3rd June 1995
Aéroport International de Genève
Geneva, Helvetica
Euronia
The wheels of the white and blue Boeing 707 touched down on the runway. Above, a pair of F-15s was orbiting the airport. The pilot of the outdated jet was handed over by tower to the ground frequency, as he taxied to a ramp. Air stairs pulled up to the plane and the actor-turned-Secretary of state stepped out, smiling, and waving for the cameras. He climbed into a heavily modified black Cadillac limousine that sported the Presidential Seal.
The limo drove towards the OAUN building. The second he stepped out of his limo, he was surrounded by news crews, and if it weren't for the Secret Service agents and OAUN Guards, he would have been mobbed even more. However, he managed to dodge the reporters and enter the building.
The Secretary General shook his hand, "Good to see you got here in once piece,"
"Well, you get used to it after a while," Carleson said in good humor.
"So, are you ready for this?" the Secretary said moving himself in front of the Concordian president, barring him from entering the convention room.
"I've seen what they can do," Carleson replied, "I can handle this."
The Secretary-General looked unsure, but stepped out of the way, allowing the two OAUN Guards to open the door. Immediately, Carleson walked over to the conference table and took a seat. Along with the secretary general, sat Mikhail Gorbachev, Margaret Nunnally, Li Xiannian and François Mitterrand
So...I assume we all know that we have a massive fleet in orbit? and WW3's occurring since June 2nd." As Carleson addressed the gathered heads of state, strange occurrences were afoot elsewhere in the OAUN building…
Captain Rolf Linkin
Millitarum Tempestus Scions
Rebel gathering area.
"Linkin, eyes on a group of rebel leaders, are we go for insertion?" Rolf Linkin stared at these leaders...no ornamentation, no pretentiousness or gold, and this city, Jenevi? Genera? something of that sort, he peered through his magnoculars at the gathering below. The leaders wore plain attire with no ostentation, starkly contrasting the decadence of many worlds they had purged.
"By the Throne, they look almost civilized," he muttered. But experience told him looks could deceive - any who defied the Emperor's light were heretics leading mankind astray.
"Command, this is Tempestus 1-1. Targets were acquired in the plaza; no additional combatants were observed. Requesting fire mission and insertion approval," he voxed.
"Tempestus 1-1, command confirms rebel VIPs gathered. Latest intel suggests they control several star systems. Eliminate with extreme prejudice. Recall codes Theta-Nine-Seven-Epsilon for fire support and assault."
Rolf grinned tightly. "Understood command, we aim to comply. Tempestus squad, lock and load. Follow my lead on the rapid descent."
Secretary of State Carleson
Get down!" an OAUN Guard screamed before the roof exploded. Debris rained down as rubble and flames engulfed the conference room. Carleson could only stare in shock, clutching his bloody arm where shrapnel had grazed him.
Gorbachev, he, and Mitterrand ducked, the Edenite PM and Dao diplomat weren't lucky.
A secret service agent grabbed Carleson, he could see GRU and GSPR guards doing the same for Gorbachev and Mitterrand.
"SecState Secure" the agent said to her radio.
"Holy shit..." Carleson breathed.
The Secret Service agent dragged him down a side passage, Mitterrand and Gorbachev close behind with their protective details. Gunfire and shouting echoed from above as aliens swarmed the building.
"We need to evacuate, but the 'copters are too vulnerable," the agent said grimly. "Subway tunnel is our best bet, leads under the lake."
Nods of grim agreement. They hurried through emergency exits as a fiery battle raged overhead. Guards laid covering fire, buying precious moments.
Reaching an access stairwell, they descended into the humid tunnels. Carleson took a last look up at the burning building before the hatch slammed behind them.
Their footfalls echoed in the dark as a dull thudding commenced from above. The enemy was in the tunnels. Carleson stumbled, shrapnel shifting painfully in his wound. An agent steadied him with a whispered "Stay strong, sir."
How had it come to this? All he'd wanted was peace. But these invaders showed no mercy, no reason. Only annihilation without cause or conscience.
He had to survive, had to warn the world. If they made it out, what then? How did humanity stand against such senseless hatred? Dark thoughts for dark times...all Carleson knew was the tunnels stretched on, and death pursued behind.
Tempestus-1-1
"Cease fire! Report!" Linkin voxed the squad, he could only see two corpses, a suit-clad old woman and a man in a suit.
"Two rebel leaders KIA! sir their klaxons are sounding."
Rolf cursed softly. Two dead - not the bulk of the leadership they'd hoped for. Siren's blaring meant local forces converging fast.
"Tempestus squad, form up! Stay alert for stragglers." The Scions assembled around him in the raging plaza, weapons scanning for contacts.
"Sir, we think most fled via underground access. Heat signatures detected below the vicinity" reported one trooper.
Rolf growled under his breath. Heretics as craven as rats, hiding from righteous judgment. "Then we give chase. No prey escapes the Emperor's wrath!"
He keyed up a sensor ping on his Hot-Shot lasgun. "There - motion trails leading that way. Double time, people, let's not lose them!"
Barking orders brought the squad into rapid pursuit formation. They stormed through smoke and las-fire towards a sturdy hatch left ajar, slamming it behind them.
Emergency lighting cast the tunnel in eerie half-light. Up ahead echoed the pattering of panicked feet and labored breathing. Rolf grinned wolfishly.
"The hunt is on. By fire and blade, the Imperium will have its due!" He took point at a sprint, squadmates fanning out to flush quarry towards his las-sights. Death incarnate pursued the heretics into the subterranean dark. None would escape divine justice this day.
Outside.
The world's leaders navigated the hordes of reporters, escorted by guards who were almost as good at this as they were, on their way to their respective transport vehicles. In the case of Carleson, it was his trusty Cadillac. His destination was the hotel he would be spending the night in, The Marriott.
Fifteen minutes later, his percussion pulled up to the hotel. He walked straight into an elevator and got out at his penthouse suite. He walked over to his bed and sat down, rubbing his face. Two Marines entered the room behind him, He picked up the phone on his nightstand, and requested a secure line.
"Sir, we're going to need to go to REDCON 2 for all of the Marines in the Pacific, and DEFCON 3 for all of our Air Force guys in Hawaii." he informed President James Marshall
"Alright Rick," The President said on the other side of the line, "Will that be all?"
Carleson thought for a moment, "Yeah, that should be good."
The president acknowledged and the line went dead.
"Choryt!" Gorbachev cursed in his hotel room, "We're going to need to contact President Narmonov."
One of the officers that stood in the room with him saluted and walked away to make it happen. Then, the balding man turned towards another officer, "We want paras on standby. We can't let this can't go wrong."
The man nodded and followed the other man to a second section of the apartment. Suddenly, a bright flash engulfed the room and Mikhail jumped backward.
He stood up in the damaged hotel room, completely groggy and disoriented from the blast. One of his guards stood up, carrying a AKS-74 Carbine. Alarms were blaring in the room and the sprinkler system was activated. The debris that was once a penthouse suite was now in ruins as the occupants that were now standing up tried to find their way out.
In the doorway a black body armored soldier. His gun lit up, attempting to attack the surviving guards. As the red light from his gun started to suppress down the hall towards the men, a guard leaned out from his cover, pulled the trigger, and fired two rounds at the man who fell backwards into a pool of his own blood. The guards proceeded to help Gorbachev out of the building. "Comrade Premier! The other two leaders...should we warn them?" Mikhail nodded as the detail walked out to the lift.
chaos reigned in the smoldering hotel ruins. Gorbachev coughed, lungs searing from the acrid smoke as his guards hustled him towards the emergency stairwell.
"Go, warn the others!" he rasped at one man, who nodded and peeled off with his comrade down another corridor. Gunfire continued to echo distantly as scattered firefights broke out.
The remaining guards hurried Gorbachev down the shuddering stairs, supporting his weakened frame. "Almost there, Comrade Premier. Paramedics are outside," one reassured.
Emerging onto the street, they were met with bedlam. Fire trucks and ambulances wailed amidst a milling crowd being herded back by harried police. A military transport idled at the curb with soldiers piling out.
"Premier Gorbachev!" barked their commander, rushing over. "We've clearance to evacuate you to a safehouse. But the others..." He shook his head grimly.
Gorbachev looked to the burning facade above, thinking of his colleagues within. Had any survived? And who was behind this monstrous attack?
His guards bundled him into the waiting vehicle before joining the soldiers rushing back into the maelstrom, determined to pull out as many survivors as possible. But even as medics rushed the wounded to care, billowing flames promised that answers died with the hotel.
All Gorbachev knew was that tonight, peace had been dealt a grievous wound. And in the smoldering ruins lay the seeds of a terrible conflict, one which could consume the entire world...
Rolf Linkin.
"Team 2 Respond! has the rebel HVI been eliminated..." a burst of static came through the Vox, Linkin growled, he'd split the group into 3 teams, they would each go after one leader, he could already see the flames of the building where team 2 was supposed to attack.
"Team 2, respond immediately!" Rolf snarled into his vox. Only static answered his hails.
He broke into a run, heading for the burning hotel in the distance. Something had gone catastrophically wrong. As he neared the scene, he saw emergency vehicles crowding the street and crowds of onlookers being pushed back.
Spotting two of his men shouldering through the melee, he barked "Report!"
The troopers saluted hastily. "Captain, the target escaped amid some sort of bombing. Building's already coming down, too hot to pursue safely."
Rolf seethed inwardly. Their mission was falling to pieces around them. "Casualties?"
The troopers' helms dipped in unison. "Still no word from the rest of Team 2, sir. They went in after the rebel but communications failed."
A grim assessment formed in Rolf's mind. Either those troopers were dead, or had gone rogue to pursue the enemy on their own. Neither option boded well.
He raised his micro-bead. "Command, this is Tempestus 1-1. Primary target has fled, hotel demolition in progress, severe complications. Request immediate extraction and redeployment for follow up strike."
Only static answered. Their Auspex was being jammed, it seemed someone didn't want Imperial forces coordinating. Rolf clenched his fists in fury. The heretics would pay for this treachery, one way or another...
"This is team 3! [explosion in the background] Heavy resistance...around HVI"
Static shrouded Team 3's faint reply, punctuated by muffled detonations in the background. Rolf toggled his vox microphone anxiously.
"Team 3, status report! What is the target's location and your condition?"
More interference drowned out the response. Rolf cursed and swung his auspex array again, but nothing pierced the jamming. Whoever was interfering with Imperial comms was formidable.
A burst of clear audio broke through: "-der heavy fire! Target is-" A shrieking explosion wiped out the rest. When the vox cleared again, only dead air answered Rolf's repeated hails.
He slammed a gloved fist onto his pauldron in rage. Two teams down, the primary targets scattered, and now even aerial surveillance was off the table. This op was turning into a disaster.
Rolf deployed a locator beacon and initiated an extraction protocol. At least some of his men could be recovered, the Emperor willing. But the mission objectives were lost in the chaos.
His cold gaze swept the burning cityscape. Somewhere out there, rebels coordinated this ambush with skill unseen before. And they held the advantage, at least for now.
But Rolf Linkin did not know defeat. He would hunt the heretics to the depths of hell itself if needed. Retribution was coming, that he swore upon the blood of his fallen comrades. This was far from over.
BDT.
New Lantau. Edenite Dependent Territory.
Royal Eirendale Rangers.
"Fucking overpowered aliens with their bloody rocket bullet guns!" Lance Sergeant Harry Miles was not having a good day.
The aliens had been attacking them since yesterday. They'd lost contact with HQ and the rest of the whole bloody island too.
Rising from his trench to take aim. He fired off three rounds before the goddamn rifle jammed. "A fucking..." As he descended once more, he examined the feed and bolt and discovered that the magazine had actually bent.
He cursed, "Frigging aluminium piece of shit!" and went to replace the magazine when he discovered the bolt had not extracted, stovepiping a cartridge between the extractor and the ejection port's lip.
He glared at the worthless rifle and threw it aside, profanity flying out of his mouth in a garbled mix of Eirendalish and Edenite. He got up and started shooting again after removing a spare gun from a dead squaddie next to him.
The Royal Ordinance L85 was considered by many, to be the black sheep, of Edenite small arms. It was plagued with a barrage of issues and problems that His Majesty's Armed Forces found, were causing the weapon to fail in combat situations. Its furniture was too brittle its action too finicky, its magazines too fragile, and was basically useless on semi-automatic fire.
Veterans of the Gulf War complained relentlessly of how badly the rifle had performed in desert conditions, but it was no better in the subtropical climate of east Averi. Sure enough, after two magazines, the already abused replacement rifle began to seize up as well.
"Damned useless." He spat. What he wouldn't do, to instead have an EM2, Carbine Mk. 6 or an L64/65 Enfield Individual Weapon. Both were bullpups like this stupid piece of crap he held in his hands. The carbine was a copy of the Concordian M5A2 Folsom And much more reliable.
"Here!" an accented female voice called out. Turning his head, he found himself looking at a trooper in the khaki uniform of the Territorials, but Averi instead of white. A New Lantau Regiment Lassie alright. She held out what could only be an L1A1, known to the rest of the world as Fabrique Nationale's excellent Fusil Automatique Leger -the FN FAL. Firing 7.62mm NATO rounds, it kicked like a bull, but it hit like one too, and more importantly, it was actually reliable.
"You're a bloody lifesaver, mate!" Miles didn't ask where she'd gotten it, as the woman's own was still visibly slung, but accepted the rifle and cartridge belt.
The black armored bastards attacking the trench had landed all over the island. And they hadn't given a shit to the Stockholm Accords. Or the Helsinki statute. Or the Antarctic Treaty.
Already, they were responsible for shooting down several passenger airliners in New Lantau airspace.
His ears rang as a dug-in Chieftain sent a HESH shell flying straight into a black armored giant's head that lacked a helmet. It burst open like flower, raining gore everywhere, including its comrades.
The other giants took this as a personal affront, Raising their massive swords, the giants charged forward, roaring loudly through their helmets. The red lenses on them glared balefully in the dark. He could see, as flares lit up in the sky, black Maltese Crosses on the pauldrons on the armor.
"Shit!" Miles squeaked before ducking down. The ground began to shake due to the footfalls. Miles shut his eyes as they stomped closer.
And then the explosions started.
The giants had blundered into a minefield. Filled with Royal Ordinance SI-88 Anti-Personnel Mines. It was a long cylinder-shaped container, filled with a mixture of depleted uranium, depleted durafiber-composite, and Titanium shards and a charge. These mines reacted to the slightest pressure and were triggered by the sheer weight of the armor the aliens were wearing.
The first giant got himself into a world of pain as soon as the nasty little thing drilled upwards and pierced his armor through the heel of the massive boot. It then pierced the foot and traveled into the leg itself, its tiny drill whining as it propelled its deadly cargo through the body before detonating.
The armor plates were flung outwards as the giant's leg exploded from the inside in a crimson rain of blood and gore. With a deafening cry, the massive alien was flung to his knees, his hand triggering another mine. Soon, more and more mines began to activate through the sheer weight of the specimen.
His comrades tried to retreat but soon found that it was as impossible going backward as it was forward. Every step the giants made set off more drilling mines and soon, the order had dissolved into chaos.
Another stumbled and crashed face-first into the dirt, taking two comrades down with it. Their combined weight set off a chain reaction that engulfed the whole group in a storm of shrapnel and whatever material that made up the armor it was wearing shards.
When the smoke cleared, only one remained, half-buried and dragging itself forward with one mangled arm. Its legs were gone.
Rockets soon found home mark as one of the precious Chieftains went up in flames. The offending attacker, a bulky bat-winged attack craft lazily shrieked overhead before turning away for home, trailed by tracers from a Chieftain Marksman.
They had CAS too, unfortunately.
The RAF had nothing within the vicinity to even counterweight the enemy's de-facto air supremacy on the count that most of its airbases on New Lantau being obliterated in the opening salvos of the alien offensive, some Tornado ADVs were making round-the-clock sorties but there were just too many enemy aircraft and too few Tornadoes for them to be everywhere and cover the entire island.
Worst, the best alien air-superiority fighters that were being used totally outclassed the Harriers the Edenite were backfilling.
The difference was like comparing an old Hurricane to the fighter ship in that Connie film, Star Conflicts, or some bollocks. It felt like the Harriers were nailed to the sky.
Reports were saying that a Connie Carrier Strike Group was sailing to New Lantau at full speed but that did fuck-all for the morale of the Troopies and Squaddies in the trenches right now. The best of their armor consisted of 10 Chieftain Mark-10s. The rest were Mark-5s and a few Mark-6s and a company of old and very outdated Centurion MBTs. There were two companies armed with the more modern Challenger I and Conqueror MBTs, but they were fighting in New Lantau City proper.
So all in all, the situation was very FUBAR.
A single AH.7 Super Lynx equipped with a ground-attack load thundered above the trench, sending a cluster of Hydra rockets into a particularly annoying black and white crossed enemy APC that was particularly annoying. Its 20mm cannon shredded a regular grunt squad before falling victim to an enemy SPAA. Miles swore loudly. There was just no way they could get any support at all.
As another curse materialized into his mind, several shells soon began to fall, signifying the enemy's main thrust.
After their disastrous attempt with the black armored giants, the aliens were playing smart. They sent wave after wave of regular infantry against the Edenite, forcing them to waste valuable ammunition and take casualties against units that were eminently replaceable.
The corpses of two thousand or so such sods were piled in the field, clogging the advance of even more men like them.
Now that Miles had an L1A1, the thing he was worried about was the 10th human wave charge that was coming. Not that they were going to be overrun mind you, they had 's here. It was the amount of ammo he would waste before the better-equipped alien units advanced after the meat shield supply was exhausted.
The conscripts that now charged, gave no battlecries. They were fucking tired and scared too. And it wasn't a charge either, the battlefield was clogged with so many corpses, the poor sods were walking. Fuck.
"Sorry Boys. Nothing personal." he flicked the setting to single fire. These guys were staring back fearfully and down at the ground where friends and buddies lay.
He'd taken a look at one corpse, it was a human, they all were. But he meant what he said, nothing personal.
The Edenite rifles proved ineffective, however, they possessed top-notch belt-fed machine guns such as Concordian .50 calibers and FN MAGs. These weapons unleashed a relentless barrage of fire across the open field, evoking memories of the Somme for the historically inclined members of the regiment.
The enemy responded by sending more formidable units, having worn down the regiment with waves of disposable conscripts.
These shock infantry units were specifically trained to breach defensive lines, it seemed, accompanied by combat engineers armed with flamethrowers and satchel charges. Additionally, they were supported by what looked like an assault gun platoon and two sections of tanks.
The first sign that the situation was going even worse was the HEAT shell that obliterated half the trench, embedded shrapnel in Miles' stomach, and prefaced the enemy's final push.
The pain was excruciating. Miles had trouble even standing up straight. He closed his eyes for a minute before opening up again, He decided to play dead, thus distracting him from the pain. He could hear tanks coming, and his eyes fell to one of his fellow rangers, now dead. A LAW-80 was slung down his back.
He reached for the tube. His fingers just barely grabbed the thing before he went limp again, as some shock troops advanced, firing their ruddy laser guns and getting killed in response.
Just before he could celebrate an Ettie's boot slammed into his chest.
"Fuck you." He spat back, kicking the bugger really good in his balls. Before firing a bullet in between his eyes.
The poor sod's whines as he tried to nurse his aching manhood ended as his corpse slumped face-first into the muddy surface. Miles wasted not a second, securing the LAW into his hands. Every movement was sheer red-hot agony, but he managed to reach the weapon, even as he heard shouts in ET speak.
An assault gun popped into view just outside the edge of the trench, trundling at a leisurely speed. Miles aimed the LAW carefully before firing.
At first, he thought the shot had missed because the gun rumbled on before the top hatch popped like a champagne cork followed by a gust of flame like a volcano. It shuddered to a halt, smoke swirling out from its gun.
But had no time to celebrate his victory. A squad of Ettie infantrymen kicked over his shattered body and emptied their entire magazines into him.
The entire Edenite lines collapsed as combat engineers hurled satchel charges and flamethrowers set entire squads aflame.
ET rolled up their flanks, exterminating pockets of stubborn resistance with unholy levels of casualties to their units.
A large number of defiant prisoners were taken, the marched out to the rear by scowling young reservists with white stripes on their helmets.
The POWs were corralled up like cattle and given those strange cigarettes ET seemed to adore, before gunned down. The enemy forces had no facilities set up to keep prisoners and the head honcho commanding the whole landing op wasn't willing to sacrifice a chunk of his best troops to guard duty.
So, all over the rear, specifically near the border with the PRD, the tropics were lit red with the sight of lasers slicing into the Edenite POWs.
It looked like there was a rave going on, a surviving Squaddie reported. The girl had somehow survived the horrific ordeal and had snuck off just as the flamethrowers ignited, hiding the evidence.
The rest of the ET force continued on, exploiting the breakthrough to push deeper into the New Territories, with the ultimate goal of reaching the Tsuen Wan peninsula, then the island of New Lantau in its entirety.
The war had only just begun, and yet, it felt like they had already lost.
STRASBOURG, FRANCOVIA
DAY 2 OF WAR
OFN COMMAND CENTRE.
General Maxwell Barnes had been 17 when he'd enlisted in the Concordian Army and gone to the Gregureyo Peninsula at Pusan. The situation here was not so different. The only part of Francovian territory in OFN hands that wasn't under constant attack was Strasbourg, and the port of Le Havre, 10021 miles away. "Only thing we don't have is MacArthur" he muttered. "What's the status in CENTAG, Frankfurt in Ulraznavia?" he asked.
"Frankfurt has fallen, sir. No word from CENTAG command in the past 0600 hours," an aide reported. "Enemy armored divisions are pushing hard westwards."
Barnes cursed under his breath. "Tell AFCENT to hit their supply lines and staging areas, buy us some time. And get the 82nd Airborne moving to reinforce Cologne."
He turned to the naval section. "What's the status on Le Havre?"
"Port facilities intact, but enemy air patrols are thick after attacking Paris. Resupply convoys will have to run the gauntlet."
Barnes nodded. "Do it. We need those reinforcements and supplies ashore. Have the Eisenhower Carrier Group provide naval air cover."
Finally, he looked to intelligence. "Anything on possible counterattacks?"
They shook their heads. "Most remaining forces are isolated pockets now, sir."
Barnes nodded. "And our own forces?"
"Scattered or destroyed across the Group of Three border. We've lost the Ruhr as of 0800 hours."
Barnes swore under his breath. The industrial heartland gone, just like that.
"Very well. Pull all combat effective units back to Strasbourg and dig in." He tapped the fortified city. "We make our stand here while we rebuild strength."
His officers rushed to execute the orders, coordinating the retreat. Barnes watched as friendly symbols retreated across the map towards the relative safety of Strasbourg.
Once their forces were consolidated and resupplied, they could begin launching localized counterattacks. Barnes was no MacArthur, but he knew how to play the long game.
Fillmont International Airport,
Fillmont, State of Friser.
David hustled across the tarmac as a Secret Service detail ushered him toward the waiting Air Force Two. The modified Boeing 707 may have been aging, but she still had some kick left to get him back to DC fast.
Strapping in aboard the plane, Vice President Kathryn Bennett exchanged tense looks with her aide. The whole planet had gone insane in the span of an hour. And here he'd thought this was going to be just another campaign stop.
"So, we're staying put in DC for now?" she asked.
The aide nodded. "Morale play for the public. Can't look like we're bugging out to a bunker just yet."
Kat grimaced as the engines spooled up for takeoff. He'd been around the block enough times to know when things were truly screwed. And this crazy invasion situation felt miles out of their depth.
Staring out the window at the east coast unfolding below, She placed a call to his son, urging him to get his family to safety out to Halifax. She left unsaid the possibility of nukes being deployed if containment failed. Some options were too terrible to speak aloud.
The reality was sinking in that he'd likely be stuck managing a nightmare when they landed. Speeches and optics were for the President now. Katheryn just had to try keeping a lid on the chaos from the back room.
She rubbed his eyes wearily. No rest for the wicked. The papers and reports would be stacked high, demanding constant attention while others orated grandly for the cameras.
Well, time to get to work. This was sure to be the longest day of his life. And failure here could mean the end of Concordia.