Excerpt from the New Frontiersman, 21st November 1973:

Today this morning, our brave boys of the 82nd airborne division were paradropped into Central Paris, weakening commie defensive positions and allowing further forces to move in. Despite heavy Soviet defence cordons, our indomitable pilots were able to penetrate commie AA networks and drop our paratroopers into the city center, where they gave those godless Reds what they deserved. Already, it seems that the Blue Eagle flies from the Eiffel Tower.

This a step closer in our final securing of victory over the evil that dominates Europe and seeks to take away the very freedom that you and I hold dear. We at the New Frontiersman strongly urge our leaders to show no mercy or quarter to our heartless enemies, for they will show us none. We also urge our readers to do everything they can to contribute to the war effort, be it reporting any overheard liberal comments not in favour of our war effort or even joining up. The United States, and by extension the Allied Nations, need every man and woman we can get. Everyone who believes in freedom at any cost has the potential to become another famed defender of justice like George Washington, General Patton, or President McCarthy.

We salute our boys, and hope that they will show no mercy to those who seek to destroy our way of life.

**

"Alright you apes, you wanna live forever? Get your 'chutes on! Drop's coming in a few minutes!"

Crammed among the sweaty, adrenaline-pumped soldiers in the troop bay of this Century Bomber, Irving readied his M16 rifle and uttered a prayer. He could hear the puttering roars of the jet engines over the chatter and the distant booming of flak, with the aircraft juddering worriedly in rhythm with each boom. With no windows, nothing to see apart from the muscle of the guys around him, he was trying to shake off the overwhelming sense of claustrophobia and fear. He was trying to shake the feeling that this was in all likelihood a suicide mission; an attempt to test Soviet defences in Paris, a city they were not going to give up willingly. Even if he survived the drop, there was the question of the thousands of bloodthirsty Reds willing to tear his guts out, the divisions of unstoppable tanks...no. He shrug that all off. He would do his duty for Uncle Sam. He would do his part for freedom.

"Oh god. What the fuck am I doing here? I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die, I'm gonna..." Clayton, a young Bostonian conscript began chattering and juddering. His words were drowned out as the sound of anti-air batteries and faint explosions increased, as everyone began to ready their weapons. The black guys, of course, had been given the dangerous missile launchers and barely any body armor compared to the kit he was wearing. Of course, they didn't care—the opportunity to be someone, the slick recruit vids, the propaganda, had done it all for them and everyone else here.

The plane violently shook as a boom came from outside, louder than any previously. A red light came on, and Irving began sweating profusely. He was not going to be recorded as some random grunt who died shot down far from his native land—hell no. He grabbed his assault rifle—Vera, he was going to call her. With this little bitch, he'd kill a thousand commies. A million. They'd write fucking poems to him back home in Connecticut. People would want signed copies of his autobiography.

"Drop in sixty!" shouted the colonel, and everyone readied. His stomach began to fall as the bomber began to descend, with the distinct screaming of Soviet SAMs and DAKKA emplacements audible over the noise of alarms, engines, chatter, and the cocking of assault weaponry. Slowly, the troop bay doors began to slide open, letting sunlight seep inside, forcing him to momentarily cover his eyes. He saw the bomber flying alongside this one, superimposed against cloud and sunlight. Then he saw it burst into flames, sending blazing shards of metal and men downwards.

"Go! Go! Go! Godspeed, y'all!"

Irving waited a few moments as the guys in front of him leapt out, then followed. Immediately, the adrenaline rushed through his body even more as the cold wind hit his face. Below, he could see Paris imposed beneath him like a relief model, with columns of smoke rising from different points of the city. He could see the flaming remains of the other bomber spiralling down like a meteorite, impacting into a city block. As soon as he felt the time was right, he pulled his parachute cord, letting spread out above him. In front of him, he could see further wings of Centuries plough on through the clouds, surrounded by black explosions of flak and shrapnel bursts of SAMs. Dozens of other parachutes were springing up around him, with the expressions of terror on the faces of some of the poor bastards clearly visible. Quickly, he checked beneath him—he was aiming for the Champ de Mars, the green space behind the Eiffel tower. Across the city, more clusters of parachutes were descending, alongside the dozens of missile contrails and flaming pieces of wreckage as more Centuries succumbed to the flak filling the clouds.

He suddenly his trousers sag as a flak burst exploded a dozen meters to his right, tinged red with blood as three of his fellows were reduced to shredded chunks of meat and cloth. Below, he could see his target area coming up—and fucking hell, there were a lot of Reds swarming down there. He could see the distinctive shape of the Eiffel tower coming up, with weapons emplacements positioned on it and red banners hanging down its side. Soon as this day's over, he told himself, I'll be hanging our flags from there. Then, he cried out as smaller clouds of flak exploded around him and his comrades, holing their parachutes and cutting apart some of their combat gear with the shrapnel. With the ground now coming back, he could distinctly make out individual Soviet troops milling around behind sandbags and barbed wire as they fired up—and around him, the others fired back with bullets and grenades, scattering the guys down below.

He braced himself as the ground came up, and his body shook as he hit the grass. Scooping himself up, he unhooked his parachute and readied Vera, letting off several rounds at a nearby flak trooper—no doubt responsible for blasting apart some of his guys up there—and watched in satisfaction as his unshaven face contorted in pain and he collapsed to the ground, his oversized flak launcher clattering to the side. Around him, the other paratroopers landed, spraying the area with bullets. A commissar among the sandbags, dropping a pile of leaflets he was carrying, cried out in Russian, but collapsed to the floor after several dozen rounds cut through him.

"Secure this position!" cried out Colonel Johnson, the squad leader, brandishing a friggin' M85 machinegun as he crammed it with ammo. Next to him, Arnold, one of the black guys, was revving up a minigun—of course, for people like him, the heavier, more recoil-producing weapons were priority. Forming a circular perimeter around the central part of the Champs De Mars, the paratroops began to readjust the PK machineguns on the sandbags.

"Remember the plan—we repel any counterattacks on this location, and then we secure that big thing there!" Johnson continued to bellow, indicating the Eiffel tower down the park. "Any of you pussies don't put your fucking heart into this, I'll get you if the commies don't!" Murmurings of acknowledgement filtered through the troops.

"Yo! Air-heat, incoming!" One of the black dudes brandishing a Javelin missile launcher took aim as a Twinblade appeared from behind one of the buildings lining the park. As it approached, he fired, the missile impacting straight into the gunship's cockpit and sending it spiralling down onto the Avenue de la Bourdonnais, the explosion overturning several civilian vehicles.

"They know we're fucking here! Stay sharp!" shouted someone. Irving ducked behind a sandbag, placing hi s machinegun on it. Down the Champ De Mars, he could see vehicle fumes coming from above the trees as the growling of tank engines grew nearer. As if out of nowhere, dozens of Soviet conscripts appeared charging out of the trees down the park, with a truck with a speaker tower behind them, blaring messages in Russian. They were screaming like fucking demons, shooting their rifles in his direction, seemingly never-ending. Irving resisted the urge to scream, and prepared to fire. Behind the wave of conscripts he could see Sickles and Hammer tanks approaching—yes, they were in deep shit alright.

"Stand aside, y'all!" It was Arnold, preparing his minigun. Stepping above the sandbags, he started up his weapons as the conscripts came in.

"Fuckers!" he shouted as he fired up the gun. Bullet casings spat out of the side as the noise of it almost drowned everything else—like some demonic chainsaw.

"FUCKERS!" Conscripts left and right collapsed to the ground as they were reduced to bloodied sacks of meat and cloth in seconds. The ground was engulfed with dust as missed rounds impacted into it.

"FUUUCCKKKERRRRS!" One conscript managed to charge almost within throwing range. Instantly, several dozen rounds impacted straight into his face, blasting his head into a red paste that splattered onto the ground among the other mutilated, barely recognizable bodies.

"FFFFFFFFFFUUUUCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRS!" Arnold's voice reached almost hysteria pitch as finally rounds zinged past him, grazing him on the shoulder. Collapsing to the ground in pain among the piles of spent round casings on the ground around him, the others opened fire on the stragglers. Irving selected one poor limping bastard and squeezed the trigger, grinning as he collapsed to the ground. Let him go back to Moscow in a body bag, he thought.

"Incoming!" One of the sandbags was blown apart and the troops behind it thrown backwards, their bodies contorting into positions Irving had never imagined were possible. The Hammer tank had moved into position and was firing, while the Sickles leapt into the air and came crashing down straight among them. It was like Dunkerque all over fucking again, only up to eleven. Quickly, Irving tried to take down the gunners on the nearest sickle, but the sheer noise and panic of the situation was disorientating him, and his rounds ricocheting all around it. One of the weapons of the nearest Sickle started up, pummelling one of the demo experts with several hundred AP rounds. Within seconds, all that was left of him was a bloodied mess of scrambled intestines and shredded uniform.

The Sickles then collapsed to the ground as the others finally took out the legs, with one of the other guys leaping on and taking out the gunners with dual Desert Eagles. Who the fuck did that guy think he was, Tanya? True to the form, he was blown aside as the tank fired again, blowing man and dirt into the sky in a geyser. Moments later, half a dozen Javelin missiles and rocket-propelled grenades came in its direction, impacting straight into the cockpit and blasting the turret straight off. For one moment, there was silence, save for the flickering of the smouldering sickles and the booming and clattering of flak and gunfire in the distance. Irving looked up into the sky, and could vaguely see what looked like wings of Artemis bombers flying around up there, with the heavens covered in missile contrails and black spots of AA bursts. Around him, he could see the wounded being tended to and the gory remains of shredded conscripts and friendlies alike—and then the stench of blood, weapon smoke, and dirt hit him.

"Save the mourning for later!" shouted Johnson, cocking his rifle dramatically. Typical—fucker always thought Hollywood theatrics would get them up in times like this. "Objective two secured! Now we move on to the big one!" Forming up behind him, the squad followed Johnson as he began hurrying down towards the massive tower of steel looming up ahead. They paid no heed to the bullet-ridden wounded behind, slowly dying from loss of blood—what use would they be?

As they approached the foot of the Eiffel tower, he noted more conscripts holed up behind sandbags, with sentry guns too. He dived as bullets were sprayed in their direction, and they replied with grenades and even more bullets in kind. Suddenly, Johnson collapsed to the ground screaming, his shoulder covered in blood, and Irving quickly scanned the area ahead through the sights of his rifle—and there he noticed, on one of the girders of the tower legs, the distinctive shape of a Spetnatz trooper, wielding a Dragunov sniper rifle. As the others continued to move on, exchanging fire with the scattering conscripts at the foot of the tower, he crouched behind a sandbag pile and took aim. He sprayed several rounds in the guy's direction, but they seemed to merely impact around him. Immediately, the guy lowered his rifle and looked around—shit. Ducking, he began to reload his rifle when a round impacted into the soil beside him, cutting through the sandbags. That fucker wanted to play? Fine then.

Poking himself out of cover, he fired again and missed. He had barely enough time to register the flash of the Dragunov's muzzle, and shouted out in pain as he felt an immense agony in his side. He noticed red spreading over the side of his combat gear like paint on paper. Ignoring it, he looked around, and noticed a dead Javelin soldier nearby, his launcher lying beside him. Sparing no thought for his dead fellow, he ran over, another round barely missing him. Scooping up the launcher, he aimed, and smiled in satisfaction as he saw the bastard look up in horror through the sights. He squeezed the trigger, and lowered the launcher as the missile shot across the 300 or so feet separating them. An explosion spread out across one of the legs of the tower. Yup, definitely a kill.

He dropped the launcher and ran over to the others—the area beneath the tower had been secured, judging by the corpses of dead conscripts scattered around. Within a few minutes, he was on the first level of the tower, watching as they rooted out the Soviet combat engineers and troops skulking around there and dismantling the AA emplacements. The others had generally agreed to give him the honor of unfurling the Allied banners from the tower. He ignored the wound in his side. He did not think about the death he had just witnessed. He had done his duty for Uncle Sam—any losses in the event of victory were irrelevant. He looked out across the smokestack-dotted Paris skyline, glimpsing the red beams of Athena satellite cannons far across the city coming down—reinforcements were coming in. The 'City of Lights' was about to take on a whole new meaning.