The early morning sun broke through the clouds, lighting the world in a fiery orange. As the convoy advanced, escorted by about three dozen allied vehicles, HITMAN had taken lead with the Edelweiss and an allied BTR from the Russian Military. A classic Rock road song played from a portable CD Player that Trombley had managed to somehow scrounge up and hide from his parents and the PX. 'Self Esteem' by The Offspring rumbled over the airwaves, the heavy tunes of the guitar intermixed with the hard beat of the drums and the loud vocals.
Ray bobbed his head to the song, surprisingly quiet for this trip. Garza was swiveling the turret left and right. Beside them, the Russian escort of BTRs kept their turrets scanning the trees of forest patches farther away. Brad yawned, rubbing his eyes, then stretched as much as he could in the vehicle. The VDV riding on top of one of the BTRs gave a wave to the vehicle, to which Brad gave a quick wave back.
He murmured, "Ugh. How long have we been on the road...?" as he woke up.
"A few hours," Ray replied, "Could'a been worse. We got bumpin' tunes and actual food. Seriously, they snuck us actually good MREs on the road." And he grinned as he saw a couple of the Russian chicks blow kisses his way. He gave a greeting wave to the girls and snorted, "Man, I'm so getting laid with one of'em Ruskies," as he kept them on the road. The Reporter snorted, while Garza gave the man a side-eye with a smirk, before popping back up onto the turret.
"In your dreams, Ray," Brad murmured, putting his kevlar helmet on and clipping it into place. He checked his rifle and said to his old friend, "You'd be suicidal to try and bang one of'em. Russians ain't anything to scoff at when it comes to women. Seriously, word is they make ours look like cats playing in the sand... Even the Marine girls barely catch up to'em."
"I already decided I wanna get laid, Brad, you don't have to sell'em to me like some Mail Order Bride bullshit," Snorted the guy. Brad gave a snort and shook his head, then poked his head out and looked back at the convoy behind them. Scores of civvies rode on top of LAVs and even the couple Abrams they had with them, not to mention aboard a few LMTVs and MTVRs.
The villages on the side roads gave waves to the advancing allied force, while some of Gallia's Army elements seemed to be shadowing them. Brad lifted his M4 and shouldered it, then peered through the NV scope at the light scouts wading through the fields to keep tabs on them. He murmured, "I wonder if the Gallians realize we're on the same side, or if we can at least see their scouts..."
"Want me to lay into'em?" Trombley asked, "Send a few bursts of 5,56 and they'll get it in their heads."
"That's the opposite of being friendly, Whopper Junior," Ray partially joked. A good part of him was worried the kid was gonna cause an international incident in another nation. He handed Brad a bag of beef jerky and said, "Pop me a couple pieces, Brad. Can't open it while driving..." before he scratched beside his right ear, right under the strap to his helmet. He kept bobbing his head to the tune, singing quietly, "... I wait 'till two, then I turn out the light. This rejection got me so low. She keeps it up, but it's my kinda show..."
Brad opened the bag while Ray was singing, then handed him two pieces of jerky. He poured some into his own hand, then into the Reporter's, Trombley's and, finally, Garza's, before packing the bag and sliding it folded underneath the radio. He bit down onto his piece of jerky, then clicked his tongue. Looking around at the countryside, head leaned on his hand, he stated, "Gotta admit... Nice to not see just sand every goddamn inch..."
"I know, right?" Garza snorted.
"Reminds me a little of back home," Trombley stated.
"Not gonna lie, it's better than we thought. Half expected we'd be getting shot day in, day out..." Wright stated as he leaned back into his seat, arms crossed to his kevlar-covered chest. Trombley seemed to scoff at the idea, probably wanting the fight now, after getting a taste of laying into the bastards they fought. Understandable, quite honestly, but...
Eh, whatever, Ray thought as they kept on rolling. He looked up to see Isara poking her head out of the driver's hatch to probably get some air. He gave a wave to the girl and said, "Hey, kid!" which seemed to get her attention. The curious young lady turned toward him and he yelled to her, "At what age do Gallians teach ya to drive a tank anyhow? That thing looks like something outta the last wars we fought!"
"I learned through a school course I enrolled in! I also maintain the Edelweiss!" The girl replied, smiling.
Ray blinked, then balked, "You keep that thing in working order!?" And she nodded. He whistled and said, "Goddamn, okay. If we get NASCAR in Gallia, I'm getting her to be my pit crew..." which got a few laughs out of everyone and a chuckle out of the sixteen year old tank driver. Welkin looked at Ray, who gave a wave and a thumbs up. The man replied with a smile and a nod, before humming and pulling out a pair of ancient binoculars.
Ray looked forward and blanked, then tapped Brad on the shoulder, "Dude. Twelve o'clock..." before pointing ahead. The city ahead was terrifyingly massive, the tall, garrisoned walls, lined with guns and manned by troops of the city's defense corps, standing as testament to its supposedly-impregnable status as the capital. And a garrison unit of half-a-dozen tanks and a hundred or so infantry stood before and between them and the main gate.
The Convoy let the Edelweiss go forward, revealing the Gallian flags. It was followed by civilian evacuees who waved and greeted their forces while the Marines and VDV dismounted on the sides of the road. Fick walked up to Brad and the others, rifle slung over his shoulder, then told them, "Generals are catching up as we speak. Seems like Congress is already considering War Plans for the war we encountered here."
"Congress moving fast when it comes to declaring a war? Say it ain't so," Ray snorted as he leaned against the Humvee, grinning, "Didn't know they want us kickin' ass this early, El-Tee."
Fick replied, "Thought you'd figured out that's what they want us in the moment we were given the ROE of 'shoot anything that looks like our attackers', Person," before stopping and turning as he saw the other Marines dismount, too, grabbing food and supplies to hand to the Refugees before sending them off toward the Gallian capital's front gate, where the Gallian Army, soldiers clad in dark-blue uniforms, steel helmets and carrying wood-covered weaponry, were already filtering through them.
The Russian that'd spoken to Brad stepped up, cradling her AK-74M as she did so. She said, "Seems like the Army's surprised to see friendlies... Overheard their chatter while on my way over."
"Hey, Ruski," Trombley started. The girl looked toward her and he asked, "Didn't they usually send VDV with BMPs?"
She hummed, then snorted, much to the relief of Ray and Brad. They'd thunk that Trombley was about to say something stupid to her. She replied, "They'll be shipping BMP-2s over soon enough. Don't worry, you'll get to see them in action, bratukh..." Before turning to Brad and telling him, "Most are still undergoing some degree of refurbishment to be brought up to standard..."
Brad nodded, "Hey, no comment from me, long as we get rapid-fire 30mm cannons as support..." And he looked over to Ray, who was grinning still. He shook his head, before both him and the Russian soldier turned to see the Generals, Godfather and Sokol rolling up in their Humvees and even the newly-built TIGR MRAPs of the Russian Military. So fresh off the assembly line they may as well have been new, the TIGR MRAPs supposedly provided better protection and acted more like the US's currently up-armored Humvees.
The two vehicles stopped at the front of the column, with the officers dismounting under the armed escort of a dozen or so men from both unit groups. The entire forward section of the column, Brad and the others included, snapped to, giving crisp salutes to general Norman Schwarzkopf, his Marine counterpart, General Mattis, and their Russian liaison, Colonel Smirnoff.
Schwarzkopf lead the group, approaching the line of the Gallian defenders that were filtering the crew with his two comrades and their escorts. He saluted the woman in the lead, a blonde-haired one with red eyeliner. She gave a quick salute back and spoke in clear-cut English, "Business in Randgriz, mister..." her voice a hint dismissive, disrespectful. Mattis was stopped from saying something by Norman giving a low chopping motion to him.
"Norman Schwarzkopf, ma'am. General for the UN Expeditionary Corps deployed to your country," He had then turned toward her. Speaking with as clear-cut a tone as possible, he told her calmly, "The soldiers you're fighting shot at our men and we want to know what we're dealing with before we throw ourselves into whatever this hellscape of a conflict is."
"... You want to talk to our leadership, then?" She asked, turning to him. He nodded, to which she said, "Give me a moment..." before turning to one of her men and ordering, "Get me a Wireless forward and a direct link to Generals Damon and Siegfried, then to the Prime Minister. They'll want to know about the... UN, you said?" As she looked between Norman, Mattis and Smirnoff.
Norman gave a nod, "Yes. The United Nations."
Indeed, the woman looked to see two different flag patches among all soldiers, though of similar colorings. The soldier ran up to them and handed her the radio set and mic. She showed the three officers to wait and stepped back, to which Mattis asked sarcastically, "Ain't she a ray of fuckin' sunshine...?" before turning to Smirnoff, who sighed and shook his head.
"I have a nagging feeling we'll be fighting our hopeful allies as much as we'll be duking it out with these Imperial bastards..." Norman murmured, arms crossed to his chest just as the woman turned toward them and gave them a nod to follow her as she boarded a jeep. The men entered their Humvees and Tigr and drove after her, machine guns aimed at the sky not to scare the crap out of the population.
The officers looked around at what seemed to be a city both advancing with and stuck in time. Paved roads made for a slightly bumpy ride aboard the Army's Humvees and the Tigr, but all houses had electricity, between the main boulevard's lanes ran a tram with electric lines and several intersection points between it and various other lines and the many districts were split evenly between the city's wider roadways, with smaller one and two-lane roads leading between various city blocks.
The most imposing sight, however, was the royal palace dead ahead of them, a tall structure, wide as well, built at the rearmost part of the city. With blue roofs and spiral motifs spread evenly across its architecture, the opulent royal habitation stood as the stark reminder of what this place was:a presumed Kingdom run by Kings and Queens and perhaps elected government officials.
"Seems a tad overkill," Commented Norman as he looked at the spires. He gripped his own M4A1 rifle close, just in case, but he saw that the people around were waving at the arriving vehicles with surprising calm, some even going to assist the Civilians in need of help. He hummed and motioned to his RTO to hand him the radio, before calling, "All HITMAN elements, assist with triaging the civilians if you can. We'll tell the Gallian locals to expect that."
Affirmative replies came from HITMAN, Godfather included, which allowed Norman to sigh in relief as he handed the RTO the transmitter back. He told Mattis, "Can't believe we're about to deal with this shit again, honestly. What's this, like the third time we went into a country that we were friends with because some bigger enemy invaded them?" and sighed.
"Sounds about right, though we're not really friends with the Blues just yet," Mattis nodded, "Remember Gulf One?"
"Yeah," Norman gave a nod, then pulled out a thermos full of coffee and took a sip. He offered some to Mattis, who refused, then capped the hot beverage container and set it aside, adding, "Commanded a good chunk of it. 73 Easting's still one of my favorite bits from that show..." and he hummed. He looked around at the civilians, guards and Police marching around the place and stated, "These people are armed with equipment that looks like it came straight out of the Interwar era..."
"Public Opinion about this is bound to skyrocket, though. Wonder if that means the new Admin will give us some fucking funding to deal with Iraq, too, considering the absolute shitshow that's been," Mad Dog added, then looked over at the Marine manning the turret up above, MG pointed up at the heavens. He was waving back to the people who waved at them, a little bit of nice PR.
Arriving at the front of the building, the group was met by what seemed to be the royal guard, their uniforms bearing gold stripes and inlay, strange ceremonial-looking lances lifted up to greet the Generals and their escort. As they exited the vehicles, the young woman that led them here showed them toward the door and said, "Follow me, please..." as they walked.
Entering the wide halls of the palace, the group was met by Royal Guards standing at attention, their ancient-looking blue armors complimented by assault weapons that looked out of the very early post-war, almost prototype-like. Some carried more standard bolt-action and semi-automatic rifles loaded with magazines, kind of like the M14s they had as DMRs nowadays.
They arrived at the central hall and it almost resembled a cathedral, its many columns filled with a spiral motif and the glass, tinted. Sat in the far back, on a raised throne, a young woman with a strange hat and a spiral motif scepter was sat, surrounded by three arguing men. Well, a pair arguing with another of the gentlemen, all three of them clad in fairly opulent clothes.
Mattis snorted derisively, seeing the supposed Prime-Minister, a man with a blonde wig, before commenting, "Bastard's dressed like a fucking drag queen..." in a whisper, which garnered a snort out of Smirnoff, while Schwarzkopf tried to contain his own little bout of laughter. Mattis then scanned the second man, a fat bastard with a slimy beard and oily hair, clad in what looked to be an officer's uniform. He rolled his eyes and murmured, "Oh, Christ, not this fuckery, too. Nepotism and I'd stake my balls on it."
"Let's not make bets yet," Smirnoff snorted.
The last man looked more well-kept and clean, shaven brown hair and blue eyes, a few scars and some medals. Not as many as the fat tube of lard, but still just about enough. The young woman seemed to have noticed them first, her eyes lighting up as she stood to her feet, to which the three men ceased their argument, with the premier turning to face the gentlemen and stating, "Ah! Of course, the representative officers we were told about from this... UN. Welcome to the Royal Palace of Randgriz. I am Prime Minister Borg, Regent until Her Highness, Princess Cordelia, comes of age. These men are General Damon," he motioned to the fatass, "And general Siegfried. Some of our best, so to speak."
The Generals looked to one-another and gave nods of greeting to the men, before stepping up and apparently having the same common thought of taking a knee in front of the Princess. The young lady blushed, then quickly bowed back and stated, "Please, by all means, stand to your feet. No soldiers need bow in front of me..." to which the three did as asked.
"A pleasure meeting you all, then," Norman nodded, "I am general Schwarzkopf, overall commander of the UN mission to your world and country. The men beside me are my associates. Fellow countryman and Marine general Mattis and Colonel of the Russian Armed Forces, Smirnoff. We're here to discuss matters pertaining to our common enemy and, if possible, the participation of the UN Task Force in this place's war, to bring it to a swift end and bring the Empire to the negotiation table."
"You seem cocky, general," The fat man, Damon, said, his voice gruff, "How do we know you can help us fight this war?"
"You havent' seen our tech, general Damon," Voiced Smirnoff, "We made short work of the enemy company sent after Bruhl. We will make even shorter work of whatever enemies you face, especially when our air assets are brought to bear."
"Air assets... Aircraft?" Voiced Siegfried, "You actually managed to get the concept of an Air Force off the ground?"
The three men took a moment to register the sheer shock in both general Siegfried's voice and the faces of all of the people around them. Smirnoff blinked rapidly, dumbfound, then asked, "You did not...?" as he looked around the room. An audible snort echoed from one of the Guard officers in the room. She covered her mouth and excused herself, before the audible noise of laughter echoed through the halls.
"All countries considered the matter too expensive, what with the re-tooling of factories and the money being spent on the rebuilding after the First Europan War..." Offered Borg, though he seemed a bit less than happy that the generals were all containing their own laughs.
Mattis burst first, hollering and stating, "Oh, this is gonna give the A10 pilots fucking hard-ons!"
"Mattis, control yourself..." Schwarzkopf chuckled, "We're still in the presence of a royal lady who's, what, sixteen?" and he got a nod from the girl, who giggled with them as well. Siegfried, meanwhile, stifled his own laugh while Damon seemed to glare at them. The American general couldn't contain himself either, "Oh, God, the Apache and Hind Pilots, though! Hahaha!"
"This is going to be a fucking cakewalk compared to Chechnya!" Smirnoff snorted.
... Meanwhile, outside, Ray hummed to the tune of 'Break My Stride' as he watched Russian girls strutting their stuff while carrying AKs. He grinned and gave them waves, with a few replying with smiles as they strode around. He walked up to the Gallians next, offering them Earth candy. Skittles, more specifically. One of them, a seemingly confused young woman, extended a hand. He poured some of the skittles into it and gave a nod and a thumbs up, before walking back to their Humvee.
Inside, Wright was doing exactly as his family name implied;writing. Ray poked his head in and said, "What lies ya telling this time, Rolling Stone?"
"Just writing out the fact we're interacting with humans from what's tantamount to an alternate reality," He quipped as he wrote on in his little notebook. He looked to Ray and asked him, "How're you so calm about this, man? It's actually kind of exciting! This might confirm a few theories we have about the world and how the universe as a whole works!"
"Damn, dawg, didn't know you're a nerd, too," Ray commented, grinning. Wright snorted and shook his head, then turned back to writing just as Brad was heard to be coming from the right. Ray gave him a wave and said, "Hey, Brad. Check it," while pointing at the one chick he gave Skittles to, "I made a big ol' PR move and shared some of my Skittles with that chick."
She looked their way while chewing on one of the candies, then smiled and waved at both. He waved back and grinned at his friend, "And that's how you score a little with the good people of Gallia, eh?" to which Brad snorted and shook his head. He walked over to his side of the Humvee and climbed aboard, taking his helmet off and pulling an MRE out, only to pop it open and start preparing it.
Trombley also returned to the truck, hauling his LMG and a pack of wet wipes. Ray offered him candy, but Trombley refused, simply climbing back aboard and murmuring, "Well, I shat in an alternate reality now, so that's pretty cool..." before setting his weapon aside and asking, "Sarge, when're we gonna move from this shithole?" to which Brad cast a glance back at him.
He turned back to preparing his MRE and said, "Whenever the Generals and Godfather deem it fit to move our asses out of here and to a decent staging area, Trombley..." before letting the chemical heating pack work its magic on reheating whatever the fuck was in the bag. He looked up and slapped Garza's leg, causing the man to whine and stir, before murmuring something in his sleep. He sighed and called out, "Garza, wake up."
The man murmured something again, then dipped down into the Humvee and said, "That was the worst fucking night of my goddamn life..."
"Shit sleep?" Trombley asked.
"No... Stayed up all night with Ray. I'm the gunner after all, have to keep all of us idiots alive for the most part," Garza sighed and rubbed his face. He looked to Brad, who was giving him the stink eye, before asking, "What did I do? I was doing my job... Experienced a goddamn crash now, though. That's why I was flat on my gut on the turret, so... Yeah..."
"Tell me you didn't take anything to stay awake..." Murmured the Sergeant, words to which Garza said nothing. He turned to the window and called out, "Ray! Ray!" to which his friend turned around. He tilted his head toward Garza and asked, "Did you bring more Ripped Fuel? And if yes, did you give some to our gunner, causing him to have a caffeine crash worse than that one time back in Basra?"
"... No...?" Ray hummed. Lies.
Sleepy Garza admitted, "He floated me a couple to keep me up, but that's it..." which got Ray to glare at him and Brad to glare at Ray, like a trio of fuckery. Wright snorted, while Trombley chewed on his cold food and shook his head. He looked over to see a Gallian soldier passing by, then gave her a tilt of the head. The crazy-eyed girl gave a nod back, though she maintained her composure, before walking past them. With a hum and a shrug, the gunner went back to chowing down, then looked to the Reporter.
Rolling stones was up to his usual, so Trombley didn't say much. He was just wondering when their Air Support was gonna be coming. He had a fairly nagging feeling they were gonna go straight into a fight after this whole negotiation thing was done. Suited him just fine, honestly. He wanted to go back into the shit with the boys, light someone up with his SAW. Take into account he needed to rest properly...
That and maybe get some break from everything else...