Part one: The Early Years- 2104 to 2105
Appendix I: Coalition War Protocol Phase One
Translated from captured documents captured after the war
Throughout the History of the Great Galactic Coalition of Civilised Life, Phase One has not differed. It has remained the same, from the Annexation of the Temple Planets* or the famed invasion of Atilan. The first protocol is to establish total airspace and space control. All lanes in and out must be secured. No ship must be able to get in or out. Normally, this can be achieved through covert methods. Geth-class boarding pods may be used to hijack enemy space assets, and orbital driller pods should be used to establish an initial foothold on the planet.
The next step is the Covert Raiding** step. In said phase candidates for Shadowplay*** should be analysed. Candidates may include civilians or military members. Preferably those in positions of power, or those with access to resources.
After sufficient resources have been amassed and initial construction has been completed, heavy dropships should be sent in. they should have self-building contained assembly units with them. These devices should be used to build up numbers for a full assault. Enough equipment should be made so that twelve army groups, with two field armies (totalling 160000 combat soldiers each) and two maintenance corps in each group, can be deployed at one time, with three army groups acting as the initial striking power, and four more being deployed in the later stages of the battle. Five army groups act as reserves and fresh units that are ready to be rotated into the combat zone, replacing the active combat unit which is rotated back to reserve duty every half-year. units should be slowly replaced, one by one, so that all units have been returned to reserve, and have been replaced by fresh units in one-eighth. The first to be replaced should be rear-guard units. This should be achieved with strategic airlifts or through tunnel systems. Then, the fresh troops are brought to the front, preferably with tunnels, but road transport or airlifts are acceptable if aerospace superiority has been established. The frontline soldiers are rotated into the rear, until they are completely replaced by fresh troops.
Tunnels should be fifteen metres wide and ten metres high, wide enough to let a tank or IFV pass through. One tank with a column of infantry soldiers, or alternatively, one IFV and a full column of infantry, should pass through. Tests show that 2 cubits^ of tanks and 36 cubits of soldiers can pass through in one hour, and frontline reports state that higher numbers can be achieved.
The IFV of choice is the EóR^^ -17, armed with 9A5 rifled autocannon with a bore of 3 kulleya*^, which can effectively penetrate up to 1.5 kulleya of armour. The MBT of choice is the MA-02. It is armed with a main gun which can penetrate 19 kulleya of armor.
As experience on multiple worlds has shown, these tactics, if correctly applied, can lead to a quick and easy takeover of a planet.
Translator's notes
* The Rigel IV system
** Kulâó Óropínáh, lit. Secret Invasion
*** process for creation of sleeper agents (Páìh otaït, lit. Darkness)
^ one cubit = six things (base six measuring/counting system used)
^^ Êóla Rúlóâ lit. troop crawler
*^ around 18mm
**^ around 22.8cm
The Beginning
The Draft Office was quite dusty, and the air reeked of cigarettes. Everything was stained brown. The walls, the faded posters and even the floor. Rick looked over everyone. Dan, the youngest, was sitting on the left. Freddy, the middle child, was to the right.
The year was 2104.
It was fourteen years since the start of the rebellion on the frontier colonies. It was still flaring strong, and wouldn't die down until the end of the year, when the all-out offensive by the Coalition started and the Rebellion called for a truce.
It was four years since the initial attacks made by the Coalition on Earth, in 2100.
And during the dark time that was 2104, the Federation was as war.
And as any parent who sent their children off to war would know, wars are hungry beasts that are always hungry for more.
More men.
More weapons.
More resources.
More death.
"Daniel Raleigh," a mechanical voice said. "Your session is ready."
Suddenly, the wooden bench feels very, very hard. My breathing quickens.
Dan rises, opens a metal door and then enters. The door locks itself.
"Are you enlisting for the army, air force or the navy, Fred?" Rick asked.
"Rick, I couldn't care less. I'm signing for air force." He replied.
"Me too." Rick replied. "Gonna fly one of them gunships, go wreck some tanks."
Andrew shook his head.
"You won't make it to gunships." he said. "Your hand-eye co-ordination is crap. You wouldn't even be able to catch a gym ball if it was flying at yer face!"
"Pessimist," Freddy snorted.
"Coming from the person who said that we would be dead after eight months at the front, that isn't worth much," Rick snapped back. Fred opened his mouth to say a witty comeback, but found that there was (and still is!) no comeback worthwhile enough.
They graduated from the most prestigious school in the galaxy: The Turia Grammar School for boys. Dan broke the running record for the school- the longest sustained run of the courtyard. He lasted one hour, forty-four minutes and fifty-eight-point nought-nine-three seconds, or fifteen laps, beating the previous record holder by twenty minutes. Fred was the dux in bio. Rick was the star of the class pageant. I was the dux in philosophy. Once I graduated, I took a gap year. I was waiting for my siblings to graduate. All of you graduated with honours, and you planned to go to college. Then, the dreaded yellow letter arrived in my mailbox, and it said that Dan, the youngest out of you three, had been selected for the draft for the army.
The boys still remember that day. The four brothers were sitting at the round table, ready for dinner, and their mother was in the kitchen. Then their dad came back from work. The hall door opened and closed, then his footsteps echoed down the hallway. He was walking much slower than usual. When he turned into the dining room from the hall, Andrew was horrified by the look of pure fear that was in his face. Dan thought that he had received a death threat or threatening message. They didn't know how much worse it was. He was carrying a yellow envelope. He stood there, unmoving, just holding that yellow envelope. My mother entered the dining room.
"Hello honey, what's that?" she asked, carrying a saucepan full of soup.
Their father did not answer. He handed the envelope to Dan with trembling hands.
Dan and Freddy peered at the envelope, wondering what it was about. Their father had already opened it, so a piece of white paper was sticking out. Dan took the piece of white paper out.
"Motherfuckers!" shouted Freddy.
"How many times do I have to tell you not to say that?" asked their mother.
Dan stared at it for thirty seconds, then asked his father, "Is this for real?"
He replied, "Yes, it is. I'm so, so sorry."
Dan didn't say anything. he simply tore up the letter and stomped down the hallway towards his room.
"What got them so angry?" asked mother.
The four boys' father turned his head slowly, and faced their mother. His face was full.
"Draft notice. Dan has been drafted into the army, and is to report to the draft office tomorrow." My father replied. "God help his soul."
The saucepan clattered on the floor, spraying hot soup everywhere.
Eventually, all four of them would volunteer, in the hopes that they would be in the same unit.
But fate would intervene, and they would not.
When Andrew, Rick and Freddy told their father about their decision to volunteer, he simply nodded slightly, and wished you luck. It seemed like he knew it was inevitable that they would go to war.
And their father knew too much about war to feel happy about that.
"Rick Raleigh," the mechanical voice said. "Your session is ready."
Rick got up. Freddy muttered something incomprehensible.
Rick walked the five meters towards the door. he breathed shakily. The door was cast-iron, made to open from the outside. It was devoid of decoration. It simply had a handle. No lock, no doorknob, nothing.
Well, I've got nothing to lose, he thought, and he made the decision to open the door.
His hand moved forward, and it trembled with fear.
His brain seemed to scream, 'Don't do it!'
But he did.
He opened the door.
He opened it, and entered the darkness within.
Eventually, all four of them opened that door and walked into the mouth of the beast called War.
None of them believed that any of them had come out completely the same again.
Tears of Aluminium and Pain
Heat. Light. Agony.
Dan crawled away from the heat. Away from the smell of smoke. Nothing mattered then except survival.
The APC burned a few meters away. molten metal and plastics streamed down the side of it like tears.
Is this death? he wondered.
Agony. Fear. Darkness.
Blood and tears ran down his face as he dragged himself and his injured leg away from the heat and the acrid smoke. His back felt as if it was on fire.
Darkness. Cold. Fear.
Dan dragged himself further into the forest. Nothing mattered but survival.
Darkness…
He realised it was dark, even through his blurry vision. he wiped his eyes of tears. He could see the faint outlines of trees. The ground was littered with dead leaves and twigs. His first practice op had happened.
Damn Saboteurs, Dan thought as he lay there, in the forest. I'd heard stories of boot camps on other planets being sabotaged by anti-war protesters like the group called 'God Bless Murderers' and terrorist cells planted by the Coalition. They never did get as far as Turia though. There was occasionally a terrorist attack in the big cities, but never a sabotage of an actual military exercise.
Dan took stock of the situation. He'd lost his machine gun, but his pistol was still strapped to his side. He had six frag grenades hanging on one side of his belt, and two smoke grenades.
Dan decided to pop a smoke grenade from his pocket. His radio was destroyed, so it wouldn't be of any use. Anyhow, he later found out that the destroyed APC filled the airwaves with chatter, so he couldn't have gotten a message through to HQ. You pop red smoke. There was nothing else to do, so Dan decided to reflect on what had happened so far. The gruelling physical training, and the devil-like instructors. One recruit suffered a mental breakdown during training. He had to be taken away by ambulance, while strapped firmly to a stretcher. Three were weeded out due to failing their physical training. One person committed suicide for some reason. And it had only been a week ago. His name was Bletchley. Hamish Montgomery Bletchley. He was a nice person, and he performed satisfactorily during his physical.
The incidents leading up to his suicide started from his first major screw-up after going through the obstacle course one day. It turned out that he'd lost his dog-tags somehow. Dan and his comrades, including Bletchley, spent hours looking for them. These kinds of screw-ups happened often with Bletchley, and it was not uncommon to see him going to the Replacement Office to get new equipment, clothing or more of something. Stuff just kept disappearing. Then, the instructor got mad. He decided that every time Bletchley lost something, the entire squad would have to suffer- except Bletchley, and the punishment would double every single time he lost another thing. The first time, it was 10 slow push-ups. Then, it increased to twenty. Then forty. By the time the amount reached one hundred, the squad got sick, and decided that they were going to punish Bletchley on their own. Poor kid got beaten up by the rest of the squad. Dan protested, but then they threatened to beat him up as well, so he just shut his mouth.
They forced him to watch while they gagged Bletchley and just beat the living daylights out of him.
They just beat him with rifles and metal bars and soap wrapped in socks and god knows what else.
After the war he would still remember the sickening crunch as they broke his nose, and seeing blood spurt everywhere. He would still remember hearing his muffled screams and shouts of pain.
Bletchley was never the same again. Sure, he didn't lose anything, and he became the model soldier, and was praised by the drill instructors, but he was… affected by the beating.
Strange things started happening to him. He stopped eating as much, and he started showing signs of going insane. He talked in his sleep. He started talking to his rifle. He also became more withdrawn. After the group was moved into divisional barracks, he would sleep away from everyone else. He would sleep at the end of the room, where no-one else was due to how it was too cold during the windy nights.
Then, one day, when the division was supposed to be asleep, he got up, and went into the bathroom, carrying his rifle. Then, he loudly shouted the Federation Army's marching song. He loaded live ammunition into it. He cleaned it, and then it happened.
The drill instructor entered the room. He said that he would put Bletchley on fatigue duty for the next month if he didn't shut up. Then, Bletchley came out of the bathroom carrying the rifle. The drill instructor ordered him to surrender the rifle and put his hands in the air, and he shouted for the MPs. Bletchley didn't falter. He walked into the middle of the room, raised the rifle and simply shot the instructor in the head. He must have loaded a stolen high-explosive round or a canister round from the armoury, because it literally blew the instructor's head off. Then, he shot himself. He did all this when everyone in the room was wide awake.
Everyone saw their heads getting blown apart.
Everyone saw the blood spurting everywhere.
Everyone was covered in viscera, be it blood or bits of brain or eyes. One person got a shard of a tooth in his arm.
Everyone was horrified by what Bletchley did.
It was found that some members of another squad had stolen Bletchley's belongings, then had put them back in his quarters because they wanted to fool around.
They got a court-martial, but were acquitted.
Even more horrible was the speed at which the corpses were disposed of. The next morning, the corpses and the bloodstains were gone, and the cleaners were finishing bleaching the room.
There was a funeral for the drill sergeant, but not Bletchley for some reason. Dan assumed that his remains had been taken back to his home for burial there.
Dan still wonders, why did he kill himself? Why did he blow his own head off? If he hadn't killed himself, would he have been a good soldier?
And now, after 32 years of war, would he still have been alive?
Dan then heard an APC trundle up, breaking the tranquil silence of the forest.
"Who popped smoke?" someone shouted.
"Me…" Dan croaked, weakly.
"Where are you?" the person asked.
"Here!" Dan said, slightly louder than before. "And Just Fucking Hurry!"
A man's head broke through the undergrowth. Thankfully, it wasn't a terrorist, but the face of Sergeant Kim.
"What in fuck happened to you?" he asked. "Your back is a fucking mess!"
"APC blew up. Shrapnel. Motherfucking terrorist cunts," Dan replied weakly. He tried to stand, but collapsed, exhausted, pitching head-first into a pile of leaves.
At least it wasn't a rock... he thought.
He'd never felt so weak, and his back still burned with pain. Dan felt cold. He thought it was odd, because he'd been lying down in the sun a few seconds ago. Dan had never felt cold on Turia, where the seasons are always over 20 degrees Celsius. His leg felt numb. He heard the sarge shout something sounding like 'shee!' and then calling for a stretcher and a medic, and people thrashing through the undergrowth, and other indiscernible shouts. Then, Dan lost consciousness.
A Warm Welcome
Fred woke up inside the C-21 as it approached the Forward Airbase at the front lines. Anti-Aircraft fire buffeted the aircraft. he could see white lines of tracer and black smudges in the sky outside the window- this was his first experience with anti-aircraft fire during the day, but not the last. The plane's turbines roared loudly, and made the aircraft shake. Outside, he could see the green, rolling plains, and the dark green coral forests of Atilan.
He couldn't believe that he was there, on Atilan. He couldn't believe that he'd survived the training camp on Turia (which, according to a letter sent by Dan, was 'soft' and 'was absolutely nothing compared to what we went through') and getting so many operations and injections. It was inconceivable that the entire training process took less than a month due to the simulations they put him through. He couldn't believe that his ageing process was slowed, and it was even harder so to believe that he'd qualified to fly a gunship.
Freddy found it hardest to believe that he had reached Atilan, seventy-five light-years away from Turia, in one hour. One hour! Five minutes to board, fifteen minutes to get into the atmosphere, fifteen minutes getting through the warp relay, twenty minutes re-entering the atmosphere of Atilan, and five minutes to disembark after you arrived.
Looks like the veterans were right. The planet's day lasts for four earth years, so on one side, it rains perpetually and is very dark, and on the other, it is bright and sunny. And dry. The dust gets everywhere, in the guns and in the air. And when the officials come over it gets into their suits. To put it in the views of John Smith, a Stormbringer super-soldier sent here five years ago, at the beginning of the war in 2100, the Federation ruled the day, but the Coalition ruled the night. And indeed, it was. Thankfully, Fred had been deployed on the side where it was still day.
The intercom turns on.
"Good Morning, Ladies and Gentlemen. You are on flight U.R. Deadmeat from The World to Hell. We are on final approach to Hell, so say your last-minute prayers, piss your pants, stow your belongings, and do whatever the hell greenies like you fellows need to get prepared for your two-year stay at the Hotel Death." The pilot said. "We've just opened a can of whoop-ass heavy shit, so when we touch down, get out immediately or you may find your body parts scattered across the runway, courtesy of our friendly hosts, Mr Eighty-Deuce, Mrs Quad Thirty and their delightful son, Sammy the Surface-to-Air Missile. I've heard they give warm welcomes. so warm in fact, they'll melt off your tiny dicks and burn your balls into ash."
"Well, she's an optimist, isn't she?" Fred told Rick.
He remains silent.
"Come on, Close Air Support isn't that bad. You can still wreck some tanks, and you fly the same aircraft as I do! A gunship! What you wanted! You don't have to lug twenty kays of crap around!"
"You really don't understand, do you?" he said, with a blank expression.
A shell burst close by, making the plane rock.
"Understand what?" he asked.
"I wanted to get into gunships to protect Danny." He replied. "I wanted to make sure that he gets through this goddamn hell. I want to see him live, have children and die peacefully with a loving family, not after being disembowelled by some Coalition creep. I want at least one of us to get back to momma alive and well, even after fighting a war that will taint our souls, and rip our innocence away from us. Now, he's on some hellhole a thousand light-years from here."
"Oh. I didn't know that. Sorry."
The plane's big rear door opened.
Something buzzed, and a light turned from red to green.
A sergeant stood at the door.
"Alright, people!" he shouted over the wind. "We are approaching the destination under heavy fire! The instant the plane stops, I want you out that door! The more time we spend here, the more chance there is that the plane gets fragged! I have a wife and three children to get back to, so move out quickly!"
The plane approached a runway which Fred could see outside the window. Harsh sunlight pierced the last remnants of his sleepiness. Anti-aircraft shells burst outside.
The plane touched down on the runway. It bumped once, twice, then stopped.
The sergeant ran to the door.
"Go, go, go! Get out of here before they zero in on us!" the sergeant screamed.
Everyone scrambled out the door. Fred followed the rest, but he tripped over something on the floor of the plane. A loose M-10 rifle clip.
"What do you think you're doing?" the sergeant shouted. "Get out of here now, before the mortar fire hits-"
Fred still remembered this moment, thirty-nine years later. To him, that hit from a mortar was the most powerful thing he had ever seen. Time seemed to slow down as he scrambled out the door. A black… thing dropped from the sky, screaming like a devil from the darkest depths of hell. The sergeant looked at him with a blank expression. He leaped out and scrambled away, just before an explosion rocked the plane. The left wall of the plane literally tore itself apart. Then, the right wall disintegrated into a million pieces. Fred felt himself being flung to the right.
When his vision cleared, he got up and looked around at what happened to the plane. The aluminium-carbon-plastic composite skin has been shredded. There was a crater in the ground, and burning petroleum was strewn everywhere. Where had the sergeant gone? He thought.
Fred couldn't see him.
Then Fred saw the sergeant.
Or rather, what was left of him.
What remains of him is under a large piece of shrapnel.
He was breathing laboriously.
"Huhh… You… damn idiot…" he gasped with his last breaths. "My… wife… needs… me… I… you…"
His voice faded, and a strange look came into his eyes. His eyes seemingly glazed over with glass film, and he died with a strange, fixed expression, his facial muscles contorted with pain. Fred was then conscious of someone's arm on my shoulder.
"He's dead, son," the person said. His English was accented. you thought that he might have been from was from one of the Rusbloc colonies, but for the four years Fred knew the man he never really got to know him.
"At least he's gone to a better place than this," he said, continuing.
The mortar fire had moved on, and some explosions could be heard going off a long distance away, near the perimeter.
"Who're you?" Fred asked the man.
"Captain Edward Yellin, but just call me Edward. 15th Aerial Hussars, or the Slavic Death squadron" he replied. The look of utter confusion on Fred's face led him to give a more conventional name. "15th Army Support."
"Pilot Officer Freddy Raleigh. Assigned to 15th Army Support."
"Well then. You have a brother who goes by the name of Richard, correct?"
"Yes. Everybody calls him Rick. As a matter of fact, where is he? He ran off during the bombardment."
"Ah. Yes. He went to the mess. Come with me. We have a little time before our first mission's briefing. Which is in…"
Edward checks his watch. He seemed strangely relaxed for a man standing in the middle of a warzone, with mortar shells screaming down, and the scorched remains of a plane around him.
"Thirty minutes," he said emphatically. "Now, normally you'd get some time to settle in, but your plane is a day late and we've suffered quite a few losses. Chop-chop. Let's go get ourselves a drink."
And so, Fred's first day of war began. Unfortunately, this would not be his last day. This was simply a warm welcome.
First time up!
In the briefing room, Rick sat in the second row from the front. His hands were twitching nervously. He remembered how Andrew told him not to be afraid, but, well, he couldn't help but quiver in anticipation for his first combat operation.
"Listen up, ladies and gentlemen!" the C.O. shouted. "Most of you are new here, except for those of you in the Slavic Death Squadron."
When he was met with confused faces, he elaborated.
"15th army co-operation, or at least what remains of it after their most recent mission,"
He continued, pacing around the podium.
"So, that should be Andrei, Edward, Sofia, Natasha, Hans and Grisha."
His words were met with slow nods from six people in the first row.
"As you should know, we have several squadrons based here. Four, to be exact."
A hand shoots up.
"Sir, if there are four squadrons, why are there only six people who are experienced?"
The colonel nodded. "Good question. This is because of our overwhelming losses in the last month. As you may know, our base is near an important choke point for Coalition convoys entering and exiting this region. Our job is to interdict those convoys, and destroy them, and occasionally we go and support the infantry. Unfortunately, we have been suffering heavy losses due to missile emplacements and better anti-aircraft defences used by the enemy. We cannot afford to pull out of this area. If we withdraw, enemy forces will pour into this area and retake our recent gains in the area."
Rick's hand shoots up.
"What aircraft are we flying, sir?" he asked.
"I was getting to that." The colonel replied. "You will be flying the AH-98D Cobra V. The helicopter has contra-rotating propellers, and no tail rotor. This means that you can take hits in the tail unit and get out alive, but it does not mean that you are invincible. There is no armour on the 'D' variant. From what I have heard, the 'E' variant has plenty of armour and better guns, but handles like a heavy tank. The Cobra V moves like a tortoise, but turns relatively tightly, in a small radius due to the nature of the contra-rotating rotors. It is equipped with dual 30mm cannons. Unlike the 'E' variant, the cannons are mounted in the nose, and are flexible. You will be using high-explosive incendiary armour-piercing rounds. Don't asked me how they work, because I don't know. The only thing I know is that they can turn a brand-new tank into a smouldering wreck within ten rounds, or a one-second burst, if you are bang on target on the turret, or hit the fuel tanks. You will have 300 rounds per gun, meaning that you have thirty seconds worth of firing. Regarding the guns, the advice is to fire by tapping the firing button, and not to hold it, since holding it will simply expend my ammunition before you can properly utilise it. Your guns will be complemented by eight air-to-ground guided missiles, but people tend not to use them, since the tanks and vehicles used by the enemy have a wide array of countermeasures. These days, we use them as anti-personnel weapons by converting them to cluster bombs. If you want to know how, ask the Ordies, I ain't got time for that."
You can't help but yawn while you listen to the colonel drone on.
"You will also have a full load of 80 rockets, optimised as anti-personnel rounds. They are equipped with HE warheads, so they are ineffective against tanks and bunkers, and other heavily armoured targets,"
"Is that all, sir?" someone in the back row asked, bored.
"No. Today," the colonel said, taking a pointer, "You will be accompanying our infantry on a mission, and provide close-air support along with the jets. Your aircraft have enough fuel for six hours, but there are constant tanker flights coming in, so you have an effectively unlimited loiter time. You are only limited by the amount of damage you take and your endurance."
The pointer hit a point on the large map behind the podium.
"Nal'irathika. Biggest coalition stronghold in the area, and a major supply depot for the Coalition," the colonel said. The veterans of the 15th shift uncomfortably in their seats. "The 15th Army Co-operation has been near this place before, on their previous mission. The 18th, 26th and 33rd Army Co-operation squadrons were wiped out here, and you stand a good chance of being wiped out too. From what I have heard, there are several dangers associated with the area. These include enemy fighter cover, heavy fire from flak and many, many missiles. These enemy soldiers are not human. They are aliens. They are thirsty for our blood, and will do absolutely anything to kill us. To them, we are the alien invaders. To them, we have come from space to defile their territory. I am sure you'd think that too, if a bunch of aliens came to your homeworld and started killing everybody."
The colonel stops, and looks around the room.
"Now, I know that this sounds hopeless. but it's all for the greater good. by gaining this stronghold, we'll have control over most of the area, and the grunts will have an easier time taking this planet, and we can get the fuck off this hellhole quicker," he says.
"Fuck this shit, this is a fucking suicide mission, not an attack," someone next to you mutters.
"Ok. Remember the radio call-signs of the infantry and the supporting forces. The controller's callsign is Bison five-oh-three. your radio callsign is Kestrel-202. The callsign of the 113th Cavalry, who are the tanks, is Bronco one-thirteen. The callsign of the 16th mechanized infantry, the grunts attacking the compound, is Puma sixteen. The callsign of the escorting fighters is Eagle three-oh-four. The callsign of the fighters assigned to ground attack is Hawk Eleven-sixteen. The callsigns for the other helicopter squadrons are Helix one-five and Alligator one-seventeen. The airspace will be crowded, because there will be a total of twenty-four helicopters operating in the area at one time. Understood?"
"Yes sir," the pilots groaned.
"Alright. Remember: this isn't a one-hour training flight. If my helicopter seems even slightly off, then turn back. If there is a problem, a slight one like a dial not displaying properly, or a serious one like engine power loss of more than 20%, turn back. If you don't think that you can stay awake and well enough to do an entire seven-hour shift, then turn back."
The colonel puts the pointer down.
"Now get to the choppers." The colonel said. "God speed."
A few minutes later, Rick found himself whisked out into the airfield. Jets, or fast-movers as the more experienced people called them, were taking off from the airfield as he walked towards his helicopter. Fifteen Amphyrades, an entire squadron, were taxiing out to the runway. Their dual engines roared and spat streams of smoke as they took off, laden with bombs, missiles and rocket pods. A larger cargo aircraft came in to land at another runway. The airfield is a flurry of activity, with ammunition, bombs and missiles being carted everywhere. It ranges from rocket pods and High-Explosive Incendiary Armour Piercing (HEIAP) rounds and cluster munitions for Cobra gunships to racks of 500-pound bombs for the B-16 Swallows stationed at the base.
Rick walked across the base. The sky is blue, and there isn't a cloud anywhere. This was both good and bad. It meant that he could see ground targets clearly, but he would have nowhere to hide in the case of an attack. A tousle-headed fitter stood by his helicopter. Freddy is already there, in front of the helicopter.
"Freddy? What're you doing here? Get to your own helicopter!" Rick shouted.
"Idiot. Did you even read the list of pilot and gunner pairs in the mess?" he said calmly, while inspecting a belt filled with HEIAP ammunition. "Well, mother said that you never really liked reading. I guess that's true."
"Bloody he-" Rick's protest was cut short by Freddy.
"Anyhow, we've been posted together," he continued. "Deal with it. If you want to complain, te-."
"Whatever," Rick groaned, cutting off Freddy. "Just pilot the darn kite without crashing it, and I'll be a happy man. Let's get going."
About twenty minutes later, Rick and Freddy were in the air, flying to the objective. There were six helicopters from his squadron, arranged in two flights of three helicopters. The intercom buzzed.
"Hello, hello. Kestrel Lead to Kestrel flight. Come in, Kestrel flight." Edward said. "Number off, one to six, and provide status report. Kestrel Leader, reporting in. all systems go, over."
"Kestrel two here. All systems active, over," said Natasha. "Good to be going again, Edward."
"Kestrel three here. All systems go, over," you say.
"Kestrel four here. Engines not performing well. Engines only providing 60% thrust." Grisha said. "Permission to head home for equipment check and possible repair."
"Roger, Kestrel four, break formation and head home." Yellin replied calmly.
"Roger. Kestrel four heading home, over."
the helicopter breaks off the formation.
The rest of the helicopter crews number off. They crews were accounted for. The radio crackled, and a message from command came in.
"Kestrel lead, this is Blue Bison. Come in, Kestrel lead," the radio crackled.
"Blue Bison, Kestrel Leader reporting." Replied Yellin.
"Kestrel, Eagle three-oh-four unable to make rendezvous at assigned time. Repeat: Eagle three-oh-four unable to make rendezvous at assigned time. Eagle will arrive at rendezvous one hour late. Confirm message received, and state course of action."
Freddy looked at Rick, eyes wide open in suprise.
"What the-!" he was cut off by another transmission.
"Kestrel Leader here. Confirming message received. Kestrel will proceed to target. Advise Eagle to do the same, over."
"Roger, Kestrel Leader. Bison out."
The radio crackles, and clicks. Silence falls.
"Kestrel leader to Kestrel Flight, change of plans," Yellin said calmly, as if it was something minor, like a slight bruise from hitting a wall. "We will proceed into enemy territory. Be cautious of enemy aircraft. Refer to enemy aircraft as bandits. Move out."
The helicopters thundered over the plains, heading to Nal'irathika.
pointless deaths
The first sign of bandits came about fifteen minutes before the escorting fighters arrived at the objective at Nal'irathika. The formation had split up, and each helicopter crew was attacking of its own accord. A gunner in Kestrel Four saw the fighters first.
"Kestrel four here," she said through the radio. "There are nine bogeys, coming in from bearing two-two-three heading southwest, in three groups of nine."
Rick and Fred were strafing an enemy position at the time, so they had no time to look up at the sky. The first warning sign of the presence of fighters was a high-pitched whine which could be heard over the sound of Rick's radio, which then turned into a scream as the fighters got closer. Then, the fighters streak past, emitting blue exhaust. Time seemed to slow as they swoop past him. They were oddly shaped. They had sharp noses, and two large engines. They have twin-boom tails and swept wings. At the last moment, Rick realised that they are enemy fighter aircraft, and not the photoreconnaissance variant either. Rick remembers recognising them as Filament-Ds.
shit! thought Freddy.
"Fuck! Alligator three, break, break, break!" someone shouts over the radio. A blue streak of smoke zooms across the sky, and smashes into A helicopter on the other side of the base. The helicopter doesn't spiral down or disintegrate into a million pieces like in the movies. There is a small explosion, and the helicopter falls like a stone. Bits of its tail fall off. It plummets down from 100 feet above ground. The helicopter crashes into the ground, upside down.
You hear screams of fear and anger on the radio, as well as shouts.
"Helix nine, you got a bandit on your tail!"
"Fuck!"
"Fuck! Help me! Somebody, fucking help me! Hel-"
Helicopters fall from the sky, some spiralling down, some simply falling upside down, others trailing black smoke. They fall from the sky, like birds shot down by hunters. The fighters make another pass, firing more missiles.
"Shit Shit Shit Shit SHIT!"
"Mummy!"
"Missiles incoming, Alligator five, brea- oh no! No! No! No!" -wham! went a missile in the background.
"FUCK! Oh Jesus please no!"
Men and women scream, trapped in their flaming metal coffins plummeting down from the sky.
"Lord in heaven, please let me get home alive! Please!"
"Mother! Help!"
"Oh god I'm on fire! MOTHERFUCKERS!"
"No! No! No! Please, no!"
Freddy screamed and tore his headphones off. It was too horrible to listen to the screams of dying pilots and gunners.
"Freddy, look! Over there!" shouts Rick, pointing.
He looked at where he is pointing. The familiar shapes of F/A-24 Amphyrades. You peer more closely. There are twelve of them, in three flights of four.
The flights split up into pairs.
"This is Eagle three-oh-four, come in, helicopter squadrons. Alligator, Kestrel, Helix, do you copy?"
"This is Kestrel Two, you're too late," you say. "Kestrel squadron is nearly gone. I don't know about the other squadrons."
"Kestrel Leader here," Yellin said. Somehow, he survived the barrage of missiles. "Alligator flight is unresponsive, and Helix squadron has three remaining Helos. We have four. The enemy fighters seem to be gone, but we would appreciate air cover."
"Roger that, Kestrel leader. Eagle out."
The attack was a strategic success. Nal'irathika was no longer occupied by the enemy, and it was now a Federation holding. But to the pilots? It was a Charlie-fox, a euphemism for an army term meaning 'self-destructive operation'. Most of the pilots from each squadron had been downed in the skies above Nal'irathika. You thought that the air campaign over Nal'irathika was a waste of human life. one hundred pilots and gunners had gone out in fifty helicopters over twelve hours. seventy-four pilots and gunners in thirty-seven helos reached their destination, and only twenty-three pilots and gunners made it back to base from the attack. some Helos had limped home with the rear cockpit (the gunner's cockpit) drenched in blood.
When you got back, Rick looked at Freddy grimly, and said that he was going to, 'get a fucking drink at the mess' and asked if Fred wanted to come along.
He nodded, and walked off to the mess with Rick. In the bar, people congratulated you on getting back alive, but it didn't feel right to him.
That day, when it was night-time on earth and everybody was sleeping, Freddy couldn't sleep. He could keep hearing the screams and shouts of the pilots dying. My bed bucked like the helicopter had during the day. Fred stepped out into the sunlight, and watched a few aircraft fly out. Amphyrades. When he saw them, his mind wandered back to the screams of the doomed pilots and gunners and how it happened because the escorts were late.
Two hundred and forty-four… you thought. Two hundred and forty-four dead, and I didn't even know their names.
You stare into the distance, thinking about the two hundred and forty-four. What would their mothers feel when they got the dreaded holomessage saying that their sons and daughters had died in battle? What if my mother received one of those holomessage?
It hurts, thinking about the two hundred and forty-four dead pilots' families and loved ones. It hurts to think about how devastated they will be when the get one of the dreaded emails.
"Can't go to sleep, kid?" someone askeds from the shadows.
"Wha?" you exclaim, turning around. "Jesus, Yellin! You scared me! Warn me before you do something like that again, alright?"
"Ok then," he replied. He takes a sip from a small bottle. "Here. Take a sip of this. It's just vodka mixed with some orange juice. It lessens the pain."
"How do you know abou-"
"Just shut up and take a sip. It helps deal with the pain."
You take the bottle, and take a sip. It has a burning sensation as it passes down my throat, and you want to gag.
"Wow." You cough. "Strong."
Edward nods, and takes the bottle back.
"You get used to it," he replied, taking a sip. "You get used to people dying out here too. I was like you once. My friend and I were in the Air Force until about a month ago. We were in different helicopters. Today's attack wasn't the first attack on Nal'irathika."
"Not the first?" you asked. "How do you know?"
"My god, did you listen to the C.O. at the briefing?" he exclaims. "He said explicitly: 'the 15th Army Cooperation squadron has been here before.' We've been out here for almost 4 years now. Our previous mission was a month ago. Before that, we'd been conducting routine convoy interdiction missions. The mission to Nal'irathika a month ago was our first operation with the infantry."
"Wait, how long have you been out here?" you asked.
"Three years and five months."
"That's long."
"No, it isn't. some of us have been here five years, and we're never going home."
"Why?"
"A tour of duty is two years, right? You probably won't even get through. Once you sign up, you're here for life, which most likely will until you die. No-one who came here at the start of the war will make it out alive, or whole. Everyone has been scarred in this fucking hellhole. The people going out or coming back in? Most are either some Rear Echelon Motherfuckers sending us to our deaths or Fucking New Guys coming to die here. The rest are just wrecks of their former selves, who find that civvy life is just too weird to handle. And don't get me started on the Combat Junkies! Poor little sonsabitches."
"Don't be so pessimistic! We outnumber the enemy a million to one! A million to fucking ONE! How in fuck couldn't we win on this shitty planet?"
"That's what happened in the Winter War. And remind me, who won? The Finnish, that's who. All the men, guns and tanks didn't do them rosyjscy bitches much good."
"We've gained ground! We are overrunning the enemy! We still outnumber them!"
"Same deal with the Arab-Israeli and the first two world wars. The Arabs outnumbered the Israelis, and lost. The Germans gained a lot of ground in world war two, most of western Europe. And they lost."
"What happened at Nal'irathika? There were only eight people alive who were previously in the 15th, judging by what I saw. How were forty pilots and gunners killed in one day?"
"There were eight survivors able to fight, not alive. thirty men returned, but only eight of us were healthy enough to keep flying. The rest were dismembered, driven insane or had died. Some of the gunners flew back the aircraft on their own, with a bloody corpse lying next to them."
"Wh-what happened?"
"We ran into fighters, like we did today. Six fighters made low passes against our helicopters, shooting down four with missiles. The fighters ran off after them. Then nine other fighters engaged us. Most of us went down then. Then, the escort came back, and chased them away. The attack was a failure because we couldn't provide enough air support with only one helicopter with a complete crew. That's partly why eighteen helicopters were used today."
"What's the other reason?"
"Tac-com is made up of idiotic officers who haven't even flown a helicopter before, except in flight school."
An Amphyrade streaked over Dan's head. You look up, and stare into the heavens. Hearing the Amphyrade fly out into the sky reminds you of the dead pilots. Their screams of horror, fear and sorrow echo in my head.
"Caught the stare, haven't you?" Yellin asked. He seems sympathetic, but it's hard to tell, because he speaks in a calm voice most of the time.
"The stare?" Fred asked.
"The thousand-yard-stare. You've got it now. Everyone catches it, except the Rear-Eche- …"
His spate of profanity is cut off by the ringing note of a klaxon.
"Squadrons, scramble! Incoming enemy raid! Repeat: Squadrons, scramble! Incoming enemy raid!" a man shouts over the intercom.
The Klaxon blares. There is a flurry of activity near where the fighter aircraft are. Air-to-air missiles are wheeled out. Anti-aircraft guns swivel to face the direction where the enemy is coming from. Missile batteries are readied. Men run towards bunkers, and some towards aircraft. Ammo and air-to-air missiles are wheeled out to the fighters, and the big, wide-bellied bombers slowly taxi out near another runway. Their wings are at the back of the aircraft, and face forwards, so they look like long-necked geese when they take to the air. They are painted blue on their undersides, but have Adaptive Camouflage Surfaces on their upper surfaces, which actively camouflage the aircraft depending on the terrain it is on using cameras and screens. Other aircraft are not equipped with it because it is very heavy.
"Oh, yes, and I wanted to tell you one thing," said Edward.
"What? Is it good or bad?" you asked.
"You're from Turia, aren't you?"
"Yes, I was born there."
"We're getting rotated there. Apparently High-com has a surprise in store for us there."
"Oh. Ok."
Edward sighs.
"Cheer up, comrade," he said, patting you on the back. "We don't lose so many of our own all the time. Perhaps next time you'll be able to do something with the weapons you have."
"I hope so," Fred replied. "I hope so…"