(AN: Maybe it's because i spend too much time playing video games, or that i'm supposed to be doing things besides, well that, but i usually play games to enjoy them and to pass the time, NOT to get ass-fucked by difficulty that makes you hate everyone and everything [looking at you, Dark Souls, Starcraft and every RTS modder ever!] However, it does make for good story-telling to have a very difficult opponent, especially in one that is set during a war, like this one. There will also be another reason why so much time passes between the events of the last chapter and this one, in case "wanted it to be harder on our main characters" isn't a good enough reason.)
(Onto some lighter things. Possibly the best piece of C&C fan media is the Fast Facts video for Command and Conquer. Right off the bat it has this adorable cartoon Ranger humvee from RA1 with oogly eyes looking this way and that: he drives into the screen with a frown, then [using the actual quote from the game] declares "Vehicle reporting" with a gigantic smile on his face. Also, the places mentioned in this story, though inspired by real locations, are fictionalized.)
Red Dawn
0600 Eastern Time, January 1st, 1982
"Attention! Defense Response Condition at level 2. All personnel report to the airfield for immediate transfer. This is not a drill."
The base at Fort Knox was in turmoil, like a hornet's nest roused by a foolish child. Air-raid sirens were going off, men in full combat gear were running here and there, and a loudspeaker was shouting orders. At the airfield, several CH-47 Chinook helicopters were waiting to receive the troops. A young lieutenant was on his way into one of the choppers: it was his first tour of active duty since his graduation from the Reserve Officers' Training Corps. As he arrived at one helicopter, a man with the captain insignia on the shoulder of his uniform approached him. Recognizing the superior rank, the lieutenant saluted.
"Given the circumstances, Andrews," the captain replied. "We can dismiss with protocol for the time being. Get your ass on the chopper a-sap."
Lieutenant Andrews followed the captain as they walked up the back ramp of one of the helicopters. Within two minutes, and under the captain's urging for the 'ladies' under his command to hustle 'with purpose', the cargo bay was filled with soldiers. The next moment and they were lifting off, with Fort Knox disappearing below from the rounded portals in the chopper.
"Captain Lowe," Lieutenant Andrews said, his voice raised over the rushing of the rotors. "Do you mind telling me what the hell's going on? Was hoping for a little New Year's RnR."
"I'm afraid it'll have to wait, Andrews," Captain Lowe returned. "We've got a hell of a situation on our hands. At approximately 0523 local time, Coast Guard caught sight of several warships in the Atlantic. We're getting in reports of similar sightings on the West Coast."
"Origin?"
"Russian," Captain Lowe said. "Pentagon has called all reserve officers into active duty. That means you're going to DC, captain."
"Captain?" Andrews asked.
"You've been promoted," Captain Lowe added. "Congratulations."
"Any idea why?" Andrews asked.
"You'll be debriefed once we reach Washington," Captain Lowe said. "For now, just try to relax: it's going to be a long flight and you won't have much time for any relaxing once we land in DC."
It was over three hundred and forty miles from Fort Knox to Washington DC, the capital of the United States: fortunately, the Chinook's ferry range was more than double that. The hardest part would be the waiting: three hours of sitting in an uncomfortable seat high up in the air. Despite having fears and weaknesses metaphorically beaten out during his training, Andrews hated flying.
Brian 'Goldilocks' Andrews. His drill sergeant had given him the nickname because of his blond hair, which seemed to grow back quicker than he could keep it trimmed. Once he made Lieutenant, he let his hair grow out, but kept it trimmed to the tips of his ears in compliance with regulations.
Born and raised in a little town in southeastern Tennessee, Brian was the youngest of three from a family that had been renowned for their military service. Jack Andrews, Brian's father, had fought in the War in the East against Japan, and volunteered to fight the Russians in the War in Europe in the 50s; his father also, James Andrews, had fought in the Great World War of 1914. Every member of the family had served their country, and it was more or less expected of them to do the same. The eldest son, named after his grandfather, was currently stationed at Fort Worth Texas, and his wife and infant son had moved there to be closer to him. Their sister Melissa, commonly known as Lyssa, was at the Air Force Academy in Colorado; she had joined the Air-Force as a pilot.
0901 Eastern Time, January 1st, 1982
The Chinook made its descent towards the city of Arlington, on the southern bank of the Potomac River. Even from the air, the newly promoted Captain Andrews could hear the wailing of sirens down below in the city streets. As they approached, Captain Andrews saw outside of his window a site that he thought he would never see in his life, much less this close: the Pentagon, the headquarters of the Defense Department. Turning to his left, he saw Captain Lowe was talking to someone on the radio in his head-set: he had been talking for almost an hour into their flight.
"I understand, sir," Lowe said. "We'll be right there. Lowe out." He then turned to Andrews. "Looks like you'll have to take on DC all by yourself, Captain."
"What, sir?" Andrews returned. "Repeat that again."
"We're dropping you off at the Pentagon," Lowe replied. "You'll be briefed on your assignment by General Carville. Here's where we part ways, Captain. I've been sent to take command of Fort Bradley in New York City."
The helicopter finally came to land on a helipad outside of the Pentagon. The loading ramp was lowered in the rear and Captain Andrews made his way down the ramp.
"Good luck, Captain!" Lowe shouted back. "Give 'em hell!"
"With a purpose, Captain!" Andrews replied, turning back to farewell his former CO with a crisp salute.
Captain Andrews turned about and saw a welcoming 'party' of three. Two were enlisted men, armed with M4 carbines, and the third was a brunette woman in uniform: a navy blue jacket and black skirt. From her insignia, Andrews saw that she was a lieutenant. She saluted him and he returned the gesture.
"Captain Andrews, I presume?" she said, talking loudly over the still-spinning twin Chinook blades.
"Yes, sir," he returned.
"Lieutenant Lee," she returned. "I'm with the State Defense Department. General Carville has ordered me to fill you in on the situation. But we're pressed for time, so if you'll follow me, we'll get right down to business."
They made their way from the helipad as the Chinook was departing behind them. At the door, Lieutenant Lee opened the door for Captain Andrews, who was technically above her in rank. They passed into the Pentagon hall, while the lieutenant filled Brian in on the situation.
"At approximately 1300 hours Eastern Time yesterday," she began. "NORAD picked up a massive Soviet fleet entering US waters. By 0500 Pacific Time today they were just off-shore."
"Are you saying we're under attack?" Captain Andrews interjected.
"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Lee replied. "It gets worse, I'm afraid. Scattered reports are coming in of armored vehicles moving north through the Mexican border. Our Peacekeeper Defense Network is down and many of our company commanders have gone missing: presumed dead."
"What about my promotion?" Captain Andrews asked. "You at the DoD should know that I was a first lieutenant just yesterday."
"With the sudden and unexpected shortage of company commanders," Lieutenant Lee continued. "You've been given a field promotion." They came to a door, on which was the name: General Ben. Carville, FORSCOM. Here the lieutenant stopped and turned to Captain Andrews. "If you survive today, you might just earn it for real." She added with a smirk, then opened the door.
Inside the office, filled with memorabilia from the War in Europe, as well as a framed photograph of George S. Patton, the US Army General who was part of the War against Japan, was the general. He was bald and had only a short, bristling gray mustache above his lips. He didn't address them right away, for he was on the phone with someone; he also didn't seem to be too pleased with whoever he was talking with.
"Who again?" he asked. "The Vice President? Well, what the hell is he doing in Colorado? Look, you tell that son of a b*tch to get his ass back to Washington. The Commander-in-Chief's doing his duty, ain't no reason the VP can't do his. No, you use those exact words, do you hear me? Bye." He hung up the phone, then rose to his guests. Both Lieutenant Lee and Captain Andrews saluted; the General returned the gesture.
"Captain Andrews," the General greeted. "Good to see you're not dead either. Can't say I've had the pleasure of meeting you, but we'll have to save the niceties for another time. We've got a hell of a situation on our hands. Those commie bastards are making a move on our soil: we cannot let that happen!" He pounded his fist on the top of his desk. He cleared his throat, then continued.
"The President will be going south to San Antonio to meet with Pedro Alvarez, the president of Mexico." Carville continued. "But Air-Force One has been ordered to remain airborne until the DC area is clear. Our best Intel, or what it used to be: I mean, dammit, why the hell couldn't we have seen this sooner?" He mumbled to himself for a moment, then caught himself rambling. "Anyway, we've sighted several smaller hovercraft and transport planes heading this way. The Reds are thinking of making a quick sweep into this area and take out the Defense Department. We need you to prove 'em wrong." He nodded. "That'll be all, captain. The lieutenant will give you the details as they come." He made his way back to his seat as Lieutenant Lee and Captain Andrews made their way to the door.
"Oh, and by the way," General Carville interjected. "Congratulations on the promotion."
Once they left the General's office, Lieutenant Lee turned to Captain Andrews.
"It looks like we'll be working together," she said. "I'll have a car waiting to bring you to our defense perimeter along the Potomac, where we believe the Soviet hovercraft will make land-fall. It's not a large force, but we should be able to direct more troops your way once we've assessed the defensive condition on our three fronts. Hold out until the reinforcements arrive, then we'll be able to push the Soviet invaders out of DC."
"Yes, sir," Captain Andrews returned. "I'll get to it right away."
"Very good," Lieutenant Lee said. "I'll stay here and provide you with up-to-date Intel. I don't think I need to remind you that, above all else, the Soviets must not reach the Pentagon. If they do, they'll destroy the Pentagon and we'll be helpless against their invasion."
"Understood," Andrews nodded.
"Good luck out there, sir," Lieutenant Lee said.
In less than ten minutes, Captain Andrews had arrived at the defense perimeter and taken command. Immediately he went about assessing how it had been readied and what needed to be done. GIs armed with DSR-80 anti-material rifles and M72 Light Anti-Armor Weapon Systems were set up in buildings at areas believed to be possible landing sites. As far as vehicles were concerned, four M41 Bulldog light tanks and four M1126 Stryker IFVs were available.
"Those Strykers should be protected at all costs, sir," a Private Donovan said. "They're equipped with the new 'Mist' missiles; they can hit ground and aerial targets. The rocket pod is small, and the Adaptive System allows a passenger to the Remote Weapons System: in short, it allows the passenger to re-purpose the secondary armament to whatever he has on hand."
"Understood, private," Captain Andrews returned.
Andrews' command center was in an office building near the defense perimeter, which had been barricaded with sandbags, windows boarded with wooden boards, and razor wire drawn around the base. There was a radio, which he had kept on the Pentagon's channel, where he checked in with Lieutenant Lee, as well as a map of the Arlington-DC region. On the map Andrews made a few quick marks with a blue pen, indicating where their forces were located.
At the end of ten minutes, the radio buzzed with activity and Captain Andrews was called to hear what was being said.
"This is Andrews, reading you, Pentagon, over," he said.
"Sir, the Soviet fleet have been spotted," Lieutenant Lee's voice was heard over the other line. "They're making their amphibious landing as we speak. There are also several aircraft in-bound."
"Pyle!" Captain Andrews called to one of the men nearby. "What do you see on the river-front?"
"C-Confirmed, sir!" stammered Private Pyle. "There's a shit-load of boats out there."
"Come again, private?" Captain Andrews asked, handing the radio communications device back to the technician as he walked over to the window where Private Pyle was watching down-river. The private handed Captain Andrews the binoculars he was using and directed him where to look.
"Permission to speak freely, captain?"
"Go ahead, private." Andrews returned.
"Sir, this hasn't ever happened before," he replied. "No one's dared to attack America on her own soil."
Captain Andrews was about to speak, but suddenly halted. He could see, down river, large warships and light landing craft making their way northward. Furthermore, there were also several airplanes flying with the fleet, some of them so far away they were little more than dots on the horizon.
"I understand," Captain Andrews replied. "You're scared, aren't you, private?"
"Well, hell, aren't you?" the private asked, then suddenly added. "Sir, I mean. This is our home!"
"We don't have the luxury to be scared, Private Pyle," Captain Andrews returned. He then handed the binoculars back to the private and walked over to the radio. "Lewis, open a channel to the other sergeants. I'd like to have a word with the company."
"Right away, sir," Private Lewis, the technician, replied. Thirty seconds later, she announced: "Channel's ready, sir." Captain Andrews took the speaker and walked out towards the window.
"This is Captain Andrews speaking," he announced. "I want you all to go to the nearest window and take a look out at the fleet coming up-river. Yes, go ahead and look. It's there, and it's coming for us. Now I know you've had the best training in the world, and despite that, right now you're shaking on down to your boots. But right now we need to keep our heads together. We're the first line of defense: we need to hold them back, we need to keep them from coming any further into our country. Remember that your families stand behind you: protect them. Remember your brothers and sisters in arms standing beside you: show them respect by standing your ground. Remember the enemy standing in front of you: show them no mercy."
Suddenly there was a loud boom heard from behind them. On the radio, there came from one of the garrisoned low-rises upstream Corporal Williams, one of the officers under Captain Andrews' command.
"The commie fleet just launched a missile," Corporal Williams reported. "They've taken out 14th Street bridge!"
"I hear you, Corporal," Captain Andrews replied. "Stand your ground and await further orders."
"Contact!" Private Donovan shouted from the front of the garrison, where several rocket-launchers were positioned. "Soviet armored transport in LAWS range!"
"Fire at will, private!" Captain Andrews ordered.
"Light 'em up!" bellowed Private Donovan. The roaring of missiles from the M72s reverberated throughout the building.
"Report, private!" the captain ordered.
"Direct hits, sir!" Private Donovan began, then carried off.
"Repeat that last, private!"
"Sir, we made six direct hits within max effective range," Private Donovan continued. "These transports shrugged off our rockets like they were nothing. They're still coming, sir."
"Reload and fire again!" ordered the captain. "Nothing's invincible, private, we just need to find their weakness."
"Sir, yes, sir!" Private Donovan replied.
"Corporal Williams on the line, sir!" Private Lewis called from the comm-station. Captain Andrews picked up the phone.
"We've made contact, sir!" Williams' voice triumphantly reported. "The Reds tried to sneak a hovercraft around the southern bank: one of our rockets punctured the rubber skirt and sent their passengers for a little swim in the Potomac."
"Good work, corporal," Captain Andrews returned. "Keep on 'em, don't give them an inch of American soil."
"Sir!" Private Donovan cried out from the windows. Captain Andrews put the phone down and jogged over to where Donovan was assisting Private Jones loading his M72.
"What is it, private?" the captain asked.
"They're still coming through, sir!" Private Donovan declared. "Even after another round, those armored transports aren't even slowing down."
"Understood, keep shooting," Andrews replied, then made his way back to the comm-station.
"This is Captain Andrews," he announced, picking up the comm-device. "The Reds are deploying heavily armored amphibious transports along with their hovercraft. Concentrate all fire on these armored transports."
"Can you repeat that, sir?" Corporal Williams shouted. "We have airplanes overhead."
"Concentrate all fire on heavy amphibious transport targets," Andrews repeated.
"Sir!" Private Lewis said. "It's Lieutenant Lee on line one."
"Put her on," Captain Andrews replied.
"Captain," the voice of the lieutenant spoke. "The Soviets are dropping tanks and paratroopers behind the defense perimeter. Make sure they don't reach the Pentagon!"
"Understood, Andrews out," he replied. He then ordered Private Lewis to open a channel to Sergeant Conner.
"Sir!" Private Donovan exclaimed. "We got one!"
"Come again, private?" Andrews demanded as he made his way towards the front.
"One of those armored transports, sir," Private Donovan replied. "They have rubber skirts like the hovercraft, and they must be damn heavy, sir. One of our rockets hit the skirt and it went down like a stone!"
"Sir!" Private Lewis cried. "It's Corporal Williams."
Captain Andrews made his way back to the radio as the private turned the audio on.
"There's too many of them, sir!" Corporal Williams reported. "They just keep coming, no matter how many we take down. They've forced a landing on the southern b...keep firing!"
"What was that?" Captain Andrews asked.
"One of their armored transports broke through the wall of...ahh!" The channel suddenly died.
"Come in!" Captain Andrews shouted. "Corporal Williams, come in!"
"Captain!" Private Pyle cried as he came running down from the upper level of the building. "We've lost Corporal Williams' unit. Those armored transports are armed with flamethrowers; they never stood a chance!"
"Sergeant Conner's ready, sir!" Lewis reported.
"Sergeant," Captain Andrews ordered. "The Reds are dropping tanks and troops behind our defensive line. Search out and destroy all targets."
"Roger that, sir!" Sergeant Conner replied. "Me and the boys have been itching to get the lead out."
"Good to hear that, Sergeant," Andrews grinned. Like himself, Luke Conner was a native of Tennessee. "Mind keeping the home-front secure while you're at it?"
"Sure thing, sir," Sergeant Conner stated. "We'll keep those commie bastards off your ass for a while. Conner out."
"Captain!" Private Donovan shouted. "Those armored transports are forcing a landing."
"Take 'em out!" the captain ordered. "Don't let them get close, they're armed with flamethrowers."
"Sir, it's Lieutenant Lee!" Private Lewis cried out. "She says its urgent." Captain Andrews ran back to the radio. "Andrews here."
"Captain, be advised!" Lieutenant Lee said on the line: her voice sounded urgent. "The Soviets paratroopers have landed in the Arlington-DC area. They're targeting civilians: stop them any way you can."
"Understand," Captain Andrews replied. "We'll send some troops to assist."
"Captain!" Private Donovan shouted. "Those armored transports are moving on this position. Our rockets aren't holding 'em off."
"Holy shit," grumbled Andrews beneath his breath. He then ran over to the stair-well and called down to the soldiers below: "Sergeant, get your men out of there!"
But it was too late. The building shook as the massive bulldozer maw on the front of the armored transports crashed through the wall between two windows. The GIs at the windows managed to jump out of the way, but they didn't last long. Instead of driving forward into the building, the transport pulled back and unleashed a wave of flaming napalm into the bottom level. Cries and screams of agony were all that answered Captain Andrews from the lower level.
"Shit!" he exclaimed, stepping away from the stairwell as an arc of fire poured towards him. Now he was getting angry: at the Reds for invading his homeland and ruthlessly slaughtering the men under his command, and at himself for being unable to stop the invaders or save the men under his command.
"Get some men down here a-sap!" he shouted. "Pyle, get your ass over here with the DSR-80!"
Three GIs took up positions at the top of the stairwell, each of them armed with M4A1 auto-rifles. Behind them came Private Pyle, carrying a DSR-80.
"Sir!" Pyle said. "I'm in reconnaissance!"
"Well, now you're watching our asses here," Captain Andrews replied. He knocked over a table that had been pushed aside during the garrisoning, then dragged it to the top of the stairs and placed it in front of Pyle's DSR-80. Even as they were setting up, from downstairs they heard a voice shouting in Russian.
"Idti, tovarishchi! Idti!"
"Get the captain!" Lewis' voice could be heard from the other side of the room.
"Hold your positions, men!" Captain Andrews said as he knelt down besides Private Pyle behind the table. "Don't fire unless fired upon went out the window when they burned your brothers downstairs. You have a target, you take it, dammit! Understand?"
"Sir, yes, sir!" shouted the GIs to Andrews right and left.
With that, Andrews took out his M9 Beretta. He was burning with rage and eager to open a can of whoop-ass on the Soviets. They had killed members of his unit, under his command: so he was going to make sure that none of the Soviet invaders left this building alive.
"Captain!" Private Gonzalez shouted.
"Contact!" one of the GIs on the captain's right shouted.
A hail of bullets rained down upon the Soviet soldiers as they made their way up the stairwell. The gas-masks might have kept the fumes and gases of their Borillo transport's flame attack from hurting them, but the heavy brown coats didn't stop the bullets fired from the M4A1s above them. Most of them died before they had a chance to fire a shot at the defenders above them: but that did not deter their advance.
"They just keep coming!" Private Pyle shouted.
"Private Martin!" Captain Andrews shouted to one of the GIs on his right. "Close that gap!"
"Fire in the hole!" Private Martin shouted as he pulled the pin out of a grenade on his bandolier and sent it bouncing down the stairs towards the advancing Soviet soldiers.
"Granata!" came a cry in Russian from downstairs. But before the Soviets could react, the building shook as the explosive charge set the frag grenade off. Aside from the roaring of rocket launchers from the windows and the deafening thud of distant cannon-fire, there was no sound of advance.
Suddenly there came the sound of heavy boots marching up the stairs. The GIs at the front braced themselves for whatever else the Soviets would throw at them.
"Captain!" Private Gonzalez, who had taken cover during the first assault, called up during the cessation.
"Get your head down, private!" Captain Andrews ordered.
"Sir!" the young man replied. "It's Lewis at the comm. She says there's a priority one message from the lieutenant for you."
"Sweet mother of..." Private Martin exclaimed.
Looking back down the stairs, Captain Andrews was hard-pressed not to give a similar response. Marching up the stairs were three men that looked like knights, covered in heavy plate armor with a domed helmet over their heads.
"Open fire!" Captain Andrews shouted.
A hail of bullets came from the GIs at the top of the stairs, and all they heard was the sound of lead bullets clanging off the plate armor of the advancing soldiers. There was a blinding white flash and Private Martin gave a loud, agonizing cry, then fell back to the ground: his body was burned to a blackened crisp.
"Pyle, use the DSR!" Captain Andrews shouted. "Gonzalez, take Martin's place."
The heavy machine-gun roared as it spit hot lead at the armored troopers. Luckily, the anti-material bullets pierced the plate armor and one by one, the armored soldiers collapsed under the weight of their heavy armor as the bullets shredded through them. With the GIs providing covering fire, Captain Andrews ran back to the comm-room and ordered Private Lewis to put him through with Lieutenant Lee.
"Captain, be advised!" Lieutenant Lee warned. "The Soviets are fielding massive airships along with their ground troops. Captain Lowe at Fort Bradley says they're armed with high-explosive bombs that can level buildings in seconds. You cannot let them reach the Pentagon!"
"Copy, we're being swamped out here!" Andrews replied.
"We're sending over reinforcements as we speak," Lieutenant Lee informed. "These M248 Self-Propelled Anti-Aircraft Guns, nicknamed 'Aeroblaze' by our RnD department, should make quick work of those airships."
"I read you!" Andrews added. "We need some armor too! There's tanks outside on the streets, heading your way."
"Roger," Lieutenant Lee replied. "I'll see about getting you some Abrams tanks for support."
"Sure would help a hell of a lot," Andrews replied. "Out..."
But no sooner had he closed the channel when a shot from a tank shook the upper level, sending a cloud of debris into the comm station. Behind them, the windows had been blown out and most of the LAWS-firing GIs were now dead, including Private Donovan.
"Pack it up," Captain Andrews ordered. "We're moving out of here."
"What?" Private Lewis interjected.
"That's an order!" Andrews repeated. He then made his way into the outer hall and ordered a 'sound off' to see who was still left of his unit.
"Form up here!" he added, waving towards the top of the stairs. "This building's coming down, and if you ladies don't want to go down with it, shake a leg now! Let's hustle!" What was left of the unit now gathered around the captain at the top of the stairs.
"York, Pyle, Gonzalez, you're on point," he ordered. "Jenkins, Kucan, you have the rear. The rest of you, follow me. Keep watch and fire on contact. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!" they replied.
1600 Greenwich Time. January 1st, 1982
Prime Minister Cumberland was giving a speech in front of several reporters from the British Broadcasting Center. Apparently news of the invasion of the United States by the Soviet Union was already traveling fast around the globe.
"It is truly a great tragedy," he said. "I speak for Her Majesty when I say that all of the Britain weeps for America. However, it is in the public's best interest to refuse getting entangled in the war-mongering affairs of the United States of America."
"Prime Minister!" a reporter interjected. "It's been rumored that the Soviet Union attacked America. How is this the fault of American war-mongering?"
"The influence of the United States is everywhere!" Cumberland continued. "They are the stronghold of capitalism for the western world: they have antagonized the Russian Bear and brought this great tragedy down upon themselves. My party is adamant that a platform of non-involvement will show Premier Romanov that Britain desires only peace and goodwill to all."
"It's been reported, Prime Minister," another reporter queried. "That several calls from the White House have been received by your office. Is this so?"
Cumberland's winning smile fell. He feared that someone had leaked information. "Yes, it is true that President Dugan has attempted to contact our office."
"And can you tell us what those calls were about, Prime Minister?" the first reporter asked.
"The American President," Cumberland continued. "Called our office, begging for military assistance, hoping to drag the British public into another awful war, such as happened in the 1950s against Josef Stalin's regime on the mainland. Surely this is another example of ruthless, bloodthirsty American war-mongering."
"What answer has your office given the American President?" the second reporter inquired.
"I told that cowering old Yank that this office is not under his command," Cumberland said, to the cheers and applause of several gathered outside of the ring of reporters. "I told him that the lives of the British public are not his to expend. To be perfectly frank with you, I told him and his people to bugger off and fix their own damn problems. If they want to antagonize the world, they'll have to reap the fruits of their labour. But no matter what happens to them, England will survive. England prevails!"
With that, and amid a storm of reporter questions and flashes from their cameras, Prime Minister Cumberland stepped down from the platform. There were quite a few other words he wanted to add to his list of diatribes, but he had decided at the last minute not to. As he was on his way to his vehicle, McKenna walked up to him with a file.
"Sir," she said. "This just came in from President Thoreau."
The Prime Minister opened the file and examined the papers: each of which bore the seal of Canada. After reading the report, a smile appeared on the Prime Minister's face.
"Can he confirm this?" he asked.
"I'm afraid so, sir." McKenna replied.
"Get a hold of Tucker's office," he added, handing her back the file as he opened the car door and entered. "I want this around the clock on every news station in Britain."
"Yes, sir," McKenna nodded.
0940 Eastern Time. January 1st, 1982
Captain Andrews and what remained of the unit garrisoned in the apartment building were now making their way downstairs. They moved carefully, so as to not trip over the bodies of the slain Soviet soldiers that had been gunned down on their attempt to take the top story. Private Gonzalez gave one of the armored soldiers a kick: seeing a fellow soldier incinerated before one's eyes tended to have a powerful psychological impact. As such, flamethrowers rarely survived if they were captured; nor would Tesla troopers, it seemed.
As they were making their way down the stairs, Captain Andrews suddenly called for a halt. The lower level was smoldering from the flame attack and there was great heat radiating from the bottom of the stairs.
"Quiet now," he muttered. "If my guess is correct, that transport is still down there. We set foot down there, we'll be burned to a crisp, just like Private Martin."
"And if we don't get out of here fast, sir," Private Pyle added. "This whole building will collapse in around us."
"What about a fire-escape?" Gonzalez asked.
"I think the tank-shot took that out," Lewis added.
"Damn," groaned Captain Andrews. "Alright, do we have any plastic explosives? Something to break a hole in this wall."
"But sir, that's concrete!" Pyle stated.
"Let's hope it's not shock-absorbing," the captain returned.
"Sir," Private York added. "We won't have enough time to drill a hole big enough for a grenade."
"Do we have any heavier explosives?"
"No, sir." Jenkins returned.
"Dammit!" shouted Andrews. "Alright, we're just gonna have to improvise. Pyle, do you have a periscope on you?"
"Yes, sir," he replied.
"Give me the gun," Andrews ordered. "Then check around the corner, see if that armored transport is still there."
Private Pyle handed the captain the large DSR-80 as he plucked out his periscope and aimed the sights around the other side of the wall.
"It's there, sir," Pyle answered. "A massive thing. About twelve feet wide, with a large bulldozer scooper-blade on the front; can't see a length, but it's easily the size of one of our Abrams tanks."
"Shit!" groaned Andrews. Trapped, and for all he knew, these armored transports could take one, two, or even as many as four rockets from a LAWS and keep on coming. "How far away is it?"
"I'd say a little bit more than twenty feet away," Pyle replied. "Too close for rockets."
"Any chance of bringing the top story down on it?" asked Private York. "We could bury it, be able to get around it that way."
"We'd risk burying ourselves with it," Captain Andrews replied. "Do we have any flash-bangs?"
"Yes, sir," Private Jenkins replied. "But that won't do much against an armored transport."
"Right now," Captain Andrews answered. "We just need to get past it. We'll figure out how to destroy it once we're out of here." He brought Pyle back and called for a huddle.
"Here's how this is gonna work," the captain began, speaking in a low voice. "York, Jenkins, Gonzalez, you three take point. Throw a flash-grenade then leg it roughly straight from here towards the blade. You'll have about two seconds before it flashes, then throw the next one. Stay low and keep your eyes shut to avoid being blinded by the flash. If you make it to the blade, keep your ass down as low as possible: if you're spotted, you die. We'll have to do this quietly, so move on my signal: is that understood?"
"Yes, sir," they muttered.
Captain Andrews' throat went dry. This plan was absolutely ludicrous, as he knew from the moment he began speaking it. The flashes may not even last long enough to give them cover to escape from right in front of a flame-throwing armored transport. Even if they did, something would certainly go wrong: it wasn't even midday and he had already lost Corporal Williams' unit and the command post and most of his LAWS missile GIs.
But he had to try, for the sake of rescuing the squad currently under his command: never leave a man behind. The country might be lost, for all he knew, but in this moment he was determined to keep his company alive no matter what. His options were limited: either risk all on a hair-brained escape attempt, burn to death when the fire caught up to them, or be crushed when the building came down.
With his left hand, he gestured forward towards the bottom of the stairs. Private York tossed his flash-bang around the corner, then ran forward with his hands over his eyes. A bright white flash burst onto the opposite wall at the bottom of the stairs, then Private Jenkins followed suit. Gonzalez came up next and, guarding his eyes, threw another flash-bang even as Jenkins' burst into light. One by one the group started piling down the stairs and out into the bottom level. At the end were Kucan and Pyle, then Lewis and last of all the captain. As Lewis carried most of the radio equipment, Captain Andrews had taken three extra flash-bangs to cover her escape: since it would be the slowest of them for carrying the gear.
As soon as Private Pyle descended down the stairs, Captain Andrews threw a flash-bang down the stairs and out into the first floor. Private Lewis started making her way and he after her, keeping his head down and feeling the grenade belt tied around his waist. As he had the hardest job of going in blind and throwing three flash-bangs almost back to back, he had borrowed Private Kucan's belt so the flash-bangs were easy to reach.
Bent over, head low, and with one hand over his eyes and the other reaching out, groping like a blind man, Captain Andrews crossed the twenty-six feet from the bottom of the stairs to the blade-maw of the Borillo. Behind him came Private Lewis, carrying the radio equipment. As she brought up the rear, she tripped over a brick that had been thrown out of the wall when the Borillo crashed through and fell onto the floor.
But down doesn't always mean out. Basic training came back to her and Private Lewis began crawling forward on her stomach. Just a few feet more and she'd be safe. One arm over the other, slowly and quietly. At last she felt the metal blade beneath her arms and gasped with relief: Private Lewis had come dangerously short of leaving behind a fiance and five month old son without her.
"Good work, all of you," Captain Andrews whispered, but it sounded like gasps his heart was pounding so fiercely: he hadn't expected to make it this far without incident. "Now, if we can get around this vehicle, we can make it across the street to the other side of the building across from us."
"They've probably been wiped out," Private Pyle replied.
"We're not leaving anyone behind," Captain Andrews returned. "Now quit fussing and form up behind me. We move in three...two...one...go!"
With that, Captain Andrews led the way around to the Borillo's side and out of the hole it had made in their building. Luckily for them, the flamethrower cannon was stationary and could not swivel around to fire at them: they couldn't have known, as the bulldozer blade's upward maw prevented them from seeing the flame cannon. No sooner had they gotten out of the building but they saw a group of men in brown coats guarding the entrance.
"Stoporit!" one shouted.
Too late. York unleashed a carefully aimed hail of bullets towards them: two went down and a third was injured. On his right, Jenkins dropped two more: one with a shot to the head. On the left, Gonzalez, who was still burning up from seeing Private Martin fried by the Tesla trooper, shouted "Ruso puto!" before unleashing a fully automatic salvo of death on the last two.
"Double-time!" Captain Andrews shouted as they dropped the squad of Russian invaders. "Someone's bound to have heard that." As they made their way past the fallen Soviets, Andrews handed the DSR-80 back to Private Pyle, then took out his Beretta M9 and put a bullet into the gas-mask of the soldier. Maybe not the most chivalrous decision, but he couldn't let the Reds know where his unit was going, or that they were still alive.
In no time they had crossed the street and broken down the door into the next building. After Private York shouted "Clear!", they filed inside. Private Lewis' radio equipment was damaged, but other than that they were all present and accounted for.
"We can worry about the radio later," Captain Andrews said to his men. "Right now, we need to get to the roof. If the other group is still in this building, we'll use their radio. Do we have any LAWS left?"
"Three, maybe," Private Gonzalez returned. "We lost all our ammo when that tank shell took out Donovan and the others."
"Well, we just need one, I think," Captain Andrews said. "If we can get to the top of that building, we should have a clear shot at the sky. Last transmission said that the Reds were fielding airship bombers to attack the Pentagon. Let's hope we're not too late and can still take them down before they reach the Pentagon." He paused to take breath, then gestured with his hand towards the stairs.
0955 Eastern Time. January 1st, 1982
In ten minutes they made it to the top of the roof. So far the other company hadn't been found on any level they had seen and there was no sign of an attack. On the roof they could see, coming across from the river, three large zeppelins painted with grinning shark mouths and red eyes.
"Inbound, four o'clock!" Captain Andrews shouted. "Get some heat on those blimps!"
The three GIs from the tank-hunting squad they had set up on the roof, aimed their LAWS skyward and waited for the order.
"Hold for my signal!" Captain Andrews said. "We only have three shots, so we've gotta make 'em count. Ready?"
"On your mark, sir!" a GI replied.
"Fire one!"
A rocket shot out of the LAWS and made a bee-line towards one of the airships. A ball of flame exploded from the side of the zeppelin as the rocket struck the massive envelope. It began to slightly descend, losing altitude moment by moment: but it was still not down and there were two more of them.
"Fire two!" the captain ordered.
Another rocket fired at the zeppelin. As they were moving slower than top-speed, the massive blimp provided an easy target. Another hit, but all it did was cause the zeppelin to fall faster.
Andrews readied a call for the last rocket to be fired, when suddenly the building shook with a mighty explosion.
"What the hell was that?" Andrews shouted.
"We've got company!" Private Pyle replied. "Tanks at ten o'clock!"
"Take position over at Pyle!" the captain ordered. "Fire at the first tank you see." He knew that there was nothing else he could do. If the tanks got off one good shot, it would mean the death of his company.
"Got 'em!" the GI shouted. "Tank destroyed."
"Get back here, private!" Captain Andrews ordered.
Then suddenly several things happened. A series of loud, percussive blasts were heard from down below. Those watching the zeppelins saw crimson beams lancing up from the ground, striking the hull of the zeppelins in tiny bursts of flame. Again another deafening boom was heard from below: but there was no explosion on the building.
"Pyle, what the hell's going on?" Captain Andrews asked.
"There's an armored division down there, sir!" Pyle said. "It looks like ours, but they've got reinforcements! There's three Abrams tanks and some kind of SPAAG: it's shootin' lasers at the blimps."
"Friendlies," Captain Andrews sighed in relief. "The lieutenant did say they were sending help."
Within less than a minute, fire caught on the envelope of the zeppelin, which was now coming down fast into the city streets. A cheer rose up from some of the company, while others went towards the edge and started waving for the tank company below to notice them. The captain told them to stop, but they called him forward.
"Look, sir!" Private Pyle said. "They're pushing the commies back!"
Sure enough, below they could see, in the streets, one of the Soviet tanks had stopped and was letting out a column of black smoke. Other smaller vehicles, half-tracks the captain guessed by the look of them, were driving away in all directions as the three Abrams tanks and three of the four Bulldog light tanks from Sergeant Conner's division were pursuing them. One of the three M41 light tanks broke off from the main column and started driving down the street towards them.
"Form up!" Captain Andrews cried with a smile on his face. The unit packed up and made their way down the stairs. They were no more than half-way down when there was a slight tremor, then all was still: certainly not quiet, for the sounds of machine-gun and cannon-fire could still be heard.
At last the company gained the streets again. They saw the cause of the tremor: the burning carcass of one of the zeppelins had crashed to the ground and was now on fire, burning up whatever remained of it. Near at hand was the light tank that had broken rank: as they waited, the hatch popped off and there stood Sergeant Jackson O. Conner.
"Well, I'll be damned, cap'n!" Sergeant Conner greeted. "Ain't you a sight for sore eyes. Where ya been? Thought them commie bastards had gotten to you. We couldn't raise you on the horn."
"Radio was damaged," Captain Andrews replied. He had quite forgotten about protocol and hadn't ordered a salute. "Looks like you arrived just in time."
"No time to celebrate, sir," Sergeant Conner continued. "Them armored transports are makin' havoc of our boys. These commie tanks ain't too much to handle: the Bulldogs can keep on the run long enough to avoid takin' straight shots, and nobody's got the balls to go toe-to-toe with an Abrams tank." He chuckled proudly.
"I sent the Strykers out to hunt down these bomber blimps. They're tough as shit, but a straight shot to their payload and they'll go down faster than a lead zeppelin." Both Andrews and Conner chuckled. "They spotted the commies settin' up some kinda base a few clicks south o' here. Reckon they wanna establish a foot-hold here for their invasion."
"Do you have any medics with you?" Captain Andrews asked. "My unit's been through the brunt of the assault force and needs to rest."
"With all respect, sir," Private Gonzalez spoke up. "We're not tired. We want to keep fighting."
"Is this unit ready for duty?" Captain Andrews asked.
"Sir, yes, sir!" they replied with one voice.
"We'd sure appreciate the help," Sergeant Conner added.
"Then climb aboard," Captain Andrews ordered. "We've got a base to take out."
"I'll get on the horn to Defense Department," Conner stated. "That Lieutenant Lee's been after you ever since we lost contact with you." Sergeant Conner disappeared into the bowels of the tank while Captain Andrews' unit climbed aboard the Bulldog tank for departure. As the tank started to move, Sergeant Conner handed the radio CB to the captain.
"It's good to hear you're still with us, captain," the Lieutenant's voice said. "Unfortunately, something terrible has happened. The Soviet's eastern fleet attacked New York as well, at the same time as their DC invasion. They've destroyed the Statue of Liberty!"
(AN: As promised, the Allies [at least the Americans] get their appearance. Lieutenant Lee is obviously Eva [RA2's Eva], but, like with Zofia, we'll have to use the surname when addressing them in a formal manner [chain of command, motherfucker! do you speak it?]. Carville, of course, is being portrayed as he was in RA2 and RA1: Retaliation. As for why he hasn't aged much, we'll just say that he's been in fairly good health [for someone who drinks and smokes] and actually is older than he looks: after all, William Shatner is in his 80s and still seems as energetic and lively as in, say, his fifties or sixties. Also, based on his videos in Retaliation [which i never played, even though we once had a PS1], of course we had to introduce him arguing on the phone with someone.)
(What do you think so far? Interesting? Anything good? What do you think about the two commanders so far [Andrews and Lazarev]? The irony is that while I wrote Lazarev as "my character" [even having to nerf him heavily before daring to start writing], there is some of me in Captain Andrews. His physical appearance is based on someone who i had considered a friend long ago, but his backstory of coming from a military family is sort of from my own personal experience: the men on both sides of my extended family have served. Also, they are ideologically switched: the American commander, due to his past, is very family and community-oriented [whether it's the entire US people or the company under his command], while the Soviet commander, due to his past, is very individualistic and solitary. Any of you have anything else to add?)
