Chapter 19.

Nordic Fury

Sjøland, June 3rd

1995

Gert Madsen, like dozens of other Sjølandic Home Guard officers, received the telephone call he had been dreading, though subconsciously expecting to come at any moment, as he was preparing to leave his office in Holstebro on 3rd June, 1995. The thirty-five year old Home Guard captain was a barrister in civilian life. He was an associate in a mid-sized firm in Holstebro that dealt mostly with insurance claims. Madsen had joined the Home Guard after his conscription time in the Royal Sjølandic Army ended. He did so out of a sense of obligation to his fellow citizens. It was only fair that he contribute something back to the country that had given him so much. So, on weekends, and select other times of the year, Madsen trained with the Home Guard.

The telephone call was short and curt. Madsen picked up, verified his idenity and was informed by a voice he did not recognize that, "The Van Gogh exhibit at National Gallery opens in three weeks." The code was one of seven that Home Guard officers had to memorize. Each one held its own meaning and was understood by its recipient. For anyone who might have been eavesdropping, the exchange came across as simple mindless chatter. This particular coded message was an instruction Madsen, and other Home Guard officers in the district to meet at the local Home Guard depot that evening at 8 o'clock.

It was approaching 4:30 now. There was enough time to go home, spend some time with his wife and two boys, have dinner and then make it to the depot by the prescribed time.

Madsen had been expecting the phone call ever since the alien invasion. Each passing day since had brought a new deterioration in the crisis, and growing alarm in Western Euronia's nations. In Sjøland, the tension was reserved but still present. Citizens made a concerted effort to go about their regular daily routines and pay little attention to the growing menace to the east or the war taking place around Euronia. Just beneath the surface though, alarm was growing.

When he arrived home, his wife Jane was waiting expectantly. The wife of a fellow Home Guard officer had phoned her with the news about the message going out. Madsen tried his best to calm and reassure her. A phone call and resultant meeting did not quite mean mobilization and imminent war. His wife was not swayed by Madsen's reasoning. She understood what was happening, and this was the moment when the real world violently collided with her own hopes and wishful thinking.

The insulation keeping Jane's mind padded from the foul truth of the international situation was unceremoniously stripped away. She broke down and cried. Gert brought her into the bedroom, away from the kids, and consoled her. He assured her that he would not be packing up and leaving for war that evening, although in reality he could not rule the possibility out. In time, Jane came around, and dinner that evening was not the tense, subdued meal Gert was assuming it would be. Quite the opposite actually.

Madsen arrived at the Holstebro depot a little after 8 PM. The normal Elk's lodge type of atmosphere that normally permeated weeknight meetings like this one was nowhere to be found. Instead, he found an air of quiet determination and concealed anxiousness. The Home Guard depot at Holstebro was larger than its counterparts in other towns across Sjøland. Equipment and supplies for a battle group belonging to the Jutland Division was located nearby. In the event of mobilization, many of the reservists from this district would fill out that formation. Home Guard officers and enlisted personnel were well-versed in what their unit's place would be in the Sjølandic military's order of battle in the event of mobilization. Madsen's own company of 100 troops was specifically trained for and assigned for airbase security.

The senior officer for the district was Colonel Kruse, an affable, soft spoken civil servant in Ringkobing. He had been the senior officer for seven years now and proved himself as a capable officer and leader. He normally spent the pre-meeting minutes socializing with his officers and NCOs. Tonight, that was not the case. Kruse was nowhere to be found, and his absence only amplified the anxious air now permeating the depot. Madsen and his fellow officers speculated in hushed tones about where Kruse might be. Arne Dahl, a short, solidly built lieutenant mentioned that the colonel's car was outside in the parking lot. This only fueled the speculation.

At 8:55PM an NCO directed the twenty-four officers into the briefing conference room. Madsen and the others filed in. He was fortunate enough to find a seat. Many of his fellow officers were forced to stand. Once everyone was settled in, the narrow door at the front of the room swung open and Colonel Kruse strode in. The men rose and snapped to attention but Kruse waved them down. He informed the officers that the first steps towards a national mobilization were about to get underway. The government in Norhagen was determined to ensure that Sjøland was prepared to fulfill its OFN commitments and meet its own national defense needs. All active duty military personnel would be recalled to their bases, and leaves cancelled at midnight. The next morning at 6 AM, all Home Guard personnel would be ordered to their depots and mobilization was to begin officially at 12 noon on 5 June.

Kruse informed his officers they would be given the assignment and orders for their respective units before leaving for the night. He, and a pair of active duty officers who'd arrived during the meeting handled this matter after the meeting ended. An Army major briefed Madsen when it was his turn.

"Madsen," he began. "Your company is trained for air base security and defense, correct? Good. You will be assigned to Karup to augment base security there. When your men are gathered here tomorrow, equipment will be issued. Trucks will arrive shortly thereafter to transport you to Karup."

In the blink of an eye, Sjøland, and Madsen's transformations from peacetime to war had kicked into overdrive.

June 5th, 1995.

Day-4 of WW3.

West Vostokvakian Front FHQ

Colonel Aralov entered the operations room. Immediately, he became aware of the differences between himself, and the other officers there. His uniform was dirty and ripped. A thin smudge of black remained on his left cheek, either grease from a vehicle or soil from the ground. He did not know which and it was meaningless to speculate in any case. The staff officers around him wore clean, starched uniforms. Despite the similarities in rank, he could sense the anger directed at his intrusion. The front headquarters was an orderly, calm place. Lightyears away from what was taking place on the frontlines. They regarded Aralov as a visitor from an unwelcome world.

Walking forward, he accidentally bumped into Generals Beregovoy, and Pavel Leonidvich Alekseyev, the deputy commander of the Southern Front. With them was also Colonel-General Mikhail Kovalyov. The generals apologized profusely, Aralov shrugged it off, these 3 had earned his respect. He continued on to the offices.

General Snetkova looked up from a digital tabletop map. She motioned her aide towards her office.

"You look like a pauper," Snetkova commented with a slight smirk once the door was closed. She pointed to an empty metal chair. "Tell me how the attack went."

"Opposition was stronger than expected. Invaders reinforced at some point and we were not made aware of it! Enemy tanks are there now, but not in great numbers. I estimate a battalion at most. That will change soon, however. One of their formations, a brigade fought ferociously but took severe losses. They've been weakened severely, even with the new reinforcements. Unfortunately," Aralov sighed. "The same holds true for our motor rifle troops. If 3rd Shock's commander moves fast enough, we can break through the lines and race through to Pavlovski and beyond."

"Don't count on that," Snetkova grunted. "After you left, the invaders launched a counterattack against the 55th Guards west of Solovets."

"The colonel in command of that tank regiment is a very capable officer. I've seen him in action. He came close to tearing a hole in the lines. Even with their counterattack, if we move fast, we can exploit the situation. I recommend moving a regiment from 10th Guards forward immediately."

"Operational Maneuver Groups are not to move without the theater commander's permission. Who, in turn, must get his own permission from Moskvingrad, which as off now the government is officially giving orders from the President's plane."

Aralov's eyes widened in amazement–or was it disgust? "That was not a joke."

"You know how the chain of command works," the front commander reminded him.

Snetkova's mind went back to the general campaign plan. Staff members back in Moskvingrad had looked at the maps, analyzed the data and figures, and drew the conclusion that Pavlovski would be recaptured in the first twenty-four hours of hostilities, mere minutes before the cities fall 2 days ago. This prediction had been off by a wide margin! She reflected sourly. The resistance of the invaders was on a level surpassing even what she had expected. One factor that had not been carefully considered was that the invaders came from a religious and theocratic state. This made them more dangerous enemies. In time, this stubbornness would be turned against them as their staunch defenses cost them large numbers of irreplaceable men and material.

"Comrade General, the initial attack would have succeeded with the proper amount of preparation and support.

Snetkova considered this observation in silence for two full minutes. "Very well," she spoke finally. "I will contact Marshal Boukharin soon and request he release 3rd Shock's OMG to me. Is there anything else you wish to discuss, Mikhail Alexsandrovich?"

The younger officer took a drink from his large canteen. "You need to sit your air commanders down and find out why we do not control the skies." Aralov told her of the devastating air attack on the self-propelled artillery emplacements. "Four planes! In less than a minute two dozen guns and over a hundred men were gone."

"Mother of God!" Snetkova was horrified. And outraged. "CINC-West can wait. Have the communications officer contact 16th Air Army's commander at once. I want him here in ninety minutes."

June 3rd, People's Republic of Dao

Tan Ling hated his current position. Where he had been a platoon leader just a few days ago he now commanded a regiment of peasants that had been drawn up to face the alien threat. They were undisciplined, ill-equipped, and poorly trained in the time he had to command them.

Of course, this was only made worse by the lack of formal ranks. Where he might've been a Lieutenant Colonel or Colonel in a western army he was just "Commander" here. Sorting out his chain of command was even worse than the disrespect that the peasant soldiers gave him.

He silently cursed Mao for his interference in the military for what felt like the hundredth time this hour. In the same stream of thoughts, he reminded himself that for Mao's faults he still was to be respected for his efforts in establishing Communism in Dao.

Still, these were his men and he had a duty to protect them as well as defend Dao.

They were marching through the mountain valleys on the way to Xining. He had already set a rear guard and ordered the demolition of the roads up the valley but he doubted those would hold despite some early success. The political officer that had been in charge of the regiment had wanted to defend those valleys. Ling and some of his close confidants knew this would be suicide and so that political officer had an unfortunate accident as she was cleaning his service pistol.

Ling grimaced at the thought of dumping the woman's body off the side of the road. It couldn't be helped but that was cold comfort to him.

He was a fool to think that mountains were impassable to the armored foe. From the scattered reports they had intercepted, the aliens had outflanked the units to their east.

Ling wasn't a particularly well-educated man but he did know that river crossing with armored vehicles were especially difficult. Given the lack of apparent engineering vehicles that he had seen, the river would be a far better position to take up.

He crushed the traitorous thought that the defense depended on the depth of the river with the argument that being trapped on this side would be just as bad. Maybe the mud and soft soil could cause the aliens to become immobile, it was hard to tell, but for the moment Ling needed his Regiment to march.

Calumet, Colorado.

June 3rd, 1995.

On the second day after the invasion, food started to run short for the group. They knew now was the time that Jed needed to go to the city and hopefully get more. Jed fitted Matt with one of the backpacks from the store, and Arturo went unladen.

"We'll be back before nightfall", Jed said.

"Alright, be careful", Robert replied, and the ones who were staying waved goodbye as the three left the clearing.

After about three hours of direct walking, they made it to the point where they could see the city. From what they saw, there was no real damage done.

"So are we going to just walk back in", Arturo asked.

"Don't be ridiculous, Aardvark", Matt scoffed, "We aren't, are we Jed?"

"No, I think we're going to have to sneak our way back in again..."

So, creeping along the grass, they found that the outer limits were not defended at all. There were checkpoints at all the main entrances, but that was all for real defense on the outside.

The three snuck into an alleyway, and slowly made their way into the city. Coming to the streets, they joined the crowds, and thankfully did not attract any attention to themselves.

Just after three days, the town looked a lot different. Out of many buildings, hung Alien Flags, displaying double headed eagles.

There were several smashed windows, and some of the buildings looked abandoned.

The streets weren't as occupied as usual, but enough to hide the three young boys. Once a patrol was gone, they quickly walked up across the road before a quick squeal and rumble signified the arrival of armored vehicles.

Most of the occupying troops for tan uniforms and armor. The convoy here was painted mostly in dark green and the troopers in the transports wore Khaki fatigues and green armor. All of them had the words XXth painted in white on them.

The tanks were ugly looking, ill proportioned vehicles, looking like the tank from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade except someone had decided to squeeze it and make the insides cramped.

"Holy shit…" Arturo mumbled.

"Well boys…looks like the enemy has cavalry now." Jed looked left and right, before motioning to the other two, "C'mon let's go, supermarkets just around the corner." They quickly ran around before reaching a zebra crossing, where a few guards were smoking cigarettes. The boys stopped and watched as a familiar car drove past, officers and a few girls inside it and at the wheel.

"That's the mayor's car." Matt exclaimed. "They got Darryl's dad's car."

"Look at the size of that tank!"

"Jesus…"

They walked across and found that no skyscraper was free from posters and the large one, the one that was city hall now had sandbags, barbed wire and even AA cannons. The thing now resembled a fortress. Matt suddenly spotted a familiar face.

"Louis!" he whispered, "Hey louis!" the boy turned sharply and spotted the three before turning his head back and walking off quickly.

"Was he scared of us?" he asked the other two as they walked.

They passed the massive building that was once the Headquarters of the Colorado Mining Corporation, it was also different most notably the massive I that now emblazoned it's front wall. There were soldiers at the library burning books at a bonfire. It was slowly becoming a surreal scene for them. Stopping near a bench, they were thinking through the options when Jed suddenly spoke up.

"Let's ask Alicia, she'll know." The three entered the shop behind them, giving a look to the two soldiers who were patrolling the area. The store's shelves were mostly empty, probably during the panic. Jed found Alicia hunched over a magazine, EarPods in her ears.

"6 toothbrushes please" Jed watched her look up, eyes widening in shock.

"Oh…Jed!?"

"Hi. How's your sister?"

The shock had not left her, "What? Where'd you come from?"

"The mountains. We've been hiding…"

Alicia became alert, "Are you crazy! You gotta get out of here."

"We will" Jed calmed her, "But first we gotta find out what's going…"

Alicia turned her head, Jed followed. On the upper floor, was a man in black and gold garb with a large, peaked cap. He stared at them, before going back to browsing the shelves

"You don't understand. They know who all of you are, and they're looking for you"

"Who?"

"The inquisition" Alicia checked to see if the man was looking at them, "That's what most of us call the guys who set themselves up in CM Corp Headquarters."

There was silence. "Inquisition?" Arturo asked, "Like the one from Iberia during the medieval times, the one that burnt people?"

Alicia shook her head.

"Look have you seen my father. I called, there was no answer. I went by the station, it was empty. And what do you mean, they're looking for us specifically?" he asked nervously.

Alicia leaned in, lowering her voice.

"Okay, listen. I'm gonna tell you something I'm not supposed to talk about. They took a lot of people away. The day after the invasion, some of those creeps came around asking about all the young men and women. Didn't speak a word of Edenite but they wanted to know where you all lived, who your families were. Gave me the serious creeps."

She cast another furtive glance at the man browsing upstairs before continuing.

"Word is they've got a list of people they're hunting down. Folks who might cause trouble for the occupation. You three are on it for sure."

The boys exchanged uneasy looks. "Jesus," Matt muttered. "We gotta get out of sight, now."

"The drive-in…they took them to the…Jed? Alicia looked up to see all three of them heading out, he turned his head towards her.

"Good luck" she said, the three merely went out quick, next destination in mind.

Stella Bremer.

(Norrbottens flygflottilj 21),F 21 Luleå.

211th Squadron.

Göttländska flygvapnet.

"Target spotted. In pursuit." Löjtnant Stella Bremer spoke professionally but with a touch of her usual maternal and carefree softness into the radio.

"Roger Gustav-51." The control tower responded. "Permission to intercept has been granted."

She flicked the switches on the stick that controlled the safety of the missiles. The two RB-71 Radar-homing missiles and RB-24J heat-seekers activated, the electronic guidance systems inside whirring.

Leaning forward, she switched on the craft's Ericsson PS 46/A radar, giving her a look-down/shoot-down capability to engage targets beyond visual range distances.

The airborne digital central computer with integrated circuits for controlling its avionics in front of her just below the sights beeped and whirred as it processed the information.

The radar swept out and immediately picked up the target – a formation of four enemy jets streaking toward the coastline. Stella narrowed in, vectors locking on the lead plane.

"Sweet Dreams." She said with a smile underneath her rubber mask before pressing the trigger.

The RB-71 dropped from its pylon on the Viggen's inner wings before its rocket booster activated, sending it forward. Its radar transceiver and homing signal locked onto an unknowing enemy craft's radar waves. Stella watched it streak away like an arrow, rapidly gaining distance from her.

Then, far away, an explosion blossomed into existence, and Stella followed the trajectory of a speck falling down like a bird with a busted wing. The two remaining specks began to twist and turn

Perfect she thrust the accelerator forward, sending the Viggen shooting through the dark blue sky at top speed.

The two remaining specks soon morphed into bulky fighter-type craft. Stella flicked the safety switch of the Oerlikon KCA 30mm cannon, turning it off.

She soon got into range. Letting the enemy plane fill her gunsight, she pulled the trigger. The airframe shook as the single cannon sent streams of cannon shells into the targeted aircraft. Thanks to the tracers, she could aim it as easily as a hose.

Sparks lit up on the aircraft's fuselage, brightening the darkened sky. The pilot of the enemy plane tried to maneuver out of the lead Stella had on him, but she remained on his tail, doggedly pursuing the bandit.

The armor on the plane was thick, but the rapid rate of cannon fire streaming into the airframe cracked its armor's integrity like an egg. It crumpled and gave way, disintegrating before exploding into pieces, Stella narrowly dodging a large fragment of debris that had once been the wing.

Stella turned her head, seeing the remaining bandit attempt to get behind her. She rammed the stick tightly to the right, performing a tight Immelmann maneuver, shocking the enemy aviator.

So shocked was the pilot, that he didn't notice the heat-seeking RB-24J slam straight into his engine.

A bright explosion lit into existence for the third time that day as the enemy plane plummeted to the ground like an iron bird with clipped wings, bursting apart on impact in a cloud of rubble and twisted metal. Stella didn't see any chute come off either of them.

"Tower, this is Gustav-51," Stella reported with a smile of relief. "Interception was a success, all bandits shot down, over."

"Excellent work 51! Return to base immediately for debriefing."

"Roger that tower." Stella turned the stick, steering it back on a course back home. Her airborne central computer chattered as it calculated the results of the mission.

All in all, not bad for the start of a world war with aliens.

Sergeant First Class Terry Mackall, Concordian Army– M1 Abrams tank commander, 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment

Stendenal

Ulraznavia

The night was cool and clear. There was no fog in sight. A perfect night for tank killing. In a camouflaged position, 1991 Fallujah Gulf War veteran, Snr Sgt Woody Mackall was pissed with his gunner.

"Billy stop being fucking jumpy."

Mackall growled in annoyance as his gunner flinched yet again at distant battle noise. The kid was as skittish as a damned rabbit out here.

"Keep it together, Billy!" he barked. "You damn near sent a sabot round through that farmhouse back there! Finger off the trigger until you got a confirmed target."

The gunner, Billy, nodded jerkily, grip still tight on the Abrams' controls. Mackall sighed, remembering his own first tense combat outing decades ago. He decided to cut the kid some slack. It wasn't his fault command had stuck them with such a green crew.

"Look kid, take a breath. You got this," he said in a calmer tone. "It's a quiet night. We get the first shot in, those alien bastards won't know what hit 'em. Now keep scanning, nice and easy."

Billy seemed to relax slightly at the encouragement. "Yeah...yeah, you got it Sarge. I'm good."

Mackall smiled beneath his helmet. "There ya go. Wait till you see the whites of their eyes. We'll bag us a few tin cans tonight."

He checked the thermal scope again. Somewhere out in that dark countryside, the enemy was on the move, unaware they were drifting into the crosshairs. When the moment came, Billy would be ready. Mackall would see to that personally.

These alien freaks had picked the wrong planet. The Abrams' main gun would serve as judge, jury and executioner. Once the killing started, nerves wouldn't be an issue. Training would take over.

"Steady Billy," Mackall murmured, peering into the scope. "Won't be long now."

"Got something!" the gunner whispered suddenly. "Multiple bogies, 1500 meters!" Mackall's eyes narrowed, searching the darkness. The enemy had snuck right up to the wire.

"Confirmed," he replied. "Target, range 1500, bearing 280."

He switched to the intercom. "Crew, standby! Target 1500!"

"Target acquired!" the loader yelled, slamming the breech shut. "Up!"

"On the way!" Billy shouted. The gun belched a tongue of fire, rocking the turret. Through the smoke, Mackall saw the distant flash of the sabot round impacting.

"Hit!" he exclaimed. "One down, range unchanged. Fire for effect!"

"Firing!" Billy cried, pumping out rounds. The ground rumbled as the Abrams' powerful main gun spewed a torrent of sabot and high explosive shells, obliterating the alien formation.

Mackall watched with grim satisfaction. This was their purpose - to crush the enemy beneath their tracks, no matter how fearsome they may be.

"Keep firing!" he yelled. "We got 'em on the ropes!" The enemy was on getting agitated, advancing blindly in the face of the devastating barrage. But Mackall wasn't finished. He had a special treat for these bastards

"Reload canister, and then switch to HEAT!" he ordered.

"Up!" the loader responded.

"Switching!" the HEAT round was slammed into the breech with a click. Mackall checked the targeting computer on the left side of his station. He spotted one target trying a feeble attempt at trying to flank them.

"Gunner, light up that sonovabitch trying to flank us" he ordered. Billy swung the turret to acquire the flanking enemy vehicle in his crosshairs. Through the thermal imaging, he could see it was one of the primitive tanks they used, possibly trying to get off a lucky shot from the side. But Mackall wasn't about to let that happen.

"Target acquired!" Billy called out. "Ready to fire!"

"Send it!" Mackall ordered.

Billy pulled the trigger, and the Abrams bucked as the high explosive anti-tank round streaked out. It crossed the distance in an instant, impacting the alien tank's thinly armored side in a blossom of fire. The turret popped off like a champagne cork, flaming debris raining down as the wreckage brewed up.

"Scratch one flanker!" Billy whooped. "Nice shot if I say so-"

His celebration was cut off by a deafening blast as a shell glanced off their heavily armored front. The Abrams rocked violently from the impact.

"Shit, return fire!" Mackall barked. "Find the bastard that did that!"

Billy quickly swung the turret, searching for the source as more rounds pelted against their hull. Whoever was shooting had zeroed in on them.

"There!" he shouted, sighting the enemy tank that was zeroing them. "I got the son of a bitch dead in my sights!"

"Smoke 'em!" Mackall ordered.

Billy pulled the trigger, and once more the Abrams thundered. Through the thermals, they watched the sabot round pierce clean through the primitive tank, leaving it a shredded wreck.

"Ha-ha! Got you, you alien sumbitch!" Billy whooped. "That'll teach ya to shoot at this Abrams!"

Mackall grinned fiercely beneath his helmet. The kid had done good. "Nice shooting, Billy. That's why they pay you the big bucks."

The gunner laughed, already scanning for more targets. It was shaping up to be a profitable night.