A/N:
Aurain Orimura: They don't "suddenly have" magic rifles. They have a single working prototype that is hot off the workshop and has yet to be field tested or have production began throughout Imperial workshops.
Wack12: No they have a spent 5.56 cartridge a survivor of Sloppy Joe Hill brought back to his commander. All it did, as it said in the story, was give them the idea of a disposable magic source that pops in and out.
Yoda: If you really loved it you wouldn't drop out after a subplot that's been brewing for 2 chapters and has yet for me to actually take it anywhere.
"Company, attentiuh!"
The voice of First Sergeant of Alpha Troop, Fourth Squadron, Fourth Cavalry Regiment boomed across the open motorpool. His voice reverberated across the pavement, faintly ringing in the ears of the men as it echoed. He smartly about-faced, and as Captain Minh jogged up in front of him, they exchanged crisp salutes. The First Sergeant jogged out from in front of the formation and the commander stepped forwards to replace him.
"Stand at," he announced, and the platoon sergeants repeated the command to their elements. "Ease."
The men relaxed their stances, feet spread, hands behind their backs. All eyes moved towards their commander. The man took a second, taking in the sight in front of him, and said, "Gentlemen, we are one of two armored companies in this division. The only one in this brigade. Let me tell you, we are very fucking important people. The forces we're fighting are nothing close to our level, so a proper armored force is neither required nor practical. However, the tanks we have are vital to the mission. You've all heard the stories of our fellow tankers, our brothers in the Marines, what they fought and what they accomplished."
He began pacing in front of his men slightly, looking at a few in their eyes.
"It is imperative that we maintain their spirit and drive. We must not get sloppy and overconfident, and we must not relent. The enemy will be killed very easily. They will die in huge numbers. It won't feel like a fight. It might question your morals and it might feel like murder. But remember that there's no choice in the matter."
He stopped his pacing in the center, in front of his men.
"They invaded our streets. They decide to fight. And now, they have decided to raid one of their own cities in a fit of banditry and murder. Our technological superiority does not negate this. Our moral stance does not change because we're better at the game. We are not hiding themselves. If they want to jump in front of our guns, that's their choice."
He took another look at the men in front of him. Old and young, fresh and crusty. Experience ranged from fresh privates to seasoned tankers who had seen their share in Iraq. "Company, attention!" The formation snapped back to the position of attention, as rigid as columns of stone. "First Sergeant."
The old NCO came back up to his place and saluted. Minh saluted back, releasing command of the formation. The First Sergeant stepped forwards.
"The commander's exactly right. Anything that happens is with those assholes' permission. We re not barbarians. We take prisoners. If they want to quit, they will have every opportunity. But if they don't, that's their choice." He straightened his posture. "Company, attentiuh! Platoon sergeants, take command of your platoons! Get ready to roll!"
With a final salute, the platoons dismissed. The mechanics went to their M88 recovery vehicles and light wheeled support vehicles, and tankers to their tanks. Sergeant Warren's tank was neatly packed. Medium rucks, which were more assault packs with frames than they were full ruck sacks, were neatly packed into the bustle rack at the rear of the turret, wrapped by a sand-colored tarp in what they called a 'burrito roll.' Extra small arms ammunition filled the rest of the space, and extra POL, petroleum/oils/lubricants, filled the corner sections.
Moreno crawled into the driver hole in the hull, worming his way underneath the bulk of the main gun, while Nash dropped down through the commander hatch and slid his way into the gunner hole. Warren and Guererro dropped into their places at the commander and loader stations respectively. Warren fumbled with his CVC, grabbing at the end of the cable and plugging it into the turret. "Everyone up?"
Guererro gave a thumb up sign, Nash a "yup," and Moreno a "here."
Warren thumbed the transmit button on his CVC. "Four, this is three, we're up, over."
A second later, the two-tank repeated the message, followed by the one-tank. "Four, copy all," the platoon sergeant announced over the net.
The one tank came in over the radio, saying, "All tanks, go to redcon-1 status. Over."
"Uh, what's that?" Moreno asked.
"Start up the tank," Guererro replied. "How fuckin' new are you?"
"Really," the driver answered.
Warren saw Guererro shrug. Fair enough. A second later they heard the whine of the turbine power up, a small, high pitched noise that kicked into a roar after a few seconds. Warren watched with concern as black smoke followed the exhaust, but as the engine continued as it should, he ignored it.
Nash spoke up next. "Hey, set your J-box listening to intercom. Only loader and TC need the radio. We can't get confused on orders."
"Ok."
Over the radio, the commander's voice sounded. "All Destroyer elements, Destroyer Six. Order of march, First, Second, Headquarters, Eighty-Eights, Third. On your go, First. Over."
With that the vehicles began rolling one after another towards the battlefield.
The raiders marched in straight, steady formations. They weren't in step, but that hardly mattered on the battlefield, and their skill and discipline impressed itself on the defenders so plainly that the four Musketeers could see it on their faces. They stretched across the horizon. As a consequence of their formation, they were spread out, giving off the impression of larger numbers than they really had. Although, Wooding felt, it was still an impressive number of bodes.
The first blocks of the formation eventually reached within the hundred and fifty meter kill zone of the defenders' bows. They were hardly accurate at that range, but en mass, they were a potent area weapon. Men were waiting behind the walls as well, ready to loose their arrows, but were waiting on a signal. They had to fire at a higher angle to shoot over the wall, shortening their maximum range. The men on the walls, whether manning ballistas or bows, began unleashing hell on the raiders.
Or, at least, they intended to. Wooding watched as the arrows, bolts, and baseball-sized stones bounced off of thin air in a rough dome shape over the heads of the enemy. "Oh, shit," he said under his breath. "They're not doing shit."
The raiders reformed themselves as the projectiles hit the shield, coming together in a denser formation, raising their shields above their heads. They're smart, he thought. Better to prepare for if that shield breaks than not.
The six of them-the Musketeers, Leilei, and Rory-were perched on the roof of the tallest building near the wall which gave them a view of the field, the gate, and the defenses inside the city itself. "Borges, Flynn, Rory. I'm gonna have you guys go down there pretty soon. The walls are not gonna hold."
The three nodded, Flynn picking up the SAW and bandoleer of belt containers.
Wooding turned to Leilei. "What can you tell me about the magical defense they have?"
"It's a spell," she answered. She peered towards the slight green glow of the spellcaster. "Instead of stopping the projectiles, it's redirecting them. It's more complicated to cast, but more efficient."
"So you have to be strong to get through then?" Wooding asked.
Leilei nodded. "Or heavy."
"How easy would it be to overpower the field?"
"Normally spells are powered by the mage's mana, so it wouldn't take long. But with a shield that size..." She thought for a second. "There has to be an external power source for the redirection field to be that large."
"So don't count on it," he concluded. He scanned the formation ahead of him. Each block of men had a spellcaster in the middle, carrying a staff which emitted a soft green glow. "These guys came prepared. They've got a mage in each formation."
"That's impossible!" Leilei exclaimed. "There's no way they could have gathered so many powerful magic users in one army, let alone skilled enough to cast a redirection field!"
He handed her the binoculars. "See for yourself."
She stuck them up to her face, squinting and trying to readjusting them to see better. He reached over and picked them out of her hands, flipping them over. "Small lens to your eye."
"Uh, oh, right." She studied the scene for several minutes, sweeping back and forth. "I was right," she said.
"What's going on then?"
"They're extending the range of the spell."
"Huh?"
"Look at the very middle."
He looked for the block of men. In the center of it was one magic user with plumes of feathers coming out of parts of her skin. Some kind of half-human. But the most important part was the staff she was wielding, which was much larger than the others'. Its glow was also different. Rather than an ethereal sphere-like shape, its was more like a tree, its branches growing towards the different formation blocks.
"So she's doing the spell, and is just bouncing it off the others," he said. "Any idea on how she's getting that power though?"
"She's a siren," Leilei informed. "They are skilled at environmental magic, so if I were to guess, from the residual aura of the army around her."
Wooding nodded. "I see. So take her out, and we take out their trump card."
"What's a trump card?"
Warren and Guererro were half out of their hatches, eyes watching the fray up on the city walls. The tanks were at a steady pace, one after another. Next to them one hundred meters away were a couple Marine companies of AAVs carrying infantry. Ahead of the vehicles was a long berm running perpendicular to the city's walls, along the flank of the enemy formation. With the vegetation and wet ground underneath them, there were no large dust trails in their wake, hiding their advance from the enemy.
The AAVs peeled off, heading for the southern gate of Italica. To his right, the Bradleys halted their advance, reforming into a massive line formation parallel to the enemy's flank. The tanks turned to the right and followed the berm. Eventually they had all lined up and formed a battalion wide formation, tanks up front with Bradleys in the middle, mortar carriers and support vehicles in the rear.
The AH-1Z Viper flew over the treetops, rippling leaves forming a wake as though they were watercraft. Miles ahead they could see Italica in the dawn's light, as well as the smoke rising from the buildings within the walls' perimeter. As they got closer they could clearly see the enemy's formation, laid out plainly in neat blocks as it assaulted the city. According to the plan, friendly forces had not opened up, waiting far beyond the reach of the enemy at around two kilometers away.
"Well shit, that doesn't look good," the copilot commented, staring down at the enemy forces storming the city. Climbing over their own dead, in some cases literally, they had already gotten a foothold on the top of the wall. Arrows fired en masse by blocks of archers kept the defenders' heads down while the swordsmen had breathing room to set up ladders and ropes to scale the stone wall. He watched as men were shot by arrows from tiny portholes or burned by hot oil, but the raiders were making progress.
"Well, time to hit it," the pilot replied, handing back a small rectangular device. His compatriot nodded and plugged it into a small cord while powering up the main system through a couple of jerry-rigged switches.
"Wait," muttered the copilot as he examined the small screen on the device. "This isn't what they told us to play."
The pilot held up his hand, pointing to his head with his index finger. "Look at me, man, look at me." He shook his finger a couple times in exaggeration. "Do I look like I give a fuck?"
"Point taken," replied the copilot. He selected the first item on the screen and pressed the center button.
"Holy shit, are they playing Danger Zone?" Guererro asked, lifting the ear muff of his CVC to better hear the sound coming from the approaching Vipers. He noticed that they, indeed, were playing that particular song, and burst into a fit of laughter. "Holy shit, this is amazing. Oh fuck."
Warren couldn't help but laugh too. He had spotted the large, boxy speakers mounted to he skids of the helicopters with his binoculars. He expected something cliché, like Ride of the Valkyries, but was pleasantly surprised. "Oh my God, you're right."
"All Destroyer elements, this is Six. Prepare to engage." Immediately afterwards came the acknowledgments from the platoon leaders.
"White, White One, you guys got that?"
"One, Three, roger," Warren answered. He then heard the Two and Four tanks broadcast their acknowledgments.
He turned to his loader and said, "Alright, man, let's see how good you are. I'm gonna time you. Load OR on 'boom.' Don't actually arm it though."
Guererro nodded, grabbed the breach operating handle, and opened the breach. He turned his back to the turret wall, his left arm resting on the arming lever, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Warren reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, opening up a timer. "Boom!"
Without hesitation, Guererro made the motion of slamming the arming lever downwards and pressed his knee into the switch underneath the ammo door. Once the door opened to the point that the round he wanted was fully exposed, he unlocked it and slipped it out, easing his knee off and letting the door close. He flipped the round over, pivoting it over his left hand as the tip of the round missed the turret ceiling by a hair's width. The tip of the round fell square into the slide. He immediately reached back and rammed the round home with a flat right hand, fingers out of the way of the aft cap's rim.
Hardly a second after he let go of the knee switch, the door finally closed and he leaned back into his station, his left hand pretending to flip the arming lever upwards. "Up!"
Warren hit his screen at the same time. He turned his phone to Guererro.
"Four nine? Fuck, I'm losing my touch."
"Gunheads, this is Musketeer, over."
"Musketeer, this is Gunhead Actual. Send it, over."
"Roger, uh, enemy has taken the wall. They've captured stationary artillery. Take it out, would you, over."
"This is Gunhead Actual, yeah we got it, over."
"Roger, just be careful of friendlies behind the wall. Out."
The pilot looked down at the wall, at the swarming raiders. It had indeed been captured, with enemy archers preparing to climb up the base as to fire at the defenders inside the walls. He looked closer, and saw that men were manning five-foot wooden constructions in the shape of gigantic crossbows, several of which were being aimed at him.
"Gunheads, this is Actual," he said over the radio to the other three Vipers. "I'm gonna hit the wall."
"Two, roger."
"Four, roger."
"Three, roger."
The Gunheads had their name for a particular reason. In Afghanistan they had run several missions in support of Marine and Army infantry near-exclusively using their autocannons unless requested otherwise. Their proficiency and accuracy with the weapon had given them a reputation of exceptional accuracy and lethality, giving support at several points so close that their missile pods were impossible to use without endangering friendly lives.
Gunhead Actual put his reputation to good use, bringing his bird parallel to the wall, the angle of the blades giving it a slight drift forwards. He eased down the trigger on his control stick and rounds began to fly, tearing up the stonework that made up the surface of the wall. Most of the targets were torn by the explosive rounds, limbs flying, tumbling and turning in the air, but several attempted to jump off the wall, taking their chances with gravity rather than the flying steel beasts.
"Musketeer, this is Gunhead Two, you want runs on those guys inside? Over."
"Two, this is Musketeer, negative, we've, uh, we've got this, over."
"Uh, aaand roger. Out."
Rory was, to put it bluntly, having a field day. The eastern gate was open and raiders had streamed in. Many on the walls who had a modicum of skill were holding captured bows, and were attempting to picking off defenders as they hid behind six foot palisades or rushed to engage the raiders.
Borges was several feet back from the window, hiding himself from the sight of the bowmen, firing and moving back further out of sight. He stepped forwards again and dropped another swordsman who had an angle on Rory. Flynn was in the process of reloading the SAW. He finally dropped the belt onto the feed tray and slammed the cover closed. He stepped up to the window and leaned the bipod against the windowsill for support and strafed the raiders engaging the militia who had formed a front line against them. Dozens of rounds hit home, cutting down the targets, allowing the defenders to regain their footing.
Back from the front line was Rory, dancing around, between, and even on the attackers. She slashed and parried, dodged and stabbed, blocked and crushed her opponents as they went for her. Wounds disappeared almost instantaneously, leaving tattered clothing over flawless skin. It left Borges to wonder why men would fight on even then, against (in this case) literally impossible odds, but then he remembered that the Taliban had, indeed, fought back against him.
Even with their assistance, however, the bulk of the enemy were alive both inside and outside the walls. They had streamed through the gate and over the walls, and were dispersing throughout the city. Without conventional support the city was, frankly, doomed.
And then the Vipers hit.
It was a spectacular show.
"All Avenger elements, Avenger Six. Crest the berm, over."
"Here we go," Guererro said.
"Moreno," Warren said, "move up to the berm."
Moreno complied, switching the gear into drive. The tank rolled forwards and began to creep up the slope, crawling and causing a noticeable shake with each track pad as they touched the ground.
"Alright, stop- Jesus!" Warren yelped as Moreno applied the brakes too quickly. He quickly massaged the rib that had impacted the edge of his hatch. "Careful, fuck."
"Do that in gunnery, man. Please," Nash scolded.
Before Moreno could reply, the commander came back on over the radio. "All destroyer elements, engage at will."
Nash took an audible breath over the intercom and said, "Al-fuckin-right."
"Arm it."
Guererro climbed back down into his station and leaned back into the wall of the turret. His left arm flicked the arming level upwards. "Up!"
A thud was felt in the turret as the tank next to them fired, kicking up dust that had settled throughout the turret. Warren cleared his throat. "Fire!"
"On the way."
THUMP
Captain Minh stared at the effect on target through binoculars, sitting on the edge of his hatch. He had allowed his gunner to fire a round for the hell of it, but he had to watch the battlefield to direct his men. At first, he had thought that his company's rounds were missing. Nothing touched the enemy troops. But he refused to believe that; they were veteran tankers (mostly), and they had boresighted that morning. The chances of all nine of the other present tanks were missing every shot was minuscule.
After three rough volleys, his tanks had stopped firing on their own as they noticed the problem as well.
"Cease fire!" He said over the company net. "Cease fire!"
He switched to his section net.
"Five, Six. Why aren't our rounds connecting? No way everyone's missed."
"Six, Five, no idea."
"Six, Blue One. Uh, what's going on, over."
"Blue One, Six, wait one. Over," Minh replied. He cursed under his breath. As he observed more closely, he noticed a barrage of arrows launch from behind the walls. He traced their path and watched as they bounced off above the heads of the advancing troops.
"Wally," he said to his gunner. "I'm gonna have you shoot one more time. Zoom out and watch your thermals. Tell me what happens."
He ducked back into the turret. No use in getting blasted by the shockwave and dust. With an "On the way," the gun sounded.
"You catch anything?" he asked.
"Roger, sir. Round just bounced. Like skipping rocks off water."
He switched his channel to the battalion net. "Musketeer, Destroyer Six Six, over."
After a second, the radio sounded in reply. "Destroyer Six, this is Musketeer One. I read you, over."
"Roger, switch to freq five-five-zero, S-C-P-T, over," he advised. Considering the technological backwardness of their enemy, the battalion had been allowed to use unencrypted radio channels for specific occasions. He didn't want to block the battalion net with his conversation. He turned to look at his loader, motioning to the radios in front of him. "Set Alpha to five-five-zero, plain."
His loader nodded, complying. Less than a minute later the Special Forces team messaged a radio check.
"Musketeer One, Destroyer Six, read you clear. What do you know about magic here? Why are my rounds bouncing? Over."
"Destroyer Six, Musketeer, our source says they have a mage setting up a barrier. Each formation has another one acting as a sort of re-trans station for it. Over."
"Musketeer, Six, how the hell does it stop over twenty tank rounds, over?"
"Six, Musketeer, it redirects them. More energy efficient. Magician is a Siren. Local says they are skilled with environmental magic. Over."
"Musketeer, Six, roger. So how do we kill it? Over."
"Six, Musketeer, sustained contact. Not a projectile. Like Star Wars, with the droids and frog people. Preferably big and heavy so it doesn't deflect, over."
"Roger, out."
He had his loader switch the radio back. He looked around. What did he have that was big and heavy? He stared down the line of his company. So big and heavy that it wouldn't deflect or get tossed around. What did his tank company have in its arsenal that would qualify, perhaps something made of extremely dense metals and weighed, say, seventy tons?
He switched to company net. "All Destroyer elements, this is Six. Volunteers to charge their position, over."
"Six, Red Four, say again, over?"
"All Destroyer elements, Six. The barrier cannot be shot down. In short, someone needs to ram it. I need a wing tank, over."
The net was silent for a solid minute. Minh wondered if he just made himself sound crazy. His mind raced with alternative plans, one of which included charging in alone, which he immediately threw away. Being swarmed was the last thing he wanted to do that day.
A click was suddenly heard over the radio as someone keyed. "Six, White Three. Uh, we can go, over."
Minh sighed softly. "White Three, Six, roger. Follow on our tank when we crest. Break. All other tracks: crest the berm and get ready to fire. Coax only near us. How copy, over?"
"So, what the fuck are we doing?" Nash asked.
"You know how they have some magic shield around them?" Warren asked.
"Yeah."
"Ok, we're gonna hit it. With the tank. Really hard."
"Well, uh," Nash muttered. "That sounds retarded as fuck, but fuck it I guess."
Warren shrugged. "Well, commander's putting his ass on the line, so I'm gonna trust him on this. We're just winging him."
"Well, I feel a bit better about this I guess," Guererro said, opening the cover of his M240 to make sure the links were in place, before slamming it closed and racking the bolt. He climbed up, sitting on the edge of his hatch, and opened his sponson box, pulling out his rifle. With the damn M320 grenade launcher on it, it couldn't fit in the designated spot inside his station. He inserted a magazine and racked the bolt, savoring the sound of the perfectly lubricated mechanism. No gunk, no slop. Just finely tuned machinery could be heard through his CVC's ear muffs.
"Get your Nine ready too," Warren advised. "Just in case."
Guererro nodded and squatted down inside the turret. He reached into the box by his feet and pulled out the Blackhawk holster he was issued, which he had taken the quick release off of and screwed it directly on, giving it a slimmer profile. He attached it to a couple of quick-snaps on his belt and buckled the leg straps. Finally, as with his rifle, he inserted the magazine and pulled the slide before replacing it back into his holster.
"Roll out!" Warren declared as he watched the commander's tank pitch itself over the edge of the berm. The rest of the company crested as well, but stayed in place, picking up fields of fire.
The ride to the enemy formation took longer than it truly did, but it ended before Guererro and Warren realized it. The heads of the enemy slowly turned towards them, although they did not flinch, confident in the power of their magicians. The tank commander and loader stared them down, hands squeezing the handles of their mounted weapons, but they did not fire.
Captain Minh's and Warren's tanks both stopped a dozen meters away from the edge of the barrier, which put off a subtle shimmering effect on the objects within its perimeter now that they got a close look at it. One interesting detail, he noticed, was the movement of the grass as it interacted with the barrier, flowing this way and that as if being hit by winds from all sides. "Alright, Warren," the commander keyed over the radio.
"Yes, sir, got it," Warren replied, letting his thumb off the transmit button once he finished. "Moreno, don't fucking ram it. Give it a love tap."
"Roger."
The tracks creaked and the tank moved slowly, but they other three crewmembers braced themselves as best the could within their stations regardless. Nash cursed as he felt the engine switch gears as the speed increased. "Watch the fuc-SHIT!"
The tank's front end slammed into the barrier before he could finish. Instead of blasting through it stopped dead, even pitching upwards slightly as the sprockets forced the tank forwards.
"Watch the fuckin' gears!" Nash yelled. "Fuck."
"Keep up the pressure, man!" Guererro said. "Keep it up."
Moreno followed the order. They were so close at that point that even he could see the increasingly worried expressions on the faces of the raiders inside the barrier. After a full minute, as doubts towards the plan began to realize within Warren's mind, the barrier popped like an overpressurized balloon. Magical energy surged back into its source in the middle, the frail, feathered woman holding a wooden staff, and immediately blew back outwards in a brilliant flash of light. It did no harm to her or the men around her, but left them stunned and unable to act decisively. Warren did not notice, focused on his goal, but this had a chain reaction throughout the entire enemy army, their barriers popping in similar manners.
"Go!" Warren yelled. "Forward, go!"
Moreno did not need commands, as the momentum and built up energy in the power pack's drives propelled the tank forwards. He pressed on the brakes slightly to control the movement, before turning the throttle slightly to pick up the desired speed. The formation was made up of several elements formed into blocks with the command staff and magician in the middle, and Moreno headed straight through between the human walls.
"Stop!" Warren yelled. "Gonzo, go!"
As soon as the tank stopped, slowing rather nicely for a new driver, Guererro thought, he hopped down off the turret onto the front slope, firing at enemy swordsmen as he went. His momentum carried him off the edge of the hull and he landed softly, retaining his aim. Warren took aim with his M4, putting single rounds into the chests and abdomens of swordsmen that were too close to Guererro for comfort.
He looked around the flanks of the vehicle but most were awestruck, staring agape at the metal behemoth in front of them which had crushed their supposedly impenetrable barrier through sheer weight.
Guererro reached the magician in a few long strides, who was on her knees, strenuously panting before looking up wide-eyed as she heard the sounds of his pistol. She weakly raised her hands in what was either a feeble attempt at defense or surrender, Guererro couldn't tell, but she quickly received a swift fist to the cheekbone for her trouble. He looped his arm under her shoulders and manhandled her back to the tank. She was rather light, he thought, as he quickly holstered his pistol and tossed her onto the front slope. A round snapped over his head as Warren shot another swordsman who tried to go for him, but most were still frozen at place, either because of the tank or their brethren's chests spontaneously spewing blood onto their faces.
He hopped up ass-first onto the front slope and frantically motioning for Moreno to back up. He managed to lodge his foot behind one of the headlight frames before the brake released, kicking with pent up energy as the drives were finally allowed to turn. His other hand grabbed the opposite headlight and his body laid on the magician to keep her in place. The command tank opened up all three of its machine guns from a few yards away at the enemy attempting to give chase. He could feel the M2 firing through his CVC. As they sped away in full reverse, he watched as a twelve-tank volley demolished three entire infantry blocks.
Wooding watched as the tankers actually did it. The barrier was down and the magician, which Leilei had informed him belonged to the environmental magic-adept Siren species, was captured, and the army outside the walls was reduced to tatters within seconds as the main guns began to let loose. He watched in the distance as the two companies of Bradleys began to encircle the Army, firing their autocannons sporadically, herding the enemy into one area.
Inside the walls, he heard the sounds of automatic grenade launchers and rifles as a company of Marines and AAVs pushed through the city sector ransacked by enemy troops, clearing them from houses, rooms, and storefronts, before finally corralling them into the plaza in front of the gate itself. The defeated raiders were soon surrounded by the Marine infantrymen who quickly stripped them of arms and armor, moving them into detainee sections.
The main body of troops outside had largely surrendered, aside from a few foolhardy troops that were cut down as soon as they made their moves. The Army infantrymen were attempting a similar process but the sheer size of the mass of men slowed the process considerably. The helicopters were long gone, off to refuel, but after their first run their assistance was hardly needed. Once the magical barrier was down there was no hope of the raiders versus a dozen tanks and dozens of Bradleys.
He was just to leave his perch to find the princess when she had bumped into him.
"Lieutenant," she greeted with a slight bow, "we have important things to discuss."
"I'm sure we do," he answered, returning the bow. Never hurts to be polite, his parents had always told him.
"Negotiations are to be held between Countess Formar and your nation's representatives. For your help, you and your team are invited to the dinner."
Wooding nodded his head in thanks. "Thank you, ma'am."
With a parting bow, she turned on her heels and headed towards the gate's ground level.
"Gentlemen," Guererro said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth to speak, "I believe we finally have a proper name for this tank."
"What's that?" Moreno asked.
"Danger Zone."
Nash reached into his pocket for a cigarette of his own. "Fuck. Yes."
Sergeant Legett downed the rest of his energy drink. Lieutenant Allen was sitting atop his turret, CVC off at full volume to hear the radio without needing to wear it, and the Marines all around heard the sporadic reports of the battle.
"Gayest battle fucking ever," one of the grunts next to him complained.
"Shut up, Rigbey," another said. "No one's fault but your own you forgot pogey bait."
"Fuck you."
"Please," the second replied. "I'm lonely."
"Both of you shut your fuckin' asses," Legett said. "Spend one fucking month in Iraq, and find out how nice a day off in the field is."
"Yo shit, wait!" Rigbey called. "Hey LT, you see that shit?"
"Yeah, dust cloud," Allen answered. He quickly put his CVC back on and hopped back down into the turret, powering up the systems. After a long minute he was able to turn the turret. He scooted over to the gunner's seat and zoomed in on the daysights before cursing under his breath.
The Imperial flag, and another with a prominent stylized rose, carried by armored horsemen. At the lead was a woman in decorated armor, long blonde hair swaying with the breeze.
Behind her were thousands in marching formation.
Remember, kids, smoking is cool. As fuck. But cancer isn't.
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And there we go. Got this bitch done. Honestly, this was a kinda big chapter. I rushed it just to get it out. Lazy, but I'm about to go on leave and I sure as hell know I'm not spending time writing. I know I skipped out on the action of the Marines clearing the inside of the city, but this was long enough. Might put it in another interlude chapter.
Guys, calm down about the Empire's magic gun. They didn't suddenly invent them. It says earlier that they had prototypes, but just couldn't make it practical until they saw a rifle (to them, only a more advanced magic gun) in action and got a eureka moment out of it. They're not becoming a modern army in the space of a month.
Did the Empire have magic guns in the source material? No. But the Gate did not open in the US in the source either. I'm taking creative liberties to make the story less… dumb as shit from a military standpoint, and the fact that the Empire did not advance at all for the hundreds of years since they first settled (I read somewhere that Hardy opens the gate to Falmart on a whim, and the Empire is descended from a Roman legion or two, but I can't for the life of me find it) when things like magic exists is dumb as shit.
Let me write the story. Wait until I fuck up that you pull out the flags, instead of jumping the gun. And let's be real here. It's hard to weave a story worse than Gate. Its potential is what drew me in, not the execution.
