"... The attack on the Coalition base containing members of the United States Marine Corps was confirmed to be an act of aggression by an unknown entity, not associated with the former Saddam government. It is unknown who these soldiers were, or who the new enemy faction is, however it would seem the Coalition is set to face a new Conflict within the coming weeks. This has been James Andrews reporting for BBC One, on-site-" The TV Cut off, turned off by the Lieutenant of HITMAN.
Nathan Fick looked to the gathered NCO Cadre, beside him being several of his fellow officers. The First Lieutenant was given permission to run this briefing, so he was going to do it by the books. He began firmly, "One week ago, our base near by Abbas Al 'Abid was hit by an unknown foe. Approximately a hundred soldiers hit the FOB where about sixty of First Division's men were stationed. No casualties were sustained on our side save for a very pissed-off officer's meal tent being hit by a rifle grenade."
He tapped his foot, lifting up a clipboard with information as a few of the men let out a laugh, then continued, "Four days ago, Command called up the DOD from within Baghdad itself and got word that an Egghead team was set to arrive from DARPA to look at the enemy and their equipment, not to mention how they came about. With the help of a Predator drone, they found a strange artifact nearby the Tigris riverbed a few dozen klicks from the base... And the enemy wearing Knight armor and carrying firearms you'd see back in World War 2."
Fick noticed several of the men ahead of him tense up, including one of his best men, Sergeant Brad 'Iceman' Colbert. The Marine Sergeant, clad in their slowly-phasing-in Desert camouflage equipment, took notes and peered from the notebook every so often. Fick continued, "General Mattis already asked the eggheads to rush their research along after our boys got hit. We have images of the artifact..." He pointed toward a whiteboard where a Projector started displaying the images, one of which depicted the item in question. A strange circle, glowing bright white in the middle and bearing azure spiral patterns and motifs.
Whistles escaped the mouths of the Marines, several mocking the device or item as something kitsch that the Saddamites would do, while others remained focused on the task at hand. Fick continued, "And of our enemy..." and switched the image over to that of a corpse. A dead male, maybe aged twenty, laying sprawled across a tarp with all of his equipment, metallic armor resembling that of an ancient knight's included, sat to his right in neat rows from the armor itself at the top to the gun and ammo at the center and various other equipment at the bottom. Fick stated, "This is believed to be an enemy assault unit. SMG-armed, more lightly armored. M249s lit them up a good bunch."
"However, that brings us to what Coalition Command just rang for," Fick added, then stepped up in front of his men with a serious look, "They'll want the Coalition to move in. The fact that we're all still here after Saddam's little regime crumpled like wet paper should tell you all that you need to know, but in case you can't figure it out yourselves, our contracts have been voluntarily extended. Command is already preparing for operations beyond this gate thing. It's big enough to fit a goddamn Abrams, so we'll have our Victors as we roll in. We've not received a timeline for when we'll be deploying, but command wants us all to be ready. That'll be all..." And he gave a nod, "Dismissed."
As the Marines stood to their feet, Brad walked up to Nathan and stopped him before he went to join the Seniors at the big kids' table, telling him, "I gotta tell my team we're rolling back into the shit, sir?"
"Afraid that's what command wants us to think, Brad," Fick replied with a deep sigh of annoyance.
Brad hummed, "A couple of'em won't like it, but..." he thought for a moment of Ray and of Rolling Stones, before adding, "I guess we can deal with it. These fucks have any identifying documents to tell us who we're dealing with?" before Fick shrugged. Right, Eggheads and the CIA were probably keeping this as hush-hush as possible. The sheer dumb luck of the attack being caught on camera was because of a Reaper drone surveying the area just as some of Rolling Stones's friends had entered the command center back in Italy or some bumfuck Euro country like that.
"Yeah... I'll see you whenever command wants us mounted up again. Going by early Recon reports, the drones sent in are showing green lands and forestry beyond the thing, so..." and he offered his old comrade a 2003-2004 Veteran's smirk. It took a moment for it to register for the Marine, who shifted and scratched his chin as the other officers seemed to look expectantly at Fick.
Brad smirked when he realized, though, "So our Green Cammies, Mopp suits and Pasgits are finally gonna make sense, eh?"
"Yeah. Unless some fuckup happens with acquiring kit, we're rolling with our old stuff from the Invasion. MOPPs, camouflage, PASGT Vests. Keep your gear together. Marines make do, but it never hurts to actually be prepared..." Fick nodded, then turned to his fellow officers and said, "Dismissed, Brad. Get moving back to your vic and let the others know."
"Sir," Brad replied, shifting his M4A1 with an M203 and NV scope onto his front via the strap. He walked out into the wider area of the Airfield base, noting that several of the Marines, Rudy included, were playing soccer. Rolling Stones himself, a fancy reporter by the name Evan Wright, sat at the side of the Humvee, wearing your usual Press vest and helmet and jotting down notes. He raised a hand, "Sergeant Colbert," and offered his usual friendly smile.
"Stones," Brad replied with a nod, "Take it they re-embedded your ass with us?"
He shrugged, "I came back as soon as I heard the news."
"Well, we all missed your venereal lies about the military," The Sergeant quipped, grinning, which got 'Stones to laugh a bit. Fast asleep in the back of the Humvee was Trombley, unsurprisingly. Their old Whopper Junior had fallen asleep with his M249 in his arms and thankfully on safe. Kid might've been a cold, dead-eyed killer, but he sure as shit was smart about his guns.
"Man, can you believe this shit...?" They all turned as they heard a familiar voice complaining. They all turned to see the life of the party aboard the vehicle with a half-grin despite his seemingly sour, annoyed speech, "These motherfuckers up and extended our contracts, yo! I didn't know they can legally do that! And I was looking forward to heading home for some well-deserved rest!"
"Ray," Brad nodded, smiling at his old friend, "If some hicks in Knight armor hadn't shot up our base, we'd all be on our way home, but, sadly, seems like the Weird of Iraq is kicking in."
Josh Ray Person rolled his eyes and shook his head, "Fuckin' A... Wait, Knights?" His brow shot up. Brad nodded, to which the man asked, "You gotta be shitting me. Are we the Dragon from the commercial now?"
Stones laughed and replied, "Seems like it. Guess I got one more book to write."
"Well, ain't that some bullshit," Sighed Ray, though he was not really good at containing his excitement, "Least they die easy enough, right?"
"As the Fob near Abbas Al 'Abid can confirm," Brad replied as he set his rifle down on his Humvee seat. He looked to Garza just as he appeared with a new forest helmet, before telling them, "Good news is, our old gear with the green cammies is finally gonna get some proper use. Turns out whatever's beyond the shit that brought that company of enemy troops over to our FOB is greenery. Forest, plains..."
"Oh, fuck yeah. Finally," Ray smirked happily, "Won't have to stare at sand for twelve fuckin' hours a day. Maybe we'll finally get some good pussy, too. Hajis ain't doing it for me."
Garza snorted and patted Ray on the back, "Like your ugly ass gonna score anything better..." before he climbed into the Humvee and started checking the Mark-19. He hummed and asked, "Hey, Sarge... Any chance we can get some oil, or does command not think we need the stuff if we're gonna go over into the Green?" to which Brad shrugged. Garza swore quietly in some Latino language, then said, "Usual 'Marines make do' bullshit?"
"Afraid so," Brad gave a nod.
"Great..." Garza spoke mockingly, rolling his eyes as he continued his checkup. Brad looked back at Ray and saw him giddy. He knew that his trailer-park sister-fucking buddy was a bit out there after the Invasion ended and he was coming down from the Adrenaline High. Brad gave him a bump on the chest with his fist and looked around as the rest of 1st Recon was reforming, their NCOs and COs finally moving up to give the same briefing Brad had attended.
Fick approached Brad and said, "Seems the Coalition got a couple more members to deal with now. You folks remember Russia? 1993?"
"The Constitutional Crisis..." Brad nodded, "When Yeltsin was talked down by his ministers from doing something dumb."
"Mm," Fick nodded, "Turns out we did have a hand with preserving Russia's democracy in that case. The Federation just finished up in Grozny, with the city still standing surprisingly. They wanna send a representative Battalion to work with us while the UN's already discussing the new findings behind closed doors, so..." which caused the entire Corps to pause.
Ray balked, eyes shooting wide open, "Wait a fuckin' minute, they wanna send Ruskies to us? The fuck... Err... Sir?"
Fick shrugged and sighed, "Their new president, Pomorenka, is trying to warm relations with us, so... Don't tell their moms they're in Afghan, I guess..." Which got a few snorts out of the people who've heard Russia's proclivities for sad songs about war. Fick added, "I know our Eastern Coalition buddies aren't going to be happy about it, considering the history they share with the dead Soviet Union. Ukrainians are already filing a petition against the deployment of Russian forces to the area, so are the Poles and Romanians."
"Like someone's gonna listen to a couple Eastern Commie Fodder countries from the ass-end of Europe..." Murmured Trombley as he stirred awake. A few more laughs escaped the mouths of his comrades, even Fick's. The Lieutenant shook his head with the laugh then looked to Rolling Stones, who was grinning ear-to-ear, presumably eager to write about the Russians.
"Until further notice, the Poles and Romanians are NATO, with Ukraine seemingly in the ballpark to join within the next five years, too, so they do have some say as new members," The Lieutenant shot back at Whopper Junior, who nodded and gave Fick a lazy salute. He told them, "Try to play nice. I hear they're sending their own Recon Battalion over with some of their new tech."
Brad looked to his vehicle mates and hummed, then replied, "We'll do our best, sir. If they tag along."
Fick gave one of his professional nods and dismissed them with it, before stepping off toward the RV point with the rest of the officers. Ray rolled his eyes and said, "Well, this job just got a hell of a lot more fun. Ain't the Ruskies the bastards who sold Saddam the T72s and T64s that shot at us during our little Road Trip? Sure, their tanks were shit, but-"
"Ray..." Brad sighed, "Shut up."
Nascar boy sighed, crossing his arms to his chest and checking their Humvee, murmuring something about 'needing woodland cammie nets now' as he did so.
Three weeks later...
An Il-76 bearing the colors of the RuAF began its descent toward the airfield as the radios played news of the UN reaching a consensus. It was the fastest the damn Security Council had moved to approve anything since Operation Desert Storm, including the deployment of the Russians' own Recon Battalion here. Approximately a thousand soldiers and their equipment had been shipped over by sixteen separate flights of Il-76s and other allied transport aircraft, with the BTRs of the Russian Armed Forces neatly lined up on the tarmac.
Kalashnikov AK-74Ms and AK-74s, with both plastic and wood furniture, Chechen War uniforms with woodland camouflage, steel helmets and the usual faces of the young Slavic man, impassive, listened to the briefing of their commanding officer, a Colonel belonging to the Russian Armed Forces' 105th 'Guards' Air Assault Division, spoke to his men(and some women) with a voice of steel and the usual Slavic bluster of 'pride in the nation' and 'serving the New Russian Federation after Yeltsin'.
The sole difference between the dumbfucks who went into the First Chechen War without proper gear and with the usual tomfuckery of corruption and these men was that these men were all volunteers that had presumably received some degree of proper training. Russia had been transitioning to a Volunteer-only corps as they rebuilt their economy through the '90s. Sure, there was corruption, but that was pretty standard for Eastern Europe. At least, the First Recon Marines could presumably count on these VDV bastards to do their jobs with some professionalism.
"Can you believe this?" Ray asked, motioning to a trio of Mi-24 Hinds being unloaded from the maw of the latest landed transport. Brad stared with a hint of fear at the 'Crocodiles' as their engineers reassembled them, noting to himself that they'd found some in storage here in Iraq. Russian Logi was bringing out more ammunition crates and supplies, as well, including Ataka ATGMs and the usual missile pods one would see on the Hinds.
Garza said, "Rumor is they've been training for 'off-world Operations' like we have."
"It's a lot of firepower," Ray added, "Gonna be weird working with'em, though I guess the Poles are not so different, considering the kit they're carrying is basically identical..."
"Don't let them hear you say that," Laughed Trombley, "Nearly got punched by one for saying how their buddies are coming over." and that did get everyone, Rolling Stones included, to laugh. The pride with which this newly-minted Guards unit stood at attention told them that, perhaps, they could in fact rely on their age-old enemy to at least cover their sectors properly.
After the briefing was done, the officer dismissed his men with a salute and walked to meet General Mattis on the tarmac. The two men shook hands, though not even Mattis was particularly happy about their presence, before they went to meet the other officers of the Coalition. Plans had been prepared in advance, of course, with the Russian colonel presumably here to iron out the kinks of their unit's place.
A pair of Russian NCOs began approaching them. Garza murmured, "Oh, boy, Vodka, twelve o'clock..." and a few of the men let out more discreet laughs. The two, a man and a woman, walked up to Brad and his team and gave them salutes. Brad saluted back and waved it off, as if telling them there's no need to salute each-other. The woman herself seemed to be examining the Marines.
"Welcome to Iraq, I guess," Brad told them, "I'm Master Sergeant Colbert, with HITMAN 2-1."
"Junior Sergeant Kozlova, 105th Guards medical unit," The woman in front of him replied with a smirk and a nod. She then motioned to her partner and stated, "This is my comrade, Junior Sergeant Pomorenko, Recon... And yes, believe it or not, his wife sent him out here with us..." stunning the Marines. Pomorenko grinned, hands rested on the butt of his rifle, which mounted an underbarrel grenade launcher.
"She said I needed the experience of American NCOs in order to help rebuild our own Army," The man replied with a heavy, clearly Muscovite accent.
Brad nodded, still a bit surprised, "A pleasure..."
"Guess you guys are serious," Garza stated from aboard the Humvee.
Pomorenko nodded, "After the First Chechen War? Yes, we became serious..." and he watched as their vehicles rolled off to the assembly line, "Guess we're preparing to go within the next week, eh?" to which Brad nodded. The two NCOs of the Russian Airborne saluted, then smiled at their American counterparts and departed for their units. Another week of training, this time on cooperating with the Ruskies...
... Well, Brad had to admit he had been pleasantly surprised by the exercises. Turned out that the Reds knew a bit more than they let on. Sure, there were still plenty of kinks to iron out, but that just meant they'd have some time to deal with it instead of... Just... Well, leaving them hanging, even out in combat. The week itself had passed terrifyingly fast, with HITMAN and the Russian contingent, callsign SOKOL, already set up in front of the Gate.
Ray hummed a tune as he prepared himself mentally to have to drive through the thickets, all while crew inside a command tent were still checking over Drone footage being beamed back through the Gate. Some nerd had suggested calling the damn thing a 'Stargate' on live goddamn Television. He had to admit, it had a funny ring to it, but that was an Air Force show.
Garza stood up top, on the gun, murmuring something to himself as he saw a slew of other Marine vehicles, including a pair of LAVs, around them. BTRs were lined up to their immediate left in what was now a rather large procession courtyard with actual concrete built around the strange gate itself. Dozens of allied vehicles from all units, nearly a thousand men.
Biggest 'scouting force' ever deployed anywhere and, of course, 1st Recon would be at the front courtesy of one General Mattis and one general 'Stormin' Norman' Schwarzkopf. Speak of old Norm, the men watched him march between the procession of vehicles, each of them offering him a quick, respectful salute. Garza watched the man step up to the gate while wearing a grin, then murmured, "Gulf War 2, here we go."
"Isn't it three at this point?" Trombley shot back.
"Be quiet. General Schwarzkopf's about to speak..." Brad shot back, staring ahead.
Schwarzkopf climbed to the top of the podium ahead, tapped the mics to check if the sound was working and, upon receiving a light bit of feedback, cleared his throat and said, "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I'm going to keep this as brief as possible, considering we have matters pressing enough that the UN Security Council pulled its head out of its ass thanks to them."
Mirthful laughs, both Coalition and Russian, echoed through the air. Norman continued with a smile on his face for the cameras, "As it stands, it seems I, General Mattis and Colonel Smirnoff have been given overall command of this little clusterfuck of a foray onto what may as well be an alien world. Let me make this clear:The bastards who walked through this hole in the wall," he jabbed a thumb back toward the strange alien gate, "Shot at our boys and injured a couple. Even if they're Marines," which got him a snort from Mattis, "We'll be going in to punch them right back for it... And see what the hell their place is about."
"They're human like us and that's the good news, kids..." He smirked, "You'll get to shoot the shit out of'em. We expect to hear great news from First Recon and the 105th. Give'em hell and come back home alive. That's all. Godspeed..." And he gave a quick salute to them. The standard Marine cheer of 'Oorah!' came from the Marine side, while the Russians let out an 'Ura!' as they readied their weapons.
And, with that, the procession ended and the vehicles began to roll. The first in the lead was an LAV-25, its 25mm Bushmaster ready to let loose. It rolled forward with its front half disappearing through the gateway first, before the transport loaded with troops fully vanished inside. Brad hit Ray in the shoulder and said, "Get ready, Ray. We're Oscar Mike..." And he plucked up the radio, using it to transmit to Company net, "This is Hitman 2-1 to all Hitman elements, we are rolling."
He picked up his rifle and racked the bolt, letting the dust cover fall and arranging his dark-green PASGT camo uniform, vest and the MOPP suit parts, before poking his rifle out through the window to his right. Garza, Trombley and Rolling Stones braced themselves as Ray gently eased the throttle forward, the Humvee rolling behind one of the four tanks that they sent with them, Warhound-1-1.
Entering through the gateway was like going through a veil of sick. All five men on the Humvee felt their guts turn inside out for a moment, before being reassembled the proper way. When they reappeared through to the other side, in the midst of a forest with a single beaten dirt path leading toward them, Trombley had already poked his head out of the Humvee and barfed his guts out, while the Reporter had done so on the trip over.
"Fuuuuuck..." Ray groaned, rubbing his face.
They looked ahead, watching the squads of Marines aboard the LAVs quickly dismount, rifles in hand. Some were wobbly, too, but they seemed to be doing better than the average Marine in a Humvee, Ray thought as they rolled their vehicle off to the right to form a perimeter and clear a path. The M1A1 that was ahead of them, meanwhile, had taken forward position in the clearing, its turret scanning for targets.
Brad groaned, rubbing his eyes, then radioed, "Hitman-2-1 actual... We're through the gate, out..." and grabbed his canteen, pouring water down his own throat and swallowing it in big gulps as the replies came in. He shook his head and grunted, then said, "Alright, I want checks on all equipment and ammo... Keep your eyes open for hostiles. Garza, you good?" before watching the Latino dip down and give a nod, eyes wide and rather pale. Brad replied calmly, "Good... Back on the gun..."
"God, man..." Trombley groaned annoyedly, "Fucking Alien bullshit..."
"With Trombley on this one... Fuck..." Ray replied, wiping tears out of his eyes. He breathed in, then out, and looked around at the tree-line around them, rifle at the ready just in case. Brad gave him a pat on the shoulder as he jumped out of the vehicle to get a headcount and see just how many people they had to bring up to speed and give anti-nausea medicine. More Humvees and transports rolled in through the gate, including Russian vehicles and Fick's and the leadership's transports. Fick himself poked out of the Victor and barfed, before sighing and noticing his Master Sergeant
The two men gave approving nods to each-other, before the other vehicles went and parked themselves, forming a perimeter around the gate itself. Tanks, armor, BTRs, Humvees and infantry had set up. Brad stood in the middle of it all, listening through the roaring of many engines and hearing the thunder of gunfire. As Fick joined him in the middle, the two men noticed plumes of smoke from up ahead and a Predator drone orbiting the area, with Brad stating, "I don't think we're in California anymore..."
"... No," Replied Fick, "We aren't..."