Chapter-III

WAR IS HELL

ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF PAVLANI

SGT ASMA EBRAHIMI

PAVLANI REVOLUTIONARY GUARD CORPS

June 2nd 1995

DAY-1 of THE WAR

Sgt Ebrahimi cursed as more laser fire followed her. Seeing as the country was lost, a few competent generals had decided to defect to their secular neighbor Pakistan.

Asma sprinted between bombed-out buildings, las-fire streaking past as Invader forces pursued her retreating squad. This entire counter-offensive had gone tits up the moment those damn dropships descended.

"Keep moving!" she shouted to her squadmates. They'd lost Reza and Leila already to direct hits, but she was determined to break out at least some of her people.

An enemy APC roared around the corner its weapon chewing up the pavement behind them. Asma dove into an alley, pulling Sana with her just before she lost her legs. Can't keep running much longer.

She peered around the corner. Two more blocks to the evac point, but no way they'd get there with that thing on their ass. As the big APC rounded the bend, Asma sighted and fired a grenade right into the exposed rear hatch.

The APC erupted in a satisfying fireball. "Now's our chance, move!" she urged the others. They emerged from cover, double-timing it over rubble and corpses. Something screamed overhead but didn't spot it.

At last, the evac point came into sight. Troops were piling into trucks and APCs, pulling out under covering fire. Asma felt overwhelming relief as she and her squad limped onto the last truck.

She'd lost good soldiers today but saved a few. Hopefully, their intel on invader forces would aid the Pakistanis in the next fight. Asma slumped into her seat and closed her eyes. Just a few minutes rest, then back to war.

OLNUKOV RIVER DISTRICT, FRUNZENGRAD

VOSTOKVAKIA.

June 2nd 1995.

General Pavel Leonidvich Popov was a stout, short, bald man. He walked with a limp, having been part of Vostokvakia's disastrous war with the West Erusean nation of Patanistan from 1979 to 1989 as part of the VDV. He swore a lot to any man and woman crazy enough to object to him. He had been an opponent to President Narmanov's democratization reforms but was still commander of the 88th Guards Tank army, he watched from his command post in the Military Academy.

Popov limped over to the operations map, scowling. Young officers stepped aside quickly, not wanting to draw the General's ire. He may have lost political clout, but Popov still commanded respect on the battlefield.

"Give me a sitrep now Anna Sergerovna," he barked. The Lt. Colonel in charge of intelligence briefing hesitated only a moment before responding.

"Comrade General, multiple enemy landing sites across districts 2 through 7. We're facing heavy armor and air support."

Popov spat on the floor. "Fascist pigs! Marshal Andreyev would've crushed them already." He stabbed a finger at the map.

"Get the 45th and 26th Tank Regiments moving here and here to encircle them. Tell our Hind squadrons to stop flying in circles and attack!"

The officers scrambled to relay his orders. Popov watched grimly as unit markers shifted across the map. Sloppy and weak - what had become of the mighty Red Army?

"Send the 9th Guards Rifle Division to reinforce factory district 6. It must not fall." The enemy would not take Frunzengrad while he still breathed.

Popov lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. He had led men and women through hopeless battles before. The people and soil of the Motherland depended on them now.

"We will crush these alien mongrels, comrades," he declared coldly. "For the Socialist Coalition! The 88th Guards will hold the line."

Morale seemed to firm at his words. Good. They would need backbone for the fight ahead.

"Comrade general…heavy fighting eastwards near Neva Street" an aide reported.

Popov's steely gaze scanned the updated map as reports came in of heavy fighting around Neva Street. A critical rail junction, its loss would compromise the 88th Guards' supply lines.

"Redirect the 26th Tank Regiment to reinforce Neva Street immediately," Popov ordered. "Have riflemen from the 115th Dig in along the embankment as well. If we lose that junction, the whole Frunzengrad pocket could collapse."

His officers relayed the orders swiftly. Popov watched as friendly icons converged on the endangered area. He silently urged them to hold.

Moments later, frantic shouts erupted from the radio room. "Comrade General! Enemy armor and aircraft are pressing the advance down Neva Street!"

Popov slammed a fist on the table. "Get our helicopters moving now! Where is our damn air support?!"

The scream of jet engines told him the answer. Popov looked from the window as a flight of Su-25 Fighter Bombers screamed in low, afterburners racing as they headed towards their targets.

"About damn time the fucking flyers came in." Popov growled. "Get me the fucking head of Front Aviation!" The aide ran off before coming back, trailing behind him, the hapless commander of 88th Tank's VVS Support.

"Pavel Leonidvich…" VVS Aviation began before he was cut off by Popov. "You Stukach, where in god's name were your pilots, they are 40 minutes late. Is this how the "Elite Squadron's" of the fucking VVS act." It was a wonder, the aide's thought, that Popov was not screaming at the hapless man. He certainly looked a sight too, with his TTsKo BDU and 6B3 Body Armor. His face was a deep red, he looked like the Big Bad Wolf from the children's story. Huffing and puffing, Popov caught his breath while the VVS Colonel began to speak.

"They…they came at least. And now they are bringing hell to the enem…" He was cut off again by Popov. "Afanasy Bogdanovich, BRINGING HELL TO THE FUCKING ENEMY! YOUR PILOTS ARE 40 MINUTES LATE. NEVA STREET IS NEARLY OVERRUN. YOU CALL THIS BRINGING HELL TO THE ENEMY! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT AND IF THERE IS A NEXT TIME, TELL THE PILOTS TO GET TO THE AO ON TIME. OTHERWISE, YOU ARE FUCKING RELIEVED OF DUTY" And with that, he sent the colonel scampering off to his part of the command center. Popov watched him before sitting down.

God, Narmanov was right, they needed decisive change within the Revolutionary Red Army. The recent changes to the officer corps had come just in time. Now, Sergeants could do their duties exactly like their OFN or Ulraznavian counterparts. Popov flinched as an enemy shell landed close to his HQ. He hoped that the unit commanding the defense of Neva Street could salvage the situation. Otherwise, God help them all…

GAURDS SENIOR LIUTENANT MARA DOVRANKO.

721st GUARDS AIR ASSAULT DIVISION.

NEVA STREET, FRUNZEGRAD.

Mara grunted as the enemy fire increased around them. Beside her, the battered company of VDV soldiers kept on firing. "Just like Patanistan's Hill 889, eh Marushka" Guards Junior Lt Stepan Zhukovsky called over the din. Even in firefights, he still had that cheerful grin.

"If I recall that particular engagement Stepan Ivanovich," Mara said while firing her AKS-74 Assault Rifle. "The Mujahideen were a lot easier to kill." She grunted as she ducked. "These guys…they just keep on coming. Not that we can't keep pushing them back…it's just that if those armored Zhalki come" she referred to the massive, armored soldiers seen on TV, "Then we are well and truly dead."

Junior Lieutenant Zhukovsky flashed a grin, even as enemy fire crackled around their position. "Ah don't worry, Marushka. We'll be heroes of the Motherland by day's end!"

His boundless optimism never failed, even in the direst situations. It was that attitude that had first endeared him to Mara during training. While other officer candidates broke under the grind, Stepan had taken it all in cheerful stride.

Now Mara found that upbeat spirit a welcome spark amidst the chaos. It steadied her, reminding her of better times ahead.

A thunderous explosion announced an enemy tank destroyed by their hidden sappers. Mara raised her rifle and added suppressive fire as dozens of troopers fell back in disarray.

"You see, Marushka! We have them on the run!" Stepan crowed. His expression then turned serious as he sighted down his own weapon. "Give them everything you've got, comrades. For the Motherland!"

Their platoon roared with renewed determination, pouring fire into the wavering foe. Overhead, the scream of jets heralded fresh airstrikes./

Mara allowed herself a fierce grin. Stepan was right, today they would be heroes. She had promised to share a bottle of vodka with him after. It was time to fulfill that vow.

"You may yet get that drink, Stepan Ivanovich," she said. "We will hold this line!"

Mara felt her stomach drop as Sgt. Pelinkovac screamed the warning. Lumbering down the battered street were a dozen massive, armored figures, each easily twice the height of a man. Their weapons were brutally oversized, and their armor looked impenetrable.

"Zhalki!" Stepan swore, eyes wide. "Anti-tank mines, now!"

The sappers rushed to hastily place more explosives, but the Titans were nearly upon them. Mara raised her rifle, knowing the small arms fire would barely scratch that thick plate.

"Aim for joints and optics!" she ordered. "Hold them off until we can pull back!"

The storm of fire that met the giants initially slowed them, forcing the Titans to raise shields against the hail. But then with ponderous steps they continued their advance, massive guns booming in return.

Men and women screamed as heavy rounds blew apart covers and bodies alike. They were outmatched here.

"Fall back, get the wounded out! Pull back!" Mara shouted. She grabbed Stepan and pushed him towards the rear lines before he could protest. She would not see his bright flame extinguished this day.

As the platoon retreated in good order, Mara glanced back once at the Titans implacably seizing ground. She whispered a prayer of thanks that the monstrosities were not faster.

THE ATMOSPHERE ABOVE THE PLANET IS NOW NAMED NOVA ARCADIA. INQUISITOR TARKON.

Something felt wrong to the experienced but young inquisitor in the Valkyrie. Tarkion stared at the planet, it looked perfect for habitation, but the stars, and formations seemed different.

"Sir...you best hang on" the pilot's voice buzzed over the intercom, "That warp storm must've knocked out or engines. Don't want those white lights catchin'. " Tarkion knew what he was talking about, the strange weapons that destroyed a good chunk of the landing force from space. As the sky turned blue, Tarkion stared at the land below. green fields and orderly little buildings. a perfect retirement home for him. Tarkion swore till the day he died that what happened next was impossible. He had been ordered by Lord Admiral Vallin to arrive at Landing zone Rho Alpha 13

Down below, an Ulraznavian SA-11 tracked the aircraft as they descended. Ulraznavians, whether east or west were nothing but methodical. The SA-11 was Vostokvakian but was produced also by the Federal Republic of Ulraznavia. its version was better. So, seeing this aircraft, the SAM commander grinned. the SA-11 did not have an exhaust, so nobody knew until it was too late what hit them. He fired.

Tarkion watched as something, exploded the Valkyrie, sending it screaming down below. He clutched wildly at anything to arrest his sudden plummeting descent as the Valkyrie exploded around him.

Tarkion managed to snag a tattered section of the bulkhead, slowing himself enough to tap his grav-chute control. The emergency antigrav unit kicked in, causing the inquisitor to drift down at a manageable pace.

He frantically scanned for any sign of the pilot as the ground rushed up. Nothing but scattered debris - he must have fallen faster. Emperor, let him live, he prayed desperately.

The muted thump of detonations made him look up. A blossom of smoke and fire marked where the pilot had met the unforgiving earth. Tarkion snarled in grief and rage.

His boots finally touched down in some unknown field. In the distance, he could see strange structures and vehicles totally alien to him. Where in the Emperor's name was, he?

Tarkon's expression turned cold as an aircraft roared by overhead, unmarked by any Imperial insignia. He had his answer - wherever this place was, it was now his sworn enemy.

Hand dropping to his bolter, the Inquisitor began striding with lethal purpose towards the unknown settlement. He would have vengeance for his slain pilot. And then answers about this strange planet.

Any who stood in his path would regret it dearly. He had the emperor's justice to deliver.

He heard the clicking of weapons, he was surrounded by 10 men and some women, wearing unfamiliar uniforms, they roughly grabbed them him and took them to a waiting Vehicle, a massive, armored beast that could only be a prison transport. Inside, were a large amount of seats. Inquisitor Tarkion tensed as strange soldiers emerged from concealment all around, weapons leveled. He silently cursed himself for letting the squad sneak up on them.

The soldiers were clad in odd camouflage unlike any Imperial pattern, and they yelled in an unfamiliar tongue while roughly seizing Tarkon's weapons.

Tarkion contemplated resisting, but the odds were hopeless for now. "Unhand me, you heathen dogs!" he shouted instead, straining against the hands holding him back.

If they understood, the soldiers gave no indication. Tarkion was shoved inside the vehicle, the heavy door slamming shut behind. It lurched into motion immediately after.

STRASBOURG, FRANCOVIA

DAY 1 OF WAR

OFN COMMAND CENTRE.

General Maxwell Barnes had been 17 when he'd enlisted in the Concordian Army and gone to the Gregureyo Peninsula at Pusan. The situation here was not so different. The only part of Francovian territory in OFN's hands was Strasbourg, and the port of Le Havre, 10021 miles away. "Only thing we don't have is MacArthur" he muttered. "What's the status in CENTAG, Frankfurt in Ulraznavia?" he asked.

"Frankfurt has fallen, sir. No word from CENTAG command since 0600 hours," an aide reported. "Enemy armored divisions are pushing hard westwards."

Barnes cursed under his breath. "Tell AFCENT to hit their supply lines and staging areas, buy us some time. And get the 82nd Airborne moving to reinforce Cologne."

He turned to the naval section. "What's the status on Le Havre?"

"Port facilities intact, but enemy air patrols are thick after attacking Paris. Resupply convoys will have to run the gauntlet."

Barnes nodded. "Do it. We need those reinforcements and supplies ashore. Have the Eisenhower Carrier Group provide naval air cover."

Finally, he looked to intelligence. "Anything on possible counterattacks?"

They shook their heads. "Most remaining forces are isolated pockets now, sir."

Barnes nodded. "And our own forces?"

"Scattered or destroyed across the Group of Three border. We've lost the Ruhr as of 0800 hours."

Barnes swore under his breath. The industrial heartland is gone, just like that.

"Very well. Pull all combat-effective units back to Strasbourg and dig in." He tapped the fortified city. "We make our stand here while we rebuild strength."

His officers rushed to execute the orders, coordinating the retreat. Barnes watched as friendly symbols retreated across the map towards the relative safety of Strasbourg.

Once their forces were consolidated and resupplied, they could begin launching localized counterattacks. Barnes was no MacArthur, but he knew how to play the long game.

NIZHNEVARTOVSK, SOCIALIST COALITION OF VOSTOKVAKIA.

VOSTOKVAKIAN SOCIALIST FEDERATIVE COALTIONIST REPUBLIC, V.S.F.C.R.

1995

The car moved swiftly and urgently through the silent dark night. Even though the conflict had begun hours before, Most of Vostokvakia was not informed. The Zhiguli looked as if it was being driven by someone who hadn't driven a car before in their life, which was true. Inside, instead of Vostokvakians, they were a motley bunch. At the wheel, there was Lt Carlin, an Inquisition Tempestus Scion- a Stormtrooper. In the seat beside him, Cadian Kasrkin Master Sargent Lona Valkin cleaned her Meltagun. Behind them, the backseat was filled with a Callidus Assasin, her latex bodyglove covering everything except the long braid/ponytail, a massive Ogryn, and a Techpriest.

"Why da ell are we in this soggin veeichle" the Ogryn screamed.

"I told you for the last time Dirk" Lona spoke to the Ogryn, "We need to blend in, the fleet says they are picking up large amounts of heat from this area. Meaning it's either a power source or a refinery of some sort.

"Then at least you could have gotten something more comfortable Carlin, there were several good vehicles for Throne's Sake!" the assassin spoke for the first time, to an ordinary person it was surprising enough as the bodyglove covered her mouth as well.

The Techpriest was analyzing their vehicle. "Interesting" he droned. "This car runs on some strange liquid fusion, it's not promethium, and this leather is marvelous."

Carlin finally stopped the car. "We're here," he said. The group looked out, at a massive complex filled with strange machinery and clanking with noise. Massive drills seemed to be drilling underground while extractors and rigs waited. Although the group did not know it, their target and the complex they were staring at was the Nizhnevartovsk Oil Refinery, one of the largest in the world.

The Mechanicus Techpriest stared in a mixture of joy and glee. "Oh myyyyy… it's… it's huge. It's almost a pity we must destroy it."

Lona peered dubiously at the sprawling industrial complex before them. Even in the dim light, she could make out hulking machinery, massive piping, and towering columns venting flames. The very air reeked of harsh chemicals.

"Not sure, but it's gotta be important based on the size," Carlin murmured back to the group. The tech priest was practically salivating over the mechanisms. Even the normally stoic Callidus assassin seemed intrigued.

Lona hefted her melta gun. "Well, our orders are to sabotage their infrastructure. Rigging this place to blow should light a fire under their asses."

She pointed to a pipeline juncture. "We take out those valves there, it'll flood the works with...whatever chemical soup they've got. The thing should go up like a bonfire."

Dirk grunted in excitement, lifting his bolter meaningfully. Subtlety was lost on the Ogryn, but wanton destruction was his specialty.

Lona allowed herself a tight grin beneath her rebreather. A shame to ruin such impressive industrial might...but they were at war. Time to send these locals a message about the wrath of the Imperium.

"Right, you know the drill. Get in, plant melta charges, and make our escape before they realize we were here." She slapped a fresh power pack into her gun. "For the Emperor. Let's move."

The group silently entered the refinery, the assassin dealing with the drunk guard on his desk, Lona took a taste of the clear liquor he was drinking. She grimaced as she took a small sip. The clear liquid burned fiercely going down, leaving a harsh aftertaste. High proof, but foul compared to amasec or obscura gin.

She waved the others onward, stepping silently past the unconscious guard slumped on his desk. The assassin had done clean work, the sentry would wake up with one hell of a hangover, but no alarms were raised.

They slipped deeper into the complex, using side passages to avoid the few workers making late-night rounds. Lona was impressed by the low security - getting to their target junction would be child's play.

At the pipeline valves, she brushed droplets of lingering condensation off the metal piping. "Never seen this kind of runoff before. Acidic smell, damn nasty stuff." She waved the tech-priest over. "Rig these valves to blow once we're clear."

The mechanicus adept reverently caressed the valves as he planted shaped melta charges. "Such wondrous machines and materials..." he murmured dreamily. A pity to destroy them.

Lona smirked beneath her rebreather. "Admire them while you can, Father. Once those charges blow, it'll be one hell of a show."

She glanced around at her team - professionals to the core. "Right, charges set. Now let's exfiltrate before someone raises an alarm. Nice and clean."

They entered what looked like to be the central control room. Lona methodically fired her meltagun into the lab coat-clad personnel. A few Brave ones quickly opened their terminals, she did not know it then, or ever, to call the refinery's complement of KGB Guards, she ended those too at their desks. Some prayed, but not to the God Emperor who could have saved them. In the end, 20 or so locals lay dead. The techpriest tried to make sense of the sleek terminal. "This is... confusing, now how to overload the valves?"

There was a burst, the team looked behind to see their Ogryn comrade, dead with 10 holes.

"Seems like the local security is here, Techpriest, what's taking so long?" Carlin screamed before he was also killed and the Callidus assassin also took a mortal wound. Lona watched from the door through bloodied eyes as a local wearing an unfamiliar uniform, no flak armor, and a green cap threw a grenade, it sailed over and with a clank landed near the tech priest. Lona saw the trio of grenades bouncing towards her and knew she was finished. There was no time or room to evade the combined blast. Her mission had ended in disaster, but she would face death with courage.

Offering one last prayer to the Emperor for her fallen comrades, Lona closed her eyes and turned to meet her fate head-on. If this was to be her martyrdom, then so be it. She had served faithfully.

The deafening eruption of the grenades overwhelmed her senses. Searing heat and shrapnel tore into her body as she was hurled backward by the explosions. Then, blessedly, consciousness fled into numbing darkness…

...

...

...

Dimly, she realized she was still alive, though surely gravely wounded. Lona strained to move, to keep fighting, but her shattered body refused to obey anymore. As the guards closed in, she could only lie helpless awaiting the end.

At least she would see Dirk and the others soon on the Emperor's side. Lona clung to that thought as the guards' footsteps rushed up the stairway...and then oblivion mercifully took her. She had fought to the end. The Emperor Protects...

There was no place—and no reason—to run. Lona lay immobile in the doorway as the grenades bounced and skittered across the tiled floor. Around her, the whole world seemed to be catching fire, and because of them, the whole world really would.

Lona watched almost hypnotically as the grenades rolled and bounced across the floor, trailing wisps of smoke in their wake. All around her, flames were catching from ruptured pipes and shattered machinery. Klaxons wailed and emergency systems blared, but it was far too late to stop what they had wrought.

This had been a suicide mission, Lona realized. One way or another, they were doomed never to leave this place alive. But they had completed their objective - dealt a grievous blow to the enemy's industrial might. Their lives, though sacrificed, had struck fear into their foe's heart.

Lona closed her eyes as the grenades reached her feet, still clutched tightly around her melta gun. She whispered a final prayer, not for deliverance, but for the emperor to shepherd her soul.

The thunderous blast washed over her, seeming strangely muffled and distant. Then came a brief surge of searing heat...and nothingness. Lona's service was done. What came next lay in His hands. She had faith her martyrdom here would be remembered.

The flames soared higher around her fallen body. Soon there would be nothing left but ash and echoes. But the damage was done - a message delivered in fire and fury. They could destroy her flesh, but not Lona's loyalty. That would burn eternal...

SUNNYVALE, CALIFORNIA

"God almighty!" the chief master sergeant breathed. The fire which had begun in the gasoline/diesel section of the refinery had been sufficient to alert a strategic early-warning satellite in geosynchronous orbit twenty-four thousand miles above the Indian Ocean. The signal was downlinked to a top-security Concordian Air Force post.

The senior watch officer in the Satellite Control Facility was an Air Force colonel. He turned to his senior technician: "Map it."

"Yes, sir." The sergeant typed a command into his console, which told the satellite cameras to alter their sensitivity. With the flaring on the screen reduced, the satellite rapidly pinpointed the source of the thermal energy. A computer-controlled map on the screen adjacent to the visual display gave them an exact location reference. "Sir, that's an oil refinery fire. Jeez, and it looks like a real pisser! Colonel, we got a Big Bird pass in twenty minutes and the course track is within a hundred twenty kilometers."

"Uh-huh," the colonel nodded. He watched the screen closely to make sure that the heat source was not moving, his right hand lifting the Gold Phone to NLRAD headquarters, Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado.

"This is Argus Control. I have Flash Traffic for CINC-NLRAD."

"Wait one," said the first voice.

"This is CINC-NLRAD," said the second, Commander-in-Chief of the North Liberian Aerospace Defense Command.

"Sir, this is Colonel Burnette at Argus Control. We show a massive thermal energy reading at coordinates sixty degrees fifty minutes north, and seventy-six degrees forty minutes east. The site is listed as a POL refinery. The thermal source is not, repeat not moving. We have a KH-11 pass close to the source in two-zero minutes. My preliminary evaluation, General, is that we have a major oil field fire here."

"They're not doing a laser flash on your bird?" CINC-NLRAD asked. There was always a possibility the Stovies were trying to play games with their satellite.

"Negative. The light source covers infrared and all the visible spectrum, not, repeat not, monochromatic. We'll know more in a few minutes, sir. So far everything is consistent with a massive ground fire."

Thirty minutes later, they were sure. The KH-11 reconnaissance satellite came over the horizon close enough for all of its eight television cameras to catalog the chaos. A side-link transmitted the signal to a geosynchronous communications satellite, and Burnette was able to watch it all "in real time." Live and in color. The fire had already engulfed half of the refinery complex and more than half of the nearby production field, with more burning crude oil spreading from the ruptured pipeline onto the river Ob'. They were able to watch the fire spread, the flames carried rapidly before a forty-knot surface wind. Smoke obscured much of the area on visible light, but infrared sensors penetrated it to show many heat sources that could only be vast pools of oil products burning intensely on the ground. Burnette's sergeant was from east Texas and had worked as a boy in the oil fields. He keyed up daylight photographs of the site and compared them with the adjacent visual display to determine what parts of the refinery had already ignited.

"Goddamn, Colonel." The sergeant shook his head reverently. He spoke with quiet expertise. "The refinery—well, it's gone, sir. That fire spread in front of that wind, and ain't no way in hell they'll stop it. The refinery's gone, total loss, burn maybe three, four days—maybe a week, parts of it. And unless they find a way to stop it, looks like the production field is going to go, too, sir. By next pass, sir, it'll all be burnin', all those wellheads spillin' burnin' o'l . . . Lordy, I don't even think Red Adair would want any part of this job!"

"Nothing left of the refinery. Hmph." Burnette watched a taped rerun of the Big Bird pass. "It's their newest and biggest, ought to put a dent in their POL production while they rebuild that from scratch. And once they get those field fires put out, they'll have to rearrange their gas and diesel production quite a bit. I'll say one thing for Ivan. When he has an industrial accident, he doesn't screw around. A major inconvenience for our Vostokvakian friends, Sergeant." This analysis was confirmed the next day by the CIA, and the day after that by the Edenite and Francovian security services. It was clear that the Invaders had done this.

Outside of Niram,

The People's Democratic Republic of Alernia.

Another day had drawn to a close. Night granted reprieve from the blistering heat, and it also meant that one couldn't see the great masses of the sick and the dying, though people could still hear them. That night was also when the Warlord's death squads ambushed anyone unlucky enough to be caught outside. If one was a child, both male or female, they would be conscripted into the General's armies. Given nothing but a Kalashnikov, it was most certainly a death sentence. So, when one thought about it, it was difficult to decide if night truly was better than a day at all.

Inside the squat houses that resembled pigsties rather than human dwellings, the people of Alernia, Victims of General Louis Manabe's coup d'état against the government and now warlord rested themselves. Inside one of the ramshackle huts, a family huddled together silently in the darkness. The mother held her whimpering infant, while the father kept watch near the curtained entrance, rifle in hand. Two young children nestled close to their mother; faces pinched with hunger. It was a scene replicated in countless homes across Alernia.

War and chaos had defined life for them all under General Manabe's brutal reign. Food and medicine were desperately scarce, and the nights were dangerous and uncertain. Many had fled to refugee camps in neighboring nations if they could. But for most, this was now their bleak reality.

The father glanced back at his family, heart aching with helplessness. He could protect them from opportunistic looters perhaps, but not the ruthless death squads and press gangs that seized children. Nor the diseases spreading fast in the absence of doctors and aid.

All he could offer was meager shelter and his presence. It seemed so little but was everything. He would keep watch all night to grant them a few hour's rest.

The man started softly humming an old folk tune, the melody bittersweet yet comforting. His wife's voice soon joined his gently, a momentary escape for them all. The children nestled closer; fears calmed.

He heard the cries of panic; something was coming towards the camp. The father watched with dread as the tall, armored figures approached the refugee camp. Even at a distance their imposing size and strange appearance inspired visceral fear. They moved with eerie synchronization; weapons held at the ready.

The people who had spotted them first were already fleeing in panic. He watched the Western medical team watch in shocked silence.

Part of him yearned to take his family and join the exodus. But another part was simply paralyzed by the sight of these...things. So alien and ominous, unlike any force he'd seen before.

As they drew closer, details emerged. Dull metallic green armor covering them head to toe. Insectile helmets with glowing optics. Massive guns with fat barrels he guessed could level buildings. And sheer towering height, like giants out of myth.

Faced with such intimidating power, resistance seemed unthinkable. Perhaps they would simply pass by the camp, the father dared hope. Their body language appeared more curious than openly hostile so far.

He glanced back at his frightened family huddled in the hut's shadows. Could he get them away safely if need be? His own weakness from malnutrition made that unlikely.

Jaw tightening, the father turned back to face the armored figures now at the camp's edge. He would stand between his family and these interlopers for as long as strength remained. It was all he could do.

The Nizhnevartovsk attack was based on the one from Tom Clancy's Red Storm Rising. As always, comment on the story. Also, it would be nice if you would give me ideas for chapters.