crew. She knew.
No choice.
She climbed through the cargo door, stepping carefully over equipment, webbing, and—
The pilots. Both slumped in their seats, visible injuries, clearly gone.
She pushed past, suppressing the emotion. Focus. Mission. Save the living.
She emerged from the forward cabin, near the cockpit area. New angle, new targets visible.
Target: RPG team, northwest, 500 meters
Setting up, aiming at the Rangers. She fired. Down.
Position five neutralized.
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