-All-Out War-
Falmart Calendar, 1291
Fort Harling
The weight of the situation bore down on Fort Harling as the command center was thrown into chaos. The loss of UAV control had stripped the defenders of their most vital surveillance, leaving them blind to the incoming attack. Outside the fortified walls, tension rippled through the ranks of Osean and Erusian soldiers, who had taken positions around the base in preparation for the worst.
The words from UAV Control, "We are blind!" echoed in every soldier's mind, a chilling reminder that they were on the brink of something catastrophic. The sound of distant explosions and gunfire filtering through the radio transmissions only served to heighten the anxiety across the base.
Fort Harling, once a bastion of defense, now braced for the impending storm. The United States forces, unseen but looming, were closing in, their aircraft and ground units coordinating for a full-scale assault. From the north and southeast, reports flooded in of aircraft squadrons and armored divisions pushing toward the base. The ground rumbled beneath the soldiers' feet as the vibrations of heavy tanks and troop transports echoed through the area.
The radar sites lit up, revealing the approaching storm of aircraft, but the UAV feeds remained eerily blank—compromised, controlled by the enemy.
"Station to all defense units on base! Activate all radars and blow everything out of the sky! I don't care if it's friend or foe—I want the skies cleared of any aircraft!" The operator's voice, laden with urgency, cut through the base's intercom system.
The soldiers on the ground, already rattled, felt the weight of the command. It was all or nothing. Fort Harling's defenses had to act decisively. Overhead, the dull roar of enemy aircraft approaching was starting to become audible, the once distant threat now rapidly closing in. U.S. ground forces were advancing, their air superiority fighters covering the sky while armored units prepared to breach the base's perimeter.
"Station, this is MLAD Control. Say again your last!" came the response, the officer on the other end clearly shocked by the order to clear the skies indiscriminately.
The operator at Station didn't falter. "I say, activate all radars and shoot down everything! Clear the skies, now! We are blind without the UAVs, and I won't risk losing control of the airspace!"
Acknowledgments filled the airwaves as Fort Harling's defense systems came to life, a mechanical symphony of war preparing for the onslaught.
"This is DEAD Control. Radars active and scanning. Lasers are running and ready for action! On your mark, Station," came the calm and collected response from the Directed Energy Air Defense team. Lasers and anti-air missile systems were primed, their targeting systems whirring as they began sweeping the skies for anything airborne.
"Station, this is MLAD Control." The voice was firm, professional, ready for the order. "Rail cannons have locked their targets and are ready to fire at your mark." The MLAD systems were locked on, their immense railguns primed to unleash devastating firepower at hypersonic speeds.
Inside the command center, the tension was electric. Operators worked at a frenetic pace, monitoring the radar screens and coordinating the defense. Outside, the soldiers could feel the imminent danger in the air—the shrill whistle of distant jet engines growing louder, the ominous thunder of approaching enemy armor growing closer.
Then the order came.
"All stations, fire!" the operator commanded, eyes glued to the radar screen.
Instantly, Fort Harling erupted into action.
The rail cannons fired with a deafening crack, sending projectiles hurtling toward the enemy aircraft at unimaginable speeds. Anti-aircraft missiles streaked across the sky, their trails of smoke cutting through the clouds as they sought out targets. Lasers from DEAD control lit up the air, tracking and vaporizing anything within their range.
The skies, once quiet, were now filled with the sounds of war. Aircraft exploded in midair as the defenses engaged, the falling wreckage raining down over the battlefield. Ground forces below began to scramble as the precision strikes from the defense systems ripped through the air, each burst of fire lighting up the horizon.
On the ground, the advancing U.S. forces—led by heavy tanks and supported by infantry and air cover—began to close in on Fort Harling's outer defenses. The soldiers stationed at the perimeter braced for impact, hearing the rumble of the Abrams tanks moving in the distance.
"Station, this is Patrol Alpha! We've got ground units closing fast! Tanks and infantry approaching from the east and southeast! We need Warhammer to flatten this direction NOW!" came the panicked call from one of the forward patrols stationed near the outer defenses. The enemy was closer than expected, the synchronized air and ground assault overwhelming the base's defenses.
The operator quickly responded, "Patrol Alpha, this is Warhammer. Guns are ready to fire—give us the coordinates."
Patrol Alpha's leader, voice steadying as they transitioned into precise artillery protocol, replied: "Warhammer, this is Patrol Alpha. Standby for fire mission. Grid reference Echo Foxtrot one-seven-six-niner—four-five-two-one. Target is enemy armor and infantry massing at that location, over."
Warhammer replied swiftly, "Copy that, Echo Foxtrot one-seven-six-niner—four-five-two-one. Confirm enemy tanks and infantry at grid. What's your distance to target, Alpha?"
"Warhammer, Patrol Alpha. Target is at 800 meters from our position. Request danger close. Fire for effect! Over."
A moment passed, then Warhammer came back, calm but urgent: "Warhammer, danger close, firing for effect acknowledged. Adjusting fire mission. Rounds inbound in 10 seconds. Hold your position."
The forward patrol braced as the familiar sound of artillery rounds being launched echoed in the distance. The crew in Warhammer batteries quickly made final adjustments, loading the massive guns with precision shells. The countdown had begun.
"Warhammer, this is Patrol Alpha. Standing by."
Seconds stretched into what felt like an eternity as they waited, the thrum of the advancing tanks and infantry growing louder with every moment. Then, like a sudden, violent storm, the first shells came roaring in, their deadly precision shaking the battlefield.
"Fire, over," Warhammer calmly announced as the big artillery guns fired.
"Fire, out," replied Patrol Alpha, steady despite the chaos.
The 155mm shells impacted with fiery explosions, erupting in the midst of the advancing forces. The devastating blasts sent men and vehicles flying, scattering the enemy as the tanks were cracked open like cheap cans, their armor no match for the precision artillery.
"Splash, over," Alpha said, with a trace of euphoria in his voice as the sight of the carnage filled him with relief.
"Splash, out," Warhammer replied, his tone casually bored as if this were just another day at the office.
The battlefield fell momentarily silent, the air thick with dust, fire, and the aftermath of the bombardment. Patrol Alpha had bought precious time, but the war was far from over. More enemy units were already closing in, but the ferocity of the artillery strike had left its mark, thinning the enemy's advance.
"Station this is Patrol Alpha, Enemy is retreating at the east front. Alpha out!".
Meanwhile, high above the battlefield, the US fighters and bombers weaved and twisted through the sky, doing everything in their power to evade the relentless assault from Fort Harling's defense systems. Hypersonic tungsten projectiles from the Magnetic Launched Air Defense railguns and deadly laser beams cut through the sky like blades of light, tearing apart the once-clear airspace.
Even the most skilled pilots, seasoned veterans of countless engagements, found themselves outmatched by the speed and precision of the defense network. Radar-guided railgun rounds streaked through the sky, moving too fast for human reaction times, their impacts ripping aircraft apart as if they were made of paper.
One by one, bombers and fighters that strayed too close were obliterated. Those that managed to avoid the railguns were met with the searing beams of energy from the Directed Energy Air Defense systems, melting away the fuselage of jets with pinpoint precision. Pilots tried desperately to outmaneuver the invisible beams, but the lasers tracked them without mercy, cutting through their engines and wings in mere moments.
A seasoned US pilot, callsign Raptor, banked hard to the left, narrowly avoiding a streaking projectile as it obliterated the bomber flying next to him. He grit his teeth as warning lights blinked across his cockpit, his HUD screaming alerts.
"This is Raptor, we're taking heavy losses up here! These defenses are tearing us apart!" he called into his radio, pulling his fighter into a steep dive to dodge an incoming laser beam.
Below him, another bomber exploded midair, the shockwave rattling his canopy. It was chaos—no matter how hard they fought, no matter how skilled the pilots were, the Osean and Erusian defenses were too precise, too devastating.
"Raptor, this is Command! We're getting the enemy UAVs in position now. Hold tight for just a little longer," the voice of the US Command crackled through the cockpit, offering a flicker of hope amid the chaos.
Raptor gritted his teeth, glancing out of his canopy as yet another US bomber was torn apart by a hypersonic railgun round. The sky was a deadly minefield, filled with unseen threats that could strike without warning. But the promise of reinforcements, in the form of the compromised enemy UAVs, brought a measure of relief.
"Copy that, Command, but we're running out of time up here," Raptor replied, pulling his fighter into a desperate barrel roll to evade a laser beam that sizzled past him, narrowly missing his wing.
The UAVs, now under US control, moved ominously into position, one after another entering a steep dive. The defenders at Fort Harling watched in horror as their former ISR equipment, once vital to their defense, was now weaponized against them.
"Merde! What are they doing?!" an Erusian soldier yelled in disbelief, fumbling with his FAMAS rifle as he slammed a fresh magazine into place. His eyes were glued to the sky as the UAVs, now screaming toward their positions like precision-guided missiles, descended with terrifying speed.
Panic spread among the ranks as the defenders scrambled to understand what was happening. Then the unthinkable occurred—one of the MQ-101 UAVs slammed into one of the three radar towers controlling the Railgun turrets with a deafening explosion. The tower crumbled in a flash of fire and debris, leaving the MLAD turrets vulnerable and without guidance.
"MLAD and DEAD, target the UAVs!" came the frantic order over the comms. Operators at the Magnetic Launched Air Defense and Directed Energy Air Defense stations scrambled to recalibrate, struggling to regain control in the midst of the chaos. The turrets swung around, now locking onto the once friendly UAVs.
But the damage was done—without the full network of radar towers, targeting the UAVs became exponentially more difficult. One after another, the UAVs continued their suicidal descent, slamming into key defensive positions around Fort Harling, throwing the base into chaos.
The defenders, once confident in their technological superiority, now found themselves overwhelmed, their own systems turned against them in the heat of battle. The tide of the war was shifting rapidly, and the once-impenetrable defenses of Fort Harling were beginning to crumble.
The chaos at Fort Harling only worsened as more UAVs, under US control, dived toward the fort's critical infrastructure. The once-precise and powerful defensive systems, like the MLAD railguns and DEAD lasers, were struggling to maintain functionality as key radar towers and control nodes were systematically targeted.
Another MQ-101 whistled down from the sky, smashing into a communications array, sending sparks and debris flying. The impact took out one of the primary relays, plunging sections of the base into confusion as coordination between defense teams faltered.
"We've lost comms with the northern perimeter!" an Osean officer barked as the operators at station scrambled to bring systems back online. The loss of vital radar and communications began creating blind spots, allowing the US forces to press their advantage.
Outside, on the front lines, the soldiers were barely holding. Erusian and Osean troops ducked behind cover, their rifles aimed skyward, though powerless against the UAV onslaught. The thunder of approaching US ground forces grew louder, tanks rumbling and infantry advancing under the cover of air superiority.
"Merde! They're coming in faster than we can stop them!" the same Erusian soldier shouted, firing a few rounds in frustration, knowing that their weapons couldn't affect the UAVs overhead. He looked toward his comrades, desperation etched into his features.
"Defensive units, fall back to secondary positions! We can't hold them here!" an Osean Marine captain ordered, trying to get his men to regroup as the ground assault grew ever closer. His voice was hoarse from shouting over the cacophony of explosions and gunfire. Around him, men were moving, some dragging wounded comrades, others rushing to reinforce the weakened defensive lines.
The railguns, though powerful, could no longer track the incoming UAVs with pinpoint precision. Some managed to fire, and the occasional UAV exploded in midair, sending flaming wreckage crashing into the ground. But it wasn't enough. For every UAV destroyed, two more seemed to appear in its place.
"Damn it! We're losing too many!" an operator shouted in the command center, his eyes glued to the screens showing red blips where the defenses were failing.
A massive shockwave shook the ground as another radar tower was obliterated by a UAV impact. Smoke and fire now filled the skies above Fort Harling, casting an ominous glow as the once-formidable defenses faltered under the relentless assault.
"Station, this is Alpha Command!" a panicked voice crackled through the remaining comms, barely audible over the sound of gunfire and explosions. "We need artillery support on the east flank! Enemy armor is pushing through!"
But the artillery had been compromised—communications with the Warhammer batteries were sporadic, and the targeting systems for precision strikes were down. Without radar guidance, the artillery units were forced to fire blind, drastically reducing their effectiveness.
"Warhammer, do you copy?! We need those shells, now!" the command center's operator shouted into his headset, his hands shaking as he waited for a response.
A crackling voice came through, faint but audible: "Warhammer here. Firing blind. Best guess coordinates. Hold tight."
It was a desperate solution, but it was all they had.
As the US forces closed in, their Abrams tanks led the charge, flanked by infantry and covered by the surviving bombers. The US ground forces, now emboldened by the destruction of Fort Harling's radar towers, pressed forward with terrifying precision, using the chaos to their advantage.
The soldiers defending Fort Harling braced for impact, their once seemingly unbreakable defenses buckling under the relentless assault. The tide of battle had turned, and it was no longer about holding the line—it was about survival.
A US Abrams tank, leading the charge, rolled steadily toward Fort Harling's main gate. With a thunderous crack, the Abrams fired a high-explosive shell straight into the gate, blowing it apart in a cloud of debris. The gate, once a symbol of defense, crumbled under the power of the strike, leaving a gaping hole for the invading forces.
Seizing the opportunity, an Erusian AMX Leclerc tank rolled through the smoking remnants of the gate, its turret swiftly locking onto the offending Abrams. The Erusian tank commander wasted no time, issuing the order to fire. With a deafening roar, the Leclerc launched a SABOT round from its smoothbore cannon. The round streaked across the battlefield, piercing the Abrams with terrifying precision. In an instant, the US tank was engulfed in flames, its crew sent to their metal grave as the ammunition cooked off, causing secondary explosions.
The US infantry, who had been advancing alongside the Abrams, immediately scattered, taking cover as the inferno consumed their armored spearhead. Some dove behind the burning wreckage, while others frantically sought cover in the surrounding terrain.
But the Erusian Leclerc was far from finished. Its turret swiveled, and its coaxial machine gun barked to life. A hail of 7.62mm rounds rained down on the disoriented US infantry, cutting down soldiers who hadn't found cover in time. The battlefield was filled with the sound of rattling gunfire and screams as the Erusian tank's machine gun tore through the ranks.
The infantry around the now-destroyed Abrams hunkered behind the smoking wreckage, desperately trying to return fire. Bullets ricocheted off the hull of the destroyed tank, while others sought cover behind what little was left standing in the ruined gate area. The Erusian Leclerc continued to fire, suppressing the US troops as it held its ground at the breach.
But soon, for the US troops' relief and the Fort Harling defenders' dismay, the AMX Leclerc met its end. One of the few surviving US bombers, dodging the deadly beams from the DEAD lasers and the hypersonic projectiles from the MLAD railguns, dropped a precisely guided bomb onto the Erusian tank. The explosion ripped through the Leclerc, sending a fiery shockwave across the battlefield as the tank was torn apart, leaving a smoldering crater where it had once stood.
"Merde! They got the tank!" an Erusian soldier cursed, his voice filled with frustration and disbelief. The loss of the tank was a heavy blow to their defenses. "This is Patrol Charlie, requesting immediate artillery support from Warhammer!"
The response came quickly, but it wasn't what they hoped for. "Patrol Charlie, this is Station. Roger your request, but negative on that support. Warhammer batteries are stretched too thin. Station out."
The grim reality of the situation hit the soldiers hard. Warhammer, the one thing they could rely on to level the playing field, was now unavailable. The fort's defenders were left to fight without their heavy artillery support, and the overwhelming firepower of the US forces continued to press forward.
With the Leclerc destroyed and Warhammer batteries overextended, the ground defenses began to buckle under the pressure. US infantry took advantage of the opening, quickly pushing forward and using the burning wreckage of the Leclerc and Abrams as cover. Osean and Erusian soldiers fired from hastily created defensive positions, but without the armored support of the Leclerc, their efforts felt futile against the advancing US armor and infantry.
"Hold the line!" an Osean officer barked as he fired his rifle from behind a makeshift barricade, but the situation was becoming desperate. The US forces were pressing hard, using the air support and the confusion caused by the UAV strikes to gain a foothold inside the fort's perimeter.
Confusion rippled through the ranks as the soldiers' radios crackled to life.
"Preparations complete. Ready for launch. Gate is open. Shells loaded and gun armed. All systems green. Firing in three, two…"
The Erusian and Osean soldiers exchanged confused glances, unsure of what to make of the strange transmission. The US troops, however, were pressing forward cautiously, setting foot inside the base. The first vehicle to breach the fort was a US Bradley, its hulking form rolling menacingly into the wreckage of Fort Harling.
The Bradley fired its 25mm Bushmaster cannon, the rounds tearing into a nearby tent, ripping it apart and killing everyone inside. Then, with mechanical precision, the vehicle's turret swiveled toward the entrenched Osean and Erusian soldiers desperately trying to mount a defense. Rifle fire erupted from the defenders, but their 5.56mm rounds and small-arms fire ricocheted harmlessly off the armored vehicle's hull, having no effect.
"Shoot it! Shoot it!" an Osean Marine barked, panic creeping into his voice as he emptied an entire magazine from his HK 416 into the Bradley. The bullets bounced off the thick armor with a series of dull thuds.
Realizing his rifle was useless, he pulled out his sidearm, a 9mm pistol, and fired in a futile effort to stop the advancing Bradley. The rounds, too, had no effect. The Bradley advanced methodically, its turret scanning for more targets, the looming threat of its cannon ready to mow them down.
Suddenly, the strange radio transmission returned.
"One… on the way."
With a loud crack and a burst of electricity, the Bradley was rocked by a violent explosion. Flames and shrapnel burst from the hull as a massive hole was ripped through the middle of the vehicle, its insides disintegrating from the force of the blast. The US infantry around it scrambled for cover as the tank's destruction sent debris flying in every direction.
"This is Iron Horse-1, enemy Victor destroyed," came the calm, collected voice over the radio.
The Osean Marine, still holding his smoking pistol, stared in disbelief as the flaming wreck of the Bradley lay before him. Whatever had hit the vehicle had obliterated it entirely, leaving nothing but twisted metal and a crater where it had once stood.
The sudden destruction of the Bradley gave the defending soldiers a brief but much-needed reprieve, though confusion still reigned in the ranks. The origin of the devastating strike remained unclear, but one thing was certain—Fort Harling's defenders weren't out of the fight yet.
From the darkness of the Gate, a massive barrel emerged, followed by the hulking frame of a modern war machine. It was the new M1A4 Abrams, a technological marvel equipped with cutting-edge systems and enhanced firepower. The beast rolled out of the shadows with a mechanical growl, its caterpillar tracks crushing the debris beneath it as it moved into the chaos of Fort Harling.
Inside the tank, Harris, the commander, peered through his sight, his sharp eyes scanning the devastated battlefield. He barked orders, keeping his crew focused amidst the destruction surrounding them.
"Andreas, reload, reload!" Harris snapped, urgency creeping into his voice as they prepared for their next target. His loader, Andreas, worked quickly, locking the breach and disengaging the safety mechanism.
"Up!" Andreas yelled, signaling that the tank's cannon was ready to fire. The tungsten projectile in the breach was smaller than the standard 120mm shell, but it was dense, packing enough force to punch through nearly anything in its path.
"Driver, forward," Harris commanded, his tone firm. With a jolt, the Abrams surged ahead, its powerful engine roaring as the tank pushed through the wreckage of the base. Around them, the battlefield was a scene of pure chaos—smoke, fire, and the echo of gunfire filled the air as the defenders and invaders clashed.
The Iron Horse Battalion, including Harris's tank, had been sent through the Gate to test and bring back their new tanks. None of them had anticipated the sudden scale of the invasion they were now facing. But they were ready, and their tanks, bristling with new technology, were leading the charge.
In a column, four M1A4 Abrams tanks rolled through the heart of Fort Harling, their turrets scanning the perimeter for any threats. The wreck of the destroyed Bradley still smoldered as the tanks pressed onward, their guns loaded and ready.
"Targets ahead, coming up on the main gate," The VC of Iron Horse-2 announced as they neared the breach where the Bradley had met its end. The Abrams led the way, its sensors picking up heat signatures and movement beyond the destroyed gate.
"Iron Horse-1, we're approaching the outer perimeter, sweep and clear," Harris ordered over the battalion's comms. Around them, US infantry advanced cautiously, using the tanks for cover as they moved into the exposed areas of the fort.
The M1A4 Abrams tanks were a force of destruction, and they were now bearing down on the Osean and Erusian defenders who were scrambling to hold their ground. The defenders, already overwhelmed, had little left to stop the oncoming assault, as these new behemoths were unlike anything they had faced before.
The lead US Abrams rumbled forward, its gun now swiveling toward a makeshift barricade where a group of Osean Marines was huddled, preparing to make their last stand. The tank's thermal imaging locked onto the targets with deadly precision.
"Gunner, AP, Tank!" Harris barked, his voice sharp and commanding as he peered through his sight.
"Identified," Tarry, the gunner, responded instantly, locking his crosshairs onto the US Abrams that had rolled into view. The enemy tank's silhouette filled his display, and he could feel the tension rising as he prepared to fire.
"Fire!" Harris ordered, his voice cutting through the chaos around them.
In an instant, the M1A4 Abrams's railgun discharged with a terrifying crack, the force of the shot vibrating through the tank's hull. The air itself seemed to tear apart as the tungsten projectile shot forward at Mach 8, a streak of death moving faster than the eye could track.
The round hit the enemy Abrams square on the turret cheek, one of the thickest parts of the tank's armor. But to the railgun, it was nothing. The tungsten penetrator sliced through the turret as though it were paper, instantly igniting a firestorm inside the tank. The projectile ripped through the ammo rack, triggering a catastrophic explosion that ripped the US Abrams apart from the inside. Flames and shrapnel burst out of every hatch and port, and the tank's insides were consumed in a violent inferno.
But the tungsten round didn't stop there. With terrifying momentum, it punched clean through the burning Abrams, exiting the back of the tank as if it hadn't even been there. The projectile continued on its path, embedding itself into a Bradley that was positioned behind the Abrams, tearing through its armor and crippling the vehicle in a single strike.
Both vehicles were left smoldering wrecks, their crews obliterated before they even had time to react.
"Target destroyed," Tarry reported calmly, though there was a hint of awe in his voice as he watched the sheer devastation the railgun had caused.
"Good shot, Tarry. Driver, keep pushing forward!" Harris ordered, the tank surging ahead as debris and fire surrounded them. The battlefield was a chaotic mess of ruined armor, smoldering wrecks, and frantic infantry trying to regroup in the face of the Iron Horse Battalion's unstoppable advance.
The devastation left behind by the railgun served as a grim reminder of the power that the M1A4 Abrams tanks possessed. The US forces, though resilient and well-equipped, were now facing a technological terror that seemed almost unstoppable.
Something wasn't sitting right with Harris. The comms had been silent ever since they'd rolled through the Gate, no contact from Station or any other command center. It gnawed at him.
"Driver, traverse left. Head to those Erusians," Harris ordered, his gut telling him something was off.
Lucas, the driver, swung the steering hard to the left, and the Abrams lurched forward, its massive frame barreling toward a group of Erusian soldiers huddled in a hastily dug foxhole. Dirt flew up as they came to a stop next to the shell-shocked troops.
Harris opened his hatch, standing up and looking down at the disheveled Erusian soldiers below. He leaned out, his voice sharp as he called out to them.
"Yo! Why's nobody talking over comms?!"
One of the Erusian soldiers, a sergeant by the look of him, looked up at Harris, his face covered in sweat and grime, exhaustion and frustration clear in his eyes.
"They destroyed our comms relay!" the sergeant shouted back, his voice barely holding back the anger and fear. "And all the UAVs—every single one—were taken over by the enemy! Now they're kamikaze-ing into our air defenses and comms stations."
Harris's blood ran cold as the full scope of the situation hit him. Without UAVs, without communications, they were blind and cut off. The reason for the eerie silence over the radio became all too clear—the US forces had crippled their ability to coordinate and defend themselves effectively.
"These connards are cutting us down piece by piece!" another Erusian soldier cursed from the foxhole, gripping his FAMAS rifle tightly.
Harris cursed under his breath. The situation was worse than he had thought. They were running blind into the storm with no air defenses, no eyes in the sky, and no way to call for backup. If they didn't get those relays back up, Fort Harling and everything they were trying to protect could be completely overrun.
"Alright, hang tight, we'll figure something out," Harris yelled back down to them before ducking back into the tank.
"Tarry, check our comms, any signal?" Harris barked, but Tarry shook his head.
"Still nothing, boss. Looks like they're jamming or we've lost the relay completely."
"Damn it," Harris muttered. "Alright, keep your eyes open. Driver, push forward, let's see what else we can do."
The Abrams roared back to life, and they pressed onward, but the truth was sinking in—without comms, they were fighting blind in a warzone where the enemy had the upper hand.
1 hour earlier at Area 3
Aether Squadron had returned to the battlefield, officially under the guise of searching for any signs of Trigger's survival. But in truth, their return had a far more sinister purpose.
Jet, now the acting leader of Aether Squadron, banked left, glancing down at the devastation below through his canopy. The enormous dragon lay sprawled on the ground, its skull cracked wide open as though an explosion had torn through it from within. Embedded in the beast's face, like a spear, was the wreckage of Trigger's XF/A-22, a haunting reminder of his final act.
Jet's expression remained cold, his mind racing with thoughts far from rescue. Trigger's daring attack had succeeded in bringing down the dragon, but there was something more important to handle now.
"There it is," Jet muttered into the comms, eyeing the wreckage of Trigger's plane. "He actually pulled it off."
"Yeah, he did," came Crash's voice over the radio, her tone devoid of admiration. "So, what now?"
Jet didn't hesitate. He had been given his orders, and this wasn't about celebrating Trigger's victory. It was about eliminating a threat—one that wasn't the dragon but had worn the face of an ally.
"Now we make sure he stays gone," Jet replied calmly, his words carrying a weight that made the squadron uneasy.
"You really want to do this?" Stiff asked, his voice betraying some doubt. "He saved all of us. The dragon's dead because of him."
"That's exactly the point," Jet replied, his voice cold and resolute. "He did it. But if he comes back, our employer won't be happy."
"Who is our employer, anyway? You never told us, Jet," Skid asked, her voice tinged with curiosity. Despite everything, none of them knew who had orchestrated this betrayal.
Jet's response was blunt. "I don't know. The only thing I know is that he's Belkan and that he wants Trigger dead. For this, he paid us quite the sum of money." He paused for effect before adding, "10 million now, and 20 million after the job is done."
There was a low whistle over the comms. Crash, impressed, couldn't help but let out a chuckle. "Hot damn. Well, he's dead, let's go collect our cash."
"Not so fast, Crash," Jet cut in, his tone sharpening. "The employer wants a photo of the body. He made it clear—no body, no cash."
The excitement in the air dimmed slightly. They had taken this job for the promise of wealth, but now the final step loomed. They had to confirm Trigger's death. Without a body, everything could fall apart.
Jet adjusted his flight path, carefully descending toward the battlefield. Below, the massive corpse of the dragon sprawled across the terrain, its skull cracked open, with the remains of Trigger's XF/A-22 still embedded deep within. The aftermath of the battle was haunting, but Jet had his mind on the task at hand.
"I have a Camera with me, I'll land and take the shot. You guys stay up here and cover me," Jet ordered over the comms, his voice firm. "If anyone enters the airspace, I don't care who they are— Friend or foe, you shoot them down."
"Wilco, boss," came Crash's quick reply.
"Yep, got it," added Skid, more casual but equally committed.
"Roger that," chimed Stiff, all business.
"Got it," Cole said in his usual stern voice.
Jet banked right, bringing his fighter into a slow descent toward the ground. As he approached the crash site, the wreckage and debris from the battle became clearer.
Smoke still billowed from the dragon's remains, and the shattered pieces of Trigger's jet lay strewn about. Jet's eyes remained locked on his landing zone, a relatively flat patch of ground just beyond the smoldering wreck.
The ground came closer as Jet expertly guided his fighter in, landing smoothly despite the uneven terrain. Dust and ash kicked up as the landing gear touched down.
He swiftly initiated the shutdown sequence, his focus sharp despite the chaos all around him.
Above, Aether Squadron maintained their circling formation, engines humming like distant sentinels, ensuring no threats would enter the area while Jet was on the ground.
Jet popped the canopy, taking a deep breath as he climbed out of the cockpit. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and burnt metal, and the heat from the wreckage hit him as he stepped onto the ground. With his camera slung around his neck, he made his way toward the remains of Trigger's XF/ A-22 embedded in the dragon's skull.
The wreck was a twisted, smoldering heap of metal, barely recognizable as the aircraft that had taken down the dragon. Jet's steps were cautious as he approached, the crunch of debris under his boots the only sound besides the faint hum of engines above.
The weight of the task ahead settled on his shoulders, but he remained focused. This was just another part of the mission.
He raised the camera to his eye and began snapping photos, documenting the wreckage from several angles. The employer's instructions had been clear-proof of Trigger's demise was needed to secure their reward. Jet zoomed in, ensuring the shots captured the scale of the destruction.
He raised the camera to his eye and began snapping photos, documenting the wreckage from several angles. The employer's instructions had been clear-proof of Trigger's demise was needed to secure their reward. Jet zoomed in, ensuring the shots captured the scale of the destruction.
But as Jet moved closer for the final shot, he froze. The smoke around the wreckage lifted just enough for him to get a clearer view. His heart sank. There was no canopy, no seat—and, most importantly, no body.
Trigger wasn't yet in the wreck.
A wave of panic surged through Jet. He quickly reached for his sidearm, pulling his pistol from its holster, but before he could react further, he felt something cold and metallic press against the back of his head. His body stiffened, and his breath caught in his throat.
"Hello, Jet. Glad you came to look for me," came Trigger's voice, low and filled with cold sarcasm. The sound sent a chill down Jet's spine. Trigger had somehow survived the crash, and now he was standing behind him, a Beretta M9 pressed firmly against the back of Jet's skull.
Jet's mind raced, trying to process the situation. He had come here to confirm Trigger's death, but instead, Trigger had found him first.
"I didn't know you guys cared so much to actually land here," Trigger's voice was laced with sarcasm as he pressed the barrel of the Beretta harder against Jet's head.
"Mind telling me what you were doing with that camera?"
Jet's heart pounded in his chest, his thoughts racing for a way out. He hadn't planned for this—Trigger was supposed to be dead, and now the situation had flipped entirely. He gripped the pistol in his hand tightly, but he knew it was useless. Trigger had him dead to rights.
"Just... just to make sure you're okay so we can sent help. T... the camera is f... for the History books... you... you know?," Jet managed to say, cuckling nervously despite the pressure building in his chest.
Trigger chuckled, the sound cold and devoid of any real amusement. "That's funny, Jet. Because from where l'm standing, it looks like you and the rest of Aether Squadron didn't come here to save me." He paused, letting the words hang in the air before adding, "It seems like you had other plans. Plans that involve making sure I stay gone."
"You disgust me," Trigger muttered, his voice ice-cold, as his finger tightened on the trigger.
The 9mm Parabellum round discharged with a sharp crack, the recoil barely registering in Trigger's steady hand. Jet collapsed instantly, his body crumpling to the ground as the bullet tore through his skull, caving its way through his brain tissue. The thud of his lifeless form hitting the dirt was the only sound that followed.
Trigger stood there for a moment, the smoking Beretta M9 still in his hand, his eyes cold and detached. He stared down at Jet's body-one of the squadron members he had flown beside, now a casualty of betrayal. There was no time for sentiment.
Trigger snapped into action, taking Jet's Key card for the jet and stomping down hard on the camera, crushing it beneath his boot until the pieces were nothing more than shattered plastic and metal. He didn't waste a second. His eyes locked onto Jet's F-15 S/MTD, parked a short distance away. With the wreckage of his own aircraft embedded in the dragon's skull, Jet's fighter was his only way out.
Without hesitation, he sprinted toward the fighter, his mind racing but his movements precise. The F-15 was a platform Trigger was intimately familiar with. The F-15 S/MTD—a modified, thrust-vectoring version—was advanced, but its core was the same beast he had flown so many times before. This wouldn't be hard.
He reached the jet, quickly clambering up into the cockpit. His hands moved instinctively as he ran through the startup procedures. The engines roared to life beneath him, and the displays flickered on as the fighter came to life. He couldn't afford to stick around—Aether Squadron was still circling above, and once they figured out something had gone wrong, they'd be coming for him.
"Come on, come on," he muttered to himself, his fingers gliding over the controls, preparing for takeoff. The fighter hummed, and the familiar weight of the cockpit settled around him like an old friend. Everything felt right—everything was clicking into place. He had a way out.
The canopy sealed, and Trigger grabbed the flight stick, preparing for what came next. Aether Squadron thought they'd finished him off, but now it was his turn to take control.
He pushed the throttle forward, and with a thunderous roar, the F-15 S/MTD surged forward, the ground quickly disappearing beneath him as he lifted into the sky. His heart pounded in his chest, but his focus remained razor-sharp.
"Jet's returned to radar," Cole announced, his eyes fixed on the screen as the blip of the familiar F-15 S/MTD reappeared on their scopes.
"Yo, Jet, how did it go?" Crash asked, his voice casual, curiosity evident as he awaited a response.
But the comms remained silent.
"Jet? Do you hear us?" Skid chimed in, her voice tinged with cautious concern as she maneuvered her fighter closer to the F-15, trying to get a visual on the seemingly unresponsive plane. Meanwhile, Stiff, sensing something was off, brought his Shinden II into position behind Jet's aircraft, just in case things went south.
Then the radio crackled to life, but the voice that came through wasn't Jet's.
"Hello, guys. It was really fun flying alongside you… but—this is where you meet your ends." Trigger's voice was cold, and the realization of what had happened sent a shock through the squadron.
"Oh shit!" Skid exclaimed, panic setting in as she banked hard left, desperately trying to put distance between herself and the ace pilot now in Jet's plane.
Stiff wasn't as lucky. Trigger, having already anticipated their moves, pulled the F-15 S/MTD into a perfect Cobra maneuver, causing Stiff's Shinden II to overshoot in front of him. In an instant, Trigger leveled the plane, bringing the Shinden II into his crosshairs.
Without hesitation, he squeezed the trigger.
The M61 Vulcan mounted beneath the F-15 roared to life, spitting out a storm of 20mm rounds. The hail of fire tore through the Shinden II's fuselage, shredding the plane as if it were made of paper. Flames erupted from the engine as the rounds ripped through the airframe, leaving Stiff with no time to react.
The Shinden II exploded into a fireball, debris scattering across the sky as Trigger flew through the wreckage, his expression hard and unyielding. The others, now realizing the full extent of what was happening, scrambled to evade.
But Trigger wasn't done yet. He had one mission now: to make sure Aether Squadron paid for their betrayal.
"One down. Three to go," Trigger muttered under his breath, already locking his sights on the next target. Stiff's X-02 Strike Wyvern was streaking away from him at Mach 2, trying to escape. But Trigger had no intention of letting any of them get away. He locked on with an AIM-9X Sidewinder, waiting for the aggressive growl from the missile's seeker that would confirm a solid lock.
But instead of the familiar growl, the Radar Warning Receiver blared loudly in his ears. One of the remaining Aether Squadron members had locked onto him. Trigger cursed under his breath, quickly pulling the flight stick hard to the left, sending the F-15 S/MTD into a sharp roll. He flipped the aircraft onto its back, then yanked the stick back, throwing the plane into a steep dive as he dumped chaff and flares in rapid succession.
The decoys flared brilliantly behind him as he maneuvered, desperately trying to shake the lock. His heart pounded in his chest, the adrenaline coursing through him as he made split-second decisions to outmaneuver the radar-guided threat. The G-forces took their toll on his body but it was nothing Trigger wasn't familiar with.
The warning tone screamed in his headset, growing louder as the missile continued to track him. Trigger's fingers moved swiftly over the controls, deploying another round of countermeasures and rolling the F-15 into a wild series of evasive maneuvers. He dived, twisted, and banked, each motion more aggressive than the last, as he fought to break free of the enemy's radar lock.
The missile closed in, but the last flurry of chaff confused its guidance system. Trigger's aggressive dive and unpredictable maneuvering finally paid off—the missile lost track, exploding harmlessly behind him in a cloud of smoke and debris.
"Close one," Trigger muttered, eyes sharp as he leveled the plane out of the dive and shot upward, scanning the skies for his next move. He wasn't done yet, and neither was Aether Squadron.
Trigger's eyes flicked upward, spotting the plane responsible for the missile lock—it was Cole in his ADF-01 FALKEN. Trigger could see the sleek fighter rolling over, preparing for another lock, but it was already too late. Trigger had turned the tables.
Without hesitation, Trigger selected an AMRAAM missile. His targeting system beeped as it acquired a lock on Cole's plane. The split second felt like an eternity, and then the AMRAAM flew off the rack with a sharp hiss, streaking toward its target.
Cole barely had time to react. As he rolled his aircraft to get another lock on Trigger, the incoming missile was already on him. The AMRAAM, fast and relentless, closed the gap in seconds. Cole's RWR blared in his ears, signaling the lock, but by the time he registered it, the missile was too close.
"Fox-3, missile away," Trigger muttered as he watched the missile streak through the sky, his eyes tracking its path.
Cole desperately pulled his aircraft into a defensive maneuver, but the missile was too fast. With a sudden, violent explosion, the AMRAAM found its mark, tearing through the rear of Cole's Morgan in a bright ball of fire and shrapnel. The fighter spiraled out of control, trailing smoke and debris as it plummeted toward the ground.
"Two down," Trigger repeated through the radio, his voice cold and controlled, already shifting his focus to the next target. The battlefield was narrowing, and Aether Squadron was beginning to feel the full weight of their mistake.
"You bastard!" Crash yelled over the comms, panic and fury mixing in his voice. The realization that they were being hunted by the man they'd once flown beside had finally sunk in.
"You're next," Trigger muttered, his voice dripping with icy resolve. He pushed the throttle forward, accelerating to Mach 2, the roar of the engine shaking the skies as he rocketed toward his next target.
The canards on the F-15 S/MTD shifted fluidly, adapting to the immense speed and sharp angle of attack as Trigger pulled the nose of the plane up 90, climbing rapidly like a missile launched straight into the sky. The plane responded perfectly to his commands, its thrust-vectoring nozzles enabling precision maneuvers at high speed.
Crash, frantically trying to evade, saw the blur of Trigger's fighter as it shot upward, disappearing for a moment as it climbed high above. He knew he was next, and the fear of Trigger's relentless pursuit began to cloud his judgment.
"Come on… come on…" Crash muttered to himself, attempting to find a way to shake Trigger, but his movements were becoming more erratic, betraying his panic.
Meanwhile, Trigger leveled out at altitude, scanning the horizon for Crash's signature. His targeting systems beeped as they locked on, but Trigger didn't fire yet. He wanted to savor the moment, make sure Crash understood exactly what was coming.
"Your journey ends here, Aether-2. The skies belong to me. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide," Trigger muttered, his grip tightening on the flight stick as his eyes locked onto Crash's fighter. The weight of his words hung in the air, cold and final.
Trigger's plane surged forward, cutting through the sky like a predator closing in on its prey. He knew Crash was out of options—each maneuver was more desperate than the last, and his erratic flight pattern betrayed the panic that had overtaken him.
"Damn it… come on!" Crash's voice trembled through the radio, knowing Trigger was closing in. The beeping of his radar warning receiver filled his cockpit, but there was no escaping Trigger's relentless pursuit.
Trigger lined up his shot, the crosshairs locking onto Crash's CFA-44 Nosferatu. His breath was steady, exhaling slowly as he prepared for the perfect moment. "This is it," he muttered under his breath before squeezing the trigger, releasing an AIM-120 AMRAAM missile from its rack. The Fox-3 missile screamed forward, closing the gap between Trigger's plane and Crash's fighter.
But Crash reacted quickly, dumping chaff and flares while banking hard to the right. The missile veered off course, losing its lock and exploding harmlessly in the distance.
"Ha! Missed me!" Crash's voice crackled over the comms, laced with mockery and defiance, as if he had managed to outsmart the ace.
"Sure?" Trigger responded calmly, his tone chilling. He didn't need another missile. Lining up his sights once more, this time directly on Crash's cockpit, Trigger squeezed the trigger again, unleashing a precise burst from the M61 Vulcan cannon.
The 20mm rounds ripped through the air and tore into Crash's Nosferatu, punching straight through the cockpit in a deadly hail of fire. The rounds tore through the canopy and found their mark, killing Crash instantly. The CFA-44 jerked violently as the canopy turned a mix of blood red and black smoke, the aircraft spiraling down towards the ground.
"Three down," Trigger whispered, watching the flaming wreckage of Crash's plane fall toward the ground below.
"One to go," Trigger muttered through the radio, his voice cold and detached, a tone he had used far too often today.
"Shit, shit, shit!" Skid panicked, her voice trembling with fear. She had watched her squadron fall one by one, each meeting their end at Trigger's hands. Now it was her turn, and the weight of that realization crashed down on her.
"I will kill you!" she screamed, her voice cracking with desperation. She fumbled with her controls, selecting the railgun on her Wyvern and aiming directly at Trigger.
"Die, you bastard!" Skid shouted as she fired, the railgun discharging with a deafening crack. A streak of energy shot out, the powerful weapon meant to tear Trigger's fighter apart.
But Trigger remained unfazed. His experience ran deep, having faced some of the deadliest pilots and machines the skies had ever seen. He'd gone toe-to-toe with Mihaly, the legendary ace, and even fought against the Alicorn, a submarine equipped with railguns that fired in rapid succession—much deadlier and far more unpredictable than anything Skid was wielding now.
The Wyvern's railgun, while powerful, was nothing compared to what he had already overcome. To him, it was just another obstacle-one he could predict, dodge, and outmaneuver.
Trigger watched calmly as the energy streaked toward him, his hands steady on the flight stick. He rolled his aircraft to the side with precise timing, the railgun blast missing him by a mile. The maneuver seemed almost effortless, a testament to his skill and composure under pressure.
"That all you've got?" Trigger whispered to himself, already positioning his fighter for the final strike. Skid's wild, panicked firing would be her downfall. He could see it—her fear had taken over, and she was firing in desperation rather than strategy.
He banked hard, moving into position behind her. This would be the final act of Aether Squadron.
Time seemed to slow as Trigger locked on with the Sidewinder, the targeting system's growl filling his ears. The sound intensified, the missile ready to strike. His focus narrowed, everything else fading into the background—the battlefield, the chaos, even Skid's frantic attempts to escape.
His finger tightened on the trigger.
In a single, fluid motion, the AIM-9 Sidewinder detached from its rail, screaming toward the target with deadly precision. The missile streaked through the air, closing the distance in the blink of an eye.
There was a brief, heart-stopping silence, followed by a blinding flash as the missile made contact. Skid's Wyvern erupted into a violent explosion, the fireball engulfing the aircraft and scattering debris across the sky. The force of the blast was deafening, a final, catastrophic end to the last member of Aether Squadron.
Trigger watched calmly, his hands steady on the controls as the pieces of the once-mighty X-02 Strike Wyvern fell from the sky.
"All targets down," he muttered to himself, the adrenaline still pulsing through his veins. The skies belonged to him once again.
Aether Squadron had been wiped out.
-Operation White dove-
Falmart Calendar, 1291
Elbe Fiefdom
The Chinooks carrying the rescued hostages were ordered to divert their course to the Elbe Fiefdom before the radio went silent. Elbe Fiefdom, the kingdom where the Oseans had quietly established a small outpost. The strategic position in the kingdom had been fortified after Elbe had declared its independence, breaking away from the Empire of Sadera. The Oseans had predicted that Sadera might retaliate, sending forces to reclaim the former vassal state, and the outpost was set up as a first line of defense. Though modest, it was capable of halting an invasion long enough for reinforcements to arrive.
Now, the outpost stood on high alert. The news of the massive invasion had reached them, filling the air with tension. Soldiers, both Osean and local, stood ready, their eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of incoming enemy forces.
At the outpost's command center, officers monitored the situation, coordinating with the Chinooks en route. The helicopter rotors cut through the air as they made their way to the outpost, carrying their precious cargo—the survivors of Sadera's dark deeds.
"Elbe Outpost, this is Monarch-1. We are inbound with the hostages. ETA 10 mikes. Requesting immediate landing clearance," the Chinook's pilot called over the radio, his voice calm but carrying the urgency of the mission.
"Monarch-1, this is Elbe Outpost. You're cleared for landing. The LZ is secure. Be advised, we are on high alert. There's no telling when or if the invading force will make a move, down here" came the response, steady but tense.
As the Chinooks approached, the outpost's defenses remained vigilant. Anti-aircraft systems were primed, and soldiers manned the walls, ready to respond to any threat. For now, their focus was on safely receiving the hostages, but the shadow of war loomed ever-present on the horizon. They knew that this brief moment of calm might not last long.
"Monarch-1, this is Outpost. Weren't there five helos in your squadron?" The voice from the outpost crackled through the radio, a hint of concern in the operator's tone as they registered only four helicopters approaching.
"Outpost, this is Monarch-1. Affirmative, but Monarch-3 broke formation to deliver their Marines to Fort Harling. Heard the situation is dire over there," the Monarch-1 pilot responded, his voice calm despite the tense situation. The mention of Fort Harling made it clear how widespread the crisis was, and how every resource was being stretched thin.
"Roger, Monarch-1. Proceed with landing sequence," the outpost acknowledged, though the weight of the message hung in the air.
The Chinooks descended toward the outpost, their rotors kicking up dust and debris as they neared the landing zone. The ground crews were ready, their eyes scanning the skies and surrounding landscape, fully aware that the growing conflict could spill over at any moment. The sight of the massive helicopters was a welcome one, though it was tempered by the knowledge that elsewhere, battles raged on.
As Monarch-1 and the remaining helicopters began their landing sequence, the Osean forces on the ground worked quickly to secure the area, ensuring that the hostages onboard were safe. Despite the relative calm, the air was thick with the unspoken understanding that the chaos unfolding at Fort Harling was only the beginning.
"Keep your heads on a swivel," one of the ground officers muttered to his team as they guided the helicopters in. "Things are getting real ugly out there, and we're next on the list if Sadera makes a move."
For now, the priority was getting the hostages off the Chinooks and into the safety of the outpost. But everyone knew this fragile peace wouldn't last long.
"This is Monarch-1, beginning with landing," the pilot muttered, guiding the massive Chinook closer to the landing zone at the Elbe outpost. The rotors whirred above, cutting through the tense air as the helicopter descended toward safety.
Inside the second Chinook, Cossette sat with her security detail—the elite GIGN operatives—silent and watchful beside her. The cargo bay was filled with the rescued hostages, a mixture of Erusian, Osean, and even a Belkan woman, all of them survivors of the horrors inflicted by Sadera.
The atmosphere in the cargo bay was heavy. The women, once full of life and energy, now sat huddled together, their bodies worn and battered, their faces pale and gaunt. Some stared blankly ahead, their eyes glassy, lost in the trauma they had endured. Others were shaking, clutching at each other or the worn blankets draped over their shoulders, as though they could barely hold on to the fragile thread between life and death.
Cossette's heart broke at the sight. These women had endured unimaginable cruelty, and though they were now free, the scars—physical and emotional—were deep. She exchanged a glance with one of the GIGN operatives, his normally stoic expression softened with concern as he watched over the hostages.
"We're almost there, ma'am," one of the GIGN agents said softly to Cossette, his voice a mix of professionalism and empathy. "They'll be safe once we land."
Cossette nodded but said nothing, her gaze drifting over the fragile forms around her. Elbe was a safe haven for now, but the looming threat of Sadera and the US still weighed heavily. The freedom these women had regained was fragile, just like the uneasy peace in the region.
Meanwhile, aboard Monarch-3, the tension inside the Chinook was palpable. The rotors roared above, vibrating through the cabin as the aircraft approached the war-torn Fort Harling. The battle outside was escalating fast, with the fort under siege from all sides. The soldiers inside knew what awaited them, but Mitchell's voice cut through the noise, bringing everyone to sharp focus.
"The LZ is hot! We're dropping into a warzone, ladies and gentlemen!" Mitchell's booming voice filled the cabin, commanding attention. The Chinook was on its final approach, and they were about to land inside Fort Harling itself—right in the middle of the conflict.
"Our mission is simple!" Mitchell's voice boomed through the rattling Chinook, cutting through the noise of the rotors and the tension in the air. Every eye was on him, the weight of the coming battle evident on each soldier's face. "We land in the courtyard, push forward to the command center—Station. We help the guys there defend the base until the last man! Do I make myself clear?!"
"Yes, sir!" the Marines shouted back in unison, their voices resolute but slightly muffled by the noise around them.
Mitchell wasn't satisfied. He leaned forward, his gaze fierce as he glared at his men. "I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" he roared, his intensity fueling the urgency of the moment.
"YES SIR!" The Marines yelled back, louder this time, their collective voice echoing with determination and focus.
Mitchell gave a firm nod of approval, his gaze sweeping across his squad. He could feel the adrenaline pulsing in the air, the anticipation of landing in the chaos of Fort Harling charging every soldier around him.
"Keep your eyes up, and heads low!" he added, his tone firm as he checked his weapon. The Marines and the OIA operatives aboard tightened their grips on their rifles, securing helmets and gear. Every soldier knew the reality of the situation—there was no clean landing zone, just a chaotic battlefield where enemy forces had breached parts of the fort's perimeter.
"We're approaching Fort Harling! 30 seconds!" the 160th SOAR crew chief yelled over the deafening roar of the rotors. Inside the Chinook, nods of acknowledgment came from the Marines and OIA operatives, their faces hardened in anticipation.
"Holy shit…" the pilot muttered under his breath, his eyes glued to the battlefield below. The chaos unfolding at Fort Harling was unlike anything they'd expected. Plumes of thick black smoke rose high into the sky as tracer fire streaked in all directions, lighting up the night. Explosions rocked the ground, sending debris into the air, while the fort's defenses desperately tried to hold back the onslaught of enemy forces.
Through the narrow cockpit view, the once-proud stronghold looked like a war-torn ruin. Walls had been breached, the courtyard was littered with wreckage, and the ground was scorched from mortar fire. The battle was at its peak, and the fort was barely holding on.
Mitchell gripped his weapon tighter as the Chinook rocked slightly, nearing its landing zone inside the fort's courtyard. He could hear the distant sounds of gunfire and explosions growing louder. The Marines around him exchanged glances, steeling themselves for what was about to come.
"Eyes up, heads low!" Mitchell barked, repeating his earlier command, making sure everyone was ready for what awaited them the moment the doors opened. They were dropping into the heart of the fight, right inside the walls of Fort Harling.
The Chinook's rotors kicked up a whirlwind of dust and smoke as it descended into the chaotic scene below. The crew chief braced himself at the rear of the cargo bay, ready to open the doors. Mitchell could feel the tension mounting, his heart pounding as the Chinook touched down with a hard jolt.
"Doors opening! Let's move, move, move!" the crew chief shouted as the ramp lowered with a mechanical whine.
The moment the ramp hit the ground, the chaotic sound of war enveloped them.
Bullets whizzed past the Chinook, pinging off the metal with sharp, metallic clinks, and dust exploded around them as enemy fire zeroed in.
The Marines poured out of the helicopter, rushing into the fray. Some hit the ground, immediately providing covering fire, their rifles barking as they engaged the enemy forces. Others sprinted forward, their focus on reaching the fort's makeshift defenses.
But the chaos of battle claimed its toll. As they ran across the exposed courtyard, enemy rounds found their mark. A few Marines were struck mid-sprint, the impact sending them tumbling to the ground. Cries of pain mixed with the sounds of gunfire as their bodies collapsed, lifeless or struggling to hang on.
Mitchell ran with his team, barking orders.
"Get to cover! Push forward!" His eyes scanned the battlefield, assessing the situation as they charged into the firefight.
The enemy was dug in, entrenched along the broken walls of Fort Harling, and they weren't going to give up ground easily.
The courtyard was a kill zone—bullets flew in every direction, smoke from burning wreckage stung their eyes, and the noise was deafening. But the Marines pushed forward, some dragging their wounded comrades behind makeshift cover, others laying down suppressing fire to keep the enemy at bay.
"We need to reach the command center!
Keep moving!" Mitchell roared as he ducked behind a stack of sandbags, reloading his rifle as bullets zipped by overhead.
The battle for Fort Harling had begun in full force, and every step forward was a fight for survival. The Marines and Erusian soldiers fought with everything they had, knowing that there was no retreat. This was it—the line they had to hold.
Mitchell squeezed the trigger, sending a burst of 5.56 rounds into a US machine gunner who had been focused on ripping through a group of Marines. The machine gunner let out a groan of pain before collapsing onto his M240B, silencing the relentless stream of bullets.
"Elmar, light these fuckers up!" Mitchell barked, his voice barely audible over the chaos around them. Elmar, already in position, hit the ground and racked the charging handle of his M249 SAW, spraying the main gate with a devastating stream of lead as more US troops began pouring into the fort.
"We have to push up to Station!" Nantz shouted, his voice straining to cut through the deafening sound of Elmar's machine gun fire.
Mitchell nodded, shoving a fresh magazine into his HK-416 with practiced precision, giving it a solid smack to ensure it was locked in. Without hesitation, he turned the corner, aiming down his sights, and fired a few precise single shots at the US riflemen advancing toward their position. Bullets zipped past his head, impacting the wall behind him as he ducked back into cover.
The enemy was dug in, and their assault was relentless.
Rounds impacted all around, kicking up dust and chunks of debris. "Shit! Fuck!" Mitchell spat, grimacing as a cloud of dirt flew into his mouth. He quickly wiped his face and spat to the side, trying to regain focus as the firefight raged on.
The air was thick with smoke and the scent of burning fuel. The relentless advance of the US forces was pushing them closer and closer to Station, and the defenders of Fort Harling were running out of time.
The Oseans and Erusians were holding the line, but they needed to regroup and push forward before the fort was completely overrun.
Suddenly, an odd-looking F-15 streaked low across the battlefield, passing directly overhead without a sound. The Marines and Erusian soldiers instinctively ducked as the sleek fighter roared past, but there was an eerie stillness in its wake. For a few seconds, nothing happened—then the air itself seemed to ripple as the deafening sonic boom thundered through Fort Harling, rattling windows and shaking the ground beneath them.
Mitchell barely had time to react before another shockwave hit—this one far more devastating. A massive fireball erupted just outside the fort's main gate, the explosion lighting up the sky and sending debris and flames towering into the air. The blast wave slammed into the defenders, knocking some off their feet and filling the air with dust and smoke.
Mitchell's eyes widened, his gut sinking as he recognized the explosion instantly. He'd seen it before—too many times. A thermobaric warhead had just detonated outside the base, and that single F-15 had dropped it. The distinct signature of the explosion, which consumed oxygen and created a massive overpressure, left nothing but devastation in its wake.
A/N:
Hehe lads. War is here and the Osean's are getting their ass Kicked after the US had taken over all their UAVs. What now?! What will happen?! And Trigger's alive!! Hot damn this story is one single brainfuck lmao.
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