Battle Report, 18 April - OPERATION CURSED FIST

My eyes are gritty, blurring.  I can barely make out the crash site without blinking.  The electric glow of the screens grinds away at my already aching skull.  My hands are shaking: I force one down at my side, scrub my face with the other.  My cheeks are oily; I need a shave.

The alien scout came down in marsh country to the north of Lake Baikal.  It is early morning there, the ghostly forms of owls swooping above.

Extraterrestrial presence is light.  Rk. McGee quickly bags a Sectoid, as does Cyclops.  A pair of Thin Men spooks the nuggets, resulting in a spectacular round of misses.  I swear into the mic.

One of the snakes spews a cloud of poison over Rk. Langran-Goldsmith.  She screams - for a moment I fear she's going to break and run - but it gurgles into a growl as she fries it from the hip.  Rk. Lambert spots the other, signalling Cyclops to take it out.

They close on the UFO, steaming in the brackish water.  They take up positions around the its right flank, while Langran-Goldsmith moves in towards the wreck.  The alien pilot fires a warning shot from within - I growl at L-G to blow a hole in the wall.

"I have the target," murmurs Cyclops, scope to eye.

"Hold fire," I say, curtly.  I want to see how the nuggets do.

A pause.

"Yes, sir."

McGee misses, but Lambert makes the shot at range.  The Canadian will make a fine sniper.