-The War-

Falmart Calendar, 1291

Captain John Mitchell, Basilisk Squad

Fort Harling, HQ


Captain John Mitchell sat in the waiting area of the HQ building, glancing around at the bustling scene unfolding before him. What had once been a small, one-room shack hastily set up at the start of the conflict had now transformed into a full-fledged command center. The expansion reflected the war's growing complexity.

The facility was alive with activity—offices filled with the constant clatter of ringing phones, the scratch of pens across papers, and the hurried movements of clerks and officers alike. Pencil pushers darted between rooms, each carrying stacks of reports or orders that needed immediate attention. The once quiet outpost now buzzed with an air of importance and urgency.

Osean Marines stood at attention along the walls, their stoic presence contrasting with the more fluid movements of Erusian commandos patrolling the inner corridors. It was a strange sight—men who had once been sworn enemies now working side by side, all under the banner of an uneasy but necessary alliance.

The door suddenly swung open, jolting Mitchell out of his thoughts. Colonel McKinsey stood in the doorway, his expression as stern as ever, waving the squad into his office.

"Alright, Basilisk. Get in here," McKinsey ordered, his voice clipped and urgent.

Mitchell exchanged a brief glance with his squadmates before they all filed into the office. Sabrina had stopped her conversation with Elmar, her usual cheerful demeanor replaced with focus, and even Nantz seemed more alert than usual. They followed Mitchell inside, falling into line around the Colonel's cluttered desk.

The room was dim, lit only by the harsh overhead lighting and the glow from the tactical map mounted on the wall. The map displayed enemy positions, troop movements, and a highlighted target: the enemy capital, Sadera.

Then something else caught John's attention—a lone female soldier standing just outside the group. She was Osean, that much was clear from the flag patch on her shoulder and the distinct Osean camo pattern she wore. Her stance was steady, her eyes scanning the room with quiet confidence.

McKinsey turned slightly to gesture toward her. "This is Navy Corpsman Jenna Shepherd," he announced, pausing for a moment to let the name sink in. Mitchell noticed the subtle smirk tugging at the corner of McKinsey's lips as he watched the squad's reactions.

Shepherd. The name rang a bell, and Mitchell quickly realized why. His squadmates exchanged glances, all of them clearly thinking the same thing. Before anyone could ask, McKinsey continued, confirming their suspicions.

"Before you ask—yes. Shepherd as in General Shepherd, the man in charge here. This is his daughter, and she'll be joining your squad due to the recent… departure of Corporal Daniel Motorola. May his soul rest in heaven," McKinsey muttered the last part quietly, his voice softening for just a moment in respect for their fallen comrade.

Mitchell felt a pang of emotion at the mention of Motorola's name. It was still too fresh, the empty space in their squad still too raw. But his attention quickly shifted back to Jenna Shepherd, standing straight and unreadable as McKinsey introduced her to the team.

"Sergeant," McKinsey said, addressing her directly now, "this is your new team. Squad leader, Captain John Mitchell. XO, Staff Sergeant Mike Nantz. CQC specialist, Private First Class Sabrina Vostok. Marksman, Corporal Henry Dawson. And last but not least, squad automatic gunner, Specialist Elmar Gibson."

Shepherd gave a sharp nod as McKinsey rattled off the names. There was no mistaking her military discipline, and Mitchell could see the quiet strength she carried, even if there was a tension that came with being the daughter of the man in charge. It wasn't an easy position for anyone, especially when stepping into a team that had recently lost one of their own.

McKinsey turned to her one last time. "Any questions, Sergeant?"

Shepherd shook her head. "No questions, sir. Just ready to do my job."

Mitchell nodded, appreciating her straightforwardness. This was going to be an adjustment for everyone, but if Shepherd could hold her own—and if she carried even a fraction of her father's grit—then she'd be fine in Basilisk.

McKinsey clapped his hands, signaling the end of the briefing. "Good. That's all for now. You'll have time to get acquainted with the squad. Captain Mitchell, make sure your team's ready for deployment by 0600 tomorrow."

Mitchell, still processing everything, furrowed his brow. "Sir? I thought we're on lockdown," he said, the confusion evident in his voice.

McKinsey gave him a brief look but didn't pause for long. "I'll explain everything in the briefing later. 1800 hours in the briefing room," he said, his tone final, leaving no room for further questions.

Mitchell straightened up, the uncertainty still hanging in the air but knowing there was no more to be gained now. He nodded and gave a sharp salute. "Yes, sir!"

McKinsey returned the salute before turning back to his desk, already buried in the next set of tasks, while Mitchell turned on his heel. His eyes quickly found Jenna Shepherd, who had been standing quietly throughout the exchange, taking everything in.

"Shepherd, on me," Mitchell called, gesturing for her to follow as the rest of the squad filtered out of the room.

Jenna nodded and fell in step with him, the slight tension in her posture not missed by Mitchell. She was stepping into unfamiliar territory, and even though she carried the name of General Shepherd, it didn't make her immune to the challenges of integrating into Basilisk Squad.

Outside, Mitchell took Jenna and led her away from the group for some talking, this recieved some raised eyebrows from Basilisk. "You guys go. We'll catch up at the barracks". Mitchell said and turned away again to talk alone with Shepherd.

As Mitchell led Jenna away from the group for a private conversation, the rest of Basilisk Squad exchanged glances, raising eyebrows at the sight. It wasn't unusual for Mitchell to have one-on-one talks with new squad members, but this felt different. There was a tension in the air, one that neither Elmar nor Sabrina could quite shake.

The two of them lingered a moment longer before finally turning to head back to the barracks, as Mitchell had instructed.

Walking side by side, Elmar glanced at Sabrina. "So… what do you think's going on?" he asked, his voice low but curious.

Sabrina shrugged, though her expression mirrored Elmar's concern. "I don't know. Mitchell doesn't usually pull someone aside like that unless something's up."

Elmar scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah, feels weird, right? I mean, it's not like we don't trust Shepherd, but she is the General's daughter. You think that's got something to do with it?"

Sabrina chewed on her bottom lip thoughtfully as they approached the barracks. "Could be. Maybe he's making sure she knows what she's getting into. Or maybe there's more to her being assigned to us than we've been told."

Elmar raised an eyebrow. "You think there's something else going on? Like, maybe this wasn't just about replacing Motorola?"

Sabrina shrugged again but looked more serious this time. "I wouldn't put it past the brass. They never tell us everything. And with the mission coming up, who knows what kind of stuff they're keeping close to the chest."

Elmar nodded, falling quiet for a moment. "Well, whatever it is, we'll find out sooner or later. Just hope it's not something that'll make things more complicated."

Sabrina let out a small laugh. "When are things ever not complicated for Basilisk?"

Elmar chuckled too, but there was a hint of unease behind it. As they reached the barracks, they both looked back in the direction Mitchell and Shepherd had gone, curiosity gnawing at them both.

"Guess we'll have to wait and see," Sabrina muttered.

"Yeah," Elmar agreed, his thoughts drifting back to Mitchell and Shepherd. "Let's just hope it's nothing that'll blow up in our faces."

With that, they entered the barracks, but the questions still hung in the air between them. Whatever Mitchell and Shepherd were talking about, it was clear something was happening—and they would soon be in the thick of it.

The door to the barracks swung open as Mitchell led Shepherd inside. The rest of Basilisk Squad was already there, scattered around their respective bunks, sorting gear or chatting amongst themselves. When Mitchell and Shepherd entered, the room fell into a brief silence as all eyes turned toward their new teammate.

Sabrina, as usual, was the first to break the quiet. "Well, well, look who we've got here," she said with a grin, leaning against the edge of her bunk. "General Shepherd's daughter, huh? Didn't think we'd ever see a Shepherd in Basilisk."

Elmar, seated on the floor cleaning his weapon, glanced up. "So, how's it feel being the daughter of the guy who runs the show?"

Shepherd looked a little surprised by the directness, but she kept her cool. "It feels about the same as it would for anyone else, I imagine. I'm here to do a job, same as all of you."

Elmar raised an eyebrow, his hands pausing in their work. "Yeah, but you've gotta admit, being the General's daughter is… unique. What's that like? He give you any special tips before sending you to the front line?"

Before Shepherd could respond, Sabrina cut in again, clearly enjoying the curiosity in the room. "Okay, forget the dad questions for a sec—let's get to the important stuff. What's your deal, Shepherd? You a CQC expert, sharpshooter, or more of a gearhead?"

Shepherd smiled faintly, finally allowing herself to relax a little under the friendly interrogation. "Corpsman, actually. Combat medic."

"Ah, the one who keeps us from bleeding out," Elmar said with a grin, returning to his cleaning. "That's useful."

Nantz, who had been observing quietly, finally spoke up. "Corpsman, huh? You good under pressure?"

Shepherd met his gaze with a calm, level stare. "I've been in combat before, Sergeant. I've patched up worse than what I'm expecting here."

Sabrina leaned in, her curiosity still piqued. "So, where've you served, then? Anywhere exciting?"

Shepherd paused for a moment, considering. "A few places. Last post was with a rapid response unit stationed on a supply line. We took fire more than once."

Corporal Henry Dawson, who had been quietly sharpening his knife on his bunk, chimed in. "Ever patch up a guy who's been hit while still under fire?"

Shepherd nodded, the confidence in her answer immediate. "More than once. It's part of the job."

Sabrina whistled. "Alright, sounds like you're the real deal. A medic who knows how to keep calm in the storm."

Elmar leaned back, giving her a once-over. "Well, that's good. Because once things kick off, we'll be needing someone with a steady hand around here."

Sabrina flashed a grin. "And hey, you might even make Nantz smile someday."

Nantz's stoic expression didn't change, but there was a glint of something like amusement in his eyes. "Don't count on it," he muttered, resuming his quiet observation of the group.

Shepherd chuckled softly, beginning to ease into the squad's rhythm. They were tough, but so far, they were welcoming. Maybe this wouldn't be as hard as she thought.

Mitchell, leaning against the wall, finally spoke up. "Alright, that's enough interrogation for now. Shepherd's one of us, so let's make sure she's prepped and ready for tomorrow. We've got a mission coming up fast."

Sabrina gave a mock salute. "Aye, aye, Captain. Don't worry, we'll take good care of her."

Shepherd shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. This was her new team, and while the questions had been relentless, she could already sense the camaraderie that made Basilisk Squad what it was.

As the squad settled back into their routines, Mitchell caught Shepherd's eye and gave her a small nod. "You'll fit in just fine," he said quietly, and for the first time since arriving, Shepherd believed it.


-The War-

Falmart Calendar, 1291

Fort Harling, Motorpool

Same time with Vehicle Commander Harris, "Iron Horse-1" at the Motorpool


"And this," McOnnie's voice rang out over the gathered tankers and vehicle crews, "is the final product: the M1A4 EML Abrams." Her tone was confident, and the crowd of hardened soldiers and maintenance personnel stood attentively, eyes fixed on the podium where McOnnie and her team of researchers, including Dr. Schroeder, were presenting the new tank's capabilities.

Harris stood near the front of the group, arms crossed, his brow furrowed as he took in the new design. Around him, the other vehicle commanders exchanged glances, some impressed, others skeptical. The M1A4 was a big step forward, but there was always that cautious doubt when new tech met the battlefield.

McOnnie continued, gesturing toward the large display screen where the specifications of the M1A4 flickered in bold text and detailed diagrams. "This upgraded model includes an AI-assisted system for tracking and identifying targets at longer ranges. It will significantly improve accuracy while reducing engagement times. Both the commander and gunner will have access to enhanced night and thermal sights for superior visibility in low-light and adverse conditions."

The crowd of tankers and engineers stood in silence, captivated by the sheer scale of the upgrades being outlined. But it was McOnnie's next statement that really caused a stir among them.

"Now, the most significant change from the M1A2 tanks you're currently using is the main gun. Instead of the Belkan-designed RH-120mm-L44 Smoothbore cannon, this tank will be outfitted with a completely new, more lethal, and far more precise 85mm Rail Gun."

Harris, who had been quietly absorbing the information, raised an eyebrow at the mention of the rail gun. That was no small change. Rail guns had been experimental for the normal Grunt for years, but hearing it would now be on the front lines? And on a tank nonetheless. That was something entirely new.

McOnnie continued, her voice steady, "The Electro-Magnetic launched projectiles will travel at speeds up to Mach 8 toward their target. These aren't just any ordinary projectiles either. They're designed to detonate once they've penetrated the enemy tank's armor, ensuring complete destruction from the inside out."

There was a brief murmur from the crowd, particularly among the younger tankers who looked wide-eyed at the mention of the rail gun. Harris, like the other veterans, remained more reserved. Impressive, yes, but he'd learned to reserve judgment until seeing tech like this in action.

"And the tech behind those projectiles?" McOnnie added with a knowing smile. "That's classified."

Harris exchanged a glance with Reeves, who simply shook his head in quiet disbelief. "Well, that's something," Reeves, Harris' countepart, friend and vehicle commander of Iron Horse-3 muttered.

"Something," Harris agreed, his eyes flicking back to McOnnie.

The crowd was still buzzing when McOnnie shifted gears and pointed toward the full-sized prototype of the M1A4 behind her. "The turret has undergone a complete overhaul and redesign, incorporating an Active Protection System—or APS—similar to the one used on the Arsenal Bird. This system will allow the M1A4 to intercept and neutralize incoming threats like anti-tank guided missiles and rocket-propelled grenades before they even reach the vehicle."

Harris leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued. An APS that could prevent most incoming threats before they could even land a hit? Now that would be a game changer, especially on the fast-moving battlefield they were seeing more of in Falmart.

Reeves let out a low whistle. "If that works like they say, we're looking at a whole new way of fighting."

Harris nodded, still cautious. "If it works," he echoed. "Guess we'll see soon enough."

McOnnie wrapped up her presentation by reiterating the tank's advantages, but Harris' mind was already running scenarios in his head. The M1A4 EML Abrams was an impressive leap forward, but as with all tech, it would come down to how it performed in the chaos of real combat.

As the crowd began to disperse, McOnnie's final words lingered in the air. "This is the future of armored warfare. The M1A4 will not only survive the battlefield—it will dominate it."

"Alright," Harris began, shaking his head as he stepped forward, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. "Let's jump back to the railgun for a second. How do we load that thing?" His voice carried an edge of skepticism, the kind only a seasoned tanker could voice when dealing with unfamiliar tech.

McOnnie didn't miss a beat, her confidence unwavering as she replied, "It'll have an auto-loader. Loading time of a round is max five seconds."

Her words hung in the air for a moment, as though she expected the room to erupt in admiration. But instead, a tense silence settled over the tankers. Harris caught the sideways glances exchanged by the men around him, their expressions a mix of surprise and disbelief. The term auto-loader sent a shiver down the spine of any tanker who valued the camaraderie and essential role of the crew.

Harris felt a knot tighten in his stomach as his eyes flicked over to Andreas, the loader for Iron Horse-1. He could see it in Andreas' face—the realization of what McOnnie was saying. No more loaders. The auto-loader was efficient, yes, but it also meant leaving one of their own behind. And for Harris and his crew, that wasn't a trade they were ready to make.

"Five seconds, huh?" Harris said, his voice harder now as he jabbed a thumb in Andreas' direction. "He can do it in two!"

The other tankers nodded, some murmuring in agreement. Andreas, who had been standing silently, gave a small, prideful grin. The guy had earned his stripes, and everyone in the room knew that no machine could ever match the human instinct and speed of a trained loader.

McOnnie blinked, clearly taken aback by the lack of enthusiasm, failing to catch the underlying sentiment that had shifted in the room. "The auto-loader's efficiency ensures—" she started, but Harris cut her off.

"Efficiency isn't the issue here, Major," Harris said firmly, stepping forward, his voice low but clear. "You're talking about leaving one of our own behind. This isn't just numbers and tech. This is a crew we've built together. Andreas isn't just a cog in the machine. He's part of the team."

Around him, the tankers nodded, the mood shifting from technical curiosity to something far more personal.

McOnnie faltered for a moment, realizing she'd underestimated the emotional weight of her announcement. "I understand the attachment," she said carefully, "but this technology is designed to reduce human error and increase battlefield efficiency."

"Human error, my ass," Harris snapped, stepping forward and glaring at McOnnie. "I ain't throwing one of my guys out of my crew just because you lab coats decided it's more 'efficient.' If that's the price to pay for your new toy, I'll stick with the old tank."

He paused for effect, his voice growing louder, more insistent. "And another thing. This is a damn machine. Machines break, especially in the heat of battle. If that fancy auto-loader jams on me in the middle of a tank-on-tank firefight, it's worth dogshit no matter how fast it can shove a round into the barrel. But my loader? My loader won't jam."

The silence that followed was deafening. Harris's words hit hard, resonating with the veteran tankers who had lived through the chaos of battle. The hum of the motor pool seemed to fade into the background as all eyes fixed on the confrontation.

McOnnie, visibly taken aback, opened her mouth as if to argue, but she quickly shut it. She clearly hadn't expected such an emotional pushback, especially from someone like Harris, whose reputation on the battlefield carried weight.

Harris gestured toward Andreas, standing beside him with a stoic expression. "That man right there? He's not just loading rounds. He's got instincts. He's part of this crew, and I know that when things get rough, he's not going to fail me because he's trained, he's reliable, and he's human. Your machine doesn't have those qualities."

Andreas shifted slightly, glancing down but giving a small nod of appreciation. He could feel the support from the rest of the team, and it meant more than any words.

Harris wasn't done. "You can dress it up all you want, talk about AI and efficiency, but if that rail gun jams when I need it most? That's our lives on the line. No machine is going to give me the trust and reliability my crew does."

There were murmurs of agreement from other tank commanders in the room. The younger ones might've been impressed by the high-tech features, but those who had been in the field long enough knew the truth. They had seen tech fail when it mattered most, and no amount of theoretical advantages could replace the reliability of a human crew under pressure.

McOnnie, realizing the depth of resistance, tried once more. "Look, I understand your concerns, but this isn't about replacing people. It's about increasing your effectiveness in combat. The auto-loader is designed to—"

Harris cut her off again, his voice unwavering. "No, Major. You're missing the point. It's not about effectiveness—it's about trust. Trust in your crew. You start replacing men with machines, and you lose that. You lose the backbone of what makes a tank crew work."

McOnnie, seeing that her argument wasn't landing, sighed and stepped back, clearly defeated for now. "Fine. I get it. But the offer still stands. When the time comes, and you see the difference this tech can make, I hope you'll reconsider."

"I ain't reconsidering shit," Harris growled, his eyes locking onto McOnnie's, his voice now edged with frustration and defiance. "Not until you reconsider that damn auto-loader. If you don't, that thing can stay over in Osea because we ain't driving it."

The weight of his words hung in the air like a storm cloud. The room, already tense, grew heavier as Harris's ultimatum cut through the usual pleasantries of military briefings. This wasn't a negotiation anymore—it was a line in the sand.

McOnnie, clearly taken aback by his stubbornness, stood silent for a moment. She hadn't expected such a strong pushback, especially in front of the other tank crews. Her confidence in the new tech hadn't prepared her for the emotional—and very personal—connection these crews had to their tanks and their teams.

"Captain Harris," McOnnie began, trying to keep her tone measured, "you have to understand that these upgrades—"

"I understand just fine," Harris shot back, his voice rising. "You want us to ditch a man from our crew for a machine that might save us a few seconds. But I ain't trading Andreas for an auto-loader that could break down when it counts. If you want me to trust that thing, then you need to reconsider it. Otherwise, it stays where it is, and so do we."

The air remained still, the tension now palpable. Other tankers looked at one another, silently nodding in agreement. Harris was voicing what they were all thinking—machines were useful, but when it came to battle, trust in your crew was irreplaceable.

McOnnie sighed, sensing that there was no winning this argument here, not today. "I hear your concerns," she said finally, her tone cooler now. "But these decisions are made with your safety in mind. We'll be in touch with Command to review feedback."

Harris, clearly unconvinced, nodded sharply but didn't back down. "Yeah, well, until that happens, we stick with the M1A2. End of story."


-The War-

Falmart Calendar, 1291

Fort Harling, HQ, Briefing Room

Colonel D. McKinsey

Time, 1800 hours


"Settle down, everyone," Colonel McKinsey barked as the briefing room quickly filled to capacity with every officer on base. The room buzzed with energy, the tension and anticipation thick in the air as soldiers from all branches crammed into every available seat and lined the walls.

The noise settled quickly as McKinsey stepped to the front of the room, the weight of his presence demanding attention. "This is important, so listen up," he began, his voice sharp and clear as the room fell into a tense silence.

"As of 0700 hours Osean Standard Time today, the lockdown order has been lifted by President Palmer himself," McKinsey announced, his words cutting through the room like a blade. The officers exchanged glances, knowing what that meant. The lockdown had been long and restrictive, but now the war machine was about to kick into high gear again.

"As of tomorrow 0600, we are ordered to conduct strike missions—both from the air and on the ground—against this world's capital, Sadera."

"Can you guys finally agree on one thing?" an airman called from the front row, interrupting McKinsey mid-sentence. "First the lockdown, then no lockdown, and now this massive attack. The hell is going on?!"

McKinsey sighed, clearly frustrated, but kept his composure as he flicked through the Holo table in front of him. "If you'd let me finish, I'd explain," he muttered before addressing the room. "We received a distress signal from Sadera. Apparently, one of the hostages who had been abducted from Tyler Island managed to link their phone to a UAV. That UAV was relaying radio waves from our radio tower and sent out a distress signal before the drone was recalled because of the lockdown."

The room erupted into murmurs, officers exchanging confused and shocked glances. McKinsey paused to let the information sink in, but before he could continue, Corporal Dawson stepped forward from his spot, arms crossed.

"Yeah, fine," Dawson said, his voice skeptical. "But how did they manage that? Our radios are encrypted. The average person couldn't just crack that."

McKinsey nodded in agreement, tapping a few commands on the Holo table. "You're right, Dawson. But this person wasn't just some average Joe." He leaned forward slightly, his tone more serious now. "She's ex-KGB. Yuktobanian Intelligence."

A collective silence fell over the room. The weight of those words wasn't lost on anyone. Ex-KGB? Yuktobanian involvement? The situation was suddenly a lot more complicated than anyone had imagined.

"She was on Tyler Island for reasons we still don't fully understand," McKinsey continued, "and she was taken during the initial attack. Now, once word gets out that a Yuktobanian operative is involved, you can bet the Yuktobanians will want a piece of this action. They're not going to sit quietly while their people are caught up in this mess."

The murmurs turned into louder discussions, the officers now clearly unsettled by the new development. The prospect of Yuktobanian involvement—especially with someone as capable as an ex-KGB operative in play—was a game-changer.

One of the Marines in the back leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "So, we're not just fighting for control of the capital. We're trying to get her back before the Yuks turn this into their fight too."

McKinsey nodded gravely. "Exactly. That's why the attack on Sadera is happening now, without further delay. If we don't move fast, the situation is going to spiral out of control. The Yuktobanians will want answers, and they won't hesitate to insert themselves into this conflict if they believe we're not capable of handling it."

The air in the room felt heavy, the stakes becoming clearer with each passing moment. This wasn't just about taking down an enemy capital anymore—it was about managing a political crisis before it erupted into something much larger.

McKinsey took a deep breath, his gaze sweeping across the room. "Now you understand the urgency. We need to strike hard, and we need to win. Not just to defeat the enemy, but to prevent another major power from getting involved."

The officers, now fully aware of the gravity of the situation, fell into a tense silence. This mission had just become far more critical than they had anticipated.

McKinsey straightened up, his tone sharp as he prepared to wrap things up. "You have your orders. This is no longer just a strike—it's a mission to prevent the entire region from spiraling into chaos. We move out at 0600. Get your teams ready. Dismissed."


A/N:

As you can see things are progressing. Yuktobanian involvement, Attack on Sadera, the Hostages. Stuff is getting out of hand lol

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