AN: Yes, I'm aware of how long it's been since I posted a chapter of this. No excuse. I just hope you'll enjoy the chapter now that I've made it.

No aliens besides Sectoids yet. We'll be seeing others before too long, though.

One more thing: you know how, in the description, it says "loosely based"? Yeah, this chapter is looser than most. For one thing, no map or battle in the game is ever this big. But I will say, I kept one important aspect of the game: new soldiers, rookies to the X-com program can't hit the broad side of a barn.

Again, enjoy. The next chapter won't take nearly as long as this one I promise.

11:44 AM, a helicopter over Central Algeria, over Ouargla province

The monotonous whir of rotors blended gradually into the background of Renaldo's mind as the cluster of helicopters skimmed across the endless dunes and rock of the Algerian Sahara. Outside the window, far below, their shadows flitted over the landscape like insects, growing and shrinking as they ran up and down the slopes of the huge orange dunes they were currently passing over.

The cramped interior was dreadfully quiet besides the sound of the engines and the whistling of the wind. The members of Eta and Iota squads, decked out in headsets to nullify the noise of the helicopter and allow for conversation, fidgeted in silence with their gear, glanced around at one another, or simply sat staring straight ahead. One of Iota's men held a crucifix between his clasped hands, his head bowed and the silver chain hanging down as he fervently prayed. One of the Asian men from Eta – a Tibetan man who had introduced himself as Kelsang (with no last name) when they had gone over names earlier in the flight – had his eyes closed, head leaning against the wall, apparently relaxed, though Renaldo knew better. He had already been a soldier when X-com picked him up, and he had lived that life long enough to be able to spot pre-mission jitters.

He had become gradually aware of something else during the flight: they all kept looking at him. Not the way a soldier looked at a superior officer, but sidelong, like they found him intimidating, even with a bit of awe. Their eyes darted away when he caught them looking. To be honest, it was making him nervous.

It was when he caught Hera doing it that his curiosity overtook him. She shut her eyes as soon as he looked at her, but opened them again soon enough. When she did, he tapped the side of his headset and held up three fingers. She nodded and both switched over to channel three on their respective headsets.

"Check, check, anybody else on this channel?" asked Renaldo.

After a moment of silence, Hera shrugged. "Just me, by the sounds of it, sir?"

"Great. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what, sir?"

"Like the way that I looked at soldiers when I was in my teens."

Hera shrugged again. "You are impressive, sir? You went into Berlin as part of the initial scouting party? The other three members of your squad came back wounded or dead, and you made it without even minor injuries? I have been watching news from other parts of the world? Encounters with these aliens on the ground are rare, they usually zip by overhead? But the few times there have been direct encounters with them, they almost completely wipe out any human forces they meet with? You have become something of an icon of-"

"Are you unsure of yourself, Corporal Ingebergsdottir?"

"Hmm? Oh, no, I am not asking questions? It is just part of my- ahem." She seemed to gather herself. "Upward inflection. It is an aspect of the Icelandic accent. To other English speakers, it sounds as if we end many of our sentences in question marks. I try to control it, but it creeps back into my voice when I am no longer concentrating on it."

Renaldo grunted. "That might take some getting used to."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Not your fault, Corporal. Just wish we had some time to train as a unit before they threw us into the fire."

"Yes, sir. But war is rarely fair, is it sir?" The two shared a bitter glance, and Renaldo found himself smiling. He had a feeling he could get to like this woman.

"No, it isn't. And this one is unbalanced as shit. I doubt we're really going to make much of a dent in these alien bastards before they put us down."

"Well, at least you did put a dent in them during your last encounter, sir?" Her upward inflection had crept back into her speech, but Renaldo didn't comment on it. In stressful combat situations she wasn't going to be able to control it. Best start getting used to it now, he figured.

"Right. They have nasty weaponry, Corporal, but I think it's been proven at this point that they aren't invincible. Two of them are lying on Doctor Vahlen's autopsy tables right now." He adjusted his rifle's position in his lap, and shot her one of his patented crooked grins. "Let's fetch her some more, shall we?"

"Oorah, sir."

12:24 PM, Crash Site Zero, Algeria. 24˚49'13.4"N 1˚43'15.9"E

The three helicopters each broke off and followed individual paths as they approached the wreck site, heading for the locations that Beta Squad had marked as safe landing zones. The one that carried Renaldo and team three approached low, keeping a rocky ridgeline between it and the downed UFO that lay somewhere just to the northeast. As the pilot eased the vehicle down in the indicated location, the doors slid open, letting in a blast of wind, a whirl of sand, and the blinding blaze of the North African sun. Since the aliens had already knocked all the GPS satellites out of commission, the pilot had to rely on a description that had been relayed to him by Beta squad on the ground rather than actual coordinates, but the place he wound up in was fairly close to the place that the Betas had been intending for him to land. No blasts of plasma interrupted the landing. No aliens went scampering for the hills as they saw the helicopter approaching.

"Alright, everybody out!" Renaldo shouted over the sound of the blades as soon as the landing struts came into contact with the ground. The eight soldiers, keeping their heads low, dropped down from the passenger doors, boots landing in the churning sand. Renaldo steadied himself, then gestured, and the team advanced into the desert towards the ridgeline and the crash site they knew lay beyond it. Behind them, the roar of engines surged, and the black bulk of the helicopter lifted again into the sky, turned in place, and banked away across the stony hills and out of sight.

When it was gone, Renaldo could speak again. He had used the time to his advantage, taking in his surroundings, and had already developed the first stage of their approach plan in his mind by the time the engines grew distant enough that he could speak and be heard. It was a rocky valley, about a kilometre across and three to five long, with sand pooled at the bottom of it but, fading to solid, dark brown stone at the edges, sloping up to looming ridgelines on each side. The slopes were shallow, nowhere near being cliffs and only maybe a hundred metres tall, but they were steep enough that climbing them too quickly in full gear would be tiring, especially given the dry heat that was already beginning to make him sweat under his ballistic vest. He adjusted the cloth covering that was keeping the sun off his head, and pushed the sunglasses further up his nose to cut out some more of the glare. Another hellish day in the Sahara. Getting his bearings, he looked more closely at the slope that would lead them to the crash site. It had been eroded in a step pattern. While the lack of vegetation made size and distance hard to judge at times, he thought the steps were about as tall as himself- perfect concealment against anything looking down from the ridgeline above. A second smaller sand-floored valley branched off of the one they were in about a kilometre along the valley wall, passing out of sight from this angle but seemingly going in the direction of the crash site. It would make for an easier approach, but Renaldo dismissed it at once. The smooth sandy floor of the valley wouldn't provide concealment during their approach, and walking through an open valley between two unsecured hills was just begging to be ambushed.

"Alright," he said, clapping his hands twice for attention, then indicated a patch of shade under an overhanging rock that jutted out from the side of the slope. "Everyone to that overhang. We'll discuss tactics once we're in concealment."

"Sir!" came the reply from seven throats, and the two squads began picking their way cautiously towards the rock, forming a straggling line across the sands.

As they walked, Renaldo tapped the button of his earpiece twice to switch to the frequency that would let him talk directly to base. "Team Three to Central, Team Three to Central. Eta and Iota squads are on site. Repeat, Eta and Iota have landed. We are at designated landing zone three. Please advise. Over."

A brief crackle of static greeted him, then turned into the Central's voice, warped and staticky but recognizable. "Acknowledged, Team Three. Other teams are also at designated coordinates. Advance with caution towards the bogey, but do not engage. When you reach the ridgeline, set up in overwatch positions, radio in to describe your position so we can put you up on the map, and then stand by for further orders. Over."

"Understood, sir. How far out is our backup? Over."

"The Algerians will be arriving within the next thirty minutes. Will update timetable as it changes. Over."

"Understood, Central. Team Three out." Garcia tapped his earpiece a third time, switching back to the team channel. They had tested the channel on the way in, but as they walked he had them do it again anyway. That done, he settled in to trudge through the sand, listening to the laboured breathing of the soldiers under his command.

They reached the overhang after a few minutes. It was large enough to shelter all of them and then some.

"Alright, everyone," Renaldo said, clapping again. "Here's the play: from here up to the top of the ridgeline there appear to be a set of stone steps. We will be using them as co-" he stopped himself before he could say cover. "...as concealment during our advance. Remember, there is no hard cover on this battlefield. If you spot hostiles, hunker down in concealment and notify me immediately. If they open fire on you, pop smoke and move to better concealment, then wait for the rest of the team to get there. Nobody is to engage alone, and if escape is a possibility, take it. Understood?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" came the chorus of voices.

"Good. We will advance as squads. Eta will take left flank, Iota, myself included, will take right. Both squads should be within sight of each other, and maintain radio contact. Last thing: keep hydrated. I don't want anyone on my team dying from heatstroke during a firefight with aliens. That would be an embarrassing way to go." He heard chuckles. They were nervous, but sounded genuine and they did lighten the air a bit. In Renaldo's experience, most soldiers had a fatalistic sense of humour no matter where they came from. "So everyone: drink up, then move out."

12:43 PM, Crash Site Zero, Algeria. 24°50'29.2"N 1°43'34.9"E

Captain Chey Boran reflected, as he looked through his binocular at the valley below, that he was far too old to be off fighting aliens in some godforsaken desert. They had been the first on the ground, and hiking over rough terrain for the past hour had left an undeniable ache in his bones.

He had been a part of Beta Squad almost since X-com's initial formation, and had been in charge of it ever since its previous captain had retired nearly a decade ago when his visa to immigrate to the US had finally been approved after six years of waiting. chey was coming up on his 65th birthday, and had been hoping to follow the man's example. His own visa had passed through over a year ago, and he had been continuously saying over the course of the past few months that he was just sticking around long enough to see the "new guy" settle in. The new guy in question had been private Jackson, who had died at the hands of the aliens when he was sent into Berlin without his squad to back him up.

Now, he supposed, he would have to put his retirement plans on hold. Other things had come up.

The UFO below him was disk-shaped, that much was clear, and Chey would have chuckled at the classic sci-fi, 50s-ness of it, if he didn't know that the bastards had killed Ghoshal. Swatted him out of the sky with a gun mounted somewhere on that thing's dorsal side. There was no knowing whether said gun was still active, and if it was, advancing on the wreck was going to be hell. The valley's floor was covered with beige sand, stretching away almost perfectly flat, with only small dunes marring its surface. However, with the angle at which the beast had crashed, there was one whole side of it- almost a hundred and eighty degrees- where the bulk of the craft itself would be between the gun and any approaching troops.

He heard somebody drop down into the hollow beside him, and he lowered his binocular. It was private Injabi, a diminutive but deceptively strong Indian man, and the Betas' resident sniper.

"Anything?" Chey asked, indicating Injabi's own pair of binoculars.

"No, nothing so far, sir," Injabi replied. "Just sand and rocks. Is command sure they saw movement at the crash site?"

"I think so. I am starting to think it was just the wind, though." He adjusted his position on his elbows to be more comfortable, and peered again through his binoculars. "Either that... or they've retreated into the UFO and are waiting for us to come to them. Maybe hoping to blow the crap out of us with that cannon of theirs on our way in."

"Yes, sir. There is another possibility, though."

"I know," Chey growled. His anger was not directed at Injabi, but at the possibility he was suggesting. If the aliens had done that, it would make their job a lot harder.

"They could have scattered into the hills," Injabi clarified.

"Yes, I know!" Chey repeated. His amplified gaze skimmed across the hulk of the craft below him. It looked to be about the size of a Chinook, a heavy helicopter that could transport upwards of forty troops if they were really crammed in there. There was no guessing how many aliens had been in that thing when it had crashed – that depended on whether it was a scout or a troop transport – or on how many might have survived, but given the fact that the craft still seemed almost entirely intact after crashing at a speed of close to 3000 km/h suggested the interior hadn't been severely damaged. Combined with the fact that the aliens were smaller than humans, that could mean there were upwards of forty or fifty of the little grey bastards running around out here.

After another moment, Chey shifted back more fully behind his cover. "Okay. Let's check in with Central, then move back along the ridge. I think that's enough scouting. Let's see about that Algerian army convoy we were promi-"

Blam!

Captain Chey had been just seventeen when the now-defunct Republic of Kampuchea had been formed by a military coup, but had already been part of the army for two years due to the civil war that raged throughout much of his youth. His father, and by extent himself, had been supporters of Lon Nol, and during the coup that established the republic they even helped to remove a local pro-Communist leader from power in his hometown. But then the genocide had started.

When the new regime ordered him to turn his rifle on civilians, Chey had found himself unable to do so, and, while escorting a group of forty innocent ethnic Lao prisoners to be executed, he had managed to convince his childhood friend Peng to disobey their orders. Still escorting the prisoners, the two had bluffed and threatened their way through no fewer than four checkpoints on their way out of town, and, knowing that Chey's father and the rest of their unit would be coming after them, they had escaped into the wilderness after freeing the prisoners and offering an opportunity to join them. They had crossed six hundred kilometres of jungle with only two rifles, a dozen bullets and their trapping and gathering skills, but after four months they had made it, half-starved and nearly dying of exhaustion and disease, to the French embassy in Myanmar, still with a dozen of their former prisoners in tow, requesting asylum with the little bits of the French language they knew. He had met his eventual wife in that embassy, where she had been working as a secretary for one of the officials.

In a blink of an eye, he was gone.

12:45 PM, 24°49'41.2"N 1°43'29.9"E

As he picked his way cautiously across the plateau at the top of the ridge towards the distantly-seen metallic glint that marked the crash site in the valley below, Renaldo's earpiece crackled to life with a long-distance transmission. "Central to Team Three. Come in Team Three."

"Reading you, Central."

"Renaldo, listen," There was unmistakable concern in Bradford's voice, immediate cause for concern. Not much rattled Central enough that he would let his subordinates hear it, let alone use their first names in official communications. "Beta Team just got caught in an ambush. They're on another ridgeline a ways to your north, across a narrow valley. Do you see them? Over."

He hurried to the top of a small nearby ridge that was blocking his view to the north, and looked out over the valley beyond. "Please hold. Assessing situation. Over."

"Affirmative, Team Three." Central's audible concern had been fleeting. He was back to efficient professionalism. "Attempting to reach other teams. Central out."

Renaldo tapped the earpiece to switch to squad channels. "Ngomi, with me." The private hurried up straggling the line of soldiers next to him, regarding him with a questioning look. Renaldo was busy surveying the landscape. Distantly, he saw a flash of white on a hilltop over a kilometre away. "There, you see that?" he asked, pointing it out.

She nodded, already unslinging the long, narrow bulk of her sniper rifle from across her back. "Yes, sir."

The sound reached them, then. It wasn't gunfire. It sounded more like thunder. Long, rolling, and deep-throated. At the same time, another blast flickered out from the hilltop, this time not hitting stone and instead cleaving out into the air, a beam of white that roared off into the heavens and scattered into a brilliant plume over the valley.

"It's those plasma thrower things," Renaldo muttered. "Set up here, Ngomi. See if you can set up any shots. Corporal, you and one other set up and maintain a perimeter. The rest of you: squadsight."

X-com's painter binoculars were a specialized piece of technology, built in-house in the Sahara Base manufacturing facilities. They were bulky, hefty things, and the only part of X-com's standard kit that wouldn't be easily recognizable to soldiers from other organizations. It was included in their standard kit because of the assumption that advanced alien technologies would lead to wars being fought at extreme ranges. It looked like a heavy-duty set of binoculars, and really that's all it was. It had fine-tuned adjustable magnification, and was built to be ergonomic in the hand, improving stability and comfort of use. The most important part, though, was the high-power ultraviolet laser sight attached to it. This was intended to allow an entire squad to aid in the sniper's targeting efforts. If a squad member spotted an enemy through the binoculars, they could light it up with the targeting painter, which the electronic scopes on X-com sniper rifles could pick up and would then convert to visible light. This improved sniper performance in training scenarios, as it allowed them to focus on lining up shots rather than finding targets.

Now, five pairs came out all at once as the two squads lay down at the edge of a low cliff, and began scanning the hilltop nearly a kilometre and a half away.

Spindly shapes scampered over the hilltop, ducking from rock to rock and taking pot-shots with those devastating weapons. Every time they fired, the amplified light caused Renaldo to blink. Even from this far away, that green after-image painted itself on his retinas. He couldn't make out any of the human soldiers they were attacking, but he could tell from the aliens' movements where they must have been.

A loud crack announced Ngomi's first shot, and Renaldo zoomed out to see where it landed. He could make out a total of four of the little grey creatures, darting in and out of sight. Even numbers with Beta squad, but then again, it had been an ambush. After a second, they all visibly reacted to the bullet whizzing past, but it had no visible impact beyond that and a scattering of chipped stone from the cliff face behind them. The aliens looked over in their direction, blinking with huge, bulbous eyes and craning their long necks to try to get a bead on their attacker. He heard Ngomi cursing in Arabic as she adjusted her sights and then lined up a follow-up shot, and not for the first time he was hit with a pang of longing for Yasmeen to be there with him. She could have made that shot, he thought, then banished it. That wasn't helpful. What was helpful would be to start painting targets. He picked one, centred it in his vision, steadied his hands, and then pressed down on the button that would activate the painter.

The reaction was immediate, and not at all what he had hoped. His chosen alien's eyes immediately rounded on him, and its gun rose to point in his direction. Renaldo's eyes widened, and he shouted "Down!" an instant before the muzzle of the alien's gun flared white. He ducked, and the rest of the team followed suit an instant before a curtain of white-hot plasma roared over the plateau, scattered and diffuse after travelling so far but still no doubt deadly if directly exposed. After losing so much cohesion, however, the blast no longer had the penetrating power to slice through the rocks the team hid behind, and, like they were sheltering from a gale, it parted around them, zipping past their huddled forms by mere centimetres before continuing on, shrieking like a banshee.

"Shit!" Renaldo spat, checking his body for burns. "Fuckers have UV vison. Okay, new plan, everyone: keep your-"

"Down!" interrupted Hera, and the few soldiers who had been trying to get back up instead huddled even closer to their cover as another wave of plasma washed over the hilltop, passing with a horrible shriek.

Once it had passed, Renaldo continued, surprising himself with his own levelheadedness. "Alright, listen! From where they are, they can't do any more than that. We haven't seen them use any other weapons yet, and given how they're dressed – or, more accurately, undressed – it doesn't seem likely they have anything else hidden away in inside pockets."

He actually heard a snort of laughter from Hera over the channel, in spite of their dire circumstances.

He opened his mouth to continue. "Point is-"

"Down!" shouted somebody new – possibly that Tibetan man, Kelsang.

Another shriek, another curtain of white death.

"Point is, we need to keep our heads about us. Don't use your binoculars' UV painters again. That's a mistake we only need to make once, and I'll be calling that bit of advice in to Central as soon as we get out of this. For the moment, we need to move. This cover won't last forever. Count off. Anyone injured?"

The two squads both reported in, each of them still with four names, each soldier reporting no injuries. "Good. Find a path that keeps cover between you and that gun, then move. Get as far away as you can-"

Another white-hot, shrieking curtain of fire roared past, but something was different about this one. It was louder, for one thing, and its heat was more intense. It chewed away at the edges of the stone he hid behind, leaving it noticeably smaller than it had been.

Once it had passed, Renaldo continued where he had left off. "We'll meet back up South of here, away from that group of aliens. Clear?"

He got no acknowledgements.

"Hello? Eta? Iota? Corporal?!"

"Sir!?" he heard shouted from somewhere off to his left. The Corporal's voice. But it was distant, not right in his ear where it should have been. "What happened?" she asked, sounding baffled.

"Not sure." He reconsidered, then corrected himself. "I think that last blast killed our earpieces. We're out of touch. Those things must output a lot of radiation."

"Alright. I can still here you, sir. And I can see the rest of the team, so if you speak up they should all be able to hear you."

"Thank you, Corporal," Renaldo said, adjusting his plan in his head as he spoke. "Okay. Fall back to the South, going cover to cover. Since we can no longer coordinate over a distance, we'll stay together and move as a group. Understood?"

This time, he did hear the chorus of affirmatives that he was looking for, though much further away than he would have liked.

"Then move!" he shouted. On the last word, Renaldo himself broke cover and sprinted towards another boulder, praying like hell.

12:54 PM, Xcom command center

"Beta's gone, sir."

The three words, spoken from the otherwise near-silent tactical pit in the command centre, were flat, emotionless and efficient. Bradford leaned heavily on the rail and breathed a heavy sigh. "All of them?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," confirmed the man who had spoken. In spite of the levelness of his voice, tears glimmered in the corners of his eyes. He had listened to their transmissions as they had fought. He had heard their unfinished last words and their cries of distress.

Bradford forced himself to stand, then punched a command into his personal console. The blue flag that had marked Beta squad on the map vanished.

"Time to arrival on that convoy?" he asked.

"Any minute, sir," replied somebody from the pit. He immediately frowned and raised a hand to his earpiece. "Slash that, sir. They are on site now."

"Good. Contact all remaining teams, have them spread along the hills on the blind side of the saucer and await Algerian assistance. The commander of the Algerian military group will make the decision on how to proceed from-"

"Team Three is under fire!" interrupted a voice from the pit. "Long-distance skirmish from across the valley. Lieutenant Garcia has ordered a withdrawal."

"Acknowledged. Contact Garcia, tell him to rendezvous with the Algerian army group as they come up the slope."

"Sir, Team Two is under fire as well! Another ambush. Estimate five hostiles at marked coordinates." A new red ping lit up on the map. "They are taking casualties and attempting to fall back and form a firing line. They..."

"Team One under fire. Long distance skirmish with unknown number of aliens positioned in the dunes around the yoo-foe. One of their snipers is dead, the status of the other is unknown, and they have multiple wounded. Sir, they're pinned down." Another pulsing red dot appeared on the map, this one next to the crash site.

"Sir, Team Three is not responding to communications. Their earpieces return no pings."

Bradford looked over at the Commander to see him grimacing in indecision. He turned back towards the map, examined the display, and felt his jaw set. All their forces were engaged, and all of them were losing. This was not how this mission was meant to go.

"Contact their air support," he said, voice cold and calm. "Let's see what we can do for these people."

12:54 PM, 24°49'40.0"N 1°43'38.5"E

Renaldo skidded down the hillside in a cascade of pebbles, hearing the rest of his team do the same around him. Even on his way down he was looking around, counting them constantly. Still eight. Still eight. Still eight.

They reached the bottom of the steep incline and came to rest, a few of them collapsing into the sand.

Sand.

His pulse slowing, Renaldo examined their surroundings. They had descended further than he had thought. They were now on the valley's floor. To their right still towered the dark hills, but to their left low dunes, each only a little taller than Renaldo himself, stretched away towards another range of dark stone hills in the distance. His team stood by an outcropping of rock, having stopped right where the stone turned to the beige sand of the valley floor.

And, he realized, a chill running up his back, just beyond that outcropping must be the crash site itself. We must be less than a kilometre from it.

He looked around at the troops. Hae Min-Chul, the heavy weapons specialist, had taken off his boot and was tipping sand and stones out of it. Hera had a medkit out and was tending to a minor burn that Ngomi had suffered when she had failed to get behind cover quite quickly enough during their mad scramble across the plateau. Most of the rest had sat down in the sand and taken canteens or water bottles out of their packs.

He wanted to call them to attention immediately, but he decided to give them a moment's rest. No more, though. Within a minute he clapped his hands twice and said "On your feet. Come on, look alive."

The soldiers scrambled to their feet and into parade rest, though Min-Chul did take the time to put his boots back on first.

"Alright, everyone. Just beyond this ridgeline," he pointed at the wall they had just descended "is the crashed UFO we were sent here for. If we go just around that way, we'll reach it."

He heard a few sharp intakes of breath as people realized where they were.

"Now, our mission is not to attack the craft. Our briefing made it clear, we are to remain hidden and to serve as scouts. It's my decision, therefore, that we will – what is it, private?"

One of Iota squad's, an Englishman by the name of Harris, had apparently lost focus on him, and had raised a hand to his ear.

"Sir, I'm... I'm getting something. My earpiece, it's working. At least, it's receiving. A little bit. I think I was pretty close to the edge of that bigger blast towards the end."

"So? What are they saying?" Renaldo asked.

"It's... hard to make out. Something about... Raven. Raven one and-" His face lit up. "Sir, they're calling in air support. The angels are on their way in to end this. They have multiple enemy positions marked on the map."

There were a few whoops and hollers of victory from the assembled troops, but Renaldo noted that the corporal wasn't joining in. In fact, she looked even paler than she usually did.

"Okay, quiet, Quiet!" he shouted over the din. He turned to her and raised an eyebrow. "What is is, corporal? Concerns?"

"Yes, sir? Did you see where that final, bigger blast came from?" she asked.

"No. I figured it was just that one of them had a bigger version of that weapon of theirs. The normal ones are one-handed, and I've been calling them plasma pistols in my head, so maybe one of them had a plasma rifle or something. Why, did you?"

"Yes, sir, I did?" Hera confirmed, her agitation causing her accent to strengthen and her sentences to begin inflecting upwards again. "Sir, that blast came from the crashed spaceship? Its cannon is still active?"

Renaldo parsed this as a question at first, and almost said 'I don't know' before he realized it was a statement. "Oh," was what he said instead, before the magnitude of the realization hit him. "Oh! Oh crap! That's an anti-craft, turreted weapon with rapid tracking, and we have aircraft inbound."

Hera merely nodded miserably.

"Private Harris," he said pointing at the young man. "See if you can raise Central and call off the airstrike. We can't lose those fighters."

"I'll try, sir," came the reply. Harris raised his hand to the earpiece, clicked the button twice, and said "Team Three transmitting to Central in the blind. Repeat, Team Three to Central in the blind. Do you read me, Central?" He waited a moment, tried again, and then again, repeating the same message each time. Then he turned to Renaldo and shook his head, a look of desperation in his eyes. "No response, sir. Just static."

Renaldo's brow creased. He looked over the soldiers before him, then looked at the ridge behind them. They all knew what lay on the other side. And, much as they wished otherwise, they knew what they would have to do about it. They were soldiers, and none of them were stupid.

"Alright, no point beating around the bush," he said. "Let's get this show on the road. Everyone should have their things together and be ready to go in sixty seconds. Let's go! We've got some pilots to save!"