Hey everyone! I hope ya'll had a nice Christmas and New Year celebrations. I finally had enough notes compiled to write the next chapter of World Fury, so ya'll can consider it a late Christmas present. Don't mind the coffee stains...don't look at me like that, I needed something to keep me focused and alert and it was either coffee or caffine soft drinks and I'm trying to cut back on those.
For those of you curious about the code used, I simply wrote the letters of the alphabet down and then went by the QWERT keys to assign the letters. For ease of understanding, I shall write the code in bold and the transaltion in italics.
Example: DTXXB. HELLO.
DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING OR ANYONE IN THE SPYRO UNIVERSE. ONLY MY OCS.
Chapter 25: The Shores of Broken Anchor
_*_*_*_*_*8-8
Mechanos went through the motions as he had rehearsed them, the welcoming of honored guests, the assigning of the officers, the opening of the first deployment orders, etcetera, etcetera, yet inside he was still fuming. The defection of not only Dieter Muntz but the entire 215 Squadron had been a blow to him as both a leader and as a man. People were beginning to ask questions and their families were wondering why they weren't returning home after 'deployments'. Thankfully Marks had managed to convince them that it was all for the best that they no longer question and instead spread the lie that they had been transferred to Damoneni for continued strikes against Praetoria and also to assist their allies with holding Tullinar in check.
Tullinar...a loosely allied collection of traders, farmers, volunteer soldiers, and mercenaries that drew their own borders and made their own 'city-states' and thus coexisted through trade within the city and between the states. A nation that in the days of Empires, had been split between Rotiart and Praetoria and was a constant source of several defeats and victories. The Tullinar Union had existed since the early 1800s and was considered to be a small nation that would rather capitulate to an invading force rather than fight.
(Let that be a lesson to me in my old age) Mechanos thought, (Never trust Callinian rumors...)
Callinar had invaded by sea and Damoneni by land. Within two weeks, the capital city of Polans was surrounded and the noose was tightening yet, from the confusion arose a group of citizen-soldiers calling themselves 'the Resistance'. Their symbol, a blue 'T' affixed to a red anchor and a black 'U' was a common sight on destroyed Damonenian and Callinian fortifications and emplacements. Most troublesome was a group thathad been identified as the former United Armed Forces 1267th Volunteer Regiment, the so-called 'Wolverines'.
Thanks to the Wolverines and various other groups, along with Callinar's surrender (which added insult to injury as they surrendered the day the 215th defected) Tullinar was now in the perfect position to not only force the Damonenians back but, if they allied with Syllia, they would now be able to strike at cities along Rotiart's coast and even some cities within the borders.
Hence the reason that the supercarrier Neu Horizont, though untested, was being launched and, with an escort of three Kaiser-class fleet carriers, five Zerstörung-class battleships, five Tyrann-class battlecruisers and various cruisers and destroyers was meant to obliterate the enemy by means of a 'scorched earth' policy. The city of Polans and all surrounding settlements though to be harboring or hiding Resistance operatives and soldiers were to be bombed into oblivion so as to 'teach a lesson' to the upstart nation who their betters were. There was only one small problem with Mechanos' plan. He had recieved word from a spy in Royalis that Joshua de Launces, the Captain who had sunk the Whirlwind was en route to the port of Broken Anchor.
With a little luck, perhaps that would be all that was required to end the Tullinar Resistance and further weaken Syllia's alliances. If not...
As the crew of the Neu Horizont boarded their new vessel and started out of port, Mechanos glanced at the imposing ships that lay at anchor on the far side of the harbor. He made plans to rush the construction of these ships and then made a note to have the port of Lorne expanded to accomodate these new ships. For once they left the construction yards, these vessels could not return.
_*_*_*_8-8-8-8
(Somewhere off the coast of Tullinar, presumably near Broken Anchor)
The sound of rain, broken by brief claps of thunder, and the wipers on the windows were the only sounds on the bridge of the RNV Beowulf as the ship steamed towards the target area. The Beowulf was centered in the formation and surrounded by the three destroyers Aurora, Solent, and Minerva along the bow, starboard, and port sides. The cruiser Minotaur sailed behind it and the Bastion brought up the rear.
They were part of a larger formation with six other destroyers, four cruisers, two battleships, one fleet carrier, two escort carriers, and one dragon carrier sailing with them but in this rain and cursed fog Joshua couldn't see a blasted thing. Not even his dragon-sight could pierce the fog. He turned to the navigator on the bridge.
"Dawson, what's our position?" The ship's navigator, Dawson, looked at the map on the bridge and then studied the notations he had made on it.
"According to the map, sir, we are one hour to our target. Once there, we simply have to launch attacks against the fortified locations." Though his draconic mind had already memorized the recon locations of the enemy emplacements, he had built a habit of double-checking maps in case they were either out of date or incomplete. He glanced at his XO, Lieutenant Anne Roberts, and then looked back to the pallid grey fog that obscured their vision.
Though regs forbid fraternization with a subordinate, it was, of course, known to happen. Joshua caught the ghost of a glance back at him from Roberts as he strode towards the Radar station and then looked onto the screen as the sweeper moved around the circular display.
"Still nothing, Thompson?" The operator shook his head.
"Nothing except for us and the fleet. If we're as close to land as Ensign Dawson says, I should be seeing something on the display." Josh sighed and then checked the instrument panels.
"You're set at the correct range and frequency, yes?" Thompson nodded. Josh turned and grimaced at the map.
"Max range of the radar array is what, one-hundred miles max?"
"Yes, sir. Current settings have us painting everything within thirty miles. Any farther than that and I'll start having ghosts sir."
'Having Ghosts' was radar slang for false targets. A radar sweeper used radio waves to detect objects either on land, ocean surface, or in the air and the signal would be bounced back to the receiver and appear on the screen as a 'blip'. The further out you were, the more the waves degenerated and broke apart until they couldn't return or worse, misidentified the target. At maximun range, the chances of radar having a confirmed hit was roughly 15%.
A flock of birds at eighty miles would appear no different on the sceen than a swarm of bombers. Woe befall the commander who ordered a full flight into the air to intercept a flock of jaybirds or, as the old saying went, 'send the eagles on a wild goose chase'.
At the risk of getting drenched in the torrential downpour, Josh slipped on a watchman's leather raincoat and hat and went out onto the port wing of the bridge and stood there. To the casual observer, he would appear to be enjoying the smell of a stirred up sea breeze. Yet, the crew knew that dragon senses were ten if not twenty times better than a human's. Josh stood there, hands on the railing aside the other port watchman, eyes closed, and seemingly meditative. As Josh drew in deep breaths, the different scents began to distinguish themselves.
First and foremost, was iron and steel. No surprise there as he was on a ship. Next was the seabreeze. A wonderful scent tinged with sea-salt that seemed to invigorate any who called themselves 'men of the sea' or 'women of the sea', in case of Anne and the some eighty-seven other women aboard his ship. He also smelled the scent of the crewmen on lookout duty and mentally reminded himself to chunk Bilson overboard once the storm was gone. The lookout, Seaman 2nd Class Bilson, was a good sailor and an excellent watchman but the man had a tendency to be absent-minded about certain things. One of those things was hygiene. The man only took a shower once every week when on his own time and three times a week whenever he was on Mess duty. And by the smell of him, he was long overdue for one.
The other obvious things were there. Smoke from the stacks, gunpowder from the turrets, rain-mixed sweat from the deckhands who were moving about below. He even caught a faint hint of the fuel used in the aircraft aboard the carriers. A few moments later, he began to smell other things. Mud, rubber, concrete, sand, rock, fish, and wood. He turned, went back inside and looked to Thompson.
"Increase range on the radar to forty miles." The operator did as he was told and on the next sweep of the radar, the screen all but lit up around the extreme edge.
"Radar contacts! Bearing 347 to 026!" Josh nodded.
"Send word to all vessels that we have arrived. Have the landing ships made contact yet?" Anne shook her head.
"No, last contact was with the SS Cabulla roughly one hour ago. They seemed to think the Navy was to weaken the enemy beachhead before they disembarked their troops." Josh sighed and uttered the one word that transended all branches of service.
"Snafu." As one the crew on the bridge shook their heads and said aloud.
"Situation Normal: All Fucked Up!" Josh nodded and then turned back to the pallid weather before them.
"Well, at least it isn't Fubar. Helm, left full rudder. All turrets shift aim to starboard side. All engines ahead Flank speed. XO, sound Battlestations." Anne saluted and walked to the ship's PA system.
"Attention all crew, we have arrived at our target location. General Quarters! General Quarters! All hands, man your battlestations!" The switch was flipped on and a blaring alarm pierced the den of the rain and thunder. A moment later, the bridge phone rang. Josh saw the light indicator for the Radio room was on meaning they had recieved a communication from a ship in the fleet. He calmly answered the phone.
"Captain! Report from the carriers, the weather is too rough for them to launch their planes! Admiral Behn is issuing a stand down order." Josh immediately became angry. The crewmen watching him saw his face turn red as he scowled.
"Cal, put me in communication with the Admiral. Now!"
"Can't sir! After issuing the order, the Admiral ordered all vessels to go dark and engage radio silence. We are to pull back for now and we will attack when the fog lets up tomorrow. Also recieved a message from the troop transports, they have also dropped anchor in a shallow part of the ocean near the Calumet Reef. They will meet with us in the morning and we shall proceed from there." Josh slammed the phone back down and then turned his gaze to the crew.
"XO...stand down all stations. Admiral's ordered us to sit on our thumbs until the fog lifts and the transports decide to quit their...vacation and join us." Josh felt the tension leak out of the ship like air from a balloon. He also noticed several junior crewmen balling their fists and one even went as far as to punch the hatch. He nodded to the crewman and then went to his Captain's chair and sat down, his forefinger and thumb rubbing the area between his eyes as Anne issued the order through the PA.
"Captain..." Josh looked up to see another of the juniors standing before him.
"Yes, Linehold, what is it?"
"Why didn't the Admiral give the okay?" Josh sighed and then nodded.
"If I had to guess, politics. Scuttlebutt is that Admiral Behn is being considered for a third star and a wonderful retirment package upon recieving it. He's old school; born into a whaling family. He was actually born on his father's boat in the middle of a whale hunt in 1870; started his career as a gunner's mate aboard the RNV Triton in 1889." Josh was recalling everything from textbooks at the Naval Academy.
"He looks down on the submarine corps as a 'coward's way to fight', he despises the dragoncarriers and aircraft carriers. If he had his way, we'd be lining up single file against the enemy fleet and pounding them with broadside after broadside. Now I don't dislike the man, far from it, in fact his knowledge was extremely valuable when we were fighting Callinar. However, he is set in the ways of paddlewheelers, ironclads, and whaling fleets. He doesn't believe, however, in fighting an enemy while their pants are down. He wants a straight up, honest brawl."
He looked around to his crewmen and then sighed.
"No matter how different our views, the fact remains that he is in command of this operation. We will stand down for now." As the crew went about securing everything from battlestations, Anne came up to him and leaned in close.
"Josh, you know as well as I that the enemy will attack us at the crack of dawn. Unless we want to be sunk, we need to do something."
"With what forces? The landing craft are still at anchor and what few Marines we have assigned to the ship lack any kind of landing equipment unless we launch them in the lifeboats. We would need the Marine groups of every single ship in the fleet if we wanted to engage the enemy. Plus, our orders are clear. Do not open fire. I see no justifiable reason to disregard that order unless we had allies on the beachhead that were in danger, which we do not, nor have we had contact with the Resistance cell in this area to suggest that they need help." Josh then looked around on the brodge and noticed that only Anne was paying attention to him. He gently eased over to her, a mischievious look in his eyes.
"Now that that's out of the way, if there was, say, a distress call from the beach along with sufficient gunfire, and perhaps an explosion or two." He let that hang in the air for a moment before continueing.
"I would have no possible reason to deny assistance to our allies. Nor could the Admiral find fault with our tactics unless he wished to sink his own ship by denying our allies in the Resistance the help they need in a desperate time." Anne nodded and discreetly left the bridge.
Josh turned back to his crew and lowered the brim of his cap. The time on his watch was ten past eight, his shift was over but he had the feeling he ought to remain on the bridge for some...odd reason. A smile creapt onto his face as he settled in for the night.
(I'll give it until...midnight to get everything squared away before I rescend my recommendation. Here's hoping nothing goes awry otherwise it'll cost those men their lives and me my head...)
_*_*_*_*_8-888-8
Anne was in the radio room and writing down a message with the radio operator looking on with a sly expression. The crew of the ship was like family and everybody knew what hurt one of them hurt them all. Josh would never put anyone in danger unless it was absolutely nessessary. In this case, not only did the Marines on board the Beowulf agree with him but also the other Marine groups on the other ships as well. Now all that was left was to get a radio broadcast out using Resistance codes feigning distress. As soon as she was happy with the message, she handed it to the operator.
"Now then, when you send this, ensure that you make it quick. If at all possible, try to make it sound...urgent. Cal, are you the only operator listing in to Resistance traffic?"
"Yes ma'am. Under radio silence, all vessels are to not send or recieve any transmissions unless using an emergency flash code. The other operators are most likely sitting about in the rooms sleeping or drinking coffee to keep awake. Speaking of which, could you pass me that pot please?"
Anne looked to see a small portable burner set up on a desk and a purcolating coffee pot working full blast. She carefully lifted it off the burner and passed it to Cal who poured himself a large, steaming mug of fresh coffee and then passed it back to her.
"Thank you. If there's one thing I dislike about radio silence is that I get tired and bored easily and must resort to measures to keep my head. I can usually drink two to three pots of coffee a night when I'm on duty." He paused to take a sip from the large mug and then set it down.
"Ah, that's the stuff. Anyway, as you were asking, I am the only one on the radio as the others will be simply listening to the local channels or tapping into the local radio waves for music. Bottom line, they won't know who's sending the call only that it's following the proper procedure and using the correct codes. When do you want it sent?"
"As soon as I shut the door." Cal smiled and flipped a few switches on the radio to warm up the tubes. He then pulled a book labelled 'Enigma Code 'AQZM' No. 12B' and input the codes and a series of gears in the transmitter rapidly spun into their new positions.
"Ready for transmission. Switching over to emergency frequencies and codes." Anne nodded and shut the door and started down the hallway. Cal then lifted the note and reached for the transmitter.
_*_*_*-88-8-88
S.O.S. S.O.S. S.O.S.
TCTIGTVEN AXQOD AIBC Q.J. PB QVN QVR QXX QXXFTO FV PDT QITQ.
(EMERGENCY FLASH FROM A.V. TO ANY AND ALL ALLIES IN THE AREA.)
QPPTCYP PB YHOD FVPB EFPN YIBYTI DQJT CTP KFPD AFTIET ITOFOPQVET. TVTCN ABIETO DQJT TVPIQYYTR QVR TVEFIEXTR OTJTIQX SIBHYO FVEXHRFVS 3 OTVFBI BAAFETIO.
(ATTEMPT TO PUSH INTO CITY PROPER HAVE MET WITH FIERCE RESISTANCE. ENEMY FORCES HAVE ENTRAPPED AND ENCIRCLED SEVERAL GROUPS INCLUDING 3 SENIOR OFFICERS.)
ITUTOP FCCTRFQPT QOOFOPQVET.
(REQUEST IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE.)
KFPDBHP PDTOT CTV, XTQRTIODFY FO FV RFIT IFOZ.
(WITHOUT THESE MEN, LEADERSHIP IS IN DIRE RISK.)
_*_*_*_*_*_*-8-8-8
Cal did a double take, looking at his hand, still comically poised to transmit a distress call yet here was the reciever going absolutely crazy. Panicked, he picked up the ship's comm and phoned the bridge.
"Sir! We-we just got a live transmission! We have allies in distress! Repeat: we have an authentic distress signal coming from behind enemy lines!"
Setting the phone aside, the radio began to buzz. A transmission light came on and he heard chatter from the radioman on the RNV Gilcrease, one of Admiral Behn's ships, asking if anyone else caught that burst. Cal flipped the transmitter to 'on' and switched back to standard frequencies.
"This is Beowulf I caught it as well. I have my scanners working and can confirm that it originated from inside the occupied zone." For a moment, Cal watched as the lights on the radio lit up like a Yule tree as the other vessels also began to recieve the signal. Cal couldn't help but whistle as the channels began to fill with alerts from allied ships.
"Looks like everyone got the message. Now let's hope the Admiral acts on it."
As if in answering, the radio sprang to life with a message directly from Admiral Behn.
"Attention, all vessels. This is Admiral Behn. In responce to the distress call over the radio, you are to disregard. Repeat: Disregard. It is likely an enemy ploy to lure us closer."
Cal's jaw dropped. The Admiral had basically said 'to hell with our allies' and left it at that. Cal immediately contacted the bridge.
"Commander! This is Cal, the Admiral just ordered us to disregard the distress call!"
He held the phone away as Josh's explosive swearing came through the phone and he was sure everyone on the ship could hear him. Needless to say, he didn't blame him.
_*_*_*_*-8-8-8-88
(On board SS Cabulla)
Royal Marines Gunnery Sergeant Roy Clark vaulted down the stairs of the hatch and ran into the barracks. He'd been in the radio room when the message flashed through all channels followed shortly by the Admiral's dismissal and didn't know what steamed him more. The Admiral's weak dispute that the signal was false, or that the Captain of the Cabulla meekly went along with it.
As soon as the hatch to the barracks was opened, he saw the Marines in his unit awake, dressed, equipped, and standing at attention. Beyond them stood Lieutenant-Colonel Edward Poe who also seemed disgusted by the turn of events. As he walked forward, Clark saluted and then nodded, confirming what Poe had sent him to investigate.
"Gunny, what the the holy hell is going on aboard this vessel? We recieve a distress bulletin that shatters radio silence like a damn brick through a glass window and the Captain of this fine vessel just sticks his thumbs up his ass and twiddles! Good grief I hate this, using repurposed civilian vessels to ferry us back and forth between campaigns."
Poe walked to the porthole and eyed outside and watched as the waves lap against the hull. In the distance, the sheets of rain began to ease and the fog began to disolve. He then looked to his watch and looked back to the men and women under his command.
"I make the time to be midnight. The top speed of this ship is twenty-one knots in calm seas, seventeen, maybe eighteen knots in rough seas. The fog is clearing, the rain is stopping, and now the waves are slacking off. What I'm getting at is this...according to Article 19 of the Naval-Marine Doctrine, if there is without a shadow of doubt that a military operation or assets are in jeopardy, military personel may commandeer civilian transport if they in some way, shape, or form, may be able to intercede to the benefit of the mission. So, I pose the question to you all. Do we do nothing? Or do we commandeer this ship in the name of the Royal Marines and go do what we do best?"
At full speed, the Cabula and the transport vessels would be in position to land their troops in roughly one hour.
_*_*_*_*-88888
Josh looked up from the bridge as the droning of the aircraft filled the skies. The carriers in the fleet, along with the Bastion were launching every single aircraft at their disposal following the relieving of Admiral Behn by Admiral Lee and the subsequent order to 'get their asses into the air'. Josh had ordered the Beowulf and the rest of his group into battle and now they were sailing at full speed towards the beachhead.
Though just a ways past midnight, the ships were armed with 'star-burst' rounds which would illuminate the coast and give the aircraft a look at what they are going to destroy. Thankfully whoever had the foresight to develop these rounds had developed them for use with small-bore cannons, thus freeing the ship's large bore guns for shore and landing support. At present, the Beowulf's main guns were loaded with special rounds designed to destroy fortified emplacements and other rounds designed purely for high-explosive purposes.
"Radar, distance to shore?"
"Twenty miles sir. I've detected multiple small blips on radar. They've detected us and have sent up their night fighters. If they don't pursue our fighters, they'll be coming at our carriers or directly at us." Josh nodded and then picked up the phone and connected to the radio room.
"Cal, notify our ships as well as the other vessels to prepare their AA stations. Anne, order our gunners to their posts. Condition red." Anne nodded and turned to the intercom.
"Aye, sir. Attention all gunners, prepare for anti-air combat. Repeat, enemy night fighters inbound." Josh turned back to the bridge and then took his position.
"What's our range to the enemy front? How long until we're in range?"
"Twenty miles to shore sir! We need to be at least eight miles before we can hit them with the main guns! At this speed, we'll be on point in about twenty minutes!"
Josh nodded and then gazed upwards as more planes flew by. Vaguely, he saw one that matched the markings Reyson Havvers' plane. The light blue, silver, and gold markings briefly visable before vanishing again.
_*_*_*_*_8-8-88-8-8
Reyson adjusted his headset as the chatter from his group threatened to overhelm his hearing. He had been hastily reassigned to the operation after this particular squadron's previous leader crashed and was killed during a patrol over the fleet which their former commander, Admiral Behn, had ordered while in the midst of the thick fog. Once on the RNV Ceduran, he had been placed in command of the air units aboard and personally commanded the Red Section of the 1264th Naval Air Squadron. A squadron he discovered was comprised of nuggets, rookies, barely out of training and each pilot had just barely twelve hours in the CF-32 Carrier Intercpetors they were currently flying.
The way these kids were chattering, Reyson suspected they were more excited about their first battle than scared. That could be a good thing, still, the reports from the Beowulf placed a swarm of enemy interceptors right in their path. He had half a mind to order his nuggets out of the fight but knew that would be impractical. He'd just have to see (and dread) what the kids reactions would be once they realized fully that they weren't in training anymore.
"Warbird 1 to Beowulf, how much farther out are the enemy planes?"
"Warbird, this is Beowulf, make sure your guns are cocked and locked because you should be right on top of them."
Reyson scanned the dark skies for any sign of enemy combatants.
"Warbird here, I have a negative, no visuals. I-wait a sec...there! Warbird 6 you have an enemy coming straight at you, he has his landing lights on! See him? See him?"
"Warbird 6 copies, engaging!"
Tracers illuminated the dark sky as the guns and cannons of the CF-32 opened fire, tearing through the darkness and riddling the incoming Damonenian F25-I with holes. A moment later the fuel tank exploded briefly illuminating the sky and that brief glimpse made Reyson's jaw dropped.
It was common knowledge that Damoneni had an overabundance of land-based aircraft but to actually see so many of them in the sky at once was somewhat frightening and a little disturbing.
The most common planes were the F18-Ts and the F19-Fs which were the basic fighter planes and trainers of the Aviazione Legionaria. Next was the F25-Is which were built as interceptors, and lastly (and rarest) was the heavy hitters, the FB26s. Of these four, the F18s and 19s were biplanes and the F25 was underpowered and couldn't break the 300 mph mark unless it was in a steep dive. Only the FB26, a fighter-bomber, could breach the 300 mph mark and actually pose a threat to an experienced pilot. To rookies however, even an enemy flying the Damoneni's trainer aircraft could prove fatal.
"Good grief I feel like I just stepped into the Callinian Incursion or the Dalon Conflict. Look at those old crates!" A 'crate' was a popular term when talking about old biplanes.
"Watch your ass Warbird 9 or those 'crates' will blow your ass into next week. Remember, the plane is only part of the equation, it's mostly the pilot flying the plane. Those biplanes are still armed with heavy caliber guns and are far more maneuverable at low speeds than our planes. Don't get into a turning match with them or they'll be sending you home in a pine wood box."
At that moment, tracers arced through the sky and slammed into an allied plane on Reyson's left wing. He saw the plane in the glow of the moon and recognized it.
"Roberts! Roberts, are you alright?"
"Just peachy sir. Bastard gave me some fresh air but I'm still in it...That didn't sound like no machineguns though..."
"Probably an F25, those damn things are armed with three cannons and can do some damage to a small carrier fighter. At least it wasn't an FB26."
At that moment, a plane Reyson recognized indeed as an FB26 opened fire on a plane straight in front of him.
"Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is Seagull 5 I have been hit and I'm going down!"
"Warbirds, break formation to engage the enemy! Two and Three, stick to me. Four, Five, and Six go left. Seven, Eight, and Nine break right! Time to earn your pay boys!"
The planes broke formation and went their ways, engaging the enemy where they saw them. Reyson and his group engaged several biplane fighters and a few of the fighter-bombers. As he began to think they were making headway against the onslaught, a strange shape dart across the sky, briefly illuminated of the moon. Flashes from the tail section and fuselage gave it away and Reyson's mind flashed through the 'know your enemy' flash card recognitions and then matched what he saw.
"All planes, heads up, we've got enemy bombers, B26s, mixed with the fighters. They are heading through the clouds at high altitude and are likely trying to get at the fleet. Warbirds, shift your focus from the fighters to the bombers. Let the others handle the gnats."
"Attention, all flights, this is the command battleship RNV Courageous. The landing ships have begun to arrive and are amassing their forces. Any available squadrons please provide air cover for the ships."
"Warbird copies. Engaging the bombers!"
At that moment, a loud roaring was heard overhead. Reyson had enough time to gaze upwards at the incoming aircraft with confusion.
"What the hell are those?"
_*_*_**-8-8-888-8-
The report of a cannon made him jump out of his bunk. Despite his being accustomed to combat thanks to the countless days spent with one mercenary group or another, Gerald Ross, former Dragoon of the Syllian Military, former officer of the Blackguard Mercenary Company, rousted himself from a dreamless sleep to stand by the window overlooking the beach and coastal town of Broken Anchor.
He had been a part of Callinar's mercenary forces (mainly gathering intel for Syllia and Praetoria) when they landed on the beach and began the invasion of Tullinar. However, he was not among the boots on the ground but rather, high in the skies above them.
Gerald had gone by a different name when he volunteered in 1919 for the Callinian's fledgling air force and had fought during the Callinar Incursion. His plane of choice back then, a heavily modified Syllian P5E biplane painted blood red. This paint scheme earned him the nickname 'The Crimson Tide of Callinar'.
For several years he could sense that something was building up. When it finally erupted, Gerald decided to stick around for a while, if only to give Syllia a better chance to nip the problem in the bud but also for another reason. During the war he had met a promising young man by the name of Dieter Muntz who was now the leading ace in the Rotarian Air Aggressor Force or RAAF. He had hoped to cross paths with him in this war and convince him to defect. However, with the destruction of Praetoria's capital of Lavonshire, and the nation subsequently thrown into chaos, he had thought that chance was gone.
The day before Callinar was set to surrender, Gerald took off and vanished into the night, only returning once the base was abandoned and making it his home. Now it seems, the Syllian forces were now coming to free Tullinar. For the first time since that fateful day in 1914 which had reunited Gerald with old friends, he made a decision to take to the skies once more in the name of Syllia.
_*_*_*-8-88-8-88
The waves struck the small landing craft with enough force to throw several unprepared Marines backwards against their comrades who somehow managed to chuckle and laugh despite the tension of the moment. Not one mile from them, the ships of Task Force 11, headed by the Beowulf, were blazing away at the enemy planes overhead as well as the enemy fortifications on the beach. The boats were within range now of the machineguns hidden and emplaced in pillboxes and bunkers lining the beach and along the cliffs in the back, furthermore, there was that thrice-damned artillery.
On the upside, the landing craft were enclosed as to prevent waves from flooding the boat. On the downside, enclosed didn't exactly mean waterproof. Gunny Clark noted this as a round came through the roof and clipped the helmet of the Marine closest to him, taking a chunk off the brim. Immediately a wave crashed over the craft and seawater poured in from several small holes, cracks, and seams. Already the Marines of LST-013 were up to their bootlaces in salt water while the Navy clodpole driving this floating brick of a boat calmly looked at his watch and then gazed through the periscope which served as the only method of looking outsie until they reached their final destination.
"Clear the ramp! Thirty seconds!" Clark nodded then looked to the Marines around him.
"Alright kids, listen up. First and Second squads are with me, Third and Fourth are with Sergeant Crichuck. When the ramp drops, keep your heads down and run like hell for the seawall. If you get lost, look for me or Crichuck. Now the seawall is strung with razorwire and other nasty surprises. That's why our resident pyromaniac, Corporal Wallace, is loaded down with enough PE3 and C3 explosive to sink a battleship. Our goal up to the seawall is to make sure he gets to the seawall so that he can do that voodoo that he does so well."
"Ten seconds!"
"Alright boys and girls, we're about to ring the enemy's doorbell. That ramp drops, run like the devil himself is behind you."
There was a dull 'thud' as the boat hit the shoals near the beach and the boat pilot released the switch near him that allowed the ramp to fall forward. The ramp landed on the soft ocean-soaked sand with a clang and the Marines ran forward out of the boat. Almost immediately, machineguns in the bunkers focused on them and many of those on board were cut down no sooner than they had stepped out of the boat.
Clark clambered over the body of a fallen Marine and fell into a blood-filled tide that was washing ashore. He felt around back and cursed as the broken strap of his R-22 battle rifle slipped through his hands. Looking around, he grabbed an MR5 from a dead Marine and began running up the shore.
Halfway to the sea wall, bombs began exploding and sparing a glance up, Clark saw bombers from the Damonenian Air Force, the Aviazione Legionaria, beginning bombing runs on those on the beaches. He advanced six more steps when a loud whine filled his ears and he stared up as a B26 dove straight at him. At the same time, tracers arced through the air and cut the plane to pieces. In the shadow of the moon, Clark saw a single engine plane fly by.
The aircraft was blood red in color, and no sooner had the destroyed B26 exploded on the beach was the plane gone and engaging the next threat. Clark then heard a tremendous explosion near the seawall and saw a huge section had been blown from it and the troops were now swarming the gap. They were now off the beach and heading inland. Off shore, the fleet was now in position to deliver full broadside attacks on the enemy fortifications and Clark spared a moment to watch as the Beowulf fired a volley that all but ripped the top level off of one of the enemy bunkers. He watched as the other bunkers also collapsed and then gazed at the smoke rising from the town they were going to liberate.
(The only easy day was yesterday...)