Away from the conversing group of lieutenants and sergeant, and blissfully detached from having to rehearse for one last time, their neatly-crafted albeit very rushed plan to drop into the landing zone some hundreds of kilometers away deep in the enemy territory, isolated from any support for days on end, the enlisted men of Sasaki's First Platoon found themselves wading their way through the bustling sea of people hurriedly at the entrance flaps of the tent, their gleaming eyes set resolutely on the fast food brought in by their yank counterpart for moral support – and perhaps, as a last meal? You don't bring in this kind of food unless there is something serious that'll follow suit.
"Can you believe this thing, Takeo?"
"Mhm?"
"Fucking Burger King whoppers in middle of fantasy nowhere?" Yaguchi shook his head with a grin of amused disbelief, a finger pointed saccharinely so towards the line of trucks unloading the Whoppers and whatnot after a lengthy journey far from home as he turned to face the squad leader, Kurata, with a smile. "Goddamn."
"You gotta give it to them Americans, bro." The young squad leader merely shrugged back at Yaguchi with a dazed smile, amused and in disbelief as was his assistant as he spoke. Behind the two, his squad continued on filing into the chow tent in a methodical line, pushing past maddened mobs of people huddled tightly about for a chance at eating some food from back home after weeks spent on dry, tasteless MRE rations. "They always seem to know how to make even the crappiest of places homely. I mean, Yaguchi, this is the literally kind of thing that people back home would make LNs, animes and OVAs out of."
"Of course that's the first thing that popped into your fucking mind out of all things, you showerless otaku."
"Whatever man, you literally used to work at a freakin' yaoi cafe or some other sissy shit before hopping into the Jieitai. What an ultimate gay-ass."
"Ay, ay, fuck you dude, we don't talk about that one here."
Also stuck in the bustling chow tent are some out-of-place Marines of the MEU and Canadian troops of the deployed 3PPCLI battle group, minding their own business, away and detached from the growing-crowd of Japanese air assault troops flooding steadily in groups inside the chow. Their eyes were set forward, unyielding as they all walked forth towards the trucks unloading boxes upon boxes of Burger King dishes brought in either from the San Diego, or the Tokyo Gate, their innumerous rifles and machine guns slung and dangling across their shoulders by their gravelly nylon slings.
Pulling up politely behind a slowly growing line by the tables steadily crowded with the arrival of brown paper-bags – the titular "Burger King" logo emblazoned on its side – placed upon them, Kurata and his assistant squad leader Yaguchi, watched in disbelief as a petty bickering between a paratrooper at the front, and what he could only presume as immigrant Chinese or Korean workers, unloading the bags threatened to halt the lines to a screeching halt, both their faces set hard and fuming crimson-red with anger facing off, veins popping and eyes gleaming with restrained fury. The air assault trooper hollered fiercely, his audibly coarse voice one of seething dismay directed towards the weary workers before him, and the squad leader and his assistant duo merely cocked their eyebrows in puzzlement at the commotion stirred up ahead.
"What? What the hell do you mean this fucking Whopper alone costed me 2,600 Yen? Why the fuck do I even need to pay for a chow!?" Everyone had by now gathered around the table of the commotion that had gained their attention firmly, ears straining greatly through the conversation-filled bustling tent to make out the exact fierce yells and shouts of the bickering paratrooper and the weary workers, both fuming with exhausted, profane fury as they spat and seethed back and forth irreverently.
"Just pay for the goddamn thing, we had to bust our asses off trying to get these things delivered from beyond the Gate, to Alnus, and finally here." One of the asiatic workers standing firm behind the improvised counter sighed wearily, too exasperated to deal with the rowdy antics of this particular soldier to even explain any further. "Just freakin' deal with it."
"Fuck you!" The paratrooper shot back, howling as he flashed the sleep-deprived man a big middle finger much to the awed horror of the other workers further back, and to the wild amusement of his fellow comrades, rowdy howls and cheers erupting from the loosely formed lines. Kurata and Yaguchi watched in silenced disbelief as it all devolved into a back and forth of racial slurs, their blatant insults perhaps stemming from the resurging ultranationalist fervor recently after the whole ordeal of the two Gates. "You fucking greedy commie cockroach fuck!"
"Get the fuck out of here!"
"Shut your fucking mouth you shit-eating illegal commie nigger! I'll fucking hang your ass up the nearest tree!" Both the jaws of Kurata and his loyal assistant dropped half-way through at such remark, and Ikazaki, their machine-gunner was already striding up to the offending man, eyes bloodshot and mouth fuming with anger, his fists balled tightly in ill-concealed rage. The young squad leader was suddenly reminded of one crucial thing about this, unusually unassuming trooper in his squad; he's a Korean Zainichi, in the Jietai airborne, with a naturalized Japanese name, and a firm grip of the language, hence the seething reaction. By now, the relatively small commotion had caught firmly the attention of the American Marines and Canadian troopers dining nearby, their eyes narrowed in wild puzzlement at the seemingly wild shouting match between the two, usually polite opposing sides.
Kurata glanced warily at his assistant Yaguchi, concern gleaming in his eyes, and the boyish executive of the squad glanced back. They both can sense silently that something is about to go down badly amid the rowdy crowd, perhaps a fight even. Nodding affirmingly at each other, the duo promptly burst forth past the lines out of impulse, their hands hurriedly pulling back the Zainichi machine-gunner from wildly lashing out and further adding fuel to the already raging fire. He slapped his shoulder, dragging him and holding the short yet stocky compatriot of his tightly, Yaguchi mirroring his exact actions, his eyes pleading silently with the sickened Ikazaki to not snap out like a maddened wounded animal, especially not here in full view of their company officers.
"Come on, Ika," Yaguchi, his boyish face locked in a genuinely concerned stare with his sickened subordinate, pleaded softly with a feeble frown, gesturing towards both their squad leader Kurata and the company officers, their platoon leader and sergeant included, huddled a couple dozen tables away. "Not now please, I beg you. Especially not here."
They had willfully ignored the unfolding commotion for now in favor of the unraveled maps and notes placed down on their table – planning apprehensively and keenly for the uncertain air assault op ahead, and he certainly wouldn't want the involvement of one his fellow platoon mates in the petty scuffle to break that blissful ignorance. Ikazaki merely looked on, eyes empty and mouth frowning with ill-concealed rage, at his comrades worriedly restraining him by the shoulder and arms. His eyelid blinked numbly, and he simply hung his head in defeat, sickened deep within at the inability to teach that racist piece of fuckin' shit a lesson.
The stocky machine-gunner nodded his head mutely with a solemn demeanor to his two squad superiors, his grip on the Minimi light machine gun across his shoulders tightened impulsively as he moved, haltingly so. Then, the sight of their platoon leader and sergeant – already done with the final company brief, gesturing them over towards an empty table they had occupied, firmly caught the attention of the trio, and also the other squad leaders within the platoon. Taking the cue, they immediately began strutting up to the Lieutenant almost simultaneously, mentally sighing for whatever lies in the forthcoming briefing for the squad leader. They hadn't even gotten to eat the Whoppers yet, and a slight disappointment swelled warily in their apprehensive stomach as they walked up to the waiting Sasaki.
With the grim-faced Ikazaki mumbling a defeated "fuck" softly along the way up to their platoon's executive table, the trio had by now noticed a map sheet or two unraveled crisply and hastily-jotted notepads of crucial information scattered all over the gravelly wooden surface already. They secured the slings of their rifles, their hands patting curtly away dusts hanging upon their flecktarn-green fatigues in anticipation for a meeting with the new platoon leader – one that they haven't even gotten close enough to even know much.
The unraveled map placed over the forlorn-looking table was the map of their assigned LZ; it meant that they're going on a combat operation soon. The squad leaders' eyes widened slightly, suddenly aware of the very real prospect of being sent off deep behind the enemy's territory as one company. They promptly steeled themselves for the impending briefing ahead, eyes wary in anticipation of an actual offensive action – what once was a mere delusional dream for the men of the Jietai airborne, had now morphed itself into a glum reality that now, stood gloomily before them all.
Lieutenant Sasaki and his loyal assistant SFC Natsuki were still studying the notes and maps keenly, memorizing callsigns and codes, fires plan and CASEVAC, pyro smoke signs and whatnot when the warily huddled group of squad leaders began pulling up side-by-side to their table, their faces grimly blank and stiffened, hiding beneath the facade anxious anticipation of what lays ahead. The Lieutenant knows that is for sure the case for each of his non-commissioned infantry leaders – it's their first actual, heliborne air assault mission deep into the enemy's territory anyway.
"Alright, gentlemen, here's all you need to know about the air assault op we'll be taking part in this very afternoon…."
And so, begins the meeting for these still out-of-the-loop squad leaders and their executives, the Lieutenant's hands clasped softly and his eyes glued keenly upon the maps and notes below, studying it with the intensity of a man whose life depended purely on his understanding of the map and proper procedures, callsigns, contingencies and whatnot as he spoke apprehensively. Lieutenant Sasaki shuffled his feet on the forlorn grassy ground below in wary anticipation of the future, and Kurata's jaw dropped subtly upon hearing the sheer, frantic hurriedness of this operation – this afternoon? Really? "...so once we've been dropped into Matterhorn by the Chinooks and secured the evacuation of the rescued American and Japanese citizens with the assistance of American special operations forces, we'll be heading up to this ridgeline about a kilometer to the north on foot, accompanied by the same Spec-Ops the company had linked-up with earlier and the attached Marine FAC. From there we'll be overlooking a highway running east-west, and from which we'll begin our mission of interdicting the enemy's traffic moving east to Rondel. We'll have air support and the company's mortars at our disposal."
He turned to his squad leaders, apprehension written across his lips.
"Any questions?"
"Yeah, sir," Kurata had already taken out his notepad when his counterpart of the Second Squad, inquired coolly about. He took a bite out of a Whopper he had held throughout the entire meeting, and everyone took note of his serene swagger in asking the question that lingered within the minds of everyone. "how long are we gonna be perched up there alone?"
The Lieutenant shook his head distraughtly, and he looked the bespectacled squad leader right in his eyes, Kurata and his boyish assistant squad leader jotting down notes as they spoke.
"I have no idea, Sergeant. The company commander hasn't given me much back at the brief." Sasaki swallowed grimly, watching in silence as Kyoya pursed his lips understandingly. Shaking his head, he broke out of his stupor, his eyes glancing forth to his platoon sergeant. "Alright, I'm handing it over to Sergeant First Class Natsuki – he'll be going over the pyro signal plans, callsigns and so forth. Mostly the same from the ones we used when we first got here, unchanged."
Nodding at the unusually young Sergeant First Class, he motioned the platoon sergeant to take over the impromptu meeting as he went over his notes. SFC Natsuki coughed gravelly, and in the coming minutes he would have gone over the mostly unchanged protocols, radio brevity codes, procedures, callsigns, signal and signs that the platoon had used ever since they stepped foot here.
"Alright gents, I assume you wannabe samurais already got the gist, eh? The callsign for us is unchanged – we're still Avenger on the net. If anyone's injured or wounded badly enough we'll casevac that person through choppers with the help of the attached forward air controller which is gonna be known as Heartbreak on the net, but I hope it won't come to that point." The squad leaders and their assistants, Kurata and Yaguchi included after they had let the now calmed-down Zainichi machine-gunner wander off in the chow tent, were all busy writing down notes when the platoon sergeant moved the topic to pyrotechnics. "I'll keep it quick and simple since we're launching this afternoon out of all times possible, so red pyros are emergency extract, green pyros are a squad pulling back so don't shoot at 'em. White is for night-time illumination only along with the illume rounds the company's mortars brought, and smoke of any colors can be used for concealment except for violet, those are to mark landing zones. Everybody got that?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
Everybody took their notes and wrote down the spoken information dutifully. By the time the briefing arrived to the reports of weather – if all is good, will permit them to launch this afternoon, everyone had already been sitting in their respective table, munching away American-made burgers in grave silence while their commanders went back and forth over their plans and contingencies, navigation and whatnot, pondering profoundly of their upcoming heliborne mission hundreds of kilometers away from friendly lines, from comfort and safety. No amount of harsh Spartan-like training as the Self-Defense Force's finest airborne troops could've prepared them for this very moment. With their rifles and machine guns slung over their stiffened shoulders, they found themselves both apprehensive deep inside, yet morbidly excited, at the once preposterous prospect of being sent off, far-away into the wilderness of a fantastical continent, interdict shuffling traffics and call in airstrikes on those who stood in their way, before assaulting a city with the intent to capture it. The briefing of their anticipated mission was wild, for the first crazy group's officers and enlisted alike, who had spent their entire service participating in seemingly monotonous disaster relief operations and exercises with fellow allied nations.
By the time Kurata and his ever-buoyant assistant Yaguchi had returned hesitantly to their squad's age-old chow table and explained to his uncertain subordinates of the upcoming operation, the reaction they wearily received was one of exasperated fatigue.
"Sergeant, we have just returned from an all-night patrol in the fucking city." The squad's machine-gunner, now calmed down by his fellow comrades, merely grumbled. His tone was soft and polite, and there wasn't any more anger displayed upon his relaxed complexion. Yet, he still couldn't help shaking away the disappointment that leaked out into his remark. "Are they shitting with us or what?"
"I'm afraid that's not the case, Ika." Kurata shook his head, resigned and wary as he spoke. He traded glances with his assistant squad leader, the partner merely shrugging, his face gloomy as with the rest of his squad.
By the time they had done eating away the fast-food meals under the lingering gloomy mood grimly similar to a last meal of a death row inmate, and once the affectionate banters had ceased, the men walking back to their hellish Spartan-like living areas of the camp were immediately formed into a hasty work parties hurriedly by their platoon sergeant, SFC Natsuki and the company's Sergeant Major, Shoda, at the mellow line of holes and camouflaged nettings where the company's mortar platoon had set their position. There, the two men, with help of the mortar tubestrokers and their platoon leader, began gingerly passing out the 81mm mortar shells like candy to the men of the platoon, and the rest of the company's infantry troop who had also joined the huddled crowd at the firing position of the mortars, each of the little yet packed projectiles weighing more than five kilograms or so.
From there, the air assault troops immediately began working, tying the secured plastic containers of the mortar shells in a group of threes gingerly onto their cumbersome pack and gears with spare wires and unused cords holding them together, all while lounging beneath the shade of their foxholes and ranger graves. Even the company's various radio operators in the command group slung the rounds beneath their already hefty radio manpack, not spared from the burden of their fellow comrades. All in all, that gave the soon-to-be-isolated company around 400 mortar rounds, making it a formidable small artillery force if need be.
Even Sasaki, their still sparkling-eyed green platoon leader, tied two of the rounds — still wrapped in their neat cardboard tubes —at the bottom of his already mountainous gear. By the time he had been done stuffing food, ammunition for both his 9mm side arm and Howa-89 rifle, first-aid kits and grease pencils, fragmentary and smoke grenades, the Type-3 kevlar jacket and its utility vest along with half a dozen canteen of dubiously-tasting water, plus the radio manpack that pretty much all the platoon leaders had to carry for themselves due to the lack of radio operators on platoon level, the field pack straining upon his spine had weighed more than forty or so kilos. Even then, the Lieutenant's burden was still lighter than most of his enlisted infantryman, spared from carrying the rifle's grenade rounds, extra C-4 plastic explosives, trip flares, pyros, razor concertina wires, claymore mines plus the medical packs for the medics. Still, it paled to the very heavy loads carried by the machine-gunners, which in turn is even more cumbersome for the mortar infantry, each lugging with his own rifle and personal gear as well as seven or eight mortar shells along with a heavy part of the disassembled mortars, including the bipods and very unwieldy base plates as well as the long heavy mortar tubes themselves, all at around twelve kilogram worth of weight.
Throughout the clear-skied, orange-lit morning, with their stomach full but growling with a cold foreboding of the near-future, the 5th Company marched warily and methodically in lines all the way to the helipads where their eventual ride into the far-away battlefield hundreds of kilometers away; the unwieldy monsters that is the Chinook helicopters, sat idly silent in the crudely-made landing zones of verdant other-worldly grasses swaying in the breezy wind. The men began forming heli teams anxiously, the company's officers debating plans with the pilots on who'll go first, who'll be the reserve, who'll go into this helicopter and whose platoon will fly in with that chopper. The chilly gale of the spring did little to calm their jittery nerves as they began the mind-numbingly boring, yet nerve-breaking wait for the official word from the food chains higher up for them to launch the air assault op, and into the grasp of the uncertain fate. Amid all the hurry-up-and-wait sessions, banters would broke out, the apprehensive troops amusedly debating which anime is the best and which are the most relatable to their current ordeal now, and what kind of fantastical gal they're gonna bring home once all this tiring deployment ended. Yet, something inside them nagged, telling them all that it isn't possible, for their society is a strictly monogamous one in all aspects, and such interracial – interspecies, even – relations would definitely be frowned upon in their homeland.
It all felt very sudden and dreamy for these servicemen. One moment they're a strictly disaster relief organization and at times, peacekeepers in foreign lands – and now, world – and then moments later, by the grace of the MOD bureaucrats and the politicians which had for so long impeded their controversial band of brothers in every way possible, decided they're now an elite fighting force capable of being sent off on a heliborne mission deep behind enemy lines, days away from any friendly-held territories. Soon, they'd be sent off for that very mission.
Kurata took notice of the surrealness of their whole ordeal as he sat silently by his squadmates in the mud, the idle, mute Chinooks sitting forlornly ahead of them and the MEU's Viper Cobras a further away on their respective helipads menacing, for they'd be the hefty bringer of the air assault troops to their objective far-away, in the still mostly-unknown wilderness to the north. The wilderness where they'd inevitably be dropped into later on merely given the unassuming name of "Matterhorn". Another fifty kilometers north to the northwest of the LZ Matterhorn, are their eventual strategic objective, the sprawling magical academic city of Rondel. Passing the lethargic time, the air assault troops painted and decorated their faces in a scheme of black and woodland green, an intricate art of camouflage face paint to become one with the viridescent nature to the boreal beyond.
All around the slowly-crowded helipads, the Marines of the 31st MEU and the troopers of the Canadian 3PPCLI battle group wandered about, starting their day drowsily beneath the rising rays of the spring's morning light. The MEU's M777 artillery battery sat silent in their emplacements by the line of idle, unmoving Chinook helicopters and Viper Cobra attackers, their barrels pointed towards Italica as if to curse the already devastated city for its allegiance with the much derided Empire. The yank artillery gunners and the Canuck straight-legged grunts strolled about doing the repetitive, daily chores of living in such Spartan-like encampment, minding their own business amid the lounging lines of air assault troops laying apprehensively in the grass below buried beneath their unwieldy field packs. Passing by towards their destination unseen, some looked at the infantrymen curiously with intent, but most tried to ignore them and push the sight of them to the corner of their brains, not wanting to be caught up in their uncertain fate.
When the company's rowdy Sergeant Major strutted imposingly into the uneventful LZ with the rest of the now packed-up CP group and the similarly-dressed cliques – presumably a private clique of the company's most unabashed ultranationalists — of his fellow air assault troops, however, even the most stoic and impassive indifference of their gaijin counterparts, so far merely eyeing the idle group from afar in previously unbroken silence, was broken. With a brilliant red and white headband of the Japanese rising sun wrapped smartly around his pristine clean flecktarn-green Type 88 kevlar helmet, the Sergeant Major and his little group of wild-ass apostles appeared akin more to a desperate group of Imperial Japanese infantryman massing for a final banzai attack in the '45 Okinawa, rather than a present-day band of apprehensive Nippon air assault troopers readying themselves for a hail-mary heliborne op.
"Now where the fuck did these dudes come from?"
"A fucking IJA larp event." One of the Marine's fellow cannon-cockers leaning by the side of the M777's huge barrel snorted in a mix of chagrin and bewildered amusement, eyeing the rowdy ultranationalist clique from afar as they strutted their way into the LZ, the company's CP group trailing behind quizzically at their antics. "Don't you hear all these Emperor and God bigot motherfuckers got a revival after the Gates opening? Shit, they're gonna make some kinda fucking anime out of this thing."
"They couldn't get the fuckin' Emperor to participate so they brought him instead."
"Did you see what all these niggas be wearing? The fuckin' rising suns headband dawg. Straight outta Iwo Jima lookin' motherfuckers."
"Bunch of gung-ho bullshit, man."
Sasaki, having just returned from the landing planning and whatnot with his fellow platoon leaders and the company command group, strode anxiously through the LZ beneath the brilliant morning light that had been casted upon them, checking each of his squads and platoon mates chippily, inquiring if everything is alright and okay with a warm, chippy facade. All of them nodded dutifully when he asked, and yet, it did very little to reassure the green Lieutenant in the smoothness of their impending mission. Still mostly wary deep inside of the near-future, he waded silently past the Sergeant Major's little clique of rowdy resurgent ultranationalists within the company with muted chagrin, along the way passing Kurata and his weary squad dozing off numbly mere meters away from the helipads on their pack as they tried catching up on some much needed sleep, especially on the eve of such historic ordeal, after an all night patrol in the still-smoldering city. Walking, his destination was his platoon sergeant Natsuki, lounging and lolling blankly about with the Third Squad and their combat medic, a handsome, smooth-faced Osakan by the name Ikari, his eyes shielded mellowly away from the assailing orange of the sun above by the kevlar he had draped over his head. Looking down onto his digital watch, the dusty piece of venerable wristwatch displayed clearly the time of the day; 1125 hours, approaching steadily, minute by minute, second by second, to yet another clear afternoon of the spring, and eventually, to the dreaded air assault operation looming ahead like an unbanished demon.
"Alright, SFC Natsuki," He broke the seemingly dreamy silence of the group with a nonchalantly apprehensive remark as he approached, straining beneath the crushing weight of his unwieldy radio and field packs. SFC Natsuki looked up to his platoon leader striding close, and so did the silent medic, a friendly smile upon both of their faces. "I guess we're all set right now?"
"I'd reckon we all are, sir." The unusually young platoon sergeant flashed the Lieutenant a pleasant thumbs-up, his polite smile one of a man confident in the abilities of the men he had worked with for years in myriads of differing terrains. "Who's dropping into the zone first?"
The Lieutenant sighed, the wary smile he had donned unmoving as he spoke.
"Saburo's platoon and us." He bit his lower lips, hands gesturing meekly over to the Second Platoon, and their platoon leader and sergeant laying on the grasses below adjacent to them. They lounged about impassively, either dozing off or sitting upright in a profound pondering of fate beneath the lowly drooping, idle rotors of the unmoving Chinooks forlornly resting on the shoddy helipads. "Then Third and the mortars will drop in right after us, along with the company's CP group."
"Aye then, good to hear they got all that figured out." The platoon sergeant allowed a satisfied, yet meekly sigh to be heaved out of his pleasantly smiling lips. He looked up warmly to the Lieutenant from his half-dozing off position on the verdant ground below, the youthful eyes and demeanor gleaming with an amicable look of optimistic reassurance. "Don't worry about it too much sir. Our guys are trained well for this kind of ops, it'll be fine. We're all cocked and loaded for this, ready to go, sir. "
In spite of the deep misgivings and foreboding apprehension at the creeping prospect of the heliborne assault, he himself couldn't deny it; it felt strangely exciting too amid the jumbled mess of tangled emotions deep within. The Lieutenant's heart swelled with a mix of anxious caution and child-like elation at the gripping prospect of being sent off as part of the longest air assault operation in modern military history, all with the dreamy bonus of being in the unknown wilderness of an alien world that is now their official AO, all for the monumental goal of facilitating the forces needed to capture and seize a grandiose, fantastical city of mages and sorcerers hundreds of kilometers away from even the closest coalition units.
The operation was launched the same day, but not without its own complications. The initial schedule for the air assault to be kicked off by 1400 hours in the afternoon was pushed two hours back with the sudden news of several troopers in 5th Company's Third and mortar platoons backing away resolutely from the forthcoming mission out of personal grievances and misgivings. They spent two, very frustrating hours trying to convince the soldiers to not withdraw on the eve of the operation in vain, the men fiercely unyielding in their personal resolve. Desperate to not make a fuss out of the pacifistic band of troops before the watchful eyes of the battalion and even the brigade commander – coming down themselves, with their huddled group of acolyte battle staff and officers to witness, with their own eyes, the start of Jieitai first offensive combat mission in another world altogether, the company commander and the Sergeant Major finally relented with a heavy heart, the latter mouthing off obscenities as he walked away from trying to convince the resolutely unyielding men.
The 5th Company would be dropping into Matterhorn with reduced personnel and equipment counts, the weaponry and mortars the pacifistic troops had left behind picked up and tied onto the back of the already hefty packs of the remaining troopers much to their incredulous dismay. Instead of having three mortar rounds placed upon their rucksacks and gears, some of the more unfortunate ones would have to make amend with the unyielding struggle of having to pack with yet another two rounds on their spine. They cursed and sneered softly beneath their labored breath at the cowardly decision of what mere minutes ago they had considered friends and comrade in arms, tying their field packs and the assorted gears in it all over again when the long-awaited yell broke the dismayed lethargy – their signal to immediately board up the Chinooks and launch, was hollered abruptly up and down the lines by their platoon leaders, the helicopter crew chief and so forth hurriedly.
"Call away! Call away! Call away!" The dreaded, but inevitable words were hollered up and down the once forlorn LZ, and the unwieldy radio manpack mounted upon his back awkwardly was sent crackling abuzz with the abrupt transmission of the same signal being passed about all throughout the company net. From afar, Sasaki could feel the distant, elated gazes of the battalion and brigade commander watching the opening of the air assault mission into the wilderness far-away to the north, the helipad coming to life as innumerous men in green strode and strutted about hurriedly, trundling through the mud and grass beneath their gear and weapons for their respective, previously-assigned helicopter – their metallic ride to the north, and into the uncertain future ahead.
He caressed an amulet in his trouser's cargo pocket anxiously in silence amid the controlled chaos of the LZ coming alive, hoping, just hoping deep within, that the amulet of the god Hachiman – the Shinto holy deity of war, and the divine protector of Japan – given by his venerable grandfather would provide him the good luck and protection needed to make it out alive out of this heliborne attack. Rechecking every of his equipment pieces and making sure every nook and cranny of his Howa Type-89 is secured, he prayed in his heart just that, with the distressing anguish of a man consumed by fate.
"Stay safe, Sasaki." Was the only thing he said to himself, whispering softly beneath his breath, almost silent and indiscernible beneath the roaring whines of the helicopters coming to life. He let go of his prized amulet, burying it deep in his cargo pockets for the much-needed fortunate.
The surging, ghostly whine of the once idle Chinooks coming to life one-by-one, upon the work done hurriedly by their caffeinated crew broke the lethargic air of the helipad, paratroopers running and striding about back and forth as they packed their gears and rechecked their equipments one last time before the fateful flight up north, fear and a deep foreboding nagging beneath their aloof facade outside. Per the plan already set up by the company commander, Saburo rushed across the open field with Second Platoon's heli team, straining greatly beneath the immense field packs and radios mounted upon their backs beneath the fierce rotor wash of the roaring helicopters, a big 45. ACP M1911 he had unknowingly obtained strapped to his hip. He disappeared behind the metallic chassis of the chopper's open tailgate, his venerable platoon sergeant braving the kicked-up cloud of dust hazily, the man's goggles draped over his eyes as he slapped gingerly on the cumbersome backs of the troopers trundling their way into the ominous, opening jaw of the metallic beast's rear, counting them one by one with unyielding resolve.
He flashed a confident thumbs up back at his platoon leader, and the crew chief along with the pilots, all of them already settled deep within the awaiting embrace of the helicopter. The opening ramp of the idle Chinook closed slowly, its dull, metallic green consuming with it the men nestled deep within its cramped confines, and Sasaki watched morosely with his fellow platoon mate from afar, in solemnly profound silence, as Saburo's platoon all disappeared beneath a furious cloud of dust and grime the now hovering chopper had kicked up with its unrelenting rotor wash. The twin-rotored pegasus lifted off from its shoddy helipad with grace, the pristine afternoon air beating furiously with the roar of their powerful engines and choking with soot flailing about, flying away darkly to the north, and what lies beyond into the boreal, before the view of the battalion and brigade commander themselves.
Sasaki had a picture in mind of how it'd go down the moment they emerged from the battalion command post after the brief; high-speed, fast-paced, heroic and dramatic. Yet, right now, he still couldn't figure out how all those grandiose phrases would fit in this – all he saw was his men, his friends, and whatnot, waiting darkly and patiently for their turn to launch. No inspiring speech, no Spartan-like ceremony to precede their foray into the boreal beyond. Just ordinary people doing their jobs. His mind wasn't thinking of the monumental implications this very op would have on his nation, a pacifist one, and its history. It instead was on callsigns, radio frequencies, the crudely-sketched map of the landing zone and its mostly-unknown surroundings and so on.
Suddenly, sitting there by the helipad, dustied by the soil kicked by the fierce rotor-wash of the helicopters readying for their flight, rifle tightly within his cradle and spine crushed down by the weight of his radio buried beneath the mountainous pile of gears he brought, felt as natural as it could be to him.
Then, snapped out of his gloomy daze at once, he too, along with his entire platoon, was running and trundling hastily down the dusty field, and into the metallic embrace of the Chinooks patiently awaiting their entrance, goggled draped before their teary eyes and neck-gaiters donned. They shuffled in a loose line, thrown about and straining greatly beneath their already cumbersome packs and the rotor wash, the rear exhausts heaving out their gloomy contents upon the men hopping aboard, one-by-one. Kurata, Kyoya, Sokuke, the platoon leader and his platoon sergeant counted the squad leaders one-by-one as they ran aboard, their apprehensive men trailing close behind through the open ramps of the choppers. Satisfied that all of his men are already in, and confident that the head count is correct, he looked at SFC Natsuki, and they both turned to face the crew chief deep in the chopper's belly, a thumbs up flashed as they ran to find their seats, the Lieutenant struggling from the field pack and the personal radio manpack he himself carried. The crew chief nodded affirmingly at the hand signal, and both men found their seats just in time as he spoke over the heli's internal net to the pilot. With all the checks taken care of, and everything smoothly running, the metallic beast lurched forward abruptly out of the helipad, and into the air above just as Sasaki and his assistant nestled in their cramped nylon-webbed seats at the back, the safety harness worn over their chests in seconds.
Immediately, the beast lurched forward into the air again, turning to the north, sliding off into space just as the intercom ranged abruptly amid the deafening silence of the paratroopers contemplating with fate. Everyone in the platoon glanced slightly out of the Chinook's dusty window, one final view of the comfort and safety of Spartan-like Camp Pompeii before it all became nothing but mere golden memories in their tired minds.
"Welcome aboard, gentlemen. The crew of 'Ginza Reaper' welcomes you all aboard, good luck." The pilot spoke through the intercom, and faint smiles broke out from faces grim and darkened gravely with foreboding fear of what lies ahead in the unknown beyond, and stomach tensed up and swelled by apprehension. They are fully committed now, and hopes of it being a mere possibility died the moment they went sliding away into the clear air of untouched wilderness of Falmart. There is no turning back now for them.
Sasaki immediately donned a clunky headset attached to the helo's internal radio, promptly initiating a quick comms check with the pilots at the front, his feet and back light amid the dreamy flight through the once pristine air of an ancient world, the seemingly endless, verdant scenery below slipping past in mere seconds they glided through the skies high above. Looking pale and unfazed squeezed onto their webbed nylon seats as they trundled and glided gracefully high up, the platoon's paratroopers settled cozily between pallets of spare ammunitions and medical supplies – a much-needed solace after the nerve-wracking hours they had spent out in the sun, in the helipad, waiting for the heavy words that'd send them off on their foray to the north in these metallic beasts. Across directly from him, his enlisted assistant Natsuki merely flashed him an ashen smile, and sitting immediately by his side, Kurata, the First Squad's young leader, also smiled when both of their eyes meet amid the unyielding silence that hung in the cabin of the roaring helicopter, the two men looking composedly unfazed and chippy. The thirty or so members of the platoon sat facing each other in two rows of folded-down canvas seats.
The cramped cabin of the whining helicopter shook as it flew, smelling greatly of foul JP-8 aviation fuel and hydraulic fluid off the straining turboshaft turbine engines. All was quiet within the beast's metallic belly, the roaring whirrs of the chopping blades and the buzzing internal radio of the conversing pilots – fuel, power, altitude, and navigation – being the only despairing song to the silent men shoved in here. Already numbed and maddened by the monotonous monitoring of the tediously dulls chatter of the pilots through the cumbersome intercom headset he had donned, looking soulless beneath their blackened helmet visors, Sasaki leaned back and stared out of the dusty circular windows of the Chinook, his actions mirrored by Kurata and his platoon sergeant across him. Their eyes trailed about and went looking back and forth through the low clouds, and their unknowingly shaking hands held onto their web belt every time they lurched forward through turbulences, their dazed gaze out into the blue horizon of heavens unfazed amid the mind-numbing flight to Matterhorn, the verdant grassy scenery of Central Falmart's ethereal plains, rolling mountains and winding streams far below them disappearing away in mere seconds as they trundled forth further north. To their front and back, other Chinooks hauling the other elements of the 5th Company cruised mightily at the same altitude and speed, speeding past the frightened group of civilian caravans and travelers below with a beast-like grace through the once untouched skies of the continent side by side with the escorting Marine Viper Cobras, the clueless natives shook and startled greatly by the pegasus' unforeseen intrusion into the everyday routine of their afternoon. They watched in awe as they all fiercely burst forth, disappearing on the clear horizon beyond in a mere speck of greenish-gray in the sky.
The Chinook's crew chief stared impassively out of the gliding choppers, their windy bodies leaning and hunched over the hastily-set door gunner – the Pacifistic nature of the Jieitai hadn't allowed their Chinook transports to be equipped with door guns, until now. The silent man studied the scenery below keenly from beneath the blackened visor of his helo flight helmet, silent as he watched the idyllic terrain of an ancient world unperturbed of modern world's harmful nature unraveling fast beneath them, their grandiose passage through this part of the continent a stark contrast to its humble, verdant surroundings. Sunlight winked at the geared-up men huddled inside through the helicopter's many circular windows, enveloping some in its warm, mellow embrace amid their uncertain foray to the LZ far beyond. Amidst this, the platoon leader had his compass out, continually checking directions with the keen intensity of a man whose life, and others too, seemingly depended on it, so that when they hit the ground at the LZ later on, he'd be oriented immediately.
An impassive, steely transmission through the helicopter's hectic internal radio broke the silent serenity inside the cramped cabin, the pilot announcing yet another development amid their journey to Matterhorn.
"Feet wet." The indifferent-sounding voice called over the buzzing line, and everyone tapping and listening on-and-off into the helo's internal net was alerted to the news of them crossing the glistening waters of the churning Row.
Barely half an hour had passed since they began their uncertain foray to the north, when the flight of Chinooks and Vipers overflew the snaking graceful span of the wide, ancient Row Stream, the mesmerized men inside gazing dazedly out of the forlorn glass windows into the motherly embrace of the colorful world down beneath. The lush fields swayed softly with the chilly gale of the spring, and the westwards-flowing deep blues of the Row shimmered and gleamed brilliantly beneath the unperturbed shine of the sun high above, the churning waters glistening gingerly with their profound image at the airborne troops gliding past as if they were mere distant stars, far-away and nestled high in the night sky. Their abrupt flight left in their tersely wake confused civilians and citizens of the Empire, their gaze glancing skywards to the heaven above, their ashen gaze one of a person who had just seen the ghostly apparitions of the dead with their very own eyes, for they had never seen such imposing beasts intrude into the monotonous continuation of their daily life.
A blank-sounding "feet dry" message over the radio informed all of them of their terse, safe passage over the mighty Row, the flight continuing on dully. No longer were the men staring out of the window to get a glimpse of the pristine spectacle below – the shadowy waters untouched by man's industrial greed, and with too much noises to talk, each man were back to being left alone with their jittery thoughts and the profound foreboding within their guts.
The youthful yet weary-eyed Kurata shuffled in his seat in anxious anticipation, leaning back deeply onto the warm embrace of his nylon-webbed seat upon the "feet dry" call over the intercom net, a tense mental reflection in full swing within his apprehensive mind. Never would he have guessed that during his quick stint in the Ground Self-Defense Force, that he would be out here, along with his fellow compatriots and squadmates, taking part in a long-ranged air assault – a minor precursor to even a bigger, brigade-sized air assault – deep into the enemy's very backyard, as if the idea of assaulting a magical academy city and being sent off on a foray to the far-north into the mostly unknown wilderness of another, completely foreign fantasy world, wasn't completely batshit-sounding enough for him had he been told the exact same scenario by a fortune-reader a mere year prior. He found himself jokingly contemplating his willing decision to try his luck in the Jietai in the first place. Not even the genuine, smiling reply he had given upon eye contact with the similarly anxious new platoon leader of his had put his haywired nerves to rest.
Then, the cramped cabin tilted and the whine of the blades beating against the air outside changed in an instant. The pilot curtly passed the ten-minute warning over the radio with almost detached indifference — five minutes to touchdown in Landing Zone Matterhorn, five more minutes to reflect numbly upon what lies ahead before the dreaded reality finally brought them out of their pondering stupor, and everyone within the slowly descending helicopter stiffened impulsively, their backs shifting and shuffling in their seats. Beneath them, the same seemingly never-ending, illusionary sea of deep emerald slipping past below, each lurch into the unknown ahead bringing them closer to the grandiosely-named Matterhorn. Kurata, with other fellow squad leaders of the platoon, turned their radio headsets to high-power and began rechecking all their gears instinctively just like they had been drilled countless times prior. No mistakes would be tolerated. He caught a glimpse of Kyoya, the Second Squad's leader, polishing and adjusting his spectacles in grim silence — silence that was shared by the platoon sergeant sitting adjacent by his side, and he watched to his direct front as Lieutenant Sasaki too turned his unwieldy radio manpack, mounted awkwardly upon his slim back, to high power for the looming touchdown mere minutes away. Everyone cocked their rifles and machine guns respectively in silence, left to wander with their own thoughts. They savored the comforting illusion of the cabin's safety.
The rolling grassy domain below, once a mere distant view and companion to the men gliding unchallenged high in the cloudy heavens above inside their airborne beasts, rushed suddenly up to them all, emerging from its illusory smoothness to its verdant reality. The whining pitch of the engine, deafening and unyielding, changed as the pilots of the dozen Chinooks hovering up in the air, began their descent approaching the landing zone below. With bated breath, the men sat grimly silent in their nylon seats as the helicopters trundled mere feet away from the once delusive ground below, each splitting off to their assigned drop points. One by one, the helos touched down into the motherly embrace of the world below with an audible thump from their straining landing gears, and the tailgate ramp, mere minutes ago a delusional facade masking the world outside, slowly dropped down to the foreboding whine of the hydraulics. The world outside assailed their eyes with dusts kicked-up by their sudden intrusion into this humble part of a foreign world, the men trapped in a localized twilight of haze and gloom.
Sasaki, the platoon leader, dropped down his protective goggles over his eyes, and immediately went to unbuckling his belt, and a curt thumbs-up politely greeted the aircrew as his thanks for the ride into the LZ. His hurried action was promptly mirrored by his troopers, and mere seconds later, he found himself in a frantic full run out of the helicopter's gloomy tailgate, and into the clear-skied world outside, panting and straining beneath the radio manpack and the field packs and gears he had carried, his men faithfully trailing behind a feet or two behind the trundling Lieutenant. They mashed the guiltless grass below beneath their blackened, fresh boots in a hurried bolt, and the Lieutenant, with the much-appreciated help of his platoon sergeant, quickly began placing everyone in his assigned sector of fire and perimeters upon their hectic departure out of the pegasus. In spite of the perpetual twilight of dust and grime masking away the once untouched scenery of the early evening wilderness, he knew full well that other platoons of the company are mirroring the same process and maneuvers as he was doing right now, Saburo and his heeding men flashing past out of their own helos at similar haste by First Platoon's position. The Third and mortar platoon, landing three or so minute away from the initial touchdown group along with the company's command group, bolted clumsily down the opening ramps of their battle ride, the excruciating burden of carrying the tubestrokers' many wooden crates and pallets full of 81mm round fallen upon their straining shoulders.
Immediately, all of the platoons and their leaders initiated a quick radio check with all of their subordinates, eyes staring out into the unknown greenery beyond and gazing deep down the sights of their rifles.
In the few, fraught minutes that followed in the wake of their abrupt intrusion into the tranquil wilderness of Matterhorn, nothing peculiar seemed to have happened, and promptly, dazed smiles began to break out of faces tensed-up over rifles and machine guns oriented intently out into the grass beyond. In spite of its seemingly grandiose assigned name, the landing zone hectic with movement of airborne troops moving about back and forth with their field equipments appeared barren and lonely to the men nestled tensely in the viridescent vegetations, a forlorn picturesque landscape of ancient grasses and rustling woods disturbed so suddenly and torn asunder, by the arrival of these strange foreign fighters and their metallic beasts. Kurata, squatting by his squad's seemingly puzzled Minimi gunner along with his assistant, Yaguchi, broke out of his adrenaline-fueled stupor with a grin amid his unyielding gaze into the unknown wilderness, and the woodline a kilometer or two away to the east. The spring's innumerous flowers bloomed buoyantly into the static foreign invaders and their idle pegasuses, a pleasant scent assailing their noise gingerly as a benign welcome into their fantastical turf amid the hectic dust storm brought to life by the helos' rotor washes.
"Shit, Takeo, we're really in the Indian Country now it seems?" Yaguchi turned to his squad leader with a grin, his Howa 89s slowly lowered, and his once tensed-up shoulder loosened up on cue with Ikazaki's puzzled snort. His voice sounded cheery and youthful, and Kurata promptly shot him an amused smile.
"Hell yeah." The young squad leader, still coming down quizzically from the adrenaline-fueled foray to the Matterhorn, and the hectic departure out of their helo, replied simply with a flashy, toothy grin. He was almost yelling as he spoke with delight, the rotor wash and whine of the idling helicopter impeding his elated-sounding, chippy speech. "You think I'm gonna get myself a beast girl out here in the bumfuck nowhere wilderness of Falmart?"
"I don't know, man, it looks pretty barren out here."
"That sucks. Really unfortunate." Kurata's voice slowly trailed off into a meek mumble when he caught the glimpse of Lieutenant Sasaki, their new platoon leader, wandering about with his platoon's squads as he began setting them into their temporarily assigned defensive positions just outside the now idle helicopter's tailgate. The glance brought him back to mere days prior on a sudden trip, replaying and reflecting on the wild shenanigans of the recently relieved platoon leader of theirs, Itami. "At least Itami got himself a bunny out of all things before he was shitcanned to some desk job for fraternizing with them girls. Look where we found ourselves at."
A hellish whistle rose rudely out of the eastern treelines like an ominous here-it-comes chord in a horror film, an unholy song in the silence that followed in the wake of their hectic landing. Out of the ancient, wooded conifer and pines to their front, the trio watched with a puzzled, almost catatonically awed demeanor, as a flash rose indiscernibly into the air above, its feeble greenish hue, and dull ghostly trails of smoke cracking the illusionary tranquility in the clear early evening skies. It clicked into their mind immediately, without missing a beat, that it was a green star cluster flare – flashing high in the heavens beyond, its parachutes deploying. Replaying deep in their memories of its meaning in the pyro signal brief earlier, they promptly figured out that a friendly unit was approaching their hastily set-up perimeter. Another one rose into the sky in the first one's wake, a similarly demonic whine following close behind. By now, already broken out of their lethargic state, it was clear to them all that this is gonna be the American special operation forces elements they were supposed to be linking up with, alongside the rescued Earthen citizens, and fellow compatriots, they had brought dutifully with them.
Saburo's Second Platoon went flashing past their platoon, in a full-on run, towards the wooded treelines frantically upon sighting the several dozen figures – friendly, perhaps – emerging gloomily out of the shadowy cover of the conifers. They walked out of the foliages cautiously and wearily, their mere bodily outlines indiscernibly feeble against the verdant backdrop of innumerous trees a kilometer away. Lieutenant Sasaki, with his platoon sergeant going the opposite way to others, strode hurriedly up to Kurata's squad position, straining beneath the weight of his field assault pack and the radio manpack as he closed in with his men, his face panting ceaselessly and sweating deeply despite the frigid winds of Falmart's boreal. He dropped to his knee and joined his subordinates already nestled within the leafy blades of the fields, bearing witness in elated awe as their fellow compatriots of the Second Platoon dropped into a synchronized crouch facing the treelines in a loose linear line, rifles and machine guns pointed down in a song of metallic rattles and clunks, the barrels away from the approaching special operators and the band of enslaved citizens they had rescued – seemingly the politest way of greeting an approaching ally in yet another warring part of this foreign world they're on.
The still green, buoyant platoon leader found himself cackling softly at the sight, and Kurata along with his mates found themselves glancing at the officer in bewildered puzzlement.
"I can't believe we are really gonna be working with the Deltas out of any other group fucking Americans we could have been stuck with." He cackled, glancing back at the bewildered subordinates of his with a grin – bright and seemingly gleaming beneath his camouflaged complexion. "What do you take out from all this, Sergeant?"
"Fantasy world? Working with tier-one Spec-Ops? The possibility of getting all kinds of beast girls? I'd say we hit the jackpot thrice, sir!" Kurata exclaimed cheekily with elation, and a slight slap on his back by the still-puzzled Yaguchi sent him grinning brightly as he turned to face his subordinates, the Lieutenant now back minding his own business of leading a platoon of airborne troops further away – talking ceaselessly on the radio, directing people back and forth and so 0n. "So much for a disaster relief organization, eh?"
Ikazaki, the ever-snarky Zainichi Minimi gunner, interjected first before Yaguchi could even form up a coherent sentence, his groan one of ill-concealed mix of irritation and sarcasm.
"Out of all things you could've talked about, Sergeant, you decided to converse with the L-T about beast and monster girls. Absolutely flattering, sirs." Promptly, the crawling gunner received himself a light slap on the back of his helmet much to his delight. Fixing the now dislocated helmet properly into its place again, he was just about to retort with yet another snidely sardonic string of words, when a deafening, anguished cry of a person or two to their frantically calling for a medic, silenced their elated banters.
The once lax grip they had on their rifles and machine guns instinctively tightened with the cry, rhyming with the anguished chorus. The feeble voice blaring to their front grew louder and deafening, and more men began to join into the fray, singing and hollering abruptly the call for medics as the heavy word was passed all the way up to them. Casualties, that meant casualties. Saburo's platoon own medic heeded the deathly call of duty first, bolting fast beneath the crushing weight of his medical pack, and mere moments later, First Platoon's medic Ikari too joined the fray along with platoon leader – his hand holding the handset of his radio manpack up to his ear, busily conversing to whomever is speaking on the other side, their comrades watching in disturbed confusion as the duo strode hurriedly amid the impulsive tightening of their cradle onto their weapons. Yaguchi, Kurata's assistant, looked at the frantic two, then glanced back at his squad leader in confusion. His face contorted promptly into one of disappointed agitation as Kurata impassively replied with a puzzled shrug. He too, like others, did not grasp the sheer gravity of the situation presently unraveling, despite the squad leader's constant eavesdropping of the company's net on his personal radio headset he had donned on his utility vest; most of it were just perplexed questions by his fellow compatriots pertaining to what had just happened.
Only when the American special operators emerge themselves out of the perpetually green, gloomy backdrop of the lushly ancient woodline, did they finally receive the anguishing answer as to the sudden hurriedness in their compatriot's movement. Weary, wraith-like figures filed out of the emerald-hued treeline slowly, their complexion darkened yet ghostly pale as they strode out of the green canopies of the conifers, and into the evening sunlight beyond. Donning shabby cloaks and togas, and cowl hoods worn over their heads like saintly monks of the ancient past, the gloomy men leading the jumbled herd of the stupefied, lethargic crowd of people unfazed and serene in their strut out into the open, and into the deathly sights of the airborne troops' many rifles and machine guns. They stumbled awkwardly out of the lush foliages with sluggish, lifeless steps and grunts, the airbornes merely watching them strain and labor in silenced discomfort and apprehension from behind the leafy blades of the LZ's teeming greenery. The Spec-Ops' shot-off green star cluster flare hung in the air above their heads, a brilliant neon-lit ball parachuting down into the embrace of the earth and nature below slowly, as if knowing it'd be heading for its eternal demise.
The special operators and the lethargic, dour-appearing people they had dauntlessly rescued and herded their way here, into the much-longed safety of the promised landing zone of a friendly air assault force, wearily and exasperatedly, their haggard and gauntly faces darkened and their shabby, torn clothes clinging to their skin, mud and grime smeared in a gloomy scheme as if to point out to indifferent strangers of the excruciating journey they had endured. The airborne troops gritted their teeth darkly at the anguishing sight laid before them, all of them knowing exactly deep within of the unspoken horrors they had gone through out here. Some of the lanky figures fell onto the embrace of the grasses below, appearing hauntingly akin to Holocaust survivors just freed by their allied liberators from the maddening world of the concentration camps. The aloofly unfazed Americans, and the rushing medics of the two platoons promptly brought the fallen men and women back to their feet, not a hesitation in their gentle response. Their wildly bruised bodies shook from tormenting fatigue, and others cried, some out of pain but also out of thankfulness, for the grisly things they had seen and endured were over at last.
Already far ahead from Kurata's squad and the rest of his platoon, left to set up a defensive position with the wonderful help of his ever-competent platoon sergeant, Sasaki went trailing hurriedly in the footsteps of the platoon's medic Ikari as they headed off to the anguished, agonizingly fatigued group emerging ahead. He watched amid his frantic jog into the scene ahead as Lieutenant Saburo, the attached Marine FAC, and the company's CO Captain Kotarou, greeted one of the many dozen cloaked men, rifles slung over their shoulders and grimy coyote-brown chest rigs hung over their Romanesque outfit with a nonchalant handshake, an uplifting smile from the Second Platoon leader given to what he could only assume as the leader of the gloomy-looking group of armed operators and liberated slaves. He promptly whistled to Ikari, who turned immediately to him, and motioned him towards the rescued men and women filing tiredly out of the woods. Nodding, the Osakan promptly set off to assist his fellow medics in both the other platoon, and those of the Americans themselves. Sasaki went off straight for the conversing trio ahead, straining through the sea of deep-emerald beneath his unceasingly singing radio manpack.
Frantically, he waded his way past the crowd of fatigued, lanky figures of the rescued citizen towards the clustered group of officers up ahead. The airborne soldiers struggled to treat the bruised-up men and women, their faces joyous, and their weak, bony arms stretched out in a thankful embrace on their liberators, the breathless joy of being freed seemingly overwhelming the anguishing fatigue and horrors they had endured for months. Sasaki traded a few, polite smiles with them, some of them Americans and some of his own countrymen, their dirty haggardly faces shining with delight and elation. He slipped past them, and proceeded on towards the huddled up band of officers and cloaked operators beyond. Captain Kotarou, the Marine FAC and Saburo stood with the gloomy, cloaked American whom he could only presume as a Delta operator – he doesn't know for sure since they're so quiet and introverted, chattering nonchalantly and standing lightly about as if they were at a mere cocktail party. Jogging up to the trio beneath his heavy packs, and with a rifle slung freely across his chest, he felt rude intruding so abruptly into their light-hearted conversation – perhaps a much-needed break, from the unspoken things they had witnessed along the way, and cannot say.
The footsteps alerted both his fellow officers of his intrusion, and the company commander promptly turned to greet Sasaki. Saburo and the Marine forward air controller merely shrugged at the sight, and both of them went back immediately for a casual chat with the ominous American. Sasaki shot a glance at the Captain, and he chippily motioned him towards the cloaked operator with a welcoming, placid smile.
"Lieutenant Sasaki, meet Master Sergeant Masterpool of 'The Unit'." Captain Kotarou then glanced back at the conversing spook, and his chippy, pleasant tone turned into one of halting English as he adjusted his now dusty spectacles. His eyebrows furrowed feebly upon the quizzical, emphasized mention of "The Unit", puzzled visibly at the cloaked yankee's casual secrecy. "And Master Sergeant Masterpool, this is my First Platoon commander; Lieutenant Sasaki."
His ears perked up upon the mention of the English sentence, and promptly, he adjusted his tongue for the conversation properly. Like his company commander, his English was smooth and almost spotless, yet haltingly accented as he greeted the two politely with a slight bow.
"Pleased to meet you two, sirs." Sasaki uneasily remarked with a faint grin beneath his camouflaged complexion, his hands waving warmly to both the conversing Marine FAC and his fellow, much more gloomy, Spec-Ops compatriot – the former replying quickly with a wave of his own, and a pleasant, wan smile at that too. The cloaked latter merely flashed his eyebrows before nodding affirmingly, his serene demeanor indifferent to the polite gesture as he turned towards the unassuming Japanese platoon leader.
He reached out a hand firmly, and Sasaki promptly took it with grace. The spook operator was unusually slim and average height, and his grimy, clean-shaven face appeared youthful and chippy. He did not fit the stereotypical posterboy look of stoutly-muscled, bearded American special operations operator dwelling deep in the wilderness behind the enemy lines. To him, he looked more like a preppy college debater, and he certainly would have no problem fitting in with the loose lines of rescued Americans, some trembling softly with early stages of hypothermia – no doubt the work of their thin, shabby clothings, filing past the conversing group gauntly towards the waiting embrace of the idle helicopters behind them.
"Nice to meet you too, Lieutenant." The man, known simply to the green Lieutenant as Masterpool, promptly spoke without preamble.
Without being even given a permission to reply back, the Marine FAC too reached out his gloved hand with an eager smile, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in spite of him not being a part of the conversation prior. Saburo and Masterpool simply shot the Marine a puzzled glance, eyebrows arched in a faint show of confusion.
"First Lieutenant Ricci." The Marine forward air controller keenly and brightly said, a buoyant smile stretching across his well-tanned face. Sasaki simply took his hand, and shook it awkwardly, a smile also contorting upon his demeanor. "I think I know you from somewhere. Before this op I think, Lieutenant Sasaki."
"Do I know you before, First Lieutenant?" The platoon leader merely furrowed his brows, and the FAC promptly flustered at the sluggish awkwardness of the scene clumsily. Not wanting for the conversation to deteriorate any further into a casual chit-chat in the still unknown wilderness of the LZ, Masterpool interjected politely with a remark of his own.
"Good to see you guys working smoothly." The now half-cloaked operator promptly interjected, a tinge of sarcasm floating beneath his placid tone. Without much words spoken, he glanced at the company commander leading this band of Japanese air assault troopers, and his dimly-illuminated complexion in the face of the early evening's slowly sinking sun on the far-away western horizon, gave him an inherent aura of ominous authority. "Now, I assume you fellas already have a short-term plan for the AO around the landing zone stemming from this great working relationship, no? I heard on the net they're attaching my team and another one to you guys indefinitely for some interdiction mission, so I'm just makin' sure, sir."
Captain Kotarou sighed softly, and his eyes met with the cloaked operator's ones as he replied.
"I assure you, mister, we do have them."
Carried away by the light-hearted mood of the conversing group, they had been mostly unaware of the twenty-odd rescued Earthens filing their way gauntly, and silently, into the cool, welcoming embrace of the helicopters' cramped confines, the visored crew chiefs beckoning gingerly to their fellow compatriots into the relative safety of the cabin – and with it, a guaranteed flight south, and finally, home, something they had thought and yearned for so long out here as lowly, undignified slaves. Beneath the haggard, dirtied facade the bearded men and bony women had worn out in the wilderness, they were all undoubtedly grateful for these very men, for instilling back deep within them the once, long-gone hope, that they'd ever be given the chance to step foot in their homes again. Caught up in the profound discussion of their intricate plan for the near-future, the mellow sight of the liberated citizens blowing kisses and hugging, tightly so, their subordinates in a thankful daze, had completely slipped past the vision of the conversing officers.
Only when they were all loaded up into the idling Chinooks, rear ramps closed audibly and their mighty twin-rotors brought to life once again for yet another long flight to the south – home, would they finally take notice of the world unraveling hecticly outside of their little chit-chat group. Glowing dimly in the dying light of the evening by the grace of static electricity, the helos kicked up with their departure a localized storm of soil and dust from their ferocious rotor-wash, and the Japanese paratroopers set up within their perimeters around the one dozen group of helicopters, found themselves fumbling frantically for their goggles, a feeble attempt at shielding their exposed eyes from the assailing bits of the earth below. The metallic beast lurched forth into the air ahead with a whine, and eventually, to the darkly-orange skies of the world overhead, their clunky exhausts spitting out the acrid stench of aviation jet fuel as they hovered above in the cloudy realm, the pilots within skillfully orienting the nose of the pegasuses to the south and beyond amid the darkening glow of the sun.
The climb up to the heavens overhead left in the helicopter's wake a haze of dust and soot blasting the unfortunate troopers beneath, and the officers, whose attention were grabbed firmly by the commotion kicked up in the departure of these beasts, watched darkly in morose quietness as the Chinook's left them for south in a growing silence of the wilderness, and in the dying light of the sun. It suddenly dawned on them that for the next day or two, they'd be completely all alone up here in the boreal, on their own, far-away from any friendly unit of any assistance. The Viper attack helicopters, their escort throughout their foray north prior, followed in their wake to the south in a trundling symphony of beating amid their cruise into the darkening horizon beyond, their reconnaissance flight to their north and east futile and unfruitful in their findings – they found nothing amiss out in the exotic wilderness, as the keen-eyed pilots of Falmart's new apex predator announced, almost disappointedly, on the crackling radio net of the airborne company below.