Operation Black Dawn
Mission 3 - Terra
September ? - 1995
Thirty minutes after mass Disappearances of GDI and Nod Forces
"Uh, it's not good, doesn't look good."
- Line from F. Klepacki's song "In Trouble" released 1994.
Instructor Dobermann - Chernobog - Dated ?, 1097
The group Dobermann was leading, comprised of the Doctor, Amiya, and a lot of other important personnel had just fended off another Reunion attack, moving on to the extraction point just to get the doctor to safety. They really were not in the mood to be interrupted by anything, and they do mean anything, by the way, even strange people who just so happened to be on the road in front of them, standing behind what appeared to be a crashed helicopter of unknown model.
The strange man was wearing tan-colored clothing, with splotches of dark and more tan on it, in a weird pattern that Instructor Dobermann could only really categorize as confusing, and his helmet was a lighter shade of tan, with the front of it bearing the words 'UN' on it, whatever that meant. Below these brightly-painted white words was the symbol of an eagle, a diving one to be specific. He was raising a gun, it seemed. Showing his arms in surrender? Well, that'd have to be tested. Nobody in this group here could tell if he was here to ambush them or was just some random shmuck, but that question would be answered later.
Dobermann, rather bravely, stepped up to the man and began asking him the question that everyone here wanted to be answered. Now.
"What the hell is the UN?" She asked, whip at the ready. If this man was going to threaten them or lead them into an ambush, Dobermann would make sure that they would regret every single last minute of their lives before she would show them what walking with the shadow of death was like.
The man, almost as if he was panicking and really wanted to prove his more-than-likely-true point of surrendering and meaning no harm, slowly dropped the gun in his hand, without any prompt to do so. Was he trying to let their guard down or was he genuinely trying to show that he meant no harm?
Well, it seemed like he was trying to show the latter. Though she did want the question about the UN to be answered. Who the hell was he and what the hell was this "UN" he belonged to? It seems odd for a person like him to be around. As if she had her mind read about the whole "come on, answer" thing, the man responded with this... 'answer'.
"...Shit."
Though, to be honest, she did hear some sort of weird accent that she didn't seem to notice until now. Was he from Lungmen, perhaps? It certainly wasn't out of the question, though his voice did sound both Lungmenite and not Lungmenite at the same time.
"Look, I'll have time to explain later, all I ask of you is what the hell's going on?" The man said, rather hurriedly and with a sheepish tone too. Judging by the outfit and his general attitude, it's safe to say that he is a soldier, though an inexperienced one, as most soldiers wouldn't just be that confused. A few questions were lingering in Dobermann's head though, such as things related to where he came from, why this 'UN' was here in Chernobog, and then the guns. He was using a gun, and one was on his back, so... that made him probably a Laterano? Though he might just be Infected. Is he Infected or Laterano?
...Nevermind, that question should be asked at a later time.
Dobermann turned to the Doctor, asking him what the hell should be done. It seemed this guy was genuinely confused, seeing as he had no idea what was happening with Reunion and the city.
"Doctor, should we..."
As if on queue, the Doctor replied.
"Yeah, yeah. Just do it."
He sounded very irritated as if he just wanted to get over this immediately and as soon as possible.
Dobermann turned to the man and replied.
"You can follow us. Just don't try anything."
The man let out a sigh of relief and picked up his gun on the ground.
"Thank God, I thought I was going to get beaten to death out here on the streets," He briskly walked over to them, "name's Chong-woo, Warrant Officer, First Class, Republic of Korea Army." Introducing himself, he appeared to be more relaxed about this situation and giving away his name and affiliations, which was naive. Though she supposed that it'd work more as a benefit, after all, she had some questions to ask him after this. Some questions just asking him about where he got those firearms, and maybe a medical check-up or two, just for the sake of safety.
"Just call me Dobermann. Don't stray too far, or you'll be killed." She commanded, the experience from her former service with Boliviar seeping in her speech, which resulted in that order sounding like something she wouldn't be out-of-character for saying.
"Aye aye, Ma'am." Chong-woo replied, grabbing his assault rifle and heading in the back, clearly still having no idea what was going on. As an instructor, it's painfully obvious for people like her to spot inexperienced or confused people. He did call himself a Warrant Officer though, so that points towards some sort of officer rank. Though it may be that "WOFC" might just be a low rank over there.
Jessica turned to Dobermann, a bit weary over the sudden acceptance of a literal stranger into the extraction team.
"Instructor, was it wise to let this man come with us?" She asked, glancing at the tan-covered man, who simply fell in line with the other operators. She wasn't alone in finding the guy weird, though, there were a few among the rest who took several looks at him and couldn't tell if he was bad news or simply a literal nobody.
"I agree with you, however, it seems the Doctor can trust him..." She took a minute to pause, and breathe. "I just hope he made the correct choice in doing so." Dobermann said, sparing one more glance at the man with an assault rifle, who was rifling through his vest for something, most likely not a bomb, as he appeared to have not much on him.
The man then pulled out a magazine for his rifle, and replaced the 'old' one on his weapon with the new one, jamming it in and pulling back on what appeared to be the charging handle.
He turned towards Dobermann, and the other operators later. Staring at them for a few seconds, he shook his head. "...You know what, let's just go." He finished, not saying anything else after that. To be honest, the operators agreed with him, this man is just a secondary objective, but the primary objective is to evacuate the Doctor, first and foremost, so they have to focus on that rather than questioning an unknown variable in their mission.
Dobermann couldn't agree more, especially when she started walking. Better focus on the mission, then maybe ask those questions later.
The sooner they got to Nearl, the better.
Pvt. Alvin S. Payne - Camp Tiber - September 29, 1995.
Several minutes after that 'storm' came and went, the camp descended into utter chaos as men and women from Nod, GDI, and the Humanitarian Organizations scrambled out of the buildings. To be honest, I really liked the general aesthetic of a chaotic hellscape, but experiencing it in person is more detrimental than actually useful. For one, everyone was running around, screaming like chickens who shat their pants and got their heads cut off by Farmer Ed back in Gloucestershire. Okay, maybe that was a bit too specific, but still, it's just chaotic.
Harma turned over to me, his expression just having an 'Oh.' type of expression. "Well, shit." Harma said, crossing his arms. "Camp's in chaos again. All because of a freak thunderstorm... really, now, really?" he questioned with a tone so filled with irony and sarcasm that he'd immediately tell he wasn't being serious when he said that line. Come on, who the fuck jokes about a lightning storm that nearly fries your ass?
...Well, Harma. Harma's a dumbass, though, so he'd joke about anything. From casual racism to straight-up calling things racial slurs. Then there was that incident with the guy from Detroit and when he said that word. Yeah, I mean that word. You know, the word-that-must-not-be-named, yeah? The offensive one, for clarification. The casual one is literally used by everybody anyway so who the fuck cares? Harma's the type of guy who would probably say that word a lot in public, and he was, actually. "Really, Harma? Thanks to this thunderstorm, we've had to ground aircraft for a while, I think I saw a Nighthawk go down..." I said, seeing that lightning bolt strike a Nighthawk was not pretty.
"Okay, though, in all seriousness, what the hell was that thunderstorm? I've seen bad weather down in Eastern Europe, but this is a bit too much, don't you think?" Harma shot back, completely serious about it this time. Though you really couldn't tell with the Balaclava on his face and all that. Without it, you'd actually be able to tell if Harma was being a complete dumbfuck. That smile on his face could clue someone in on the dumbfuck tone. "Couldn't agree more. The weather was shit in Indiana, but come on, what the fuck is this?" I answered, remembering the times where I'd get caught up in Indiana weather on a bad day. At least it wasn't fucking California. That shit was hot.
Harma took off the balaclava, revealing his face. The man looked to be in his early 20s, with no facial hair as of now, alongside some blue eyes. Naturally colored thankfully, though contact lenses could change that. To be perfectly honest, his skin tone was pretty pale, but that comes as a result of living in, ahem, fucking Estonia. And as I could tell, he was serious, his face didn't have the shit-eating grin it'd have normally, so he definitely was concerned about this whole 'thunderstorm' catastrophe that hit them. Like a fucking M1A3 Abrams going at high-fucking-velocity.
Turning to me, Harma kept the normal expression he had on... for a few minutes. Then he turned into that shit-eating grin. Oh boy, another gay joke. "Dude, I know what you're about to say, don't call me gay, for fuck's sake." I said, about to interrupt Harma. "Don't know, man. That sounds kind of gay." Harma said, shit-eating grin widening further. "Goddamn it." Slamming my palm into my face, I sighed. Harma was a real dumbass, but hey, he did have a knack for telling stories to give him credit. I remember when he told me the story of his brother ranting about how he hated Wallonia, Belgium. Yeah, weird shit.
Our sense of humor was shit, though. I recall laughing my fucking ass off when we were playing Cards against Humanity. You know, the game where people slowly degrade themselves laughing at jokes about pedophilia. Got real bad when a Sergeant heard our ramblings, thinking we were really fucked up. We explained what was going on, and he let us off with a warning to tone down the noise. Still ended up drawing the attention of two other servicemen who were shitfaced drunk and wanted to do something before collapsing as the result of illegal drinking. Welcome to Camp Tiber, the finest of GDI and Nod's military bases.
Speaking of military bases...
"Have we been able to raise communications with Camp Riverbed yet?" I asked, curious if we've gotten any response since the thunderstorm. Just checking in on our other brothers in the Tiber area.
Harma shook his head. "Nope. Don't know the specifics, but all I know that it's taking a while for them to raise communications with anybody. Even Camp Riverbed." Straightening his face, he pulled out a notebook from one of his vest pockets and flipped it open, writing something down. "Just noting down the current circumstances." Pencil in hand, Harma hurriedly scribbled down. "Oh, and, Payne, don't forget to check around camp for anything useful. I'll be down here in case you need me." The man said, before going back to scribbling.
I pondered for a bit, should I really go around asking people at the camp about dumb shit?
Actually, now that I think about it, yeah, I should. I should probably find the Comms guys and probably ask them about the dumbfuckery they're doing with the radios, then maybe ask the War Factory staff about resources, then maybe go ask the Commander about how much money this base has, if we're out of money, then we're completely fucked. Warfare these days constantly relies on money to power it, money to produce tanks, money to produce firearms and equipment, and money to train soldiers in the barracks. In hindsight though, the training was the most expensive part of a Minigunner. The rifle, uniform, and equipment were not.
So, with that objective in mind, I headed off, searching for people around the camp to talk and ask questions.
Well, I found the first one.
The man I was about to approach was a GDI Minigunner like me, reading his name tag, his name was "Private A. Gannon" of the United States Army, I see, another American.
Stopping in front of him, Gannon and I met eye-to-eye, it was almost awkward, but I was able to keep myself calm, and surprisingly, Gannon did the same.
"Hi. If you're looking for an intelligent conversation, you should talk with some of the other Minigunners. I'm just a rear-echelon Minigunner and not a good one at that." He said, glasses partially covering his eyes.
"Actually, I wanted to ask you a brief question." I replied, getting straight to the point.
"Alright, what is it?" He replies, intrigued and probably wanting to get this over with almost immediately.
"Do you know where I could find the guys operating the Communications Center? I need to ask them a few questions, especially since I'm concerned about the rest of the other bases." I ask, still wanting to know where the fuck the Communications Center is, I may be a Minigunner, but I haven't really familiarized myself with the other parts of the base. It gets confusing wandering from here to there, after all.
"Funny you mention that, I just came back after doing an errand for them. You can find the Communications Center over down in the Eastern side of the base, they're down there, last time I checked." Gannon said, pulling out a cigarette and a lighter to smoke.
"Alright, thanks. I'll be going now." I said, finishing my end of the conversation.
"Bye." Private Gannon said, before continuing to smoke.
After that conversation ended, I went on my merry way to find the Communications Center, marching eastward. The Allies tried marching Eastward during WW2, and that was a catastrophic failure, so there's a possibility that mister Gannon was incorrect in his directions and would actually lead Payne into a death trap where he gets vaporized by one of the Brotherhood's new "O.B.E.L.I.S.K."* laser towers and then having his remains swept up into a bottle of Fanta, where he would be drunk and then his remains pissed on by the guy who bought the Fanta.
..Actually, never mind. What the fuck was I thinking? Have I inherited 'uber-duper super' paranoia or something? I know for certain my dad used to go on paranoid overprotective ramblings when he was drunk, but it was just calling people gay while severely stumped, but having my remains swept up into a Fanta bottle and then pissed out? What the fuck did my mind come up with sometimes?
No matter, marching eastward I continue.
However, on my merry way to the ComCent, I encountered some wild shenanigans happening throughout the base. I saw a Nod and a GDI soldier poking a Mammoth tank with a stick, a GDI Officer and a Red Cross Doctor challenging each other to a duel... in checkers, and I swear I could've seen a PLA Special Operations Force operator disappear and reappear right before my eyes. What the fuck, Nod? Camp Tiber is a wild place, but at worst, oh boy, it's a wild wasteland. You wouldn't see this type of stuff in most Hollywood blockbusters, who always depict soldiers as either the super-duper heroes or just plain dumb. Not both, unlike real life, just one. It irks me, a lot.
My march eastward finally came to a halt as I finally fucking found the Communications Center. Sloped, dark-colored architecture, combined with an obnoxious color scheme and a gigantic fucking satellite dish. Yep, that was definitely the Communications Center.
I knocked on the door politely, expecting a simple, polite responder.
However, after my knocks were detected, the first thing I was bombarded with was... none other than the Drill Sergeant.
"Ooooh, love-ly. The Mo-ron is here." The Sarge said, before letting a small chuckle escape him. Fun fact, actually, he doesn't laugh at the suffering of recruits, he just laughs at their reactions to his entire existence. The suffering that comes as a part of training, though... don't expect to be on his good side if you make fun of the poor Humanitarian Workers who signed up for firearms training under his command.
"Soldier, you better explain your presence at a Communications Center of the Global Defense Initiative." Harsh tone incoming, I thought, "I was expecting Gannon to come back and ask for anything to do as well, but you? Well, I could assign you, but first things first, why are you here?" The Sarge lowered his voice for once. That's fucking weird. Even to the... less developed members of the Initiative Armed Forces, he normally doesn't do that.
"Uh... I just came here to check on the status of communications with the rest of Initiative Command." I replied bluntly. Hopefully, the Sarge would take this seriously and not just call me a 'MO-RON' before locking me up in an M1A3 for all eternity. Yeesh, reminds me of the time a Nod tank had its tracks immobilized by rust... was not fun seeing the brittle tracks tear apart. Combine that with hatches that were permanently sealed due to an accident, and you have the worst experience a tanker, whether Nod or GDI, can tell about.
The Sarge stayed silent for a few minutes, which worried me. Did I piss him off or something?
Then he finally responded.
"...Bad news, kid."
The Sarge sharply inhaled, though not with the intent of yelling, which was the first sign that something's going wrong.
"...We can't contact the other bases."
WHAT?!
Notes from Payne:
O.B.E.L.I.S.K. - Nod defense platform, Scorpion tail-shaped laser platform, based off presumably stolen Prism technology, possible successor to 'Einstein's Prism'.
Author's Notes:
God, sorry for the delay, I got caught up in laziness, Fallout New Vegas, and HoI4, and I sincerely apologize if this feels rushed, I wanted to finish this draft as quickly as possible, so I had to improvise and got my thoughts crashing a lot while writing all of this. I really wanted this chapter to be dedicated to the Korean pilot, but me self-crunching and wanting to focus more on the average grunts kinda killed that idea. Maybe I'll post these as dual-perspective chapters, because severe mood whiplash is funny.
I snuck in a lot of shout-outs, have fun if you know them.
I'll try to hurry up with Chapter 4, but until then, seeya.