Chapter 4 – Two Hours In Tokyo

The day of the execution arrived quickly; a bit too quickly, for all parties.

On Darlton's end, simply finding a suitably defensible location for the event was a chore and a half, given that in the end, the area that they occupied was still militarily considered a hostile country. In the end, the consensus reached by the general and his advisers landed them in the courtyard of the Tokyo Imperial Palace.

To their north and west sat Kokyo Higashi Gyoen, the once-beautiful emerald grasses and gardens now scorched and cratered, stretching out for several thousand meters like a classic No Man's Land. This particular avenue of approached was thoroughly covered by a hastily-prepared minefield, courtesy of Andreas's personal engineering detachment, that stretched from the gardens' south-central and straight north to the opposite artificial canal, with not a single gap in between. Concertina wire was strung in rows across the stretch in alternating patterns, and two hundred meters from the palace, several pre-fab guard towers had been erected, complete with searchlights, machine guns, and thermal-scope-armed guardsmen.

To the south and east lay stretches of the same artificial canal that surrounded the entire garden and palace area; and beyond that sat the rest of the government district, as well as a part of the commercial district. Little Birds and Blackhawks flew regular patrol patterns over this part of the city; and Glasgows and Humvees, as well as the occasional Bradley infantry fighting vehicle and Abrams main battle tank, formed blockades and buzzed up and down almost every street.

In short, Darlton had over a third of his Eighth Infantry Division in on the deal. While his immediate theater supervisors were less than thrilled with his expenditure of resources, the Major General himself saw it as a necessary evil, especially considering that his tier commanders worked best in concert, to balance each other out. The relatively even mix of nobility, scholars, and gifted commoners served quite well in accomplishing that, keeping the former from making brash, life-wasting decisions, and the latter from sitting back on their laurels indecisively.

For the moment, the middle-aged general sat at his desk in the palace itself – the office having formerly belonged to an official of some sort who had been executed – and was shuffling through the previous day's field reports. A knock came on the excessively opulent double doors, and Darlton buzzed the newcomer through.

"Sir," a male officer entered, a pair of double gold bars on his collar denoting his rank. "Captain Allen Hamilton, Sixth Aerial Scouting Wing, Fourth Battalion: reporting as ordered, General."

"Take a seat, Captain Hamilton, I'll be with you in a moment," Darlton gestured to the pair of plush armchairs sitting in front of the desk without looking up. He continued sorting through the reports as Hamilton complied; though unbeknownst to the captain, he was actually observing the man very carefully.

'Allen Hamilton, age twenty-six; second son of Alicia and Derek Hamilton, a bank teller and a carpenter, respectively,' Darlton recited in his head. 'Worked through high school and entered Berkley, over half of which was covered by merit-based scholarships, and the rest by his saved wages. Graduated with a Bachelor's in Civil Engineering, and minored in Military History. Showed a high aptitude for squad- and platoon-level tactics in OTS, and earned his gold stripes during the Siege of Ait Benhaddou, Morroco, by successfully recovering three platoons' worth of Britannian soldiers trapped behind enemy lines from a failed push and leading them safely back to a friendly FOB. Calm under pressure, polite, respectful, and a very modest and competent individual overall.' The assessment was confirmed as the young captain sat wordlessly and comfortably at attention – God only knows how, that position was damned uncomfortable for long stretches of time – while waiting to be addressed.

After another five minutes of relatively comfortable silence, Darlton finally looked up from his papers, blinking away the spots from his eyes caused by the sudden shift of attention. "Captain, I'd like to start off by commending you on your exemplary record for your relatively short period of service. Your ingenuity following the disaster at Ait Bendahhou saved over a hundred Britannian lives, all while taking only three friendly casualties, and dealing none to the various potentially hostile civilian populations that you were forced to bypass."

"Thank you, sir," Allen replied with a weary smile as he recalled the messy affair, "But I find it unnecessary to be commended for simply doing my job."

"And if every officer in this army could share that mindset, we'd be unstoppable," Darlton grunted, only half in jest. "In any case, Allen – you don't mind if I call you Allen, do you?" At the man's gesture of acquiescence, he continued, "I have a task that I feel is best placed with you and your chopper wing." Allen remained silent, which Andreas took as his sign to elaborate. He meshed his fingers together in front of his face and frowned slightly.

"The Japanese resistance leader seems to have a lot more resources available to him than we'd first anticipated. We've been receiving reports of machine gun-armed pickup trucks and cars circulating throughout the lightly-covered commercial and residential districts, as well as a homemade gun truck or two – these rebels are gearing up, fast and hard. Now, normally this wouldn't be a problem; obviously under normal circumstances, some gun-toting civvies in hatchbacks and beaters don't exactly stack up against Humvees and tanks."

Andreas sighed deeply and fished a cigar out of a drawer, offering one to Allen, who politely declined with a wave of his hand. "Unfortunately, these are far less than normal circumstances, and their leader seems to be a damned crafty individual. I've gone over the reports from the first attack on our patrols, and upon examining the supply records further, I've discovered that a lot of the dead troops' weaponry and gear was unaccounted for by the investigation team, alongside two Humvees and a Glasgow."

"A Glasgow, sir?" Allen interjected incredulously.

"Yes, the pilot was a minor noble upstart; probably let his pride get the best of him and got shot out of the cockpit or something. In any case, these resources in insurgent hands represent a serious threat; even more so with a capable and confident strategist and tactician."

"And where are my wing and I brought into this, sir?"

"Our largest problem is that, due to the recent influx of press at this event, we can't safely call in large-scale air support without fear of media backlash that would eventually reach the homeland. The Blackhawks and Apaches are still capable of making gun runs, but their tracking capabilities are limited when faced with this type of environment, coupled with fast-moving targets such as the insurgents' Technicals. So, I'm giving the go-ahead for you to have half of your wing outfitted for full CAS capabilities. I want you to put your best pilots into the CAS birds, and they will be tasked with tracking down and eliminating high-mobility targets."

"I understand, sir; we won't let you down." The captain nodded resolutely – more to himself than anything – and snapped to his feet, offering a sharp salute. Darlton stood slowly and returned the gesture.

"Dismissed; get your first flight in the air in twenty."

"Yes sir." Allen executed a textbook about-face and walked out.

Darlton turned his chair and stared out the window at the residential district to the north; as he watched, a pillar of smoke rose into the air off in the distance, followed closely by the sound and shockwave from the original explosion. A Blackhawk moved in to investigate, only to be peppered by small-arms fire from the ground, and then blasted from the sky by an RPG. An Apache followed shortly after, raining a hail of autocannon rounds down into the streets.

He watched the subsequent firestorm with a grave visage, and a Thousand-Yard Stare as he was lost in his memories. 'We may've bitten off more than we can chew here…'

-X-X-X-

"Dammit, Minami! You cut the machine gun mount six centimeters too short on this one!" Naoto barked over to his friend, who was standing by with a cutting torch and a welding mask.

"Well sorry! Sugiyama's the master welder, why not get him over here?!"

"Because we need him to cut the custom armor plating for the gun trucks!" the half-breed teenager groaned, running a hand over the side of his face. "Weld the rods back together and then cut it right!"

"That won't work! The rod's integrity has been compromised by the first cut!"

"Here," Jin cut in before the shouting match could escalate, slipping on a pair of thick gloves and snatching the mask off of Minami's head. He took the torch and approached the pickup, jumping into the back and negotiating the hose into a safe spot for him to work on the two centimeter-thick metal tube that served as an impromptu machine gun pintle mount. "Gimme the mounting piece," he called over to one of the other crewmembers, who jogged over carrying the fabricated steel gun housing. The man held the piece in place while Jin cut off a six-centimeter piece of tubing, and then grabbed a scrap piece of steel plating, cutting it into a four-by-four square. The square was welded onto the top of the already-present tube, and then the shorter piece was added on top of the square, culminating in the final attachment of the pintle mount.

Jin took the proffered M2 machine gun and slid it seamlessly into the mount, bolting it into place without a problem. "Voila," he gestured to the gun with a grandiose wave of his hands, "Improvisation at its finest."

"Seriously man how the hell do you do all this shit?" Han queried as he walked up, his shoulder wrapped in bandages from his close encounter of the Knightmare kind.

"Books, video games, high school, and my uncle," Jin replied noncommittally. "Seriously, most of the stuff I do isn't really that hard to pull off with proper research and a bit of creativity."

"Yeah, well, we don't exactly have internet access anymore," Naoto deadpanned.

"And that is why I hold the distinct advantage in that category for having done it beforehand," Jin smirked. "Not much to be done about it." He removed the M2 from the mount and then handed it to the crewman, who brought it back to the Humvee. "In any case, we still need to go over how we're going to do this."

"It's a pretty simply job by the looks of it," Han shrugged. "Aoi and Sugiyama lead eight of our Technicals and gun trucks, accompanied by two vans of assorted fighters, in a feint against the bridge on the east side of the palace. They make it as far as they can before they start taking substantial losses, then retreat and draw the Britannian security forces out to overextension. Meanwhile, the main force of the rest of us closes in on foot after they've gone out; we hit the place, bag everybody, and book it back to Shinjuku in armored vans and cars."

"No plan survives contact with the enemy, Han," Jin replied wryly. "For one, we've failed to account for Britannian air support; while their jets probably won't be allowed to hit us thanks to the close proximity of the press, they do still have gunships that could seriously ruin our day."

"Which is why we've tracked down a bunch of RPGs and one heat-seeking Stinger," Minami offered. "Sugiyama came back with them last night; said he called in a favor from his cousin across town."

"That's my guy," Jin grinned in satisfaction. "What about heavy armor and Knightmares?"

"Mines," Han answered simply. "We found a fuck-ton of anti-armor mines that were left behind by an SDF engineering battalion north of Shinjuku. I've got a team going in half an hour beforehand and sapping the projected avenues of approach."

"Good man. Snipers?" The older man hefted Jin's M24.

"Countersnipers – that's gonna be my department."

"Han, I could kiss you right now."

"If you were a voluptuous female, I would take you up on that. Given that you are not, however; stick to watching my six, boss man."

"Deal." Jin vaulted over the roof of the truck, slid down the hood, and landed squarely in front. "How's our time table looking, Inoue?" he called out the blue-haired woman, who sat across the area at a desk with a stolen military laptop.

"Execution is scheduled for high noon, Jin!" Inoue replied, typing away furiously, "We've got five hours until show time."

"What're you doing over there, anyway?" Naoto asked.

"We snagged some GPS units from a rental agency on the edge of the district; I'm trying to upload the assault routes into each one and then upgrade their processing capabilities to allow them to adapt to obstacles along the way."

"You can do that?" Jin asked incredulously, striding over to Inoue's space and glancing over her shoulder. Sure enough, there were nearly a dozen screens open, all of them streaming gibberish code that only the woman herself seemed to understand, as her eyes darted along, and her fingers danced feverishly. Ten seconds later, the stream stopped, and each screen showed a hundred percent completion. "Well fuck me…" he muttered quietly in astonishment.

"If you can find me an easier way to do this, I might take you up on that," the blunette replied huskily, panting and sweating lightly; honestly, Jin found it more than a little bit attractive.

"Guess I'm gonna have to learn coding, then…"

"Jin's new quest to get into Inoue's pants aside," Naoto called out loudly, "Let's get geared up and go over final instructions, people!"

Across the – formerly – abandoned garage that the fighters occupied, group leaders shot back calls of affirmation. Down on the floor, teams of mechanics and welders huddled around pickups, putting down metal plates and pintle mounts in the beds of the trucks for machine guns. Up on the catwalks, logistics people scrambled about with weapons, ammunition, and materials. Off to the sides of the main floor, Inoue had assembled a small computer team to put the entire plan down electronically on stolen (and thoroughly drive-wiped) military computers.

From above, several of the group leaders skipped ladders and vaulted over the catwalk railings, landing and rolling smoothly to their feet.

"Was parkour like, the big thing around here before all of this?" Han glanced at Jin, who nodded.

"We used to have freerunning competitions across Shinjuku."

"Anyway," Naoto cleared his throat to get everyone's attention, "To make sure we're all on the same page, all team leaders will now repeat back their objectives and plans of execution. Insertion team! You're up first."

Sugiyama and Aoi stepped forward, along with the Technical and van drivers. "First convoy moves out at 1115 hours, sharp. Transit time to the staging grounds is fifteen minutes – no exceptions. Once there, we'll await a signal from Naoto, Jin, or Han, and we'll go streaming down the east highway, approaching the bridge from the north. We'll get to the bridge and attempt to cross until we start to take losses, at which point we'll begin a retrograde movement to the east, and then back to the north."

"Good. Sappers and tank destroyers!"

"Sapper Taskforce Blue moves out at 1045 hours, reaching the staging grounds one click east of the highway at 1100 sharp. Starting at the mall area and radiating out to the south and west, two-man sapper teams will lace the cratered roads with anti-vehicle mines, which will be discreetly marked by blue spray-painted crosses to the immediate right of the mine locations – drivers, do not forget that direction if you value your lives. Once completed, sappers will scatter to the east and take a roundabout route back to the garage."

"TD Taskforce Green moves at 1100 and sets up a click and a half northwest of the execution grounds, on top of the parking garage next to the mall. We break off in pairs and freerun to positions across the rooftops east of the gardens, and open up on Britannian armor as the first convoy moves in; tanks and IFVs take priority, as well as Glasgows if we're sure we can hit them. Once we're out of ammo, we'll abandon our positions and scatter to the east. Launchers must be saved at all costs for a later date."

"Excellent! Sharpshooters, you're up!" Han stepped up, his rifle resting on his shoulder.

"Sniper teams scatter from the garages at 1030 and cross the rooftops to pre-selected shooting positions; all shooters should be in place by 1100. The marksmen furthest from the target area will open up on Britannian perimeter troops at 1125 to pave the way for the convoy – machine gun and anti-armor teams are priority targets. If the Brits bring their own snipers into the mix, our shooters will relocate to auxiliary positions and take up counter-sniper operations. Everyone abandons their positions once ground-level operations are concluded and get back to the garages in any way they can, within reason."

Jin grinned in satisfaction and grabbed a folding metal chair from Inoue's desk, slamming it down on the cement floor and plopping down backwards, his arms resting on the back. "Alright, it sounds like everything is in order."

Everyone else looked at the young Nakata curiously. "But Jin…" Naoto spoke up, "You still haven't told any of us about the main force's part of the plan."

Jin didn't reply, instead allowing his grin to widen.

-X- 11:20 AM -X-

Allen's MH-6 Little Bird chopper circled the palace/execution grounds in a broad orbit, his copilot/gunner constantly scanning the streets and buildings to the north, east, and south. Showtime was forty minutes out; the prisoners had just been shuttled to the site, and were now waiting with two platoons of security inside the palace's main hall. If the other rebels were going to do anything, now was the time.

"I've got movement on the north end of the freeway," the gunner reported over their headset connection.

"Hamilton to base, Hamilton to base – we've got potential contact, north end of the freeway," Allen relayed quickly over the radio.

"Acknowledged, Captain. We're dispatching a roadblock immediately." Down below, a pair of M1A3 Abrams MBTs rolled out and blocked up the freeway, with an M2 Bradley IFV rolling up between then, autocannon at the ready.

But, just as the first few UID vehicles of the convoy approached, a triplet of explosive charges detonated directly beneath the roadblock, and all three of the armored vehicles fell with the freeway. From the building next door, a group of burly insurgents tossed several steel planks down onto the road with great effort, whereupon more of them spidered up onto the freeway and placed them over the gap. Two of them were downed by reactionary fire from the Britannian positions, but the job was done.

The machine gun that had downed the insurgents – along with several other positions – suddenly fell in quick succession. "All units be advised, we have enemy sharpshooters in the buildings. We cannot locate the shooters from command; all friendly units are advised to stay in cov-" The radio suddenly fell silent, and Allen glanced down; one of the windows of the pre-fab radio direction tower had been shot out, presumably along with the radiomen themselves.

"All units should also be advised; the RDC has been compromised. All radio traffic is being redirected through General Darlton's mobile C2 suite, operating on frequency one-eight-one-point-six megahertz…"

"Bring us in for a pass on that convoy, Cap!" his gunner called out, the Little Bird's miniguns already spinning up.

"Roger that, El-Tee," Allen replied, swinging the chopper around and lining up perpendicular to the freeway. But before the lieutenant beside him could get a shot off, the windows of the building in front of them lit up with muzzle flashes, and the windscreen was suddenly full of holes. Not only that, but Allen's gunner was suddenly full of holes, and his own leg was spontaneously numbed. He glanced down, and saw a splash of blood across the instrument panel in front of his leg, where a bullet had passed through his calf. "SHIT! All aircraft be advised, do not attempt gun runs on the convoy – repeat, do not line up for runs - there are more insurgents in the buildings! This is Hamilton, I am hit and my gunner is dead; I'm returning to the pads for treatment and repair."

"Viper Six-Two, Viper Six-Three, clear the pads; Cap's coming down, Priority One." Over the temporary helipads erected on the east side of the palace grounds, a pair of Little Birds from Allen's chopper wing hastily took off, allowing the wounded – and slightly dizzy – Captain to come in for a bumpy landing. He touched down without letting off of his throttle as much as necessary, and the chopper ended up bouncing twice roughly, before skidding to a precarious stop at the edge of the elevated pre-fab pad.

"MEDIC!"

"WE'RE ALREADY HERE, YOU IDIOT! NOW GET THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY!" A triplet of combat medics rushed onto the pad as several infantrymen moved to the ground below and held the chopper stable manually.

One of the meds, a bulky young man with his sleeves rolled up and a red cross-emblazoned white bandana tied around his bicep, practically ripped off the pilot's side door and started checking Hamilton. The man's first observation was the large chunk missing from the Captain's left calf. "Somebody get a fucking stretcher over here, NOW!" the medic bellowed, reaching in and unbuckling Hamilton from his crash webbing, lifting him with ease and surprising care. His two companions came up behind him with a stretcher held between them, and accepted the wounded pilot before jogging off swiftly.

-X-X-X-

From his command station within a circle of IFVs, Darlton shook his head in shock and mild revulsion. The entire process, from the hit to the hand-off, had taken barely two minutes.

"It's always the young, bright ones…" the division's Command Sergeant Major shook his head sadly. "They go out there full of spirit, and come back full of holes."

"Cut all that depressing crap, Sarge-Major," a First Sergeant chastised, apparently having been watching the Major General's shift in expressions, "You're downing the General." The Sergeant Major finally glanced over and jumped a bit.

"My apologies, sir-" the senior NCO started quickly, only to be cut off as the General raised a hand.

"It's fine, Sergeant Major," Darlton replied quietly, "A dose of reality, that's all." Before any of the commanders could carry on further, their radios crackled in unison.

"All perimeter units be advised: the enemy has broken through Phase Line Echo! Repeat, Phase Line Echo has been breached! All available units regroup on Phase Lines Delta and Charlie!"

"Dammit! How could they take the bridgehead so quickly?!" the Sergeant Major demanded in a frenzy.

"What happened to the Knightmare detachment?! They should have been standing by at Echo!" the First Sergeant added with equal fervor.

"The pilots are pinned down at the motor pool by snipers," one of the communications team reported evenly as his hands raced across the keyboard in front of him, "And the bridgehead was taken out by more sniper fire, as well as several scattered RPG teams."

"We need to remain calm, gentlemen," the communications XO declared sternly. "The enemy is counting on this confusion to carry out their objectives. We need to collect ourselves, reorganize the defense, and re-establish the chain of command in the field."

"Ex-Oh has got the right idea," the First Sergeant agreed. The man then donned a Kevlar vest and web gear, grabbed a rifle from one of the vehicles, and slipped out of the command ring, rushing headlong into the fight.

"Where is that crazy bastard going?!" an officer shouted incredulously

"He's going to do what none of the rest of us has the guts to do," Darlton replied calmly, watching as the First Sergeant reached Charlie and began rallying the troops, barking orders to whole way.

Seconds later, the man's lapels glinted, and the First Sergeant went down with a bloody chunk missing from his shoulder. Two more enlisted men went down around him, and another of them made the thousand-yard sprint for the command vehicles.

The young corporal managed to arrive intact – if one were to disregard the clearly bloodied bandages wrapped around his midsection – and collapsed in a heaving, sweating heap.

"Those snipers are tearing us apart, sir!" the disheveled man gasped up to the general, "Without air support, there's no way to get rid of them! They seem to go down, and then the bastards pop right back up somewhere else not a minute later!"

"They planned this," one of the officers grumbled, "They know that we can't strike at civilian structures with the press around."

"Then put the damned press in the entrance hall or something! Have them interview the damned prisoners for all I care, but we need that air support!" the Sergeant Major barked resolutely. He turned to the runner and glanced at the chevrons on the young man's shoulders. "Corporal," the NCO spoke up, kneeling beside the exhausted man and helping him into a sitting position, "I need you to do one more thing for me, son – can you make it back to the front?"

"Y-yes, Sergeant Major," the corporal panted, "I can make it, I swear!"

"Good. I want you to get back up there, find the nearest officer or senior NCO that actually looks like they give a damn that their men are getting killed, and tell them to escort the press back into the building as quickly as possible- stay with me son," the Sergeant Major slapped the young man's cheek lightly as he seemed to drift in and out of consciousness; the corporal snapped up, trying desperately to comply. "After that, tell them to call in gun runs from the air support; we'll be granting clearance for it shortly. When all of that's done, get inside to the medical wing; you've earned it, my boy. Repeat your orders back to me."

"G-get back to the front, find an officer or NCO that gives a damn, get the press inside, call down the thunder, get to the medical bay," the corporal reiterated dutifully, trying to pull himself to his feet. The Sergeant Major nodded in satisfaction and helped him up; the young man steadied himself on the side of the IFV, took a few deep breaths, and then was off at a limping sprint.

Darlton watched the half-conscious corporal's progress in astonishment alongside the rest of the gathered command staff. The wounded man stumbled several times – moves which looked to have saved his life on multiple occasions – and miraculously managed to cross the veritable No Man's Land that the palace lawns had become. There, the red-faced and sweating soldier flagged down a Sergeant First Class and relayed the instructions, which the sergeant in turn passed to a First Lieutenant who was directing the organized chaos. It was at this point that the corporal collapsed and fell unconscious; but he had done his job well, and the SFC packed the young man in a fireman's carry to the medical bay.

"Such perseverance and dedication…" one of the officers muttered in disbelief. "Are all of our enlisted really like that?"

"Unfortunately no, given that a number of members of the command staff see fit to view their subordinates as disposable," the Sergeant Major shot back with more than a bit of barely-disguised vindictive pleasure. "I recognize him from Captain Anderson's Alpha Company; Anderson takes good care of his kids, it would seem."

"Anderson is now up for a pay raise and promotion, along with the rest of his company," Darlton declared in all seriousness. "Let that be a lesson to the rest of you: while Officer's School and your blue-blooded daddies may not speak of it; this is my division, and we are a meritocracy. You're not getting jack-shit from me until you've shown that you deserve it. Your subordinates are key to that particular bit of show-and-tell as well."

"We might want to save the policy recitation for later, sir!" the communications XO declared, "The insurgents just lobbed a bunch of Molotov Cocktails onto the southeast lawn and set it ablaze!"

The staff peered over the tops of the IFVs, and sure enough, the grounds to their east were engulfed in a rapidly-growing firestorm.

"They're pulling back!" a cry rang out from the front, followed closely by ragged cheers.

"What the hell…?!" the Sergeant Major queried, "That can't be right! We still have the prisoners!"

"I've got it here on screen," a tech declared, scooting aside to show the staff the situation. The link was to the camera of an RQ-7 "Shadow" Tactical UAV, which was orbiting above the immediate zone of engagement at ten thousand feet. "See those six big orange blobs on the street? Those are the insurgents' Technicals," the comms tech explained. "Everything to the west of them is our guys. And as you'll take note, they're currently moving east – they're on the run, gentlemen."

"Well what about the enemy snipers?" Darlton questioned.

"We don't know at this time, sir. This particular model drone's thermal cams aren't a high enough resolution to pick out individual snipers in our current environment without having to drop below Air Command's established "Altitude Safety Net". The gains don't justify the risk of putting one of our only unmanned aerial reconnaissance vehicles on the line."

"Get in touch with our counter snipers and ask for a status report, then," the general ordered with frustration growing in his voice.

"Yes sir," the tech replied quickly, sliding back into his station and tapping back into the comm channels. "Grizzly Alpha 1-0, this is Grizzly Actual – Big Bear is requesting a SitRep."

"… Grizzly Actual, this is Grizzly Bravo 2-1; my team has taken command. Alpha Unit was annihilated in the opening salvo," a voice came back, the transmission laden with static. Darlton grimaced and grabbed a spare headset.

"Bravo 2-1, what is your current status?" the general asked sharply.

"Big Bear! My apologies sir, things are a bit hectic over here. We're heavily engaged with scout-sniper teams and hidden infantry; they're laying down quite a suppressive hail in the eastern administrative sector. The enemy convoy has already escaped, sir – destroying three Bradleys, two Abrams, and two Glasgows in the process, while only losing one gun truck. They were ready for us, I swear it! The armor crews were reporting losing tracks to mines, for God's sake! What the hell were the patrols doing over here?!"

"Apparently sitting around with their heads up their asses, 2-1," Darlton grumbled back. "Consolidate the remainder of your teams around the riverside and establish perimeter overwatch; something about this doesn't sit right with me…"

"Affirmative – Bravo 2-1, out."

The field fell silent at that moment, and Darlton was content to leave it that way.

It was not to be.

BOOM!

"There's been an explosion! Three of the northeast watch towers have gone down!"

"Delta Company has come under fire from the edge of the canal!"

"Reports are coming in from Echo! The main hall has been breached! IT'S THE INSURGENTS!"

To Be Continued…