Davidsen jostled around with the rocking of the APC as it traversed the uneven terrain. A cacophony of gunfire, explosions, muffled screaming, and the occasional [i]pinging[/i] of bullets bouncing off the APC's armor were filling his ears. [i]A new mission. . . more lives at risk,[/i]  he thought to himself. He carried the same weight on his shoulders like all medics world-wide did; that of losing a soldier you're trying to save. Just before each mission, Davidsen would recite the names of those lost under his care in his head and tell himself; [i]No More.[/i] This time was no different. He hunched over and rested his elbows on his knees in a praying manner and began his mantra.

[i]Jomar Hansen, 20, Oslo. Olev Aamland, 22, Bergen. Osmund Winjum, 19, Stavanger. Anne Hovland, 24, Drammen. Eidolf Allum, 31, Arendal. [/i]

Many people believed a medic could save a lot of lives. The tragic fact though is most battlefield deaths were unpreventable. 90% of deaths could not be saved. The dark joke that medics would only make you feel better while you died was ironically true. Davidsen has a hard time accepting this, but he manages. 

Davidsen finished his pre-mission ritual just in time for Nikolaj's brief. Find the last of the explosives cache, and let the Dutch mop up. It sounded simple enough; and with an ROE of Weapon's Free, it should be a straigh-forward mission. But then, aren't most? Davidsen fell under Volkov this time around, and he gave an assuring nod towards his team leader. Soon after the briefing was finished, the APC came to a halt and began suppresive fire with its mounted .50 HMG. Nikolaj opened the rear hatch, giving the silent order to move out and get to cover. Davidsen followed Volkov's suit and posted up on a building's corner a few feet away from Volkov. He took a knee, and peeked out of cover with his 416C at the ready. Explosions, tracer rounds, and flying dust and debris filled his view. A scene straight out of Hollywood, but this was real not some fake crap that glorified it. Skinnies were dropping like flies as quick, precise gunfire quickly overwhelmed their own untrained potshots. 

"Tangos, 2'o Clock," Davidsen shouted in a thick Norwegian accent. He was referring to a pair of foes posted up in the third story of a bombed out building. He trained his weapon on them and with two quick bursts, they fell backwards dead. A technical soon came into view followed by Nikolaj's order to [i]Lay it out![/i] Davidsen's carbine wouldn't do enough damage to the vehicle, not to mention the overwhelming firepower that was already being poured onto the vehicle. He, instead, focused his attention on the enemies rushing to the vehicle for cover. One man was high stepping it, toward the rear of the vehicle, and with a burst from Davidsen's rifle, fell short of his destination. Thanks to the power of the supporting .50 from the APC, the technical was quickly turned into Swiss cheese, along with the occupants. 

Volkov had given the order to stack up on the side of the building suspected to house their objective. As he traversed the scarred earth, his attention was focused on the roofs and outcroppings of the nearby buildings. Urban environments were a hotbed of sneak attacks and ambushes from above. He and the rest of the team safely made it to the door. Volkov told him to go in behind Dima. The shield carrying man would provide excellent cover from any skinnies waiting inside. Davidsen provided security while Dima set up a breaching charge. Dima screamed, "Breaching," and Davdisen followed quickly behind into the hole. Dima had quickly dispatched the adversaries in the hallway, along with a foe wheeling around a nearby doorway. Dima was already all set up to breach the next room. Davidsen stacked up behind him and after priming a flashbang, he replied, "Ready."