Dawn of Victory-A tale of Ataria Book I Year I Part-I: 1995

by BlackGuardsAce

Battlefleet Scolaris, a proud battlefleet of the Imperium of Man is separated into pieces en route to the Planet of Orallia-V during Robute Guiliman's crusade against Hivefleet Leviathan in early M42. Arriving at an unknown system and coming to a habitable, Terra-like world, the Lord Admiral decides to launch a crusade to conquer it in the name of the Emperor.

7. Stocks and Shares

Chapter-7

Stocks And Shares.

La Palazia Restaurant, Borough Of Manhattan,

New York City, State Of New York. Confederation of Concordia

The waiter had just taken their orders at the fancy Palazia restaurant when Evan noticed her staring blankly past him. He waved trying to flag her down, but she seemed transfixed by something on the muted TV behind him.

"Yo, a little service here!" Evan called out impatiently. Still no response.

With an annoyed grunt, Evan turned to see what was so interesting. His blood ran cold.

The screen showed images of absolute chaos - wreckage and fires in the heart of a major city. The caption read "Concordia Under Attack."

Around him, other diners gasped and murmured. Someone turned up the volume.

"...massive destruction reported across Concordia's major cities, origins still unknown..."

"...casualties likely in the thousands, magnitude unlike anything seen before..."

Evan sat stunned, unable to process the scenes of devastation. He dimly registered his companions all scrambling to check cell phones and beepers.

"Shit, my girlfriends at UCLA," Chris was saying in a panic. "I can't reach her; lines must be jammed..."

Jordan was pale. "Market's crashing hard, this is really freaking bad..."

Nyla snorted another bump, hands shaking. "Stovies finally lost it huh? Just nuke 'em all back to the stone age."

Evan stared hollowly at the screen. Their carefree lunch felt like a lifetime ago now. He thought of his brother in the Army. Of all the things he'd left unsaid to his parents.

Amidst the chaos, he knew one thing for certain - their world would never be the same after this.

He reached into his leather briefcase under his chair and pulled out a large grey block. It looked like a brick, but with buttons and an antenna. It was the latest Motorola DynaTAC 1002X, brand new and state of the art. Evan was proud to have it while no one else at the table did. Today, it could be a matter of life and death. Evan dialed the number and waited for it to ring on the other side. Come on, he thought, pick up Andy, don't let me down...

"Hello?" Andy's voice came through the phone. In the background, Evan could hear the familiar hustle and bustle at Steinem Oakmont & Co. Thank goodness! Manny was still at the office, not on his lunch break yet.

"Andy! It's Evan," he started, "what's happening on your end?"

"Oh God, I was just about to call you! It's... it's a nightmare!" Andy stammered, "stocks are crashing! We were at $40 a share just an hour ago! But... have you seen the news? We have CNN on the big TV here and... oh my God, Evan, it's terrible! Shit. Evan, people are dying out there!"

"Daniels! Forget about those people, I need you to focus on our account!" Evan snapped, "no, don't watch the TV! Look, I'm on my way back now, but until then, I need you to follow my instructions. Can you do that? Danny? Hello? Hello? Hello!"

The phone started to hiss with static and Danny's voice came through broken: "... here... need... sell stock... $16... share..."

"What? I can't hear you!" Evan shouted.

It was too late, the phone died. Low battery. Evan cursed and almost threw the phone in anger. These damn devices. You would think that for costing $4,000, they would have a decent battery. After today's experience, he couldn't understand how these useless things called "cellular telephones" could ever become popular. Maybe he should have brought an iPhone instead, these bricks were so 1980s.

Without uttering a word to his friends, who were still fixated on the TV screen (especially Ted, whose family hailed from Dallas, which seemed to be engulfed in flames), Evan abruptly stood up and hurried to the counter at the front of Dorsia. He intended to ask the waitress there if he could use their phone for an emergency, but upon reaching the counter, he noticed that she was already on a call. He contemplated snatching the phone from her but instead decided to try one of the payphones outside.

It was lunchtime, and the weather was perfect with a clear blue sky marking the beautiful autumn day. However, an eerie silence had settled over the bustling streets of Manhattan, akin to a dense fog. Traffic had come to a standstill, yet there was no honking or any noise at all. People stood motionless, refraining from speaking, which was highly unusual in New York. To the south, Evan caught sight of the Twin Towers, standing tall and majestic as ever. Across the street, a group of individuals gathered around the front windows of an electronics store, straining to catch a glimpse of what was being displayed on the brand-new Satsumese TV sets.

Evan sprinted down the sidewalk, shoes slapping on concrete, his mind racing as fast as his feet. He had to call the office, had to warn them what he'd seen on the news at Dorsia.

Skidding to a stop at the payphones, he shoved aside a teenage girl using one and frantically picked up the receiver. No dial tone. Damn it! He smacked the phone in frustration before remembering he had zero change anyway.

Evan felt his breath catch in his throat as the reality sunk in. The markets were surely in freefall already from this bizarre attack. Everything he'd worked for - gone in an instant. His millionaire lifestyle now just a passing dream.

Leaning defeated against the booth, Carter tried to slow his panicked gasps. He pictured the once-bustling trading floors, now abandoned ruins. Saw storefronts shuttered, shopping malls empty, the economic engine of the nation ground to a halt.

Maybe the government would have to take over what was left, impose rations and price controls. The death knell of the Concordian way of life.

Carter shuddered. However, this had happened, their comfortable world was erased. Freedom and prosperity were fleeting, it turned out. In just minutes, everything good had been snatched away, leaving only uncertainty and despair.

Wiping his eyes, Carter staggered off down the street. No changing what had already been set in motion. He could only try to survive what came next. But inside, he mourned all that he'd lost on this darkest of days.

---

Road to Lublin.

Maszowia.

June 3rd.

Day 3 of WW3

Major Charles Leslie

4th Lancers, C squadron

United Kingdom of Eden Army

Edenite Army on the Rhine.

---

It had been a rough night of driving but finally, C Squadron had arrived. Leslie yawned slightly while nursing a cold cup of tea. The events of the previous night were a haze, as was their lucky escape from the village of Hümmelsfeld. Now, arriving in Maszowia, they were greeted to the sight of cars, motor traffic, and people driving wagons and carts like it was the 1900s.

The whole thing was one chaotic mess.

Leslie surveyed the chaotic scene before them with a seasoned eye. Events were moving fast, leaving civilian populations reeling in their wake.

He called up on the radio. "Command, this is Lead. We've arrived at the evacuation point outside Lublin as ordered, but conditions are total bedlam down here. Recommend we start putting up barricades and traffic control to prevent total gridlock."

While awaiting orders, Leslie took a long swig of lukewarm tea, grimacing. His crew looked dead on their feet after the harrowing drive through darkness and danger. But there was no time to rest yet - their new mission was to help stem this tide of humanity and bring order from chaos.

Leslie banged on the turret. "Alright lads, time to roll up our sleeves. Jenkins, grab the road signs and cones. Makehuff, start routing traffic to the outskirts. The rest of you spread out and direct people away from the city center immediately."

As his crew leapt into action, Leslie radioed the other tanks. "C Squadron, break out your traffic handling kits. We're the police now - keep the roads clear for evacuation until further orders. And someone get me a fresh brew, pronto!"

He glanced back at the endless flow of refugees. Hard times lay ahead, but these people just needed a steady hand to guide them to safety. The 4th Lancers would give it, to their last.

The crew stirred with muffled groans, roused from brief sleep atop their Chieftain. Leslie squinted at the civilian traffic clogging the roads - this mass exodus was both boon and bane. Safety in numbers yet slowed reinforcements.

"Poor chaps." Richards, the gunner mumbled as he watched this massive mass of humanity move to the Ulraznavian border.

"Poor us." Tetford, Leslie's veteran driver retorted tiredly, "We're the ones who will have to fight whatever we're running from.

Richards promptly shut up.

Leslie sighed deeply, running a hand over stubbled jaw. His men spoke true - the situation was dire and growing worse by the hour.

He climbed atop the turret, scanning the clogged roads with a practiced eye. After a moment, an idea came. "Tetford, reverse us fifty meters then head due east along the median. Richards, on my mark start laying on the horn in short blasts."

The crew obeyed without question as he continued, raising his field glasses. "There - see that break in traffic? Make for it, we're going to carve a path straight through."

Tetford revved the mighty diesel as Richards sounded a staccato honk. People glanced about in alarm, but recognition dawned - they hastily cleared a route amid shrieking brakes and panicked horses.

"Keep her steady, lad, give them plenty of warning but don't slow," Leslie ordered calmly. As they rumbled forward, he waved civilians aside with steady authority. Slowly the way opened before them.

They reached the breach within minutes. Leslie swiveled the turret, surveying both sides of the widened corridor appraisingly.

"Richards, start marshaling the traffic laterally. Tetford, reverse us to block this end - no one enters or exits without my say so. The rest of you, out and start routing people along the sides in an orderly queue."

His men leapt into action without hesitation. Within the hour, the jam had been transformed into two long lines of pedestrian evacuees streaming east in neat procession.

Leslie nodded in satisfaction. "Good work chaps. Now to widen the path further - west! And let's get this show on the road proper."

His troop would hold the line, and see these people to safety, come what may.

---

Captain John Parker

2nd Battalion

Royal Halifax Regiment Battlegroup

Somewhere Nearby.

---

The chatter of the 25mm Bushmaster cannon firing echoed across the countryside as Parker's LAV slid around a corner, the thermal sight picking up alien foot mobiles jogging into the open. A three round burst ripped into their midst and they vanished in a haze of smoke and debris.

"Contact, twelve o'clock!" Called the gunner. Parker leaned over the commanders hatch for a better view. A mass of the aliens, dozens of them, were pouring across a field straight towards the road they patrolled. A hail of autocannon and machine gun fire erupted from the LAVs but the enemy just kept coming.

"Pull back, pull back!" Parker shouted into the radio. The five-vehicle section kicked up dust as they backed up rapidly. "Lay down smoke, call in artillery!"

Within moments, an opaque grey wall blossomed across the road, concealing their retreat. Parker watched the thermal display closely, seeing alien heat signatures mill about in confusion within the smoke.

"Gun run incoming, take cover!" He yelled just as the first shells began to impact with earth shaking force amidst the aliens. Dozens vanished with each volley. When the smoke cleared, only scattered remains were all that was left of the attacking mob.

Parker let out a long breath. "Good effect on target. All call signs report status, over." As his men checked in, he peered worriedly down the road ahead. More of those things were sure to come, assuming this was just a scout force.

The radio crackled as callsigns checked in one by one. Parker nodded, satisfied his troop was intact for now.

"This is Eagle Six, all callsigns sound off green," he responded. "Good thinking calling smoke, those bogies just kept chugging."

"Like a horde in some post-apocalypse flick, huh sir?" chuckled the gunner, O'Brien. Always quick with a quip to break the tension.

Parker allowed himself a thin smile. "Except in the movies, fireworks usually stop 'em. These things just keep on coming."

He surveyed the ruins of the alien mob through binos. Scattered body parts, but no sign of slowing down the larger onslaught. "Command, this is Eagle Six. First contact suggests conventional firepower alone won't cut it. Suggest air support or heavier armor reinforcements ASAP, over."

"Copy Six, working on it," came the terse reply. "In the meantime, hold that grid square as ordered. Out."

Parker sighed. Always the same - make do with what you had. "Alright guys, let's do a fly-by of the objective, see what else is out there. O'Brien, scan for additional contacts. The rest of you, eyes sharp!"

The LAVs rolled forward cautiously in overwatch pairs. Every sense was on high alert for further attack. In the distance, the incessant rumbles of bombardment suggested the main enemy force was still advancing despite the bombing runs.

"This is what, day three?" muttered Singh, the gunner in the partner LAV. "And we're barely slowing them. How do you fight something so relentless?"

Parker had no answer. All they could do was hold and survive, minute by minute, praying reinforcements came before the aliens crushed them under sheer weight of numbers. Another day in hell - all in a day's work.

---

Inside the city of Lublin.

Maszowia.

June 3rd, 1995.

Day 3 of WW3.

Corporal Wladislek Komarow stared through the iron sights of his Wz 88 Tantal Assault Rifle. He counted his heartbeats until he felt an interval. One of the alien invaders wrongly chose to dash from his cover to another one much closer when Komarow pulled the trigger.

With a crack, the gun sent the bullet flying through the air, slamming into the guy's head, he fell face first, body sliding a few meters before stopping.

The rest of the alien squad rushed out with a battlecry; weapons raised. Unfortunately for them, that's when the rest of Komarow's on squad opened fire.

The street was filled with the clatter of automatic fire, the enemy squad barely even getting a chance to raise their laser guns as they were cut down. The firing continued for a good minute or two before the squad leader signaled:

"Cease Fire!"

The firing abruptly stopped. There was no sound except for the clink of spent casings.

"Komarow! Take Andrejs and Paja, see if we've got any survivors."

Wladislek snapped to attention at the lieutenants stern order before motioning for the other two aforementioned soldiers to follow him. Slinging their weapons over their shoulders, the three of them walked down the staircase and onto the street.

The ground was slick with red blood. The aliens had body armor, a weapon, a helmet (with a face shield for some) and a helmet.

For some of them, the squad could see human shaped eyes, with purple irises, kneeling down to the level of a corpse, Wladislek roughly turned it over.

The equipment of these invaders was always emblazoned with either a double headed eagle, or a winged skull, weird insignia choice, Wladislek thought.

Looking up, he saw that Paja and Andrejs had taken to looting the corpses off their ammunition (They looked like batteries shaped like magazines) and a laser gun each. In fact, Andrejs even had a pistol made in the same utilitarian style tucked into his belt.

"What the fuck are you two doing?"

Andrejs held up the laser pistol sheepishly. "Salvaging what we can to fight them back, Corporal. Ammo's scarce as it is." He tucked the pistol back into his belt, patting it affectionately.

Komarow frowned but couldn't argue the practicality. Besides, Lieutenant Dombrowski was watching from the window above. He'd raised no objection so far.

"Fine but search them quick. I want to be gone before their backup arrives." He turned back to his grisly task, flipping another alien onto its back.

A human face greeted him, features frozen in a mixture of righteous, fanatical fury and pain. Removing it's helmet, he found sandy colored hair done in a military issue buzzcut.

"Well well well, look at you." Komarow mused

"Kapral! Do you hear that!" Paja hissed.

The three of them went silent and began to listen. Were those groans?

"This is some science fiction War of the Worlds level bullshit going on here," Andrejs whispered.

"Quiet!" Wladislek hissed back, now was no time for speaking, even though the revelation that Andrejs knew literature, let alone H.G Welles was enough to make him laugh...

Standing up swiftly, Komarow unslung his assault rifle before aiming downward. He began to walk among the dead bodies of the enemy squad. Paja joined him, with a reluctant Andrejs bringing up the rear.

Sure enough, the groans became louder, someone, a squad member maybe, was alive. Wladislek and the others picked up their pace.

Sure enough, they found an enemy squad member lying face down, moaning softly in pain. Paja roughly kicked them over, and sure enough, a bloodied face stared at them. Removing the helmet (made of some Kevlar-like material) the three Maszowians found it was a girl, clutching a small double-headed eagle in her palms not unlike a cross, and muttering prayers in a guttural language under her breath,

Paja kicked her roughly, eliciting a pained cry.

"What the hell do you think you're doing privately?"

"Speak Edenite? Rozumiesz Maszowiani, suko?" Paja seethed.

The girl gave weak whimpers, trying in vain to staunch the bleeding. She began pleading in her strange, harsh language, mumbling submissively as she tried to grab something to hold onto.

"Shit! We need a medic here fast! Get Dombrowski from the building, and tell her we got a live one! And tell her to get Stansky down here!"

At the sound of Komarow's voice, the girl's arm wrapped itself around his, she had 5 fingers, he noted with surprise, red hair done in a braid...Andrejs jogged off to fetch the medic while Paja kicked the girl sharply again, enraged by her plea for help.

"Cut it out, Private!" Komarow snarled, grabbing Paja's boot. He turned back to the crying girl, speaking softly.

"It's alright, you're safe now. Help is coming. Just hold on."

She stared up with unusual violet eyes, clinging to his arm feebly. Her red hair and features spoke of mixed ancestry - not wholly alien at all.

Komarow felt a pang of pity. What twisted fate brought this young fighter so far from home, just to die in a foreign gutter? War made monsters of them all, in the end.

Stansky arrived moments later in a flurry, immediately setting to work stabilizing her wounds. "Head trauma, internal bleeding," he muttered. "Looks human enough but Lord knows what her biology truly is. We'll need the doctor to know how best to treat her."

Dombrowski appeared, studying the odd captive keenly. "Take her back to the CP. I want a full workup - perhaps she can tell us more of the enemy's nature and intent."

The girl moaned in pain and confusion as Stansky prepared a stretcher. Komarow met her strange eyes meaningfully. "You'll be alright now. Just rest."

She frowned weakly, before mumbling prayers again as the stretcher bearers set off towards the CP.

Komarow blinked, taken aback. What new mysteries had they just uncovered beneath the fog of war? Only time would tell.

---

Miami.

URSC.

Pvt John Palmer

124th Infantry Regiment, Florida National Guard.

"C'mon! This way!"

The small squad ran through the war-torn mall, jumping and leaping over obstacles rapidly. The air was thick with smoke, screams and gunfire. Just a day ago, a group of alien capsules had landed on Santa Monica Beach. The slaughter that followed was the worst thing Concordia had seen since the 2nd Great War.

With the main units of the US Army in Euronia to fight the Eastern Bloc (which at this point, had collapsed and democratized, even the Union of Vostokvakia Republics. Those units were going to be reorganized and brought back stateside, but…) the defense of the country fell on each state's National Guard units.

Palmer didn't care much about this information, hell he was much more concerned about surviving!

"Inside! Fucking quick!" the NCO ordered

Palmer dove into the shelter of an overturned food court table, coughing violently from the acrid smoke.

"Contact, twelve o'clock high!" someone yelled. He peeked up to see a floating skull zipping through the shattered ceiling, unleashing pulses of deadly light upon their position.

The sergeant bellowed orders over the din of weaponry. "Grenades out! Fall back through the service exit on my go!"

Palmer fumbled to arm a grenade with shaking hands. Fear and adrenaline surged through his veins, keeping him razor-focused despite the chaos. He leaned out just long enough to lob the explosive - it detonated with a thunderous crump, buying them vital seconds.

"Go go go!"

He dashed for the exit at the sergeant's wave, boots pounding over shattered tile and debris. Mercifully, his comrades followed suit one by one until only the rear guard remained, still laying down covering fire.

Palmer burst out into an alley, gasping to refill oxygen-starved lungs. The sergeant slammed the door behind them, collapsing against it as the orb unleashed another deafening barrage.

"Jesus H Christ..." someone panted.

The sergeant just nodded, wiping sweat and soot from his face. "Good throw back there, soldier. Now let's move before more of those things find us."

Palmer checked his ALICE webbing for another mag for M16A3, grabbing one, he slid in in with shaking fingers, others were lighting cigarettes, one soldier found that his uniform's M81 woodland uniform had faded due to ashes that were once people.

Sliding and settling against the wall, Palmer shivered. He was a National Guardsman, and usually spent most of his time working at a record store, he hadn't actually expected to fight goddamn aliens of all things.

"Anyone know what the fuck's going on?"

Palmer looked up to see two guys hunched in conversation. Glenn and Roscoe, he remembered their names.

Glenn shook his head grimly as he lit up. "All I know is shit's fucked ten ways from Sunday."

Roscoe took a long drag, blowing smoke ceiling-ward. "My cousin Joanie works in City Hall. Last she heard, the President was evacuating to Raven Rock. Aliens hit D.C. hard, some kind of plasma cannon took out the White House."

The men fell silent, contemplating the sheer insanity of it all. Palmer shook his head slowly. "This can't be real, man. I'm s'posed to be at work tonight, not fighting goddamn Martians."

Glenn grunted. "Tell me about it. Still, rather be here than cowering back home waiting to get fragged."

Their sergeant materialized, slapping a fresh mag on his rifle butt. "Alright ladies, break's over. Command just raised us - advance party's pushing north to clear the target zone. We're heading in behind the armor for mop-up and civilian evac. Lock and load!"

Groans and muttered curses filled the store as men hauled protesting bodies back to their feet. Palmer rolled his shoulders, checking his gear yet again for lack of anything better to focus on. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. What else was there but to endure, and hopefully survive, this unholy mess?

---

Bayonne, New Jersey.

Cape Liberty Cruise Port.

URSC.

Ray Ferrier.

June 3rd, 1995.

Ray cracked his knuckles as he walked on the ground once more. The 22-year-old dock worker (crane operator) had finished his shift for the day and was finally able to go home. That did not mean the end of his troubles though. His wife Mary-Ann had left 2 days earlier to go to Boston to see her parents, leaving him with their 5-year-old daughter Rachel.

Worse, they'd run out of food, meaning they'd have to order dinner tonight. Pulling his jacket closer, and his baseball cap on his head, Ray joined the mass of workers returning home.

The weather was chilly, for June. Unlike the rest of the URS, the weather here was unnatural. Ever since the discovery of hyperfuels in the ocean in 1945-they were miracle substances that allowed for a boom in technology advancement, companies had set up extraction operations. The hyperfuels released something into the air somehow, that caused the climate to change randomly.

Like right now, it was cold and grey. The administration of President James Marshall had said that it was doing something, yet no changes had appeared just yet.

Ray glanced up from his phone as Marvin shouted across the crowd. He flashed a tired grin and waved.

"Nah man, babysitting duty. You know how it is."

Marvin swaggered over; ball cap pulled low. "Tell me about it. Joannie's at her mom's too, left me with the kids. Think I'll order a pizza and call it a night."

Ray snorted. "Funny, I was just thinking the same. Rach's been begging for pineapple all week."

"Kid's got good taste." Marvin flashed a peace sign and veered off towards the parking lot. "Catch you tomorrow, Ray!"

Ray waved and continued towards the bus stop, shoving his hands in his pockets against the chill. Far overhead, the hyperfuel extraction rigs glinted dully against leaden skies. Their constant toil had changed the face of the nation, but also warped the very climate.

He breathed a sigh as the battered municipal bus rattled into view. Just another day in the gray new normal. All he wanted now was pizza, some Simpsons reruns, and blessed peace for a few hours until Mary-Ann came home. Not much to ask in such strange times.

As the bus pulled away, a flicker of movement caught Ray's eye. A loose sheet of newspaper tumbled end-over-end across the empty street, stirred by some unfelt wind. He watched it flutter idly, making some private observation to himself, before turning to gaze out the fogged window as the city rolled by. Strange weather for strange times, as always.

Shrugging, he boarded the sleek, but a bit grimy monorail with the rest of the chattering workers-all young twenty-somethings like him. Men, and women, clad in jeans, jackets and beanie's or hoodies. They weren't blue collar workers though, oh no...

Ray slipped his earbuds in and tapped out a rhythm on his knee as the monorail accelerated smoothly through the dusk. Around him, his coworkers unwound from the day in their usual loud, joking fashion.

"Hey Ferrier, you still taking bets on when old Jenkins is gonna retire?" called Marvin from across the car.

Ray grinned. "Nah man, that fool's immortal. Gonna outlive us all just to spite us!"

Laughter rose up at the familiar joke. Someone cracked open a smuggled six-pack, passing cans around surreptitiously under watchful security cameras. The mix of adrenaline, beer and pent-up energy lent an electric edge to their mingled voices.

Ray spotted clouds massing through the rain-slick windows, tinged neon orange by city lights below. Distant rumbles of thunder carried faintly over the din, as if in answer.

He shivered, tugging his hood up. The jagged bursts of lightning seemed more frequent and erratic than usual. An unusual weather pattern, perhaps exacerbated by the ceaseless Hyperfuel works which even now emitted sulphurous plumes into the darkening skies.

His stop came all too soon, with relieved goodbyes shouted over shoulders. Ray hopped down onto the empty platform and jogged through slanting rain towards the maze of gray apartment blocks up ahead. Water ran in rivulets through cracked pavement, vanishing into grates with a susurrus.

By the time he reached home, drips were turning to downpour. Ray shrugged off his soaked hoodie with a sigh, gazing through the window at the restless skies. Strange weather for strange times, as always in this hypersaturated new world they now inhabited. But for tonight, pizza and Simpsons would suffice to push the looming darks away, if only for a little while.

Rachel was already asleep, thank god. Ray walked over to the TV, a news report was playing already.

"The Ukraina SSR, a country of some 52 million people is in total blackness tonight in a series of freakish lightning storms of catastrophic proportions which struck the country at approximately four A.M local time" the newscaster droned before Ray changed the channel.

Outside, the lightning struck the same area...25 times?

Ray stopped, pizza slice halfway in mouth as he though, lightning struck an area only two times.

A chill ran through Ray that had nothing to do with the steady rain outside. He clicked the TV back to the news channel urgently.

"...as the storms seem to be concentrating over major population centers," the anchor was saying. "Early casualty estimates are in the tens of thousands and expected to rise, with infrastructure across the nation brought to a standstill. Authorities are urging citizens to remain indoors until..."

Ray stood frozen, pizza forgotten. This was no normal weather pattern, not by a long shot. Lightning simply didn't behave this way. A sick suspicion bloomed in his gut as memory resurfaced - the flurries of paper in the empty street, the oily clouds roiling restlessly all afternoon...

He rushed to the window, rain spattering the glass. In the dim light, something was moving in the thick fog beyond the city skyline. Massive luminescent forms drifted and circled endlessly, obscured but unmistakable.

Hyperfuel extraction had changed the world. But this - this was something else entirely.

Shrugging on his jacket again, he exited his apartment building and block and ran out to the street. People were poking their heads out of their car window's. Walking and pushing through the crowd, Ray found what seemed like a hole.

A big, massive, black chasm of a hole. It looked like a bore hole almost. It was much bigger, gargantuan. People were snapping pictures of the thing. At first nothing seemed entirely unusual (except for the fact that the hole was there).

Then, faint tremors occurred, rising slowly till it became a full blown earthquake. Ray stepped back along with the others as the shaking increased tenfold, then a head appeared.

It looked more like a helmet. It was hunched over. And it was slowly rising. Cracks appeared along the road as the body appeared, it was huge! Out of the crack's, the machine's (Ray saw the metallic sheen) arms appeared, one of them had a chainsaw sword, the other a huge cannon attached to it.

The thing was painted a deep blue, with gold, gaudy and gothic style ornamentation. It rose, leviathan like to it's full height of around 9 to 12 meters tall, Ray estimated.

The thing's head swiveled down, to stare at the people. For a minute, the entire place was silent. Then, the robot issued a sort of eerie, bellowing through some hidden source before it opened fire.

The gun the thing had was some sort of "Heatray". It turned people into ash, leaving only their clothes... Ray began to run as more people were reduced to ash. He had to get back to his block, grab Rachel and get out of here, maybe head to Boston where hopefully Mary Ann was safe.

Raw, animal panic seized Ray as he turned and sprinted wildly through the downpour. Ash and falling debris swirled on the currents, a grim reminder of the swift fate that could befall at any moment.

His shoes splashed through growing puddles, threatening to twist ankles at every step. A woman wailed somewhere in the fog, cut abruptly short. Ray pushed on, lungs burning.

At last his block loomed ahead through the soupy murk. Ray slammed through the front door, reckless of noise, scrambling up empty concrete stairs three at a time.

He burst into the apartment, heart hammering. "Rachel! Baby, wake up, we have to leave n—"

She wasn't there.

The rumpled sheets lay empty. His gaze darted frantically around the bare rooms, finding no trace of her.

Ray staggered against the wall, breathless sobs wracking his frame. No no no—

A tiny sound reached him then, almost lost under the throb of rain. Muffled crying, from the closet.

He wrenched it open. Rachel sat huddled within, clutching Mr. Bunny, face hidden against her knees. She looked up with wide, terrified eyes.

"Daddy?"

Wordlessly Ray gathered her into his arms. Her tiny hands clung to his neck. Fumbling one-handed, he seized a jacket and shoved some essentials into a backpack.

The machine's bellow came again, now too near for comfort. Ray shouldered the pack with desperate care, holding Rachel close.

"It's okay, baby, Daddy's here. Just hold on tight."

He plunged once more into the raging night, headed for the only remaining hope he knew— escape. The journey had begun.

---

Knight Errant La colère du Delacour.

Questoris Familia, House Faucon.

Honored Lady Juliette Fleur Marie Delacour.

Questor Imperialis.
Unknown Area.

The young silvery blonde woman strapped into the throne mechanicum cracked her knuckles. This operation had been hard enough with all the stealth involved. Riding the lightening, she snorted to herself, it was crazy! Then she had to get into her knight itself, a horrendous affair without any servitors or tech-adepts and then get out of the ground.

And then she had spotted the rebels. Previous debriefs aboard the ship had shown that no one, not even a person dressed like a civilian was to be trusted. They were all rebels of course. So, she keyed in the little speaker and let loose the "Organe du Dieu-Empereur", a psychological weapon, The sound was often described as a "tumultuous murmuring" or a "booming" noise. before opening fire.

Her thermal cannon reduced anyone to slow to ash, leaving only cinders or clothes. She urged her machine forward, stomping as she scanned the area. It had become empty fairly quickly, and she was now alone.

She keyed in the vox frequency and was surprised to find the voice of Lord Inquisitor Anton Jessup, the Inquisitor attached to Battlefleet Scolaris and it's supporting forces.

"Ahh... Lady Delacour! I suppose the landing went smoothly?"

She grumbled. "Horrendous. who's bright idea was it to mask the approach by "riding the lightning."

"Indeed, 'riding the lightning' was not my preferred ingress either," the Inquisitor replied wryly. "Necessary deception in a time of heresy, though I understand the... discomfort."

Fleur grumbled again, gauntlets clanking as she checked readouts. "Discomfort nothing, Lord Jessup. It is a miracle I did not smash my Titan wholly! Next time, tell these savants I prefer to land as intended - on solid earth, not clinging like some insect to weather wars."

"Duly noted, my lady. For now, focus on the task - we've tracked the rebel communications to a makeshift base ahead. Your firepower should make short work once we pinpoint coordinates."

Fleur angled scanners, searching. "Oui, their hide will soon be ash. But know this, Inquisitor - my metal mounts grow weary porting zealots across the stars. When this is done, I return to Mont-St-Michel. The stones call, and my sword has duty to my house before Galactic affairs."

"All in good time. Ah, there - I have them. Engaging now."

She targeted pulsing heat signatures and unleashed fury, cannon roaring. Structures collapsed under sustained barrage.

"Good shot. The base is rubble, and no survivors detected. Your skill and wrath remain undiminished, Lady Delacour."

She huffed, smoke clearing. "It was mere target practice. Now, shall we be off this wretched rock? I've had my fill of skulking - next foe will face me in honorable battle." Her knight's foor ground stone to dust as she turned for extraction. Some missions less said the better.

"I'm afraid that'll have to wait, for you see, this is only stage 1. There are 7 continents on this planet, use your imagination to guess what comes next."

"You're kidding," Juliette said in disbelief.

"We've already dropped forces on this continent's eastern seaboard. For you, it is just a matter of walking, and don't worry, you'll get support, very soon..."

Jessup said those last words cryptically.

"What kind of "Support". she asked suspiciously. Jessup merely smiled serenely.

"It's a surprise. you'll have to wait and see."

"How long?"

"Throne's sake! I'm not some magician or witch who can magically make things appear!" Jessup exclaimed "Have patience, it will take a few hours, or a full day at least."

Fleur scowled, the cockpit displays flickering in time with her irritation. "Patience, he says! As if battle ever waits upon convenience. Very well Inquisitor, I shall deploy and make what headway may be. But know - each hour my wrath shall swell, and when this 'support' deigns to appear they had best be worth the delay!"

She stomped off ponderously towards the eastern horizon, every footfall shaking the earth. The land opened before her, pockmarked by recent fury. Ahead lay wilderness yet untamed.

Within, her fury began to calm as systems powered into a steady march. Fleur found her center, breathing deep the familiar calm of long preparation. "Computer, display tactical analysis of approach routes."

Holographic projections illuminated the space before her. "Primary terrain challenges include dense woodlands, mountain paths, and three major waterways. Secondary concerns are potential hostile encampments and civilian centers along approach corridors."

She considered carefully. "Mark forest regions for wide berth where terrain allows. Scan for bridges and fords to cross water obstacles with care taken. As for contacts, my policy remains - any armed resistance will be met in kind. Civilians are to be bypassed if feasible."

Her house colors and sigils flared proudly upon the towering carapace as Fleur set forth on the long walk eastwards. Duty called, as ever, and she would answer. But the Inquisitor had best deliver on his promise of support soon... or face her full and righteous wrath!

---

Naval Station Norfolk

Norfolk, Virginia,

The NS was in a state of chaos. The blaring alarm klaxons echoed throughout the station, alerting the crew to the imminent danger. Captain James King swiftly emerged from the steel bulkhead and made his way to the command bridge, seeking answers.

Eager to provide information, the first lieutenant spoke up, informing the captain of the urgent orders they had just received. The station was being moved to DEFCON-1, indicating a severe threat level. King couldn't help but feel a sense of dread at the gravity of the situation.

The officer continued, explaining that an enemy force had infiltrated the area and was advancing towards Richmond. In an attempt to divert them from major population centers, ground forces were planning a risky maneuver. Their mission was to set a trap and engage the enemy, buying time for the safety of civilians.

King's confusion grew as he questioned how the Vostokvaks could have possibly orchestrated such an operation. However, the first lieutenant clarified that it was not the Vostokvaks but an unidentified adversary. The captain's bewilderment persisted, prompting him to request a detailed situation report from the First Mate.

As he listened attentively, King observed the commotion unfolding on the deck of the USS John F. Kennedy, which was docked nearby. The sight only intensified his concern for the impending battle.

Amidst the chaos, the telephone at the captain's station rang, demanding his attention. King swiftly picked it up, identifying himself as the commanding officer of the USS Iowa and awaiting further instructions. As he absorbed the dispatcher's words, he couldn't help but steal a moment to gaze out of the forward viewing port, taking in the imposing sight of the six massive 16-inch guns aimed away from him.

---

211th Cadian Field HQ (Baneblade Command Tank)

Alexis Jaeger continued to monitor the advance of his regiment through his command tank's vox array's. The old man's face was furrowed in deep concentration as he stared at the readouts. He was scared, no, he wasn't scared in the literal sense. Jaeger had served long enough in the Imperial Guard to know something was amiss. This planet, Nova Arcadia had a human population (This made things harder as unlike xenos, they were fighting wayward members of humanity, who had intelligence) and was slowly grinding his nerves. His gut was telling him something was up.

So far, they had steamrolled and blitzed through the green rolling fields and the well-made roads (they were extremely good) and had taken village after village, town after town (and perhaps even a small city) and now he was feeling uncomfortable. Where were the defenders?

Jaeger was no fool, he knew this planet had to have PDF forces maybe even Guard units affiliated with the governor's rebellion, so where were they? No enemy forces came out to meet his tanks as they rolled unopposed.

And that was concerning.

Making up his mind, Jaeger stood up and walked over to a nearby comm station. Standing over the girl's shoulder, he coughed slightly to grab her attention. The Vox officer stiffened before she turned to face him.

"General!"

"Sargent." Jaeger rumbled in response to her chipper tone, "Issue a halt order."

The comm officer went rigid and her smile did not leave her lips. She sat up straighter and removed her earphones, as if to check if she had heard that right.

"What?" she squeaked.

"Issue, a General Halt order, Vox officer."

"Sir...if I may ask, the reason for the halt?" The vox officer questioned delicately.

Jaeger frowned. "Something isn't right here, sergeant. We've faced no opposition taking town after town. No PDF, no local militias, not even scouts harassing our flanks."

He traced a path on the praxis display. "We're overextended, supply lines dangerously thin. In such conditions, a fighting retreat should've started by now to bog us down. But there's been no resistance tactics employed at all."

The sergeant swallowed, going pale. "You think it's...a trap, sir?"

"I think disregarding my experience would be foolish. Better we regroup tactically rather than blunder blindly on." Jaeger sighed, weariness tugging at his brow.

"Issue the halt, code Bravo-Six. I want a full aerial and CCT recon sweep, to establish new perimeter checkpoints. And send word to the armory - order a munitions re-stock just in case."

The girl nodded briskly, flexing her fingers over her keypad. Within moments her smooth tones were echoing through the vox net: "All unit commanders, this is Central Command. By order of General Jaeger, a full halt is enacted effective immediately. Resume Code Bravo-Six readiness protocols and stand by for further orders."

Jaeger watched her work clinically, then turned to scan the quiet prairie once more. An old soldier's intuition said a storm was coming. Now was the time for vigilance, not victories. The enemy had not shown their hand completely yet. The Vox officer meanwhile transmitted the command code repeating it twice as protocol demanded. Within moments acknowledgments crackled back from captains and commanders across the regiment.

Jaeger nodded curt approval. "Well done, Sergeant. Now, establish contact with lead elements across all battalions. I want immediate status reports from every Company commander, no exceptions."

"Right away, sir!" She flipped switches, twisting dials to narrow the signal beams. "Re-tasking relay sats now. Lead elements, this is Regimental HQ, respond and report status on authorization Alpha-Six-Nine."

A jumble of voices crackled in response as captains checked in one by one. Jaeger listened intently, his frown deepening with each crisp but uneventful summary.

Finally the last echoed in. "Understood HQ, this is Captain Kertz of 7th Company. All quiet here, no contacts. Over."

Silence fell heavy in the command tank. Jaeger stroked his chin pensively. "Just as I feared. Sergeant, raise Colonel Cracken in the 2nd Armored."

"Sir!" She toggled to the right channel. "Colonel, this is Regimental. General Jaeger requests your presence in his command vehicle at the double."

A wary affirmative replied. Jaeger knew that particular colonel liked surprises about as much as eating nails. But drastic times called for trust in subordinates, and Cracken was his most able battalion commander by far.

"Something's not right here," Jaeger rumbled finally to break the tension. "And I want to know what before it jumps up and bites us."

---

Miles away

Stabsunteroffizier Krenz crouched behind a tree as he saw several squads of enemy paratroopers, unknown as always, spread out through the forest.

It had been a confusing start to the day with him ducking and weaving his way through buildings as the enemy's forces and artillery bombardment took the town. Then a hell of crawling as he snuck past what were evidently, forward posts before he escaped into the woods.

Now, the town was a good distance behind him though he could still see it, covered in smoke.

Come morning the dawn fog and gloom gave way to sunlight, which still could not reach the forest due to the trees' thick foliage, making it no less gloomy than before. This was an advantage as he could sneak through unnoticed.

The town was now barely visible, a mere speck in the distance, yet there were still dozens of patrols around.

He knew the location of a nearby military installation just a few kilometers away. He did not know if the bombardment had warned anyone or if they'd already been attacked, hell the entire base could be in ruins but, he had to get through regardless.

For now, he was stuck playing the waiting game with these unknowns (they looked human). Their patrols had been sweeping the area relentlessly, looking for escapees and soldiers probably.

His only weapon was his Holbars T6 Assault Rifle and even for that, he had very few drum mags.

He swallowed hard, a few of them were getting close, he briefly considered surrendering or opening fire. If he shot them, he would die quickly. If he surrendered, there was a chance he might live, maybe even breakout and escape.

Krenz eyed the patrolling troops warily from cover. Even just a single squad posed a threat to his position.

He waited with nerve-shredding patience as they swept past, keeping utterly still. The forest worked to his advantage at least - its dense undergrowth screened any signs of passage.

Once they moved on, he slowly inched further, movements miniscule to avoid snapping dry foliage. His experience scouting borderlands served well now for stealth over speed.

Ahead, the treeline thinned where a dirt track cut through. Krenz stilled, scanning both ways diligently before darting across in a low crouch. Small goals, one at a time - that kept the fear manageable.

Deeper in, sounds of wildlife told him humanity hadn't completely usurped this woodland yet. Birds still felt safe to sing, not having learned fear of foreign boots.

He allowed himself a marginal relaxation in pace. Loosening tight muscles between furtive peeks, staying light on his feet should a branch threaten to crack. Water and rations were his next worry after evasion.

His thoughts were interrupted by a mighty roar above. He turned to face the sky as a clunky, 4-engine jet plane went down in flames. He stared in wonder as the aircraft seemed to be heading straight for him. At the last minute, the aircraft leveled itself poorly and went sputtering forward, snapping a wing off a few trees and scattering debris before heading straight into the dense foliage. A massive boom heralded the impact of the fiery explosion.

This apparently caught the attention of most of the patrols as a soldier who looked like an NCO shouted briskly, causing the others to stop the sweep and run in the direction of the crash site, giving Krenz an opening. Quickly, he slipped away through the crack in a brisk run.

Once he was certain he had put a decent distance between himself and his pursuers, he stopped to catch his breath by leaning against a tree. He still couldn't believe his good luck!

After pausing for a moment to catch his breath, he continued his long walk.

---

hours prior.

Rammstein Airbase.

Berlin, province of Brandenburg, Prussia.

Ulraznavian Federation

June 3rd, 1995.

Day-2 of WW3

The sound of klaxons awoke Leutenant Kirke Steinhoff with a jar. Grumbling slightly, the girl quickly put her purplish black hair into a presentable air before realizing the klaxon, was that of the Scramble.

Jumping into action, she ran into her WSOs room and shook the younger girl awake.

"Katia! C'mon! We're being scrambled!"

"Huh, what?"

"C'mon lazybones! Or Balk'll chew us out!" she snapped at the auburn-haired brunette.

With much slower reflexes, Katia Waldheim dragged herself out of bed to the sink, a quick splash of water and a slurp of coffee to aid in self-recognition, then Steinhoff was dragging her to through the locker rooms. Within minutes, both had suited up and quickly rushed to the canteen to sneak in a quick bite to eat before a long day of exercises, drills, and training maneuvers.

In record time, both girls were soon running out to the F-4 Phantom IIs, the rest of the 51st Tactical Anti-Armor Battalion already in their fighters, Maj Joachim Balk already inside his. Kirke leapt lithely into the Phantom's cockpit, slipping her flight helmet on as the canopy whined shut over her. Over the deafening jet roar, she could hear Katia's breathing quicken as she strapped into the Weapon Systems Officer seat behind. Her young WSO was skilled, but still got the butterflies on every scramble.

"Relax kid, we've drilled this a thousand times," Kirke said calmly into their helmet comms.

"Steinhoff ready for duty," she reported briskly to control.

"Acknowledged, get this bird airborne lieutenant."

She performed her preflight with practiced efficiency, flipping switches as Katia's familiar breathing sounded in her earpiece from the rear seat. Engines howled to life at her command.

The airbase swarmed with frenzied activity as Kirke and Katia hauled themselves up ladder ladders into their waiting F-4F. Ground crews raced to fuel tanks and arm munitions while radar techs scanned their scopes with mounting urgency.

"Huckebein Lead, this is Phantom Two-One, Katia and I are strapped in and starting preflight," Kirke reported briskly over the squadron frequency.

Static crackled for a moment before Balk's terse tone sliced through. "Copy Two-One.'

Kirke powered up systems as Katia ran through checklists, their well-drilled routine kicking into muscle memory. In minutes the fighter juddered onto the taxiway, joining a stream of Phantoms rolling hellbent for leather.

"Engines to mil power," Kirke ordered, pushing throttles full open. As afterburners engaged she scanned instruments, flicked switches by rote. "Huckebein Lead, Two-One is wheels up, deploying flaps."

"Copy Two-One, form up on me."

With Balk's acknowledgment, Kirke hauled back on the stick, hurtling down the runway until her fighter leaped gratefully aloft. The rest of the squadron formed up behind Balk and she couldn't help but feel a bit excited.

This was no drill.

"What do you think this is all about?" Katia asked from behind her station.

"Don't know Kat, don't know."

The radio gave a crackle, the sound of static filling the airwaves before a calm and cool voice began speaking.

"Scramble orders are to intercept unknown contacts closing our airspace, thought to be heavy bombers at best. Launch immediately, shoot them all down. Good hunting y'all!"

The radio squeaked and there was a pin-drop silence in the cockpit. No sound came except for Katia's breathing and the Pratt and Whitney Turbofans.

"I heard that the Schwarzmarken intercepted some bombers this morning."

Typical Black Marks, always getting the first bits of action. Kirke thought sardonically.

Kirke throttled up into a tight turn, aligning their Phantom to fall into place at the rear of Huckebein flight. Her mind raced nearly as fast as the jets, trying to piece together intelligence from the scant reports.

"Bombers this far inland can't be good. Likely targeting strategic sites to soften defenses," she mused aloud for Katia's benefit. Radar-evading tactical types didn't bode well either.

A firm hand grasped her thoughts, refocusing on the task at hand. Speculation didn't shoot down enemies. "Katia, get me a radar contact. Start pinging in wider arcs, I want awareness well before visual."

"On it, scanning now." Bluetooth pinged softly as Katia activated the AN/APQ-159 multimode radar. Its narrow, low-probability-of-intercept beams would hopefully catch anything out there before being detected in turn.

Minutes passed tensely as they orbited the airbase. Kirke kept their Phantom tight to Balk's wing, ready to respond the instant anything appeared on scopes. Around them, high cirrus wisped past at Mach 2 speeds, the sky an endless blue cloak over unknowns below.

Then- "I've got something, bearing 045, multiple high-speed contacts incoming!" Katia's shout cracked their comms.

Kirke craned her neck to check scopes, heart pounding. Sure enough, blips materialized rapidly on the edge of radar range, headed straight for Ulraznavian skies.

She toggled the radio. "Huckebein Lead, Two-One detects multiple inbound, request vectors to intercept." Her thumb poised over red-striped trigger buttons, the dance with death about to begin.

"Spotted Two-one, lets give them a little time to themselves, move in without them knowing." there was no mistaking the relish behind that tone

Old man's in the game... she thought. Kirke couldn't help the faintest grudging smile. Balk had a lifetime's experience at sneaky maneuvers like this.

"Copy Lead, will maintain overwatch but hold back for now." She eased their Phantom into a lazy orbit, letting the others pull ahead without formation. With radar silence she'd have to rely on eyes alone.

Katia's soft breathing reassured in her ear as electronic-scanned arrays pinged out. They didn't have to like it, but as Wingmen their duty was backup. So Kirke watched patiently through the sun-glare off canopy, waiting for Balk's signal to pounce.

Below, the lush green plains of Brandenburg slipped by unknowingly, fields and farms teeming with summer activity. For now, the war hadn't yet touched down here. But waves of enemies were changing that, and Kirke intended to bloody their noses first.

Ahead Balk's flight arrowed into the cloudbank, vanishing from sight. Kirke listened intently to radio chatter, gauging by tone how the engagement was unfolding. No panic yet, a good sign.

"Radar contact, altitude change!" Katia reported suddenly. Kirke snapped her eyes to the scope. Sure enough, one blip had dipped below the clouds and was spiraling wildly.

A smile crept onto her face behind the oxygen mask. "Balk's got him rattled already. Let's move up for a better angle, keep low and fast."

And then, like a spooked elephant, it blundered out of the clouds.

Kirke was certain whoever was behind the controls was flying survival instinct alone, because they almost hit them! She jinked hard on reflex as the lumbering bomber burst suddenly from cloud cover, nearly colliding with their Phantom head-on.

"Whoa, that was close!" Even Katia sounded shaken through the commotion.

Heart still hammering, Kirke banked around for a pursuit angle, flipping the radar to track. "I've got him, coming around for a shot."

She stared intently into the scope, getting a fix on its confused weaving. Balk and the others flashed by in pursuit but were too close to get off clean shots. This one fell to her.

"Range five klicks and closing, pipper's steady..." Her thumb caressed the trigger butterflies bouncing in her gut. One shot was all they'd likely get at this range before he spun away.

In...out...breathe... She took this time to see their foe up close and boy was she disappointed. The bomber was clunky, stubby with an aesthetic that reminded her of dieselpunk. It was powered by 4 engines and had a tail gun turret but was overall ugly.

Kirke appraised their fleeing target with a seasoned eye. The bomber was just as nondescript up close - a drab gray fuselage pitted with old repairs, engines coughing black smoke as they labored under the fear of pursuit. Definitely not a state-of-the-art intruder.

Yet its desperate evasive maneuvers spoke of a dangerous cargo nonetheless. She had a distaste for shooting lumbering targets, but this one's mission threatened her homeland.

"Four klicks. Piper's solid," Katia reported calmly from the backseat. Professional as always in the heat of combat.

Kirke felt her breathing synchronize with the pipper's steady beat. At this range a Sidewinder was all but guaranteed, but she preferred seeing her shots land. A squeeze of the trigger jerked their fighter into firing position, gun camera activated to record the kill.

"Fox two, missile away!" she called out, feeling more than hearing the whoosh as their AIM-9 shot forward. It accelerated with deceptive speed, pulling lead on the bomber that was now winding out of control.

Within moments the missile struck home, a blossom of orange engulfing the enemy's port wing. Secondary explosions rippled along its fuselage from stored munitions going up. Kirke guided their jet higher to avoid the shower of debris, coolly scanning for ejections too late to save.

This was the humane part, she told herself - quick kills allowing mercy by fire over slow torture in the depths. But satisfaction still curled in her gut watching enemies fall, defenses of the Fatherland strengthened one plane at a time.

"Target destroyed. Good shot, Two-One," Balk's voice broke her reverie. She nodded affirmation, though he couldn't see.

"Thanks, Lead. Switching to missiles, I'm Winchester on guns but still in the fight."

She eased the stick, and turned the aircraft slightly before forcing it to move forward. The onboard radar pinged as it found a target heading. She strained her eyes through the clouds.

Like a cryptid sea serpent, the bomber appeared right in front of her, in perfect weapons lock position. Now close, she could see a gritty double-headed eagle was emblazoned on it. Realising that they were two close for missiles, she swooped in closer to use her internal M61 Vulcan rotary cannon.

Unfortunately, the crew of this particular bomber seemed much more experienced as the tail gun began to swivel before getting a lead on her and firing.

Kirke swore as literal rocket-powered shells began to fly from the tail gun's barrel's.

"Shit, he's got us lined up!" Kirke snapped into evasive maneuvers.

She hauled back on the stick hard, feeling their Phantom scream skyward as cannon shells streaked past. A cold sweat broke across her skin - that had been too close.

"Katia, spoof some chaff! Blind this bastard while I reposition," she ordered tersely. Behind her, Katia's fingers flew as countermeasures spilled from dispensers. Metal strips would hopefully shroud them long enough to break lock.

Kirke throttled hard, jinking sporadically as she angled around for another pass. She had the energy advantage but one good burst from that tail gun could cripple them. Patience and precision were key.

Finally she had the bomber in front again, though further out this time. She lined up her gunsight lead indicator and started squeezing the trigger gently. Short controlled bursts raked across the enemy's port wing, biting chunks of alloy away.

"Come on, come on..." she muttered through grit teeth, doggedly walking rounds closer to the fuselage. A stray shell must have hit something because an orange glow suddenly filled the bomber's interior.

"He's on fire!" Katia exclaimed. Indeed black smoke was belching out as the crew bailed out. Kirke didn't let up, strafing the wreckage relentlessly until it exploded into a fireball.

She blew out a long breath, coming down from the adrenaline. "Target destroyed," she reported crisply. Another tally for the squadron, another arrow in their quiver against the invaders. Though it had been too close...

A third bomber appeared in her line of sight, busily dropping it's payload. Through the gunsight pipper, Kirke observed it intently as it focused on delivering its weapons. A sitting duck, unaware of its peril. She wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

"One more for the books, Katia. I've got a clear shot," she said calmly into the mic. Her finger hovered over the trigger, the lead settling precisely on target.

A deep breath to still her hand. Exhale. Squeeze.

Cannon rounds streamed toward the enemy, striking unprotected fuselage and wings. Fires immediately took hold, spreading rapidly amidst the chaos within. In seconds the aircraft was engulfed in an orange fireball.

Kirke swung past to observe the handiwork dispassionately. No parachutes, and no chance of survivors this time. A stern mercy, but total destruction ensured the crew's mission ended here.

"Target three down for the count. Splash three kills total, nice work Two-One," Balk radioed in approval. She clicked acknowledgment, satisfaction warming tired muscles.

Another successful interception for the Huckebein Squadron. The enemy contingent was scattering now under relentless pressure. Time to pull back and let the others finish mop-up.

She looked at her fuel gauge, she just had enough to reach back home to Rammstein. The squadron ascended up the clouds to form up again and head back in formation. Soon they contacted a radar station that vectored them back to Rammstein.

Once arriving back and landing, Kirke jumped out to inspect her aircraft, to her surprise, she found scratches and scars on the fuselage, and not from the bomber.

"The debris of the bomber hit your aircraft. It's risky going so close to a target." Balk explained as Kirke examined her craft. Katia watched her eagerly.

"Seems to me, like we did a good job!"

"Jesus kid, it's like you have a damn switch on you."

Kirke turned to look at her WSO but there was no heat in the words. "Easy there rocket girl, save some juice for the debrief. You know how Balk hates waiting," she said wryly.

As if on cue, their squadron CO strode over purposefully. "Lieutenant, report to the briefing room immediately. Good work out there today."

Kirke snapped a crisp salute. "Thank you, sir. We'll be along directly."

Balk just nodded and continued on his way. Kirke returned to studying scrapes on her Phantom's alloy skin with a critical eye. One deep gouge might've been from cannon fire, but most were shrapnel pocks. Risky closing in, sure, but she played to win.

"C'mon, let's get this over with so I can finally unwind," she sighed, turning away from battle scars with reluctance. Post-flight jitters still had her buzzing, though fatigue sat heavy too.

Katia fell into step beside, eyes alight. "Think we'll get time off after this? I'm dying to call home."

Kirke chuckled. "If we're lucky. But for now-" The squadron PA began to blare and cut her off.

"All scrambled pilots report for debriefing."

In a large room, the 51st Tactical Anti-Armor Battalion was surprised to learn that they were at war, with aliens no less. With Rammstein airbase far too deep inside Ulraznavia for their aircraft to do any serious interception, it was prudent, to move them to Celle Airbase in Central Ulraznavia and would strike the enemy forces from there until they were needed to move elsewhere.

---

Somewhere in Nova Arcadia.

The morning saw the entire company of the 97th Elysian Drop Troopers regiment roused by Captain Rietveld. Wilk yawned the last dregs of sleep away, before stowing Accatran pattern bullpup lasgun and slinging it over his shoulder. Then he packed up his sleeping bag and collapsed it so it fit into his belt. All around the newly captured bridge's perimeter, guardsmen were doing similar tasks before heading to the debriefing under the shade of the tree, Wilk was already heading there.

Wilk joined the gathering company under the broad canopy, selecting an open spot on the grass. Around him, men and women bantered groggily as they worked the stiffness from bones slept on hard ground.

Captain Rietveld stood amid the sitting troops, expression sober despite the hour. "Alright listen up, 97th. As you know we took this bridge three days ago with minimal casualties thanks to Jax and his scouts."

Appreciative murmurs greeted the nod to Jax, lounging at the back already smoking his post-coffee Iho.

"But since then got new orders directly from General Jaeger, they are as follows:" Rietveld continued. "Take the two big bridges that are marked on our auspex currently. Take these large main bridges and clear the surrounding settlements of hostile rebel forces. Then hold position till the General's regiment arrive"

A few uneasy glances passed.

Rietveld gave a grim half-smile. "Good question, Campbell. We've had no sign of serious resistance so far, but they'd be fools not to contest these crossings eventually."

He tapped the map display on his auspex unit. "So here's the plan - we split into two equal forces. Third and Sixth Platoons hold this bridge and the nearby town. You've got the mortars and heavy weapons for defense. The rest of us motor south in Chimeras to seize these bridges before the enemy can sabotage or destroy them."

Unease rippled through the troops at the prospect of dividing their numbers. But no one voiced dissent - these were veteran paratroopers, hand-picked by General Jaeger for their iron resolve as much as skills.

Rietveld noted their apprehension with a sage nod. "I know it's not ideal splitting our teeth. But the regiments are coming, and we need to open these routes for the armor. Have faith in your mates' ability to hold the line. And hold your ground when it matters most. Am I understood?"

Wilk scratched his neck, taking a pull from his ration pack nutrient bar. Two major bridges sounded a tall order for just one company, even elite Elysians.

Most here had dropped in light, relying on agility over heavy weapons. Holding ground was a different challenge to swift raids.

Rietveld seemed to read their minds. "I know it's a bigger bite than planned. But these routes are crucial for supply lines when the Campaign picks up steam. We have the skills and training to pull this off."

Jax grinned around his Iho stick. "Sure we do. Just point me at the scouting, I'll flush out their strengths and weak points in no time."

A ripple of dark chuckles greeted that; Jax's recon methods were...unorthodox, to put it mildly. But undeniably effective.

Wilk leaned back, running projections. "Two jump-packs per squad should do for mobility. And you better believe we'll make them pray for reinforcements, sir."

Laughter faded the lingering doubts as men and women readied with new purpose. Jaeger clearly had faith in the 97th, and they'd be thrice-damned before proving him wrong.

Wilk nodded thoughtfully. Taking two major bridges with just one company was a tall order, even for the elite Elysians. But General Jaeger was known for pushing his troops hard.

A grunt from nearby drew his attention. "Borrowing local transport, eh? Hope the locals don't mind sharing their trucks with our grubby asses," the man chuckled darkly.

"Ever the optimist, Varrick," Wilk smiled despite himself.

Captain Rietveld continued unfazed. "Scouts have identified the nearest bridge being guarded by a small militia outpost located in the next village over. We hit them before dawn, soften them up for the main assault."

Murmurs rose at that, excitement and trepidation in equal measure. A pre-emptive strike added risk but could pay off handsomely.

"Jax, I want you and two fire teams on point for the raid. The rest will follow shortly after to mop up and make for the bridge. Any questions?"

A few hands rose with minor clarifications which Rietveld addressed briskly. Then he paused, meeting each trooper's gaze in turn.

"Dismissed to final prep. Wheels up at 0200 sharp, people. The Imperium needs those bridges so let's give them hell!"

As they rose to finish kitting up, Wilk patted Varrick's shoulder with a grim smile. "Ready to give the locals a wakeup call, eh?"

---

White House.
United Republican States of Concordia.

June 3rd, 1995.

Officially day-2 of WW3

4AM

President James Marshall fixed his tie as the ponytailed woman gave him a final once-over, making sure everything was alright and there were no blemishes or anything that would imply he wasn't physically better than anyone else under pressure.

"All done Mr President."

"Thank you, Nancy." Marshall replied with a smile he would maintain in front of cameras and TV. He would need it, after all, it wasn't every day the President of the URSC told the world that it was being invaded by aliens from outer space.

Marshall strode into the crowded briefing room, passing walls bearing the seals of every Concordian state. Rows of reporters swiveled in their seats; microphones held aloft as cameras rolled.

"Good afternoon, everyone. I have an important update to share regarding this morning's attacks," he began, voice projecting clearly despite nerves. Nancy had prepped him well on remaining visibly presidential.

Every major network had reps jammed onto folding chairs or crowded along back walls - CNN, Fox, BBC, Al Jazeera. Even Yang Sheng from Dao state media had made the trip.

He took the podium, squinting against the lights. A hush fell as mics turned his way expectantly. Time to drop the bombshell. He cleared his throat.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I've called you here today to address a grave security situation unfolding across our nation." Murmurs rose but he held up a hand.

"At approximately 0830 eastern time this yesterday morning, multiple unidentified aircraft penetrated Concordian airspace and began attacking several major cities, resulting in extensive damage and loss of life."

Gasps rent the air. Anderson Cooper broke in, "Mr. President, can you confirm these are hostile attacks by another nation?"

Marshall exhaled slowly. "No, Anderson, the available evidence suggests...we are under attack not by any foreign power as we understand it, but by technologically advanced spacecraft originating from outside our world."

Pandemonium. "Aliens? You're saying aliens are invading us?" someone shouted.

He waited for things to calm before continuing heavily. "Early this morning radar sites along our northern border detected several large, unfamiliar objects entering atmosphere at hypersonic speeds. These objects began deploying smaller attack craft over cities which proceeded to bombard ground targets with directed energy weapons, causing severe damage."

"Do you have any proof of these claims?" shouted a BBC correspondent.

Marshall turned to an assistant who began rolling a television on a stand to the front. "We've begun compiling footage both from security cameras and cell phone videos civilians managed to take, which appear to conclusively depict extraterrestrial vehicles and weapons beyond our current level of development."

The screen flickered to life, showing shaky phone clips of objects that indeed looked like nothing from Earth - strange, armored giants like knights in grey armor blasting away at anything that moved. Panic and flames filled the frames as unseen citizens screamed.

"My god," someone breathed softly, echoing the shock in the room. Marshall steeled himself for the next, even harder questions to come. This was only the opening salvo in a crisis unlike any other.

A chorus of rapid-fire questions began but he held up a hand for silence. "One at a time, please. Jim, go ahead."

Jim Sciutto of CNN was first. "Mr. President, initial reports suggest weapons far beyond any known on Earth were used. Can you confirm if these attacks were extraterrestrial in origin?"

Marshall inhaled slowly, searching for the right words. "At this time, based on analysis of sensor data and wreckage...it appears the aggressor forces did not originate from any nation on Earth. The sophistication and capabilities displayed far exceed what even our most advanced technologies can achieve. We are...dealing with an extraterrestrial threat, yes."

Murmurs erupted as expected. He motioned for the next question.

"Jake, from the Post. Assuming these really are aliens, what's your message to the people of Concordia? How worried should they be?"

Marshall looked directly into the cameras. "I will not mince words or sugarcoat the gravity of this situation. However, the people of Concordia have faced down dangers before with courage and resilience. Though we do not fully understand the intent or strength of this enemy, our defenses remain strong. I have the utmost faith in our military to defend our skies and way of life. We will emerge victorious, as we always have when confronted by those who oppose liberty and justice. The people should stay vigilant but not lose hope - we face this threat together, as one nation."

"Mr. President, any updates on engaging these intruders militarily?"

He turned to the reporter from Fox. "I've been in constant contact with our joint chiefs and commanders worldwide coordinating our response. Multiple first encounters have already occurred with negative results according to early reports. However, this is just the beginning, and a long battle may lie ahead. Rest assured all necessary resources will be mobilized to eliminate the threat. We will not sit idly by."

And so it went - question after question as the world watched events unfold. This was after all, only the opening salvo in a crisis unlike any other.

---

4:40 PM

"Well that wasn't so hard was it?" Marshall remarked as he walked down the halls of the Pentagon with Secretary of Defense Danny Crawford.

"That's all well and good, but we have a new problem."

The smile left the President's lips and both men increased their speed.

"What happened?"

"Casualties are getting sky high, like really sky high. World's stating to face the most casualties ever seen in two days. Not even the second Great War was this bad."

Two Marine guards saluted before opening a door.

"How bad can it be?"

"Bad enough that we'll have to start drafting under age. At least that's what Willy says" Danny replied.

"What! William suggested this?"

The Secretary of defense winced at the president's reply. Marshall pulled Danny into a discreet alcove, out of earshot of hustling aides. "Drafting minors? That goes against every principle we stand for. Explain exactly what William said, I need context before that idea ever reaches my desk."

Danny ran a fretful hand through his close-cropped hair. "The situation is more dire than we realized, sir. The aliens have stepped up attacks across all continents simultaneously - we're getting reports of artillery-level strikes on every major population center worldwide."

He lowered his voice further. "CIA estimates over a billion casualties in 48 hours. Entire cities like New Delhi and Lagos have been reduced to rubble. Air forces globally are being overwhelmed trying to defend so many targets at once."

Marshall gripped the wall in shock. "A billion? My god... This is an actual existential threat to humanity, not just us. We have to coordinate a unified response before these things wipe us out completely."

His mind raced, processing previously unthinkable options. "What else did William brief? Forget his drafting idea for now, I need a full strategic picture including ally statuses."

Danny shook his head helplessly. "Communications are still chaotic but from what we can gather, every nation is fighting isolated battles across their own borders just to slow the alien onslaught. No formal requests for aid yet but it's only a matter of time."

He paused, visibly steeling himself. "William stressed that with industrial output hit so hard, we'll be unable to replenish lost armaments, vehicles and troops fast enough through conventional means. His proposal was to induct reserves and...also anyone aged 16 to 18 as a temporary drastic measure."

Marshall scowled, rubbing his forehead. "God damn that man's cold calculations. We'll discuss alternative strategies in the sit room before accepting anything so extreme."

Straightening, he fixed Danny with a resolute stare. "Come on, let's pull all our people together for an emergency strategy huddle. Humanity needs a unified defense and soon, or we really are finished."

With that he strode from the alcove, mind racing ahead to the crisis meeting that could help save their world. Or seal its doom.

Despite being depicted in the media as a screen filled room, the Pentagon's top Meeting room was, much simpler, if one was to put it. Only one "screen" occupied the room, a flatscreen projector from which they could review strategies, stock reforms, and Wall Street. This was the Situation Room after all, Not NORAD. And right now, Concordia's top brass was in the room. A calender nearby showed the date as June 3rd, 1995, now day two of what was being termed the "Third World War."

Just a long table surrounded by leather chairs, any pretense of comfort long since replaced by urgency.

Marshall took his seat at the head, Danny and William to either side. Around the polished wood sat the most pivotal decision-makers - Chiefs of Staff of each armed service, Director of National Intelligence, heads of State and Treasury. All eyes were grim as they awaited updates.

William spoke first without delay. "Gentlemen, the situation has deteriorated severely overnight as predicted. Alien forces have redoubled attacks worldwide, devastating population centers with impunity. Casualty estimates now exceed 1.2 billion across all continents and climbing rapidly."

Gasps and curses echoed around the table. Marshall raised a hand. "Projections for how long humanity can withstand this rate of attrition?"

An analyst piped up grimly. "Current models show total global collapse of infrastructure within two weeks if the alien onslaught maintains its present coordination and intensity, sir. Billions more will perish from lack of resources, nevermind further assault."

"What about our forces, can we hit back in a meaningful way?"

This time the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs responded heavily. "Our air wings were decimated in the initial waves, Mr. President. Space-based assets show the enemy has established air supremacy globally using advanced defenses we've no counter for. Local militias have been overrun attempting to hold cities."

"So in summary, we're fucked," spat the SecDef bluntly. Morale in the room dropped like a stone.

Marshall slammed a fist down. "Not yet we're not! Gentlemen, this is no time for despair, but for daring plans. Give me options, anything that can stall these invaders from total victory even temporarily. Time is the one advantage we have left."

Pens began scratching furiously as minds raced against the apocalyptic clock.

"William, you are up."

"Thank you." William Dressler, the Hoover-esque director of the CIA stood up as he had the floor.

"Gentlemen, yesterday, our satellites in space recorded a sudden burst of radiation, followed by this..." He showed a colorful photograph on the projector of a strange portal that was glowing and swirling with various shades of pink, purple, blue, and orange, contrasting sharply with the darkness of space behind it. "The crew of Challenger captured this photo at 1201 EST. At 2 PM, GMT and 9 PM Moskvingrad time yesterday on June 2nd, reports began to come across the world of strange, meteors and meteorites. On Santa Monica Beach the people became the first humans in the world to have "First Contact" "These anomalies, including this one, appeared out of nowhere and vanished within a minute. Immediately after, we detected incoming threats over California, Texas, Florida, South Dakota, and Virginia. EUCOM also detected similar anomalies over Edenite Airspace. Initially, we suspected that the Reds might have developed a new advanced delivery system, as we hadn't detected any missile launches. We had very little time to react before they reached us, not even enough to activate our anti-missile defenses. On one hand, it's fortunate that they aren't nuclear weapons. On the other hand,..."

He glanced at the TV screen, which now showed a second unit stationed just outside the entrance of the CNN building. They were hesitant to venture further, but their cameras captured vivid images of people on the streets. Some were frozen in shock, while others were desperately running for safety. Sunset Boulevard was congested with traffic as cars tried to flee from Hollywood. The pile-up had even spread to the westbound lanes, as some drivers attempted to bypass the traffic and ended up colliding with oncoming vehicles. Two LAPD officers stood outside the CNN center, shouting and waving frantically at the drivers still in their cars, trying to clear a path for a SWAT truck and several police cars that were bravely making their way into the war zone to try and restore order.

He continued: "Langley has noticed an increase in communications on the other side of the Curtain in the past half-hour. We can confirm that they have made landings in Moskvingrad, Leningrad, somewhere in the Urals, Maszowia, and Ulraznavia. As of now, the Organization of Free Nations (OFN) and Warsaw Pact have created a unified command structure, currently, the defense line is in Lublin, Maszowia."

An oppressive silence fell as the videos played, broken only by murmurs of "Dear God..." Around the table, seasoned generals and advisors paled at the unprecedented scenes of catastrophe.

William resumed briefing clinically. "Latest population estimates compiled from UN data and signals intelligence puts global casualties in the past 48 hours at a confirmed 1.83 billion worldwide. The likelihood is numbers are even higher due to communication disruptions. Invasion forces consist of at minimum 6 distinct alien fleet groups that entered via anomalous wormhole portals. Primary deployment theaters are North Liberia, Western/Eastern/Northern Euronia, the Indus subcontinent, and the People's Republic of Dao."

He tapped a button, bringing up live satellite feeds from affected areas. Cities like London, Seoul, and Brasilia glowed orange under grids of precision bombing. Small shapes swarmed like locusts between craters, firing reddish beams that leveled city blocks within seconds.

"Enemy craft utilize directed energy weapons exceeding any known terrestrial capabilities. Deployable atmospheric units range in size from large troop transports to fast fighter-interceptors. Larger motherships and transports have established beachheads globally and begun tectonic weapons testing with ominous implications."

William fixed each man with an icy gaze. "Based on intelligence gathered, we assess the invaders target complete societal collapse and subjugation of any resistance worldwide within 21 days at their current deployment strength. In summary - without a coordinated, technologically-assisted resistance on a scale never witnessed before, I estimate within three weeks homo sapiens will be extinct."

A grave hush fell as Dressler revealed the true scope of humankind's peril. Marshall steepled his hands, mulling heavy implications.

"So in summary - these aliens have established a coordinated global beachhead within hours, decapitating our ability to effectively resist through nuke-proof entry vectors and near-simultaneous strikes. And they show no signs of letting up pressure to subjugate the planet."

"That is the dire tactical assessment, yes sir," Dressler confirmed heavily. "Current data analysis suggests we are facing a civilization millennia ahead of our own, with weapons ranging from ground strikes on par with artillery barrages to directed energy beams capable of leveling cities individually."

"Casualty projections?"

Dressler sighed. "Based on the reported intensity of assaults across six inhabited continents within 36 hours, current casualties stand at an estimated 1.8 billion worldwide. If attacks maintain present coordination and escalation, total global collapse will ensue within 10-14 days as food/medical shortages take hold following an infrastructural breakdown."

Murmurs of dismay swept the room once more. An admiral spoke up grimly, "What about allied coordination? Can any militaries effectively slow the alien advance?"

Dressler referred to notes. "Most major powers have suffered 80-90% losses to air forces and strategic defenses already. The OFN-WP joint command reports holding the invaders just west of Lublin for now through combined armor/infantry supported by artillery barrages, but they are being gradually pushed back. No other force globally can currently halt an alien penetration."

"So, in short, we're fucked," spat the blunt SecDef once more.

Marshall felt bile rise in his throat but forced it down. Despair would solve nothing - they needed a Hail Mary play, and fast.

"Gentlemen, any proposals on how we can disrupt these aliens long enough for diplomacy? Because make no mistake, that is humanity's only chance now for long-term survival."

Dressler smirked, "Diplomacy is out of the question, out of the window. These guys seem hell-bent on not doing diplomacy, and shooting anything, regardless if it's military or civilian."

A chill went through the room at Dressler's grim assessment. Marshall leaned forward intently. "Explain why diplomacy seems untenable, William. Help us understand the mindset of an adversary this advanced yet violently unilateral."

Dressler cleared his throat. "Sir, in addition to the obvious intent demonstrated by their indiscriminate leveling of population centers, our analysts have detected no attempt by the invaders to communicate - either through conventional radio wavelengths or more advanced means. Further, analysis of their strike tactics and weapons effects shows they target civilians intentionally."

He brought up a classified satellite photo of Moskvingrad, with glaring laser-rangefinder circles honed in on certain city blocks. "For example, here we see targeting of dense residential high-rises in eastern Moskvingrad by what appeared to be precision particle beams. Thermal scans confirm nearly 100% casualties inside the targeted buildings, which were emptied within seconds by the attack."

Gasps echoed around the table at such ruthless efficiency. Dressler continued coldly. "Additionally, any humans who have surrendered or raised clear non-belligerent status, such as medics or journalists, have been fired upon and eliminated without exception when encountered by alien ground forces."

He sighed. "In summary, all evidence points to an opponent with completely alien motivations from ours - they demonstrate total disregard for civilian life or Geneva conventions. Diplomacy will not compute to such an adversary driven solely by conquest and extermination of our species."

Marshall blanched. "Dear God...then survival truly does come down to making these things bleed for every inch, doesn't it? By any means necessary."

"What about the Strategic Defense Initiative." a general forwarded, "We can use "Star Wars" can't we?"

Every eye was now on the general. Star Wars, or the Strategic Defense Initiative had been the personal idea of Marshall's predecessor, Ronald Reagan. It became operational in 1985, integrating the full orbital battery envisioned by President Reagan. And only because the technology had advanced and the use of Thirium (a miracle substance found in the Arctic).

The SecDef scoffed derisively. "SDI was designed to stop clumsy ICBMs, not goddamn plasma beams from Mars. Those orbital platforms will last thirty seconds against this enemy's tech. SDI was designed around predictable trajectories and warhead sizes, not autonomous spacecraft with who knows what countermeasures. We'd be lucky to tag one before they adapted and suppressed the whole grid."

Marshall pondered heavily. "He's right, SDI alone won't turn this around. We need options at the tactical level, where battles will be won or lost."

A Navy commander spoke up. "Perhaps a simultaneous defense in depth, sir? Draw them into slugging matches across multiple fortified lines while we replenish and adapt."

"Explain your concept, Commander."

She brought up a map of Concordia. "Here, establish successive lines along major terrain features - starting with urban defenses along the East Coast invasion zone. Fall back in phases to Appalachians, then Mississippi. Bleed the aliens attacking each position while assembling reserves and special weapon prototypes behind the lines."

SecDef nodded approval. "Multiple killzones across the continent playing to our infantry's advantages, buying time and data. I like it."

"As do I," said Marshall decisively. "Very well, this will be humanity's strategy - we make the aliens pay in blood for every advance. No more retreat, only fighting to the death at each line of defense. Any questions?"

Silence. Marshall rose, eyes hard as flint. "Then let's give these invaders a war they'll never forget. Dismissed - I want that first line under construction immediately. The fate of our world depends on it."

Admiring murmurs greeted the blunt strategy. Marshall nodded thoughtfully. "It buys us time to develop asymmetric options while stopping a swift continental takeover. I like it. What's the best terrain?"

Maps were spread before the JCS Chairman traced a line with a gnarled finger. "Here - the Appalachians run like a natural barrier from Pennsylvania down through Kentucky and Tennessee. Good chokepoints to stall armor, and the mountains give infantry cover to rain hell with AT weapons."

Marshall sighed, he needed a cup of coffee quickly. It was going to be a long day.

---

Moskvingrad.

Union of Vostokvakian Republics.

Kremlin.

June 3rd, 1995.

Always be on your guard in the nest of vipers and scorpions known, as the Politburo.

Fiodr Georgiyevich Kosov, chairman of the Komitet gosudarstvennoy bezopasnosti (KGB) looked at the individuals with him in the meeting room, arrayed with him were the leaders of the Union of Vostokvakian Republics, KGB members, RKKA members, etc. The room shook slightly, the lights flickered as gunfire was heard in the distance, the capital, this very city, was under attack.

President Andrey Illich Narmonov, the first "president" of the UVSR sat at the head, but Kosov's focus was on the two KGB men across him. Lt Colonel Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin and Col Grigori Sergeyevich Andropov. Both men couldn't have been more different.

Andropov was bald, with glasses, but a face that looked fit and well built. He had no relation to Yuri Andropov, Kosov's predecessor and was Putin's rival.

Putin on the other hand, was thinner, wirier. The Leningrad native, like everyone else in the room, had a poker face. No emotion was shown on any of the individual's faces, as if this was a regular old Politburo meeting as if the gunfire did not exist.

"Well, who wants to speak first?"

"Why have we not moved?" an apparatchik asked, "Our capital is being bombarded, the aliens have already taken control of two of Moskvingrad's Metro tunnels, nobody is alive in them, why have we not moved." The apparatchik's face, and tone of voice were emotionless, a low drone that seemed to lull a person to sleep.

"They seem to be taking their time." Putin retorted in the usual Leningrad accent. There was a boom, the lights flickered, yet nobody ducked.

"Is it me or is their artillery moving farther away." Marshall Yuri Rozhkov mumbled.

"No Yuri, I don't think so." Andropov sarcastically snapped.

"Grisha!"

Andropov stopped speaking but glowered at Rozhkov all the same.

"Last time I checked, Pavel Leonidovich Alekseyev: Deputy Commander of the Southwest Front is fighting somewhere near us..."

Kosov stared at the massive portrait of Vladimir Illich Ulyanov, Lenin as he was known in the west... he gazed up calmly at the portrait, the icon of a bygone ideology. Internally he scoffed - these men bickering over doctrine cared not a whit for the workers. Only power and its privileges mattered in this room.

"Comrades, let us focus. Speculating avails nothing while our capital burns." His voice cut through their spat, imbued with the quiet authority of his position. All eyes turned expectantly.

Kosov steepled his fingers. "As Chairman, I have overseen the rapid repositioning of Spetsnaz and reconnaissance assets to encircle Moskvingrad. Our perimeter now monitors all ground approaches."

He slid dossiers across the table to Putin and Andropov. "Colonels, your teams will initiate the next phase. Insert under cover of nightfall to the occupied tunnels and metro infrastructure. I want detailed intelligence on the invaders' strengths, numbers, even biological analysis if possible."

Both men nodded sharply, skimming assignment briefs. Kosov continued, "Marshal Rozhkov, coordinate with Alekseyev to screen the sorties from enemy notice. Should engagement seem imminent, fall back to assessed redoubts in the southeast."

The elder general saluted. Kosov turned finally to Narmonov. "Mr. President, you will oversee civil evacuation and ensure continuity of government from the Gorky facilities as planned."

Narmonov inclined his head obediently. Kosov rose, dismissing the meeting. As others filed out discussing logistics, he beckoned the Colonels aside discreetly.

"Report only findings directly to me, comrades. Information remains our most potent weapon, is it not?" Both men grinned slowly, recognizing a fellow player of the game. Wars might come and go, but this dance went on forever. And one did well not to forget who held the real reins of power.

Timeskip

Andropov watched Putin, light a cigarette as both men walked down the hall. He hated the thin Leningrader, no, he loathed him. Him and his Judo martial arts. And he was a lieutenant colonel, making the bald man even more angry.

"Rouble for your thoughts Grisha?"

Andropov's jaw clenched at that insolent tone. Outwardly he remained calm.

"Just contemplating our mission, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel. Some last details before departure." He paused meaningfully. "The Chairman values success above all. It would not do to...trip at this stage, yes?"

Putin blew out a lazy plume of smoke, watching it dissipate with studied disinterest. But his eyes were keen as ever. "Of course not, Comrade Colonel. We all serve the State to the best of our abilities."

His mild phrasing carried a barb nonetheless. Andropov hid a scowl - what did this slick young viper know of sacrifice? Politics was a knife's edge but Putin danced surefooted as a gymnast.

He opted for candor. "You rise swiftly, Vladimir Vladimirovich. Some might call too swiftly, considering your...origins."

Putin met his gaze coolly. "And some might wonder how a good Soviet like yourself remains mired so long at the edges of power. Surely promotion is deserved on merit alone, no?"

Checkmate. Andropov bit back a curse. Putin was like quicksilver, impossible to pin yet lethal when turned. No matter - the game was long, and there were deeper currents yet to navigate.

He inclined his head courteously. "Of course, tovarisch. May the best man find favor with the State this day. Dosvidaniya - I wish you clear tunnels ahead."

With that he strode away, mind racing ahead to plans within plans. Let the clever viper think himself lord of the wood. The hawk would always see further in the end.