Ch-21
Unknown location
Nova Arcadia
It was bright and sunny - too bright and sunny. Sgt. Liudev Kornilov, 1752nd Kislev Guard, frowned. They were supposed to be targeting this area of the planet under the cover of darkness, and yet somehow they had ended up completely on completely the frakkin' wrong side of the planet since it was broad daylight.
At that moment, he and the rest of his squad were riding desant on the back of Bozhe Imperator, one of the Leman Russ Main Battle Tanks of the 1752nd's 1st Advance Armor Company. Two tank platoons had dropped in via Sky Talon alongside the 7th and 8th infantry companies, including Kornilov's. Their orders had been to secure the drop-site, but when no real enemy resistance was forthcoming (as well as, you know, it being day instead of night), it didn't take long to realize that something was way off. Kornilov had begun to have the unpleasant thought festering at the back of his mind that this might not even be the right planet at all, but right now, there were more pressing matters to focus on. The orders coming in were that they were now to rendezvous with the rest of the 1752nd, in the area but as yet some ways away.
Kornilov took a moment to get his bearings. Bozhe Imperator was trundling along what looked like a major thoroughfare, with two separate roadways, each with two lanes of traffic in one direction. Around them, there were several vehicles of the natives - smaller, four-wheeled cars, some boxy shaped, others slightly more rounded, and all with large glass windows which, along with the fact that neither they nor their owners were armed, indicated that they were peacetime civilian vehicles. This made it even stranger - this was clearly no active warzone.
"Sergeant, what are we doing here? Where's the enemy?" Private Seryozha Popov asked from the turret.
"You tell me, kid, you tell me," Kornilov replied. He took a drag from his lho stick and scratched the back of his neck.
Ahead of Kornilov, the tank's turret hatch opened with a loud creak and the head of Lt. Miroslav Bakovic- clad in a dark-blue peaked cap- emerged. "Sergeant," he said, "I'd like to have a word with you."
"Sir," Kornilov answered respectfully.
"The good news is that Techie here was able to fix the leak," Bakovic continued.
Kornilov frowned. "How much fuel did we manage to salvage?"
"Enough for about ten kilometres," said Bakovic, "half of that already went into opening the hatch."
"And Adept Carlo?"
"The same - or else he's not going to let me know."
"What's the catch?" asked Kornilov. By now, he had probably become veteran enough to know that every piece of good news was almost inevitably accompanied by the other kind.
"We've leaked plenty already," grumbled Bakovic, "we'll either have to continue the rest of the way on foot, or use up what little is left and refuel here." Bakovic, of course, knew already which one of the two options they would end up taking; the Kislev Regiments in general had a fond attachment to their mighty war machines, and Bakovic especially wouldn't dare once, not in a millennium, ever be caught abandoning his beloved Bozhe Imperator behind. He looked at the men around him; they were all getting antsy as well.
Which of course then meant that Kornilov and his men would either have to scavenge for prometheum somewhere, or else have to get to work - the Russ's HL230 V12 engine might be able to run on wood in an emergency (and there was plenty of that all around them), but someone would still have to fell a couple trees, mulch 'em up into pulp... yeah, better to just try and commandeer some of the natives' own fuel.
Kornilov looked ahead and noticed two small buildings and a large parking lot. A sign with a long-necked dragon and the name SHELL hung above them. It was clear the place was some kind of vehicle service station. Under the roof, four metal structures with rubber hoses stuck out of the ground - these must have been refueling stations. He looked at the vehicles parked there: six two-part articulated models, each with a shorter driver's cab riding on three tires connected to a boxy trailer. One trailer was red and said COCA-COLA, another was blue with WALMART written in white block letters. The rest were just silver and plain. At the front of the building stood large motorbikes, not as big as Space Marines' attack bikes but still massive.
"Sir, it looks like a refueling station of some kind, sir," remarked Pvt. Tamara, who was seated behind Bakovic, who pointed towards the complex and ordered their driver to take them there. The techpriest made a remark that the fuel they would be collecting was "millennia ahead" of what they had aboard. As Bozhe Imperator rumbled across the grass and into the building, Kornilov and his men jumped out. To their surprise, the door opened and a woman emerged, wearing a short skirt, grey shirt, and some kind of flag on the front with writing he couldn't understand. She was brandishing a firearm, which appeared to be a shotgun, and aimed it at them. Lt. Brankovic shouted from the tank hatch,
"Hail! In the Name Of The Emperor! Citizen, we will be requisitioning your fuel for our tank." Bakovic declared in his best "liberator" style.
The native looked confused at Bakovic's declaration. She shook her head and shouted back. Kornilov was impressed by her resolve - or was it foolishness? He really couldn't tell, but she seemed to be trying to communicate something important. For a moment he thought it might help, but what on terra was "Gawdless-Stovi-kommunists" and "Kommie-natzees", whatever those meant. And on top of all that, she kept waving her shotgun, threateningly.
Pvt Klinov dismounted from the tank and headed to one of the pumps. At this point, the native woman must have lost it or panicked or something, because she fired at Pvt. Klinov. BANG. The Guardsman's flak armor was able to soak up most of the shot, but it was still fired at close enough range that Klinov stumbled backwards, lost his balance, and fell flat on his arse.
" ХРУДИЙ СИН!"swore Klinov, angrily; Kornilov noticed there were fragments and scratches on the Guardsman's faceplate - if not for the full helmets worn by the Kislev tank crewman, the private would have taken shot to the face and eyes, might even be seriously injured.
That's when Pvt. Lukov fired. The lasbolt cut through the air and struck the native woman in the shoulder, causing her left arm to disintegrate in an instant; Kornilov saw the woman's chest rip open, blood spurt from the wound, mingling with skin sheet-white were once her right breast had been. The woman let out a short shriek of pain before slumping over.
Kornilov's men sprung into action; their lasguns crackling and spitting death towards the enemy. He watched with disdain as several of the adversaries sought cover, but he knew that was futile - they had come prepared. With a callous flick of his finger, he adjusted his weapon to high-power mode, took aim at the building where his foes cowered and let loose. There was a loud POP, followed by the acrid smell of burnt wood and screams from within. The others followed suit, unleashing an unrelenting hail of laser fire that devoured the structure until it resembled more erased cheese than a house. In a desperate attempt to flee for their lives, two men fled the scene only to be cut down in their tracks by Kornilov's squad. The counter flashed zero on Kornilov's helmet display - silenced targets were all that remained.
"Hostiles clear," announced Kornilov.
"Load up and move on!" bellowed Bakovic.
The team hustled around securing the area as bozhe imperator pulled up nearby, its heavy treads grinding at the asphalt and maneuvering so that its fuel port aligned with the pump's cord.
Adept Carlo finally emerged from the tank and stepped out onto the ground, clad in his crimson garments and gleaming mechanical enhancements.
"Interesting," he muttered, surveying the disarmed and dismembered body of the first native. "Her apparel appears to be inscribed with words using a language that's been dormant since the first machine spirits were formed."
"What does it say?" Kornilov asked.
"Something along the lines of 'You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead hands'," Carlo replied.
"That's hilarious," Pvt. Lukov laughed. "I guess she wasn't very good with it anyway."
Pvt. Klinov disagreed.
Bypassing the peculiar fuel pumps took Dromio a few minutes, followed by refilling Bozhe with all of the station's remaining fuel (a much more productive use of time than siphoning the fuel from multiple native vehicles). This fuel was definitely far better quality than prometheum itself.
While Bozhe refueled, Kornilov noticed a large metal box standing as tall as a man and painted red - although its glass front had long since been shattered in the crossfire. It too bore the strange wording COCA-COLA in a distinctive typeface. Kornilov peeked inside to discover rows of glass bottles containing a dark liquid which was still cool to the touch, tiny droplets of condensation just beginning to cling to the surfaces.
Kornilov popped open one of the strange glass bottles from the red metal box. A hiss of pressurized gas escaped as he examined the dark, fizzy liquid within.
"Some kind of beverage by the look of it," he mused. The bottle was frosted with condensation - clearly meant to be served chilled.
Kornilov took a tentative sip. A sweet, crisp flavor greeted him, with an effervescent bite. Quite refreshing actually. He took a deeper drink.
"Not bad at all," he declared, smacking his lips. Around him, the rest of the squad had cracked open bottles of their own, slaking their thirsts after the firefight.
Kornilov drained his bottle with relish. As he tossed it aside, a thought struck him. "Adept, can you analyze the contents of these? Something tells me they aren't standard recaf."
The techpriest nodded, waving a mechadendrite bearing an array of sensors over an unopened bottle. He studied the incoming data.
"Fascinating. A highly caffeinated beverage laced with refined sugars," he reported. "And more - various natural extracts and flavorings my sensors cannot fully identify."
Kornilov nodded. Just as he suspected - whatever these pre-Imperium civilizations used to sate their cravings for stimulants. The Squad seemed to be enjoying it at least.
"Load up as many as we can fit," he ordered. "Might prove useful for bartering with the locals, if nothing else."
As the troopers gathered armloads of the bottles, Kornilov watched the fuel gauge on the idling tank. Nearly full. Time to get back underway.
He drained one last bottle before tossing it aside and climbing aboard the freshly fueled Leman Russ. They still had a lot of ground to cover before rendezvousing with the rest of the regiment.
But thanks to their little detour, they now had full tanks and plenty of other supplies to help ease the journey through this strange, uncharted land.
Underneath Capitol Hill
Concordia
"So what exactly is XCOM again? President Ritson asked the woman as they walked through the utilitarian corridor.
"Mr President, XCOM is a unified Military command and deep state intelligence organization. The organization's predecessor, established in 1962 as the Bureau of Operations and Command, a stay-behind military and intelligence network to organize resistance in case of a communist takeover. The Bureau expanded into an internationally supported organization. Its operational "areas of responsibility" has since globally expanded to include all Council Nations and enjoyed the unequivocal support of the Organization of United Nations, with the freedom to act across the world, even during the height of the Cold War. The Bureau of Operations and Command or the Bureau, was created by President John F. Kennedy during the Cold War as a unified command between Cascadia, Concordia, and the Organization of Free Nations affiliated states of Western Euronia.
Its original mission directive was to sustain Continuity of Operations in the event of a sustained invasion and entrenched occupation by the Socialist Coalition of Vostokvakia on Concordian soil. It was intended to provide effective "command and control" to remnants of the Confederation Armed Forces, and if necessary, coordinate them into an insurgency.
Director Myron Faulke creatively interpreted his mandate and used agency funds to identify threats to the United States beyond the Vostokvakians. This put him at odds with General Deems, responsible for funding the Bureau, who considered this line of inquiry pointless and wanted to slash funding and redirect it to other projects."
"So…everyone's in it" Ritson asked, still in disbelief. "Is JFK still alive?"
The woman laughed, "No sir...but as I was saying, ever since the Cold War Ended, and this invasion that's just begun 3 days ago, we've activated protocols..." the two passed by various rooms labelled various things. Ritson could see a few of them were labelled things like "Aquatic Warfare Research Division, etc"
The woman continued leading President Ritson through the sprawling underground complex beneath Capitol Hill.
"After the Cold War, XCOM shifted focus to confronting new global threats - terrorism, technological singularity, and of course, extraterrestrial invasion," she explained.
Ritson shook his head in wonderment as they passed labs filled with strange equipment and researchers in hazmat suits. "And I never had any inkling this place existed right under my nose..."
The woman gave him a wry smile. "To be fair sir, oversight and transparency have never been XCOM's strong suits. We prefer to operate in the shadows."
She swiped her keycard and a thick steel door slid open. Ritson's eyes widened at the sight of the room beyond – Beeping terminals and screens showing maps, news reports, and various generals and leaders.
"This is XCOM's brain, Mr President, from here we fight the war in the shadows. Ritson looked around him in amazement, the entire thing resembled the Cheyanne Complex in NLRAD. As he looked around, he noticed one of the screens had an officer on it, one who seemed to be calling.
"Who is that?" Ritson asked. The woman looked up, and her face seemed to sour slightly.
"Brigadier General Mark Jamison Sheppard" the woman said slightly incensed, "He is the supreme commander of the "United Nations Global Defense Initiative, GDI for short. That man" the woman pointed at another screen showing an Afro-Concordian, "IS Colonel James Solomon, Concordian army, one of his Field Commanders"
"What exactly is UNGDI?" Ritson asked confused.
"Very little is known about UNGDI's history prior to the invasion, other than that its predecessor, known as the "UIS", was active during the Second Great War, and the "Special Operations Group Echo, Black Ops 9", was active prior to 1990. UNGDI itself was officially formed on October 12, 1995, in order to enforce the United Nations Global Defense Act and uphold the ideals of the OAUN Charter, as is endorsed by the Organization of United Nations" the woman seemed to have immense dislike for them.
Ritson stared at Sheppard, the man was fairly well built, with a square jaw, and brown hair. He turned to look at the woman. "Do you dislike UNGDI?"
The woman's face tightened, "Mr President, UNGDI has recently been gaining more and more funds from the international community. Our own funds are rapidly drying up as the OFN decides to fund more into UNGDI, especially the recent Eastern Euronian States. It operates outside the established chain of command. They have their own tactics, and they don't answer to anyone. They've been known to engage in questionable ops and have caused numerous incidents. XCOM has bicker with them on more than one occasion."
Ritson frowned, "That doesn't sound good. What about Colonel Solomon? Is he like that too?"
The woman shook her head, "From what we've seen, Colonel Solomon is a dedicated soldier He's been working closely with XCOM and has been a valuable asset."
"Ma'am, Brig General Sheppard is on the line" an aide spoke up.
"Put him on..." the woman replied unenthusiastically.
"You do realize that Dr Charles Olivetti has been calling you..."
"If the OAUN Secretary general wishes to talk, he can start by telling me why our funding is being cut?"
The large screen flickered to life, showing the stern face of Brigadier General Sheppard. Before he could speak, Dr. Olivetti's voice cut in.
"Now see here, this petty squabbling gets us nowhere! We face the gravest threat in human history, and you bicker over funding?"
Sheppard scowled. "Resources are limited, Doctor. Difficult decisions must be made. My GDI forces have proven highly effective against the invaders in open battle. Meanwhile, your agents skulk in the shadows!"
The XCOM liaison bristled. "Don't underestimate the value of intelligence and unconventional tactics, General."
Colonel Solomon spoke up, his tone measured. "In truth, we need both capabilities. A scalpel and a hammer - precision strikes and overwhelming force."
Dr. Olivetti nodded. "The Colonel speaks wisdom. This is no time for parochialism - we must utilize all assets at our disposal."
Sheppard harrumphed. "Very well, but operational authority must ultimately rest with one unified command." His expression made clear who he thought that should be.
"I think Joint Command is more prudent," countered the XCOM liaison. "Rather than consolidating power, we should coordinate our- "
Olivetti raised a hand. "Enough! The Council will determine the exact chain of command. For now, focus on prosecuting this war with every means available."
He gazed sternly at each of them in turn. "We squandered decades quibbling over ideologies while an extraterrestrial sword hung over our heads. That ends today. We face annihilation if we do not work together."
The others quieted, properly chastened. Olivetti continued, "We will speak again soon. Keep your eyes to the skies and your hands on your weapons. The enemy lurks all around us."
With that, the call blinked out, leaving a thoughtful silence in its wake.
Not Too Far Away.
Nothing had gone right since they'd landed on this ruddy planet. Instead of hitting a major weapons installation like they were told, instead they'd landed at the assigned coordinates and found... this place.
Commissar Ibram Gaunt surveyed the strange settlement surrounding his stranded Ghosts. Nothing about this mission had gone according to plan so far.
Instead of the expected munitions facility, they now found themselves in some sort of civilian recreation area. Primitive looking lodgings dotted the landscape, surrounding a large central body of water. The aquamarine depths were filled with locals cavorting about in all manner of strange garb - sleek one-piece suits, billowing shirts, and flamboyantly patterned floral prints.
Gaunt grimaced as a particularly portly specimen waddled by, nearly bursting out of a ludicrously undersized pair of crimson and white striped shorts.
"Emperor's bowels, look at these pink pasty creatures," grumbled Sergeant Mkoll. "This cannot be the right place."
Gaunt nodded. "Clearly our astropathic coordinates were misinterpreted. The question now is, where in the warp are we?"
He glanced around, taking in the odd markings and signs in unfamiliar languages dotting the area. None of it aligned to any known Imperial cartographic archive.
"Fan out and scout the surroundings," he ordered. "Look for any clues to get our bearings in this blasted place."
As his Ghosts dispersed, Gaunt mulled over this new puzzle. If they weren't on the expected industrial hub world, that left few good options for where they'd ended up.
A stable warp translation should have placed them somewhere in the same system at least. Though clearly that had gone out the window given the pre-Imperial state of this planet.
Answers first, speculation later. For now, they needed intel to regroup and determine their next move in this strange land. The Ghosts would soon ferret out whatever secrets this place held - they always did.
June 5th, 1995 GMT
Lieutenant [REDACTED], Cascadian Navy, Callsign Mother Goose
F/A-18 Hornet Fighter Aircraft
Mission: Classified
The F-18 moved quickly and loudly towards its target. The pilot moving his finger across the joystick lightly, knowing what his mission was. At the moment, knowledge of the operation was limited to twenty different people, but it would soon be known globally. As for the poor bastards the cargo was being delivered against, they should never know.
The pilot's finger hovered over the red button on the joystick. He flipped the cover off, and pressed the button. He then broke off immediately and turned around. He knew what he had done, and he didn't regret it in the slightest.
5th June, 1995 1108 GMT, 0208 Local
The Skies Above Highway M1,
Flight 291,
Myasishchev M-4,
Vostokvakian Air Force,
"Choryt," Major Alaxander Frolov muttered to himself, "That's a lot of tanks."
As the bomber flew above the formation below, he called in to the General in charge of the entire operation to call in the locations of the hostiles. The General not only acknowledged this, but gave the senior officer the orders to take out the formation with the aircraft's nearly forty-eight thousand pound payload. The pilot gave enthusiasm to this and went to perform a go around to properly line up for the bombing run.
As he prepared to empty his aircraft's bomb bay, he knew that this strike would save many lives, as it would show the alien aggressors the might of the Coalition of Unionist Vostokvakian Sovereign republics as well as prevent the armies from having to clash. He gave the order to drop the bombs. As the plane flew past he could see that the enemy was shrewd enough to see the aircraft as a threat and a detachment of interceptors was coming his way to deal with some of his bombers already.
Below, the explosions began engulfing the entire enemy formation.
However, not all of the hostiles that were moving below approaching were out of the action- and most certainly not the aerial enemies. There was at least a squadron of bat shaped fighters airborne, and they were going toe-to-toe to with the SU-24's and YAK-40s that were now dominating the airspace for a few minutes Red Laser beams flew around mixed with missiles and cannon fire of the Vostokvakian fighters, which were almost at an equal footing to their extraterrestrial counterparts
As the planes came back to strafe them, one of the enemy fighters made an attempt to protect the ground troops by firing into the engine of one of the jets as it flew by, as an act of desperation. Out of either luck, or good aim, the laser ended up in the prop of the SU-24's engine. There was an explosion as an entire section of the plane disappeared clean off, but that didn't mean it was over for the pilot inside- the aircraft's canopy flew off and a seat rocketed away from the fuselage, even as the plane pummeled towards the earth below.
"We've got a fighter down, I repeat, Lavarov's going down!"
2213 UTC, 5thJune , 1995
OFNHQ,
Berlin,
Ulraznavian Federation
Specialist John Richardson fished a cigarette out of his camouflaged fatigues pocket and lit it with a Zippo lighter. He could feel the time he had left of his patrol was ticking away as he leaned against an unknown tree in the park. Being based out of Berlin had proven to be rather dull within the two weeks he'd been there. As he looked ahead, he spotted the flashes of his teammates' rifles bobbing up and down.
John hastened to catch up with them, only to watch them all suddenly drop their weapons. Realizing what had just happened, he raised his M16 towards the trees near his squadmates. Quickly, he pressed on the radio transmit button and spoke softly into it,
"Command, priority transmission, this is Papa 3-4, Command, come in."
"Go ahead, Papa 3-4."
"Command, Papa 3-1, 3-2 and 3-3 are down. I repeat, I am all alone out here. I need immediate back up. I don't have eyes on any hostiles."
"Roger, we're sending a Little Bird and two squads. Hang tight, 3-4."
"Roger that Command."
Richardson didn't wait for a reply he moved his rifle towards a bush that he heard something in. Rather than risk his own death, he pulled the trigger. He heard a gasping scream as the rounds hit their mark. He moved closer. Something else moved in the darkness. He pointed his rifle at it. A man holding a water gun. Nothing but a simple, plastic yellow and green, probably five dollar water gun. "Who the hell are you," he said, "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!" He brought the sights of his rifle to his eyes.
The man holding what seemed to be a toy water gun had asked, "Who the hell are you?!" and before he could finish his sentence, the Concordian, already on edge, fired off a burst of 5.56 ammo straight into his chest. A yelp erupted from somewhere nearby as the specialist shifted his aim towards where he thought it had come from - sure enough, there was an oddly armoured man standing there raising his hands up in surrender
Skies over Stendal. Ulraznavia
June 5th, 1995
Major Emmett "ET" Tulia felt the high Gs as his F-16 flew over the small Ulraznavian town that "Breach one in, Fox One!" He screamed down the com, ejecting the Maverick bomb out of the bomb bay, the missile arcing down directly onto the enemy armor, the explosion engulfing the entire column, turning the crews - and the armor - into a fine mist.
The swarm of enemy aircraft and gunships escorting the tanks, however, was not so easily disposed of.
"Stroke-3 you got multiple SAMs on your tail!" Ground control warned. He slammed the countermeasures button. There was a whir as his countermeasures activated, but nothing appeared-Drat! he was out of countermeasures.
"Ground control, I have no active countermeasures, orders?"
There was a beat, before ground control came back online "C'mon Stroke-3 you can do it! You dodged 6 SAMs in the 1991 Gulf conflict"
ET gritted his teeth as he pulled hard on the controls, dipping his plane just out of the way of another incoming missile. He could feel the heat of the explosion on his tail as he pulled up, trying to gain some altitude. He couldn't outrun them, not with his damaged plane. He had to outsmart them.
He banked hard to the left, pushing his plane to its limits as he forced the enemy missiles to follow him. He could hear the whine of the missiles as they came ever closer, but he held his nerve, trusting his instincts.
At the last second, he pulled up and twisted his plane, the missiles flying past harmlessly behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief as he looked out of his cockpit at the retreating missile trails.
"Ground control, this is Stroke-3. I'm still in the game. Send me some backup, over."
"Copy that, Stroke-3. Sending in support now. Hold tight."
Brigadier General Radl Korvus
Hydra-Phoenix SAM/Flak Battery
2211st Cadian Shock Troop Regiment
He growled in frustration, not only was the primitive aircraft dodging his Hydra Flak Tanks, but also his Phoenix SAM's, without countermeasures no less!
He watched as the aircraft flew through his anti-aircraft defenses with ease. His Hydra-Flak tanks and Phoenix SAMs were no match for the nimble fighter jet. And yet, he refused to give up. As a highly decorated member of the 2211st Cadian Shock Troop Regiment, he knew that his duty was to protect the God-Emperor of Mankind's skies from any and all threats, no matter how advanced they may be.
"Keep firing! Don't let that plane get away!" he barked into his radio, knowing that his soldiers could hear him. The sound of gunfire and missiles filled the air as his troops continued their barrage, determined to take down the enemy aircraft. But it was all in vain, as the aircraft continued to evade their attacks with ease.
Korvus growled in frustration. He couldn't understand how this primitive aircraft was besting his highly advanced
anti-aircraft defenses. He was about to give the order to reload when his vox crackled to life.
"General, this is Lieutenant Sorenson. We've got enemy ground troops moving in on our position. Should we fall back?"
Korvus gritted his teeth. This was not the news he wanted to hear. "Negative, Lieutenant. Hold your ground. I'll send reinforcements your way."
He quickly ordered a squad of his best shock troops to move in and provide backup for Sorenson's team. As the squad made their way to the front lines, Korvus couldn't help but wonder how this war had gotten so out of hand. They had been fighting the rebels for days now, and things were only getting worse. The enemy seemed to have endless amounts of advanced weaponry, and their soldiers were highly skilled and trained. It was a war unlike any other he had fought in before.
But Korvus was not one to back down from a challenge….
The Pentagon
Confederation of Concordia
5th June 1995
"God damn it… Jesus Christ, god damn it!"
Captain Pullman shot out of his chair, racing over to the duty officer. He was staring down, his eyes wide and his face pale, shaking his head in numb disbelief.
"Slater, what is it?"
"I can't believe it; I just can't believe it!"
"Slater!"
Slater punched his desk.
"My wife packed PB&J again! "
Pullman deflated as Slater hurled the sandwich to the side in bitter disgust.
It was early morning in Washington - the sun had barely risen over the horizon, and Slater and Pullman had been given the second watch of the day. In this day of computer consoles and advanced radar, that generally meant staring at a screen waiting for any sinister red dots to appear on their little green maps of the continent of North Liberia-Concordia, Cascadia, San Trento and Halifax. As duty officer, Slater was technically in command - it was his job to call out the moment something appeared.
"Helpful hint, Slater; maybe don't start calling out for God's mercy over a sandwich while you're the duty officer," grunted Pullman. "Christ, man, I thought Stovie paratroopers were dropping on Fifth Avenue."
"I hate peanut butter! She knows I hate peanut butter!" Slater shook his head. "But nooo , it's good for me - maybe if I rashed up and died she'd get the point. Hell of a way to start the day."
"She knows, does she?" Pullman raised his eyebrow. "You actually tell her that?"
"No, but… I figure she'd work it out, you know?" grunted Slater. "It's a spread, not a rocket science. I swear, I just… sweet Jesus."
"Hey, you'll get over it, man."
"Sweet Jesus, sweet mother of Mary, oh god…"
"Oh, what is it now, Slater?" demanded Pullman. "She forget to pack you any poptarts? You are such a drama…"
"Pullman."
Pullman frowned as Slater continued staring at the radar screen, his face now drained of all color. This wasn't just another sandwich grievance.
"Slater, report. What do you see?" he asked sharply, leaning over the console.
Slater swallowed hard, pointing a trembling finger at the screen. "Multiple bogeys just appeared over the western seaboard. Big ones. Signature matches the alien vessels from three days ago."
Pullman felt his guts turn to ice. "How many? What's their trajectory?"
Slater tapped at the console, magnifying the sensor readout. "Two capital ships accompanied by smaller escorts. On course for Manhattan and Philadelphia."
Pullman was already snatching up the red phone to NORAD command. "Get me the Joint Chiefs and the President now! We have a Code Red alert on the East Coast!"
As alarms began blaring, he turned to Slater. "Scramble all Area Combat Air Patrol squadrons for immediate intercept. And get our surface batteries and missile defenses on high alert."
Slater nodded, relaying the orders with admirable speed despite his obvious shock. Pullman clutched the receiver tighter as the President came on the line, dreading the words he had to say next.
"Mr. President, multiple enemy craft are inbound with a trajectory towards major population centers. Your orders sir?"
There was silence on the line for a beat before the Commander-in-Chief spoke, his voice grave. "You are authorized to use any and all means necessary to defend our nation, Captain."
Pullman stiffened his spine. "It will be done Mr. President."
Replacing the receiver, he turned to Slater. Slater turned on his chair, looking Pullman directly in the eye. Behind him, Pullman could make out blinking lights on his screen, just beyond the Concordian coastline, red in color.
"Get General Carville," said Slater. " Now. " Outside the windows, air raid sirens began their mournful howl across the capital. The battle was about to be joined once more.
Beale Air Force Base, California
June 5th, 1995
"...this is Beale, we're receiving you CENTCOM, go ahead."
…
"Yes sir, we are picking up multiple contacts incoming - confidence is high. Looks like conventional air forces, possibly escorting transports but we cannot confirm at this time. More than three hundred contacts and growing on the west coast. CENTCOM, is this an exercise?"
…
"Roger that, this is not an exercise…"
The Pentagon
Day 4
June 5th
"...Beale and Clear are both picking up alien aerial activity, sir. We can't raise Cape Cod."
General Ben Carville grimaced, moustache twitching, as he did up his top button, marching out of his office as he did so. One arm was already in his service jacket as he began to grapple with his tie.
"You wanna tell me how in Sam Hell they got this close?" he demanded.
"No idea, sir." Colonel Fraser shook his head as he followed Carville through the halls of the Pentagon. "Navy's as stumped as we are - where we can raise them, anyway."
"They're scrambling our comms?"
"Likely," the Colonel replied. "We can't raise Pearl or San Diego. All our bases on the southern border are dark. Either they've jammed us or…"
"...or the aliens are already on top of us." Carville gritted his teeth as he pulled on his jacket. "Belt."
Fraser handed the general his belt.
"We've constructed as much of the situation as we can on the Big Board," said Fraser. "It's… not a good look sir."
They emerged into the command centre - a dark, wide room lit by the cool blue and green glows of computer screens, all in the shadow of the Big Board, a world map that showed strategic movements as soon as they were reported. Carville wrinkled his nose as he looked up at the situation.
The Southwest was completely dark - it was as if all activity, Allied or Alien, had been scrubbed from Texas to Arizona, and as far north as southern Kansas and Colorado. At every other angle, save from the north, red arrows were approaching the coast, most of which seemed to come from random points in the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. Some lights were already blinking, indicating possible attack - Cape Cod, San Diego and Anchorage for now, but Carville was certain this was only the beginning.
"Teleporters," he said.
"Big enough to transport an entire army?" Fraser said incredulously.
Carville shot him a dirty look.
"You got any better ideas, Colonel?" he demanded.
"I… no sir."
"That's what I thought."
Carville shook his head.
"Has the President been informed?" he asked.
"We were waiting on you, sir," said Fraser.
"Well then get me the damn phone," snapped Carville.
Colonel Fraser quickly handed General Carville the red telephone to the Oval Office. As alarms continued blaring throughout the Pentagon, Carville steeled himself before picking up the receiver.
"This is General Carville reporting in Mr. President," he said without preamble. "I'm afraid the situation has taken a drastic turn for the worse."
He briskly relayed the reports coming in from across the country - communications blackouts, massive enemy movements detected off both coasts, claims of alien teleporter technology allowing them to bypass defenses. The picture it painted was dire.
President Ritson listened gravely from the XCOM facility, asking occasional terse questions. Carville could sense the enormous weight settling onto the man's shoulders. The fate of the nation, perhaps the world, now rested in his hands.
"Your orders, Mr. President?" Carville asked when he had finished his sitrep. Heavy silence greeted him at first.
"I want a general mobalization issued immediately," Ritson said at last. "Ready our remaining nuclear arsenal for launch. And may God have mercy on us all."
Carville nodded grimly. "It will be done, sir."
Hanging up the phone, he turned to address the room. "Red alert, this is not a drill! All forces prepare for imminent large-scale attack. Get me field commanders on the horn ASAP. Nukes are now an authorized defense option."
The room erupted into activity as officers rushed to relay orders across branches and theaters. Carville straightened his uniform jacket, jaw set. Win or lose, they would give the invaders one hell of a fight on North Liberia soil.
"Alright people, this is it," he barked. "No retreat, no surrender! We hold the line here today, whatever the cost!"
Yes! I have finally cut our beleagured defenders some slack and given them help. In the form of some of the most iconic characters an organizations in RTS history. First off we have XCOM, no intros needed, it's a classic, and then we have the Global Defense Initiative! Of course this one is from the game Tiberian Dawn. And finally, to add the the cherry on top, it's everybody's favorite Texan general Ben Carville himself from Command and Conquer Red Alert 2.
I'll let you in on a little secret ladies and gents, some surprsise appearences in future chapters will include: Anton Slavik, as an East Ulraznavian paramilitary commander, Agent Tanya (Red Alert 2 Version), Micheal McNeil and a few others
On the IOM Side we have Commissar Ibram Guant and his "Ghosts" and last but not least, The Kislev from Warhammer Fantasy rebranded as a Guard Regiment from the Kislevite System. Also soon to appear, is Warhammer Fantasy's Empire of Man, known in (my version of ) 40k as The Reikspiel System, as well as Bretonnia and the others