Brad was stood by the edge of the water, peering through his ACOG as the Helicopters above pounded the enemy on the other side of the river. Hellfires and 30mm autocannons continued to rain down hell on distant enemy artillery and machine gun positions, while infantry seemed to only sporadically fire back at them with machine guns that didn't hit anything or fell just short of hitting the Helis.

God bless Precision Guided Munitions(PGMs), Brad thought to himself as he lowered his rifle. Fick walked up beside him, stating, "The going's tough in Fallujah," as he looked over the water, too. The hiss of a HELLFIRE flying off one of the racks of the Apache above them filled their ears, with the Lieutenant also noting, "We'll be out of a job by the time we figure out a way over that doesn't involve the bridge."

"Sir, ROE says we shouldn't light the building with the controls up, right?" Brad asked as he tapped his fingers rhythmically against the magazine of his rifle, which he cradled like a baby. Fick affirmed that with a nod, looking past Brad at the shack that contained the controls for the intricately-made bridge. The Sergeant of HITMAN sighed and said, "So that leaves the option of fording the river with local boats at the lowest point, or praying that the idiots inside the control building wade out into our line of fire."

A pair of Marine Snipers sat themselves down by the edge of the river wall, with one of them shouldering his M40. His spotter looked back and smiled, the handsome bastard that was 'Fruity Rudy' Reyes. He nodded to the Sarge and Lieutenant and said, "El-Tee, Sarge. Sorry if we're obstructing the view, but we got word from the Russians in the North of town that they got shot at by Snipers."

"It's fine, Reyes," Fick replied, "Eyes open. I'd rather not lose my head."

The Spotter gave a thumbs up, then set up his ranging scope, table and everything else. Brad sighed and told Fick, "I'm gonna go down by the water, see if there's any way we can ford this shit without having to call up a pontoon unit..." to which his LT nodded. Brad took a step down the stairs, rifle slung over his shoulder as the chopper up above waved off and turned to probably rearm nearby.

At the edge of the water, the young Sergeant caught a glimpse of blue hair and the shoal covering a blue uniform. Isara was sat by the river, seemingly watching the flow as it was right now. He took a moment to decide if he should approach or not, then decided it was best to. Walking up beside the kid, he sat himself down next to her and asked, "Any ideas for crossing this damn thing?"

Despite the slight twitch, Isara replied, "Thinking, Sergeant... I mostly came down here for some peace and quiet."

"After a fight like that, I'm not surprised," He shot back as he set his rifle down. He reassured her, "Hey, at least this place ain't like Iraq."

"Ray did mention you all came from another war. Some dictator running a country that was a threat to world security, or so the propaganda went, he said," The girl replied with a chuckle. She then asked, "You guys aren't afraid to comment on the affairs of your world, eh?" while looking to Brad like a curious little sister would look at an older brother from the military.

Brad shrugged, "The benefits of living in a free country, even as a Marine. We'll follow our orders, but at least we're allowed to ask the whys and hows. Not like we'll get answers, though. Word of mouth is, though, that we were looking for Chemical and Biological WMDs that were apparently used on the dictator's own people, so..." He then looked up, watching a UAV do an overhead flyby.

She chuckled as she thought of what to ask next, simply commenting, "Hey, if the goal was good..."

"Yeah... Hopefully, this whole clusterfuck with Gallia's also gonna bring in actual work to help fix Iraq. It's a mess back there, too," He told her, then tapped his fingers and looked up at the sky as a second pair of helicopters flew overhead. Mi-8s, one of which bore a fairly familiar signage on its engine cowling as it swung in for touch-down. He stood up and watched it land, grinning, "And there's Bratishka."

"Bratishka?" Isara asked, looking over at the fat Russian helo.

"Mi-8 Helicopter that worked as Search and Rescue in the war one of our 'allies' was fighting. They're basically the ones who get the wounded out alive and back to base for treatment," He replied, then told her, "You seemed interested in helicopters and stuff. I'm gonna ask if it's because this entire world stupidly decided that aircraft would be a waste to research and produce?"

The girl nodded, "Yeah... I've wanted to fly ever since I was young, so..."

"Hopefully Brass finds a way to get our Jets up for combat duty. It'd be nice to have air support ringing bells in the Imps' backyard," The man shot back, before looking to her and stating, "Jets are basically planes powered by turbojet engines. Trust me, it's fairly cool, even if I don't know the full details. You'll probably be able to ask the Air Force engineers about it when they land."

She beamed at that, thoughts probably wandering to exactly what questions to ask about these 'Jets' and all that. Brad had to admit, the kid was just a friendly face in a country that was hopefully happy to see them around, unlike the Iraqis. He was glad he was no longer in that shithole, or so he thought as he simply stared up at the helicopters coming back on-station. Looking down upon the river, he saw reeds and other small plants growing by the side, here on this bank and on the opposite end.

His brain had a flash of inspiration. He then radioed, "Hitman Actual, interrogative. Can't we get some Russian victors here, sir?"

"What for, Two-One?"

"They can potentially ford this spot..." He replied.

"... Roger, stand by."

... Somewhere up top, Rosie and Largo both watched their Lieutenant, Gunther, engage in small talk with the two reporters present:'Rolling Stones' from the American side and someone from their own side, a blonde-haired woman with glasses and the standard attire you'd actually expect out of a reporter instead of military gear like on Rolling Stones. Largo scoffed, taking a puff from his cigar and watching the US Marines mixing in with the corp of staff from Seventh Platoon and the rest of the Luckies, as they'd been nicknamed.

"Can't believe this," Rosie murmured as she chewed some gum and glared at Welkin and the reporters. She turned to her newfound buddy and said, "Shouldn't you be in charge of this mess, Largo? You're the one with seniority among these kids. I'd bet my ass they'd follow you over some green kids fresh out of goddamn boot..." only to pause as they saw Fick staring at them with the blankest face in the world.

"What?" Largo asked, "Something the matter, kid?"

"While I don't care about the internal politics of the Gallian Militia, Sergeant, I'd expect at least a modicum of respect toward officers from a foreign army trying to keep your land free from what seems to be a warband in knight armor," Fick replied in a deadpan as he took a couple steps forward. Largo stood to his feet, towering a bit over the young Marine, who was only staring back at him like gum he'd scraped off his shoe.

Largo grinned, "Oh? Whaddaya mean?"

"Not calling a Lieutenant a 'kid', for one," He shot back, then added, "For two, what you and your compatriot here are suggesting is nothing short of mutiny. I could report you to your Captain if you'd like, though I'm not sure how she views these types of spats, nor do I think I should resolve other Platoon Commanders' issues. Three is I'd rather know I have a functional squad on my ass, covering my men if we're gonna go over that river with you. Understood?"

Both Largo and Rosie paused, watching the man as his expression didn't shift or change one micrometer during that exchange. He still stared at the two of them like they were below him. Even the grip on his strange rifle was somewhat looser than it would've been if they faced enemies. Largo, however, was about to snap back before Fick gently tilted his head. He showed them to wait by lifting one finger to Largo's face, then clicked his radio's transmit button and said, "SOKOL, this is HITMAN, send traffic." Only to turn and walk away.

Largo was about to go give the kid a piece of his mind, but Rosie put her hand on his chest and shook her head, "Not worth it... Little shit thinks he's hot stuff... C'mon, I wanna solve one issue before we're done tonight," and she walked toward the stairs, down to the bank of the river. Largo scoffed, then followed along, noting that a Marine was sat with the kid they were targeting, teaching her to skip stones while the Snipers of the Corps covered them. And Marina, of course.

Brad pointed at the sky as night began to fall and told the kid, "... Going past Jets and into rocketry was probably the harder bit for all of us. Seriously, though, we do have satellites in Orbit that provide everything from access to the Internet to global positioning systems that power both civilian travel of all kinds and our own. We used GPS in Iraq in order to know our position from allied troops."

"That's awesome!" Isara beamed. The more she seemed to hear of the technology of Earth, the more enthralled she became. Yet again, Brad felt like the adoptive older brother here, much like Welkin had probably felt when she came into the Gunther family. She asked, "Did you or any of your fellow Marines ever actually go up there...? I mean, is it possible?"

"Us? No," He snorted, then joked, "You need to pass actual proper tests. Plus, they mostly select the assholes from the Air Force. G-Resistance or something, what with them flying sixteen-million-dollar death machines that carry enough bombs to level a small town twice-over. Then there's further training and stuff ASVAB and Boot Camp just won't cut when it comes to being able to fly a rocket."

The pair stopped chatting, however, when they heard two pairs of footsteps approaching. Brad turned around and stood to his feet as he saw two Gallian troopers marching to them and asked, "Anything we can help you two with, Sergeant?" as he held his M4 by the grip. The Sergeant shook his head before Rosie sidestepped him and walked up, pointedly glaring at Isara.

Brad stepped between them, much to both Rosie's and Isara's surprise, then asked, "Okay, hold. What is this about?"

"... Want to get straight to the point, there, Sarge?" Rosie demanded, fury behind every word. She pointed at Isara and snapped, "Fine. I don't work with Darkies. Don't matter what the hell's going in in your or the Lieutenants' heads, I don't like their type."

"Oh, brother," Brad sighed deeply, pinching the bow of his nose. He looked her in the eyes, wearing a glare that could melt tanks as he spoke, "This is what this shit's about? Racially-charged bullshit like this shouldn't even be a goddamn issue when the freedom of your fucking country is at stake," his voice showing the fury that welled in his chest. They had no time for petty disputes like this.

Rosie grit her teeth and snapped back, "You don't know the kind of shit they put me thr-"

"Do I look like I give a damn, corporal?" Brad barked back, which caused Rosie to balk. He glared at Largo and said, "This isn't the moment for petty bullshit. There's an enemy battalion across that River, probably watching you throw around slurs like they're candy, you magnanimous retards. The kid's probably worth more to this fucking platoon than either of you combined, considering she keeps your tank in working fucking order." Words which surprised even Isara.

"Listen here, you foreign bastard, I swear-" Largo started, but Brad marched up until he was literally an inch from the bulky man's face.

"I've dealt with enough bullshit from Upper Echelon Brass during the early days of Iraq. Bogus fire missions, stupid decisions and crap that nearly cost me and my friends our lives a few times. I could stomach it because we had a good El-Tee on our ass. As young as Lieutenant Fick is, he got us through hell and even stood up for us when he needed to. Isara's brother seems like a stand-up kid. If your real problem is with him, you should take it up with him, because I can tell by one look you don't give a shit about the kid like Stark here does..." Brad snapped back at him, his voice ice cold, "But if you're coward enough to go after the guy's sister instead of straight-up talking to your CO about your frustrations like a sane man, then maybe you shouldn't even be a Militia member."

"Alright, I've had about enough of your bullshit, Foreign boy," Growled Rosie. She was about to pounce on him before two gunshots rang out. All four members present swiveled about as they saw Captain Varrot, Lieutenant Gunther and Sergeant Melchiott, with Fick beside them, his 9mm Beretta raised into the sky, barrel smoking. The Marine El-Tee looked over to Varrot and Gunther as he stowed his pistol.

"Warned you something was gonna go," The man replied, then walked to meet Brad and said, "Sergeant Colbert. Report. Be as concise as you can."

"Sir," The Marine nodded, "I and the kid were just having a chat about the technological advances of our world compared to theirs, since she seems to enjoy hearing about it. We were also trying to figure out a way to ford the River with as much equipment as possible. Then, these two come in and try to start something with the kid based on simplistic bullshit like racism toward the Darcsen."

"Now, hold on a-" Largo was about to snap gain.

"Enough!" Varrot barked as she stepped up beside Lieutenant Fick. She looked to the two and demanded, "Is what Sergeant Colbert said true or not, Sergeant and Corporal?" only to watch the two of them hesitate to confirm or deny anything. With a sigh of annoyance, she looked to Fick and said, "Apologies. We'll deal with them once we're done with this mission."

"It's fine, Captain," Fick replied, "This isn't even about corporal Gunter being a Darcsen, I'll bet. I caught these two staring at Lieutenant Gunther answering some questions for our two reporters back there..." He then told Welkin and the Captain. He then continued, "Much as I somewhat dislike the idea of a second civilian newscaster embedded within the ranks of active-duty military personnel, I don't get why the officer of the unit wouldn't answer questions, Sergeant. This was a cooperative effort and he was the mouthpiece, much like I, Sergeant Colbert and Private Person had to be mouthpieces for the Marines in Iraq."

Largo blinked, then said, "It's not even that. You guys are basically kids compared to us... I've seen the First Europan War, I've seen how bad things can get out there. This isn't a damn game, or just something we do for fun. Even with your support and the crap you brought into our world, like those," And he pointed up at the helicopter coming on for a landing to drop off supplies, "I don't think I can trust someone with a face as young as yours or the Kid's to be in charge."

"Ah. Standard 'old versus young'," Fick replied, then sighed, "Can't help you with that, I'm afraid. You either learn to trust someone who's already led you and your troops through one part of the mission, or you ask to switch squads to someone closer to your age. It also doesn't excuse both of you ganging up on a kid instead of coming and talking to the Lieutenant himself."

The two seemed to take a moment to ponder their actions, while both Lieutenants went on to reconvene with each-other. Brad sidestepped Largo and Rosie, with Isara close behind him. She rejoined her brother and Alicia, while Brad shouldered his M4 and peered through the ACOG, partially wishing he had his IR scope with him for the night that was coming. He eyed a target moving in the windows, then gasped and yelled, "SNIPER!"

Pappy's M40 rang out like a dinner bell, its echo reverberating across the place. Rudy radioed, "HITMAN Echo-Four-Romeo, target down-" only to cut off as a flurry of mortar fire soon roared, machine gun muzzles flashing from the windows. The roar of tank engines filled the air as explosions suddenly cracked the air. The Net crackled to life as the Marines and Militia led the Captain into cover, bullets zipping past them.

A round snapped and Brad yelped, then grabbed his ass cheek and started hobbling on one leg. He called out, "BASTARDS SHOT ME IN MY FUCKING ASS!" as he knelt into cover behind sandbags. A pair of Humvees rolled up, fifty cal and and 40 mike-mike roaring, spitting out high-caliber rounds and grenades that detonated across the river. Brad called out over com, "Need a medic up front!" As he snapped off a shot.

Overhead, 30mm autocannons and even Cobra 20mm Gatlings barked and burped, mixed with the hissing roar of ATGMs and Hydra rockets leaving their tubes. A flurry of explosions destroyed the facades of buildings across the water, the Marines, Militia and assisting Army units engaging like bats out of hell. Pappy and Rudy spotted and shot snipers that tried to aim for them, while Marina beside them fired off without a need for a Spotter, her bolt clicking back and forth like it was the Mad Minute.

As Doc Bryan rushed forward with a medical kit, he asked, "Where're you hit, Sarge!?"

"Left cheek! The bastards caught us full tilt with our pants down!" The man replied, popping off shots toward an enemy silhouetted by explosions. A squadron of four armored vehicles rushed the bridge, machine guns and hull-mounted heavy mortars firing, their radiators glowing an eerie blue in the encroaching darkness of an approaching night. Two BTRs rolled up and disgorged Russian VDV and regular motor rifles from their hulls, sergeant Pomorenko rushing up to join Brad and company with his platoon.

Pomorenko snapped off a burst from his AK, telling Brad, "Our men got hit across the pond, too! VDV Platoon took some casualties, but Bratishka evacuated them without issue!" and standing back up to fire again. He loaded a grenade into his GP-25 and fired it off, the grenade leaving the barrel with the standard and ever-satisfying thunk. It hit short, digging a crater into the opposite side's flood barrier and probably scaring the everloving life out of some Imp shock trooper.

"I don't think any of us expected them trying a counterattack, Pomorenko!" Brad replied. He grit his teeth as Doc pressed a bandage down onto Brad's leg. He leaned his rifle against the concrete and put one hand against that as support, telling doc, "Go! I'm hearing more wounded over the net, Doc! Keep your head down!" as Fick pushed up to them with reinforcements, Ray and Trombley included.

Fick ordered Trombley, "I want a base of fire! Shift your aim constantly and keep those bastards suppressed!" before radioing, "Lieutenant Gunther, you and your tank are gonna be needed forward ASAP!" as the Imperial tanks ahead rolled forward. Largo grit his teeth, rolled off to the side and grabbed his AT lance, shouldering the weapon and squeezing the trigger at the base. The AT round launched off the tip and arced toward the target, but handily missed it, striking the water. He swore to himself, while Fick looked at him with disbelief. He asked, "Is that a LANCE?!"

"Our AT weapons!" Alicia told him as she joined the fighters, firing at the bridge as Imperial infantry advanced behind the tanks. She waved to the Shock Troops and Rosie, telling them, "Enfilading fire! Support the machine gunners and let our Lancers hit the tanks on the bridge!" only to watch as the guy manning the Forty-Mil on the Humvee swiveled the weapon about and lit up the bridge.

Fick scoffed and said, "Garza! Shift your fire back and don't damage the damn bridge!"

The Marine on the gun sighed and did as ordered, bringing about the weapon and engaging the targets over the hill. Fick then patted Ray on the shoulder and changed positions with him, before running toward one of the Humvees and radioing, "HITMAN Actual, we're on station and requesting Anti-Armor rounds! The Helos up above are busy dealing with enemy infantry! Roger, sir!"

He then ran back to Brad, dropped onto his stomach beside him and started shooting on semi. He told Brad, "We're gonna get AT4s up! Sergeant Melchiott, keep your Lances down! We'll get some real AT weapons soon enough!"

"I wouldn't diss these things, kid!" Largo laughed, "They're quite good when they hit!"

"Keyword being 'when'!" Ray snapped back, much to Largo's chagrin. He ducked as his ears started to ring, before taking his helmet off and taking cover. He looked at the helmet, to see damage to the top of it, then swore, "Holy fuck! I just took a headshot!" before starting to laugh with the other Marines. Brad murmured something along the lines of 'lucky fucker' as he popped off rounds at the enemy.

Alicia was about to comment something, but she watched the Edelweiss rolling up, escorted by two Bradleys. It fired its main 88mm cannon at the enemy tanks, nailing the lead in the driver's port and blowing it out, a geyser of blue fire pouring out from both guns and the hatch on the turret. The Bradleys continued the onslaught with 25mm autocannons while the infantry that dismounted from them shouldered tubes of some kind...

Tubes that spat out missiles. Alicia tracked two such missiles leaving the tubes and smacking into the fronts of the tanks still on the bridge, while Bradleys and a pair of Cobras lit up the infantry. The missiles had hit with enough force and explosive charge to send the turrets on the enemy's tanks flying into the waters of the river below. She murmured, "Oh..." then looked to Fick.

A bugle called and Brad stated, "They're pulling back!" as he peered through the scope. The gunfire began to die down as the Imperial troops across the river, several dozen men short, began retreating into cover. Trombley grinned as he sat there, beside his buddies and the Gallians, switching out the half-empty box of rounds for a fresh one and chewing some gum. The Marines cheered, before Brad sighed and radioed, "HITMAN 2-1 to all HITMAN, SOKOL and LUCKY elements... Hostile's retreating. Cease fire..."

What a mess...