Title: We Stand Alone Together

Summery: Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of Deathly Hallows were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.

Rated: M for language and heavy war scenes/violence.

Brought to you by: Wesker888, the author behind such works as Just One Dance, For You I Will, and Crawling Under The Surface.

Disclaimer: I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.

Author's Notes: This chapter goes a bit more into J.K.'s territory in regards to magical creatures, but I'm not really trying to take what J.K. wrote for this, because, again, they are not aware of how the magical world works. I'm probably wasting words by saying this; you guys are smart, you can probably figure this stuff out.

Enjoy.


The Winged Horse


"Alright, lads, pull!"

Stern watched as the combination of Englishmen and Frenchmen pulled the rope that was tied to the long, metal pole with the dish attached to the end of it and a transmitter taped to the side. Slowly, with much effort, they got it up so that it was straight up into the sky. Two of the men then grabbed the pole and thrust it downward as far as it would go into the sand.

So it was that Wallace and Charlie found them on that dune that morning on their patrol. It was an interesting sight, seeing twenty soldiers hoisting up one pole with a heavy dish, the wires from the dish spiraling downwards and leading off towards Stern's truck just a few feet away. At the foot, Hirko and Weber watched the spectacle with amused expressions. They approached Stern as he began writing down in his notepad.

"Everything alright up here, Mikey?" the captain asked.

"Just setting up comms, Captain," the techie said, looking up and down the makeshift tower. "Trying to boost the signal to get the call out to Command."

"Think it will help?"

"The way I see it, sir, the reason we're not getting through to them is because our signal's not strong enough. If we can boost our reception from a higher point, we might be able to bounce the signals better. Best way would be triangulate the source, but I only had enough materials for one dish. This way, I think I might be able to get across. Not guaranteed, mind you, but it should hopefully get the job done."

Which was good news for them. Communication with Command was a step in the right direction to getting home. They could order in supplies, request possible reinforcements, and, if possible, get evacuated to a friendly base, or falling short of that, be given the coordinates to where the nearest friendly forces were located. Communication was critical in the field, and while they could still manage without it, soldiers relied on higher orders, and without them things got hairy often.

"So will it work?" came the next question, this time from Charlie.

"We don't know until we try," came the answer. "Frankly, I'm not saying anything definite, there's too many factors to judge to give a guarantee. But it should at least give our signal a boost."

"Michael,"François came up, holding what looked like radio batteries, "j'ai trouvé les noyaux d'émetteur-récepteur disponibles mais je ne pense pas qu'ils travaillent bien assez-"

"Yeah, okay, François, that's lovely. Go do your job now." Stern waved his French partner away, focusing on his own work, when Hirko called back to him.

"He says your transceiver cores are not working properly," he said, while Weber shook his head and chuckled. "He also says your French needs work." That one was not true, but what the Irishman did not know would not hurt him.

"I'll focus on one thing at a time, Lieutenant, but thank you," Stern replied, trying his best to fake a smile. As much disdain as he held towards their French comrades, Hirko was a lieutenant and a superior, and he had to show respect to a superior.

The soldiers had finished positioning the beam and tying it down to poles hammered into the sand. Stern pulled out his transceiver and began dialing in.

"Alright, now we try to test the signal and see if it's strong enough to-"

CRASH!

No sooner had it gone up than it suddenly was hit at the top by something, so hard that the dish flew off and almost took off Francois's head. He, along with most of his comrades and half the Englishmen, hit the ground as the pole wobbled and swung due to the sudden impact, what had caused it still unknown to the men.

"Grab the ropes!" Stern called out.

The English jumped to their feet and grabbed for the ropes, to no avail. The pole started to fall backwards, first leaning slowly, then picking up speed as it descended. The soldiers underneath all yelped and rolled or dove out of the way as the pole impacted against the sand, sending streams of it shooting out. It fully landed just feet away from where Hirko and Weber were standing, watching on. The two commanders barely even flinched.

Weber looked down at the pole, then to Hirko. "What do you suppose that was?"

Hirko shook his head. "La stupidité, je penserais."

His comrade shook his head.

"Either speak English or German, my friend," he said. "For otherwise, I cannot understand you."

Wallace stood on top of a sand dune and surveyed the scene. The collapse had kicked up sand everywhere, and all of their men were covered in it. The younger men all had frightened expressions on their faces, while the older one were more alert. But everyone looked alright, at least, as far as he could see.

Sully had come over and was standing off to his right, his M-60 strapped around him, his wide eyes surveying the scene.

"Blimey," he whispered.

"Everyone alright? Anyone hurt?" Wallace called out.

"We're good, Captain!" called out Sergeant Grimes, as he helped Tucker to his feet, his glasses covered in sand.

"The hell was that, even?" demanded Terry, his G-3 trained on the sky in case there was an aerial attack. "Mortar? Rocket?"

"Would have made an explosion." Grimes readied his rifle as well, looking up at the sky. "Sounded like something ran into it."

Scott looked out at the surrounding area, but could not see any signs of whatever had attacked them, if anything had really attacked them. The way it had sounded, it had almost sounded like something had flown into it, like an eagle or a vulture. But that was a damn big vulture, if that was the case.

He was so intent on his search that he failed to look the one place where he would have found answers- right behind him. The purpose was so close to him that it was almost touching the back of his head, staring intently at him. It shook his head rapidly, the movement not felt by the captain.

It was, however, seen by Sully, who still stood off to Wallace's right and who looked at the thing when it made its movement. His eyes immediately went wide.

"WOAH WOAH!" he shouted, lifting his machine-gun.

Scott turned around and immediately jumped backwards upon seeing the creature. He pulled out his pistol and aimed it as the rest of the men aimed their rifles. Those with M-4s had their laser targeting turned on, and various places of its body had red dots on it to position where the shots would be landed once the word was given.

The thing they all stared at, wide-eyed and with dropped mouths, was only a horse, but it was the strangest looking horse they had ever seen in their lives. It was massive, about more than half the size of a regular horse. Its skin and hair were both black, but its skin was not really skin, but a glossy, translucent coat, so much that they could actually see the bone definition. The mane was flowing and the tail at the end was long and bushy. Its fangs were prominent when it opened its mouth, but when closed he looked gentle, peaceful. Its eyes were milk-white and dead-looking. Its most prominent feature, however, were the bat-like wings that protruded out of its back, furled up to show it was not planning on flying off.

They all gaped at it, while it simply stared back at them. It didn't look like it wanted to attack them...but it looked smart, or at least, gave off the appearance of being smart. And there had been too many things in the last week to make them question what was friend or foe. They needed to be sure.

"Charlie."

His clerk looked at him.

"Go check it out."

Charlie looked as though he wanted to turn and run. He raised a scared eyebrow.

"Go ahead, lad. We'll cover you."

He looked at the horse and gulped loudly. The rest of their men readied their weapons.

Slowly, the twenty-two-year-old clerk from Manchester approached the horse, his M-4 not leaving its trained spot just above his left front knee. A bead of sweat trailed down the side of his face as his weapon trembled in his hands. The horse did not seem to make any move; it just stared at the poor boy as he approached. He gulped.

Ever so gently he reached forward and touched the nose of the creature. It snorted, and he drew his hand instantly away, but when a few seconds had passed and it did not make a move towards him, again he touched the nose and then lightly rubbed the front of its nose. He then rubbed the side of its face, and then down the side of its neck.

He exhaled in relief and turned to the captain and nodded. Everyone else lowered their weapons, some hesitantly, still on edge.

"Where the hell did this come from?" Sully pondered, stepping closer. "Is it native, do you think?"

"Dunno...Charlie, what is it, exactly?" Wallace also stepped closer, handgun back in its holster.

"A horse, sir, as far as I can tell." Charlie was now examining its wings, fingers treading lightly over the greasy feathers. "Looks a little peakish. Might need some food and water. Do we have any to spare, d'ya think?"

"Talk to Archie about that. Does it need medical attention?"

"I don't know, sir. Can't hurt to have Doc take a look."

"Alright, get whatever you need, but try not to use too much of it. Don't forget our situation."

"I won't, sir. Come on, you."

Charlie slung his rifle over his shoulder and stepped back, clapping his hands and beckoning it to follow him. At first, nothing. Then, to just about everyone's amazement, the horse took a step, then another, then slowly trotted after the clerk as he led him along to the medical shed.

Sully stood next to the captain, looking after the sight dumbfounded.

"Sir, what-"

"I don't know," came the immediate reply. "I have no idea."

"Dammit to hell!"

Stern looked at his now-bent antennae pole in dismay.

"Look at this!" he proclaimed. "Look at what this thing did!"

"Can you fix it?"

"Not the transmitter," he replied, holding up the two pieces of the transmitter. "Broken in two. I'm gonna need a new one, and I don't have it. We only have one spare, and last I knew François had it, but good luck if you can figure out where it is on his side."

"Alright, check with the French, see if they have it. Take François with you."

Stern glared at his French associate and sighed. Dealing with one foreigner was one nuisance, but dealing with all of them? Well, if it meant them getting home, he would deal with it, but God in Heaven, he would hate it.

"Aye, Captain," was his only response. He beckoned to François, who though he did not know any English knew sign language well enough, and the two technicians were off towards the Frenchman's part of camp.

The rest of the men began to bugger off, except for Wallace and Sully, who stood there and watched them all leave. Sully looked at his commanding officer. He was a respected member of the company, had good relationships with enlisted and officers alike, and as such a lot of the higher-ups often listened to his reasoning, whether it was asked or not. You should have been made sergeant by now, Sully, Scott thought then, not for the first time.

"Mikey's not happy with that," he noted.

"Well, he needs to learn to get along with them eventually," Scott said. "I've heard the things he's been saying, and I know the lieutenant doesn't like hearing them. They don't have to like each other, but they need to learn to get along."


The first men Stern found were Renald Sanxay, the French machine-gunner, and his assistant Alistar Moreau. They were outside of their tent, their machine-gun laid out on a blanket for cleaning. They both looked up at Stern and François approached them.

"Bonjour, François," Sanxay waved. The French technician waved back.

"Alright, froggies, listen up." Stern took a knee and looked them both in the eye. "Transmitter. I need one. I know you guys have a spare. The French communications are on the same level as ours, you must have a spare. I don't know if you two have it, if François has it, or if one of the others has it, and François has no idea what I'm talking about. So one of you needs to come out with it, right now. Cough it up. Who has it?"

Both Frenchmen stared at him, blinked at him, then turned to each other.

"Qu'est-ce qu'il a dit?" Moreau asked.

"Je ne sais pas," Saxnay looked at François, "qu'est-ce qu'il a dit?"

Françoisshrugged. "Je ne sais pas."

Stern looked from him to the other two, and in an instant realized what was happening. Without a warning to them he screamed in frustration, so loud that Moreau jumped and fell over in the hole. The Irishman walked a few feet away and shouted up to the heavens.

"What?" he shrieked. "What did I do, huh? I should be at Oxford inventing a longer-lasting light bulb or the cure to world hunger or teaching advanced physics or something! Instead I'm in the middle of the bloody desert with the Three Bloody Stooges, none of which can understand a bloody word I'm saying!"

"Bonjour, Sergent-Chef Callard."

Stern turned to see Roger Callard, the second-in-command of the French unit, approach his men with his Enfield strapped over his shoulder. A short man with thick eyebrows and an even thicker blue-eyed gaze, he had a hawk-like nose and a prominent jaw, and was a man none of the French wanted to cross. A man with a short, fiery temper, his outbursts were well noted by the other nationalities of the camp. He was very strict, even by a command sergeant's standards, and put the French to work harder than Lieutenant Hirko did. Stern had never interacted with him personally, and with his history of outbursts he was in no hurry to, but he was the best chance at the moment to help.

"Sergeant," he strode over to him. The sergeant looked up at him. "Okay, here's what I need-" As he spoke, he used his hands to mime what he wanted done; he figured that Callard, like the others, knew no English.

"I," he pointed to himself, "am looking for a transmitter...uh, it's kind of like a phone," he mimed talking on the phone, "because ours," he pointed to himself again, "was hit," he had his right fist hit his left palm at a fast speed, "by a flying horse," he imitated a flying creature, using his arms as wings, "and was smashed in two." He mimed breaking something in two. "Now, you," he pointed to the sergeant, "have the spare transmitter," again he mimed talking on a phone, "that I," he thumbed to himself, "need. If you," he pointed to the sergeant, "could get your men," he pointed to François, Sanxay, and Moreau, "to find it for me," he mimed scanning the desert, having one hand above his eyes, then thumbing to himself, "so I can call command," again he mimed a phone conversation, "and get us all rescued," he put his hands together and looked at the sky, either praying or miming salvation. "Okay?"

Callard blinked, still staring at him, not making a move and not showing any emotion on his face. Stern hung his head and sighed.

"Look, I know you don't understand a thing I'm saying, but can you at least acknowledge that you know what I'm talking about-"

"No, I understand you. You just look like a fucking idiot."

Stern's head shot back up, eyes wide, mouth dropping open. Callard stared back, still not showing an expression short of a raised eyebrow.

"What?" he asked.

"You...speak English..." And not English with a French accent, or even a British accent. The sergeant sounded like an American.

"Yeah. Better than you, by the sound of it," Callard retorted, imitating Stern's futile attempt at charades.

Stern could not even reply to that. He had never known that the sergeant knew any English whatsoever. Then again, the only ones he had ever seen him interact with were his own people, unlike Hirko, who frequently spoke to Captain Wallace and the Russian and German commanders. And it was not like Stern himself had ever gone out of his way to speak to the French soldiers, so he had no idea if any of them knew his language. He had just been schooled today.

Callard turned to the machine-gunners. "Allez voir le camp pour le émetteur. Hâtez, hâtez, allons-y!"

"Oui, Sergent-Chef Callard!" All three French soldiers immediately jumped to their feet and hurried off to search their camp.

Callard turned back to Stern, who still stared at him dumbfounded.

"What?" he demanded, his annoyance rising.

"You...speak English...well."

"Yeah. I'm Quebec-born. Grew up in Brooklyn. Probably spent more time in the States than you have, ya lousy mick."

The Irishman tried to speak, but no words came out. Callard took a step towards him so that they were almost eye to eye.

"Since I seem to have your attention," he said in a low voice, "my men may not hear or understand the things you say about them, but I do. And I don't appreciate you treating my guys like a bunch of foreigners. Just remember that we're the ones covering and supporting you in a firefight. You keep this shit up, I'm gonna make sure the next time something goes down, we leave your ass out to dry for the rebels to get at it. Not the rest of your company; just you. Got it?"

Stern just nodded, unable to say anything else. Of course, the knowledge that his disdain for their French comrades had reached an English-speaking Frenchman's ears had not been a thought to him. He would have to be a bit more careful now.

"Good," said Callard, not convinced, but at least satisfied that his message had reached the ears.

François and the two machine-gunners returned after a time, all three of them empty handed.

"Sergent-Chef," François said, "Les Russes l'ont pris pour essayer et pousser le pouvoir de radio de leurs tanks."

"What he say?" Stern asked, finally finding his voice, and taking comfort in knowing that at least now he had some means of translation.

"He said the Russians took it to boost their tank's radio signal,"Callard responded, nodding to his men in dismissal. Then he turned back to the Irishman. "So there you go. You want your transmitter so bad, take it up with the Rooskies."

He gave him one final glare and took off. Stern made another mental note, on top of going to him for future translating, to never let him hear any other bad thing he said about the French men.

But now he had to go talk to the Russians, and that idea made him sigh again. Wordlessly, he beckoned to François and the two technicians took off for the third nationality in their company.


Jason, Terry, and Tucker sat and watched as Charlie attempted to feed the giant winged horse, all three of them with blank expressions. They did not know which was weirder; that there was a deceased-looking horse with wings in their compound, or that their clerk was looking after the deceased-looking horse with wings in their compound.

"No one's even questioning what it is," Terry remarked. "I don't get it."

"Well...you know how they talk about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?" asked Tucker.

"Yeah."

"Maybe that's one of their horses."

Terry and Jason, at the same time in an almost comical way, frowned and slowly turned their heads towards their third member. Tucker turned to them and shrugged.

"Just a thought," he said uncertainly. The other two turned back, shaking their heads.

Then they watched as Doc approached them with his medical bag and a pack of steak tips, where he had gotten the latter a mystery to them. He seemed undaunted or even unafraid by the giant winged dead horse that was on the outskirts of their compound, though whether or not it surprised them anymore, none of them knew.

Doc was a little weary of this creature that Charlie was petting as though it were a dog at home, but if it was not hurting the clerk it probably would not hurt the medic. Hopefully. He had with him the steak tips he had won in a poker match the last time he was on leave in Ireland, had been holding it for a specific occasion (his birthday was in three months time). He had kept it in a cooler with Archie's stuff, but it wouldn't keep the meat good for long, and no time like the present, right?

"Here's the supplies," he told Charlie, placing his bag down. "And I figured he'd want a special treat."

"Thanks," Charlie said, not taking his eyes off the horse. The medic nodded towards it.

"Eerie looking thing, innit?" he asked. "Where do you think it came from?"

"Not sure...it doesn't look like it was bred in the desert, maybe it was brought here or something. Do you think it'd like this stuff raw?"

"Well, we'll find out, I suppose."

Charlie cut open the pack with his bayonet and pulled out one of the steak tips. He and the horse eyed each other, as he held it out towards him. The creature leaned forward, sniffed at the raw meat, then hungrily snatched it into its mouth. The clerk pulled his hand back as it messily devoured the tip. It let out a weird screeching noise, both irritating their ears and pulsing their nerves into wondering if this was what would make it hostile. But then it settled back down, and sniffed towards the rest of the pack.

"Well," Doc said, after waiting a few moments to see if anything else would happen, "I guess it's okay with raw meat, then."

His friend laughed, and tossed another steak tip at it. Doc watched him as he pet the creature as he ate. He never really understood Charlie's strong connection with animals; he knew the lad had grown on a farm, but even still, it was almost as though he spoke their language. Especially with a creature like this...

"He's good with you," he noted. "I always pictured wild horses biting anyone that came near it."

"Any horse will be good to you if you feed it and treat it well," Charlie replied, petting the nose. "Dad had a herd of horses on the farm, he had them trained for races and competitions and stuff like that. I used to go and help him feed them; used to bite me as a kid because I didn't know the proper way to handle them. Once Dad showed me, it was easy, though. Horses can be your best friend if you just treat them right."

He threw a third steak tip at the horse and sat back. "There was this one horse, Thunder, he was one of Dad's fastest and most prized horses. Won three races and a number of competitions. I loved that horse. He was the friendliest horse you ever met, he did anything asked of it. There were a lot of times where I was down and I would just ride him around my fields and feel better."

Doc watched his face and saw that he was not there, not entirely; he was back at his ranch, imagining riding that horse through the plains of his farm in England, away from all the troubles of war.

"Thunder, I swear...it was like he understood me, you know? This one time, I came home from school after a bad day- got a bad test grade, lost my lunch somewhere, this arsehole had pushed me over when I was walking off the bus- and I got to the door and there he was, standing there by the fence with his harness in his teeth, waiting for me to ride him."

The medic raised an eyebrow and laughed. "What, was it a dog?"

"I literally did a double-take when I saw it. It was like a dog waiting for you to take it for a walk. So I put my bag down, saddled him up, and we rode around for an hour and a half. And that was a common thing, whenever I had a bad or less than average day, I'd just take the horse out and go for a ride. It got to the point where I felt he only listened to me."

"I'll bet you're really looking forward to getting back home to see him, then."

Doc thought that would be a point of comfort for the clerk, to have a nice thought of home to concentrate on while they were out here. Charlie, however, did not smile. He took out the final piece of steak and gave it to the horse in front of him. He watched it eat, looking suddenly sullen.

"He, uh...he threw a shoe when I was seventeen," he explained, finally looking at him. "Then he just kept getting sick. We...put him down after I turned eighteen."

"Oh..." The medic suddenly felt a lot worse. "Sorry, mate."

"It's alright, I mean, he was old at that point. Really old. He lived a good, long life, you know?"

Still, it was never fun when a pet died, especially one you had such a great bond with. And Charlie always had a great bond with animals of all kinds. Being that kind of person had to be hard, Doc imagined, because that kind of person took each death personally.

They sat in silence, and the discomfort seemed to grow as Charlie dug his feet in the sand. He wanted to say something, Doc was certain about that, but what it was he could not guess. He was no psychiatrist, and his bedside manner was atrocious, and all he could do was let him talk instead.

Finally Charlie spoke, his voice a little shaky.

"Can I...tell you something?" he asked.

The medic frowned. "Sure, what?"

"I'm warning you, you're going to think I'm insane."

"Yeah, like the rest of us aren't already going nuts after the other night. Just say it, mate, it's fine."

Charlie sighed, took his hat off and ran his hands through his hair.

"I think...I think it's Thunder..."

Doc raised an eyebrow. "You think...what, is Thunder?"

Hesitantly, Charlie lifted his hand and pointed his finger at the horse, who had finished its meal and was licking the tip of the clerk's finger.

"You think...this horse is...your horse?"

"I know it sounds nutters-"

"Charlie...Thunder died, you just told me that."

"I know, but... it feels like him, you know? I can't explain it properly, but...it's a feeling I've got...that it's him, that he's come back to see me. You get it?"

No, Doc thought, he did not get it, and it probably was okay that he did not. At any rate, he did not think Charlie was crazy for it; he had, after all, seen perfectly sane soldiers react to things in the exact same way. But it was still slightly dangerous, because if he could start thinking things like this, then those thoughts might evolve into something else, something more dangerous, and that was what he was not okay with.

He wanted Charlie to make it home. He had everything going for him; a supportive family waiting for him, a good job with his name on it, his girlfriend Katie who he was absolutely nuts over and whom whenever he thought of he would reach into his jacket pocket for that ring he kept around for that special time when he got home and saw her. Yeah, he was young, but so where they all, and what better time than after cheating death time and again? The last thing Doc wanted to see was his friend have to endure psychoanalysis because of this.

"Charlie," he said, "you know we can't keep him with us."

Charlie nodded sadly. "I know. Once he's good to go, I'll let him go on his way. Sorry, it was just...it was a nice thought."

In a way, it could have been Thunder, or the spirit of Thunder, in this dead-looking winged form. Maybe...if you believed that sort of thing. Doc had never been much of a believer, but Charlie had some, and maybe he believed in that sort of guardian angel thing.

He supposed it was nice to think about. He himself preferred the world of common sense and logic. But it was a nice thought regardless.


The French he showed contempt for, but the Russians Stern just avoided going near altogether, and for one reason: they scared the absolute piss out of him.

There were only six of them left, but unfortunately they all belonged to Bakunin's personal tank and that crew was the scariest. They were loud, boisterous, rude, and extremely dirty; all of them were, at this point, even himself, but Stern had to wonder if this lot had ever bathed since their deployment. And above all, at least to him, they were mean, meaner than rebels or men in black cloaks.

But nevertheless, Stern and François approached the Russian tankers as they were huddled next to their tank, having some coffee and laughing. The closer he got, the more terrified he got, just because of their reputation; he had heard scary things about those Russian tankers in the field, and while he could not vouch for them personally, what he knew of them was no wonder why Russian tankers were so feared on the battlefield.

Mikhail Voronin was the first one to spot him. He was a stick thin man of thirty with a pointed face and a sullen expression. Of all of them, Stern had never seen him utter a single word, not even a grunt; he was always hanging in the back and always quiet, constantly chewing on wad of cud and occasionally spitting it onto the ground. He was the tank's driver, and as such was more alert than he let on, but still usually looked bored, like he was about to fall asleep.

He got the others attention and nodded to the approaching technicians. Great, Stern thought, now they were aware of him. And indeed, they had stood up to greet him now, their six feet of pure muscle and girth intimidating him, despite him being as tall if not taller but being thin as a twig, no threat at all.

Sergi Popov, the tank's machine-gunner, stood at the front, with his arms folded. The shortest of the pack, though still only five foot eight, all the hair had left his head and had jumped down to his face. His great big black beard was his pride and joy, to make up for the fact that the top of his head had become as bald, as round, and as shiny as an egg before he had turned twenty-five. A beefy man who had worked in a butcher's shop before joining the Russian Tank Corps, he was as loud and as boisterous as the stereotypical Russian that Stern had heard about from the old men in his family who had fought during World War II.

"Yes?" he asked in his very thick Russian accent.

"We, uh..." Stern gulped. Why did they have to be so intimidating? They were not doing anything, it was not like they were gonna string him up by his feet and beat him...yet. He would not be surprised if they did that.

"We were told that, uh...that you had the spare transmitter-"

"Ah, yeah, that hunk of junk," laughed Dmitri Serov, shaking his head. Tall, lean, and with a black goatee, he along with Viktor Katzinsky worked the primary tank cannon, with him working as the assistant and Katzinsky working as the shooter. He was outgoing and seemed to be the most friendly of the group, although compared to the behaviors of the others that was not saying much.

Katzinsky hung back, sipping what looked like very dark, very bland coffee judging by the facial expressions every time he took a sip. A man with wild blonde hair and a bad ear due to years spent behind a tank's main cannon, he had the sharpest eyes and the quickest reaction times. He was Bakunin's personal tank gunner for a reason, and that reason was because he had proven himself time and again as someone who would not hesitate to get a job done.

"That hunk of 'junk' is what's going to get us home," Stern said, a tad annoyed by the remark. "We need it back."

"We tried to use it to boost our own signal, and it didn't work," Popov explained, not budging an inch. "Raz thinks there's something jamming us."

"Or it could just be that your tank's radio isn't compatible with a transceiver that's meant for long-wave broadcasting. It's two different wavelength frequencies, just because they both transmit doesn't mean pairing them together would guarantee a further transmission."

He supposed he could not blame them for not knowing; they were tank crew, not radio technicians. Still, one of them should know that trying to use a long-range transmitter to boost a tank radio signal- a radio that was usually only meant to communicate with other tanks, not with a base seven hundred miles away- was probably a bad idea.

His tone probably could have been better, however, for the Russians had started to stand and move closer towards him in a very menacing way. Popov brow furrowed. Stern gulped. His courage had left him as fleetingly as it had come.

"Uh...what I meant by that was-"

"We are not as unintelligent as you think we are," Popov said, his voice a low growl. "We know how communications work."

"I'm sure you do," Stern agreed, inwardly doubting that they did. "Well, I'm on a bit of a tight schedule, so if I could just get that back-"

"He's shaking, Sergi," Katzinsky noted, with a slight chuckle. "I think you scare him."

"Listen, little man," Popov said, "I've seen you around. Acting like you're high and mighty because you're an Englishman-"

"Irish." Probably was not smart to correct him. Oh well.

"Making your remarks about those of us that aren't born under your queen. As if that makes us any less important. Well, let me remind you who runs this big beast" (he tapped his fist against the hull of the tank) "that saves your puny behind."

"Right, I will remember that, always. Scout's honor." Stern had never been a scout, but it seemed like a natural thing to say. "So...can I have the transmitter?"

Apparently that was not the right thing to say. Popov just looked, if possible, even more deadly. Out of the corner of his eye, Stern saw François start to back away; thanks, you tosser, he thought bitterly. He winced as the big Russian took another step towards him-

"What is going on here?"

Stern breathed a sigh of relief as Commander Bakunin and the sixth member of the crew and the mechanic, Arkady Razinsky, approached them. The commander looked from the tech crew to the tank crew and back, face stern. The legendary tank commander with the reputation that far proceeded him, Stern only hoped that he had some amount of patience for an Irish soldier wanting something from them.

Razinsky was a short, bald man with a bushy mustache. He was quiet, though not as quiet as Voronin, and he constantly was wiping his hands on a handkerchief to get the oil grease off him. Always he was wiping his hands, as if there was a stain he just could not get off no matter how hard he tried. He kept the tank in working condition, and if he was not seen with his crowd he was probably doing everything he could to keep it that way.

"Nothing, sir," Popov said, stepping back. "This Irishman was just-"

"Commander, sir, I'm looking for the spare transmitter, I was told your men had it," Stern interrupted, preferring to deliver his own message instead of have the Russian do it.

"Well?" Bakunin turned to his men. "Do we have it?"

Katzinsky and Serov turned away. Voronin chewed his gum without speaking. Popov looked down and dug the toe of his boot into the sand.

"Well?" Nicholai raised his voice at this demand.

"We, uh...we gave it away."

"What?" Stern demanded.

"To whom?"

Popov didn't answer.

"To who, Sergi?"

The gunner sighed. "Weber and Riley, sir."

The technician frowned. "Why did you give it to them?"

"They wanted to see if they got reception from their perch," Popov answered with a shrug.

Stern just hung his head and sighed. Clearly they had no idea how this worked.

"Right," Bakunin turned to him, "Go check with Weber for your transmitter. He should have it."

"Yes, sir." Stern grabbed François and took off, ignoring the stares the other Russians were giving him as he left. That was close, a bit too close for his liking. In hindsight, they probably would not have done anything to him, not physically anyway. But one never knew when dealing with an angry Russian tank crew. One never knew.


Weber, he liked. He could say that honestly, despite the allegations thrown his way of being racist, that he did quite enjoy the German team's company. Despite their appearance and their reputation, they were friendly and willing to talk if approached. The French he thought were dim, the Russians barbaric, but the Germans, despite the history between their countries, were good company.

He found Weber and Riley in their trench, which had a blanket raised up on four sticks to provide a roof canopy. Against mortar rounds or rockets, it would provide no comfort at all. Against the sun, it did the job quite well.

Riley was cleaning the chamber of his bolt-action L96A1 with his cleaning rod. Although he was the youngest of the team at twenty-nine, he was the second oldest in terms of seniority, and as such was Weber's right-hand man. They had been together a long time; how long, Stern could not be sure, but long enough to be entirely comfortable around each other and work amazingly well together. Like Weber, he had eyes that could see anything, and a deadly accurate aim, no shake or sway to his hands at all. He was polite and friendly, not overly talkative but could have a good conversation, and had a gentle disposition. Stern sometimes thought he belonged in the Peace Corps instead of the German Spec Ops, but hey, they were glad to have him.

"Hello, Michael," Weber greeted, his own WA2000 rifle in his lap with a cleaning cloth on it. "Did Captain Wallace send you here for inspection?"

"Commander Bakunin, actually. We're looking for the spare transmitter, we were told you had it?"

"Ah, yes," Riley reached over to his side of the hole, where his stuff was laid out on a large towel. He took an item bundled up in cloth and handed it to them. "We keep it wrapped up so that sand doesn't get into it."

"Smart." Stern unwrapped it to be sure, and there it was, looking shiny and brand new. Their ticket out of there. Hopefully.

"You guys know you wouldn't have been able to get much in ways of transmission, right?" he asked, looking back at them. "This kind of radio has to be used with other parts in order to boost a better signal, one that can get over the dunes. Sitting farther from camp won't help it."

"Probably," Weber agreed, "but we thought to give it a try anyway. Who knows?"

"Web, it's not as easy as that. You've got to take the terrain and elemental factors into the equation as well. Add in we don't know exactly how far away we are from command, how strong we need to boost the signal, what frequency to use that will ensure it gets put up. It's all math, mate."

"Maybe, maybe," the sniper leaned forward, "but how much of it can also be accounted towards dumb luck?"

Stern looked at François for assistance, but the Frenchman could not understand a word of what was being said anyway, so that was useless. He just shrugged.

"I've seen many things, Michael, some of which defy all logic. Even to the well-developed mind, there is always hope for things to go in your favor."

"Yeah, well," he raised the transmitter, "hopefully that's true. I guess we'll find out."

He bid them farewell and left with François on his heel. All that, and all he had to do was go to the one nationality he tolerated other than his own. And all without a hassle from either sniper.

It'd probably go well with the others, he thought, if you weren't such a tool to them. But like that was his fault? The problem was that he was impatient and had a low tolerance for nonsense, and in his eyes, the French and the Russians presented too much of that. It was not his fault the French were not taught English. It was not his fault the Russians were a bit thick.

Well, maybe he could work on things on his end. Unlikely, but he could try.


The sun was starting to set now, the sky already turning colors. Charlie and Doc were standing on the edge of camp with the winged horse, about to wave it off. They had fed it and given it a proper medical examination; they had done all the could, and now they had to let it free.

Charlie reached forward to pat the horse on the head, and then it did something they did not expect; it sank onto its knees and lowered its wings, allowing for clear access to its back. It looked up at the clerk with an expectant look, and Charlie upon realizing what it wanted did a bit of a double take.

He turned to Doc, who merely shrugged in response, as surprised by this as he was. He looked back, looked at the creature's eyes, and after a moment slung his backpack off and placed his rifle against it. Taking in a deep breath, he slung one leg over, then sat down on its back, in between the neck and the wings, and wondered if he should position himself better before it stood up, the wings were out, and he was suddenly no longer on the ground.

He clung to its neck, petrified, until he looked up and saw the most amazing sight imaginable. He had always enjoyed the sunset in the desert, the way the light shone on the sand and made it all look like glass, but now, seeing it from the air, it was like he had entered a whole new world. It was hard to believe it was the same ground he had walked and slept on all this time. The scene was utterly alien to him.

He looked down and there were his mates, men who from where he was looked like dots. He imagined that right now at least some of them were staring up at him with their mouths hanging wide open and their eyes almost bulging out of their skulls. Any other time he would be there with them, looking at the spectacle, but this time he was the spectacle, he was the center of attention, and somehow this filled him with immense joy.

The horse was flying towards the sun, the light almost blinding him. But he did something that he never did on another horse, not even on Thunder. He sat up straight, raised his arms, and embraced its warmth, almost hugging it if it were close enough. And he cheered, oh, he cheered, his voice carrying through the air and over the dunes and loud enough for anyone miles around to hear him. Not a yell of pain or fear, but one of joy and excitement, one of a little boy trapped in a grown man's body who was seeing the world for what it was, and it was beautiful.

They flew for only ten minutes, not a minute more, not a minute less, but by the end of those ten minutes, when they landed, Charlie was worn out, with a big tired smile etched on his face. Doc helped him off and no sooner did he than when the horse let out that weird growling noise it made, and just like that it flapped its wings and was off again.

The two soldiers watched it go off, watching for what felt like days, watching until the horse was nothing more than a black dot against the pink sky and then was out of sight completely. Doc pat his friend on the back, and Charlie without a word followed his friend to the mess line. Nothing more needed to be said.

Still, Charlie never quite shook the feeling that he had been given one more day with his beloved Thunder. It was probably not the case- ghosts and angels and that sort of thing was the stuff of stories, of make believe, not of reality- but still, it was nice to think about.


At last it was ready. At last it was all set. The transmitter was attached to the dish and the antennae had once more been raised and tied down. When it was secure, François went to the truck to confirm it with Stern.

"Tout est prêt," he said.

"Okay...I'm going to assume you said that everything was all set," Stern replied with a nod. He could have added a bit more snark to his sentence like he usually did, but after the day he had had, he was not in the mood for it. That, and now that he realized how far his words carried, he had to be a bit careful, lest he have half the camp down on his head.

He put his headset on and tuned into the frequency with shaky hands. This was their shot; if this failed, then all they could do was keep on driving until they found rescue. And who knew how long that would be?

"This is Charlie Two-Six to all near-by units, do you copy, over?" he said into the mic. No answer. "All near-by units, this is Charlie Two-Six, we are under siege and are in need of assistance, do you read me? This is Charlie Two-Six, please respond..."

Nothing but static. Stern and François shared a concern look. Was the signal strong enough? Would anyone hear it?

"This is Charlie Two-Six to all available units in the area, we are under attack by an unidentified force. We have sustained heavy casualties, our supplies are minimal. If you can hear me, please respond. We are in dire need of assistance, over."

François looked apprehensively at the radio. Stern hung his head. Then-

"...mand...re...ou...wo-Six...ca...you rea...us, over?"

Both heads looked up, at each other, then back at the radio. They had not imagined that voice...had they? No, they could not have. Their message had gotten through.

"Yes!" Stern clapped his hands while his French assistant cheered. "This is Charlie Two-Six, we read you, you're choppy but we read you. Can you clear up your signal, over?"

Once again, he was met with static. But he did not give up; someone was hearing them, and he was going to keep trying until he was certain they knew they were out there.

"This is Charlie Two-Six, do you-"

But then he stopped. He paused for a moment, face frozen as he tried to listen to...what? Something definitely felt off, he was sure of that. He looked up at François, who had opened the door and was looking outside and then he saw it.

His body, and François's, was shaking. So was the whole truck.

Something was making the ground rumble...


Quick translations for your everyday French:

François 1: Michael, I found the spare transceiver cores, but I do not think they are working that well.

Hirko: Stupidity, I imagine.

Bonjour, François: Hello, François (no brainer, even to the basic Englishman)

Moreau:What did he say?

Sanxay: I don't know

Callard:Search the camp for the transmitter. Hurry, hurry, let's go.

François 2: The Russians took it to boost their tank's radio signal.

Oui: Yes (again, probably didn't need me to say it.

François 3: Everything is ready.

Thanks to Andre for double-checking all this stuff for me.

So, what is making the ground rumble? Tune in next time to find out. Read, review, hope you enjoyed.

Pea soup.