A/N: update part two. Since politics are boring, why not have some gratuitous violence with 'Murica sprinkles?
000
The Corp of Engineers worked fast. Decimated by the Day, they worked to the bone putting up or repairing infrastructure throughout what remained of the United States, all while suffering shortages just as bad as everyone else. It wasn't an exaggeration to claim they were the hardest hit by that awful event. Yet they still managed to build a forward operating base inside of two days; granted it wasn't much, a few hangars and prefabricated structures around an airstrip, but this was still a lot done in little time. More importantly, it was the first US Military base built on another world since the Lunar War. No matter how spartan the place was, or for how little effort was actually spent (seeing as they only needed to send a HEMTT convoy to a spot the EU picked out), that was still a huge accomplishment. It was designated Fort Independence, a big name for a small facility.
The Brass wanted to expand this tiny site into an installation on par with Fort Worth, but for now its residents were a platoon of guards (heavily armed ones, including a few Power Armored suits) and a single Tactical Armored Battalion. Specifically, the 66th Battalion Hunter. My command.
My name is Alfred Walken, United States Army. As Major I've been responsible for Hunter Battalion for the past seven years, leading one of the best tactical armored units in the entire armed forces. From the shores of Vietnam to the bitter spats across the US/Canadian border, even into the cramped hell of the JFK Hive, the men and women of the 66th fought hard against whatever foe dared face us. Flying the powerful F-22 Raptor and the high performance F-15E Strike Eagle made those fights short and lethal to our opponents. But now we faced a unique challenge, the likes of which I never would have imagined.
One of the prefabs was a large room designated as a conference hall, what I picked out to conduct briefings. It was large enough to accommodate fifty people with ease, soundproofed, dust proofed, and mercifully air conditioned. I'm not sure where those engineers found some working climate control equipment, but I'm grateful to them nonetheless. The room itself was arranged like a classroom, three rows of desks set up with a walkway in the center, placed so all the personnel had a clear line of sight on a projector screen. Last was a stand at the front.
There I strode with my aide flanking me, a short brown haired man in his twenties, entering from the side entrance. Immediately the din of conversation vanished, for a second replaced by a bark of "Ten hut!" and rattling chairs from forty nine people standing to attention, delivering crisp salutes in unison. Everyone who needed to be briefed was present as far as I can see.
I halted at the stand to return the hail. "At ease."
Watching the men and women of the 66th reseat themselves, I held a clipboard close to my chest while checking for abnormalities. Most wore off duty fatigues in Army green, though I recognized mechanics by the stains that came with their trade; even with as many electronics as the F-22 had, somehow the grease monkeys always found ways to tarnish their uniforms. Once I was satisfied I sent a peek at PFC Mike Fowly inspecting the projector, returning to the battalion when I saw he was good. Ground pounders and tankers would scoff at a mere hundred and fifty men claiming that label, but they didn't have the toys Tactical Armored Units played with. Especially what we had.
"Good day Hunter battalion. I'll skip the formalities and get down to business: we have a mission."
As expected grim looks filtered onto the troop's faces, shifting weights in their seats and exchanging uncertain glances with one another. Not that I can blame them.
"I'm aware of how you must feel, but these orders come down from the top, our command. I don't like it either, but if we do this right we'll be set for life." I explained, roaming my eyes over them. Still unease, but nobody looked to be openly raising a fuss; a good sign. "Alright, if you will Private Fowly."
Above the lights dimmed so a projector could flip on; a map was displayed to my side, showing topography and dots representing settlements here in Algeria.
"Our target is a Britannian army FOB located approximately fifty klicks behind the front lines. It serves as a supply depot for the forces currently advancing on the city of Ghardaīa, destroying it will directly impact their attack. To that end it is garrisoned by a battalion's worth of troops, recon estimates approximately six hundred men. Yes?"
From the second row Captain Pam Henschel of Bravo Company, a medium height brunette with an eternal frown creasing her otherwise matronly appearance, lowered her hand. Under the unit callsign Cloud, she flew eight Raptors and four Strikes with an emphasis on short ranged destruction. "Sir, do we have satellite recon?"
"Negative. There's no satellites here." I shook my head. "You may have heard rumors about it, but somehow nobody here has gone into space yet. Apparently the EU has a prototype ballistic missile in southeast France, I've heard from the USSF teams that it's as complex as the old Geminis."
Snorts met my explanation. Truthfully I did find it bizarre how the EU developed holographic displays, high grade computers, and fairly advanced mechanical technology without even attempting to launch a rocket; the United States organized a space branch before the Second World War was over, that's how highly we viewed it. Super Carbon R&D, unique alloy creation, SHADOW, Global Positioning System, the benefits were endless. They must've had different priorities, but it still didn't make sense to me.
"This intel comes from aerial drones and ground based scouts. With that said, don't take this information as definite." Even saying that was unnecessary, but a reminder never hurt.
"No sir, just getting a picture." Henschel leaned back after I nodded.
"In the meantime we have detailed topographical maps." A look to Fowly overlaid colored markers over the map; rivers, roads, and most importantly elevation markers. "As you can see it's short but hilly, there's enough cover for our approach. In addition." I flicked on a laser pointer to the rear, circling a winding blue path. "This river here is narrow and deep. There's three bridges across it, one prebuilt and two assault pontoons, these are secondary targets. Hitting these will slow down enemy reinforcements."
Nodding from the men followed, many of whom were studying printouts of the terrain. Suddenly I was disturbingly happy that we'd been weaned off GPS for a while, they could navigate without relying on orbital guidance.
But now it's time for the complex part. "This is what we're expecting to face."
At my cue Fowly put on a slideshow of images and text blocks, translated from french. Pictures of black armored infantry, elongated tanks, VTOL aircraft, and bipedal machines resembling soldiers with backpacks, what I thought were Lunar War era NCAFs at first.
"I'll be going over tactical reports on enemy units. First things first, I want to make one thing perfectly clear." My pitch lowered to make sure everyone was getting the message. "We may be fighting humans, but we've never faced these guys before. They aren't French, Canadian, or any blue on blue exercise we've ever trained for. Neither BETA nor Border War experience is helpful here; we're facing completely new technologies and doctrines. This is why I want everyone to be careful. For all we know, they can cut right through our Stealth."
That picked up some heads. It should've; the F-22 had plenty of tricks, but there was no denying that stealth technology was a powerful force equalizer. We needed it badly, there were few enough advantages as things stood. Advantages that I had to personally weaken.
It must've shown on my face, for each serviceman in view showed unease. "All four companies will participate in this mission. But upon our return, Charlie and Delta companies will be grounded."
I had to raise a hand at the heated chattering, catching their respective leaders fixated on me. Charlie was captained by Graham Renshaw, a bespectacled Wisconsin native (callsign Handle), while Delta's Luis Sachem (callsign Grass) was a dark complexioned man from Florida; both sent me confused and even angry stares.
"This isn't by choice. The 66th will be drastically weakened, but keeping your companies off duty will buy us more operational time. Staff Sergeant, would you explain?"
Standing up lethargically from a nearby seat was an old man, very old for someone only in his fifties. Balding, nearsighted, and joints protesting even such a meager act, Staff Sergeant Saul Dixie rose to groan quietly, straightening out his glasses.
"Spares and gas is why." said our cancer ridden Quartermaster; during a UN deployment he'd been caught in the fallout zone of a Chinese nuke, now it was catching up to him. He never talked about it, that old man hated being pitied. "Our supplier plant is being shut down to be relocated. This means no new Raptors and only the extra components they already made. They're pushing out as many parts as they can before their doors close, but there won't be any more for the next three to four months at least. Joints and coating are the mains, those we'll have most of. But the report I got from the Japs suggests that your front armor especially is gonna take a beating."
"Is there anything we can do Staff Sergeant?" asked First Lieutenant David Hill, a golden toned Californian who led my company's second flight under the callsign Spike. He was possibly the luckiest man in the battalion; during the JFK operation he was hit by friendly fire, nearly caught by the nuclear bombardment, swarmed by Tank-Class, and was seconds away from having a Destroyer-Class bisect his Strike Eagle while saving an IJA Shiranui. Yet every time he walked away alive, without even severe damage either.
"Besides what Major Walken said, I'm talking to the mechanics to make some fixes. There's a few old dust proof mods I know from Gulf operations back in the eighties, plus some tricks the Egyptians taught me. It'll help stretch out the engine life." Dixie replied without enthusiasm, sitting down upon seeing my nod.
"Thank you Staff Sergeant. On top of that, the security council is planning a joint operation with the EU, tentatively named Mirror Flurry." I checked the clipboard again to make sure. "It'll involve a significant portion of our military's combat strength, but the real problem is it's going to eat up most of our non-emergency fuel and ammo reserves. Once it's concluded much of our TSF fleet will have to be grounded out of necessity, until either stockpiles recover or substitutes are made. We'll be high on the priority list, but even so we could face shortages."
From the middle row someone muttered, "shit." under their breath. I can't tell who.
"With help I've crunched the numbers, running at half strength is going to be less of a drain than operating the entire unit simultaneously. I am aware that this'll be harder on the birds however. Personnel will be rotated by flights to ensure you get rest and experience, in time some of you may be deployed to other units to train them. If necessary the TSFs themselves will be swapped out."
I didn't mention an increased danger to the pilots, but I don't need to. Everyone knows the risks when understrength units go into combat, just like what happens when units run out of supplies, especially when they're neck deep in trouble. There's a reason why the US Army swears by the logistics wins wars axiom.
In the back a member of Delta company mumbled, "All this way just to fight another war." so quietly I could barely hear her. I can't help but agree.
In the end though, I have my duty. The American people need this, they need us out here running errands for the Europeans. We have no real alternatives, everyone in authority positions knew it, and so did those arrogant politicians from Paris. Bile rose in my throat at those officials who were no doubt planning to exploit my nation, smug about our lack of options.
That was the rub honestly. Sign up with Europe, become second class citizens. Join the Chinese Federation, same thing plus being permanently segregated, assuming their destitute corruption didn't incite a rebellion. Australia was a backwater owing fealty to whichever army sat in their capital. Russia and the African nations were either too poor to support so many refugees or too weak to defend themselves, especially the latter. Only a fool thought the various 'republics' and 'protectorates' here were really autonomous; when Paris said to jump, they replied how high. If we tried driving a wedge between them and Europe, then without nukes we'd lose within months, and using the bombs was both morally unconscionable and politically madness; at minimum we'd be seen as dangerous invaders posing a threat to everyone. Staying on our own world simply wasn't an option, and neither was trusting the Bridge experiments to locate a better planet, when finding this one so quickly was a miracle in its own right.
All were bad options, yet the last was worse.
I'm loyal to the United States of America. I believe in the ideals of my nation; freedom, liberty, and justice for all. We haven't always succeeded even for ourselves, but we try, it's a goal to strive towards. If it comes down to surrendering to tyrants or fighting a hopeless battle for those ideals, I'll pick the latter every time. I expect that for all my men, of all Americans.
This Britannian Empire though, it's a twisted mirror of what we are, all that we represent. Equality, freedom, they threw them away and boasted of their strength, at every turn proclaiming that it gives them the right to do as they please. Enslave lesser nations, take what they want, destroy what they will, and trample on anyone who dares resist. Their tyrant of an emperor spelled that out quite clearly in his speech, at his son's funeral no less. He didn't even offer any words for the memorial itself.
No matter what it takes, I'll stop Britannia. Even if it means turning on my government should they ally with them, I'll bring down that empire if it's the last thing I do.
Perhaps that's what motivates me here, taking off thirty nine hours after the briefing. Not to earn a place for America, not to build a new future for those who survived my nation's greatest mistake. Just simple rage against an authoritarian foe; was this the same feeling haunting the crews who dropped atomic bombs on Berlin, and Japan if they hadn't surrendered in 1944?
That led to an uncomfortable tangent: the moment Paris discovered our nuclear weapons, they would order attacks. Against military targets at least, or on civilians if they were as foolish as I feared. Either they wouldn't understand the bomb's horrible effects, or maybe they wouldn't care; Lord knows our people demanded nuclear annihilation of BETA regardless of the effects, uncaring or lied to about the fallout. don't think the security council thought that part through, there is just too much else to worry about.
Just like me at the moment, taking a breath of processed air. G-forces pinned me to my seat, a familiar sensation aiding the clamps in keeping my body in place, while the TSF hummed through its cockpit shell. Meanwhile tiny projectors beamed light directly from the headset to my irises, creating a highly detailed view of what the optics saw, overlaid by a heads up display. Early models of Phantoms used mounted screens to let the pilot see, but that era in American development had long since passed; I heard that older Tornados and some command model Shiranuis still have them as backups. The F-22's compound eyes saw rocky hills and grass zip by, bereft of anything that hinted people lived here, glowing a whitish shine thanks to night vision filters.
Right now, mine had an expanded radar display showing Hunter Battalion's locations: my group was the largest at two companies, five flights clustered in a tight arrowhead formation with twelve F-22s and eight F-15s, while Delta (Flights Eight and Nine) and Charlie (Six and Seven) formed diamond patterns ten kilometers away at two flights apiece, evenly split between Strikes and Raptors. They were all in range to support one another, while still being distant enough to not be too obvious, hopefully. I began searching for Echo icons, after a second chastising myself; Hunter's famous record of never having a Raptor shot down left out swarming, rockslides, or self destruct losses. In the depths of a Hive even the best have limits.
Watching the hills roll past twenty meters below my F-22's feet, I felt my stomach lurch every time my altitude changed, keeping slightly above the recommended height for anti-Laser operations. To my approval the three TSFs at my flanks and the sixteen around my flight were doing just as well, if a bit slower for the Strike Eagles.
A beep overlaid many panes on my display, a trio clumped to one edge and another on the opposite side. Another noise indicated we passed the marker I set. "One-One to all flights. We're ten klicks out, it's game time Hunters."
"Copy." Renshaw, Sachem, and Henschel said in unison; Hill and the other flight leaders spoke over audio instead.
"This oughta be fun One-One." said Hunter One-Three in a thick New Jersey accent, smirking on his pane. Lieutenant Jamal Reese was a tall African American who looked like a hood, talked like a hood, and ended up in the Army like a hood; after being busted in a drug deal, his sentence was either twenty years behind bars or military service. I wish I could've seen that judge's face when instead of ending up a package handler in Alaska or Guam, Reese qualified for surface pilot training, earning his commission in just four years. Although a little undisciplined at times, he was still a hell of a pilot, enough to be picked up for the 66th.
"Easy bucko, this is a team sport." grinned Hunter One-Four, a baby faced man in his late thirties. Lieutenant Clayton Scottsdale was Reese' polar opposite; born in Nebraska, he was caucasian, well spoken, and had a quaint friendly charm about him. He quit his manager job to join the Army after his son volunteered for the USAF, flying a B-1 Lancer whereas Scottsdale proved to be a natural surface pilot. After thirty missions in Northern Europe, Sicily, and Sri Lanka under both the US and UN flags, he was chosen for Hunter battalion, and the rest was history.
I expected the two men to fight, but that never materialized. In fact they got along amazingly well; Reese had a knack for blazing in and escaping before the enemy knew what hit them, while Scottsdale proved to be a deadly shot with both standard assault cannons and marksman rifles, his F-22 currently armed with the latter. It was a one two punch that reaped vicious results on BETA and humans alike. Off duty, the only real hostility between them was over sports, with Scottsdale liking football and Reese basketball.
My last pane popped up, Hunter One-Two's english possessing a noticeable accent. "Heads up, eyes on the sky fifteen klicks to our six."
Second Lieutenant Irma Thesleff looked grim, her nordic features wrinkled in concern. Born in a rural town from long gone Finland, she joined the US Army for citizenship, a ticket out of the Vermont refugee camps for herself and her parents. A lot of people shared her story; one in five US Military personnel were first or second generation immigrants, just below Civil War levels. Thesleff herself was polite and friendly, yet tough enough to put any Manifest Destiny spouting fool in their place. While she wasn't the fastest, strongest, or best shot in the battalion, she wasn't lacking in any area either, and her cool head in danger earned her a place as my wingman.
"Two-One here, have a visual. Slow mover, probably a blimp." Hill reported; my own radar gave a similar view.
"Six-One copies, we're seeing it too. Looks like our new buds are keeping an eye on us."
"Ten bucks says they have a bomber on station in case we bolt." said Five-Three according to the comm.
"Doesn't matter." my authoritative voice cut through. "I have eyes on the target. Safeties disengaged."
Up ahead was our objective: a base just like any other I've seen, garages and prefabs arranged in a compact grid on paved ground, a few square kilometers of area. AAA platforms dotted the perimeter, a mix of hastily placed flak cannons and SAM batteries, and on the edge of my radar I saw artillery guns set up in preset firing positions. Radar also detected contacts already moving, maybe patrols. Some lighter vehicles were in sight, plenty of infantry, and several of those small mechs they had, Knightmare Frames. Around the FOB was flat terrain, what offered no cover yet plenty of maneuvering room. I hazarded a guess of their numbers and it seemed like our intel was accurate; six to seven hundred men, versus thirty six TSFs operated by the best pilots the US Army had to offer.
On my display I saw more troops pouring out on my approach, Knightmares leaving a hangar one after another with trails of dust in their wake. Alerts popped up warning of enemy radar; I unconsciously held my breath waiting for an unwanted icon. No doubt the F-15s were spotted, but if my systems detected a lock then that would make our lives very difficult.
Seconds ticked by without a warning. Hovering over the display wouldn't change that, so I decided to press forward.
"Flights One through Five, sabots on point targets. Six through Nine, sweep in after impact. On my mark." Targeting reticles for my twin rifles locked on to a hangar, while relayed icons popped up to paint their targets, a mix of vehicles and AAA guns. "Mark."
Four shots from my flight boomed a second before the rest fired, all units spreading to have a clear line of sight. From two kilometers away the 120mm APFSDS rounds sailed out, impacting within a heartbeat of each other; explosions rippled across the base in a staggered wave, the blasts muted compared to standard HEAT, but far more devastating on their victims. Tanks and batteries were blown away before they could get a shot off, their armor offering little protection against the depleted uranium rounds. Before the flames from the first barrage had dissipated a second hit, this one tore into the remaining guns as well as smaller vehicles. I pursed my lips at seeing one of my shots rip through a building instead of a small APC.
Streaks of missiles flew skywards from the FOB, dozens of projectiles bringing a swift end coming right at us. I'd hope to get off a third volley before this, but two would have to do.
"Break formation, weapons free." I commanded, two orders giving Hunter a reason to go all out.
The Strikes broke into pairs to scatter, falling behind the accelerating Raptors. From above the TSFs look like some bizarre figure skating performance, skimming in winding paths over the rocky soil to kick up dust trails, with jump units swiveling continually for such acrobatic movement. While it looked like a chaotic rout, the fact not one machine crashed against each other spoke to the 66th's skill, from the F-22s closing in to the F-15s acting as decoys. The professional satisfaction of passing the one kilometer mark unharmed vanished immediately, my guts clenching at spotting a Strike Eagle from Bravo being hit by a missile. My dodging slowed until I saw it veer away from a gout of flames, scorched yet still flying from the glancing hit. Quietly cursing, I refocused on the objective.
Assault cannons opened up in a precise fusillade, clipped bursts tearing apart smaller targets across the perimeter. Light armor in the open was swiftly obliterated, infantry fighting vehicles and personnel carriers perforated in jagged rips. Knightmares swerved to get a bead on the attackers, only to scatter when one had a hole punched through its torso, swiftly followed by two more; I heard Scottsdale mutter a curse at the other marksman. Regardless the twenty or so mechs half their number in ten seconds, several not even getting a chance to shoot before being neutralized. Seeing a couple try charge towards my formation earned them a quick demise, with a few of the shots coming from Hill's flight. At least the Strike pilots couldn't claim they only played cheerleader this time around. With the missiles above being mowed down, they would be ready to tear into the enemy shortly. As I watched another icon winked before falling behind, this time it was one of Sachem's Raptors taking a stray hit.
New explosions lit up the base by the time I was half a klick away, distracting them from the TSFs flanking their position from either direction, whooshing by in a blur. The two companies bolted almost as soon as they arrived, leaving a trail of fiery destruction in their wake. Seemed that neither Renshaw nor Sachem wanted to play footsies. Hard to argue with the enemy garages and hangars going up in flames though, along with the remaining SAMs.
"This is One-Three, goin in hot." Reese declared, hitting his Raptor's afterburners and blazing ahead.
"Copy, One-Four is on overwatch." Scottsdale punctuated his sentence by realigning his rifle's sights. His F-22 dipped lower to skate over the ground, seemingly crouching even as he barreled onwards at high speeds. Other Hunter pilots did the same, presenting a smaller profile on their approach, as well as stabilizing their aims.
"One-Two has your six." Thesleff swerved to his flank, catching up post haste. Mid burn both their knee pylons slid open, ejecting knives directly into their waiting hands.
"This is Three-Four, eyes on hostile air units."
Spotting multiple incoming craft earned a curse; they looked to be gunships, swept back VTOLs shaped like an Apache but without rotors. After a second I counted several flights worth, swooping in in a loose formation a klick away. The lead group already cut loose with a missile volley, heading right for the Strikes. And for that the first gunship exploded, so quickly that its flight mates were rocked by the blast wave, veering in midair before swerving away.
"Hold still you." Scottsdale mumbled, nailing a second before a cascade of fire from Bravo finished another two.
"Flight Two, Flight Five, covering fire. Four, secure the flanks. Flights One and Three, knives out." I ordered, hitting my boosters.
I caught up with Reese and Thesleff with Scottsdale near my back at a hundred meter spread, while Henschel's flight clumped up a short distance away. Scattered fire forced us all to stay moving from side to side, dodging and weaving around incoming missiles, the hail of fire ending just seconds before we flew over the FOB's fence. Crunch time.
American TSFs can't handle CQC is a myth. US Army pilots simply prefer not to enter hand to hand if we don't have to; Naval Aviators love to talk about never retreating until their ships are gone, and Marines think stabbing BETA makes them hardcore. Meanwhile we used our brains and our guns, it's what they're for. While I personally thought the armory could use something with a little more bite than just a folding blade, I recognized that most of the time it wasn't needed, especially with specs like the Raptor's. And as the Franco-Canadians learned in the Border Wars, the F-22's gun focus didn't mean gun only.
One luckless Knightmare discovered this the hard way, carved open by Reese' blade and messily exploding. Another tried to align a rocket launcher on our rampaging F-22s, offering minimal resistance to a sabot that went through him and into a swiveling tank at his rear, both exploding within a second of one another. Blowing through the firebase, my flight dashed at high speeds with guns blazing and knives out; I had enough ammo on hand to send a burst at some clustered infantry, but otherwise I focused my twin rifles on vehicles, as did the others. Nearby Henschel's flight did the same, with her TSF boosting towards what intel presumed to be the command center, shattering the tiny building from kicking it at high speeds. Raking the crumbling structure with 36mm rounds made sure nothing survived.
My F-22 shuddered from a burst hitting its midsection, earning a grimace as I swiveled to the perpetrator, a Knightmare who immediately turned tail to flee. He didn't get far before three shots nailed him. Meanwhile two more darted around a corner while I switched to machine gun nests, but instead of running they unexpectedly launched what looked like harpoon cables towards the building, which quickly yanked both machines up onto the roof. I had to raise a brow in surprise at their vertical maneuverability. Of course they still had missile launchers, but before they could even line up sights Thesleff shredded the first via a well timed burst, and Reese dashed over to stab the smaller machine through its side, flinging his victim away a heartbeat before it exploded.
"Too slow One-One." he teased, her laughter punctuating the taunt. Rather than get into a verbal spat I turned to a remaining tank swiveling towards me, just in time for it to be hit by two shells; the Strikes swooped over the tattered perimeter to destroy any remaining threats, Hill's flight coming in with Bravo circling alongside their Raptor comrades.
Increased respiration and a quick heartbeat didn't dull the realization of how fast this was going. Just minutes after the first shot and the garrison was already finished; a few trucks tried fleeing, but between the TSFs in the base and the ones circling, they didn't get far. Several infantry had guts it seemed, one team even lobbing an RPG from inside a barracks right at me. Unfortunately for them, my systems caught the launch with enough spare time to jerk out of the way, and for their troubles I sprayed fire across their position.
"Eight-One here, targets one and two are kaput, moving to three. Eyes on the far shore boys."
"Six-One, spying a lot of fleeing dudes coming our way. Doesn't look organized. Will hold fire unless fired upon."
"Ah shet. This is Nine-One, we got eyes on hostile reinforcements on the way, estimating two battalions with air support. We better git."
"Copy that." I landed to scan over the flaming base. "Flights One through Five, salt the ground." Time to deny assets.
Although a few pockets of resistance fought on, the twelve TSFs went to work. Radio towers, munition storage, garages, barracks, everything needed to operate a base was systematically broken. Whether by gunfire or by knife, whatever could be used by the enemy was destroyed. Although my ammo reserves meant I should switch to a blade myself, my loaded pylons kept me from slinging away my rifle. Flicking to semi-auto was a consolation, putting holes in whatever parked vehicles remained, as well as crushing dugouts underfoot. Scattered small arms fire pattered off my Raptor, what I paid little attention to while I wrecked the FOB.
After kicking in a small garage, one Raptor paused to overlook a medium sized hangar. "One-Three to One-One, you copy?"
"Acknowledged, what's the problem?" I responded, sweeping my guns around as Thesleff walked up behind me, my F-22 shuddering a moment when she unhitched the so-called Oak Sapling from my sub-arms. Acquiring a few of these cost me a huge favor to a surviving USAF managed UN depot in Olympia, but they were worth the cost.
"Is it just me, or is there way less gas here than there should be?" Reese' picture showed his puzzlement.
"Agreed. There should be a lot of storage for even a tiny base like this, especially if they're supplying other units." Scottsdale added while caving in some sheds. His task was sped up when Bravo entered the base, covering us while we made a mess.
"We're not seeing much either One-One." Henschel supplied as she ripped open a large warehouse. "Hunter One, I think we found their ration stockpile."
"Grab a couple pallets but don't get greedy." I commanded. That order left a pit in my gut, but the less food we requisitioned the more would be available to civilians. Still left me feeling like some two-bit bandit.
"Copy that."
Thesleff was busy digging a hole via her knife, helped by one of Hill's Strikes walking over to help. While that was going on, Reese punched a hole through a smaller garage roof to peer inside. What he saw elicited a whistle.
"One-One, think I found their mini-mech shop."
Scottsdale and Hill walked closer while two Strikes covered us, coming up to the building as Reese peeled the roof open. As I watched he reached his F-22's hand inside to pluck something, holding it up to show us; it was a small rectangular brick maybe a meter long, colored blue with a steel covering on one side.
"Check it out, there's three or four lyin on a little cart." he explained, turning his new prize around.
"Is that a battery?" Scottsdale asked in confusion.
I raised a brow. "Intel did say KMFs run off this stuff called Sakuradite. It's supposed to be a potent energy source."
"Looks like there's a lot more here." Hill leaned over to peer inside. "And a spare KMF, down for maintenance perhaps?"
"One-One, we're done here. Loading up now." Henschel reported. From the corner of my display I saw her hefting a supply container onto an F-15's awaiting arms; a high performance unit relegated to mule duty, what humiliation.
"Ditto, Oak is planted. Ready to set the timer on your mark." Thesleff and the Strike stood up, drawing her rifle again. For good measure she dragged her Raptor's foot across the dirt pile she made, covering up our little surprise.
"Nine-One here, hostiles closing fast on your position. ETA ten mikes."
"Six-One, all secondary targets destroyed. Falling back now."
I nodded. "Grab a couple of those batteries. We're leaving."
My guard wasn't down exactly, we were still behind enemy lines. But at the moment, I wasn't as alert as I should've been. Not quite enough to track that Knightmare suddenly barrel forward, bursting through the garage door to throw something in the air, aimed right at Hill's TSF. Scottsdale and I whipped our guns towards it as fast as our machines could move, while Thesleff was a heartbeat slower; a volley of 36mm AP shredded the machine just as Hill slammed his boosters, hitting his controls at the same time the object unleashed a storm of flechettes that caught his Strike's leg. In the one second he was caught by the barrage the armor was perforated, several shots punching clean through even as the device kept spewing fire at that spot, until it limply dropped a heartbeat later.
"Hill!" I shouted even as the Knightmare limply exploded, boosting over without hesitation as his Strike landed to sag, the damaged leg wobbling dangerously. I almost cut loose a burst when the bomb exploded, a small one compared to the Knightmare's destruction.
"Ah shit, damn. I'm alright sir." Hill quickly assured me, steadying his TSF while his own flight immediately covered him, along with the others nearby.
"One-One, the hell was that?" Henschel demanded, gun up and sweeping.
"A grenade type bomb, acted like a frag shell." Thesleff supplied tightly, likewise moving her gun; she focused on the gutted Knightmare's remains as if it could get back up at any moment.
"Never mind that, status?" I demanded.
Hill's Strike stood up, shifting his weight to his good leg. A few sparks emitted from his knee pylons, but I breathed a sigh of relief when none came from the storage compartments. "Six different error feeds but I can still fly. I'm good sir."
"Shit, shit, sir, I-" Reese sputtered, his Raptor's head focused on mine. On my display his face was scrunched up in a pained snarl. "I'm sorry sir, I dropped the ball there. I, damnit!" he slammed a fist against his cockpit, regardless of the other TSFs gazing his way.
"It's alright One-Three." I sighed. "That thing either cold starts fast or can hide its thermals, either way you didn't know. Stuff like this is the whole point of this mission." I said. I meant it; Reese screwed up, but so did Scottsdale, Thesleff, and me as well. We should've kept a better lookout, put a round through that machine, something.
"Hey man, listen, it's alright." Thesleff added.
"I'm fine, honest." Hill punctuated his statement by standing upright, only to have his Strike totter unsteadily. The leg armor was a write off, that much was clear, but maybe the internals weren't too damaged.
Scottsdale unexpectedly chuckled. "Don't beat yourself up. It's not like this jerk was gonna kill our lucky fool anyway."
"Yeah, yeah." Reese still grimaced, smoothing his expression without much success. I resolved to have a talk with him after debriefing.
"Six-One here, they're setting up a new assault pontoon. Estimate five mikes until they're done. Permission to engage?"
"Negative, fall back." Switching channels put Hill's pane on my display. "Two-One, sure you can fly?" I checked tersely.
"Affirmative." Hill's face was resolute.
"Copy. Flight Two, cover him." I rattled off, disregarding his quiet groan. "One-Three, grab a couple of those packages. "I pulled up a nonstandard numpad attached to my seat and typed in a six digit sequence, creating a beeping click when I hit the pound icon. "Hunter One to all Hunters: Sapling is watered, repeat, Sapling is watered. Disengage and fall back to point Alpha."
With that every TSF in the base hit their boosters, swiftly rising skywards while each flight swiveled to separate directions; no need to lead enemy scouts directly back to Fort Independence. Within seconds of each other they took off, my team waiting until I confirmed that Bravo, Charlie, and Delta were clear. Eying my display steadily ticking down all the while, I nodded in satisfaction.
"Going dark."
ECM jamming powered up to max when we boosted away, heading northwest at a decent pace. Taking point for my flight out of habit, I kept us steady and low at ten meters for altitude, weaving over terrain at a stately five hundred KPH, clearing the danger zone in a minute's time. Nobody spoke for the trip, not until the one hundred second timer I set clicked to zero.
The firebase we attacked vanished in white hot flame, a roiling shockwave preceding a wall of fire that incinerated everything it caught. The installation, the bodies, whatever the enemy could use, all was vaporized by the blast, including practically anything that gave away information to what we could do. Under that umbrella were any wounded or hiding soldiers who couldn't escape in time; I tried not to think of those men, dying without being given a chance.
Scottsdale whistled appreciably, his pane showing him nodding while eying the feed. "Quite the barbecue One-One."
"One of these days I'm going to ask what you traded to get those S-11s." Thesleff was less enthusiastic, but she was still plainly impressed.
"How about it bucko?" Scottsdale directed to his flight mate.
"It's a big one, yeah." Despite the massive explosion Reese still looked down, brow wrinkled; his Raptor started pulling out of formation before righting itself, although his altitude remained as low as ours.
"You did good One-Three." I started with a lowered pitch. "Its some banged up armor, nothing major. We're all going home safe and sound, that's what's important."
"I know sir, but, it's still a rookie fu-screw up." Reese shook his head. "Won't happen again, promise."
"It's fine, honest." Thesleff shrugged on my pane.
As we flew over the Algerian desert on a winding path back to base, I went over the mission as I saw it, mentally drafting a report before I read anyone else's. By the standards of the BETA war, this was a smashing victory; outnumbered dozens to one and yet suffering only minor damage? Only in the sims for the Raptor had that happened, and not commonly there either. We even still had enough fuel and munitions on hand for another engagement if we faced trouble. Lockweed Mardin's masterpiece proved its true worth here, the stealth concept vindicated at last after decades of fruitless efforts, determined to make up for the F-117 Nighthawk's failure against the BETA all those years ago. Command was gonna throw a party at our success.
But as I kept reminding myself, these Britannians aren't BETA. Humans are nowhere near as powerful or dangerous as those alien monsters, but in exchange we're infinitely more cunning; fighting in the Border Wars hammered that lesson into my head. Unlike the French and Canadians, Britannia had vast resources and manpower to throw at our problem, almost eight hundred million people united under one banner. Although we won a skirmish here, this was just the first battle in what was going to be a long war.
Knocking me out of my wool gathering was a high pitched beep, signaling a private line. A gesture opened it between myself and my wingman.
"One-One, your status?" asked Thesleff, brow creased.
"Status nominal One-Two." I replied, spotting some European reconnaissance units some distance away and growing more distant.
"Sure?"
I sighed. "I'm alright."
"You don't sound alright Alfred."
I wish Irma didn't say that. Especially with her current tone, concerned at my wellbeing without any ulterior motives. Just like Maria did, three years and an era ago, back at my home in Maryland.
She heard my rosy leak free explanation for why her husband and her son's father was deploying again, not buying the line about this being one of the last times. Bryan knew too, my ten year old boy understood that I wasn't coming home after this operation.
But I did. It was an unauthorized recon expedition from our base in a scoured Virginia, right before we pulled out to the West Coast. I visited my home, brushed the salt dust from my front door while I heard my respirator strain, ignoring the alert concerning a vacuum bubble anomaly moving into the area, disregarding a French Army Harfang drone watching my Raptor's every move. I entered my home, and-
"One-One, status?" Thesleff demanded sharply.
With a groan I righted myself, ending my ascent to reenter formation. Her pane hadn't vanished the whole time, staying on after the men's vanished; she looked troubled.
"You're still thinking about that Canadian kid?" she guessed.
Way off the mark. "Yeah, a little. She was a splitting image of her."
"I know." Thesleff nodded slowly. Of course she did, from the get together right before Babylon.
Clayton and his son, Kyle, setting up a little league match for the battalion children. Father and son in Army and Air Force dress uniforms, laughing and sharing non-alcoholic drinks. Jamal dying of embarrassment thanks to his eighty year old grandmother, a tiny yet sweet lady who doted on the thug turned pilot like he was still a little boy, sharing some of the best pumpkin pie I've ever tasted. Graham's wife helped her with her homemade ice cream, with Luis' brother and sister making barbecue alongside Pam's bulgogi (what she called it, the delicious dish had little in common with Korean fare), while her two sons in high school managed the assembled kids, aiding Maiju and Wessel Thesleff, Irma's aging parents, in keeping everyone entertained. Maria, beautiful Maria, she sang a ballad that evening for celebration. So many families there heard her wonderful voice.
Most were gone now. Luis' home in southern Florida was hit by a tidal wave. Riots throughout Michigan claimed Pam's boys. The first harsh snowstorm claimed Graham's wife and daughter. A hurricane force salt storm buried most of New York, sterilizing Staten Island and Jamal's entire extended family with it. Clayton's son was shot down by Laser Class during the assault on the Evensk Hive, while his Raptor was trying in vain to attack the Mandalay Hive after the G-bombs landed short of their target. Once Vermont went dark, Irma never heard anything from her parents despite months of searching. And so on, from Fowly's brother to Saul's newborn grandchild.
We all lost things dear to us thanks to Babylon. Our homes, our loved ones, and for many, everything but their lives. And in the end, it was all for nothing. The BETA still infested Earth, the death world we created merely slowed them down. America came under direct threat thanks to the Mega-Worms, which we stopped once at great cost, perhaps too high to do more than a handful of times. And in the night sky, the Moon remained as it always had, an unassailable fortress that I would never see reclaimed.
But we're here now, in another world. Living a history that never was, fighting a dark mirror of ourselves hellbent on our subjugation, the plaything of powers who cared little for us. Feeling so powerless, unable to find a path that didn't lead to our total destruction. But we're alive.
As I closed in on Fort Independence, counting the incoming TSFs until I hit thirty five, I took as much solace in that fact as I could. We're alive, we have a future.
That will have to do for now.