Chapter-23

Please Remain Calm

Imperial Flagship Divine Right
Day-4 of the Scolarisian Crusade

Lord Admiral Vallin studied the holographic display intently as the second wave of assaults commenced across Scundus Americanus. Initial landings had secured beachheads along the western coast, as well as various other nations of the continent and now it was time to push inland.

"The 27th Terrax Guard reports heavy resistance around this population center, my lord," reported Captain Trevine, indicating a spot on the continent's northern region. "Their armor columns are bogged down by enemy emplacements."

Vallin nodded. "Deploy squadrons 43 through 47 to support with air strikes. That should clear a path for their advance."

Other officers called out status updates from various invasion points. Vallin absorbed it all, directing reinforcements and artillery barrages where needed to keep up the momentum.

On other displays, additional landings were underway across the other 6 primary continental masses identified by probe ships. Resistance seemed fiercest on the western landmass of Scundus Americanus, dubbed "Concordia" by some recovered data archives.

But no matter. The might of the Imperial Navy would sweep away all before it in time. These primitives could never hope to stand against the God-Emperor's righteous armies. That was what the priests said

"My lord, our forces have broken through the enemy lines along the southern coastline." More markers indicating shattered enemy formations appeared.

Vallin allowed himself a tight nod at the report. "Press the advance. Seize their population centers and strategic resources."

Vallin was intrigued as he watched it all unfold from his tactical map, their technology was allowing them to hinder his forces, and truth be told it was proving to be a strategic chess match. They'd had taken most of the eastern coastline and were fortifying it. Vallin clasped his hands behind his back as he surveyed the ongoing invasion operations, cognizant of the murmured prayers and praises to the God-Emperor from the rest of the bridge crew. In truth, he did not share their fervent devotion, but rank required a show of conformity.

Privately, he considered much of the Ecclesiarchy's rhetoric mere superstition, no matter how heretical that notion would be if voiced aloud. He was here to do a job - crush their enemies through superior strategy and firepower. Appeals to faith did not factor into that calculation.

And so far, it was proving to be a more difficult undertaking than anticipated.

The segmented continents designated Secundus Americus and Scundus Eurova were hotbeds of resistance, their strange technologies proving a match for Imperial armor and airpower. Their aircraft moved with unnatural speed, sowing disorder in landing zones before his Lightnings could eliminate them.

Meanwhile, initial optimism over a swift planetary conquest was giving way to realization that this world's human population was nearly equal that of Holy Terra itself. Billions of people, fiercely resisting the "liberation" of their homeworld.

Vallin's lips thinned as petitions for reinforcements from ground commanders scrolled past. The first euphoric rush of the crusade was colliding with cold reality. Perhaps a reassessment of tactics was required after all.

"Signal the Fleet. Priority reinforcement requests are to be temporarily suspended pending strategic review. Local commanders will consolidate positions and reserves from existing assets."

Around him, gazes lowered in surprise. Vallin simply turned back to the hololith, hands still clasped.

"The blood of martyrs alone will not carry this campaign. We require a scalpel's care, not blind zealotry."

Murmurs greeted this, but none dared openly question him. When faced with harsh truths, even zealots needed pragmatists.

And Vallin was nothing if not ruthlessly pragmatic.

New York, Confederation of Concordia

June-5th

Day-4

1995

He'd only just flown out, but Colonel Jeramiah Sawyer, callsign Eagle-Six could tell his new command was already in a complete shamble. Ruins however was a better term.

He looked out the window as the big Nighthawk helicopter as it soared along the Hudson River. In the distance, Brooklyn was already ablaze, smoke pouring into the sky - she could see the shapes of giant airships dropping their payloads indiscriminately into the borough. Manhattan didn't look much better - the airships had yet to reach it, he could see the shapes of enemy infantry and light vehicles in Battery Park, and enemy gunships approaching Liberty Island at speed.

"Where's this fort?" he called.

"Just north of Red Hook, sir, other side of the Brooklyn Bridge from Manhattan!" the pilot called. "If it's still holding, that is!"

Sawyer took off his PASGT helmet, running a hand through his receding hair. It had been a dismal morning, and it promised to get worse. He grimaced as he surveyed the chaos enveloping New York. The Big Apple was under assault from all sides, its defenders scattered and overwhelmed. Liberty Island was already swarmed with alien troops, and central Manhattan would soon follow. The Hudson offered a natural firebreak, but once they pushed through Brooklyn, the city would become a war zone.

And if the rumors were true, the aliens weren't taking prisoners. This promised to be a fight to the death.

Sawyer steeled himself as the helicopter approached the fort commander's last known location. He didn't know the officer in charge, but any bastion still holding out amidst this maelstrom would be vital to retain.

As they circled over the distinctive star-shaped fort, Sawyer was relieved to see Old Glory still flying defiantly over the parapets. The walls bristled with sandbags, troops, and mounted weapons indicative of a major defense point.

"Set us down in the central courtyard," Sawyer ordered the pilot. "Quickly now, they won't hesitate to shoot us down."

The Blackhawk flared and touched down just inside the fort's inner gate. Sawyer jumped out, ducking instinctively as gunfire crackled in the distance. The situation here seemed stable for the moment, but it was only a matter of time.

Approaching the nearest group of defenders, Sawyer identified himself. "Colonel Sawyer here to reinforce and resupply. Who's in command?"

A grizzled sergeant jerked his thumb. "Major Walsh. Over there by the mortars."

Sawyer headed in that direction, taking stock of the fort's defenses as he went. They were well dug-in and supplied for now thanks to the helicopters, but without relief soon they'd be totally cut off behind enemy lines. Presently he arrived at the command post, where a group of men and woman in their M81 Woodland BDU's were clustered around terminals. Major Walsh was a relatively young looking Afro-Concordian, who was currently talking into the encrypted C-comm set. Swayer looked backwards to see his two accompanying companions, Capt James Webb, another Afro Concordian and 2nd Lieutenant Danial Parker, his young face wide in disbelief. A combat vet, this was way too extreme, even for him.

"You the one in charge?" Sawyer asked over the sound of gunfire and beeping terminals Walsh was done with her call.

"Yessir, me and Major Biggs" Walsh replied.

"Who's that?"

"Major Danville Biggs, 69th Infantry Regiment!" Major Biggs replied, casually saluting. He had a Westinghouse carbine M19 laser assault rifle, otherwise known as a laser M4. "Colonels in Washington and the base commander got blown halfway to Atlanta, so we're all you've got!" Biggs exclaimed.

"What's the situation?" demanded Sawyer he noticed another helicopter land outside.

"Bad and getting worse!" replied Biggs. "The enemies are ashore at Red Hook, and they're establishing beachheads everywhere from Coney Island to Bay Ridge. Their air force and ground troops are blasting everything that moves, but the main problem is Governors Island. They're trying to set up missile batteries of some sort there. Once those things are up, they'll be able to flatten us - and Manhattan."

"What do we have?"

"Apart from our regiment, nearly nothing," said Walsh. "We've got light infantry, a few anti-tank rockets and the gun positions you would've seen on your way in. We can hold out against infantry attacks, but if they send much heavy armor, we're done. I'm trying to raise any National Guard units or the Chair Force, but communications are in chaos."

"If we can get through to the air force, how long can you hold?" asked Sawyer.

"An hour, two tops," replied Biggs. "That's if we can get rid of those positions on Governors Island.

Sawyer had never seen worst odds ever in his career. He crossed his arms. "Carville told me there'd be a commando active here," he said. "I suppose that tells us where she is."

"...right," Biggs scratched the back of his head. "But that doesn't get us the air force…"

"Major Biggs, Walsh! Patrol coming in from the south - hostiles are hot on their heels!"

Biggs turned - a lieutenant was standing on the southern rampart, the men around her already opening up with covering fire. Swiftly, Biggs and Walsh ran in her direction, Sawyer, Webb and Parker on their heels.

Sawyer peered over the parapet, eyes widening as the patrol sprinted for the fort's gate while a horde of hostiles swept after them. He'd never seen soldiers like these - mouths and noses obscured by rebreather masks, clad in greatcoats and archaic-looking armor. They charged heedlessly through blistering fire from the fort's defenders, boots trampling the bodies of the fallen without pause.

"How many are we looking at?" Sawyer asked Walsh tersely.

She grimaced. "Two, maybe three companies worth at least."

Sawyer swore under his breath. That many fanatical hostiles would overrun this position for sure. "We need to thin them out. Mortars, give me a barrage, one hundred meters out from the gate!"

The mortar crews sprang into action as Walsh relayed the coordinates. Moments later, shells rained down, churning the advancing ranks into bloody craters. But still they kept coming, scrambling over the bodies of their slain comrades.

"They're not stopping, sir!" shouted a defender. Sawyer scowled. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

"All weapons, switch to incendiaries! We'll greet them with a wall of flame."

At his command, the fort's automated turrets and handheld weapons unleashed jets of burning fuel. The troopers vanished into an inferno; their screams audible even over the roar of the flames.

When at last the blaze died down, only scattered twitching forms remained on the scorched earth. Walsh blew out a breath. "That's done them. Nice work sir."

Sawyer simply reloaded his rifle grimly. "It's only the first wave. Dig in!"

Howling war cries echoed from surrounding buildings. These fanatics were just the vanguard - the real battle was about to begin.

Imperial FOB,

a few Hundred miles away

Pvt Decius Moran screamed into his Vox again as 4 men were killed in front of him. As the squad's vox caster, he carried the bulky set on his back. This meant that he moved slower than the average guardsman.

"Pvt, repeat again...what is the size of the assaulting force?" his vox crackled.

"1 female unaugmented human, like us" he whimpered..."No signs of corruption, but she's tearing through us!"

The vox was silent, minus the hissing and white noise, "What?" the voice on the other end exclaimed. "Private, describe the attacking force correctly!"

"I'm telling you" He sobbed hysterically "A bitch swam through the water and entered the FOB; she's wearing a wetsuit and is tearing everything apart! with two slug pistols."

Moran cowered behind crates of munitions as screams and gunfire echoed through the supply depot. The madwoman had come out of nowhere, rising from the waters surrounding their forward operating base and slicing through the perimeter guards before they could react.

Now she was rampaging through the heart of the base, twin slug pistols dealing death with uncanny accuracy. He had seen her drop two of his squadmates with clean headshots in the blink of an eye before diving for cover.

His vox-caster crackled as the astonished officer on the other end tried to make sense of his panicked reports.

"A single enemy saboteur could not possibly inflict such damage," the voice insisted. "Are you certain you are not mistaken?"

Another explosion rocked the building, nearly deafening Moran through his helmet vox. "Throne damn you, just send reinforcements!" he shouted over the bedlam. "She's tearing this whole damn base apart!"

The reply was lost as a slug pistol round ricocheted off Moran's cover, sending him scrambling away in terror. All around, stacks of munitions and fuel canisters were being targeted, each exploding with greater ferocity.

Through the acrid smoke, Moran glimpsed the attacker - lithe, clad in some form of slick black aquatic garb. Her eyes were hidden behind night-vision goggles, but the predatory grin was unmistakable as she sighted down on him.

Moran turned to run, but his escape was cut off as she detonated the last demolitions crate. The world erupted into searing light and pressure.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Moran recognized the irony. The unbelieving officer's hesitation had doomed them all. Underestimating this deadly warrior was the last mistake anyone here would ever make.

Then the shockwave took him, and Moran thought no more.

Governors Island.

New York City

Confederation of Concordia.

The main headquarters building of the enemy Forward Operating Base burst into flames. A few burning bodies could be seen running off before falling down, twitching. A few survivors just sat mutely. The CO was nowhere to be seen, a fanatic of the regime and war veteran, he'd died honorably in the line of duty.

Not that he'd been given much of a choice.

In truth, no matter what the invader propaganda propaganda would inevitably say, the heavy jowled old man had died in surprise to a hail of bullets, as had most of his officers. Agent Tanya knew this because she'd put them there.

She had just pulled herself out of the Hudson River, at the picnic point at the southwest of Governors Island. The black wetsuit she'd 'liberated' from the Navy shimmered in the midmorning sunlight, and she had pulled the hood off to free her reddish-brunette hair. She put a hand to her left cheek - when she pulled it away, she saw blood on her index finger. That had been from a bayonet that had nicked her thanks to an enemy trooper nearly getting lucky, and she supposed that'd be a scar.

Oh well. Scars added character, she supposed.

She was about to stand up when she heard a crackling voice through her earpiece.

"Agent, are you receiving?"

She pressed her fingers to her right ear.

"Tanya reporting."

"This Colonel Jeremiah Sawyer at Fort Bradley. Where are you?"

"Bottom of Governors Island," Tanya replied. "Can't see any invader patrols - think I'm good for the moment."

"Good. I've sent a strike force to the Manhattan side of the island - we need to take out anti-air and artillery positions to clear the way for the air force. I need you to support them."

"No time for a breather, huh?" Tanya said dryly.

"That wasn't a request, agent. Get on it."

Tanya sighed as the transmission cut out. So much for a moment's rest after infiltrating and destroying the enemy base singlehandedly. Duty called once more.

Rolling her shoulders, she did a quick weapons check. Her twin M911 pistols were locked and loaded, plasma charges glowing hot. She also had a bandolier of grenades and C4 for any heavier targets.

Swiftly reloading her twin pistols, she slipped back into the water and began swimming for Manhattan. The cold enveloped her, but the insulated wetsuit kept the chill at bay and allowed her to glide through the currents with minimal resistance.

Soon she reached the northern shore right near the artillery batteries the strike team was targeting. Pulling herself onto land, Tanya allowed herself a small sigh of satisfaction at the scene unfolding.

The enemy gunners were in complete disarray as the strike team laid down suppressing fire from their landing craft. They were too preoccupied to notice a single infiltrator slipping up to place demo charges on the artillery.

Minutes later Tanya clicked the detonator, blowing the guns to smoldering wreckage. Through the smoke, the strike team waved their thanks before continuing their advance.

Tanya waved back before disappearing into the city, ready to cause more mayhem. This was shaping up to be a fun day after all. Blowing these alien freaks back to whatever hellhole they crawled out of was turning out to be most entertaining.

She almost hoped their shattered chain of command would force them to dig in and fortify. It would make hunting them down all the more sport.

Grinning fiercely, Tanya slipped into the shadows in search of her next mark. The party was just getting started.

Fort Bradly

Sawyer in the meantime was quickly trying to send an e-mail through when someone entered the shed that was now his "Office."

"Special Agent Tanya Adams, reporting as ordered sir" Carville's commando, it had to be her. She wore a desert tan Sports bra, camouflaged pants and military boots. Her hair was dark brown, and a dog tag was hung around her neck. In short, the most unorthodox looking commando he'd ever seen.

Tanya stood at attention, though there was an air of casual insolence to her posture that no ordinary soldier would dare display to a superior officer. Sawyer eyed her critically. Clearly this agent was used to operating outside normal hierarchy.

"At ease, Special Agent," he said. "I've heard a lot about you from General Carville. Seems you have a habit of accomplishing the impossible."

Tanya flashed a razor grin. "Let's just say I aim to misbehave, sir."

Sawyer raised an eyebrow. "Carville also mentioned you have authority issues. Is that going to be a problem, Agent?"

Her grin faded, eyes glinting dangerously. Sawyer tensed, but she simply replied, "I do what needs doing by any means necessary. Don't much care about stepping on brass toes."

Sawyer nodded slowly. "Fair enough. As long as you follow orders in the field, we'll get along fine."

Tanya gave a mock salute. "Sir yes sir. Though if I may make a suggestion, I'd focus more on keeping your men alive than disciplining me."

Sawyer bristled slightly but had to acknowledge her point. "Noted. Now gear up - I'm sending you and Lt. Parker on a vital mission."

He outlined the objectives, impressed when she asked insightful questions rather than blind obedience. She might be impertinent, but her competency was undeniable.

As Tanya departed to prepare, Sawyer allowed himself a small smile. With this wild card operative under his command, perhaps they had a chance after all. The enemy wouldn't know what hit them.

Outside

2nd Liutenant Ryan Daniel Parker inserted another M16 mag before he noticed the shadow looming above him. Compared to his full uniform-M81 woodland BDU and PASGT gear, this woman wore minimal

"You Parker?" she asked tersly.

"Yeah" Parker replied, on edge. The woman grunted a little before sitting down next to him and preparing to clean two twin M1911 pistols.

"The Colonel says I'm assigned to you" she said unenthusiastically.

Parker looked up warily as the infamous Special Agent Tanya Adams stood over him. Her disdainful expression made it clear she was less than thrilled with this assignment.

"So, you're the new meat, huh?" she remarked, looking him up and down. "Didn't realize they were assigning raw Lieutenants to me these days."

Parker bristled slightly but kept his tone professional. "Graduated top of my class at the Academy, ma'am. I may be new, but I know my business."

Tanya smirked. "Cute. Well, this isn't school anymore, butterbar. Here's a tip - stay out of my way and try not to get us both killed."

She checked her pistols with the ease of long familiarity before sliding them into holsters. "I'm used to working alone. Having a babysitter tag along doesn't thrill me."

Parker stood, looking her in the eye unflinchingly. "Understood. But I give the orders on tactical ops. Follow my lead and we'll accomplish our mission."

Tanya's smirk widened. "Ooh, big talk from the newbie. Alright Lieutenant, impress me out there and maybe I'll take you seriously."

She headed for the door, tossing a mocking salute over her shoulder. "Just try not to slow me down too much."

Parker's jaw tightened, but he said nothing as he grabbed his gear. Rank aside, he intended to prove his mettle to this insolent operative. And before this war was over, earn her respect. Checking his gear one last time, he walked out of the little room and joined the short haired brunette. "They say you get the best results through unconventional tactics."

She snorted derisively. "Unconventional is one word for it, Lieutenant."

Parker's eyes narrowed, but he kept his tone level. "However, you got those results in the past, on this op we do things by the book. You follow my lead, no questions."

"Oh don't worry, I'm not really a question asker," she shot back with a razor grin. Before Parker could respond, she slammed a clip into each pistol and stopped.

"Relax, I'll play nice..." she added in a patronizing tone. Parker bit back an angry retort with effort.

As they headed out, he made a mental note to keep this infuriating woman on a short leash. Her skills may be useful, but he wouldn't let her insubordination jeopardize this mission.

They might clash, but Parker is determined to prove he can command this operation and keep even mavericks like Tanya Adams under control. Their lives depended on it.

The Pentagon.

Confederation of Concordia.

June-5th, 1995.

Day-4 of WW3

The War Room was a mess. Officers were running too and fro, and radio equipment had been set up on the big, circular table. Everyone was shouting; in the distance, they could all hear the faint thud of artillery fire. In the midst of it all was General Carville, gazing intently at the big board.

At this stage, it was almost worthless. The Pentagon was operating in the dark; communications had nearly completely broken down. He had vague reports from the northeast of alien tanks rolling through Boston, a few more of small Imperial vessels in the Pacific, and absolutely nothing from the southwest. He'd been cut off halfway through a panicked call from NLRAD, trying to work out where any Southern Command troops were; now he was down to whatever he could contact by radio.

"Fort Wool, are you receiving? Fort Wool, are you receiving?"

"Cape Charles, come in Cape Charles. Cape Charles, come in."

"This is Langley, we are under heavy fire, I repeat…"

"…Norfolk is on fire, we can't confirm if the fleet got out…"

"...they took Quantico?! That's only forty minutes away!"

"...where is General Steinberg? …what? …get him on the line!"

Carville sighed and rubbed his forehead in disbelief. He was staring at one of the worst military catastrophes in the history of the Confederation of Concordia, even surpassing military doctrines and conventions. Who were these people? What did they want?

At least he was maintaining his composure. The Vice-Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Kingston, leaned over the table, eyes wide and moustache bristling.

"General! Admiral!" A voice called from behind them. It was Colonel Fraser.

"Never mind saluting, what news do you have?" Carville asked.

"I got through to General Steinberg," Fraser replied. "He told me that his tanks have been hit hard near Ulraznavtown on I-270…too many casualties…he can't attack, sir, he's retreating westward…"

Kingston nearly exploded with anger. His eyes widened and his moustache bristled as he screamed at Fraser. "He's not attacking?! But that was an order I gave him! An ORDER! His fist against the table. "I gave Steinberg a GODDAMN order!" He hit his fist down again for emphasis.

"Sir, I..."

"Don't you staff officers know that?!" Kingsten grabbed onto Fraser's tie and pulled him close. "I was serving on a battleship during last war while you were at West Point learning how to hold a fork and spoon! Call Steinberg back and tell him that if he doesn't attack, we're all going to die! DIE! WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE!"

"Get a hold of yourself Kingston, you're not gonna die," grunted Carville.

Kingston screamed at the ceiling and marched off, shoving Fraser into the table. The staff officer slumped on the floor, dazed.

"You alright, son?" asked Carville.

"A… a little shaken, sir," replied Fraser.

Carville helped Fraser to his feet, keeping a steady hand on the shaken officer's shoulder. Around them, the cacophony of the War Room continued unabated.

"Pay Kingston's bellowing no mind," Carville said gruffly. "Man always did have a flair for dramatics."

He cast a critical eye over Fraser, ensuring he was unharmed. Satisfied, he gave a curt nod and gripped the officer's shoulder firmly.

"You did good son, getting that intel from Steinberg. Losing your head won't help a damn thing now. What we need is cool heads and resolute action."

Carville scanned the room, raising his voice to cut through the din. "All right people, listen up! I want sitreps from any intact commands within fifty miles of the capital. Get me locations on our strategic reserves and any uncommitted armored units still in the fight."

The staff leapt into action, spirits bolstered by the General's steady confidence. Carville watched them work, mind churning through scenarios.

The situation was undeniably grim. But defeatism wouldn't carry the day - only decisive leadership in the face of the enemy onslaught. And by God, Ben Carville aimed to provide it.

Turning to Fraser, Carville allowed himself a wry half-smile. "Once more unto the breach, eh Colonel? We'll make these alien bastards pay an ocean of blood for every inch of Concordian soil."

Clapping Fraser on the back, he turned to study the Big Board. Hard days loomed ahead, but General Carville would face them without flinching. There was no other choice now.

"Listen, we ain't gonna die, son," said Carville. "If the cavalry ain't coming, we'll just have to mount up ourselves. We got IFVs, don't we? We'll get out to Andrews and fly from there."

"But they have air superiority, sir," said Fraser.

"We got somethin' better, son."

For the first time, Carville smiled.

"We got the craziest damn pilots in the world."

The Pentagon, Day 4, June 5th, 1995

"Anyone who isn't ready in five minutes is staying here!"

Two MPs went to a closet at the corner of the room and revealed rows of weapons. Carville whistled in admiration, "This would be great for a deer hunt- is that a Tommy Gun?"

"Your predecessor liked them, sir," answered one of the MPs. "He would go down to the shooting range with Director Hoover every Friday. May he rest in peace."

"I don't think he's resting with God," mumbled Fraser.

"Do not speak ill of the dead, Fraser," said Carville as he reached into the closet. "Tommy Guns are alright but me? I like the classics."

He pulled out an old lever-action rifle and faced the other officers who had gathered behind him. All of them exchanged nervous glances before he spoke up again.

"Everyone takes a gun," he commanded. "Nobody on my transport should be unarmed if we need defense. No questions?"

All of them wordlessly gravitated towards different firearms from pistols to rifles until only one remained: a young marine lieutenant took hold of a Tommy Gun with a wide grin on her face.

"When am I ever going to get this chance again?," she asked excitedly.

"That's the spirit," Carville smiled encouragingly. "Johnson! You will command the lead vehicle." He then pointed his finger at him warningly and added, jokingly, "Please, for your own safety, do not operate the machine gun turret!"

"Heh, I can't make any promises sir," Johnson chuckled lightly.

Carville clapped Johnson on the back before turning to the other officers, "I'll take the rear position and make sure nothing comes up behind us." They nodded before he realized something was missing.

"Where's Kingston?" he asked suddenly.

A staff officer spoke up saying nervously, "He shot himself sir.

Carville paused dejectedly before concluding with a sigh; "Dang, Alright let's saddle up."

Carville grimaced at the news about Kingston but didn't dwell on it. They had a convoy to organize. "Fraser, you're with me riding shotgun," he barked. "Get the most experienced drivers for the other vehicles. And make sure the President's limo is well covered front and rear."

The staff officers scrambled to carry out his orders. Before long, an eclectic mix of vehicles was idling in the motor pool - sturdy sedans and SUVs interspersed with deuce-and-a-half trucks loaded with weapons and supplies and M6 Gavin and M2 Bradley IFV's.

Carville did a final weapons check before climbing into an armored Suburban, Fraser riding next to him. The young Lieutenant offered a jaunty salute, Tommy Gun braced between her knees as she manned the top-mounted machine gun.

Satisfied, Carville gave the signal to move out. Tires squealed on concrete as the convoy lurched into motion, speeding out of the Pentagon's wrecked gates towards their rendezvous with President Ritson.

Flights of alien aircraft streaked by overhead, but surprisingly did not engage the convoy. Carville kept his rifle close at hand regardless as they weaved through apocalyptic city streets.

"No stopping for anything, not even a piss break!" Carville radioed the convoy. "Next stop, NORAD. Let's haul ass, people!"

Engines revving, the motley assemblage raced northwest, bent on escape from the besieged capital. Come hell or high water, Carville would see the President safely to their last redoubt in the mountains.

After that - well, just getting there would be victory enough for today. Tomorrow's trials would come soon enough.

UNKNOWN AREA

Callidus Assasin Ala'niya Oris hung from the rafter in one of the many rooms the rebel building had. This "Pentegram" seemed to be the main millitary command centre, although for the past hour, it was getting emptied. Like some great bat, she was currently hanging inside what seemed like a service closet, which only had one other occupant, a mustached man wearing a heavy black and gold coat with a white peaked cap and an autopistol as well as a hole in his head and a pool of blood (not her handiwork).

Ala'niya frowned as she surveyed the scene below from her hidden perch, the dead man's blood still dripping slowly. Clearly there had been some drama amidst the rebel leadership. Most disturbing was their hasty preparation to evacuate towards some redoubt to the northwest.

She quickly activated her comm-bead with a subtle click. "My lord, this is Assassin Ala'niya reporting. It appears the rebel high command is attempting escape from their capital citadel. They are led by a bald general who seems to wield much authority."

There was a burst of static before Inquisitor Enoch's harsh tones replied. "Do not let them slip away so easily! Track their movements but do not engage directly. I will dispatch forces to intercept."

Ala'niya allowed herself a small smile. "Of course, my lord. The exits are covered and I will monitor their heading once underway."

"Good. With the leaders dead or captured, this world's defiance will quickly crumble." Enoch cut the link, clearly turning his attention to directing the interception.

Settling in to wait, Ala'niya kept vigil on the room below. She had been taught patience above all else. Soon enough, the tainted leaders would be in her grasp, along with the intelligence bounty they carried.

Ala'niya frowned as she took in the scene below. The dead man's ostentatious uniform marked him as a senior leader, yet he had perished by his own hand. Strange behavior for a rebel commander.

Keying her comm-bead, she established another encrypted link to Inquisitor Enoch who was apparently miles away with the 1752nd Kislev,

"My lord, be advised the enemy leadership may be attempting to flee their capital. I am witnessing signs of disorder and defeatism."

She described the abandoned state of the complex and the officer's suicide. Enoch's voice came back muted through the distortion.

"Interesting. Their behavior does not match anticipated rebel actions. Maintain surveillance and report any further developments."

"It shall be done, my lord."

Ala'niya signed off and settled in to observe as activity resumed below. More strangely-garbed soldiers arrived, gathering weapons and supplies. At their head was the cigar-chomping older officer, barking orders to ready some kind of conveyance.

His words were indecipherable, definitely not Low Gothic. But the body language spoke clearly enough - they were evacuating.

keying her comm-bead again, Ala'niya updated the Inquisitor. "Lord, the leadership are indeed fleeing northwesterly, escorted by armed convoy. How shall I proceed?"

After a moment's consideration, Enoch replied. "Shadow them discretely. Do not engage. We must identify where they retreat, and who truly leads this world. Report back once they reach their destination."

"Thy will be done."

Ala'niya slipped out the window, stealthily pursuing the convoy into the war-ravaged city. This mission was proving most perplexing, but she would unravel the truth for her master.

Perhaps she would be the one to end the bald one personally, as an honored kill to consecrate this world to the God-Emperor's light. But for now, she would watch, and prepare.

Her moment would come.

On 5June, 1995, Major Mark Dwyer was an F-15 pilot assigned to the 32nd Tactical Fighter Squadron at Soesterberg Airbase, a CCAFE (Confederation of Concordia Air Force Euronia) base in the Federal Union of Benelux. Dwyer, a native of Albany, NY and graduate of Penn State University, was also the operations officer for the 32nd. In addition to their jobs in the cockpit, most fighter pilots also hold less glamorous, but essential ground duties. Dwyer's experiences on the first day were similar to those of hundreds of thousands of soldiers, sailors, and airmen across Euronia. Major Dwyer became one of the first Concordian pilots to score an air-to-air kill over Central Euronia. It would be the first of many kills for Dwyer in the war.