September 10 1510 hrs
American Sector, Somewhere in the Republic of Tajikistan
The convoy of three Humvees slowly made its way through the dusty, narrow streets of the Tajik city. It had a name once, but now apartment buildings, shops, and government buildings lay in ruins, brought down by waves of cruise missiles. The Global Liberation Army, a terrorist organization bent on ruling the world, had instigated a coup two years ago, installing their own puppet to rule this poverty-stricken Central Asian nation. As they turned this nation into their own terrorist training ground, world powers decided to act. A joint American – Chinese force invaded this country six months ago, and destroyed the cancer that was the GLA. Their training camps bombed to rubble, their pathetic jury-rigged tanks and untrained rebels were no match for the combined might of two of the world's great superpowers.
The GLA were driven out, and now American and Chinese forces kept the peace in the war-ravaged nation of ten million.
It was only early autumn, yet the wind was already starting to bite. Russell Weltall cursed the bitter wind, and more importantly, he cursed HQ for not replacing his hummer. The top was blown off in a land mine related incident, and the Pentagon had been very slow with replacing the damaged equipment. He took one hand off the wheel to wrap his nose and mouth with his scarf; he hated getting sand in there.
And that retard Airman Smith said the weather was going to be sunny with mild cloud cover over Armed Forces Radio ten minutes ago! Goddamned weathermen, sitting in their plush seats thousands of miles away while good soldiers like Weltall had to eat dust with every breath.
Russell snorted as he saw the signpost.
"You are now leaving the American Zone" it waned in plain black-stenciled letters.
"Fucking Chinese Zone," Russell muttered. His job was to deliver medicines to hospitals on the other side of town, but that meant he had to pass the goddamned Chinese Control Zone checkpoint, or as the other drivers called it "robbery point". The Chinese soldiers loved "inspections" and "confiscating" any "suspicious" items. The Generals turn a blind eye, and like all the drivers, Russell knew not to wear the expensive watch when entering the Chinese Zone.
The checkpoint came up around the bend, a simple hastily constructed roadblock made from rubble and oil drums, some drunk-looking Red Guards and a beat-up Overlord tank stand guard.
"'Sup, motherfuckers, Santa's here bearing gifts!" Russell shouted as he pulled up, keeping the engine running.
Behind him, Corporal Glenn Sather stifled a laugh. Russell's bad luck with the Chinese "allies" was legendary.
"Welcome to the Chinese Control Zone," said a Chinese soldier, the name "Chao" stitched onto his uniform. "General Charity Wei, military governor. Show us Identification please," he said, his right hand gently drifting towards his sidearm, just as a friendly reminder.
"How the many fucking times do I have to fucking show you," Russell muttered, showing the Chinese soldier his Army ID and his written mission orders.
"Thank you sir," Chao said, turning to his comrades. "The Americans are genuine!" he shouted.
In Arabic.
The turret of the Battlemaster tank turned, and its main gun fired a shell just to the rear of the American column, turning the last hummvee into a smoking wreck instantly. The rest of the Chinese soldiers sprayed the other two humvees with AK-47 bullets, shattering glass, bones and organs of the Americans inside.
In less than forty seconds, the hummvees were still, their occupants bleeding onto the upholstery.
"This one's useable," Russell heard, but it was the last thing on his mind, as he lay slumped on the steering wheel, his precious lifeblood slowly staining the floor.
The door opened, and Russell felt himself being grabbed by the collar and roughly thrown out of his vehicle. A soldier saw him still breathing and pointed his AK-47 at Russell's head, ready to deliver the killing shot.
"Stop! No wasting ammo!" the soldier called Chao yelled. Russell's vision was already clouding, but he heard the footsteps well enough to conclude that those aren't standard Chinese army boots. Funny the things that come to your mind when you're dying, he mused.
Then the face of Chao filled his vision. Stinking breath and rotten teeth. Chinese boys need to learn the joys of chewing gum, Russell thought again.
"Well then, Sergeant... Weltall," Chao sneered, as he drew a thick, serrated hunting knife out from under the standard Chinese Army longboat, "We have a message for your masters in Washington. You cannot defeat the Global Liberation Army."
Then his world went black.
COMMAND AND CONQUER: GENERALS
Operation Darkscribes
General Charity Wei was furious, and when she got furious, her office took the brunt of the anger.
The GLA had somehow ambushed and taken out an entire Chinese checkpoint, worse still, they managed to ambush an American convoy. She kicked a chair in frustration. She may be only five foot four, but the men loved her, and feared her, and the guards outside knew well enough not to rush into the room at the sound of breaking furniture. General Wei went on a destructive rampage for a few more seconds, throwing files at the wall, before the ringing of the intercom interrupted her.
"General Wei?" asked a male voice. It was the voice of Major Kai Wu Sho, her batsman and classmate in the Academy, and the only one who dared to even talk to her when she was in this condition.
Wei shrugged, the rage leaving her, and she was once again the calm, collected officer that did things quickly and efficiently – the very opposite of her true nature, she supposed.
"This is General Wei. What is it, Wu Sho?" she asked, keeping her voice calm.
"The American liaison officer is here to see you, ma'am. Shall I let her in?" Sho asked.
Wei exhaled, long and slow, she knew what this meant. "No. I'll see her in the ante-room."
The anteroom was Spartan, and Wei liked it that way – she preferred keeping the good stuff in her own office, although it was rather unpresentable at the moment. She closed the door to her office, before putting on a pleasant smile.
A tall blonde woman, dressed strikingly in a red silk blouse and knee length skirt, walked into the room. Her black jacket was buttoned, but Wei could still see a hint of the expensive red silk, probably made in China, the woman wore. Her hazel eyes were beautifully rounded, and she wore just enough makeup to look totally hot without appearing sluttish. Wei was a little jealous, the lustful looks on her men whenever the American walked past them was obvious. A general Wei may be, but she was a woman too.
"Hello Miss Kate," General Wei said, motioning her to sit down, never taking her eyes off the other woman and her expensive clothes. Kate tried hard, and Wei grudgingly respected her for that, but no amount of acting or expensive civilian clothes could disguise the fact that the blonde woman in the room with her was a CIA spook of the worst variety, here to keep an eye on the Chinese Zone more than to liaise with the Chinese troops in Tajikistan.
"Hi General Wei. I'm here to express my government's concern about the recent events," Kate said in an even, diplomatic tone.
Oh, stop with the fakery already, thought General Wei. Get to the point, she wanted to say, but she bit her tongue and let the American continue.
"Washington finds it deplorable that our Chinese allies were unable to stop an ambush on our troops as they were entering the Chinese Sector," Kate said, pausing to enunciate each word carefully, a sign that what she was saying had been approved at the highest levels.
"May I remind you that it happened on your side of the line?" Wei snapped back, and then immediately regretting her words
"In fact, my government is repelled by this act of banditry conducted by rogue elements in the Chinese military," Kate said. "We have already expressed our hope that Beijing will look into the matter of the integrity of the command and control
Or in other words, Wei thought, you think I ordered my men to rob your stupid little piss-ant convoy. Which was enough to make Charity Wei want to punch the blonde woman.
"My forces are kept WELL under my control, miss Kate," she snarled, pointing a slim finger at the American woman's face. "The Global Liberation Army did this. I wanted to conduct search and destroy operations in the entire city, but NO, you Americans and your stupid Geneva Conventions. Afraid of Al-Jazeera more than a bunch of raghead lunatics. See where it's gotten you now?" Wei raged, her face contorted into a mask of rage. She knew she was going to regret this later, but it felt so good to just… vent at this woman.
"Well, on behalf of my government, I hope that's true," Kate said, smiling as she stood up to leave. Then, just as she reached the exit, she turned and smiled at Wei. "Trust me, we Americans are MORE than capable of defending ourselves against any attacks; whether it's by the GLA, or anyone else,"
She closed the door behind her, just as Wei nearly lost control of her monstrous temper, and started to reach for her sidearm, stopping herself only at the last moment, the holster already unbuckled.
"Somehow I think the Americans are in denial about the existence of the GLA," Wu Sho said, trying to calm down his commander.
Wei took several deep breaths, then pointed her finger at the telephone. "Contact the Black Lotus. The Americans need some convincing," she said, before storming back into her office.
"Yes, ma'am." Wu Sho said, dialing Beijing on a secure line as Wei closed the door behind her. September 13, 1422hrs Chinese Sector
A BBC news van made its way slowly past bombed out apartment buildings towards the city's central bazaar. The driver drove slowly not because the streets were full of cars and people, rather, he drove slowly and carefully because the streets were still full of craters and the van was a rental.
The red-haired female cameraman was getting impatient with her colleague's caution and carelessly slapped him on the thigh.
"Hurry up! We'll miss everything again."
"Oh god, keep your panties on Saara," replied Alphonse, lazily waving away the Finnish camerawoman's hand before using it to downshift the gear while simultaneously using the other hand to swing the steering wheel wide to the left to avoid yet another pothole.
"The last time I listened to you the jeep ran over a fucking landmine, remember?" Alphonse continued, switching lanes to avoid the lumbering hulk of a Chinese bulldozer busy at work leveling the rubble of what looked like a shop.
"Hey, let's stop and shoot some footage of that 'dozer," Saara interjected.
"What the fuck for?" Alphonse replied.
"How many dozers have you seen in the Chinese Sector? If we give Wei some fluff maybe she'll consent for an exclusive," Saara said.
"Fine, fine, let's do this," Alphonse said, not in the mood to argue.
"Over there, park there!" Saara said, pointing to an empty spot by the side of the road.
"Okay, okay, but we better not miss our real assignment," Alphonse said. "Grab the camera, let's go."
The two reporters got off and assumed their respective positions, Alphonse in front and Saara trailing behind, constantly checking her heavy camera to adjust the picture quality.
Alphonse walked to the bulldozer, shouting to see if the driver would say a few words, or at least, let the reporters shoot footage. There was a brief exchange, and then Alphonse took his place, mike in hand, calmly looking at the camera, waiting for Saara to signal the OK.
The red-haired camerawoman flashed the thumbs up, and Alphonse started with his spiel.
"Six months after the joint US-Chinese invasion of Tajikistan, reconstruction and security, remain the two top concerns in the Chinese Sector. The US-China alliance remains firm despite an uncertain situation in recent days. The people remain hopeful in the ability of the US-Chinese allied powers to rebuild their shattered lives, even as this reconstruction site proceeds with rebuilding the houses damaged in the invasion, the people are slowly getting on with their lives. Alphonse Deghola, reporting from the Chinese Sector, Tajikistan."
"aaaand cut!" Saara. "That's a wrap!"
Alphonse was about to say something, but his words were drowned out by the distinctive crack-crack-crack of AK-47 fire. Experience took over, and both reporters dove to the cracked, dusty pavement without even thinking it, Saara still having the presence of mind to cradle her expensive news camera in her arms first.
The Chinese bulldozer driver panicked, and immediately reversed the lumbering behemoth, but he was unprotected, and when the roar of motorcycle engines could be heard, both newsmen muttered their prayers. Motorcycle ambushes were a standard GLA tactic, and the merciless terrorist would not take kindly to the BBC's less-than-effusive coverage of their activities.
The motorcycles came in from both ends of the street, each having a pillion rider behind, waving their RPGs and AK-47s in triumph as they sped towards the bulldozer at full speed.
Raising his arms in surrender, the Chinese driver of the bulldozer climbed out of the vehicle, throwing himself on the mercy of the GLA men.
Which was, of course, non-existent. The unfortunate soldier was mowed down with automatic AK-47 fire as soon as he got out of his vehicle, the lifeless body falling to the ground, blood slowly pooling underneath the poor man's body.
"Barbarians," Alphonse muttered, but he didn't dare so much as twitch. It was all he could do to glance over at Saara, who was still clutching her camera protectively as an armed GLA rebel slowly approached her, weapon locked and loaded, ready to kill her at the slightest provocation. Screaming something at her in what was effectively moon language – for the Finnish woman was too frightened to understand anything he said, the rebel pointed the barrel of his rifle at her.
Alphonse only looked on in horror, fully aware of the rifles no doubt already pointed at him. He only lay there in the dirt, mute witness to the sight of the GLA rebel trying to grab Saara's camera, only to meet resistance. However, the cameraman's natural protectiveness of her tool was to prove her doom, as the rebel, not amused by her refusal to hand over the camera to him, took a step back, and let loose with a three-round burst straight into her spine. Saara's head fell to the ground, but her chest still rose and fell rapidly, indicating she was rapidly going into shock.
Grabbing the camera from the now-dying woman, the rebel triumphantly waved it in a gesture of defiance at Alphonse, whose head was still reeling at the rapid turn of events. Perhaps some part of his head was desperately wanting to wake up now, but it was no dream.
A rebel GLA got on the bulldozer ,and started the 30-ton lumbering machine. The others mounted their motorcycles and sped off, screaming in exultant triumph at the capture of the Chinese bulldozer.
The bulldozer was the last to move, slowly rolling forward, straight towards Saara.
"No! NO!" Alphonse shouted, getting up to grab his colleague and friend, but he was driven back by a warning shot from an AK-47. All he could do was stand back and watch the horrible events unfold.
No matter how tough you are, how many war zones you've covered, nobody could stand the sight of a friend being flattened under a bulldozer. Nobody could look at the sight, hear the wet splat, followed by the steady crunching and grinding of bones under solid steel treads, and not puke.
Alphonse Deghola fell to his knees and cried like a girl as the GLA disappeared past a corner, a bloody trail of blood and gore all that's left of a good friend and colleague.
September 13, 1622 hrs. American Sector
Much like its counterpart in the Chinese Sector, the American Sector Command was an ugly amalgamation of several government buildings, hastily repaired and cordoned off with sandbags and razor wire. The Green Zone, as it is customarily called, housed military command and control facilities, a field hospital and offices, in addition to several quality-of-life improvements for the weary troops of the occupation.
One of these improvements was the OGA bar, occupying an entire floor of what once was the city police headquarters. It was the largest bar in the entire Green Zone, and it was luxuriously equipped with leather sofas, thirty types of beer, and the ultimate luxury in the unpredictable climate of this Central Asian hellhole – 24 hour air conditioning.
Despite its size and relative luxury, uniformed soldiers rarely ventured inside, and neither did the attendant bureaucrats of the interim administration. It wasn't that they were unwelcome, rather, it was the very nature of the OGA that quietly drove people to give the whole place, and its regular clientele, a wide berth.
OGA stood for "Other Government Agencies," the long-standing bland, official cover name for CIA. Kate and a companion, a fellow blonde, but with shorter hair and glasses, sat quietly at the bar, whispering their conversation in soft, intimate voices, but with the added edge of urgency.
"Amers, what am I going to do?" Kate asked, fingering her mug of fine, imported Guinness nervously. It was her favorite brand but it did little to calm her worries. "That reporter's in the Chinese sector, and the camera was stolen. Once word gets out, how do you expect me to keep Wei quiet?"
Amers, the other blonde woman at the bar took a sip of her wine cooler, and reached out to place her arms around Kate. "There now. Everybody's got their hopes on you. They know you can keep Wei quiet."
"Everybody but me, it seems," Kate sighed, brushing away a lock of stray hair from her field of vision. "I don't know how much longer Wei's going to put up with our stonewalling. The GLA's gone back to their sneaky fuck ways too." She said.
Amers patted Kate on the shoulder to reassure her. "Don't worry about the GLA. Don't you trust our boys?" she asked.
Kate turned her head and looked at Amers, then her glass, then at Amers again, and laughed, not a quiet, ironic chuckle, but the loud, brash laughter of mockery. Amers joined in the laughter, and the sound of the women's laughing filled the empty space of the OGA bar.
"Silly Amers. If the Army was halfway competent we wouldn't be here," Kate said.
"Hey don't knock the Army. Dumb people need jobs too," Amers playfully warned, wagging her finger playfully at Kate. "Now, seriously, we've got to do something keep Wei quiet on her side of the line."
"They're after the anthrax," Kate muttered. "Goddamn terrorists want their toys back."
September 13, 1722 hrs
. Chinese Sector
"As far as our interrogators can tell, the BBC man knows nothing," reported Wu Sho, even as General Wei rolled her eyes in frustration.
"What kind of idiots pass for interrogators these days?" Wei thundered, slamming her fist on her table. "Aren't reporters supposed to see things in detail? There must be something we can use to prove the existence of the GLA!"
"Afraid not, General," Wu Sho replied, his face blank and expressionless, any trace of emotion in his eyes covered by the shadows cast by the wide brim of his standard issue People's Liberation Army peaked cap.
"I need proof, Sho. Our allies don't seem to understand the situation. I can't even order the Red Guard on the streets without the Western press accusing me of trying to take over the country!" She snarled, frustrated with the situation more than anything. "Is there any way we can keep him in the hospital any longer?" she asked.
"None, ma'am. The doctors say there's nothing wrong with him … physically anyway. The Canadian Embassy will be sending someone to check on the reporter in a few hours, and the story's breaking on BBC and CNN as we speak." Sho reported.
Wei felt the urge to smash things again.
September 13. 1833 hours American Sector
E-2 Lance Corporal Ken Stokes nervously scanned the empty buildings on either side of the road, occasionally reaching into his pocket to nervously munch on some cool ranch Doritos. His M-16 was tightly gripped in his right hand whenever he wasn't going for some Doritos, and his uniform was soaked in his own sweat. He may be deep in the American zone, but there's been talk lately, disturbing talk that the Chinese were ambushing American troop convoys, of Crusader tanks losing contact with headquarters only to be found weeks later, with the dead crew inside and not a single bullet hole in them.
Then there was the nature of the mission he was on, and Ken felt he had the right to be paranoid.
Ken really wished he was stuck inside the sweltering heat of a Bradley AFV instead of cautiously sneaking with his platoon through the back alleys and deserted roads, desperately seeking routes that were as far away people as possible, which means sneaking around in three feet wide back alleys in single file, where just one lunatic with a grenade could take out the entire platoon. Any retard out of boot camp would have said that they were taking unnecessary risks, but like the Captain said back at camp, the mission was the CIA's idea, and the dumb flacks at the Pentagon approved the whole thing over the General's head, so there he was, trying to sneak around while crunching cool ranch Doritos in some fucking back alley to secure an alleged GLA hideout before the Chinese do.
The troops reached the building, a nondescript three-story apartment building surrounded by the half-bombed husks of Soviet-era housing, spitefully blown up by the GLA as the retreated in the face of the Americans.
As quietly as they could, the soldiers took their positions around it. The area was calm like a bomb, and the setting sun cast a reddish-orange glow around everything, creating long shadows that could hide anything.
Ken glanced over at Lt. Gooseman who was ordering him to take a position behind some rubble. Nodding, Ken started to haul ass.
Hostile eyes watched his every move.
Several rebels and RPG troopers anxiously waited by the windows, conveniently boarded up and reinforced with sandbags. They had been waiting for something like this, and nobody had any regrets. Their leader, a grizzled GLA veteran known only as Ya Gami, slowly, calmly, loaded his AK-47 with a fresh clip. He gave a curt nod, and with the bitter determination to make an impression, the GLA opened fire.
Ken heard the crack-crack-crack of automatic fire, and the next thing he knew, he was face down on the pavement, and he couldn't feel his legs under him. The world swam in his vision, and his hearing became a muffled, staccato symphony of M-16s and AK-47s singing their songs of death, punctuated with frantic cries for "Medic".
Ken tried to move, but heard a crunching sound under him. He hoped it was just Doritos, but moving was a bad idea. It's just so much nicer to sit here, and just rest. Maybe closing his eyes was a good idea too.
If only these bastards would just stop making that racket…
Lt. Jon "Wild" Gooseman swore that if he ever got out of this, he was going to kill some CIA. A quarter of his men were down, and they were stuck attacking an enemy in an entrenched, elevated position. Without any armor or air support on hand, the men were reduced to hiding behind rubble, desperately laying down suppressive fire at the windows so combat medics can reach the wounded.
The CIA didn't want the men to be escorted with armor or air support so as not to arouse the suspicions of the Chinese on the other side of the city. So Gooseman could only watch as the GLA slowly claimed the advantage, forcing his men to hide behind cover, while they undoubtedly tried to destroy whatever it was the CIA bastards wanted in the first place. Cursing, he reviewed his options. There was the option of withdrawing and letting the bigger guns take care of the situation, but that would mean mission failure, and Wild Gooseman has never failed any mission in his seven years as an officer, and he was sure as hell wasn't going to start now.
"Blooper! Gimme a blooper!" Gooseman shouted.
Gooseman winced as he watched the new kid, Dorian Gray, try to run up to him with a blooper, foolishly breaking cover and drawing fire on himself. Bullets cut down the 19 year old, and he fell without any last words at Gooseman's feet.
"I'm killing you all, motherfuckers," Gooseman said, as he prised the M-79 grenade launcher from the dead kid's hands. He reached inside his shirt, finding his cross, and muttered a short prayer for the kid, then he put his faith in God and took aim.
Time stood still as he hastily stood up, took his aim, and pulled the trigger, sending the deadly grenade flying right past the boarded-up window, into the building, where the fragmentation grenade did its deadly work and flayed the flesh of Ya Gami's rebels in a fraction of a second.
The enemy fire stopped. Gooseman believed in miracles, and he chalked this one up to the Big Guy, as he ordered the building to be stormed, and no sympathy to the terrorists.
September 13, 2000 hrs American Sector
Amers was the sensitive type, so she was sniffing with a runny nose as she walked. The dusty building was bad enough on her sensitive nose, but when the dust was mixed with the smell of blood and gunpowder, it was positively an assault on her senses. She nonchalantly checked each room, Lt. Gooseman respectfully walking behind her, his foul mood having calmed down significantly since killing the terrorists.
"Nothing, Lieutenant? You're sure? You've checked everywhere?" Amers asked, her calm tone of voice masking a growing anxiety.
"It's confirmed ma'am. No trace of Ya Gami anywhere in this building," Gooseman replied. "Could be he was never here in the first place?" he suggested, holding back the sarcasm.
"Oh he was here all right. My informants have never failed me so far," Amers replied, as she paced the empty ground floor room from end to end, looking intently at the peeling gray paint, the shattered windows, and the moon outside rising in a clear starlit sky.
"He couldn't have escaped. There was only one entrance," Gooseman continued, not noticing that Amers was starting to stomp her feet on the wooden floorboards.
"There is never," Amers said, stomping on the floor, harder and harder now; "just ONE entrance, when you're the GLA," she stood still in the middle of the room. "This spot sounds hollow to me."
Gooseman was out of the building in a flash, ordering the men to bring in shovels.
September 13, 2022 hrs Chinese Sector
Cold, cruel eyes followed the lumbering outline of the Chinese troop crawler as it rolled forward, patrolling the streets. The sheer numbers of Chinese Red Guard stationed in this city understandably made local residents as well as the Americans nervous, so General Wei ordered the troops to patrol is the massive, eight-wheeled troop carrier, lightly armored, powerful, and equipped with some of the best ground-level radar Chinese technology could provide. The troop crawlers symbolized Chinese power and control over this sector, and was a constant reminder to any GLA remnants that China was in control.
Which was why it was a priority target.
The proud men of the Global Liberation Army watched intently, carefully and quietly taking their positions as the troop crawler went around a corner and into a desolated street, with emptied shops and apartments on either side.
Soul-Assassin bit his lips in grim determination, quietly shouldering his RPG, aiming at the vital rear door where the Chinese soldiers would have to come out from. "I'm ready, comrades. Who will make the sacrifice?" he asked quietly. The operation had been planned, but Soul-Assassin was duty-bound to ask, for if the suicide bomber had cold feet…
"Who will make the sacrifice?" Soul-Assassin asked again, increased urgency in his voice. He turned his head to the young man besides him, eyes narrowed in expectancy.
"I am Bal Ferrin, and I'll make the sacrifice!" the young man said, proudly thumping his chest where the deadly wads of C-4 explosives were hastily wrapped around him.
Soul-Assassin's eyes almost popped out of their sockets. "God damn, don't do that, you idiot! You'll detonate prematurely!"
Bal Ferrin could only reply with a small "oh". Soul-Assassin angrily waved his stupidity aside, turning to an AK-47 wielding rebel, his face obscured by rolls of white cloth to hide the scars of an accident with some toxin warheads.
"You, what's your name," Soul-Assassin asked.
"Uh. I'm Bob," the Rebel replied.
"God damnit, NO! You always, ALWAYS, ALWAYS use your GLA codename on a mission! This is Prince Kassad's direct order! Now tell me what's your name?" he asked again, getting a little testy as the troop crawler rolled onwards ever closer to their position.
"Oh, my code name.. It's Neveraine, sir" the rebel replied, a bit confused at the insistence of using codenames.
"Better. Nev, you escort Bal Ferrin here to his position. Buy him some time!" Soul-Assassin ordered.
"Hey wait. Bal Ferrin isn't a codename!" Neveraine protested.
"Shut the hell up and go!" Soul-Assassin hissed threateningly.
Bal Ferrin nodded one last time and ran off towards his position, as Neveraine slowly and reluctantly followed him.
Soul-Assassin cursed the quality of men who joined the GLA these days, then spat out the tobacco he was chewing. He preferred no distractions when doing his deadly work, especially when the signal to attack will be his RPG fired against the armored troop crawler.
Soon this batch of Chinese scum will learn the price of opposing the Global Liberation Army, he thought grimly to himself.
Inside the troop crawler, Ken Shiro, the driver, slowed down his vehicle. The on board radar was weakly beeping, which shouldn't be the case when the troop crawler was in such a deserted area. He cautiously scanned the horizon, a hand drifting towards the emergency release of the rear door. "What's going on," he wondered, even as the radar seemed to tell him they were not alone.
"Comrades!" Ken Shiro announced over the intercom! "We are entering a yellow stage alert! Stay vigilant! We fight for China!"
A raucous set of cheers were the reply, as the ever-disciplined and ready Red Guard grabbed their weapons and tensed, ready for anything that may come their way.
Corporal Xian Pu, decorated Tank Hunter, and veteran of many harrowing battles against the tanks of the GLA, quietly repositioned himself next to the doors, so that he would be the first out in any emergency. His missile launcher was carefully slung behind his shoulder, ready to be taken out and fired at a moment's notice.
Comrade Ken Shiro may just be paranoid, but Xian Pu never did believe in the concept of false alarm.
"What the fucking hell," Soul-Assassin muttered to himself as the tank started to pass his position, yet braking to go slower and slower. "Why are they slowing down?" he wondered, and the more pressing question in his mind now, did they see him? The GLA may be masters of the set-piece ambush, but it was as if the Chinese could sense something was wrong.
A cold bead of sweat ran down his face, as he watched the troop crawler grind down to almost a halt. He knew that the troops inside could be ordered to exit almost instantly, but the troop crawler itself wasn't in the best position for him to attack. He could fire now, and damage the crawler, but allow the Chinese to dismount, or he could risk the Chinese moving forward just a little more.
Surely, he thought Neveraine and Bal Ferrin would have a better chance if he took out the Red Guard before they dismounted, and still.. doubt flashed in his mind, and his steady aim began to waver.
"Something is deeply, deeply, wrong," Ken Shiro muttered. He pondered ordering the men out, and risk their ire. This particular batch of Red Guard were tired, dirty and sullen after a long tense day of patrolling. He did not want to anger them, and yet the radar did not lie, there really was something out there and it might not be friendly.
Neveraine and Bal Ferrin looked on in the safe cover of an alleyway, Bal Ferrin was covered in sweat and shaking in deadly excitement, and Neveraine took deep steady breaths, waiting for the pre-arranged signal from Soul-Assassin.
Soul-Assassin drew a steady bead, sighing quietly as he accepted the fact that things never work out the way you plan them.
"Death to the invaders!" he shouted, as he pressed the trigger, and staggered a few steps backward from the force of the recoil as he fired his weapon at the Chinese.
There was a whoosh, a thump, and followed by a loud, ringing bang, as three pounds of solid molten copper hit the side of the Troop Crawler, the impact almost overturning the vehicle, and leaving a huge dent in the side, the size of a human head.
Ken Shiro muttered a curse, and groggily pulled the rear door release, not even bothering to state the obvious fact that they were under attack.
"Out! Everyone out!" Xian Pu shouted ,even before the Ken Shiro had managed to fully open the doors. The ringing in his ears was matched only by the rapid staccato beat of his heart. They were under attack, and the men were sitting ducks in here.
Soul-Assassin cursed the gods. He had missed the all-important rear door, instead hitting his precious RPG on the two-inch thick steel plate armor of the troop crawler's side. Tossing the spent RPG aside, he grabbed his AK-47, even as the Chinese soldiers inside started to swarm out , their mass-produced rifles pointing every which way, ready to pump anything moving full of hot lead.
"For god's sakes! FIRE! For FREEDOM!" Soul-Assassin shouted from his position behind some rubble, poking out the barrel of his rifle, firing wildly in the general direction of the Chinese.
GLA and Chinese exchanged fire, the GLA's intense fire forcing the Chinese to keep their heads down, pinning them near the troop crawler. However, the untrained Rebels were notoriously bad shots, and not a single Chinese soldier was downed.
The Chinese replied with automatic fire of their own, taking advantage of any lulls in the shooting to hit back with intense, concentrated firepower from the safety of troop
"Just point me at them!" Xian Pu shouted to his comrades. "I'll bust them with the anti-tank missile!"
"Shit! Ambushed!" Ken Shiro shouted frantically into the radio, trying to alert reinforcements. If someone would just send a few Dragon tanks into the fray the GLA will regret being born. However, right now, he, his troop crawler, and the men, were just sitting ducks for the GLA rebels, and the only thing that stood between the warriors of China and an inglorious death were blind luck and bad aiming.
"Let's go," Neveraine said, adjusting his headgear to keep the soft white cloth out of his eyes.
Bal Ferrin needed no further encouragement, and darted out of the alleyway, Neveraine following closely behind.
"Aiiieeee!" Bal Ferrin shouted, briefly rising above the din of full auto AK 47 fire from both sides, as he burst out of the alley, running as fast as his legs could take him towards the troop crawler. All he needed was to get close enough, press the button in the hand-held detonator, and he'll be carried to heaven on the blast of 20 kilos of high explosive.
The scream alerted the Chinese soldiers enough to frighten them into frenzied action. "Suicide bomber! Suicide bomber!" Ken Shiro shouted at the top of his voice, hitting the troop carrier into reverse, almost running over a few of the Red Guard, who frantically pointed their rifles at the charging suicide bomber, even as it meant exposing themselves to enemy fire.
Closer and closer Bal Ferrin charged, even as bullets whizzed in his ears, he ran towards the Chinese line, Neveraine wildly firing his AK47 at the Chinese to buy him time. The pounding of his feet on the dusty street, the sound of automatic gunfire, the rapid beating of his soon to be stopped heart, all combined in his mind to urge him on, get near to the Chinese, press the button, and then, it all went to hell. It was as if he was falling, falling and falling, as his legs gave way under him, his shoulders shuddered and shook as the bullets tore its way inside and through him, the Chinese were not letting up their volleys of bullets, not until they were satisfied he was dead. Again and again, the bullets tore out bloody chunks of flesh from his body, and as he fell to his knees, Bal Ferrin tried to press the detonator out of spite, which was when he noticed that the damned Chinese managed to shoot his arm off. "Well, imagine that," he managed to say, before the top of his head was blown off, and his brains spilled out onto the streets.
"Oh fuck," was the last thing Neveraine said before the same bullets came for him. He tried to gurgle out a death rattle, but nevertheless, fell to the ground like a mad dog next to Bal Ferrin, their blood pooling around them.
"Goddamn it," Soul-assassin muttered. "Retreat! Back to the tunnels!" he shouted, and broke out to a run, his comrades rapidly following him, abandoning their hiding places, all converging on an alleyway about a hundred meters down the street from the troop crawler.
Corporal Xian Pu could not hide his exultation. "They're broken! Pursue them, men!" He shouted, already chasing after the fleeing GLA. The men wasted no time, and followed Xian Pu, except for Ken Shiro who was left behind inside the troop crawler, as per regulations.
The GLA didn't even try to slow down their pursuers, and as the Chinese soldiers followed them down the alleyway, they soon found out why.
Turning a corner and running down a narrow, filthy alleyway, the Chinese soon found themselves staring at the barrels of fifty caliber machineguns waiting for them at the dead end of the alleyway. Four of them, bolted to the back of a modified one-ton truck, the fifty-caliber machinegun was so powerful that the GLA used them to shoot down helicopters.
Standing beside the jury-rigged behemoth, was Soul-Assassin who was grinning like a demented idiot at the stunned Chinese. The GLA rebels stood safely behind the machineguns, while the gunner was safely hidden away beneath crude sand bag and scrap plate armor.
"Quad.. Cannon.." Xian Pu muttered, as he lost control of his bladder at the sight of the fearsome GLA weapon. The Quad Cannon was primarily used by the GLA to shoot down aircraft, so there was no need for him to imagine what it would do to infantry.
He tried to turn around and run, like all of his comrades, but there was no way you could out run bullets.
"Fire." Soul-Assassin commanded, a satisfied grin on his face as he gleefully watched the Quad Cannon mow down the hapless Chinese. Xian Pu did not even have the chance to ask his ancestors for forgiveness before his soul left his body to join them in the heavens.
At the sound of heavy machinegun fire and screaming, Ken Shiro's nerve broke, and he sped off, abandoning his comrades as their death screams filled the cool night air.
September 13,
2053 hrs, American Sector
"I hate Tajikistan," Kate muttered, still clutching the open bottle of Johnny Walker, a shot glass stood half-full, freshly poured with the fine Scottish whiskey.
She sat alone in the OGA Bar, the lights dimmed, ignoring the insistent ringing of her cell phone. She didn't need to pick it up, she had set General Wei's number to its own ring tone, just so she can cheerfully and gleefully ignore the little Chinese bitch. Pissing her off made Kate feel good, almost as good as downing that shot of whiskey.
"Oh shut the fuck up, you goddamn chinky, I'm not talking to you," Kate growled as the phone rang yet again.
As if it obeyed her and feared her anger, the phone promptly went quiet.
"Thank you." Kate said. She laid both arms down on the bar and buried her face in them, sighing, staring longingly at that shot of whiskey. She would be so happy to be drunk stupid right now, and ignore the fact that everything is going straight to shit faster than a Chinese Nuclear Reactor.
Amers had called ten minutes earlier. Kate's CIA partner was even now rushing back to the Green Zone with something important, something important enough that she left the tunnel entrance she found to come back to the Green Zone, where Kate was told to wait in the OGA bar.
Kate may be young, but she knew there was something going on when Amers sounded so excited, and Wei won't stop trying to call her. Kate didn't like it when things were going on without her having in hand in it. It wasn't the CIA way.
The cellphone rang again, a different tone this time. Kate wasted no time grabbing it. No sooner than she pressed the button, she heard Amers' excited, breathless pants.
"Kate, I'm coming up! Unlock the door… and turn on the DVD player!" Amers breathlessly panted into the phone, accompanied by the thud thud thud sound of running feet.
"Uh, sure," Kate mumbled, remembering to say a final "bye", before she staggered off her seat and lazily ambled over to the TV, which was showing some crappy cartoon from the satellite dish.
Amers was jiggling at the lock the very second Kate powered on the DVD player. Sighing, Kate ambled over to the door too, only to have it flying open dangerously close to her nose the moment she released the deadbolt.
"Hey!" Kate protested, as Amers hastily ran past her and loaded a disc into the DVD player. The cheap, made in China player whirred for a few seconds before sound and pictures came up.
The first thing to come out was the GLA logo and some shitty middle eastern tune.
"Ew, Arabic rap," Kate muttered as Amers found a bar stool and dragged it near the TV.
The GLA logo faded away, to show a man dressed in combat fatigues, stolen American combat fatigues to be exact, his face hidden by rolls of green cloth that reveal only his eyes.
"Hello General Kriegsherr. Or is that General Charity Wei? I can never be sure," said the figure, chuckling. "Let me introduce myself, I'm Ya Gami, and I'm your worst nightmare," he said again, before breaking into stereotypical bad-guy laughter.
"Sounds like one of Thrax's goons," Kate commented, biting her lip.
"Shhh…," Amers replied, placing a finger on her lips for emphasis. Kate replied with a pout and a roll of the eyes.
"Anyway, you know the drill. I have a hostage, and yadda yadda yadda, pull out of Tajikistan, yadda yadda yadda, bite me cause you don't negotiate with my terrorist ass, so hostage dies, yadda yadda," Ya Gami said, pausing for breath.
"Gee, getting your ass kicked all the time makes you bitter, huh?" Kate commented, only to hush herself when Amers shot her a withering glare.
"Whatever, you invading oppressive faggots. Anyway, since I doubt you'll negotiate with us, take a look at the person I'm going to kill.. Cameras!" Ya Gami said, and the cameraman pulled back on the zoom, revealing the poor hostage tied to a pole, lying helplessly under some tacky post-modernist painting.
"Oh, my God…" Amers said, leaning forward in her chair, refusing to believe what she's seeing.
The pathetic looking female hostage was dressed in an orange jumpsuit, that had dark brown bloodstains on the collar, left over from the previous six or seven terrorist beheadings that the GLA cowards taped for the world's consumption. Her curly red hair was matted and frayed, and sections of it were caked in grime and what looked like dried blood. Her left eye was swollen shut, and something that looked like a ball gag from a fetish shop was crudely stuffed into her mouth. She was tied to a six feet long steel pole, lying on her side on the bare concrete floor.
Ya Gami spoke again. "Well, says on her passport, that this woman's an American aid worker by the name of Glynnis Lyons, although I'm probably thinking it's too much of a French name, then again, I don't give a fuck," he said slowly, putting his boot heel on her head and the painfully, slowly, grounding his heel into her face.
Both Kate and Amers couldn't conceal their shock and anger. "Blue!" they shouted in unison.
"She's alive now, and it's September 10 as I'm taping this, although I'm a bit pissed that she's been eating so much of the gruel we keep for our righteous fighters. I think if our demands are not met," Ya Gami paused for effect, snickering as he heard Glynnis moan in pain, "I'm thinking of giving her a bath, man, she smells like shit! Then again, we've been using her as a toilet for the past three days, so, you'd expect things like that,"
Kate balled her hands into fists. The terrorist scum would pay for kidnapping one of the CIA's own. Amers intently watched the DVD, eyes scanning every little detail, desperate to find any clue that might reveal her unfortunate comrade's location.
"Anyway, water's too good for the American bitch, so we're planning to dunk her in anthrax-delta. We should have a vat ready for her in a few days.. and after that.." Ya Gami paused again, gesturing with his fingertips, while the camera made a rapid shift to his scarf-covered face, "I'm spraying this shit all over Tajikistan. I can do it too, so listen to me, or you're going to wish you were her. At least she gets to die first," Ya Gami finished his spiel, laughing as the screen went blank.
"I'm calling General Kriegsherr," Kate said grimly.
September 14, 0014 hrs
The dull roar of a motorcycle broke the hushed silence around the campfire. The two men gathered around it hastily grabbed their rifles and waited, wary of their visitor.
"It's me," crackled an old two-way radio, clipped to the belt of one of the men. He lowered his rifle, as the old Soviet-era motorcycle came into view, and Ya Gami, terrorist leader, freedom fighter, and the GLA's point man in the whole country, got off the sputtering machine, contemptously kicking it to the ground.
"Good morning gentlemen," Ya Gami said as he walked towards the campfire.
"Greetings, comrade Gami," replied one of the men, Gami thinks this one was called Fenrir. "Dr. Thrax send you his regards."
"That's good. Always nice to be remembered by the good Doctor," Ya Gami said as he lazily sat down next to the campfire, warming himself against the chill night air.
"Say.. don't you think having a campfire's a little.. too obvious?" Ya Gami questioned, a little uneasy now that he's realized it.
"What have we to fear? We're travelling carpet salesmen. Those really are carpets in the back of our trucks!" the other GLA rebel replied.
"Hmmm." Ya Gami hummed, staring at the man. "Him, I know," pointing to the first rebel. "You, I have no fucking idea," he snarled, pointing at him with a long, bony finger. "Your words bring me no comfort."
"Comrade.. Brother Gami, meet number Five," said the first rebel, patting Five's shoulder. "He's a sharpshooter. Some say he is the equal of Jarmen Kell himself!"
"A mistake. I'm better than Jarmen Kell," interjected number five.
"Sharpshooter number Five?" Gami replied incredulously. "What happened to the other four?" he snorted, stifling a laugh.
"We had a friendly competition," number Five replied quietly. "The GLA have no need of them any more."
"Where the hell do you pick up these nutjobs? My home village or something?"
"That would be impossible," replied Number Five. "You tested nerve gas on it ten years ago."
Gami's laughter, hard and cruel, pierced the night air.
"I like this one, Mister Fenrir. I'm not going to shoot him in his sleep!"
The rebel called Fenrir nodded and chuckled, but he did exhale in relief. Ya Gami's success at terrorism came from his unpredictability, and while it confounded the Americans and Chinese to no end, there was something unsettling, unnatural about working for a man who executed subordinates for unexplainable reasons.
"Good to hear that. Is everything on for tomorrow?" Fenrir asked. Gami nodded.
"Tell the men not to use tunnel twelve. I collapsed it."
"When?"
"Just now."
"Khalid.. I mean.. V2X might not like that. That's his escape route.'
"Too late to tell him. He's Kassad's boy, he'll find some hole to disappear into once he has to."
"Still, poor bastard, you know what I mean?"
"If he wanted me to care about his sorry ass, he should have signed up with a real General…"
The three men raised their fists in unison, saluting their leaders.
"The Higher Order shall reign!"