Enemy Within: Thus NATO Fought There
AirLand Battle
"Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win."
— Sun Tzu, The Art of War
The Forests of Ithilien
Forty-seven leagues southwest of Alnus Hill
Year 687 Imperial Calendar, on the nineteenth day before the Kalends of October
Iron thunder rolled across the tranquil shrubland. A tide of burnished silver spilled out from the deep forest of Ithilien; flags and banderoles, standards and double-headed aquilae on long, brass poles. The air became thick with the smells of horses and sweat and dust and iron. The clattering of marching feet and jangling armor; the echoed calls of battle horns, and the deep, rhythmic pounding of great war drums; the hollers and growls of a thousand different marching cadences; the primal cries of xenos auxilia and braying war beasts, and the piercing shrieks of fellbeasts that swept overhead in arrowhead formations.
These were sounds of imminent battle.
A call to war.
King Duran, the Lion of Elbe, rode high upon his steed and loyal companion, Snowmane. He was a large man, built like a mountain with a thick mane of rich, dark hair. He was clad in a heavy set of deep crimson armor, emblazoned with the heraldic cockatrice that represented his kingdom. He was both a warrior and a king - an old hand in a trade where most died young. As a constant reminder of this fact, an eyepatch covered his left eye, lost in a vicious battle long ago.
The expression on his hardened face was grim. From the moment he received word that the Outsiders had taken Alnus Hill, he knew that matters would inevitably come to this; a bloody struggle to decide the future of all Falmart.
He had heard the rumors and tales of the Outsiders' apocalyptic might; how they had conjured wicked black magicks that massacred the Empire's expeditionary forces; how, with flicks of their fingers, they had turned grassy pastures into bottomless pits of leaping flame; how they had released hideous beasts of iron and thunder that could run down and swallow up even the fastest horses; and how they had brought the very sky crashing down upon the land at their whim.
How much of this was truth, how much was rumor, he could not say. Neither was it important. What was important was that these Outsiders - whoever and whatever they were - had followed the retreating Empire through the Gate, seizing control of the sacred hill of Alnus. Faced with this crisis, the Empire had immediately turned to her loyal vassals; summoning them to fulfill their ancient oaths, and muster their armies to move on Alnus Hill forthwith.
It had not been an easy persuasion. The muster had been called at the onset of the harvest season - a time when able-bodied men were needed to gather the years' crops before the winter set in. If a suitable harvest could not be yielded, they all risked facing famine and civil unrest. Citing these concerns, all twenty-five vassal kings - Duran most prominent among them - had openly and loudly made clear their reservations against the Imperial summons.
But in the end, the Empire's persuasion won out. Better to be hungry for one year, so the winning argument went, than to be destroyed for all time. To defeat the Outsiders, nothing short of immediate and overwhelming power would suffice.
And with that, the vassals had mustered; the Army of the Unified Kingdoms was the mightiest force ever assembled in all Falmart. Three-hundred thousand warriors in all, plus a million more in slaves, laborers, and assorted camp followers trailing behind. Not since the dark days of the first Imperial conquests had such vast armies crossed the land for a single battle.
Two leagues to his right, Duran could see a loose, staggered formation of xenos auxilia - bands of snuffling orcs and their smaller goblin subspecies, scrounged up from the wildlands of Mudwan. At their flanks, enforcers draped in the skins and skulls of wild beasts drove them on with whips and barbed goads.
'Come on, you slugs!' one of them snarled, lashing out at some unfortunate stragglers. 'Don't you know we're at war?!'
Behind them came the massed ranks of Algunan pikemen and an accompanying force of elite cataphracts from the Principality of League; led by their sovereign and commander, Prince Caspian.
To Duran's immediate left was a formation of Easterling warriors, clad in golden-scaled armor and veils of deep purple. Another league further down were a column of lumbering oliphaunts - huge, four-tusked mastodons from the distant lands of Harad - carrying tiered war towers that brimmed with scowling Haradrim warriors, armed with bows and throwing spears. Above them, in the open skies, winged cavaliers soared on the backs of horned wyverns and more screeching fellbeasts.
Elsewhere, snorting labor beasts drew the machines of war across the land; siege towers, catapults, rams, trebuchets, and other mighty engines with which the Army of the Unified Kingdoms was to bludgeon any fortification fool enough to stand in their path.
The greatest of these machines was an enormous battering ram, nearly one hundred feet long, forged from blackened iron in the image of a huge, grimacing wolf. Oily flames drooled from between the crooked teeth of its sneering maw. Massive draught beasts of horn and ivory drew the vast frame that suspended its mighty chains, pushed along from behind by the mountain trolls that would surely soon wield it in battle.
Its very presence commanded awe and reverence from the warriors that escorted it. Many of them were venerating its terrible name in chant and song, as though it were some great spirit that had come to their aid...
'Grond~! Grond~! Grond~! Grond~!'
Duran smiled wryly. "Grond" was certainly an impressive construction. But in his view, it was not nearly as impressive as his own Army of the Elbe – the army that he had built. Sixty thousand-strong, the Elberrim contribution was the largest and best-trained in the whole Army of the Unified Kingdoms, as befitting their status as the greatest among the Empire's many vassals.
And none other than King Duran himself, the Lion of Elbe, was leading them today. As their greatest warrior and king, he had raised them, taught them, nurtured them, disciplined them. From highest Earl Marshal, to honored Millenar, decorated Centenar, and eager Vintenar; he loved them all as his own blood, and such they were - for they were all men of good Elbe stock; tall and proud, strong and swift, brave and honorable, tough and disciplined. Many were veterans of battles past. Truly, he could not have asked for better...
'Sieur Duran.'
An armored cataphract, clad in heavyset pine-green armor and a flowing cape that bore the two-tiered crest of the League Principality, galloped up and fell in step beside him.
'Caspian, old friend.' Duran said warmly. As fellow rulers of their own realms, the two men were known to each other. Even their steeds, Snowmane and the other, Dawntreader, whinnied excitedly as they recognized each other. 'Finally mustered up the courage to ride at my side, eh?'
Caspian, the ruling Prince of League and a seasoned warrior himself, beamed a grin. 'Well! While you Elberrim go and lap up the glory as usual, someone else must actually fight and win the war!'
'Hmph. That "someone" would not be you.' Duran said, smiling jestly. 'Where was your League when the Westfold fell?' he put playfully.
Caspian looked up thoughtfully. 'Pacifying the goblin infestation of Moria, if I am not mistaken.' he said, glancing out at the line of orc auxilia that screened his noble cataphracts. 'They are tough little devils, as vile and numerous as weeds... but we are fortunate that they fall rather short in intelligence.'
Duran smirked. 'Reminds me of the Empire.'
'Hmph. So it does.' Caspian said, pursing his lip resentfully. 'Those fools couldn't even keep hold over their precious Alnus Hill for even a single day. Rather than fight, they instead turned and ran like orcs from a bath house.'
'We must be fair, old friend.' Duran cautioned, only half-seriously. 'It is said that the Outsiders possess unimaginable power.'
'More Imperial fables.' Caspian's contempt was obvious. 'Those gutless curs will spin any tale to excuse their cowardice. The fact is that they had a force of many thousands. No army, not even a Flame Dragon, could possibly have vanquished all of that in one day.'
'Unless it were an army of gods, perhaps.'
Caspian snorted. 'And that old fool Molt, in his arrogance, would still insist that such a war could be won.' he grumbled. 'Such folly might be forgiven, if he would be willing to personally lead them into battle... But he is not.' Caspian's expression crossed from mocking disdain into outright disgust. '... He instead prefers to sit on his little throne, playing politics with the lives of his warriors. And to think he still has the audacity to lecture us on the Empire's "strength" and "resolve", while in the very next breath petitioning us to tidy the mess that he left behind...'
'And yet, still we obliged him.' King Duran pointed out blandly.
'So we did.' Prince Caspian sighed. 'How fortunate for the Empire that she still has such loyal servants that rush to her aid whenever she stumbles.'
'Indeed, old friend. One must wonder if that is still a burden worth carrying.'
An intriguing yet highly traitorous thought crossed both of their minds. Caspian's grin returned, and then the two rulers guffawed. At this point, neither of two had any doubt as to where their next campaign would take them.
Duran then turned to face his troops. 'Forward, warriors!' he bellowed. His husky, echoed voice carried soundly through the rich, sweet-smelling air. 'And fear not pain nor death!'
A ragged cheer went up from across the ranks.
Encouraged by this display, a xenos auxiliary - a nomadic wind mage named Myuute Luna Sires - spread her wings and took flight. She was a siren - an avian xenos with a thin, bony body covered with soft down and dense plumes of green feathers, extending like hair from her head and forearms.
Soaring on an updraft, Myuute began to sing,
'A cloud has fallen, upon our shore~'
'The mighty hand and sword, of distant war~'
'And I'll, be brave~, be strong~, be true, my love~,'
'And I'll be waiting for you~!'
'For-ever~!'
Her voice was a wonderful deep contralto, enchanting and mysterious like so many of her kind, seemingly travelling on the very winds themselves,
'My love, you march to war, defiant~'
'May Emroy returneth you, triumphant~'
'May you, be brave~, be strong~, be true, my love~,'
'And I'll be waiting for you~!'
'For-ever~!'
It was an old tune that recalled the first Imperial conquests, a mournful lament that became a firm favorite among the Empire's vassal peoples. In remembrance and commemoration of this history, the warriors of the Unified Kingdoms eagerly whooped and roared their delight at its performance.
For theirs was a union of many nations and tribes, peoples and races, all brought together in common vassalage to the Empire. But in that moment, Duran knew they were all of one mind, for together they represented the collective might of their world. No matter how strong these Outsiders were, surely even they could not withstand such a vast host; each contingent representing but a thread of the great tapestry of Falmart, each a fighting testament to the honors and past glories of their realms, united now to vanquish a terrible foe from beyond the Gate. Standards swirled and waved in the sun. Drums pounded and thundered to their marching beats. More horns blew, vigorously and with great enthusiasm, already heralding their certain victory.
Even the xenos auxilia were beginning to feel the spirit. Many were growling excitedly in their inhuman tongues, baying like wolves on the hunt, itching to get into the fight and sink their yellow fangs into the Outsiders' throats.
And to think that now, all this was Duran's to command...
He was no stranger to feelings of power. He was already a King unto himself, the illustrious ruler of the great lands of the Elbe, a warrior nation whose power and prestige was reckoned to be second only to the vast might of the Empire itself.
But now, more than ever before, King Duran like the most powerful man in the world.
'Today, we show the Outsiders our strength!' he declared to them, eliciting a fresh round of wild cheering. 'We shall succeed where the Empire has failed! And then...!'
He paused, becoming suddenly aware that not everyone who was listening would appreciate his humor.
'... And remember this above all!' he said instead. 'Our mighty gods are watching! Make sure they are not ashamed!'
From the moment the Army of the Unified Kingdoms had departed that day, death was with them. The morbid realization had made her chortle.
She had been trailing them for nearly a month now. She neither drew close nor fell behind. Just followed and watched. Occasionally, a scout or sentry would spot her. Some wept and groveled, others ran, and others still simply pretended not to see her. But most smiled, taking her appearance as a good omen - and to those who were truly committed, she smiled back.
None of them, of course, were fool enough to approach her.
She neither knew nor cared what cause they were marching for - only that they were. The mustering of an army this size was a rare treat, like the many courses of a great feast being prepared before her.
A feast of carnage and slaughter.
Her ancient hands, soft and unblemished, were trembling with torturous anticipation. All six of her senses were gnawing at her self-control, like starved jackals kept restrained while the tide of fresh meat continued to march along to meet their fates.
But she would not indulge herself yet. After all, it would be unbecoming for a lady to begin her feast before all the guests had arrived.
Just a little while longer...
She licked her lips and smiled.
For she was an Apostle of Emroy. Nothing else in the world understood the art of slaughter better than her.
Pelennor Fields, NATO Southern Front
The Special Region
14 September 1984
From a distance of nearly ten miles, the lone OH-58 Kiowa saw them coming. Immediately descending, weaving in low like a snake between patches of treetop and through grassy meadow valleys, the Kiowa finally settled just below the reverse crest of a convenient hill.
«Shield FDC, this is Bird Dog. Fire mission, fire mission. Infantry columns in the open. Fire for effect, shift phase line green; add 700, left 400, over.»
«This is FDC, roger. Fire for effect, shift phase line green. Add 700, left 400. Out.»
It was nearly nightfall when the Army of the Unified Kingdoms crossed into the rolling fields of Pelennor. Far on the horizon, King Duran saw the thunder grumble and flash across the horizon.
Then suddenly Snowmane cried out and jumped around, startled.
Duran immediately tugged the reins. 'Whoa! Whoa! Settle!' he commanded.
'Looks like we're in for a bit of a storm.' Prince Caspian remarked from nearby, similarly handling Dawntreader. 'Unusual for these parts, at this time of year...'
As Snowmane finally calmed down, Duran frowned. His steed's reaction was highly strange. Duran had known Snowmane since he was a foal, and together they'd bonded and bloodied through many hard battles and difficult campaigns. It should have taken more than mere thunder for Snowmane to be startled like this.
Or perhaps, like all things, we are growing soft and weak with age...?
... No, something was definitely not right here. The storm did not look or sound like any other he had seen before. Something sinister was going on, and the more Duran thought about it, the more he began to feel very uneasy.
All the same, however...
'Very well.' Duran sighed. 'Let us make shelter here for the night.'
A halt was called, and a rough concerto of the various horns echoed the command. The great heaving mass of the Army of the Unified Kingdoms shunted to a stop, and then began to disperse; Men offloaded weapons and equipment; some started putting up rudimentary shelters, others formed into parties to forage for food and gather water. Baggage trains were brought forward by beast and wagon, carrying firewood and other supplies.
Forty leagues remain until we reach Alnus... Duran thought. That is another four or five days on the march... Hm. So long as our provisions last, I suppose this delay is acceptable.
He summoned his chief scout. 'Commander Elboron, send word to our camp followers at Ithilien.' he told him. 'Inform them of the coming storm, and to prepare accordingly-'
There was a sudden roar and the sky flashed as though set alight. A blast of heat punched across the assembly, knocking men over and spraying wood and torn grass through the air. Sudden screams pierced the evening gloom.
'What in Hardy's hindquarters...?'
There was another deafening crash, this one closer than the first. This time, Duran saw the eruption of flame and vaporized soil; several dozen men around it suddenly fell screaming, as though scythed down by invisible blades.
Something else whistled overhead. Then a third crash - a cohort of Easterlings were messily eviscerated as a cone of flame blossomed above their still-standing formation.
There was fourth impact. Then a fifth. A dozen more titanic blasts splashed and tore through the ranks. Swirls of dust licked up and stained the sky.
Duran could hardly believe what he was seeing. It was as though the whole Earth was suddenly venting its fury, bursting like boils of fire and soil and splintered debris. Embers and licking flames set the fields ablaze, wreathing the land in fire. The air quickly become hot and acrid. Bodies and body parts were flung through the air, thrown like rice grains at a wedding. Formations broke and scattered. Men were shouting and screaming, even running into each other at times, all disoriented by the sudden and outrageous pandemonium.
More fiery blossoms blistered the skies, random and bewildering. Not even the wyverns were safe - a mid-air blast atomized a flying fell-beast along with its rider. Shards of metal and torn bone perforated the wings of two others near it, sending both beast and rider plummeting to their deaths. Blood and soil drizzled like a sick rain.
Duran gasped as he covered his bleeding, ruptured ears. The noise was staggering. The relentless blasting had dulled his ears and made his head spin. It was the most awesome and terrific display of power that he had ever seen in his life. It was like witnessing a force of nature; as though the whole world was erupting, unleashing its fury upon the arrogant little creatures that had dared stake claim to its surface.
'Enough! Stop!' a Mudwan enforcer screamed. He tore off his beast-mask and hurled it away, revealing the frightened little boy beneath. He dropped to his knees and began clawing at his head. 'No more! Please! No more-...!'
Another row of heavy blasts crashed in. Duran was knocked right off his feet, while the enforcer pitched forward - with an enormous metal fragment suddenly staked through his chest. He writhed on the ground for a few moments, clutching and gurgling in agony with tears in his eyes, before expiring.
Duran tensed, roundly disgusted at how sudden and callous the boy's death had seemed. Time seemed to slow down, and his hearing began to ring; sounds and voices faded into indistinct mumbling. A debilitating haze set over his consciousness.
In this near-trance state, he looked around. He saw men he'd known all his life blown apart, dismembered, and torn limb from limb by the savage impacts. He saw Captain Beregond, a veteran centenar and friend, blown apart in a tangle of limbs while trying to rally his men. He saw a young squire, whose name Duran recalled was Barahir, absent-mindedly wandering around in search of his master - seemingly unaware that he was missing both of his arms. Another man, wide-eyed and panting, was digging frantically at the ground. Others were screaming and bleeding from their ears - deafened and ruptured from the deadly blasting.
And those were the fortunate ones. More bodies were strewn across the land in twisted heaps, bathed in the sickly light cast by the smoke and flames. The once-verdant fields of Pelennor had become a wasteland; hundreds of mutilated bodies had been scattered around like discarded toys; limbs and bones protruded from tangled flesh-heaps, jutting out from between torn battle standards and broken blades.
Recovering from his stupor and standing back up, Duran cursed silently. He had seen the carnage of war and battle many times before. He had seen things and even been party to dark deeds that would have made more civilized men recoil in fear and revulsion. For all of its brutality, Duran had always believed that all war served a purpose; whether that was to subjugate a budding threat to his kingdom, or punish an upstart rival into submission.
But this was different. There was no purpose here. Only death, wrought simply for its own sake. The glorious victory he had so sweetly-tasted only minutes ago now seemed very far away...
There could be no doubt; this earth-bending catastrophe had to be the work of the vile Outsiders. And it seemed they reserved so much contempt that they hadn't even the decency to meet his army in open battle!
Duran cursed again. There was no time to ponder how they could conjure these wicked powers, nor speculate on how they could have ventured this far out from Alnus Hill, instead of staying put like they were supposed to.
The fact was that the Outsiders were pulverizing them here and now. If he stayed in place, only certain death awaited.
Therefore, the only possible course of action was to go on the attack.
And so...
'Reform the line!' he bellowed above the miasma of blood and death, as loud as his battered lungs would allow. Rising in his stirrups and working the reins, he ran Snowmane up and down the disorganized jumble of panicking warriors, hoping that at least his presence and example might inspire them back into their senses. They had to be brought back under control. 'Reform the line! Reform the line!'
Behind him appeared Prince Caspian. 'Reform the line!' his old friend echoed, galloping high astride Dawntreader. 'Form ranks, my brothers! Form ranks! Pikes in front! Archers behind!'
Feeling strong hands in a time of great distress, the disoriented warriors began to respond. Instinctively falling back on hard-conditioned training, they began to form themselves into groups. These groups mushroomed into battle formations, and together, their formations gradually made up a rough semblance of an army; an army that was battered, bloodied, singed, wounded, and frightened... but ultimately steadied by the assurance that the Lion of the Elbe was still with them in this darkest of hours.
'Sound the charge!' Duran yelled, drawing his sword. 'Men of Elbe! Riders of League! Warriors of Mudwan and Alguna! The great hour of destiny is upon us, and we shall not be found wanting! For honor! For valor! For the glory of our Unified Kingdoms! Charge!'
With that, an Elberrim standard bearer blew the horn of Elbe - a loud, booming rallying cry that echoed above the chaos and across the burning plains. Immediately, other horns raised in response; from the brass trumpets of Alguna, the great wardrums of Mudwan, more horns from Elbe, from the League, and other surviving contingents still from amidst the fiery carnage - all rang out in music, screaming defiance against the Outsiders' wicked sorcery, and stirring the fighting spirits of those warriors that had risen to the occasion.
'Follow me, warriors!' Duran bellowed out again, springing Snowmane into action. 'Follow me into battle!'
The armored cataphracts of League thundered in behind him, with Prince Caspian at their helm. And slowly, gradually, the reorganized Army of the Unified Kingdoms tore out after them in a wave of pure martial spirit, driven only by the example of their leaders and the intoxicating rush of battle.
Was it unwise to charge into certain death? Perhaps. But Duran wasn't thinking about that. The only thing on his mind was that their only chance was to break out and engage the enemy in close combat. Someone had to lead the troops through the flames. And he was their commander. He would give the best and demand the best, from both himself and from others. To hold true to his purpose, his principles, and to his duties, no matter what circumstances this cold and uncaring existence may inflict on him. Such was the meaning of honor.
He kept going. The further he went, the less he saw of the Outsiders' earthbending sorcery. This was a good sign - if he could just keep up the pace, they stood a good chance of escaping their reach entirely.
Slowly, his confidence began to rebuild. In his experience, sorcerers were vulnerable in close combat. If he could just get his warriors to the Outsider lines, they would surely be able to cut them down their frail mages in glorious combat, as was proper.
For just a single, fleeting moment, he could once again taste the sweet promise of victory.
But it was only for a moment.
«Spear, this is Bird Dog. We got enemy infantry and horse troops headed your way, approaching phase line yellow. Try not to get killed out there.»
'Copy that. We'll give 'em hell.'
Captain Rob Herman, US Army, lowered his M18 infrared binoculars and grinned wryly. The cascading impacts from the heavy 155mm shells had lit up the entire southern horizon like some kind of blazing, booming waveform. Even at this distance, just under five klicks away, Herman could feel every buffeting shockwave of heat and pressure that washed over him.
And yet, dark shapes were still seeping out across the fields ahead of him. The enemy was advancing. To think that they had not only withstood the bombardment, but also somehow kept nerve enough to press their attack...
Herman wasn't even mad. Whoever their leader was, he must have been one hell of a stud.
But of course, that was also why he was here...
'All Spear stations, this is Spear Six.' Herman radioed. 'Let's kick some ass, over.'
A chorus of throaty «Hooah!»s sounded back at him.
The Armored Cavalry were ready. A hasty defense of about a hundred troopers and armored vehicles, rushed into position only earlier that day. Between assessing the terrain and ID'ing artillery target references, there had been no time to set up meaningful defenses; riflemen and machine gunners were dispersed in a rough line about two miles across, huddled low under covered glades and earthy ditches. Gaps in the defense were filled by M113 personnel carriers and M60A1 tanks acting as mobile pillboxes; commanding hilltops or bellied in hull-down positions across the rolling slopes.
They'd been through this before. Back in the summer, Herman's unit had been first on the scene when the Empire launched their invasion of central Germany. The victory had been swift, easy, and amazingly cathartic.
But since coming through the Gate, they'd been kept away from the action. Instead of being deployed to the Northern Front, where the main bulks of the NATO and Empire forces were duking it out, the US Armored Cavalry had instead been dumped here on the relatively quiet Southern flank, performing the same border surveillance mission they'd done at the Fulda Gap. Out here, there were no East Germans or Russians to keep them sharp, neither were there German beerhouses (among other establishments...) for them to go vent their stresses in. Spread thin and unfocused, when an enemy actually had showed up, they'd had little choice but to give up ground and consolidate their defenses.
The constant swings between waiting and shuffling around had put all the men on edge. Like a bad addiction, their first hit had come cheap and easy, and they had been craving for more ever since - and denied every time.
Until now. Now once again, their moment had come. They'd been blue-balled for long enough. Now they could finally cut loose and blow their collective war-boners all over the faces of these poor, brave, stupid dumbfucks who were so obligingly hurling themselves straight into their waiting guns.
Herman licked his lips. For the briefest of moments, the officer part of his brain wondered what the rules of engagement were in a situation like this...
What an odd question. The answer was obvious: there weren't any. This was Indian Country. Like the Wild West of old, the rules and regulations of civilization had no meaning here. It was kill or be killed, with no media or politicians to hold them back.
There was only the mission.
'Get some!'
The fields came alive as 50-cal and M60 machine gun positions opened fire. Their heavy, hammering reports punched in and scythed down whole ranks of the encroaching enemy mass like dried grass. Tracers zipped and spat through the gloom. Rippling volleys of M16 fire crackled off and spat. Occasionally, there would be the bone-shaking thunderclaps of volleyed tank fire.
The blizzard of gunfire raked across the enemy ranks like the hand of death. Hot lead punched through shield and armor alike. Mortar salvos and tank shells began crumping in. Many of the charging warriors just flopped down, struck dead; bodies jerked and spasmed; limbs blew out, bones snapped; horses and other mounts stumbled and fell, taking their riders with them. Within minutes, the fields were littered with a ruinous carpet of soiled bodies and broken iron.
Then the Cobras arrived.
«Spear, this is Bow flight, inbound.» the radio crackled.
'Roger Bow.' Herman replied. 'We've got hostile ground troops pushing on phase line yellow. Assumed corps-strength, heaviest in front with cavalry. Expend on that formation.'
«Roger, Spear, air cavalry's got your back.»
Rising up from below their tree cover, the flight of AH-1S Cobra attack helicopters pounced. Streams of hot vapor slashed out from their stub-wing hardpoints; withering volleys of 70mm rocket fire. The high-explosive warheads drew another small chain of fireballs that rippled across the land, mulching up flesh and iron whole ranks at a time. Then more rockets squealed out.
«Switching to twenty-mike-mike.»
The night lit up again as at first one, then all six Cobras opened up with their 20mm gatling guns, each one belching a blizzard of luminous tracers that smacked and lashed at the ground like flaming whips. The heavy rounds dredged and pulverized the landscape and everything on it; wood and earth and man and beast, it was all one to the looming Cobras. A pungent mist of powdered discharge, mulched compost, and liquefied meat began to fill the moist air.
The enemy charge began to falter. All their horses and warriors never made it closer than five hundred meters from the forward American positions, most being unceremoniously gunned down long before that point. It was as though they had come up against an invisible wall that they simply could not pass, no matter how many times they tried or how hard they pushed.
As things would turn out, that would be as far as they would ever get - as a new voice came onto the main American frequency,
«Spear team, this is Kampfgruppe Lehr. Hold your positions - we are moving to assist.»
Slowly, King Duran opened his eyes. He was lying on his back, sprawled somewhere out in the soft fields of Pelennor. His ears were ringing. A terrible, debilitating pain wracked his whole body. For a few moments, he could not recall who he was or what he had been doing.
The stench of death quickly made him remember. His counter-charge against the Outsiders' earthbending had failed; the very hills had burst into fire, their tops erupting like volcanoes that spewed sparks and hellfire that rained death and cataclysm upon the land. Not a single one of his warriors had made it across the fields before they were cut down.
Then had come the flying Death Wheels; vicious flying creatures summoned from beyond the Gate, appearing as suddenly and swiftly as the tempest. They were still out there, scouring the land like feral wyverns, their howling snarls conjuring phantasmal tentacles of fire-lightning that brought ruin upon all they touched...
Wyverns...
On that thought, none of his army's winged cavaliers were anywhere to be seen. Instead, other things were lurking in the burning night - for just a moment, he glimpsed something in the smoky sky; it had a sleek and narrow body, with unflapping wings in the shape of an arrowhead. There was a single bulbous eye, and a bright flare for a tail. It swept around in a wide curve that left a trail of cloudy mist, before vanishing again into the gloom. And in its wake followed a booming rumble that shook the very sky, like thunder at the end of the world.
Duran had never seen anything like it before.
This was madness. Whatever nightmare he was having, he wanted it to end. It was all so surreal. Within a few short minutes, the Army of the Unified Kingdoms - the mightiest force ever assembled in all Falmart - had been completely broken. Some surviving warriors were still out there, making their final stands against their fates, but most were simply running for their lives. Their fighting spirits had been long crushed by the horrific abuse they had been subjected to...
Duran really could not fault them. This was not the type of battle any of them had been expecting to fight. Duran himself had spent his life studying war, its theories and principles and stratagems. And he had tempered that study with the hard experience of many long campaigns and difficult battles - not all of them victorious. Over time, that experience had grown his confidence, enough to think himself as a warrior King who knew war and understood its intricacies...
What a fool he had been. There on the horizon was everything Duran did not know... How could mere men possibly hope to fight against such power?
In that moment, he realized - with a clarity that he'd never enjoyed before - that there was absolutely no hope of victory. The Outsiders were simply beyond them in every possible way. Every warrior, every ally, every maneuver, every stratagem, all of their years of battle experience... all of it just seemed irrelevant in the face of the sheer apocalypse being rained upon them by the Outsiders.
But... Duran also knew he could not give in to despair now. The lives of his warriors were still depending on him. He had to keep his head.
Yet even so, it was searingly obvious that there was only one course of action left to them...
'Duran!' a voice called out.
It was Caspian, the Prince of League. His cape was tattered and singed, and his plated armor scorched and bloodied. Even his loyal steed, Dawntreader, was stepping lightly - nursing a wounded leg and grunting in pain with every step. But they were still alive.
Feeling a surge of indescribable relief, Duran staggered back to his feet.
'Old friend!'
'You survived, thank Emroy.' Prince Caspian said with a mirthless smile. 'Come brother, and retrieve your sword. We must press the attack!'
Duran looked him straight in the eye. 'No. We must withdraw.' he said blankly.
Caspian frowned. '... I was afraid you would say that.' he sighed. 'But we have come too far to give up now. We must go on, and continue the battle!'
But Duran just shook his head. He gestured out at the blasted hellscape that had once been the lush fields of Pelennor. 'Look at this place, Caspian! Look at it! Look what has become of our Army of the Unified Kingdoms! This is no battle; this is mindless slaughter! If there is any hope to overcome this foe, we must withdraw our remaining strength and rethink our strategy.'
'But to retreat now, in disgrace...'
'We are already well past disgrace, old friend.' Duran said grimly. 'This day is lost. I will not see the lives of our warriors squandered over a matter of pride.'
Caspian had just opened his mouth to argue back, when the earth began to shiver beneath their feet.
A phalanx of huge, grumbling beasts came bursting out of the roiling smoke ahead, charging across the fields toward them with alarming speed.
Neither Duran nor Caspian could comprehend what they were seeing; the beasts' bodies were squat and wide, clad in hardened skins of smooth metal. They had neither arms or legs, but instead seemed to roll along on belts of wide chains, each leaving a muddy trail of riven earth. Noxious fumes puffed and belched from their raised rumps. Bright yellow eyes glowered from their sloped frontages, appearing at once lifeless and yet menacing. Their "heads" were blocky and angular in shape with long trunks like great serpents, swivelling this way and that, seemingly independent of the main body.
Duran felt a terrible dread as the bizarre alien monsters came on. Where had these beasts come from?
And what were they?!
Roaring into action, the Leopard 1A4 battle tanks of Kampfgruppe Lehr fell upon the enemy.
Major Karl Schubaltz, Bundeswehr, commanded the lead tank; affectionately nicknamed the "Schiri". Lowering his binoculars and turning up his lip, he withdrew down the turret cupola and into the dim of the fighting compartment. There, he could see the gunner at his feet, and the loader standing ready on the other side of the main gun. Their faces were firm and impassive... but in truth, they were all quietly anticipating the thrill of imminent battle.
To give due credit, their American colleagues had done well. Working with limited resources stretched over a wide front, the Yankees had competently detected the enemy's approach and massed their forces precisely where they attacked. With timely support from 155mm artillery and their famed Cobra gunships - formidable killing machines in their own right - their mobile defense had disoriented the enemy's forces and grounded their whole offensive to a fiery, bloody halt.
But defense alone was not enough. Given time, the enemy could easily overcome their initial shock. They would withdraw their forces to regroup, re-arm, and reassess their situation, and then attack again the next day at a time and place of their choosing.
Therefore, the task was clear: crush the enemy here and now. For that, they needed fighting machines that could navigate the hazards of the modern battlefield; machines that could strike quickly with superior speed and mobility; with enough armor to protect against flame and shrapnel; and with sufficient firepower to smash down all forms of resistance.
In other words, they needed tanks. Fast ones.
Schubaltz switched back over to his company's frequency.
'All tanks, full ahead and engage at will.' he ordered.
The tanks were attacking in a broad-fronted wedge; thirteen Leopard 1A4s - in three platoons of four machines each, plus the Schiri leading the charge - racing across the fields at top speed.
Far behind them, some of the American M113s began departing their positions to follow after the advancing Leopards. But even when advised of their support, Schubaltz pressed on without slowing down. Doing so would go against the Leopards' very design philosophy; to aggressively outmaneuver and overwhelm the enemy with speed and firepower.
Like their American counterparts, Schubaltz's tankmen had trained hard for the fateful day they would meet the mighty Soviet Army in battle. Everything before that point - even the operations they were undertaking now in the Special Region - was merely practice for that inevitable day of days.
Until then, however...
He switched to the crew intercom and ordered his driver to speed up. A second later, he braced as the Schiri whipped up into a frenzy. Like a monstrous predator that had caught the scent of blood, the tank bounded and galloped as it ran over foliage and debris, and smashed through tree trunks and boulders. At one point, it plunged across a ditch - the hull front smacked the opposite slope with a sharp judder, writhing for about a second before the tracks found purchase and resumed dragging along the rest of the tank's hulking mass.
Schubaltz grimaced as he rubbed the new bruise on his forehead. For just a moment he had forgotten that tanks were mighty creatures that lived for the thrill of battle - their crews were merely their humble guides.
Leaning forward again, he peered through his commander's infrared periscope. Fuzzy, disorted shapes flickered and flashed on the display like a broken television screen. It was not a good view, but at least there were targets to spot.
'Gunner, HESH! Foot infantry in shield formation!' he barked. 'Left front, range eight hundred.'
The loader, alert and nimble, had already been waiting with an immediate reply, 'HESH ready!'
Meanwhile, the gunner was gripping the firing console with both hands, wrestling to keep his aim stable as the tank bounced and heaved some more like a ship in a storm. With a grumble of hydraulic pumps, the turret lurched and swung around like a carousel. The main gun flexed up and down in small but powerful increments, before finally settling.
'On target!' the gunner yelled.
'Fire!'
'Firing now!'
There was a click. The Schiri's whole forty-tonne bulk shuddered from the whooshing-thump of the L7A3 105mm rifled gun's firing action. The high-explosive shell was expelled through the barrel at nearly three times the speed of sound in a brief but brilliant gout of flame and propellant gas. The barrel sprang back and spat out the ringing, smoking shell case and deposited it into a waiting metal basket.
'Hit!' Schubaltz announced, relishing the thunder and eagerly sucking up the intoxicating gun fumes. His head began to feel pleasantly fuzzy. 'New target!' Peering through his scope, he paused to double check what he was seeing, before calling,
'Gunner, sabot! War elephant! Traverse right! Range two thousand!'
'Identified!'
In truth, their target was no mere war elephant, but rather something far more dangerous; a colossal war beast that they would later learn was called an "oliphaunt".
The oliphaunt had a hulking body that was easily the size of a house. It had legs like Greek pillars, ears like a ship's sails, and four long, wicked-looking tusks the size of telephone poles. On its mighty back was harnessed a great tower of fabric trappings and heavy wood, draped with obscene banners and bony spikes and crewed by a garrison of tattooed, snarling warriors.
All the same, Schubaltz's gunner worked his controls again, and the turret swivelled back around to engage the new threat.
'Target!' he called.
Meanwhile, the loader bent down and brought up a 105mm APDS round from the tank's ready rack. He thrust it smoothly into the waiting breech, moving his hand away as the breech block slid shut behind it. Then he reached up and switched off the gun safety.
'Sabot ready!' he shouted.
'Fire!' Schubaltz yelled.
'Firing now!' announced the gunner.
The Schiri's main gun boomed again. Another empty shell casing clanged out into the open basket. More gun fumes.
In flight, the 105mm APDS round's outer sabot peeled away. About half a second after that, the shot found its mark.
The round punched into the oliphaunt's upper right shoulder, sending a ripple across its sinewed hide like a smacked buttock. Then the tungsten penetrator burst out from the beast's other side, leaving behind a gaping exit wound like a huge bloody crater.
Reflex and momentum carried the gutted mastodon forward for another few strides before its strength cut out. The whole stricken mass swayed and then tumbled over onto its side - spilling its entire complement of mounted warriors on the way down - and cratering into the ground with all the grace and subtlety of a falling building.
'Hit. Good shot.' Schubaltz announced. 'Next target...'
Duran and Caspian could only watch in stunned horror as the great oliphaunt fell.
Slaying one was supposed to be nearly impossible. Its thick leathery hide could shrug off arrows like rain. Horses feared them, and so did most men - even their Haradrim handlers had to be careful in their presence. And there were tales of them plowing through shield walls and even some smaller fortresses without breaking their stride. It had even been said that one could take on a dragon in single combat - and Duran would hesitate before wagering on the dragon.
And yet, these Outsiders had only needed a single blow to vanquish it. Terrible blasts of fire and lightning erupted from the maws of their bizarre grinder-beasts, smiting away whole formations of warriors at a time with ruthless impunity. One of the blasts had eviscerated the mighty oliphaunt, as though tearing out its very soul and grinding it to gristle beneath their iron treads. The great war beast's lifeless hulk tumbled after it, felled like a great tree.
The arrival of the grinder-beasts was the final nail in the collective coffin of the Unified Kingdoms. Their disintegration as a fighting force was complete. All valor and hope had long since evaporated. Now, there was only a frantic stampede of broken men and panicking beasts, all gripped by mortal terror. Many were screaming out for help, others for orders, for mercy, for loved ones, all in anguished, crushing despair. Panic and confusion reigned.
Duran felt an unbearable sadness overtake him. This was the dreadful sight of an army in defeat. His army. Once the mightiest force ever raised in all Falmart, now little more than a shrieking mob, scurrying away in all directions like rats from the flames.
There was no point even ordering a retreat now. It had already become a total collapse.
And the grinder-beasts were still chasing them down.
'Flee this place, brother.' Prince Caspian said, his entire tone changing from his earlier stubbornness. 'Go now! Before it is too late!'
Duran began to nod, but then stopped, 'What of you, Caspian?'
Caspian donned his helmet and clasped Dawntreader's reins. He swallowed gravely, then said, 'We will go and delay the enemy.'
'But that is suicide!'
Caspian nodded grimly. 'Yes, it is. But it has to be done.' he paused, hoping the message would sink in. It didn't. 'Look here, Duran, you have no chance of outrunning those death machines on foot. Someone has to fight them and divert their attention away from our surviving forces. Better it be me, than you.'
Duran's face went dark. 'Old friend... You know that I cannot, in good conscience, abandon you now.'
'You have no choice.' Caspian said soberly. 'Such is the burden of a King. But do not weep for me. Save your mourning until the day the war is won. But right now, you must go to warn our people. They will listen to you, dearest Duran, so it is you who must tell them of this calamity. Prepare them for the day when it comes for their lands - a day which I fear is not far from now...'
But Duran was still hesitating. For some reason he couldn't bring himself to move, as though anchored in place by some cruel combination of both mortal fear and a great reluctance to leave an old friend to die.
'Make haste, brother!' Caspian shouted at him. 'Go from here! Now! Before it is too late!'
Duran hesitated again. The terrible noises of the Outsiders' grinder-beasts were drawing ever closer, so close that he could smell their caustic, alien stench, like burning brimstone...
'Go!' Caspian snarled, drawing his sword and levelling at him. 'Or I shall gut you myself!'
Duran reeled back, bitterly stung, but finally accepting Caspian's terrible decision. Slowly, reluctantly, he turned and began to stagger away, eventually joining the rest of his army in their desperate retreat.
'Goodbye... old friend.' Duran said finally.
Lowering his blade, Prince Caspian of League watched Duran leave.
'Good luck to you, brother.' he uttered quietly. 'May we meet again on the right side of Emroy.'
Caspian turned back out to see his doom approaching. He sat there atop Dawntreader, motionless at first, awash now by an overwhelming feeling of dread. Death was coming for him, and he could see it. His time had come.
... Or had it? For just a moment, he contemplated simply dropping everything and running away into the hills. He could eke out a living as a wandering brigand. Surely that was the simpler way! And amidst this madness, no one would ever find out...
Then he straightened upright and whipped Dawntreader into action. Blowing the horn of League - a high-pitched hooting whistle - Caspian rode high across the burning landscape, weaving between the flames and tides of retreating troops.
'To me, my brothers!' he was yelling, above the panicked shrieks of man and xenos in flight. 'To me! Rally to me!'
Slowly, he began to gather all the horses and riders he could muster. It was difficult and piecemeal at first, for most were far more interested in running than fighting. But there were others who were willing to stay - if only to die in battle - and it was from these damned souls that Caspian cobbled together a loose force of about a hundred cataphracts and light cavalry, most originating from his own Army of League.
Like him, they were all tired, hurt, burned, bloodied, and frightened almost to the brink of insanity. One rider was even missing an arm, and another had lost a foot. But they knew their Prince. His reputation was not as grand or glorious as Duran's, but they still regarded him, trusted him, respected him. So long as he was with them, they would follow.
'Arise and take heart, my brothers!' Prince Caspian proclaimed to them, going up and down the makeshift line. 'For now is the hour that we fulfill our oaths to our lords and lands! For now is the hour we meet our fate! Here! Upon this field of battle! And what a fate! To die in battle so that others may yet live is the highest honor! May Lord Emroy smile upon us as we cross the gates of destiny!' He raised his sword. 'Now ride forth! With me! And fear no darkness!'
The horn of League blew out again. Prince Caspian lowered his helmet visor and cried out to Dawntreader. With an assenting whinny, the armored steed bolted forward.
'To death!'
Swords drawn and lances ready, the last cataphracts of the Principality of League followed in after him, riding off for the final charge of their lives.
«Contact direct front, horse cavalry. Unknown strength. Range 1800 and closing.»
Reacting to the report, Major Schubaltz stuck his head out above the cupola and brought out his binoculars. Sure enough, he could see a line of enemy horsemen, proud and upright, making a dramatic countercharge through the smoke and swirling ash.
'Seen.' he acknowledged. 'All tanks, full stop!'
The tanks slowed down, grumbling to a collective halt in a line abreast formation.
Once more, Schubaltz withdrew back into the Schiri's turret and surveyed the incoming cavalry through his infrared sights.
For some reason, he was reminded of that famous painting, "Scotland Forever!".
They were certainly brave, that much Schubaltz would give them. But the fact remained that a cavalry charge across open ground was suicide, doubly so against tanks. And even if the enemy were little more than spear-swinging savages, they should have grasped that by now. Unless this was a final act of desperation? Or perhaps... a diversion?
No matter. They would not get close enough for any of that to concern him.
'Engage!' he ordered. 'Targets in front! Fire at will!'
Almost simultaneously, the line of Leopards blasted out a snap-cracking volley of 105mm shells. The shells immediately tore gaping holes in the ranks of the charging cavalry. Horses squealed. Men vanished. Fragments of torn flesh, splintered bone, and shattered iron flew through the choking air.
Still, the enemy riders came on. And again the tanks fired.
'HESH ready!'
'On!'
'Fire!'
'Firing now!'
Again and again, the Leopard crews worked like maniacs, feeding shell after shell into the hungry gun breeches and flinging them downrange. Sweating, groaning, but staying focused, they'd spent years training to do exactly this. They weren't necessarily the fastest shots, but they kept a consistent - and accurate - rate of fire.
Inevitably, the enemy cavalry numbers began to dwindle. Those that remained moved to loosen their formation and spread out.
'Co-ax on lay!' Schubaltz ordered. There was no point wasting shells against dispersed targets, after all. 'Target direct front, at range one thousand!'
The loader charged the Schiri's co-axial MG3 machine gun. 'Co-ax ready!' he announced.
'Fire!'
'Firing now!'
Following Schubaltz's lead, the other tanks opened up with their co-axial machine guns. Withering bursts of MG3 fire thrashed and chopped across the line. Clouds of dirt and vaporized flesh began spurting up where the machine guns mashed them.
Driving the point home, the first American M113s had caught up and were moving to support the attacking Leopards. They immediately opened fire with their pintle-mounted 50-cals - their first burst popping a whole group of armored cataphracts.
'Yeah baby, get some!'
Caught in the withering crossfire, the surviving enemy cavalry stood no chance. A cloud of ash-smoke blew in and wreathed the last of their number, and they vanished from the world altogether.
'Cease fire.' Schubaltz ordered.
«Lehr, this is Spear Six.» radioed the American cavalry commander, a brash young Captain named Herman. «We're moving ahead to pursue. Back us up, will ya?»
'... No.' Schubaltz replied after a moment's thought. 'We'll hold position here.'
«Hold? But we can finish them off, right now!»
That might have been true; the enemy offensive had been blunted, and their broken forces were already in full retreat. That last cavalry charge had obviously been a diversion to buy them all some time.
But while Kampfgruppe Lehr and the American armored cavalry had the overwhelming advantage in technology and firepower, the fact remained that they were still a small force left to cover a vast territory; they were heavily outnumbered, far from home, in unfamiliar terrain, lacking reinforcements, and most of all, completely reliant on long and vulnerable supply lines through virtually non-existent infrastructure.
Schubaltz had read about the Battle of Isandlwana in 1879, where the primitive Zulus had massacred a force of British riflemen by exploiting exactly these vulnerabilities. The same could easily happen to them here if they were not careful.
And this could be the beginning of a second front... he reflected, further recalling a chapter from his own nation's history that he would rather not remember.
'Pursuing them will leave a gap in our defenses.' Schubaltz said simply. 'We can't afford that risk right now - we cannot know when or where this enemy will attack next.'
«And what do you think we should do about that?»
'We to find out who and what hit us. For now, I propose we make a full report to Alnus Headquarters and request reinforcements.'
«... Alright.» Herman reluctantly conceded. «I'll have teams scavenge the battlefield to gather intel and prisoners. Out.»
Closing the channel, Schubaltz sighed.
This was going to be a long campaign.
Duran paused and looked back.
The Outsiders were no longer chasing them.
Seeing this, he felt glad. But still... there was a terrible pain in his heart, and not just that from his wounds.
His warriors were shambling away from the burning battlefield in a slow, lethargic stream. Heads down, backs hunched, some coughing and moaning, their earlier fighting spirit had been completely crushed. Like condemned slaves, they trudged on in complete misery. All of them had been hurt and wounded in some way - there were more men with bloodied bandages and makeshift tourniquets than not. Those that could not walk had been crudely piled onto oxcarts like lay peasants. Much of the equipment and armor had been cracked and scorched, and many weapons had been splintered and broken.
Duran frowned.
The Army of the Unified Kingdoms... now we resemble more a funeral procession than an army.
He ground his teeth. He was angry; angry at the Empire, for sending them to the slaughter against the Outsiders; he was angry at the Outsiders themselves, for their wicked ways of wanton slaughter and murderous destruction. He was even angry at his so-called gods, for allowing the Outsiders to run wild and roughshod - and in so doing, neglecting their duties as the sanctioned custodians of the land.
But most of all, he was angry at himself.
It wasn't that he had failed his appointed task after being given all the power in the land. That was mere failure, which could be overwritten by future glory. It wasn't even that so many of his warriors had been slain in battle. That was their duty. He could forgive himself for these temporary shortcomings.
But what he could not forgive himself was that he had left Prince Caspian - his dear old friend - to die. In doing so, he had violated every principle of honor and loyalty that he ever believed in. He had desperately tried to justify it to himself with all sorts of flimsy excuses; such as that he was needed to fight another day, that his people couldn't afford to lose him, or even that Prince Caspian himself had urged him to do it.
Worst of all, Duran realized that this was true source of his gladness; he was glad that Caspian was the one to die and not him, and the realization filled him with disgust. How could he possibly live with himself? There could be no forgiveness for his evil heart - for how could anyone trust him to lead troops in battle the next time?
Trembling from the weight of his own guilt and powerlessness, Duran continued his bitter march away from the battle.
But little did he know, their battle was far from over...
The Forests of Ithilien
The Special Region
15 September 1984
Second Lieutenant Mamoru Itami, JSDF, was feeling very small. He couldn't see anything - out here in the wilderness, there was barely any light, save for the pallid glow that underlit the northern sky, far behind them. There were no sounds, except the ominous whispering of the huge trees that swayed in the night breeze. The air smelled sweetly of wild herbs, though the scents were so unfamiliar and alien that Itami found them more unsettling than pleasant.
The lone Huey had dropped them off in a small forest clearing, deep behind enemy lines. The American recon team had dismounted in a flurry of activity, bounding off the helo and straight into the darkness. There were eight of them; heavily armed and wearing Tigerstripe fatigues and boonie hats, their faces obscured by dark camo-paint.
As an unarmed observer, Itami was the last man out. He'd jumped off, run a few paces, and then instinctively stopped when the deep night overtook his vision. It was so dark that he could feel his hands, but not see them, like he was blind. He could still at least hear his American companions as they formed a perimeter - the shuffling of their jungle boots on the forest floor, the muted clattering of weapons being handled, and the whining drum of the departing helo.
But that was only at first. Right now, there was only an eerie silence. Itami had been waiting there for nearly ten minutes, and he could no longer see or hear them - not even Lieutenant Jake Wilder, the mission lead, and Itami's appointed guide and protector.
Had they all gone ahead and left him behind? The thought frightened him. He was no stranger to being rejected and abandoned by those around him... but to be left alone all by himself in the middle of a dark forest, in the dead of night, in a hostile and foreign landscape, as literally far away from the urban skylines of Japan as anyone could ever get...
His imagination began to run wild. Who could say what horrors were stalking the depths of this forsaken place? Something could pounce at him out of the darkness, and he would never know until it was far too late.
Itami fought down a surge of panic. He was just about to open his mouth to shout, when he heard the rough barking of a radio being squelched in rapid succession.
Another gust blew, and the great trees stirred again. Immediately, familiar shapes began to rise out of the undergrowth - the Americans were on the move. Itami couldn't see them clearly, only instead inferring their movements where the darkness shifted. But they were there. Immense relief came over him, almost happy, to see that he hadn't been left behind after all.
He could just make out the outline of Lieutenant Jake Wilder, barely visible in the gloom, starting forward and waving for the others to follow.
'Let's move, Recondos.' he whispered curtly, though more for Itami's benefit he suspected.
Swiftly, silently, the Americans set off into the darkness. Itami took an anxious breath and hurried along after them.
Now came the hard part: keeping up.
End of AirLand Battle
Author's Notes:
▪ AirLand Battle was the name of the US Army's main doctrine during the 1980s and 90s
▪ The song sung by Myuute the siren is the credits theme for Rome: Total War, with the words slightly changed to fit the setting
▪ In general, I've put a lot of references to various franchises (mainly Lord of the Rings, but others too) - especially in the names of things, places, and characters. See if you can spot them all!
Some of the more obvious ones:
- Ithilien and Pelennor Fields are the names of places in Middle Earth
- Oliphaunts (or "Mumakil") are the giant war elephants used by the Haradrim in Return of the King, and briefly in The Two Towers
- Grond is the name of the big orc battering ram used in Return of the King. This is not the last you've seen of it
- Prince Caspian is named after a character from Narnia, who has a ship named the Dawn Treader
