A lazy tesla trooper woke up, not from a loud noise, but from the absence
of it. He looked aside and noticed the tesla coil was inoperative. He
sighed and turned on his gauntlet, raising it to the metal so that the
energy would arc across. A faint yellow glow filled the coil instead of
its normal vibrant blue. It wasn't as powerful, but it worked. The
soldier put a desk under his arm as support and dozed off again.
Once the power was out, the Grizzly tanks surged into action. David jumped on the back of one so as not to be left behind. The pair of coils at the entrance greeted them. A bolt hit a tank and severely damaged it. The second bolt hit the same tank and destroyed it. David was in range. He leaped from his tank and immediately shot the tesla troopers charging the towers. Their hands fell away from the structures, which prevented any current from flowing through them. The coils were out, and now it was just a matter of time before the base fell, or at least, in the American soldiers' minds.
Boris Garigan, future Hero of the Soviet Union, awoke in his bunk. The alarm was on, the base was under attack. He grabbed his uniform, boots, and Flak Cannon before rushing upstairs into hell.
What greeted him was not a pretty sight. The scoundrels had broken the lines and were running amok through the base. Fallen comrades were stacked in piles along the walls of buildings, or strewn out individually on the lawns. Boris barely had the time to breathe before a Grizzly tank stormed by. Without thinking, he leaped up on a pile of bodies and then onto the side of the tank. He then jumped on the turret, clubbed the commander in the back of the head and opened the hatch to the main compartment. Boris lowered his Flak launcher into it and fired. The spread of steel fragments surely killed everyone there. Then he pulled out a bottle of vodka, ripped his shirt and stuck the cloth in, lit it, and hurled it into the tank. As he jumped off and rolled away, the cocktail hit the ammo stores and the Grizzly went up in flames.
While catching his breath, Boris heard a sound he hoped never to hear again. It was the silenced cough of an MP5, the gun of choice for American commandos. Using his best judgment, he ran inside the war factory to head the SEAL off.
"This is the Southwest theater headquarters complex. We're in a bad way so this had better be important, soldier!"
"Yes, sir!" Private Jenkins began. "This is PFC Jenkins, A. The radio operator for the 25th mechanized. We've received an SOS from a downed pilot and we'll need Chrono Legionnaire support."
"Give us your coordinates, Jenkins."
"Bearing 23° by 105°, but the battalion's spread pretty thin."
"Upload that SOS origin, soldier."
"Sir, yes sir!" Jenkins stated as he set up the data link.
"Hmm. Those pilots aren't too bright. They've got a Soviet tank battalion heading to the same point. We can't risk losing those Legionnaires."
Major Silsbee took up the radio on the other side. "With all due respect, sir, with Commie tanks we'll need those troops more than ever."
"Negative, Major. One Legionnaire's helmet has more money to it than a year's salary for you. If this were a bit more momentous than a rescue op, you might get the help. I'll see what I can do, but you're not getting any time-jockeys today."
"Yes, sir," Silsbee grumbled. He had doubts before. Now he was positive the men were digging their own graves, with him as their slave driver.
Silsbee took care of some minor casualty reports, waiting anxiously for his recon teams to return. He had finished listing his KIA's when the radio buzzed.
"Major?" a voice called, it was a Rocketeer.
"Report, Corporal."
"This battalion's gonna be a big threat, sir. They look green; none of the tanks have any kill insignia or medals on them. Even the commander's tank is pretty bare."
"So they're inexperienced?" Silsbee questioned.
"Yes, sir, but it looks like they're carrying a squad of everything. Several Rhino groups, lots of halftracks, and even a squad of Apocalypse tanks."
Those last words hit like a hammer. Apocalypse tanks lead the charge on San Francisco. They lead the charge on everything. They were the first to land on beaches, and they held the lines. The big, double-barreled tanks were a match for Silsbee's battalion by themselves. It wasn't in the Major to turn tail and run, so either this would be a glorious victory, a horrible defeat, or the 25th Mechanized's Alamo. Silsbee made sure all his IFV's were ready to go and got on the com link. "All groups, increase speed by 45 mph and prep for combat."
Once the power was out, the Grizzly tanks surged into action. David jumped on the back of one so as not to be left behind. The pair of coils at the entrance greeted them. A bolt hit a tank and severely damaged it. The second bolt hit the same tank and destroyed it. David was in range. He leaped from his tank and immediately shot the tesla troopers charging the towers. Their hands fell away from the structures, which prevented any current from flowing through them. The coils were out, and now it was just a matter of time before the base fell, or at least, in the American soldiers' minds.
Boris Garigan, future Hero of the Soviet Union, awoke in his bunk. The alarm was on, the base was under attack. He grabbed his uniform, boots, and Flak Cannon before rushing upstairs into hell.
What greeted him was not a pretty sight. The scoundrels had broken the lines and were running amok through the base. Fallen comrades were stacked in piles along the walls of buildings, or strewn out individually on the lawns. Boris barely had the time to breathe before a Grizzly tank stormed by. Without thinking, he leaped up on a pile of bodies and then onto the side of the tank. He then jumped on the turret, clubbed the commander in the back of the head and opened the hatch to the main compartment. Boris lowered his Flak launcher into it and fired. The spread of steel fragments surely killed everyone there. Then he pulled out a bottle of vodka, ripped his shirt and stuck the cloth in, lit it, and hurled it into the tank. As he jumped off and rolled away, the cocktail hit the ammo stores and the Grizzly went up in flames.
While catching his breath, Boris heard a sound he hoped never to hear again. It was the silenced cough of an MP5, the gun of choice for American commandos. Using his best judgment, he ran inside the war factory to head the SEAL off.
"This is the Southwest theater headquarters complex. We're in a bad way so this had better be important, soldier!"
"Yes, sir!" Private Jenkins began. "This is PFC Jenkins, A. The radio operator for the 25th mechanized. We've received an SOS from a downed pilot and we'll need Chrono Legionnaire support."
"Give us your coordinates, Jenkins."
"Bearing 23° by 105°, but the battalion's spread pretty thin."
"Upload that SOS origin, soldier."
"Sir, yes sir!" Jenkins stated as he set up the data link.
"Hmm. Those pilots aren't too bright. They've got a Soviet tank battalion heading to the same point. We can't risk losing those Legionnaires."
Major Silsbee took up the radio on the other side. "With all due respect, sir, with Commie tanks we'll need those troops more than ever."
"Negative, Major. One Legionnaire's helmet has more money to it than a year's salary for you. If this were a bit more momentous than a rescue op, you might get the help. I'll see what I can do, but you're not getting any time-jockeys today."
"Yes, sir," Silsbee grumbled. He had doubts before. Now he was positive the men were digging their own graves, with him as their slave driver.
Silsbee took care of some minor casualty reports, waiting anxiously for his recon teams to return. He had finished listing his KIA's when the radio buzzed.
"Major?" a voice called, it was a Rocketeer.
"Report, Corporal."
"This battalion's gonna be a big threat, sir. They look green; none of the tanks have any kill insignia or medals on them. Even the commander's tank is pretty bare."
"So they're inexperienced?" Silsbee questioned.
"Yes, sir, but it looks like they're carrying a squad of everything. Several Rhino groups, lots of halftracks, and even a squad of Apocalypse tanks."
Those last words hit like a hammer. Apocalypse tanks lead the charge on San Francisco. They lead the charge on everything. They were the first to land on beaches, and they held the lines. The big, double-barreled tanks were a match for Silsbee's battalion by themselves. It wasn't in the Major to turn tail and run, so either this would be a glorious victory, a horrible defeat, or the 25th Mechanized's Alamo. Silsbee made sure all his IFV's were ready to go and got on the com link. "All groups, increase speed by 45 mph and prep for combat."