Chapter 17.
Seeing the Elephent.
It was bright and sunny - too bright and sunny. Sgt. Liudev Kornilov, 1752nd Kislev Guard, frowned. They were supposed to be targeting this area of the planet under the cover of darkness, and yet somehow they had ended up completely on completely the frakkin' wrong side of the planet since it was broad daylight.
At that moment, he and the rest of his squad were riding desant on the back of Bozhe Imperator, one of the Leman Russ Main Battle Tanks of the 1752nd's 23211st Advance Armor Company. Two tank platoons had dropped in via Sky Talon alongside the 7th and 8th infantry companies, including Kornilov's. Their orders had been to secure the drop-site, but when no real enemy resistance was forthcoming (as well as, you know, it being day instead of night), it didn't take long to realize that something was way off. Kornilov had begun to have the unpleasant thought festering at the back of his mind that this might not even be the right planet at all, but right now, there were more pressing matters to focus on. The orders coming in were that they were now to rendezvous with the rest of the 1752nd, in the area but as yet some ways away.
Kornilov took a moment to get his bearings. Bozhe Imperator was trundling along what looked like a major thoroughfare, with two separate roadways, each with two lanes of traffic in one direction. Around them, there were several vehicles of the natives - smaller, four-wheeled cars, some boxy shaped, others slightly more rounded, and all with large glass windows which, along with the fact that neither they nor their owners were armed, indicated that they were peacetime civilian vehicles. This made it even stranger - this was clearly no active warzone.
"Sergeant, what are we doing here? Where's the enemy?" Private Seryozha Popov asked from the turret.
"You tell me, kid, you tell me," Kornilov replied. He took a drag from his lho stick and scratched the back of his neck.
Ahead of Kornilov, the tank's turret hatch opened with a loud creak and the head of Lt. Miroslav Bakovic- clad in a dark-blue peaked cap- emerged. "Sergeant," he said, "I'd like to have a word with you."
"Sir," Kornilov answered respectfully.
"The good news is that Techie here was able to fix the leak," Bakovic continued.
Kornilov frowned. "How much fuel did we manage to salvage?"
"Enough for about ten kilometres," said Bakovic, "half of that already went into opening the hatch."
"And Adept Carlo?"
"The same - or else he's not going to let me know."
"What's the catch?" asked Kornilov. By now, he had probably become veteran enough to know that every piece of good news was almost inevitably accompanied by the other kind.
"We've leaked plenty already," grumbled Bakovic, "we'll either have to continue the rest of the way on foot, or use up what little is left and refuel here." Bakovic, of course, knew already which one of the two options they would end up taking; the Kislev Regiments in general had a fond attachment to their mighty war machines, and Bakovic especially wouldn't dare once, not in a millennium, ever be caught abandoning his beloved Bozhe Imperator behind. He looked at the men around him; they were all getting antsy as well.
Which of course then meant that Kornilov and his men would either have to scavenge for prometheum somewhere, or else have to get to work - the Russ's HL230 V12 engine might be able to run on wood in an emergency (and there was plenty of that all around them), but someone would still have to fell a couple trees, mulch 'em up into pulp... yeah, better to just try and commandeer some of the natives' own fuel.
Kornilov looked ahead and noticed two small buildings and a large parking lot. A sign with a long-necked dragon and the name SHELL hung above them. It was clear the place was some kind of vehicle service station. Under the roof, four metal structures with rubber hoses stuck out of the ground - these must have been refueling stations. He looked at the vehicles parked there: six two-part articulated models, each with a shorter driver's cab riding on three tires connected to a boxy trailer. One trailer was red and said COCA-COLA, another was blue with WALMART written in white block letters. The rest were just silver and plain. At the front of the building stood large motorbikes, not as big as Space Marines' attack bikes but still massive.
"Sir, it looks like a refueling station of some kind, sir," remarked Pvt. Tamara, who was seated behind Bakovic, who pointed towards the complex and ordered their driver to take them there. The techpriest made a remark that the fuel they would be collecting was "millennia ahead" of what they had aboard. As Bozhe Imperator rumbled across the grass and into the building, Kornilov and his men jumped out. To their surprise, the door opened and a woman emerged, wearing a short skirt, grey shirt, and some kind of flag on the front with writing he couldn't understand. She was brandishing a firearm, which appeared to be a shotgun, and aimed it at them. Lt. Brankovic shouted from the tank hatch,
"Hail! In the Name Of The Emperor! Citizen, we will be requisitioning your fuel for our tank." Bakovic declared in his best "liberator" style.
The native looked confused at Bakovic's declaration. She shook her head and shouted back. Kornilov was impressed by her resolve - or was it foolishness? He really couldn't tell, but she seemed to be trying to communicate something important. For a moment he thought it might help, but what on terra was "Gawdless-Stovi-kommunists" and "Kommie-natzees", whatever those meant. And on top of all that, she kept waving her shotgun, threateningly.
Pvt Klinov dismounted from the tank and headed to one of the pumps. At this point, the native woman must have lost it or panicked or something, because she fired at Pvt. Klinov. BANG. The Guardsman's flak armor was able to soak up most of the shot, but it was still fired at close enough range that Klinov stumbled backwards, lost his balance, and fell flat on his arse.
" ХРУДИЙ СИН!"swore Klinov, angrily; Kornilov noticed there were fragments and scratches on the Guardsman's faceplate - if not for the full helmets worn by the Kislev tank crewman, the private would have taken shot to the face and eyes, might even be seriously injured.
That's when Pvt. Lukov fired. The lasbolt cut through the air and struck the native woman in the shoulder, causing her left arm to disintegrate in an instant; Kornilov saw the woman's chest rip open, blood spurt from the wound, mingling with skin sheet-white were once her right breast had been. The woman let out a short shriek of pain before slumping over.
Kornilov's men sprung into action; their lasguns crackling and spitting death towards the enemy. He watched with disdain as several of the adversaries sought cover, but he knew that was futile - they had come prepared. With a callous flick of his finger, he adjusted his weapon to high-power mode, took aim at the building where his foes cowered and let loose. There was a loud POP, followed by the acrid smell of burnt wood and screams from within. The others followed suit, unleashing an unrelenting hail of laser fire that devoured the structure until it resembled more erased cheese than a house. In a desperate attempt to flee for their lives, two men fled the scene only to be cut down in their tracks by Kornilov's squad. The counter flashed zero on Kornilov's helmet display - silenced targets were all that remained.
"Hostiles clear," announced Kornilov.
"Load up and move on!" bellowed Bakovic.
The team hustled around securing the area as bozhe imperator pulled up nearby, its heavy treads grinding at the asphalt and maneuvering so that its fuel port aligned with the pump's cord.
Adept Carlo finally emerged from the tank and stepped out onto the ground, clad in his crimson garments and gleaming mechanical enhancements.
"Interesting," he muttered, surveying the disarmed and dismembered body of the first native. "Her apparel appears to be inscribed with words using a language that's been dormant since the first machine spirits were formed."
"What does it say?" Kornilov asked.
"Something along the lines of 'You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead hands'," Carlo replied.
"That's hilarious," Pvt. Lukov laughed. "I guess she wasn't very good with it anyway."
Pvt. Klinov disagreed.
Bypassing the peculiar fuel pumps took Dromio a few minutes, followed by refilling Bozhe with all of the station's remaining fuel (a much more productive use of time than siphoning the fuel from multiple native vehicles). This fuel was definitely far better quality than prometheum itself.
While Bozhe refueled, Kornilov noticed a large metal box standing as tall as a man and painted red - although its glass front had long since been shattered in the crossfire. It too bore the strange wording COCA-COLA in a distinctive typeface. Kornilov peeked inside to discover rows of glass bottles containing a dark liquid which was still cool to the touch, tiny droplets of condensation just beginning to cling to the surfaces.
Kornilov popped open one of the strange glass bottles from the red metal box. A hiss of pressurized gas escaped as he examined the dark, fizzy liquid within.
"Some kind of beverage by the look of it," he mused. The bottle was frosted with condensation - clearly meant to be served chilled.
Kornilov took a tentative sip. A sweet, crisp flavor greeted him, with an effervescent bite. Quite refreshing actually. He took a deeper drink.
"Not bad at all," he declared, smacking his lips. Around him, the rest of the squad had cracked open bottles of their own, slaking their thirsts after the firefight.
Kornilov drained his bottle with relish. As he tossed it aside, a thought struck him. "Adept, can you analyze the contents of these? Something tells me they aren't standard recaf."
The techpriest nodded, waving a mechadendrite bearing an array of sensors over an unopened bottle. He studied the incoming data.
"Fascinating. A highly caffeinated beverage laced with refined sugars," he reported. "And more - various natural extracts and flavorings my sensors cannot fully identify."
Kornilov nodded. Just as he suspected - whatever these pre-Imperium civilizations used to sate their cravings for stimulants. The Squad seemed to be enjoying it at least.
"Load up as many as we can fit," he ordered. "Might prove useful for bartering with the locals, if nothing else."
As the troopers gathered armloads of the bottles, Kornilov watched the fuel gauge on the idling tank. Nearly full. Time to get back underway.
He drained one last bottle before tossing it aside and climbing aboard the freshly fueled Leman Russ. They still had a lot of ground to cover before rendezvousing with the rest of the regiment. But thanks to their little detour, they now had full tanks and plenty of other supplies. After all, the day was only getting started.
Somewhere in the Sea Of Satsuma.
Zhalkova must have been swimming for hours, or at least that's what it felt like. She could see the light just up ahead, but it could not be a lighthouse. She knew from their last reported position before she had bailed from Fighting Girlfriend that they were in the middle of the sea and too far from land. If it was a boat, it clearly wasn't moving, neither away from nor towards her. This didn't leave much else in her mind as to what exactly it could be, but she had a strong suspicion. This suspicion would have been strong enough to make her hesitate, if not for curiosity at that moment getting the better of her.
Zhalkova tread water warily as the strange light bobbed in the distance. She couldn't shake the bad feeling she had in the deep bowels of her stomach. As she swam closer, she was able to discern that the light was connected to what appeared to be another person, also floating in the waves. Pausing for a moment, she felt uncertain about her next course of action. It seemed clear to her that this person could be the enemy, possibly Concordians, based on their attire. Drawing from her training, Zhalkova recognized the uniforms worn by the capitalists and their allies. She also ruled out the possibility of the individual being Bobrova or any other pilot from their force, as the stranger's gear, including the flight-suit, helmet, and inflatable vest, did not match any familiar patterns.
To withstand the intense g-forces experienced during flight, pilots on the newer aircraft like the Fulcrum and Flanker utilized newer KKSM flight suits, a more modern style garment than the old VKK. The stranger's attire stood out with its navy blue color, complemented by a white helmet equipped with a visor and rebreather piece. Additionally, white pauldrons adorned both shoulders, with the left one bearing a silver-colored winged skull and the right one featuring a double-headed eagle emblem reminiscent of the old Tsarist regime's coat-of-arms. While the outfit bore some resemblance in principle to flight-suits like the one Zhalkova was wearing, its exact details were unlike any national attire she could recall, making it truly distinct. It became evident to her that the person in the unique outfit was unmistakable in their identity.
Zhalkova hung low, unsure what to do next - or rather, she tried to, as her did what it was supposed to and kept her head and upper torso above the waves and clearly visible. Fortunately, it looked like the other person was facing away from her right now and hadn't yet noticed her.
Her suspicions were confirmed when the ocean began to swell as a large wave appeared in front of the other person. As the wave swept past, it carried the other person for a bit, and brought them crashing right into Zhalkova.
The pilot turned on the spot and saw who she was right away. For a split second, she stared her opponent face to face - could almost see his eyes in the black visor (or were they her own, just being reflected? She didn't know nor care).
The pilot, whoever he was, must have had the exact same thought running through his head. He must have recognized Sokolov as the enemy, as his first reaction was to crane back his head and then butt it forward, smashing it right into Sokolov's. Two helmeted heads collided with an audible "thunk!", and Zhalkova's visor cracked but she maintained her composure.
She was after all, Lieutenant Anastasiya Zhalkova, a skilled combat pilot of the 1st Air Army of the Voyenno Vozdushnye Sily dedicated to defending her country. In the face of the enemy's aggression, Zhalkova was determined not to surrender without a fierce struggle. Despite the initial attack, Zhalkova managed to firmly grasp her opponent's helmet with both hands, preparing to exert all her strength. Both pilots were clad in heavily padded flight suits and helmets, which hindered their ability to engage in a conventional fistfight, especially with the added bulk of their inflated life vests. Given the circumstances, Zhalkova focused on finding a way to neutralize her opponent's advantages and gain the upper hand in the intense struggle.
Zhalkova aggressively wrestled her arms tightly around her opponent's head, refusing to let go despite the punches, kicks, and lashing back from her alien opponent. In the heat of the struggle, she discovered what felt like a latch and without hesitation, she forcefully snapped it open. As a result, there was a distinct hiss of air, and the helmet cleanly came off, landing in the water with a splash.
In the light from the beacon, she could finally get at a good look at the face of the enemy that had cost her the life of her friend, and her aircraft.
The face that revealed itself from under that white helmet was a soft and round one, with long black hair and full lips and high cheekbones. He, no, she shouted something at him that he could not understand (though figured, judging from her tone and inflection, that she probably wasn't saying anything particularly nice), and then she tried to punch back at her. At least now that her helmet was off, Zhalkova dodged the blow and responded with a punch into her now-exposed face.
"That's for Vronska!" she screeched at the other girl, "Sucha!"
Their brawl was interrupted as the water began to bubble. Zhalkova and her foe froze as the ocean roiled beneath them. A great force surged upwards, lifting them atop a dark surfaced mass and their feet found something solid. An enormous black object emerged, reminiscent of a whale surfacing to spout. Exhausted and drenched, they lay sprawled across its surface, resembling fish yanked out of the sea and plopped onto a fisherman's boat. In the background, a metallic screech signaled the opening of a hatch, and then a powerful searchlight abruptly illuminated the scene, turning night into day.
"This is the Navy!" a voice boomed over a loudspeaker. "Hands up!"
Zhalkova knew who it was, yet she still complied by raising his hands towards the sky. Meanwhile, her opponent remained on the ground, glaring intensely at Zhalkova and whoever was standing behind him. The distinct sound of bootsteps echoing on the steel rungs suggested the presence of multiple individuals descending from the submarine's conning tower and advancing deliberately towards Zhalkova. The footsteps halted just a few meters away from her.
"Comrade-Lieutenant Zhalkova, I presume?" a voice finally spoke. Its owner was different from the one she'd heard on the loudspeaker, softer and more feminine this time.
"Da," she confirmed, slowly rising with hands raised.
"Comrades, seize the other one." The woman, Zhalkova was sure of it, commanded briskly.
Shortly after, two sailors entered Zhalkova's field of vision and walked right past her, aiming Kalashnikov rifles at the woman. Zhalkova slowly turned around, keeping her hands up, to confront the speaker.
Three other sailors were standing right behind him, two in black-and-gold officer coats, and one in an enlisted man's uniform, also holding a rifle. The speaker was the foremost of the three of them, a young athletic brunette near her age, with the insignia denoting her as the zampolit of this vessel.
The speaker whose voice she'd heard over the loudspeaker stepped forward, a blonde man with a clean shaven face and light bluish grey eyes. He introduced himself as he stepped forward. "I am Captain Victor Tupolev," he stated. "This is the K-3199. Our mission was to retrieve both you and the enemy pilot along with their aircraft. It appears that we have successfully accomplished both objectives." His gaze shifted towards the bow, and Zhalkova followed suit, observing the woman being handcuffed by two sailors, with a slight trace of blood from her punch.
"You must be tired and cold. Please, follow me below decks."
"Thank you, Captain," Zhalkova replied gratefully. But before she could depart, the athletic looking female officer pulled her aside insistently.
"Comrade, your valor in engaging the enemy is most commendable. However, I must debrief you at once. We have much to discuss." She eyed the prisoner meaningfully.
Zhalkova hesitated. "Respectfully Comrade, I am exhausted and must see to my wounds first."
The officer shook her head. "I apologize, but the Motherland has great need of your knowledge. This cannot wait."
Sighing inwardly, Zhalkova acquiesced. "Very well. I am ready."
The officer nodded. "Excellent. Come, we have a room prepared." Zhalkova cast a longing glance at the hatch leading belowdecks but dutifully followed.
Cherbourg, Francovia
June 3rd, 1995
Sous-Lieutenant Aguillard put down his book and sighed, looking out of his window. He had volunteered to stay behind, jumping at the chance to command his own men for a change, but was now regretting the decision. Only four men in his squad had stayed behind, and they were now sitting at a table a little ways from him playing a game of cards. Adding insult to injury, standing regulations on contact between officers and enlisted men prevented him from joining in. Standing up, Aguillard stretched, joints cracking as he did so.
Might as well check the other stations, the Lieutenant thought to himself. Leaving the room, he headed down the hallway to radio ops. Although communications were a different regiment and therefore under a different chain of command, only one man had stayed behind, and Aguillard had been left in charge of him as well.
Peeking his head into the room, the Lieutenant caught sight of the operator snoozing in his chair, oblivious to the incoming chatter. The inexperienced officer hesitated in waking the man up - he knew that the unit had been undergoing some pretty rigorous training pending deployment to the border and that he probably hadn't gotten much sleep. Then again, what if some important transmission came in, and the man wasn't awake to hear it?
"Caporel," he said in a low voice. The man snorted in his sleep. "Caporel! Corporal! Wake up!"
The young radioman jolted awake. Realizing where he was, he sprang from his chair to the position of attention. "Sous-Lieutenant!" he shouted, "I'm sorry for falling asleep, sir!"
The officer nodded. "At ease," he said, "I don't see any reason to report this. Just don't let it happen again."
The man relaxed back into his chair. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," he said. The officer turned to leave. Unbeknownst to both men, an urgent all-stations message had been missed by almost half an hour.
Aguillard headed back toward the enlisted common room. Although officers had their own designated area, it was decidedly lonely in there, and the Lieutenant had decided to join the enlisted men instead. Before he could reach his destination, however, a loud alarm began to blare from the mounted loudspeakers.
An attack alarm? Now? The Lieutenant started to panic as his four men rushed out of the common room. "Lieutenant!" One of them shouted, "What's the alarm?"
The officer shook his head - better safe than sorry. "Get to the armory! Full armament." His men nodded and rushed off.
Aguillard drew his personal MAC Mle 1950 pistol from his hip holster, holding it in front of him protectively. There was no time to get a more powerful weapon - his first priority was to get to the sentry towers and locate the source of the alarm.
Exiting the headquarters building, Aguillard cringed as the frigid winter air slammed into him full force. Hurrying down the path, he scanned the perimeter for the source of the alarm.
Coming up to the moderately tall tower facing the land, the Lieutenant opened the door and ran full force up the stairs. Coming to the top, he paused and looked around confusedly. Where was everybody? Looking out over the base, he caught sight of the shipyard and gasped. The sky was filled with falling pods and strange dropships. Swarms of soldiers had descended on the rows of ships, as the crews scrambled around like ants, their firearms firing red beams. Movement caught his eye, and the officer looked down to see his squad cornered by about a dozen of these soldiers. Apparently, they hadn't made it to the armory and were consequently unarmed.
The Lieutenant had never felt so useless in his life. He had to do something, but what could he do? He glanced around for a weapon, and his eyes landed on the assault rifle lying against the wall.
Rushing over to it, he picked up the FAMAS and aimed carefully down the iron sights. Catching sight of a soldier, he took a deep breath. Calming his heart rate, his arm steadied and he focused himself on that one soldier.
The world slowed down as he pulled the trigger.
The rifle slammed back into his shoulder as a dash of red appeared across the soldier's back. Blood spurted from the wound, and by the time the soldier was on the ground, Aguillard was already searching for another target. All of a sudden, he caught sight of one of the soldiers pointing a finger toward his location. Half the group took off towards the stairs.
Crap
Aguillard quickly began to fire his assault rifle on the ground, nailing first, an ornate woman in a black uniform and outrageously large peaked cap and two more of the soldiers. The squad burst through the door, guns raised. They paused momentarily when they caught sight of Aguillard, but it didn't take them long to open fire. The Lieutenant dove for cover behind the sentry post, lasers burning through every thing around him.
A soundless shockwave caused Aguillard to instantly collapse to the ground, his ears pounding heavily. As he tried to get up, his weapon was ripped from his grasp and he was violently turned onto his back. A hand slammed into his left arm, and he screamed as a painful CRACK resonated from the wound. The face of a human... like him, only livid with rage shoved itself into Aguillard's field of vision.
Pvt Galina Kylia
23rd Syrasha Sterncowls
The surface of the planet "Nova Arcadia"
"Did that hurt, heretic?!" The girl shouted, incomprehensible anger glowing from her eyes. "No? Well, how about this?" She gripped the broken arm and twisted it one hundred and eighty degrees. The man screamed even more. "You don't like that so much, do you?!"
"Galina!" An officer said sternly. "Release that guy, now!"
"He killed my sister! He doesn't deserve-"
"I said NOW! That is an ORDER, guardsman! Drop the knife and step away."
"But, sir-"
"DO IT!"
Galina's shoulders slumped."Yes, sir." she said. Her expression was a mixture of frustration and defeat.
"Now," the officer said, "get over there and guard the prisoners. The rest of you, secure this area and make sure that this... scum... doesn't escape. We need them for questioning."
Galina did as she was told, her posture slouched and dejected.
"Sir?" Another guardsman asked. "What do we do about the other 4 we captured? There are only three more, and we're not sure if the fourth will survive."
"If the fourth one survives, bring him along too. If not, make sure the others don't find out about his demise. We can't afford any unnecessary conflicts, especially now. I'll be taking care of the interrogations personally, and I'm not going to allow any mistakes."
Aguillard started to chuckle slowly. Galina, however, was infuriated by the laughter. "You think that's funny?!" She screamed, throwing herself at the prisoner before him. Two soldiers grabbed her and pulled her back. "Restrain her," the leader ordered, "and get that heretic drugged." A large guard approached the Francovian officer, and the last thing he felt was the needle entering his neck.
2nd Lieutenant Ryan Parker's Battlegroup.
Southern Francovia.
Evening of June 3rd, 1995.
Recently captured village in battle area.
"Come on! Get into position! Now!"
A sense of dread had taken control of the GIs within Bravo company. It had taken ahold of the OFN battlegroup's members with them too. And for a good reason.
Once they had retaken the village that was supposed to have been taken by Bannon and Charlie Coy, the two units barely had any time to relax before Parker had been contacted by Commandant Sabatier an Col Sawyer. Their successes had been noticed, and now it seemed that the whole main force was preparing for a counterattack in two minutes. Leaving Parker with very little time to spare for setting up defenses. As a result, he was now running around, shouting orders to and fro. Sending men and vehicles scrambling. He had the OFN battlegroup set up its tanks on all three entrances to the village, while GIs and Euronian infantrymen were ordered to find cover in houses.
"Alright, now here's the present situation," Parker pointed at the map. "Commandant Sabatier informed us of an enemy force marshalling itself from the enemy headquarters. Now, the Commandant reports that his forces are already too busy. Col Sawyer's ordering us to dig in with everything we got and hold this village here till we get reinforcements. We have two minutes."
A chorus of groans rose up in clamor at his words. "Two minutes, that's impossible!" a Batavian infantry NCO protested.
However, the groups protests were shot down quickly by the Batavian commanding the OFN group. "You heard what the lieutenant said! His orders came from the colonel. This man's done a good job leading us so far, even with his own company waiting on his orders. I trust him. Now all of you quit your whining. The quicker we can set up ad hoc defenses the better chance we have at surviving and getting help from the commandant or colonel. Am I clear?"
A few grumpy murmurs of assent responded back as the soldiers grumpily gathered up their weapons and equipment and began to troop out of the house Parker had been using as a makeshift CP. A lot of the OFN troops gave him dirty looks as they left. Parker only sighed tiredly back in response. The Batavian gave a sharp nod of her head in respect before setting her beret back at its correct angle and marching out to rejoin her men. Leaving only him in the now deserted CP. Jamming his combat helmet onto his head, he went out into the square.
A desperate buzzing seemed to have now captured the town. Soldiers ran to and fro, burdened with their own weapons and equipment, and anything that looked like it could be welded together to create a defensible position. Windows were boarded up with M249 SAWs and FN MAGs set up in the topmost windows of the houses at the most outer limits of the town. The tall church tower and windmill became sniper posts. Men were hacking away at the ground with entrenching tools, creating shallow foxholes or trenches in some case for spartan amounts of cover with frenzied abadon. The tanks arrived, setting themselves comfortably up in the shady areas of the town where their guns had a good accurate view of the route the alien formation was taking. And Parker had another set of problems to deal with.
"Get those SPAAs behind and on the edges with plenty of AT coverage and protection!" Parker gestured to the rear areas of the town to the SPAAs. "Alright! Here's what's gonna happen! I want you to reverse and head to the outer perimeters and edges, spread each vehicle out and position yourselves in such areas where all of you have overarching fields of fire." He told the OFN crewman on the Flakpanzer Gephard. "I'm gonna post a few Dragon AT teams and a few GIs as pickets, so you guys don't get caught with your pants down." This should give you a pretty good field of fire should an enemy airstrike try to get the drop on us because you have said overarching fields of fire.
The SPAA crewman reversed the vehicle, the rest following it, as the driver expertly eased into the desired position. Parker gave a nod. The crewman nodded before shouting an order to the driver, who began to reverse the vehicle before turning it to the direction Parker had pointed out and drove off, GIs with Dragons and assault rifles following. He quickly chambered a round into his XM4 and double checked that the Visiontech 2X optical sight on the carbine was working correctly. He gave a quick thumbs up to the SPAAs once they were in position before walking off.
In the houses closest to the edge of the village, with a good view of the paths where the main force would arrive, machine gunners set up M249s or FN MAGs if you were Euronian. The roofs were where Parker ordered his AT assets to set themselves up, these were AT4s, M47 Dragon MANPATGMs, MILAN ATGMs and Carl Gustaff 84 Recoilless Rifles. The church towers and water tanks became sniper posts. Men lying prone or mounting their weapons on windows. In once such opulent villa, Privates Travis and Dubois along with PFC Hendrix set up their AT weapons, while the PFC set up an M249.
"Damn…do you think Parker knows what he's doing?" Dubois blurted out suddenly.
"He knows what he's doing." Hendrix assured. "Man went to West Point. And, if you haven't noticed: we're still alive. All good signs of Parker knowing what he's doing."
"Yeah right." Henry scoffed. "I'm telling you we just got lucky. I'm telling you both that this whole defense is a goddamn waste. None of us are gonna survive this. Sawyer's mad if he thinks we can hold this village."
"Shut your trap Travers." Dubois glowered. "Use that M249 of yours instead. Quit your whining."
The man glared affronted but didn't continue. There was a certain tension flying around in the air.
The defenses had been finished right on schedule. Parker stared at his wristwatch, the timepiece belonging to his grandfather, who'd dropped as a paratrooper in Normandy in 1944. A few seconds to spare. Not bad. Parker conceded mentally. Before walking over to a nearby trench close to the front entrance. But with plenty of cover and visibility. Jumping in, he nodded to the RTO, who was already there, to which the signaler gave a smile in response. The other GIs and OFN riflemen acknowledged his presence. One man was already setting up a Browning M1917 Machine Gun and had his finger covering the trigger. Every man or woman in the village was. Tense and coiled like a spring. Beads of sweat rolling down their faces.
Two minutes were up. Where was the force? The scouts reported they hadn't seen anything yet so that put them all on their guard. Were they attempting a flanking maneuver? Parker quickly grabbed the telephone on the RTOs back and placed the receiver to his ear, ringing up Sawyer's frequency, then Sabatier's. When no response came, he then rang up Bannon and Charlie Company who had taken up positions at the lighthouse from where they would provide fire support.
Bannon's response was the usual one Parker had been expecting from the envious captain.
"How the hell am I supposed to know Parker? I got nothing on my intel and my scouts don't report anything yet. Shouldn't you know this? The enemy's probably taking a goddamn piss break in some ditch!"
Time passed slowly. 3 minutes, the hand went up to 4.
"Where the hell are those bastards. Sawyer said the main force would be here in two minutes."
There was not a peep coming from any man in either a foxhole, a slit trench or even the houses. The only sound that was heard was the distant rumble of guns and gunfire.
"Think they suffered a breakdown sir?" Private First-Class Charlie Hale muttered to Parker in a slit trench he was occupying with other GIs.
"don't know private." Parker replied, unease entering his voice. "Maybe Sabatier's guys destroyed them en-route?" That was unlikely, even to him.
7 minutes now passed, and not even an enemy airstrike had arrived.
15 minutes later, the scouts finally reported the force inbound. And now parker saw what had taken them so long. Their vehicles were God-awful slow.
"What kind of shit tanks are those." A GI wondered aloud in his thick Brooklyn accent. "Damn things move like tortoises."
Like the tanks they'd faced before. The alien, well not really alien considering they were all humans as seen by the prisoners they'd taken, the enemy tanks were anachronistic looking machines. A mixture between a Mark 1 Landship, and an Interwar period Char B1. And they were moving so slowly. Taking their sweet time. They seemed to be in no hurry to rush through. They'd already divided themselves into 3 sperate columns which were clattering along towards their respective target insertion points at the pace of an Interwar multi-turreted tank.
"This is just sad." An NCO said to his buddy. It'll be nightfall before they even get here."
It was true. For a supposedly formidable "Main Force" the tanks and infantry marching with laser guns behind looked extremely rag tagged and mismatched. APCs, and those weird trucks with tracks where the wheels should be brought up either the front or whined along in the rear of their columns. Parker quickly grabbed the receiver of the field telephone and quickly called in an artillery strike on the approaching column.
He saw how a tank commander popped their head out of the hatch, staring at the red smoke in perplexed apprehension. That soon vanished though as he turned back and shouted an order to the rest of the column. The tanks slowly picked up speed. The soldiers in their positions could literally hear the engines straining to their limit, the exhausts smoking up as whatever powerplant that propelled the towering vehicle forward worked overtime. Before the noise was drowned out by the artillery.
The front most vehicles in the column disappeared as a howitzer shell slammed into the ground. Followed by a barrage of howitzer shells that kick up huge clouds of dust, obscuring the column.
"LAARK Teams, open fire!" Parker ordered as the column reappeared. The vehicles didn't notice the cluster of camouflaged foxholes where one-man teams of L210 LAARK operators sat waiting patiently. The LAARK, standing for (Light Anti-Armor RocKet) was a launcher originally designed for use against Vostokvakian armored Divisions. Now it found itself against tanks from space of all things. With a hiss, as air was released, the rockets were sent flying towards the first two tanks, that went up in a shower of flames. Without missing a beat, the teams also disabled two of tracked trucks to, bringing them to a screeching halt.
"Displace." The commander of one team ordered, before he ran back, the rest of them following. Covering fire roared from the frontal houses of of the village, suppressing the enemy infantry who were unable to fire their weapons and were instead forced to take cover behind the burning wrecks of their vehicles. The tanks couldn't fire either because they couldn't see the commotion upfront. Bringing one of the columns grinding to a halt. Jeffries and his fellows took this time to run like hell was after them, not stopping till they jumped into trenches, hitting their heads.
"Goddamn!" one of them wheezed out. "That was fucking insane!"
"Good work guys." Parker commended. The GI just nodded, coughing a little before he cracked open his canteen and took a long, big gulp of water.
While the other two columns were being occupied on the other entrances. The column Parker was dealing with began to move, infantry running in great leaping bounds to cover the distance. Faster APCs soon rumbled behind them, their weapons opening up to fire laser beams.
"Take cover! Here they come!" Parker ordered, the rest of the GIs getting themselves together and readying themselves for the onslaught of red death and roaring engines rolling towards them.
A private armed with an AT4 answered in the usual response, the warhead slamming into the front, the vehicle's front crumpling inwards like a soft drink can emptied and crushed by a teenager. It's surviving crew leapt from the hatches screaming. They on fire, their uniforms blackening and armor melting into molten hot liquid that scalded their exposed skin which was already frying. No infantrymen ran out of the troop compartment although the private guessed that they were probably being cooked inside.
The snap-hiss of the enemy infantry's laser rifles soon opened up in a vengeful response. The GIs responded with a barrage of their own as their M249 SAWs roared alive, sending a rain of hot lead into the enemy, the red tracer rounds resembling the enemy's laser beams. And cutting down the enemy just as well.
Parker ducked down low as lasers and tracers now flew indiscriminately overhead. He crouched and headed off to an area of the shallow and small trench where a rather basic comms station had been set up quickly.
"What's the situation so far!" Parker shouted at the signaler to be hard over the din.
"Eastern side is holding hard sir, but west is having trouble and their starting to fall back!" the woman responded.
"Tell First Sargent Henson to hold the path! If the enemy gets too far into the village, they might flank us and either I or the OFN regulars on the Eastern side will be forced to send valuable troops to deal with them! Sawyer and the Commandant are counting on us to hold this village till they can finish mopping up enemy forces in their operational areas!"
"Got it sir!" the signaler nodded, frantically shouting into the mic to transmit Parker's command. The second Lieutenant himself was looking through his electrobinoculars and assessing the situation.
The tanks had not advanced, rather they were firing from where they had halted. The commander in the lead tank must have realized the advantages he had of not advancing and had instead, utilized his armored formation as a makeshift artillery battery.
Taking a very risky gamble. Parker jumped and ran out of the shallow safety of the trench and ran fast to one of the houses beside it. Almost immediately, the laser beams were on him, trying to take him out. Parker shot back with his XM4, not seeing if he'd killed anyone. Stepping into the doorway, a GI opened the door, and Parker gratefully entered, the GI slamming the door shut as soon as he'd crossed inside.
"Thanks." Parker thanked the infantrymen who brushed it off.
"No problem, sir." The soldier replied. "I'm guessing you're here to give orders. Follow me."
The GI led Parker through the corridor and into the living room where GIs manned SAWs and M240 GPMGs. They acknowledged Parker by giving short, terse salutes which Parker returned, after which they returned to firing the enemy.
The GI and Parker then went up the staircase to the first floor where more machine gunners had set themselves up. Continuing upwards, they entered the second floor. Where Sergeant Emily Carson held fort.
"2nd Lieutenant," Emily greeted. "What brings you to this little patch of hell?"
"Enemy tank column is using itself as an ad-hoc artillery emplacement." Parker pointed out from the window, while passing his binoculars to her. "I want them out of action ASAP."
The sergeant stared through the binoculars, looking at the Star Wars style combat that was now breaking out with enemy lasers and friendly tracers flying around. Handing the binoculars back, the NCO snapped her fingers briskly. "Lazar! Damien!" she snapped out. Two GI's with Dragon ATGM launchers slung on their backs jumped up in response.
"Yes ma'am?" the Afro-Concordian soldier with the name "LAZAR" printed on his M81 Woodland BDU said.
"Take a few guys up with you and head to the roof." She gestured up to the stairs. "The 2nd Lt wants those museum-pieces out of action. Get to it!"
"Yes Ma'am." Damien responded before turning to a group of troops sitting in the background. "You heard her!" he barked. "Get off your asses and follow me and Lazar!"
The others immediately picked themselves up and followed the two out up to the roof. Their bootsteps thundering upwards.
Parker watched the fireteam ascend the stairs up the roof before returning his attention to the large window and the view outside at large. That column was still pounding away, though a pile of APC wrecks and tracked truck carcasses was steadily growing. From where he stood, he could see the eastern area of the village still held strong, although tanks were beginning to enter the Western one.
Lazar, Damien and their fireteams soon ascended up to the house's roof where a deserted swimming pool still filled with water sat. The two men surveyed the battlefield, the evening sun glowing orange, painting the sky in fabulous oranges and reds.
"Alright." Damien said calmly. "Lazar, take point. The rest of you, spread yourselves out and find suitable positions from where you can fire on the tanks easily. Pick your targets. The rest of Bravo company are counting on us."
The men and women snapped into action, running to decent firing positions. Damien promptly unslung the launcher off of his back and bent down on one knee to steady his aim. He loaded the Dragon ATGM and stared down the sights in quick succession. Others followed his example or lay prone on the roof floor like Lazar.
Damien stared through the scope, sighting the lead tank into his crosshairs. "Everyone picked their target?" he asked the others.
"We're all ready, standing by on your mark." Lazar spoke for everyone on the roof."
"Very well." Damien replied, flipping the safety cover off. He set crosshairs sights on the command tank. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the trigger smoothly. "3, 2, 1. Mark!" With a whoosh and a billow of exhaust, the missile streaked away, guidance fins unfolding. It impacted the first tank in the side, penetrating the weak armor before detonating within. The turret flew skyward as flames belched from the stricken hulk.
"Tank out of action, reloading." He reported crisply. Around him, the others opened fire.
The tanks began to explode one by one, their turrets popping off like bottle caps. The APCs, noticing the interlopers, quickly rumbled up to the house, laser cannons traversing upwards.
"Shit! Get down!" Lazar ordered, the others quickly gathering their weapons under their arms, they poured into the house, scrambling for cover amid the chaos. A burst caught one soldier in the leg, sending him tumbling. Another dragged him to safety as laser fire chewed up the ground around them.
On the village's western section, it was a different situation all altogether.
"C'mon bastards, this way! I am not gonna let some alien fucktard take us and this area!"
First Sargent Royce Henson took point, covering the other men in his platoon, Once they'd clambered up the ruined rubble strewn house, once they'd clambered in, he joined them, but not before reaching his arm out to the Francovian infantryman who'd linked up with them after the initial retreat.
"Uh…allez! Allez vous!" The First Sergeant attempted. He was surprised when the woman responded back.
"I can speak Edenite, sir." The infantryman took the offered arm and pulled herself up and over inside.
"This way then."
The platoon, plus their OFN guest rushed up the stairs to the first floor, entering a bedroom and slamming the door shut. They sat down on the wooden floor, greedily inhaling the oxygen like thirst starved men. Outside, they could hear the clatter of tank tracks and the shouts of men. Shuffling over to a window, he saw the enemy infantrymen marching down the lane, tanks bringing up the rear. Gunfire was already being heard as the other defenders of the area fought back. He became aware of voices emanating from the door downstairs.
"Shit, Stay down and silent!"
The platoon went silent at Henson's whispered command and waited uncertainly. Down below, a furious stomping began as enemy infantrymen began to ascend the stairs to do a room-to-room search. Henson raised his M16A2B assault rifle and aimed at the open door. The shuffling sounds came closer, now sounding right next to them. The tension had thickened in the room tenfold.
The Francovian started the firefight. Pulling the trigger, she dumped an entire mag of her FAMAS into the wall, chunks of plaster flying off as the screaming began. There was a thump as someone fell outside, and everyone saw crimson red blood pool in the doorway. The Francovian's FAMAS's barrel was smoking, there was a click as a mag fell to the ground empty. She swiftly slammed a new one home, chambering a round in. For a minute, everything was silent, although they could hear movement outside. Then the grenade flew in.
"Grenade!" Instinctively, Henson's foot lashed out, his boot tip hitting the grenade and sending it flying. It hit the doorway frame and hurled out back to the sender.
The resulting boom caused the wall to cave in, revealing a gory mess and tatters of uniform, and a smoking pile of meat barely resembling a person. Getting his shit together, Henson was the first to get up, the Francovian following his example.
"Alright ladies, get yourselves together! Let's get out of here on the double!"
Picking themselves up, the platoon gingerly stepped over the smoking, meaty corpse, and headed down the stairs.
Entering out in the smoky street, Henson shot two enemy soldiers who were standing guard near an alleyway, their bodies jerking a little before going still. He gave a hand signal to the group behind.
"Drag these corpses out of sight. Holly, load that fucking Dragon up now!"
GIs dragged the corpses out of sight the best they could while a Private loaded an ATGM into her weapon. The Francovian took overwatch, staring down the iron sights of her FAMAS.
"Alright, this way, I'm certain I can hear some of our guys firing away a few clicks from here."
They creeped through the alley, dodging large concentrations of enemy soldiers and tanks, but taking on any of them that they could take on with their current inventory.
A tank became one of the groups victims when it trundled past them, a Dragon to the sponson gun bringing its journey to an unfortunate end. No crew got out as they got cooked from the inside, their screams and bangs ringing through the metal of the tank's chassis.
Henson once found them inside a house, where he sneaked into a room where to ET snipers sat. He hand never shot a person at such close proximity. He'd pulled the trigger and the M16 had bucked and brayed, spreading the snipers' brain matter all over the walls. It had been that quick.
"C'mon, this way." He ordered, leading the group through another alleyway, narrowly dodging more confrontation.
They soon sprang gold. As Henson opened another door, he found himself staring at a cocked M16 barrel.
"Thunder! Thunder!" he screamed to stop the would-be shooter from pulling the trigger and turning his head into a Picasso.
The GI looked over his weapon, astonished before sighing in relief.
"I nearly turned your head into a flower sir!" he slung his 16 onto his shoulder. Before beckoning them inside.
"That you did…private."
"Step right into the parlor sir, we thought you'd kicked the bucket in the initial enemy breakthrough."
"As you can see that intel was faulty." Henson joked as he removed his PASGT helmet as he stepped in, accepting the Private's invitation. The rest of his squad followed.
"Marv! Who the hell did you let in?" a voice hollered from somewhere deeper inside the house.
"It's the Sarge!" the private, Marv, howled back.
"The sarge? Gawd Almighty!"
Henson heard some panicked shuffling and scuffling before a frazzled corporal appeared in the doorway, looking very relieved.
"Oh, thank God sir! We thought you were dead in the initial assault! Welcome back!"
"As you were Johannsson."
Corporal James Johansson, Bravo Company, 5th Battalion US army seized Henson's hand in a jubilant handshake, a gesture the senior NCO returned. The rest of the group took the time to take a decent rebreather, they would need it for what would probably be coming later on.
"What's the sitrep?" Henson asked, putting his helmet back on."
"Oh it's not too terrible sir." The corporal replied. "These guys are having trouble maneuvering their tanks, and our guys are killing them off one by one sir."
"Orders?"
"Same orders standing sir. Hold this village."
Henson sighed, "Casualties?"
"I'd say surprisingly minimal sir." The corporal answered bluntly. Before raising his gun. Henson's eyes widened in alarm.
"Corpora- "
Henson was cut off as the man fired his M203 underbarrel grenade launcher. The projectile sailed out of a nearby window before detonating with a dull boom. An enemy corpse was flung upwards, blood streaming from various wounds before it to crashed down to solid earth. Henson stared back at Johansson.
"I'd think its best if you entered the sitting room sir." Johansson deadpanned, beckoning further inside.
Private Daniel Jackson, Company C, 2nd Ranger Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment smirked as another ET rifleman went down.
"O my God, I trust in thee. Let me not be ashamed. Let not my enemies' triumph over me." The Tennessee native hailing from West Fork quoted before pulling the trigger of his M24 sniper rifle. Another laser gun toting soldier crumpled.
"You quote the Book often?" The sniper from Bavo Company with him in the church tower asked.
"All the time." Jackson retorted without looking up from the scope, sniping another unlucky SOB.
He looked into the crosshairs. A guy with a portable radio, or what looked like a portable radio due to the antenna sticking out, entered dead center into the circle. A black coated officer with an outrageously oversized crusher cap joined him and what looked like an officer followed the two.
Jackson didn't hesitate. The minute they stopped; he pulled the trigger sending a 7.62×51mm OFN bullet into their heads. Their skulls burst, the bullet slamming through the black coated officer's head, and exiting neatly before entering the other officers and doing the same, before finally hitting the radioman in the jaw. While the other two died instantly and their bodies hit the cobbled ground with blood pooling and brain matter splattered over their uniforms, the wounded radioman floundered like a bull in a China shop. Stumbling and whirling like a dervish, Jackson took aim and prepared to put the poor fuck out of his misery when the problem was solved ironically, by the radioman himself, by mistake. Not being able to balance himself due to the pain he was in due to the wound, coupled with the added weight of his body armor, equipment and portable radio, the radioman fell backwards over the bridge railing and into the water. Jackson watched the water churn white thanks to the radioman's movement as crimson began to seep in. Then he disappeared entirely from view though Jackson could still see the bubbles emanating from down below. And then, even those stopped.
"Holy shit." The sniper from bravo said in awe.
"Yeah." Jackson replied, watching the water turn a gruesome crimson. "Yeah."
He shot another infantryman, this time into the guy's weapon, specifically an area that was glowing blue. The resulting explosion consumed the grunt, and a few others close to him, said grunt's corpse being only his lower body, legs included. There wasn't much left of the upper body at all.
He didn't waste much time, sending another bullet into another grunt who had a gun connected to a back. The shot resulted in an explosion just like it except gorier, with the limbs being removed from the torso. Jackson winced but didn't shed a tear out. He'd been in the Gulf anyway. And that had desensitized him.
"Vehicle! Right below us!" the GI announced, pointing. Jackson risked a peek.
An open top vehicle, mounted with a machine gun ambled along, looking to find a position to dismount a stick of grunts idling in the troop compartment, thought it was safe behind the church.
Somehow, it had escaped detection from the defenders and was getting ready to dismount its infantry. Well not if Jackson had something to say about it."
"Molotov." He bluntly held out his hand. Joe gave him a repurposed wine bottle with a cloth stuffed where the cork should have been, and a lighter, with which he lit the thing before dropping it down on the unsuspecting ETs down below.
There was the crashing sound of the wine bottle breaking into shards followed by panicked screaming before it was consumed by the whooshing and crackling roar of flames, before an almighty explosion consumed the vehicle.
"Holy shit." Joe echoed.
"Yeah, now c'mon, I think ETs on his last legs here. A few minutes I think."
"If you say so." The GI nodded at the ranger before returning to his rifle. Jackson followed.
Down below in a foxhole, Captain John H Miller, the commander of C Company peeked over the edge. He reduced part of an enemy grunt to ash using his Westinghouse M19 Laser-carbine.
A relatively new weapon, the M19 was slimmer, and resembled an XM4, rather than the AER9 laser rifle, its predecessor from the 50s. It resembled an actual gun rather than the boxy old 9. And it fired quicker than the ET laser gun.
Whereas the ET weapon gave a snap-crack-hiss sound and blew of limbs, the M19 did no such bloody thing. It reduced whatever it touched, be it your leg or hands, to atoms and ash.
Much cleaner than having blood and gore splat all over your clothes and webbing. It also came with a nice little red-dot sight too.
2nd Rangers had arrived like its 5th Battalion counterparts to Francovia to participate in REFORGER 95. They'd arrived just in time yesterday to learn of the goddamn alien invasion.
C company had been sent with the 5th Battalion in the new counteroffensive. Miller trusted Sawyer, he'd fought under him as well during the prior Gulf War, he was a capable and good officer, skilled too.
Miller and his men had been attached under Bravo company and it's commander, 2nd Lieutenant Parker. The young officer was a West Point Graduate, and so far, he'd done pretty good in Miller's opinion.
"Mike, what's the sitrep?" he called out to Sergeant Michael "Mike" Horvath.
"ET Seems to be at its last legs. We're good."
Miller nodded as Horvath gave the all-clear. Their dug-in position had held firm under the alien onslaught.
He lifted his carbine and sighted down the street. Bodies littered the cobblestones - some human, some ET. Smoke still curled from gutted buildings. A short distance away, he saw movement behind a shattered wall.
"Contact, twelve o'clock." Miller centered the laser on a familiar bipedal profile and squeezed the trigger. A flash and the target disintegrated into ash. "One less to worry about."
Horvath scanned the surroundings with binoculars. "Think that's the last of 'em, Cap. Area's gone quiet."
Miller didn't quiet share his 2ICs sentiments, so he stared at the smoky buildings up ahead. A young officer with a peaked cap was marshalling what seemed like a big chunk of grunts to prepare for an attack.
Even at that distance, Miller could hear the young man's rasping guttural language orders carried over by the wind. A shrill, mournful bugle car erupted over the quieting battlefield, followed by a great clamor as the enemy began to sullenly withdraw.
"Holy shit, I think they're falling back." Adrian Caparzo, another ranger muttered in disbelief.
"Hey cap, I think Caparzo might be right." PFC Richard Reiben removed the cigar from his lips, exhaling a quick puff.
"I think you guys might be right."
All over the now silent village, GIs, Rangers and OFN infantrymen peeked out of their positions tentively before exiting to mope up the final wisps of resistance, or to find wounded comrades and take prisoners.
MLRS from the OFNs attached brigade fired their final salvos at the few fleeing units that were in range, obliterating infantry and vehicles alike with brutal efficiency.
The Cobra, Apache and A129 Mangusta attack Helicopters meanwhile, dealt with any remaining enemy air assets, the pilots watching with grim satisfaction as enemy VTOLs spiraled out of control and crashed into the green grass below.
Overall, the combined forces of the OFN, Rangers and Bravo company had held off two consecutive waves of ET forces for 5 hours.
The counteroffensive that would see ET out of Francovia was just beginning.