A tune played over the radio within the confines of the ever-expanding Fort Amaranthine. US Marines and Army personnel milled about their vehicles and interacted with the local Militiamen and Militia women. Deuce-and-a-half trucks rolled through the gateway, loaded with crates of weapons. HEMTTs moved in with them as well, carrying food, supplies, extra ammo for the guns they were carrying and spare parts.
Kneeling in front of a target, Corporal Marina Wulfstan tested one of said new guns. The M14 rifle was a weapon loaded via a twenty-round box magazine. It had what seemed to be NATO's standard general purpose high-caliber round, the 7,62x51mm NATO. Shouldering the weapon and peering down a branded sniper scope of some kind, the woman hummed, utilizing her left knee as support for her left hand. Elbow to knee, one leg folded under her providing stability and the only floating thing being her right elbow, the woman zeroed in on the target's center.
She squeezed and felt the rifle kick. The 7,62x51mm round zipped through the air and struck the intended target with a ring. She'd hit the center-point of the armor. Lowering the rifle and setting the safety on, she hummed and nodded approvingly. Looking over the weapon, she murmured, "Good DMR..." before setting it aside and going prone. In front of her resided another rifle, the Remington M40 bolt-action. Loaded with the same rounds, the weapon had a slightly longer barrel and a bipod attached.
It was the Marine variation of the rifle. It had a green polymer body, a 12 times zoom scope and looked fairly good. Shouldering it and utilizing the bipod to steady her aim, she loaded a first round by pulling the bolt up and back, then slamming it forward and down. She pushed the safety to off, aimed and steadied her breathing, aiming for the head of the target this time, an Imp helmet.
Squeezing the trigger, the rifle kicked hard as the bolt slammed forward. The bullet shot out and struck, flinging the helmet off of the mannequin. Nodding her approval, she looked at the M40 and pulled back the bolt, ejecting the spent casing. That one felt more at home with her, so she picked it up, sent the bolt home gently and set the safety to on, before approaching Ray.
Person, to his credit, remained composed even as his voice cracked, "So... Keeping the boltgun?"
She nodded, to which Ray signed the specific requisition form and handed her some 'Nam-era gear rigging, as well as the extra magazines for the rifle. She nodded in thanks and walked off, slinging the weapon onto her back via its leather strap. Ray shook his head, murmuring, "Scary as fuck. Stay away. Noted..." as he jotted down a note, then called out, "Next!"
Brad watched as the next member of the team stepped forward. Sergeant Melchiott herself was there, wearing M81 woodland camo and PASGT. Ray handed her an old M16A1 model rifle, the one with the triangular polymer handguard, as well as several 20rd magazines for the weapon that were loaded with 5,56 ammo. He pushed his helmet back off from his eyes and heard footsteps. Looking back, he saw El-Tee Fick approaching, cradling his A2 with the 203 tube.
He asked, "How's the training going? Kids liking the new guns?"
"Seems like it," Brad replied with a snort. He pointed to Ray, who was checking gear, and stated rather bluntly, "Wulfstan scared the crap out of Ray, I think. Girl's got one hell of a skill with bolt guns. More-so than even with the M14, even if other snipers picked that one out..." and he looked to watch the woman walking away, rifle in hand. She was something else, alright. Clad in M81 like Alicia, though in a much lighter kit that included a boonie which was hanging off her backpack.
"About 97,5% Accuracy rating according to some of the sniper school members here," Fick told him, "She's basically our new Hathcock."
"I'm waiting for her to snipe an Imp with a fifty-cal," Brad quipped, causing Fick to let out a short laugh. The man continued, "You hear we might be heading out to some forest nearby? Imps have set up resupply camps for the Central Front there, which is commanded by some guy under the name of Jaeger. Lots of German names here... Makes you wonder when we might see a Leopard 2 rolling in toward us."
Fick shrugged as he scratched his forehead, "Any backup's welcome when we've got a country the size of the Soviet Union to deal with. Command's already considering plans to push out from Gallia and toward the enemy capital, end the War with a blitzkrieg. Several officers warned that we wouldn't be able to do that without Sat cover and GPS and Godfather took it to heart."
"He bring it up with the Staff? Y'know, the Generals and Colonel?" Brad raised a brow. The two heard the ringing of a 5,56 rifle and looked ahead, watching Alicia firing from a kneeling position. The girl laughed heartily, her accuracy heavily improved by the smaller round's lack of kick. She was hitting center mass in groupings like the average Marine, really, which was impressive.
Fick nodded, watching the girl shoot and then switch to full-auto to empty the last 10 rounds of her mag. She nearly fell backward, surprised when the gun went off like that, before laughing. Looking at the weapon under the care of an instructor, the girl hit the bolt hold-open release, sending the bolt home, then flipped up the dust cover and thumbed the safety. She beamed and saluted, then walked over to Ray to sign off on the gun.
There were a few people in the ranks with Russian Kalashes, too. They soon noticed the Lancers, including Sergeant Largo, hefting M60s. Brad asked, "They switching over to Auto-riflemen now...?" with a little worry. Fick shook his head and pointed to the tubes on their backs. Each man and woman carried two LAWs on their back. The Sergeant blinked, confused, then said, "Oh. We're making them the heavy weapons people."
"Potter and a few others grumbled about it," Fick shrugged, "Said they can do just fine with their AT weapons."
"They'll say that until those dick-to-ass, Close-Quarters rocket slingshots go wide while they're in front of an enemy tank with its MG trained on them," Brad murmured as he tapped his own gun's polymer body. Trombley was stepping up now to teach the new MG Gunners how to use their newfound gear, which was gonna be funny. Seemed like the kid was enjoying berating Largo and two other gunners that were joining him on the range.
The guns began to ring through belts, AT launchers sat beside the men and women. The two began walking away as Trombley was yelling at the new gunners to 'straighten their shoulders', 'aim properly', 'short bursts' and so on and so forth. Brad snorted and spoke, "Trombley's getting way into being a DI for the locals. Then again, the kid got yelled at and fucked-up enough in the middle of Baghdad."
"Heard they nearly wanted to Section Eight him," Fick spoke, "Wasn't going to let one of my most enthusiastic gunners go out like that, though."
"Eh, kid's alright," Brad snorted, "He just needs someone throwing hand grenades at him for the rest of his life," and that actually got a rising laugh out of Fick. The reference alone was worth its weight in gold to some Marines, considering that was one of the hallmark movies about them. Part of them wondered if Largo or the others would become anything close to Animal Mother or Rambo.
Some hours later, however, Alicia didn't really care about that as she crawled through the newly-upgraded obstacle course in full gear. The Marine Drill Sergeants that had been brought in to supplement their own DIs yelled at them, calling them out with, "MY FAT MOTHER COULD CRAWL BETTER THAN YOU, YOU LITTLE SHITS! MOVE, MOVE, THROUGH THE MUD LIKE THE LITTLE PIGGIES YOU ARE! C'MON, C"MON, YOU DUMB FUCKERS! YOU WANNA DIE!?"
"C'mon, Potter, you fat piece of shit, MOVE IT! YOU AIN'T MAKING IT THROUGH THIS COURSE ON VETERANCY ALONE, YOU SHITBOOT!" Another, a woman, yelled at Largo, much to the quiet laughter of a few of the Darcsen around. The same woman pointed at Rosie and barked, "And you, PRETTY GIRL! I DON'T CARE WHO THE FUCK YOU SANG FOR, IF YOU DON'T MOVE THAT DYED-ASS HEAD OF YOURS UNDER THE FUCKING RAZORS, I'M RIPPING YOUR HAIRS OUT MYSELF! GO!"
Alicia swore to herself, feeling her muscles burning as she pulled herself forward in her full equipment. US Military kit was no joke, especially in the weight department. Even if the M16A1s and M4s were more lightweight, the rest of the kit compensated for it by the sheer amount of crap they were hauling. She stopped as she heard Homer, one of their engineers, whine, then she grabbed him by the strap of his vest and pulled him up, stating, "Don't slow down. DIs are gonna have our behinds..."
"I know," he replied quietly as they crawled forward. He was carrying a Carbine M4 alongside a pack full of engineering supplies, extra ammunition, grenades and medical packs. The group, which was mostly 7th Platoon, was crawling underneath a barbed wire 'roof' that would scratch the top of their heads and rip their helmets off if they made a mistake. Alicia was thankful her baker's scarf was stowed in her vest right now. She didn't wanna rip it.
Rosie murmured, "I swear to The Valkyria, these guys are trying to kill us...!" in a murmur. She was carrying an M60 as well, having decided to be a support element for Largo and his boys and girls. Behind her, the others hauled M4s and M16s of various models. All of them were wearing older M81, stuff probably pulled out of the National Guards' reserves to replace current gear.
If there was one thing the Americans had done, it was move fast to replace Gallia's equipment. Of course, the Army wasn't exactly accepting this new deal, so the Militia was stuck as guinea pigs for them all. Marina was probably the sole member of the squad who wasn't whining, even with Welkin and Isara crawling beside them. She carried on her crawl like a hunter on the move, like one would expect out of the Sniper.
Crawling out of the entire muck some time later, Alicia took her helmet off of her head, sweat draping her from head to toe as she sat down on a nearby bench. She doused her burning throat in water from her canteen, coughed, wiped her mouth with her muddy sleeve and said, "That's the sweetest-tasting water I've ever had..." before looking around at the tired members of Squad 7.
"American DIs scare the living hell outta me, man," Vyse, one of the team who wore goggles, spoke as he leaned his back against the bench, being sat on the floor next to his ginger friend, Aisha. The girl herself cradled her M16, head leaned forward and staring down at her helmet as she was slowly fading, ready to fall asleep at a moment's notice. Sweat pooled at her feet, mixed with dirt and mud.
Largo scoffed, wiping his face of mud, then replied, "I'm more scared of their damn logistics. To be able to ship this gear in 48 hours from some depot in the middle of their country to us? Holy hell..." and he pointed at the cars still travelling down the main road between their base and Amaranthine, only their headlights visible as the sun began to set behind the trees and mountains.
"I heard one of the other support element troops say, and this is a quote," Catherine OHarra, another Sniper, one that had picked out an M14 as her rifle, spoke in awe and with a heavy accent, ""The Amis have such a robust logistics system, they could start wars on two sides of the planet and win both'... Honestly, I believe them. Isn't the whole thing about their arrival here that this is basically an interdimensional war...?"
"That's the rumors," Alicia nodded, "And I'm willing to believe them..."
Everyone hummed in agreement, looking above as a pair of American 'Super Cobra' Helicopters that'd taken off from a nearby annex to the bases went to the battlefields farther part Randgriz, their blades chopping through the dusk air. She listened in on the radio pack she had on her to the chatter, hearing, "... Eagle Six, this is Sokol Six, thank you for having your birds on station. Small enemy assault at Grid 105-105-221 Zulu is being repelled. See you back at home."
Hill 1213
Sokol Six, a battalion of Russian VDV, positioned themselves in an all too familiar terrain feature with their weapons and tanks pointing outward. A concentric ring of defense had formed around the HQ of the patrolling unit as they prepared for the advance of enemy troops, an enemy attempt to take an important flank to the city of Randgriz, opening the place up for possible bombardment. Sokol Six-Actual, a Russian Captain, peered through his binoculars at the incoming wave of bandits. Amidst the treeline, their own thermal scopes and NV sights spotted maybe six platoons' worth of enemy forces, plus more per Drone footage.
Versus about 200 Russian troops armed with some of the latest available gear and with vehicle reinforcement. Two BMP-2s trained their 30mm cannons on the treeline, ready to fire. The Russian officer radioed, "Position nine, Sokol Actual, you have incoming on your nine o'clock. Shift your cannons right and engage at will. Twelve and Thirteen, Grozny protocol, Shmels and HE shells in the Trees, flares in the sky. IF tanks appear, you are cleared to fire ATGMs."
In the hastily-dug trench at the base of the hill, Sergeant Pomorenko shouldered his rifle and looked over to his PKM gunner, speaking to him, "The moment the first knight wannabe pops his head through that treeline, hose him. I wanna see trees uprooted if you have to, Arkhipov..." before checking his own 74M over. He felt a tap on his shoulder and looked over to see a certain black-haired Sergeant with her 6B7 helmet on.
"Tak-toychna, serzhant!" The man replied, holding onto the rifle's wooden stock as he peered down the sights. The two Sergeants nodded to each-other, the man tightening the straps of his own helmet and peering down the sights of his rifle. First to fire were Mortars, he soon realized. The distant thump of enemy 80mm Mortars echoed, shells arching high and landing right in front of and around their trenches.
Thankful for being in the cover of a dug-out fighting position, the Sergeant and his troops ducked to avoid any oncoming shrapnel as their own Mortars replied. 120mm towed mortars in pits at the top of the hill lobbed back shells into the forest clearings in the distance, the explosions, though far away, blossoming with flashes visible through the treeline. Flashes that illuminated silhouettes in the darkness.
Two grenadiers farther behind them fired up 40mm flares, the sky lighting in a blaze of white, flickering phosphorus. As the flares slowly floated down, they lit more of the area around the hill, providing clear lines of sight for the soldiers carrying SVDs and for everyone else. Those with night optics had switched over to the AK sights below, ranging them for 200 meters.
That was the approximate distance one Laser Rangefinder found from the base of the hill to the treeline.
... The silhouettes drew closer, until, during the second volley of flares, steel armor reflected the flashing light. The Sergeant nodded to his gunner, who aimed at bush-level... And squeezed. Seven-six-two by fifty-four rimmed rounds spat out of the Pulemyot Kalashnikova at a rate of 250 Rounds per minute, catching the first of the men to step out from among the fading shadows in the chest.
The Imperials, now knowing they'd been spotted, affixed glistening bayonets, some of them drawing swords as they lumbered forward in heavy armor from the trees. Like over Hill 776, where their comrades in the Pskovian Unit fought to the last six, Sokol Six engaged the enemy with automatic fire. The 30mm cannons of the BMPs spat out High-Explosive hell against the treeline as the Mortars seemed to intensify their rates of fire.
Tracers lit the night alongside the simmering fire of the Willy Pete flares. The Sergeant aimed his shots carefully, his thoughts going back to home and his wife, who had elected him to be a soldier amidst the ranks of those sent to support the Americans for two simple reasons:To prove Russia's rebuilding Military could stand the test of time and to show their Western counterparts they were willing to change... Regardless of how hated they were by their former Eastern peers.
He domed an enemy heavy weapons specialist, then turned his rifle about fifteen degrees left and fired a burst at a man that looked high out of his mind, charging in thick steel armor and with a massive blade at the ready. He'd read some briefing or other from the Gallians saying that these guys were called 'Fencers', basically heavy-duty melee units meant for close-quarters shock work.
By the way he dropped to the floor from a couple of 5,45 AP rounds, it was shocking alright. Shocking the Imps still bothered to use such inefficient methods of warfighting. Then again, a nation wearing knight-like armor was probably still stuck in tradition. He blinked as a man ahead of him exploded in a flash of fire from a 30mm autocannon round, but another came up right behind him, bayonet glowing.
He lifted his rifle to parry the strike and deflected it to the right, into the dirt. He then drew his pistol as the man fell upon him, put it up under the man's chin and shot twice, splattering his brains in his own helmet. He tossed the corpse aside, lifted and quickly reloaded his rifle, then shouldered the weapon and switched to fully automatic. Beside him, his gunner let loose another belt after reloading, corpses piling high in his arc of fire.
This wasn't six damn platoons, this was an entire army. He heard the kachunk-thwoosh of a rocket motor igniting, then looked up as a Metis ATGM lanced forward, the wire trailing behind it. The rumble of the tank it was going for had been completely obscured by the sounds of the gunfight around him. Still, the man watched the HEAT Warhead impact the enemy tank, puncture through the front armor in a massive explosion and cause the tank to split in half, only to further go another few meters behind, nearly piercing a second tank's hull.
"RPGS MOVE UP!" The female Sergeant barked. She hefted her AK-74M, which also had a bayonet now, up to greet an incoming Fencer. Her blade let out a sickeningly sharp noise as it pierced the man's skin. She held him up like a pike, firing a burst of automatic fire into his belly, then letting the corpse fall. Drawing her pistol as she worked to withdraw her blade and weapon from the corpse, she fired.
Pomorenko shifted his fire left to assist, watching as an enemy officer was domed by a one of their Designated Marksmen, head exploding, red helmet flung off of his head. He collapsed, missing half his head, right in front of the trench. Pomorenko's gunner cried in pain as two men had gotten into the trench, one stabbing him in the side. He shifted his AK toward them and hosed them in gunfire, before calling out, "MEDIC!" as he took the man's gun and held the belt up, firing.
The female Sergeant spoke to him, "This is fucking nuts! There must be a thousand of them!"
"The Captain called for air support from the Americanski air assets nearby! We can hang on for a minute more!" Pomorenko shot back as the Medics jumped into the trench and started tending to his gunner. One paused, then sighed and shook his head. He tapped Pomorenko on the shoulder, causing the man to turn around. He saw the bone-white face of the young man, his eyes rolled back into his skull. The Medic shook his head.
"300, blyadh! Cargo 300!" He called it, angry, almost apologetic.
"Fuck..." Pomorenko swore to himself, then nodded for them to get him out of the trench as the enemy's own fire seemed to intensify. He shifted fire right, toward an advancing platoon of enemy Lancers trying to take potshots at their BMPs. The BMPs themselves didn't much seem to appreciate this, 30mm HE and 7,62 from their PKTs welcoming them with extreme prejudice, to mystifying results. That being, turning the enemy into red mist.
The Sergeant ducked and dropped the spent box, lifting the last ammo box in the counter as he heard another of their men get shot to his right. The female Sergeant and the Medics rushed over, with her covering while they pulled him out of the line of fire. Pomorenko managed to fit the 200rd box into its slot, put the belt in and slam the damn top cover home, shouldering the weapon again and opening fire as he slowly-traversed left-to-right and back.
"One belt!" Pomorenko callled out as the barrel of the weapon started smoldering with heat.
"Half a mag here!" The female Sergeant shot back, racking the bolt of her AK after checking the ammo count. She peered out and watched the enemy charging with their third wave, the largest yet. Tanks, infantry and even mortars opened fire again, a flurry of fire washing over their positions, injuring and rarely killing Russians in dug-in cover. She was about to speak again, but she heard a transmission over the radio she carried on her back.
Pulling it off her back and listening into the microphone, she heard, "Sokol Six, this is Eagle Six, choppers are in position and we're ready to assist," as the chop of Rotorblades filled the air. US Marine Supercobras swept in into the darkness, their 20mm maw-mounted Gatling cannons suddenly lighting the darkness in scarlet tracers. ATGMs and unguided Hydra rockets hissed and shot out, detonations blossoming across the battlefield ahead to the cheers of Russian troops, many of whom raised their AKs to the sky.
A battalion of American troops, Marines, pushed forward and up the road as well, with support from a platoon of Abrams Tanks that laid into the enemy with HEAT rounds, flashes lighting the darkness. Pomorenko grinned and spoke to his friend, "Never thought I'd be glad to see American choppers..." as he watched the attack helos strike with ATGMs. She nodded, grinning as she watched the enemy scramble for cover.
The American task force rolled in, bringing in ambulance vehicles to evacuate the wounded to the common base of the UN Force as the Choppers turned around for another run. Distant 155mm cannons echoed as M109s situated farther in the rear lines engaged enemy artillery. In truth, what had just been shown here was a willingness for both sides to cooperate... Much to the chagrin of the Imperials and the surprising, yet restrained jubilation of their new allies.
Pomorenko thought so upon seeing Ukrainians and Romanians with the American troops that had come to relieve them...