Stretching his arms up above his head, Ciaran let out a satisfied groan as he felt the joints grind in his shoulders. A good nap and a good bit of scoff had done wonders for his sleep deprived state. Now, standing near the firing range at Sacramento Air Base, he felt one hundred percent recharged.

"Feel better, Ciaran?" Darlton asked from beside the young man, making him turn his head.

Flashing the general a wide smile, the Briton nodded his head. "You're damn right, general. I feel like I could take anyone on."

"Do you really want to say that around these guys, captain?" Sergeant-major Reynolds said, making Ciaran turn his head in the other direction. The question prompted the young man to look at the assembled men before him, all of them currently working on getting their gear in order, each wearing a short brimmed bush hat to protect from the hot California sun. All of them were in earshot of the young officer who very slowly put his arms down then behind his back in silent agreement with the senior non-commissioned officer.

"Captain Forsyth. A word, if you please?" The blonde sergeant from before, Sergeant Colbert, Ciaran reminded himself, said as he approached the young man.

"What's wrong, Sergeant Colbert?" The young man asked in return, setting his face in a blank look as the older and taller man came closer to him.

'Why the fuck is everyone taller than me?' Ciaran asked himself before Colbert began talking.

"Sir, while I do agree that the idea to give us camouflaged uniforms is a tactically sound idea," The sergeant said. "Doesn't it kind of counteract all of that work if our kevlar is flat grey?"

Looking down at his uniform, the young man knew that Colbert was right: while he and the Pathfinders, along with all the Army Aviators and Villetta as well, were dressed in the same woodland brush-stroke camouflage fatigues, any advantages the wearers had was completely out of the window with the fact that they had giant grey targets on their front and back.

"Yeah, that is a problem." Ciaran admitted before he turned his head to give a flat look at the general beside him.

In response, Darlton merely shrugged his shoulders. "Not my fault. The only gear that we have that's in the same camouflage as the uniforms is the webbing worn by the special forces, and that was a definite no. Too little protection. The only other thing we can offer are pouches in the same colour, and I doubt they'll do much good."

"I don't doubt it, sir." Colbert said, looking at the general.

Putting his hand to his head, Ciaran rubbed his thumb and forefinger back and forth across his temples as he tried to think of what could be done to remedy the situation. Having a flat colour over an intricate camouflage was a sheer fire way to get spotted in a combat zone, especially more so if the colours clashed. They could probably remedy the problem when they got to Area 11, but the problem was right in front of them now, so they had to do something about it.

"How quickly can you get those pouches, general?" The young man asked, turning his head to look at the general again.

"We can get them before the end of today." Darlton said, shooting Ciaran a confused look as the young man put his hand to his chin.

"Right." He said absent-mindedly before turning to look at Reynolds. "Sergeant-major, call the men in, if you please."

Reynolds nodded his head before he bawled out to the soldiers: "Alpha company! School circle on the captain! Double time!"

Each man broke in to a jog as they headed towards the young captain, around whom they quickly formed a circle, two ranks deep, with each man having a clear line of sight on the captain.

When he was sure that all eyes were on him, Ciaran spoke. "Now I know that the combination of the woodland camouflage and the grey kevlar vests is... well, it's bad, I'll be completely honest."

Heads nodded and a few murmured in agreement.

"Don't worry, captain." Sergeant Patrick spoke up, his thick drawl, which reminded the Briton of a Texan drawl, pulling everyone's attention on to him. "We've had worse, but we've all managed to make do. This'll be no problem at all."

The young man nodded along with the other soldiers at the sergeant's words. He couldn't lie but Ciaran did have a mental image of these men as the type of people who... well, in a nutshell would be arseholes to him, either in questioning nearly every order he gave or just generally being dicks around him. But so far, he'd experienced none of that. All of the men had been listening to him intently and following every order he gave without question.

"I don't doubt it, sergeant." The captain said, before clapping his hands together once to get everyone's attention on him. "Shall we get started on some weapons training? Sergeant-major, lead the way."

Nodding his head, Reynolds ordered the soldiers to follow him as he moved through the ranks, Ciaran and Darlton following in his wake. The men made their way down a small tarmac path towards the range. In actuality, it was three areas, sectioned off by thick and tall sandy embankments along the sides of the range: two short ranges, with the shortest being one hundred yards and the longest being three times that length, sat next to the longest and widest range, which sat at a thousand yards in length and four hundred yards in width. Each area was sectioned off in to eight lanes, allowing a full rifle section to use the range they were ordered to use.

It was in front of the shortest range that the group stopped, their attention drawn to a trio of large metal crates, accompanied by two smaller crates, sitting in front of the men. Painted in a drab green paint scheme, the crates sat in a rough semicircle. Each one was stamped with the symbol of the Britannian army: a crowned, winged lion standing on top of a crown, surmounting a pair of crossed swords.

"Are we getting our weapons, sergeant-major?" One of the men asked, a man with a skin-tone Ciaran would describe as Hispanic, which was funnily close to Villetta's, with short black hair and round glasses on his face, as the men stood around crate. "We were ordered to leave them back in Area 11. Were they brought over here?"

It was Darlton who spoke, his deep baritone rolling out smoothly. "No, they were not."

This caused no small amount of confused muttering from the soldiers, but the general ignored it as he continued speaking. "As of this moment, 332 Battalion will be armed with new weaponry, as befitting our new status as an independent unit. Sergeant-major?"

At the unspoken command, Reynolds walked towards the larger crates. Kneeling down, he entered in the combination in to the mechanism and snapped open the locks before lifting up the lid. From his vantage point, Ciaran could see that inside the box was filled with soft foam, like the one used to protect his models when inside the carrying case he bought. But what definitely made it different was what was stored inside.

Reaching inside, the sergeant-major began speaking as he drew out the gun inside and turned to present it to the men, holding the rifle in his hands. It was a bullpup rifle, just like the modern Britannian rifle, but it was longer and less bulky, with a more rounded hand-guard and it lacked the integrated sight/handrail on top, replacing it with a more standard iron sight configuration while also having a longer barrel. Also, instead of the box magazine that was inserted in to the side, it used a more conventional magazine.

"This, gentlemen, is the L61A1 Self Loading Rifle. Chambered in the seven-point-six-two rimless round, it is capable of single-shot, semi- or fully-automatic. Used from the mid nineteen-fifties up until the mid nineteen-nineties. This will be your new weapon."

"We're using an older weapon?" One of the man asked, a tall white man, with short blonde hair, a rough face and some teeth missing from his upper right jaw. "What the hell is this?"

"It makes a bit of sense, Manimal." Another man of equal height, with sergeant's stripes, dark hair and a (Ciaran was really quite ashamed to admit it) handsome face said in a more amicable tone. "We're using older helicopters which still work fine. Besides, I've heard these are pretty good rifles."

"Good?" Darlton said, stepping towards the open crate and picking up one of the weapons, holding it comfortably in his hands. "We used these babies when I was a private. You couldn't ask for a better gun, gentlemen."

Walking forward and taking a gun of his own out of the box, Ciaran definitely had to agree with the general's praise for the weapon. It had a definite weight to it, much more than the rifle he had been trained on at the Viceroy's Palace, which felt like a BB gun in comparison. He racked the slide open, revealing the inner workings, which were made from actual metal components.

"Short-stroke gas mechanism, general?" The young man asked as he let the bolt snap, to which the taller man nodded his head.

"Indeed it is." Darlton replied as he passed off his own rifle to one of the other soldiers. "It's reliable as hell too. You can drop this thing in a foot of mud and it'll still keep working. Although I wouldn't advise on using fully-automatic fire though. The recoil is a right bitch to control and the barrel will climb no matter how hard you fight it."

Ciaran nodded his head in understanding. "No worries. We'll easily work around that." He said before moving the rifle to rest in the crook of his arms.

"Oh, sir, that's not your gun." Reynolds suddenly said, making him blink a bit in surprise before he looked down at the weapon in his arms.

"Oh. Okay." Ciaran said before handing the rifle to the sergeant-major, who in turned handed it off to another soldier. "I do get a gun though, right?"

A small smile came to the senior non-commissioned officer as he nodded his head as he opened a second crate and reached inside. "Yes, you do sir."

An awed smile spread across Ciaran's face at the weapon that Reynolds drew out. It was the same as the other L61A1s that they had taken out, if it wasn't for the large tube with a trigger and pistol-grip attached to the bottom of the hand-guard by a rail system.

"Is that forty millimetre grenade launcher?" He asked, as the sergeant-major walked over and handed him the new weapon. If the vanilla rifle was heavy, the added grenade launcher certainly added extra weight to it. Not much, but enough to make a difference if the recoil was as bad as Darlton said.

"Indeed, it is, captain." Reynolds replied.

Turning his head, Ciaran looked at General Darlton as a smile came to the young man's face. "I'm going to enjoy this so much more now."

The general chuckled before turning to assembled men behind him. "All right. Designated grenadiers and marksmen, collect your weapons. Choose your optics and start zeroing them in by sections. Once you've done that, start filling up your magazines and then we'll start training on the range." Then he turned to Ciaran. "I'll help you choose some optics for your SLR."

For the next couple of hours, the air resounded with the sharp crack! of seven-point-six-two rounds firing through the air before striking in to the sand embankment behind the targets. Firing the SLR was a different experience to the M15: the caseless ammunition, especially one fired by a electric pulse like in the M15, was a much quieter round, creating nothing more than a tinny pop. The purpose for the training, along with getting the men used to using a heavier weapon, since heavier materials were required in the construction of a encased cartridge firearm to allow it to operate, was also to get them used to noise generated from firing the SLR.

Needless to say, the soldiers were definitely being put through their paces with their new guns.

"Man, these things kick like a bitch." Ciaran heard the soldier called Manimal said, flexing his shoulder to ease out the pain in his shoulder as Section Two of Alpha platoon came back from the firing line, Section Three taking their place, as they joined the men from Section One.

"Yeah, but there's a definite feeling of raw power from these babies." Sergeant Colbert said as he let his rifle hang down in front of his body, barrel down. "I think I'm starting to see what those liberal dicksucks who say that guns are a substitute for having a small dick are talking about."

The young Briton quietly joined in with the laughter that the blonde sergeant's comment had created before giving his rifle a short once over. It was true: there was a definite thrill to firing a gun like the SLR instilled over the M15. But he couldn't fully place what.

"Captain Forsyth!" A voice called out, drawing him from his thoughts as he looked up for who was calling him. Which turned out to be Sergeant Patrick.

"What's up, Sergeant Patrick?" The young man said as he attached the rifle to the sling he had been given, letting it hang behind him and walked over to the small gathering of soldiers.

"I can't help but look at your sidearm, sir." The moustachioed man said, pointing a finger at the holster sitting at Ciaran's hip. "Is that a .455 Webley?"

Snapping the holster cover open, the young man drew out the pistol. "Indeed it is, sergeant. Got it as a gift from Lady Nonette."

"Ooh, fucking nice, sir." One of the soldiers, with an egg shaped face and a small blonde moustache said, smiling broadly. "Bet that feels fucking awesome to shoot."

Ciaran's eyes snapped open before a sheepish look came to his face. "Actually... I've never really gotten around to firing it."

"What?" The pathfinder asked. "Uh, sir."

"I just never got around to it." The Briton admitted as he holstered the weapon and shrugged. "Everything got a bit hectic after I got it, so I never really got around to it."

Looking past the smaller man, Sergeant Patrick nodded his head towards the pistol range next to the rifle range. "Well we've got the pistol range right here, sir. Why not give it a go right now?"

Turning around, Ciaran looked at the area that the sergeant was indicating at before nodding his head in reply. "All right. Let's do it."

Turning around, the young man sought out the form of General Darlton, who he found in conversation with Lieutenant Fick, their voices lost in the din of weapons fire on the range. Luckily, the walk to the pistol range would take the group past the general.

As he drew nearer, Ciaran called out to the general, who looked up from his conversation with Fick to see the young man walking past him with Section Two in tow. "Taking Section Two to the pistol range, sir."

Darlton nodded his head as he turned back to his conversation with Fick as Ciaran and the other soldiers made their way to the shorter firing range. Like the rifle range, it was divided in to eight lanes while being surrounded by large embankments of sand. Selecting the closest lane, the young man unslung his rifle and handed it to one of the soldiers, who slung it over their other shoulder, before he unholstered his pistol.

"Now just as a warning, captain," Sergeant Patrick said as Ciaran checked the weapon before getting in to the ready position. "A Webley will kick worse than a mule in heat if you're not ready for it. So, just be careful."

"Got it." Ciaran replied as he thumbed off the safety and, after racking the slide to chamber a cartridge, brought the pistol up level with his line of sight. Aligning the sights with the target, the standard silhouette of a person, and waiting a few seconds, he let out an exhale of breath and squeezed the trigger.

If the SLR was loud, the .455 Webley was magnitudes louder, sounding more like a small sized cannon firing than a simple handgun. His vision blurred slightly as his ears began ringing from the force of the change in air pressure. During that time, his wrists were pushed backwards, setting his whole body off balance as he stumbled backwards a few steps.

"Fuck a duck!" The young man said loudly, prompting the men behind him to burst in to howls of laughter.

"What was that, sir?" The soldier with the same coloured skin as Villetta asked, nearly doubling over with laughter.

"Well, to be fair," Sergeant Patrick said, quickly coming down from his own laughing fit and putting on a more professional face. "You were only trained with the L19 pistol, right?"

"Damn right I was." Ciaran replied, shaking out the pain in his wrists.

"So there's no way you could have been prepared for that sort of recoil." The man said as he walked towards Ciaran. "I can show you how to compensate for the recoil, but I'd suggest getting a compensator for the muzzle."

"Got it. So what do I do?" The Briton replied as he took up the same stance as before, after shaking his head slightly to clear up the ringing in his ears. He couldn't help it, but he did jump a bit when he felt a hand push his upper body forward a bit. Turning his head slightly, Ciaran saw the sergeant standing behind him. "Sergeant?"

"Lean in to the pistol." The man said simply, using his left hand to push the smaller man's torso forward before using his right hand to lower the pistol slightly. "It'll let you work against the recoil better. Also point the pistol just a little bit below where you were aiming before. You were aiming at the centre mass, right?"

"Of course." Ciaran said. Aiming and shooting for the centre mass was the quickest and easiest way to put down a combatant. For lighter rounds, it was the best chance for injuring an enemy, but with larger rounds like the .455 or the seven-point-six-two, it would almost invariably result in the enemy being put down.

"Yeah, well you hit the target in the shoulder." The sergeant said.

Looking up, Ciaran grimaced as he saw that that was true: there was a hole in the shoulder of the target directly in front of him: a small pinprick of sand against the black of the target's shoulder. "Oh."

"Yeah." Sergeant Patrick said in reply. "So aim a little lower, just below the bottom of the ribcage." The older man lowered the pistol barrel down slightly, enough so that the sights were lined up with the dead centre of the target before removing his hand and taking a couple of steps back.

"Got it." Ciaran said, as he readied his pistol before a thought struck him. "Can someone spot for me?"

"I'm on it, sir." He heard the voice of the sergeant with a model's face say from behind him. "In your own time, captain."

Maintaining the same stance as he was shown, Ciaran peered down the iron sights of the pistol. Taking aim at the spot he was shown, he let an exhale of breath before squeezing the trigger.

The pistol's report was still loud, but the young man was definitely expecting it, although it still made his ears ring slightly. His stance definitely helped dampen the effects of the recoil, the gun bucking slightly in his hands as the bullet left the muzzle and struck the target.

"Target hit." The handsome sergeant said. "Centre, bottom left. Good job, sir."

Looking forward, the young Briton could see where the bullet had hit: a small hole punched clean through the near centre of the paper, at the bottom of the innermost section of the target and a little to the left.

A smattering of claps and whoops of encouragement came from the men behind Ciaran as he stood back up right and, after setting the safety on, holstered the pistol before turning around and looking at Sergeant Patrick. The man was smiling broadly.

"Good shot, captain." He said as Ciaran walked towards.

"All thanks to you, Sergeant Patrick." The young man said as he extended his hand for a handshake. The taller man had no hesitation in taking the hand and shaking it heartily.

"Call me Pappy, sir." The sergeant said, unprompted as he shook the hand before gesturing behind him to the other sergeant. "The handsome bastard over there if Sergeant Rudy Reyes."

"Happy to help, Captain Forsyth." The dark haired sergeant said, nodding his head by way of a salute.

"Thank you, Sergeant Reyes." Ciaran said, inclining his head towards Reyes, who returned the gesture, before the young man and Pappy began walking over to the other soldiers. "Since I've got you men here, I feel that I should ask: what are your thoughts on this whole endeavour?"

All of the soldiers looked uncomfortably between each other, obviously unsure about what to say.

"You can speak freely." Ciaran said simply. "I honestly want to hear your opinions."

It was Pappy who spoke up. "We've all done similar operations and, to be honest, it sounds like the idea is a mixture of all of the principles we already know. Except with the added bonus of extra gunship support. So... I'll say that it's got my support."

"I agree with Pappy, sir." Reyes said, nodding his head. "The principles are sound, and if it's got General Darlton's support, then it's got my support as well."

All of the men gathered around began nodding their heads and muttering in agreement, making Ciaran smile as he gestured to have his rifle returned to him.

"Captain," A soldier with a boyish face and what looked like dark hair under his bush hat asked, putting his hand up as Ciaran fitted the sling over his shoulder. "Can I ask a question?"

"Of course, uh... name?"

"Corporal Jason Lilley, sir." The soldier replied, lowering his hand. "I'm wondering: where is Lieutenant Villetta?"

Not the question he expected, but Ciaran did have the answer to it. "Lieutenant Villetta is with our comrades from the Army Air Corps giving the Valkyrs a once over and checking their operational status. So we won't be seeing her for the majority of our time here."

"Aww, that's a shame." Corporal Lilley said. "She's hot."

Ciaran really had no idea how to respond to that comment so he just shrugged his shoulders.

At another time and place, the gesture from the young man would have drawn several comments about his perceived sexuality, in the way those sorts of gestures are perceived by large groups of males in close proximity.

That's how it would have gone, hadn't a low and distant whup-whup-whup noise filled the air, sounding a bit like someone trying to use a weed strimmer in the deep end of a pool.

The sounds of gunshots stopped as the Pathfinders stopped in their drills to wonder about the new sound, turning their heads this way and that, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. Even Ciaran turned his head around, trying to find the source of the noise.

A smile came to his face as he saw a dark shape coalescing in the sky, small at first but coming closer and closer at speed. It was definitely the shape of a helicopter, even if the sound didn't give it away.

"Is that what I think it is?" The voice of Lieutenant Fick said from behind the young man, having walked up to join him. Turning around, Ciaran saw that the lieutenant had General Darlton in tow, the senior officer looking no-less confused than the other soldiers, but also quite expectant.

As the dark shape formed in to something more solid, forms like short wings on the sides with large cylindrical tanks attached to the bottom becoming more clearer, Ciaran nodded his head. "Indeed it is."

The juddering noise suddenly became a roaring WHUMP-WHUMP-WHUMP as the Valkyr gunship performed a low pass over the soldiers, probably no more than three hundred metres above their heads. Still, even at that height, the noise generated from the coaxial rotors filled the air as the helicopter flew over the soldiers and performed a lazy loop to the left before levelling out to fly back to where it came from.

Flying in profile at such close proximity, Ciaran could make out all of the details on the aircraft: how the bottom was painted a neutral shade of blue, while the upper part of the helicopter was painted in a blotchy pattern of sand and green. On the section of the tail closest to the fuselage, a gold lion rampant, probably a foot shorter than himself, stood facing the front of the aircraft in a dark blue diamond, while the serial number '101' were printed in big black numbers on the fuselage. Nearer the front of the gunship, Ciaran saw a black space in the side and a figure dressed in green stood in the doorway, waving a hand at the men on the ground before the vehicle sped off again, the sound of it's rotors fading in to the distance.

"Now that was impressive." Fick said in amazement, which was a sentiment shared by the other soldiers, who began talking animatedly and excitedly about what they just saw.

"Was that Villetta's aircraft, sir?" Ciaran asked, moving to stand beside Darlton so he could be heard over the din created by the others, causing the general to shake his head in reply.

"No. Villetta's heli is the command car, gunship number one hundred." The general answered before a smile came to the man's face. "That was bloody impressive though."

The young man couldn't fight the grim smile that came to his face as he nodded his head. "I've seen combat footage of Russian Hinds in action. They're fucking brutal."

"How brutal?" Darlton asked, arcing an eyebrow.

"Best way to describe them, sir? Aerial butchers." This earned a cautious look from Darlton, which confused Ciaran a bit. "What? Like Knightmares fire cotton balls at the enemy? I remember Saitama."

The older man looked at the Briton for a few seconds before sighing. "It's the nature of the beast, isn't it? The best way to defeat the enemy is to have a more devastating weapon than your opponent."

"Very true." Ciaran nodded. "But the best side is the one who can restrain that devastation to not cause unnecessary casualties. Which is what this unit is for."

"What was that, sir?" Pappy asked, seeming to have caught the last part of Ciaran's sentence as he turned around to look at the young man quizzically. This prompted Ciaran to look up at Darlton, who merely shrugged.

"Just that we should get the men back to training." The young captain said, looking past the taller man for Reynolds, before simply deciding to yell out for him. "Sergeant Major! Lieutenant Fick!"

"Sir!" The two officers called out, quickly moving towards Ciaran's position, saluting smartly as they stood before the smaller man.

"Get each section leader up here. Break each section down in to four man sticks, designate each stick leader, then get them up on to the firing line. We're going to train to manoeuvre as single sticks, then we'll increase in size until each platoon is able to operate in sync in small level teams. Got it?" Ciaran said sternly.

"Right, sir." Fick said, nodding his head before turning to give the orders to the men, who promptly carried out their tasks. When the young lieutenant had left, the sergeant-major approached the Briton.

"Sir, you do know that's kind of what the Pathfinders do anyway?" Reynolds asked, looking a bit confused.

"As reconnaissance teams and as small level operators, yes." Ciaran replied, nodding his head at the question. "But from what I understand, Pathfinders have never had to carry out assault operations at any size larger than a section. Am I right?"

The tall man was quiet for a moment as he thought over the answer before nodding his head. "Yeah, just about."

"So you need the practice then." Ciaran said with a grin, before he unslung his rifle, letting it rest in his hands before he began walking over to the rifle range. "I'll join with Section Two."

Neither officer said anything as the young man joined the soldiers as Lieutenant Fick began splitting them in to their sticks. Soon, the air was filled with the sounds of gun shots again, this time along with the sound of shouted orders.

For the rest of the day, the men of 332 Battalion carried out fire and manoeuvre exercises to get them used to operating on small scale teams in platoon level operations. While it was true that Pathfinders were primarily reconnaissance units, specializing in intelligence gathering and disruption tactics, the men were able to handle themselves on the attack in the field with definite skill. Each man in a stick was able to work in sync with the other men of his unit, which in turn that each stick was able to work in perfect unity with the others.

Ciaran couldn't help but remember the words of Lord Wellington on his own forces: "I don't know what affect these men will have on the enemy, but by God, they terrify me."

At the same time, it wasn't just the Briton who was finding his forces to be more impressive than they imagined.

Seated in the front-most seat of the Valkyr labelled as '100', the designated command craft, or K-car if one used the terminology Ciaran had used in his essay, Villetta saw the area designated as the helicopters landing zone drawing closer. Sixteen large hangars sat on the left hand side of the area, all but three with their colossal doors closed, while outside, five other aircraft, all painted the same colours as the one Villetta was in, sat silently on the tarmac.

"Three hundred metres out. Deploying landing gear." The voice of the pilot, Warrant Officer Lucas Boisseau, seated in the pilot's seat behind her, came through the headphones fitted in to the noblewoman's flight helmet. The twin bubble cockpit, having the pilot seated behind the gunner, forced the pair to make use of two way radios to communicate with the other and other personnel.

"Copy that. Crewman, prepare for landing." The noblewoman responded as she felt the helicopter slow down before descending slowly towards the ground. The corrugated tops of the hangars climbed up to met her view before she sunk below them, before she felt the helicopter bump to a halt and the crewman's voice came in to her ear.

"Contact made. We are on the ground." The woman's voice came as a reply, which still surprised Villetta quite a bit. It was a common fact that all branches of the Britannian army, with exception of the special forces, were integrated along gender lines. But it still took her by surprise to see that so many of the pilots and the crew chiefs from the Army Air Corps, almost a full half of Lieutenant Walker's command, was female.

"Shutting down the engine." Boisseau said as the sounds of the twin, turboshaft rotatory blades began winding down from a loud roar until a dull whooshing sound before finally stopping. "And we are cold. Ladies first."

Taking off her helmet and placing it on the dashboard in front of her, shaking her hair loose so it hung over her shoulders slightly as she did so, the noblewoman contemplated on the other surprise she found in the Army Air Corps as she climbed out of the vehicle: so many of the pilots were from the nobility! Again, it was a half-and-half split; half of the pilots and crews being of noble birth while the other half were commoners. Granted, all of the other noblemen and women were from the lower end of the spectrum: second sons of nobles, daughters of counts who didn't want to be married off, some baronets and even a few knights like her.

Boisseau was the best example of this: a tall, lanky man with olive skin, black hair and hazel eyes, from Louisiana, he was the third son of a family that traced their lineage back to a French count, Le Comte de Foix, who fled to the Americas like so many others of the European nobility had before the Revolution, becoming a part of the Cajun population of the county of Louisiana, which grew out of the province of Acadiana. His position in the family line granted him practically nothing; even if he had been married off to another noble house, nothing would have come from it for either family. A career in the military, and a possible knighthood, would be the only way for him to regain any prestige in the eyes of the nobility.

"It's an amazing thing." The man in question said as he climbed out of his own cockpit and climbed down the side of the nose of the helicopter. His slightly roguish accent made him sound like an old story teller, or a fisherman. "She looks so ungainly, but when you start flying... she 'andles like a dream."

Villetta nodded her head as she looked at the vehicle standing beside her. It was true that when she had first seen the Valkyrs sitting in their hangars, she had shared in the very vocal opinion that the ageing aircraft would not be able to fly. That wasn't to say that she didn't believe in what Ciaran had said for the Fireforce, but the initial look at the tarpaulin and dust covered helicopters had definitely not given her much of a positive impression.

Turns out a quick spray with a hose did a little bit to make an old vehicle look more serviceable, but not by much.

A quick inspection of the flight controls, however, told another story. The instruments, the controls and the readouts, all were in pristine condition. Villetta was sure that the inner workings of the cockpits had been replaced before they had been prepared for the captain's training.

Turns out that was not the case.

"All of the helicopters had been made ready for combat in Euro-Britannia," The senior aviation crewman, Staff Sergeant Jason Hatfield, a squat man with a thick, handlebar moustache and grey-streaked black hair, had said as he stood beside Valkyr 100, a hand resting on the nose of the aircraft. "However, the newer Falcon gunship had just rolled off of production lines, and command felt that the Falcon was the better alternative, so they just put these in to storage."

"Still doesn't explain why the instruments look brand new though..." Villetta had responded half-heartedly as she peered in to the gunners seat.

"We give the engineers a challenge every year or so." Hatfield replied, shifting his stand to look up at the noblewoman in her seat. "Originally, it had been to change out the original instrument panels and replace them with newer ones, but that got expanded in to completely bringing up the entire aircraft up to spec."

"So why have we never seen these things flying then, if they're up to modern specifications?" Boisseau asked, to which the staff sergeant had merely shrugged, reflecting one of the simplest facts of the military; the soldiers on the ground never understood what those in high command were thinking.

And that train of thought was further exacerbated when the pilots and crews got to grips with the Valkyrs. Any thoughts on the gunships being ungainly or unflyable had gone out of the window when the first helicopter, Valkyr 104, ignited it's turboshaft engine, the coaxial rotor roaring in to life before it lifted it's bulk off the ground and began flying laps around the airbase.

While Villetta wasn't actually piloting Valkyr 100, merely having control over the (at present) non-existent weapons, she definitely could not deny that it was an experience flying over the airbase. Flying at a speed of over 270 miles per hour, a far superior speed to which any of the current-gen Knightmares were capable of, made the world pass by in a blur as Villetta was flown around the base in two laps before being brought back to their starting point.

In her mind's eye as she looked over the helicopter, the tawny-skinned noblewoman was envisioning what the effect of these gunships would be when they had their weapons mounted, and what it would be like to be on the receiving end of such an attack. She quickly banished the thought as she felt a shudder go down her spine.

"Something wrong, mademoiselle?" Boisseau asked from behind her, bringing her back in to the present, making her turn around to look at the man, his flight helmet held in his arm in a decidedly cocky manner.

Shaking her head clear of the thoughts, Villetta put on an impassive smile. "Just feeling sorry for the poor bastards who we use this against."

The man nodded his head before the noblewoman began walking away from the vehicle, the Cajun man in tow, and headed towards the central, open hangar.

Looking out of the corner of her eye at the man behind her, Villetta decided to take a page from Ciaran's book on officer-soldier relations. "So what are your thoughts on this whole endeavour, warrant officer?"

Boisseau shrugged non-committally. "A wing of these gunships alone would be something to be reckoned with when they're fully armed. But adding Pathfinders in to the mix? That sounds like overkill to me, ma'am."

Villetta had to nod her head at the man's reasoning. Using gunships against an enemy force, an enemy force which the captain had said would always be caught unawares, was one thing. But to combine them with some of the best aggressive reconnaissance operators in the Britannian military?

"Well, they do say that there's no kill like overkill." She responded, putting on a wan smile as the pair made their way across the tarmac to the hangar. As they made their way inside the spacious building, mercifully walking out of the hot sun and in to the cool shade of the building, Villetta saw the other pilots and crewmen crowded around Lieutenant Walker, who was standing in front of a large collection of tarpaulin covered objects, all of which seemed to be longer by shorter than him.

"We should hurry up." Villetta said, before turning around calling out over her shoulder. "Andrews! Let's go! Double time."

The female crewman quickly deposited her helmet in to the Valkyrs crew compartment and sprinted towards the two officers, who were making their way towards the gathering of army aviators at a jog. Soon, the trio had reached the gathering, looking a little bit flushed from running in the heat. Which earned a good chuckle from the assembled soldiers.

"We would have waited for you, Oscar." A woman, with pale skin, ginger hair and green eyes, joked with a noble inflection. Looking at her uniform, Villetta saw that she was the same rank as the man she was ribbing.

"I highly doubt you would, ma chรจre dame Veronica." Oscar responded, bowing in a theatrical manner before taking a seat on one of the empty chairs. "You never were one to wait around. I'm still surprised they let you fly."

Veronica looked ready to give a retort, but Lieutenant Walker's voice stopped her dead. "All right, that's enough, people. Let's get down to business."

Villetta sat down in one of the chairs near the front of the group as the lieutenant continued speaking.

"So we've all put the Valkyr through it's paces in flight. So what do you all think?"

One of the pilots, a black man with close cropped hair and a horizontal scar across his right cheek and vivid blue eyes, put his hand up.

"Pate?"

"Compared to the Falcon, sir?" Pate replied, resting his elbows against his knees as he spoke. "The Valkyr honestly handles a lot smoother than it looks. The size of it means it's not the most agile of aircraft, but it's speed more than makes up for it."

"Yeah, what was it's operational mileage again?" Another woman, with tanned skin and auburn hair asked from her seat. "Nearly three hundred miles?"

"Three hundred and fifty." Boisseau replied before he added his own opinions. "It's easy to control on take-off. The wings definitely help, but I won't say how well it handles in combat until we have a go at live-firing it."

Walker nodded his head silently at everything his subordinates said, until he turned to look at Villetta. "Miss Villetta. Your thoughts?"

Looking out of the corner of her eyes, the tawny-skinned noblewoman saw that all eyes were on her. Resting her elbows on her knees and leaning forward to rest her chin against her fists as he thought over what she could say.

"Speaking as a person who has never piloted an aircraft before outside of simulations, so I will say that flying in the gunner's seat of one of them was an experience." She admitted, feeling a little bit embarrassed by what she was saying among a group of dedicated pilots. "But I felt that... even flying in it without anyone shooting at us or us shooting at anyone, that it is a vehicle that will definitely outclass anything we'll face."

Looking around, Villetta saw all of the people taking in what she had said before nodding their heads in agreement. Even Lieutenant Walker nodded his head, his face remaining unreadable.

"So we all agree that it's a good aircraft to fly, but we're still undecided on how well it'll handle in an offensive role."

Everyone nodded their heads.

"Right then. Let's get started on the weaponry then." Walker said, the ghost of a smile on his face before he turned to the staff sergeant with the big moustache. "Sergeant Hatfield, if you please."

At the order, the stout non-commissioned officer rose from his seat and moved towards one of the sheet coverings, which he quickly grabbed on to and yanked away to reveal what was underneath.

Suspended in a metal frame, was the distinctive form of a Denel Land Systems G-2 twenty-millimetre chain gun, it's long four foot barrel and it's large motor and connection assembly attached to the end. Even unattached to a vehicle, Villetta couldn't help but be awed by the lethality the weapon exuded.

"The shipment of weapons for the Valkyrs has arrived, and I will say that it is definitely geared towards anti-infantry operations." Walker said as he moved to stand near the heavy weapon. "It's chain guns mixed with a few AGMs. We've also got the crew served weapons for each helicopter, so each team will need to collect your designated weapons and you can start installing them."

The aviators got up off their seats and moved towards the weapons, with Villetta proceeding to stand up to follow them with her crew. Although this was not to be as Walker stopped them mid-step.

"Hold up, Miss Villetta. According to Captain Forsyth's new doctrine, your Valkyr is the designated command craft, right?"

"... correct." The noblewoman replied with just a little bit of hesitancy. She had to admit to herself that she still wasn't sure why Ciaran had picked her to be the person who, in every sense of the word, was the one who would be in command of any operation they took part in.

"Well, as per his and General Darlton's orders, your 'K-car' is being outfitted differently to the others."

"Different how?" Boisseau asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I'll show you." Walker said, leading the trio through the bustling activity of the other crews getting their gunships weapons ready for installation, each crew working in relative silence as they removed the weapons from their packaging.

"Over here." The ginger-haired officer said as he directed Villetta and her subordinates to a large, black metal crate, roughly three feet in length and two feet in height, and another weapon suspended in a metal frame. This one was the shorter, but no less lethal, M197 electric cannon. A three-barrelled variant of the twenty-millimetre General Dynamic M61 Vulcan cannon, it was essentially a stripped down variant of the larger Gatling-style rotary cannon used in the attack aircraft of the Britannian Air Force and a few Knightmare frames.

"Captain Forsyth did say a twenty-millimetre cannon would be the best weapon to use in the K-car, so we managed to swing this." Walker said, gesturing non-committally to the weapon. "Unfortunately, it is the crew-serviced variant, so Crewman Andrews will have to operate it. But you can tailor your ammunition loadout better."

Villetta nodded her head in understanding as she approached the weapon to give a look over, before turning back to look at the other lieutenant. "So what's in the crate?"

Not saying a word, Walker moved over to the crate and popped open the latches on the lid before lifting the lid up, moving himself out of the way to show what was inside it. Stepping forward, Villetta came over to see what was inside the box.

Sat inside foam packing, a metal sphere, roughly three feet in diameter, with a camera the size of a good sized dinner plate staring blankly up at the roof in the front and attached to a metal bar above it.

"A Multi-Spectral Targeting System." Walker said, patting the side of the crate lightly. "We normally use them on the Reaper drones, but the engineers have found a way to link the device to your flight helmet. Perfect for a bird's eye view of the battlefield."

Leaning over, the noblewoman pushed a lock of hair that had fallen to block her sight out of the way as she peered at her own reflection in the device. This was just so surreal.

"I'll be honest; I honestly have no clue as to how we're going to pull this all together." Villetta said to herself as she stood back upright. "Gunships that we haven't used for twenty years. Infantry over Knightmares. I just can't wrap my head around it."

To her side, Walker nodded his head too. "I agree. I mean, these helicopters are tough, including the decoy flares to deal with heat-seekers, plus they're fast but... I'll be honest, what happens if the enemy is prepared for us? The plan requires the enemy to be caught off-guard."

Villetta couldn't help but nod her head in agreement, furrowing her brow as she thought over what the man had said. It was true that out of all the types of operations that the Britannian military had carried out, this one had to be the most outrageous. But it was also true that this was something that no-one, either in Britannia or Area 11, would expect. Aerial assaults of Knightmares were the norm for any Britannian assault, and the Empire made no attempt to hide that fact, so it was the type of assault that any of their enemies would expect to face.

But helicopter gunships? How would anyone be able to prepare for that?

Taking a short but steady breath through her nose, Villetta looked at Lieutenant Walker with a small smile before she, shrugging, said, "We'll just to have test it to find out."

The ginger-haired aviator just looked her quizzically, before Boisseau butted in.

"He who dares, wins." The nobleman stated matter-of-factly.

Lieutenant Walker looked at the olive-skinned man for a few seconds before he simply shrugged and walked away, prompting Boisseau to stand a bit closer to Villetta.

"Don't mind him, none, ma'am. It's always been hard for him to see the good side in anything, so with this sort of thing, I doubt he'd be very excited."

The tawny-skinned woman regarded her pilot for a few seconds as she took in what Boisseau had said. It was true that this was a new tactic being tested out, so there was still the rational amount of nervousness around it being put in to practice. But, as the Cajun man had quoted: who dares, wins.

Reaching in to the large box next to her, she took a hold of the targeting system and began levering it out of it's foam casing. "Come on, help me get this in to place."

For the next two days, the Sacramento Air Base resounded to the sounds of gunshots and helicopters as the men and women of 332 Battalion honed their craft. Units that once operated in small units only to conduct recon on the enemy, now utilized their small units size to conduct attacks on an as yet non-existent enemy. Soldiers learned to support each other through fire, kneeling or lying down to engage and suppress the enemy while other sticks advanced on the enemy, while the gunship crews learnt fly close to the ground, two hundred metres over the heads of the soldiers, as they went against their targets with rockets and chain-guns.

At the captain's orders, the Pathfinders spent time with the army aviators in the mess hall and in the recreation areas during down time. Due to the nature of the two different units, it wouldn't do much to overcome the inter-service rivalries that existed between the two groups, but it would help to promote some form of camaraderie between them.

That closeness was then extended to the motor-pool, all soldiers learning the ins and outs of their flying chariots. The men who had the proclivities for it were allowed to pair up with the engineers and crewmen to help with the maintenance of the Valkyrs. As non-standard equipment, it was very unlikely that, if things went wrong, then they would have to rely on non-standard expertise in fixing them. As it were, Corporal Ray Person and Corporal Jeffrey Carisalez turned out to be experts on managing to scrounge up materials that were more than capable of keeping the Valkyrs flying when repairs were needed.

This sort of connection was only the prelude to the sorts of bonds that could be created in the fires of combat, but to Ciaran, it was a start.

What was also a start were the events of Friday the 24th, when everyone finally found out if what they had been trained for over the last three days would work, or whether it would crash and burn, both literally and metaphorically.

The sound of the rotors was deafening inside the hull of Butcher One-One, the airframe juddering slightly as the helicopter flew to it's destination through the early morning sky. Inside the space of the troop compartment, filled with twelve other bodies, Ciaran removed his cap from his head before bringing his hand up to wipe away the layer of sweat that had built up on his forehead. Moving his hand clear, he replaced the headgear before letting out an annoyed huff.

"I'm so fucking hot!" He called out in annoyance to no-one in particular.

"Oh good! I'm not the only one!" One of the soldiers responded in turn, earning a bout of laughter from the others and a grin from the Briton, even as he took a quick swig from his hydration pack, grimacing slightly at the taste of the water mixing with the plastic of the drinking tube.

It had been five minutes since the quintet of Valkyrs lifted up from their staging post and headed to the target area. The recon team under Pappy had spotted insurgent activity in an abandoned village some twenty miles out and had called for a Fireforce deployment. Initial reports put the enemy force at over fifty enemy fighters and one Knightmare frame.

Three minutes later, the lead elements of 332 Battalion, made up of Villetta in Butcher Actual, Butchers One-One, One-Two and One-Three, with the men of Alpha Platoon in their newly organized Sticks filling up the three helicopters, while Butchers One-Four and One-Five acted as gunship support.

"Butcher Actual to Griffin Actual. One minute to target." The voice of the pilot came through Ciaran's left ear, making him nod before depressing the button on his radio set to speak to both the pilot and the men with him.

"Copy that, Butcher Actual. Griffin Actual to all Griffin units; one minute to target. Everyone go in to red-con one posture."

Various positive response came back in reply before the other men in Butcher One-One began readying their weapons, racking the slides of their rifles to chamber a round. Ciaran did the same before popping open the chamber of his grenade launcher. Reaching in to one of the smaller pouches on his chest, the young man pulled out the brass shape of a forty-millimetre high-explosive grenade before sliding the round home and closing the chamber.

Looking up, Ciaran saw Sergeant Colbert sitting across from him, in the middle of the same process, a forty-millimetre grenade in his hands. Nodding his head, the sergeant shot the young man a smile before loading his own grenade launcher, which the Briton returned.

Taking a deep breath, he did his best to steady his nerves. He tried his best to tell himself that it was the same situation as at Kitakyushu... but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't do it. That night at the docks had been a leap in to the unknown, a blind jump against unknown enemy numbers.

But now... it was like standing on a diving board looking down in to the deep end of a pool. You knew how far you had to fall and you knew that the water was underneath you, but you couldn't tell what was underneath the water.

Ciaran felt two emotions running through him: fear and excitement.

The dulled but distinct sound of a twenty-millimetre cannon firing reached his ears before Villetta's voice came through. "Butcher Actual to all Butcher units: targets engaged, enemy Knightmare destroyed. Prepare to offload sticks"

"Butcher One-One copies all." The pilot's voice responded. "Thirty seconds out, preparing to offload sticks."

"Thirty seconds!" Ciaran called out. "Everyone get ready!"

At the last word, the roar of the Valkyrs rotors became deafening as the doors on the sides of the aircraft were pulled open by the gunships crewman, letting the wind whip in, making the eyes of everyone sting from the force. Screwing his eyes shut, Ciaran reached down and pulled up the goggles that he had around his neck before securing them around the back of his cap. Blinking away the water in his eyes, the young man saw all of the soldiers had done the same with their goggles, securing the straps of their eye-wear to the back of their helmets.

He knew that he very probably should have worn one too, what with the risk of falling out of the helicopter if he was really unlucky or getting shot in the head if he was moderately unlucky. But ever since he had met the men he was sitting with now, he had quickly become identifiable t them by him wearing a cap. Which in a situation that could quickly become chaotic would be an invaluable fact.

Villetta's voice cut in again. "Griffin Actual; Griffin One-Alpha, One-Bravo and Two-Alpha will be the sweep. Griffin Three-Alpha and Three-Bravo will act as stop on the right. Four-Alpha and Four-Bravo will act as stop on the left. Two-Alpha will focus on targets of opportunity. How copy? Over."

"Griffin Actual copies all."

"Griffin One-Actual copies all." Lieutenant Fick, attached with Griffin Three-Alpha replied from his own helicopter.

The whirring of machinery over his head made Ciaran turn his head as he watched the large rear door at his left side began to split in half, lowering and raising to sit flush against the body of the helicopter. As they did, the young man's eyes opened wide at what he saw: Butcher One-One had dropped closer to the ground, the dust from the ground coming up to meet the craft before scattering around it as it flow towards it's landing zone. Behind it, a large plume of smoke in the middle of a collection of poorly constructed huts, the burning remains of a recently destroyed Knightmare Frame burning brightly. Like vultures preparing for a feeding frenzy, the various helicopters of Butcher squadron either circled around the target area or spread out to drop off their troops, their rotors kicking up blankets of dust as they lowered to the ground.

The pilot's voice came in to his ear again as the helicopter dropped closer to the ground. "Get ready to disembark in ten, nine, eight, seven, six..."

Ciaran took over the count. "Five, four, three, two, one! Go, go, go! Everyone out!" He yelled out as he surged to his feet just as the Valkyr came to a halt above the ground. His vision was momentarily blurred out as the force of the transport's rotors, causing him to misjudge the distance from the floor of the ramp to the ground, making him stumble out of the transport. The young man would have landed square on his face if he hadn't had the reflex action to land forward on his unburdened left hand and his knees, and he landed hard, pain lancing through his limbs as he landed hard on the sandy ground and dried grass.

He didn't have time to scold himself however before he scrambled forward, avoiding the boots of the men of Griffin One-Alpha coming down on to the ground where he knelt mere seconds before, while One-Bravo and Two-Alpha exited via the side doors of the helicopter. Dropping to a knee, Ciaran levelled the rifle in front of him, aiming down the small scope attached to the top of the sight, even if his vision was hampered by the dust, before he switched on his radio.

"Griffin Actual to sweep units. Everyone in position?"

"Griffin One-Alpha, check."

"Griffin One-Bravo, check."

"Griffin Two-Alpha, check."

Ciaran nodded his head as, looking around, he saw the dozen men under his direct command all in the same position, their rifles held in their hands as they searched for any targets. "All right. Sweep units, move forward."

At the command, the men rose from a kneel and began walking forward quickly, their rifles held ready and their eyes scanning for targets as the helicopter gunship lifted off from the ground and began circling the target area.

Moving forward, Ciaran lead the soldiers in a quick advance for several dozen metres before Sergeant Colbert called out to his right. "Enemy contact. Three hundred metres to our front!"

"Advance and engage! Do not stop. Keep up the pressure!" The young captain called out before he brought his SLR up flush with his shoulder and began firing in semi-automatic, one shot for every pull of the trigger, each soldier adding their own fire in turn. It was a slow way to fire, but much easier to pick off targets at long range. Soon, the air was filled with the snap and whine of seven-point-six-two rounds ripping the air apart as they flew towards their target.

Ciaran's radio crackled in to life. "Griffin Actual, this is Three-Alpha. We have enemy attempting to break contact. Engaging now." Seconds later, the sound of eight more rifles firing added to the din of combat.

"Copy that." Ciaran replied before talking in to his radio again. "Griffin Actual to all units: sweep is moving in to target zone. Watch your fire. Repeat: friendly units are advancing in to target zone. Watch fire. Over."

His radio crackled again as all units responded positive as the sweep element advanced closer to the target.

Ejecting the magazine from his weapon, Ciaran reached in to one of his pouches and took out a fresh one before slamming it home and racking the slide as he continued his advance. Soon, the sweep elements had reached their designated stop area, a couple of hundred yards from the outskirts of the shanty village.

Villetta's voice crackled in to the Briton's ear. "Griffin Actual, this is Butcher Actual. Be advised: enemy forces are attempting break out on the right flank but some are still holed up in the village itself. How copy? Over."

Kneeling down close to the ground, Ciaran keyed his own radio. "Copy that, Butcher Actual. Interrogative: can you tell where exactly the enemy is holed up in? Over."

Looking up, the young man saw the form of the noblewoman's Valkyr circling high above the battlefield, like a predatory hawk.

"Griffin Actual, they're in the huts to your immediate twelve and one o'clock. Over."

"Griffin Actual copies all. Over and out." Ciaran replied before he addressed the soldiers. "Enemy in the huts at twelve and one o'clock. Colbert, with me!"

Raising his rifle up to his shoulder, the Briton flicked off the safety on the underslung grenade launcher as his left hand gripped the pistol-grip on the weapon. Sighting the weapon, he depressed the trigger, causing to make a loud thump sound as it fired it's forty-millimetre, high-explosive payload at the hut to his immediate front.

The effect was spectacular, as the grenade punched through the thin wall of the hut and landed in the middle of the dwelling before exploding with force. The walls of the hut were blown outwards, casting the walls in to splinters. While it didn't create the same sort of spectacular explosion one saw in films, it was still something to see. Plus, it made Ciaran's ears ring again.

Lieutenant Fick's voice came in just as the noise of the explosion died down and the rifle shots trailed off. "Griffin Actual, this is Griffin One-Actual. Enemy is suppressed on right flank. Over"

Villetta's voice came in on the heels of Fick's. "Butcher Actual to Griffin Actual. All enemy personnel have been suppressed. How copy? Over."

Slinging his rifle, Ciaran pulled the goggles up from his eyes and put them against the front of his cap as he stood up and surveyed the level of destruction before him. The ruined frame of a Knightmare Frame was burning, the flames starting to spread around the destroyed machine. Directly in front, the wooden frames of the huts that still stood were perforated with so many holes, it looked ridiculous to have them still standing.

Keying his radio, Ciaran spoke in to his headset. "Griffin Actual copies all. General Darlton, can you hear me?"

The general's rough voice came in short seconds after. "Read you loud and clear, Ciaran. What's up?"

"Umm... we might need a fire-crew down here." The young man said with a little bit of trepidation as he saw the flames begin to spread from the ruined machine in to the ruined remnants of the settlement specifically constructed for the exercise.

"That bad, huh?"

"Well, let's just say... it's not gonna get better unless it suddenly starts raining."

As if to further illustrate his point, one of the perforated walls collapsed upon itself in a splintering crash.

"Please hurry, sir." Ciaran said in a worried voice, prompting the soldiers around him to begin sniggering.

For the rest of the day, the six gunships of Butcher Squadron flew the three platoons of 332 Battalion to and from Sacramento Airbase in to the area chosen as their makeshift target area, after it had been liberally hosed down after Ciaran found out that even a small amount of explosives in a hot and dry environment had the very real potential to start a brushfire. Each platoon was run through the same situation: after the observation team for each platoon finds the enemy encampment, Butcher-Actual would lead the other five gunships, three acting as troop transports while the remaining two acted as fire-support gunships.

The order of battle was changed each time, with each of the G-cars alternating as either troop transport or support gunship, to get each pilot used to working with either decreased or increased weight. The directions of approach were changed each time, each angle and direction being chosen by General Darlton before each operation. The only variable that stayed the same was the use of an old trio of Glasgow Frames as the main heavy support for the enemy, which both Ciaran and Darlton reasoned as would be the more likely the case in Area 11.

As with any experimental procedure, there were some teething problems: the most memorable one being on the second mission when Hitman Two-Alpha, the fourth stick in Bravo Platoon, had a very close call from Butcher One-Two acting in a gunship role as it performed a low pass with it's twenty-millimetre cannon. Luckily however, no-one was injured in any way shape or form. Although One-Two's pilot, Warrant Officer Veronica de Pomeroy, was docked a months pay for the near miss.

After each platoon had run their assaults and had their gear put away, showered off the sweat and dirt and had gotten some food in to them, all the members of 332 Battalion were gathered in the same meeting room where Ciaran had first met the collection of men and women, each one seated in the same seats as they first sat in, along with Darlton, Villetta and Nonette seated to his left against the wall. The last of whom was seeming to nearly burst in to a smile at any moment.

It was almost like the first time, except now the young man had very little to worry about around the soldiers. Plus, the large black television screen behind him was a definite change.

Looking over the faces of the soldiers, the young man took in a small breath before he began speaking.

"Ladies and gentlemen, before anything else, I would like to thank you."

This caught nearly everyone by surprise as he let what he said sink in, letting their reactions of shock and happy surprise play out before he continued speaking.

"I want to thank you for helping prove to me that the Fireforce concept does indeed work, and that it can be utilized by the Britannian military."

That was a half-and-half lie. Ciaran with definite certainty that the Fireforce doctrine did work and it worked very well, but he was unsure if it would work with a military like the Britannian military. But it never hurt to praise the men he would be working with.

"So no matter what happens to us, I want you to know, that all of this-" The young man opened his arms to gesture to the room as a whole. "-Was only able to be accomplished because of all of you, the Pathfinders and the army aviators. I just had an idea, but it was the lot of you that made it a reality. So... thank you."

The room was silent as the people digested what he had said. It was rarely often that a Britannian officer gave praise to the soldiers under their command, let alone thank them for what they had done. In fact, it was very likely that all of the officers who gave praise to the regular soldiers could be counted on both of a person's hands. So for a few seconds, no-one said anything, each person merely trying to collect their thoughts.

It was one of the aviators who spoke up, a man with olive skin and short, curly black hair under a light green beret, sitting up straighter in his chair before he spoke in an accent that reminded Ciaran heavily of the stereotypical American bayou accent. "You're welcome, sir."

It was only three words but it helped lighten the mood in the room, the young man nodding his head in thanks before he began speaking again.

"All right, since we have all been trained in the particulars of the Fireforce and that we have all become versed in it's application that I'm sure we could pull off a mission or two, but ultimately, that's not down to me. As I'm sure you're all aware, General Darlton is both the highest ranking officer present here and also the highest ranking military member of Princess Cornelia's Royal Guard, of which I am also a member." A look of realization hit the young man's face. "Which I have just realised is something I have not told you. Oh well."

Glancing to the side, Ciaran looked at the scarred general, who merely nodded for him to continue.

"As per his role, he has been keeping a consistent eye on our proceedings here and has been keeping the Second Princess abreast of the situation. And since she is the Field Marshal of Britannia, and also the head of all military operations in Area 11, she will have the final say on whether the Fireforce will be put in to effect."

Turning around, he walked over the screen, which was more like a touch-screen computer than a television. Bringing up the number pad, he entered the code that Darlton had given him to give a direct line to Princess Cornelia's office.

Combination entered, Ciaran took a step back as the screen in front of him was connected via satellite to the one in the Viceroy's Palace in Tokyo. Soon, the screen switched from pure black to reveal the inside of Cornelia's office from an angle, showing the purple-haired princess sitting in her stately chair, facing the screen, with her long legs crossed over the other. To her sides, stood Guilford and Dorothea, each one standing stiffly and at attention. In reply, all of the seated servicemen sat up straighter in their seats.

The young man inclined his head by way of a greeting before speaking. "Princess Cornelia, may I introduce you to the fine men and women of 332 Battalion."

Cornelia inclined her head in reply to him before she turned her head to look directly at the people seated across from her as Ciaran moved out of the way to let her address the soldiers.

"Thank you, captain. Ladies and gentlemen, as I'm sure you are aware, this unit was put together to test out a counter-insurgency tactic created by Captain Forsyth for our continued operations against the insurgent forces in Area 11. From the reports given to me from General Darlton, it seems that the young captain's work seems to be more than capable of giving us an edge against the forces arrayed against us here."

Ciaran couldn't fight the small giddy smile that his face at the praise given to him.

"However, it is also because of that situation that I must order the 332 Light Infantry Battalion to return to Area 11 tomorrow. Even though we are due to receive a full division from the Homeland in the next week, that does mean that your battalion, along with my Royal Guard, will be the only Britannian force in country to deal with the insurgency."

It very likely wasn't the news that everyone wanted to hear and, to be blunt, it wasn't the news Ciaran really wanted to hear either. While it did mean that it would allow him to see how the doctrine would fair against an actual enemy force, it would be one hell of a trial by fire.

Cornelia must have picked up on it as well, as her face slackened from her normally stoic visage in to a thin smile. "But for the remainder of today, you all have the day off. I do believe that you've earned."

Turning her head slightly, the Second Princess looked at Ciaran directly. "Captain Forsyth, I want to talk to you directly after everyone has left."

Ciaran nodded his head. "Yes, Your Highness."

"All right, you heard the Princess." Nonette said, suddenly clapping her hands together. "Everyone part from the captain, Darlton and myself; get out."

Ciaran just looked at the champagne-haired woman in confusion. She had been absent throughout the entire training, only showing up at meals and downtime to either lounge about or stuff her face. And yet here she was, acting like she commanded the entire battalion.

"Lady Ernst, I think that-" He began before he was interrupted by the Second Princess.

"No, she is right, Captain Forsyth. This does concern Darlton and herself, as well as you. Everyone else is to leave."

Seeing that there was no use in him arguing with the two noblewoman, Ciaran simply shrugged before turning to face the assembled soldiers.

"Well, you heard the Princess; Battalion! Dismissed."

Nearly as one, the woodland-camouflaged men and women rose from their seats and began filing out of the door. Some of them shot the young man a sympathetic look, while Villetta, walking out alongside the army aviators, merely look at him in confusion before she too left the room, leaving Ciaran, Darlton and Nonette alone with the television screen.

Turning on his heel smartly, the Briton looked at the image of Princess Cornelia in mild confusion. "What's going on that warrants all of us to be... where's Euphemia?" Ciaran began before noticing that the younger pink princess was absent.

"She's attending a small function with some lesser noblewomen who want to help out the Elevens in the ghettos." Cornelia said, sighing gently as she put a hand to her forehead and she uncrossed her legs. "But in all honesty, I'm glad she's not here. What I'm about to say, it would only upset her."

This caused Ciaran's brow to furrow deeper in confusion. 'This could not be good.' he thought to himself as Cornelia reached a hand over to her desk and pulled up a thin black tablet which she began typing away at.

"Our security teams in the Palace have been tasked with working on any unidentified transmissions; phone, e-mail, what have you. On the Wednesday, they picked this up."

The sound of Cornelia tapping her finger sharply against the screen of the pad in her hands was replaced by a static laced message, the voice of the caller coming through very garbled but still distinct enough to hear.

"V, Target F is no-longer in country. From our sources, he has travelled to the Homeland for some task for the Second Princess. Will send another report when I have gained more info."

The young man's eyes opened wide as he took in what he had just heard. There was no way t dance around the facts of the issue: 'Target F' could be no-one else but him. But the main question now was: why?

Looking to his side, Ciaran saw that his shock was shared by Darlton and Nonette too as the general spoke up. "Do we know who the message was sent to?"

Cornelia shook her head. "I'm afraid not. But our technician teams are working on figuring where and whom received the message."

Nonette spoke up next, putting her hands against her hips. "So that's why you're bringing us home early."

"Indeed." The Princess said, nodding her head. "I do not doubt that, the three of you combined, even if we factor in the battalion under Ciaran's command, he would be more than well protected... but I'd feel safer to err on the safe side."

The shocked look on Ciaran's face fell away as he heard the soft tones in Cornelia's voice as she spoke, sounding so much like an older sister than a commanding officer or a princess. And it seemed like he wasn't the only one to notice either.

"When did you start getting a soft spot, Nellie?" Nonette asked, her usual cat-like smile coming back to the fore.

In reply, Cornelia merely let out a huff of indignation as she crossed her arms over her chest. "I've always had a soft side. It just seems that between Euphie and Ciaran, I've been able to act on it more." A sombre look came to her face as she continued speaking. "But if someone's targeting Ciaran, then there is the very real likelihood that anyone of us could be next. So we need to nip this in the bud as soon as we can. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Your Highness." Both Ciaran and Darlton intoned as one, bowing their heads in salute, with the Princess nodding her head in reply.

"We'll see you tomorrow, everyone." Dorothea said, waving her hand gently at the trio, which Ciaran returned before the connection was terminated. He didn't let it show on his face, but inside, his mind was kicking up a storm.

Someone was after him, that much was sure. Although for what reason, he didn't know, and right now, he was trying to figure out the possibilities of who could have it out for him.

Zero? Well, that was a given, but the truce was standing so he didn't imagine the man breaking it. If he did, Cornelia would definitely hunt him down herself.

Lord Hasselbach? Maybe. But the last he had heard, the man had been locked up in a jail cell, so he was out of the picture.

To be honest, those were the only two major people he could imagine trying to hire someone to follow him and, he realised with a lot less of a feeling of dread than he ever imagined having, kill him.

But what was the name of the contacted person again? V?

A single letter? Okay, that made some sense. He knew that a lot of spies in fiction used single letter code-names. M and Q from the James Bond films immediately sprung to mind. But something about the name struck him as odd...

"Penny for your thoughts there, mate?" Nonette's voice cut in to his thoughts, making his head shoot up, looking at the concerned faces of the scarred general and the Knight of Nine.

"No, I'm... just trying to take stock of this whole thing." Ciaran said, shrugging his shoulders. "This is really not a situation I imagined myself being in."

"That seems to be a common occurrence with you, isn't it, Ciaran?" Darlton asked, putting a hand on the young man's shoulder. Ciaran looked up at the older man as he so obliquely referred to the Briton's short history with getting himself in to situations he couldn't quite wrap his head around. "Come on. Let's get your gear packed up, then we can enjoy the rest of the day. How does that sound?"

"Wahoo!" Nonette yelled out, throwing her arms up above her head as she whooped in joy. "I know this brilliant burger place in Sacramento that does take out."

"We're not going out to eat?" Ciaran asked, not too surprised by the idea of Nonette being lazy enough to order a take out over actually eating out at a restaurant.

Seemingly jumping forward, the older woman put an arm around the young man's neck and, once again, pulled him in to the another sideways hug. But instead of the happy grin he had expected to see on her face, Ciaran was surprised to see a serious look on Nonette's face as she spoke. "Ciaran, there's some unknown persons out there looking for you, and we have absolutely no clue who that person is or whether they indeed to simply watch you or to do something more violent. But they've made one serious mistake."

"What's that?" The young man asked, arcing an eyebrow at her words.

"They decided to pick on one of my best friends." Nonette replied, grinning broadly at him before she quickly planted a small kiss on to his cheek.

This earned a chuckle from Darlton, the older man obviously enjoying the spectacle before he smiled at the young man as well. "She's right though. Whoever this bastard is, they mess with you? They mess with all of us in Cornelia's staff, and Nonette and Dorothea."

Ciaran smiled broadly at what the two said before shaking his head ruefully. "All right. But I don't want any complaints if you guys get caught in something stupid. Got it?"

"No promises." Nonette said, ruffling his hair before she walked past him towards the door. "I'm going to see if I can find the address to that burger place while you two get your stuff packed."

As the Knight of Nine left through the door, the general drew closer towards Ciaran. "I hope you don't mind us being this overly cautious about this."

Ciaran shook his head. "No, it's fine. Cornelia told me what she went through when Lady Marianne was murdered, and me getting captured at Narita brought those memories back for her. I don't want to put her through that again if I can help it."

The scarred general nodded his head in reply at what the young man said before patting him against his arm. "You'd make a good knight."

The young man shrugged in reply. "If you say so, sir. Come on, let's get our shit together."

The night was stifling and humid around the Sacramento Air Base as the figure moved across the road fro the entrance of the base before heading for the main soldiers bar. Dressed in the light blue barrack dress uniform of the Britannian army, allowing them to blend in effortlessly with the other soldiers that populated the air base.

The figure was a tall man, with close-cropped blonde hair, piercing blue eyes in a sharp angular face. His frame was slim but with well toned muscles, perfectly suited for the task at hand. As per regulations, he had to forfeit carrying any firearms, although using any on a military base was a definite death-wish for him due to the advanced detection systems they had on base to handle any negligent discharges. So his only weapon at hand was a five inch long blade sheathed in a special compartment at the back of his belt.

Walking through the door that lead in to the bar, the man wasn't surprised by what he saw: soldiers wearing their own clothes were clustered around the bar, drinking their beverage of choice while they conversed with their fellows. Some sat around tables, cards in their hands as they played a game of choice, while just at the edge of his hearing, the man could hear the sounds of a ping-pong ball being hit back and forth repeatedly at high speeds.

Looking around though, he couldn't see the person he was after.

"You're looking lost there, private." A thick drawling voice said from his side, making him turn his head. The voice came from a tall man with close-cropped brown hair and a moustache of the same colour, wearing a pair of blue jeans and a white t-shirt sitting at a nearby table.

"Yeah, just a bit." The man replied sheepishly. "I'm trying to find Captain Forsyth? I was told he would be here."

"Nah, he's not here." The moustachioed man responded, shaking his head as he brought a pint glass to his lips and downed a mouthful of it. "He's with Lady Nonette and General Darlton."

'Ah, figures.' The blonde man said to himself before he actually responded. "Do you know where they are? I've got an important message to give to him."

"What's the message?" Another soldier, this time with short black hair, with a few teeth missing from his upper right jaw and wearing a black t-shirt with a heavy metal skull on the front, asked from the other side of the table.

Opening up his jacket, the man reached in and took out a small white envelope, holding it up for the pair to see. "I don't know what it says myself, but it's for the captain's eyes only."

The pair of soldiers nodded their heads before the one with the moustache suddenly yelled out. "Miss Villetta!"

Seconds later, the sound of footsteps drew their attention as, turning his head, the man saw a tawny-skinned woman with silvery hair dressed in a pair of black skinny jeans and a blue t-shirt walk around the corner. "What it is, Sergeant Patrick?"

"The private's got a message for Captain Forsyth. Say it's for his eyes only." The sergeant said.

The woman, obviously called Villetta, looked at the man in question sceptically. "Name and unit, private."

Standing stiffly, the man railed off the names he had been given by his handler. "Private Andrew Saunders, ma'am, 101st Imperial Infantry." All were fake of course. His name wasn't Andrew Saunders and he'd never served with the 101st, although he did have military experience.

Miss Villetta looked at him for a few seconds before she nodded her head. "And you've got the message, right?"

Holding up the envelope, Saunders nodded his head. "Of course, ma'am."

The woman looked at him shrewdly before turning around and walking towards the exit. "All right, I know where the captain is. Follow me."

Putting the envelope back in to his jacket, Saunders followed Miss Villetta out of the building and in to the night again. He had to admit, following this woman had to be the highlight of the night for him: through her clothes, he could see the lines of muscles at her back and legs which, while showing how strong she was, still made her look so feminine. And that wasn't to mention the beautiful swell and curves of her hips and rear in those jeans she wore.

Maybe he could try and convince Master V to let him do something with her as a sort of... danger pay after this mission.

The pair walked in silence towards what looked like the officer's barracks. Thankfully, it looked quite deserted as the pair entered in to the lobby of the place.

"He should be around here somewhere." Miss Villetta said, looking around the various entrances to the different hallways. "I know he'd be with General Darlton and the Lady Knight of Nine, but I'm not sure where."

"The Lady Knight of Nine?" That bit of information was not included in the mission briefing. He knew that Target F was travelling with General Darlton, but a Knight of the Round too? Who the hell was this guy?

Seeming to take a corridor at random, the pair continued walking, giving Saunders time to think over what he could do to complete this mission. The mission parameters were simple enough: execute the target by any means, confirm that he is dead, then exfil the area. Simple mission, one that he'd done numerous times on the Geass Order's orders. But those were usually against others who could afford to b executed.

But a captain of the Second Princess' Royal Guard? While he seemed to be with both one of the top generals of Britannia AND one of the Knights of Round? None of this seemed to make sense to him. But if Master V had personally chosen him for this mission, then the man really must have agreed that Saunders was that good an assassin as he knew he was.

But the only problem was trying to find the bastard.

Walking around a corner, they saw a young man with a fair growth of facial hair, dressed in a pair of light blue jeans, brown leather boots and a red plaid shirt standing in front of a vending machine, looking down at his hand as he muttered to himself.

"Oh, there he is." Miss Villetta said, gesturing to the man in question before she walked over to him. "Ciaran!"

Saunders let a thin smile come to his face. God loves the assassin's work.

"Hmm?" The man said, looking up from his hand as the pair approached him, giving Saunders a look at him in detail. He was definitely the match of the figure in the photo given to him. Stocky figure, head of dark brown curly hair and facial hair of the same colour, although there seemed to be some more blonde hairs around his mouth, probably from the Californian sun. Definitely the target. He thought he saw a pistol holster underneath his shirt, but he couldn't tell for sure.

"Oh, hey, Villetta." The captain said, turning to face the pair. "Glad you're here. Got any change for a fiver? I've not got enough coins for all the drinks I need."

"Yeah, I think so." Villetta replied, reaching in to a pocket of her own as she and the captain completely ignored the fact that Saunders was there. "How come we didn't you three at dinner anyway?"

"Ah, Nonnette wanted to order some burgers from this place she knew about, and you know what she's like with this sort of thing. So Darlton and me didn't really have a choice." The captain said as he moved to the drinks machine and began putting his money in to the drinks machine before punching in the code for the first drink. "But what kind of place doesn't include drinks in a take-out order? So who's this guy anyway?" He continued before gesturing to the only man in uniform.

Saunders straightened his stance up as the captain looked at him. He had to admit that the officer was definitely on the young side, but the blank look the older man was given was pretty good at being unnerving.

"Private Saunders, sir. 101st Infantry." He replied smartly.

"He says he's got a message for you. Your eyes only." Villetta explained as the first drink clattered out of the machine in to the holding tray.

The captain held out his hand flat in front of him. "Well then. Let's have it."

Opening his jacket slightly, Saunders reached inside and drew out the envelope. Closing his jacket, he handed the envelope to the young man who turned it over in hands.

"No address." He noticed.

"Well, if it's being hand delivered from one officer to another, then do you need an address?" Villetta asked, to which the young man nodded in agreement.

Standing in his place, Saunders waited as he watched Captain Forsyth opened the envelope, putting his hands behind his back. Shifting his hand slightly, he felt the grip of the blade slide effortlessly in to his palm. The blade, seven inches long, was diamond shaped, perfect for the stab: easy to slide in and on the pull, coupled with the twist needed to dislodge it when extracting it from it's target, meant it would leave horrible wounds that would need immediate attention to repair. Which none of his targets ever received of course.

As he watched the captain open the envelope, the man took the time to figure out what to do. With Miss Villetta near him, that would limit his chance of getting a clear attack in on the young man. He'd probably have to kill her first, then the captain. Which was the biggest injustice he'd seen in his line of work, but it had to be done. There was also the possibility of the captain having a weapon on him, which means that he'd have to deal with him first, then Miss Villetta. Plus, he'd never had to go after military personnel before, only politicians, men and women who had never fought an actual fight in their life physically, so this was a whole other game.

Two against one. Saunders had to admit that he'd faced worse odds. Plus, the weapon ratio was a pure 1:1, which improved things better.

Once again, God decided to throw him a bone as the captain moved away from the group as he read the letter, turning to the side a bit, like he was shielding the contents from them. To be honest, Saunders didn't have the slightest clue of the contents of the letter, so it could be a serious letter or it could be Master V taunting the man before he died. He didn't know.

"Brigadier-Colonel Upson sent this letter, did he, Private Saunders?" The captain asked, looking up from the letter slightly to look at the man.

That was not what he had expected to hear. Moving his hand as stealthily as he could, Saunders unsheathed the knife as quickly from it's resting place as he spoke. "Yes, he did, sir."

Nodding his head, the man turned to fully face the soldier a smile that he didn't expect to see.

"Ciaran, what's up?" Villetta asked before the young man held the letter in front of her to read.

Saunders expected that. But what he didn't expect was for the man to shove the letter against her body, hard, pushing her backwards against the wall, making her yell out in shock. Drawing his pistol, the captain tried to put as much distance between himself and Saunders.

Now that he expected.

Lunging forward, Saunders unsheathed his knife as he lowered his body below the barrel of the unusual pistol before suddenly standing up. Using his speed, the assassin brought his leg up, kicking his foot in to the man's hand, the pistol flying from the hand before using the same foot to slam in to the young man's chest, sending him sprawling to the ground.

"Ciaran!" Villetta yelled out, seeming to have gotten over her shock at what had just happened. With an almost feral yell, the tawny-skinned woman barrelled in to Saunders' side, using her surprise and strength to try and knock him off balance.

Try being the operative word, as the man easily tensed and took the shock and weight of her body slamming in to his. Using her own momentum against her, Saunders grabbed her hard by the back of the neck and spun her on to her feet. Shifting his grip from the back to the front, the man pushed forward, adding his own body weight on to hers to slam her in to the drinks machine, hard. It wouldn't be enough to knock her out, probably enough to stun her. But it took her out of the fight, especially if the way her head lolled forward as she slumped to the ground was any indication.

"You bastard!"

The yell was the only warning Saunders got before he felt another weight slam in to his side and a pair of red arms wrap around his neck before he was brought to the ground in a jarring slam. His right shoulder slammed down hard as he landed on his arm before rolling back, the blade skittering from his grip before the assassin tried to right himself.

"You fucking cunt!" Captain Forsyth yelled as he climbed on to the taller man's chest and began laying punch after punch to his face. The hits lacked any force, which Saunders should have been thankful for, if it wasn't for the fact that the captain was throwing punch after punch in quick succession. Bringing his arms, the assassin shielded his face from the blows as he looked around for his weapon.

'Fuck' He swore in his head. The knife had skittered away from him and had gone underneath the drinks machine. No matter. He'd have to do this the truly old fashioned way. Moving them away from his face, Saunders' arms sprung up before his hands gripped tightly around the man's neck and began squeezing tightly as he pushed himself upwards, catching the target off guard and pitching him backwards.

Forsyth's eyes widened in a mix of fear and anger as the back of his head hit the carpeted floor, the fabric doing nothing to cushion his impact. Immediately began clawing and scratching at the hands around his neck, hoping to try and dislodge the attacker. In reply, Saunders tightened his grip, seeing his neck redden as capillaries under the skin began bursting. Soon the young man's eyes began reddening as blood vessels began appearing in the whites of his eyes. Behind him, he heard the man's feet kicking against the floor in a vain attempt to dislodge the taller and heavier man.

"Just give up, son." The assassin said, keeping his voice low. "It'll be over in a minute."

A strangled but angry snarl came from the captain as his hands gripped tightly on to his attackers wrists and began trying to force them off of him. Saunders couldn't help the sneer that came to his face as he fought against his opponent's strength. That was until he felt his left hand slip off of the neck, forcing it a few inches away from him.

He tried to force the hand back in to place, but the captain was fighting against the act, keeping it at bay as he tried to suck in some breaths of fresh air, even as Saunders' right hand tightened further around his neck.

"Nonette!" Forsyth cried out loudly, even if the hand around his neck took away some of the force.

The sound of a not-that-distant door slamming open and another woman calling the young man's name put the fear of God in to the man. Even more so when he heard the sounds of a pair of feet rushing down the corridor towards them.

Strangling the man wouldn't do it time. Saunders' needed a weapon. Looking around, he tried to find the knife he brought with him, but it was under the drinks machine. His eyes darted around the corridor as he turned his head around, keeping his arm on the captain's neck, even as he tried to wrench if off of him. Looking across the carpet, he say the pistol laying on the ground. It had to be a good ten feet away from them, but if he got to it, he could kill the man, the woman and himself before the Knight of Nine got to him.

Letting go of the captain's neck at the same time as he practically pounced in the direction of the fallen pistol, seeming to fly through the air as he went towards it. The flight was stopped short though, as he felt a pair of arms grip around his ankle and yank him back, hard. Looking back, Saunders saw his target, the man had been sent to kill, practically bear-hugging his leg, his eyes and face red and his breath sucking in ragged breaths.

Letting out a snarl of his own, the assassin turned his body and prepared to deliver a kick to Forsyth's face, trying to dislodge him from his leg. Putting his hands out to steady him, Saunders raised his free leg to deliver the kick before his right hand exploded with pain, making him cry out in pain.

Turning to look at the new combatant, his snarl fell away as he saw a black, calf-high boot pressing down hard on to his foot. In turn, the boot lead up to a long, well-toned leg clad in a white trouser leg, which lead up to a very tight black top with an intricate gold motif that contained a reasonably large bust. At any other time, Saunders would have stopped at the chest, but now he had to force his eyes further up.

The blue eyes of Nonette Enneagram, Knight of Nine, burned bright with anger, even as her normally attractive face was twisted in to an angry snarl.

"You stay away from my friend!" She yelled out as she raised her other foot, which she quickly brought around to strike the assassin in the face in a powerful roundhouse kick.

The assassin known as Andrew Saunders' world exploded in to pain for a brief second before his world fell in to blackness.

AN: I cannot apologise enough for this being late. The last month has not been kind to me. Work and money popped up again, which were exacerbated by my laptop going full shit nearly over the whole of the last week of July. Plus, I also had a minor episode of depression hit me and that... that did not help at all.

So back to the story: not much to say on this one. The part of the Fireforce in action is a bit bare, I do know, but that's because I had literally nothing to go on. I was unable to find any sources that described what it was like to be a soldier in the Fireforce, so I had to use the Wiki article as the base and just go from there. Plus, turns out the helicopter I envisioned really wouldn't be just the Mi-24 Hind. It would be a combination of it and the Romanian IAR 330. I'm not sure if I did it's description justice, but I think I did quite well.

Also, the ending part is a bit rushed, I know, but I did want to include it in this chapter since it really does have to do with things to come in later chapters. And since Izzy129 asked this question, there is something more to Ciaran and that's the reason why VV is out for him. I won't say what it will be, since it will be talked about in the next chapter.

So, once again, sorry for the late posting. I'm honestly not sure how long the laptop I'm currently using will last well, but I'll try and get as much progress done on chapter 25. Technology, hey?

As usual, read, enjoy and review. And don't forget that the TVTropes page needs help being updated, and there is also the Code Geass fanon wiki page to peruse. Cheers in advance guys.