Pre Authors Note:
Itallic: US Comms
-Retribution-
-Operation Midnight Thunder-
Falmart Calendar, 129
Basilisk Team
Rondel City
About half a click north of Volkov's position, Mitchell had just disembarked from his Stryker ICV alongside Henry when his radio suddenly crackled to life.
"All stations, all stations, this is Komandir Volkov. Ceasefire immediately. We have reached a temporary ceasefire agreement with United States forces to allow the civilian population of Rondel to evacuate the warzone. Komandir Volkov, out."
Mitchell paused, exchanging glances with his team. The air had been thick with tension, but now, this unexpected ceasefire gave them all a momentary sense of relief. However, the Marine knew all too well that this break wouldn't last long.
"Bloody hell?! We just landed for fuck's sake!" Henry yelled, racking the charging handle of his HK G28 with frustration.
"Would you rather be shot at the moment the damned hatch opened?" Nantz asked, appearing beside him, his voice calm but edged with sarcasm.
"At least I wouldn't be bored out of my mind here," Henry grumbled, kicking a rock as they walked back to the LAV. "And I'll bet my left bloody ass cheek that the moment this so-called ceasefire is over, those slimy bastards will have regrouped and reinforced themselves."
Nantz shook his head with a sigh. "That's war for you. Hurry up and wait, just to get kicked in the teeth later."
"That's how bloody war has been and how war will always be," Dawson shot back with a shit-eating grin. "I'm only alive because I followed the simple rule of war," he added, full of confidence.
"Oh yeah? What would that be?" Mitchell chimed in from the other side.
"Simple," Dawson smirked. "Make sure you're not the fastest, just faster than the guy next to you when the bullets start flying."
Nantz snorted at that, and Mitchell released a slight chuckle, though he tried to suppress it. "Well… you ain't wrong there, Henry," Mitchell admitted.
"What do you mean not wrong?!" Nantz asked, his tone full of disbelief. "This goes against all codes of camaraderie."
"A'right ye smartass. How the bloody hell would ye attempt to save someone when yer eating bullets yerself?!" Henry shot back, a slight edge to his voice.
Nantz opened his mouth to retort but nothing came out. The logic behind Henry's words just hit him like a brick. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay, fair point… but it's still a crappy thing to say."
Henry grinned and patted Nantz on the shoulder. "Welcome to war, mate."
Suddenly, a long whine filled the air, followed by a sharp buzzing sound, and then a loud clang as something impacted the armor of the ICV. Mitchell and Nantz exchanged wide-eyed looks just before another impact hit, this time even closer.
"Contact! Get to cover!" Mitchell yelled, diving behind the ICV, heart pounding as he grabbed his weapon.
Henry swore under his breath as he crouched behind a rock. "I bloody knew it!" he muttered.
"All stations, all stations, this is Basilisk Team. We are being shot at! Cease-fire agreement has been broken! Requesting immediate close air support on this Map-Grid. Over!" Mitchell barked into his radio, the whizzing of rounds intensifying as the impacts around them grew closer.
The shots began hammering the ground in rapid succession, ricocheting off the ICV and thudding against the rock Henry was hiding behind.
"Mitchell, this is the VC. Where is that coming from?" the ICV commander asked over the radio, his voice tense but controlled.
"West, dammit! WEST!" Mitchell shouted as another round struck far too close for comfort.
"Roger, engaging!" The CROWS system on top of the Stryker whirred to life, the remote-controlled turret swinging toward the west as the VC scanned for the source of the fire.
"I spotted him! Sniper, inside a Three-story building, west. Bearing two-seven-six, left window," the vehicle commander said, tracking the heat signatures on his thermal sight.
"Engaging," came the VC's calm reply as he squeezed the trigger. The M2 Browning .50 caliber machine gun roared to life, sending its deadly rounds tearing through the air toward the marked window. The rounds chewed through the building's façade, shattering the glass and brick, silencing the incoming fire.
"Target neutralized!"
"Are you sure?!" Mitchell shouted from behind the ICV, still gripping his rifle tightly, eyes scanning the area for any more threats.
"Affirmative," the vehicle commander responded calmly. "I'm getting no more movement from that building."
Mitchell hesitated for a moment, then nodded, trusting the VC's judgment. "Alright, everyone get inside!" he ordered, waving at the rest of the team. "We're moving out!"
The Marines scrambled from their cover, piling into the Stryker as quickly as possible. The engine roared to life, and they started moving out, the weight of the firefight still fresh in their minds as the vehicle rumbled forward.
"Longcaster, Volkov the Ceasefire agreement has been broken. We are moving in and proceeding with Operation Midnight Thunder".
With Commander Volkov
Volkov's eyes narrowed as he processed the latest transmission. The ceasefire had been broken, and now gunfire erupted from across the city. His gaze shifted toward the US soldier kneeling before him, hands bound tightly behind his back.
The American, clearly nervous, swallowed hard but said nothing. Volkov's voice was low but cutting as he asked, "What the hell is that?" His words dripped with disdain, his glare piercing.
The US soldier stammered, his fear evident. "I-I don't know! I swear, I don't know anything about it!"
Volkov leaned in closer, his presence menacing. "I gave your people a chance, and this is how they repay me? You better start talking, or you'll be nothing more than leverage that has lost its value."
The soldier's eyes widened, and he quickly shook his head. "Please, I'm just a grunt! They didn't tell me anything, I swear!"
Volkov stepped back, glaring down at the man. "Then you're useless to me," he muttered before turning to his men. "Take him away. We move out, the ceasefire is dead."
"Da, Komandir," replied one of the Yuktobanian VDVs with a sharp salute, his posture rigid.
The captured US soldier began to panic, his voice trembling, "No, no! Hey, please!" But Volkov no longer paid him any attention. His focus was elsewhere, his face a mask of cold determination. Without sparing the soldier another glance, he turned on his heel and boarded one of the BTR-80s parked just outside the city's main gate.
"I want the BMPTs to take the lead," Volkov commanded, his tone firm and cold. The distinct rumble of the BMPT Terminators filled the air as the heavily armored vehicles moved to the front of the formation, their dual autocannons scanning for threats. These vehicles, designed for urban combat, would offer the protection and firepower needed for the push into the city.
Overhead, the Growler Aircraft continued their electronic warfare, jamming enemy radars and providing ECM support. This meant that enemy ATGMs should also be affected, their targeting systems struggling in the electronic haze. But Volkov knew better than to place all his trust in the tech. Experience had taught him that no matter how advanced the systems, there was always a risk.
"Stay alert," he muttered into the radio. "They'll try something. They always do."
The whine of engines filled the air as the vehicles rumbled forward, their metal hulks rolling into the dense urban sprawl of Rondel. The distant crackle of gunfire began echoing through the streets, signaling that the battle had reignited. The ceasefire had lasted only briefly, just long enough to halt the violence for a fleeting moment, but it was clear now that it had been nothing more than a tactical ploy by the enemy.
Volkov's grip tightened on the edge of the hatch as he watched the streets roll by. He couldn't shake the feeling of unease gnawing at him. The fact that no civilians had emerged from their homes during the supposed ceasefire was a glaring sign that something wasn't right. The city remained eerily quiet, its residents hunkered down, and the thought gnawed at him like a persistent itch. The ceasefire wasn't about protecting the civilians—it was about giving the US forces time to regroup, and Volkov had fallen into their trap.
"Stay sharp! This is exactly what they wanted," Volkov growled into his radio, his voice filled with controlled frustration. He knew they were walking into a prepared defense, and now it was up to him and his men to claw their way back.
"Granit, Granit, watch for ambush points. Expect anything!" Volkov barked, his eyes scanning the upper windows for any sign of movement. The tension in his voice matched the danger lurking in the city streets ahead.
"Understood, Komandir! Scanning with Thermals," the BMPT vehicle commander replied, his voice steady despite the growing unease. He peered through his sights, but the glass and shadows inside the buildings made it hard to detect any potential threats. Everything was quiet until a window swung open, revealing the unmistakable silhouette of a recoilless rifle aimed directly at his vehicle.
"Blyat! RAKETA!!" he shouted, his voice filled with desperation just as the recoilless rifle fired. The tandem warhead slammed into the BMPT's armor, igniting the vehicle in a fiery explosion. Flames engulfed the BMPT as it burned fiercely, casting an eerie glow over the street.
"Ambush! Second window!" came the urgent call from the BMPT trailing behind, its dual autocannons already trained upward. Without hesitation, the autocannons unleashed a storm of 30mm rounds, shredding the entire building.
"Oh shit! They're aiming up here! Go, go!" one of the U.S. soldiers, who had fired the recoilless rifle, yelled in panic. He tried to retreat, but it was too late. The autocannons' barrage tore through the walls and floors, pulverizing everything inside, turning the structure into a pile of rubble and dust.
Volkov clenched his jaw as the fiery remains of the first BMPT smoldered, casting a harsh light over the street. He slammed his fist against the side of the vehicle, his voice like steel through the comms.
"Infantry, disembark! Clear every building from here on out. We will take this city street by street, block by block, house by house. Even if we have to go through every single door, do not leave a single room unchecked!"
The ramp of nearby BTR-80s slammed open, and Yuktobanian soldiers poured out, their rifles ready, eyes scanning the windows and doors ahead for any sign of movement.
"Move in teams, secure the ground floor, then sweep upwards!" Volkov continued, his voice steady but full of cold resolve. "Watch the rooftops and windows! These Cykas won't catch us off-guard again!"
"Da, Komandir!" came the sharp reply from his soldiers as they sprang into action. The first squads began stacking up at the doors of nearby buildings, rifles at the ready, preparing to breach. The tension in the air was palpable as each soldier braced for the unknown threats lurking inside.
Volkov scanned the rooftops, quickly assessing the situation. "Ivan, Vanja, find an elevated position with a clear view over the streets," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. "Cover our comrades with sniper fire."
The two snipers nodded sharply, jumping out of their vehicle and swiftly moving down the street, their eyes already searching for a fitting building to set up overwatch. Within seconds, they identified a partially destroyed apartment complex nearby. They bolted toward it, vanishing into the shadows as the infantry units began their systematic sweep of the buildings.
The operation had begun. The city would be theirs, one door at a time.
"Breaching, breaching!" the sharp command echoed just before the explosion of a breaching charge reverberated through the street.
"Davai, Davai!" The soldiers yelled, storming inside the building with trained precision. Moments later, the sound of gunfire erupted from inside, followed by a single, deafening explosion.
"Man down! Man down!" one of the paratroopers shouted as he dragged a wounded comrade out by the arms, blood pouring from a wound in the soldier's stomach where his plate carrier provided no protection.
"Medic blyat!" someone called as the wounded soldier was laid down, his face pale from the blood loss.
Moments later, the rest of the VDVs emerged from the building, carrying captured M4 rifles, along with a single US soldier, bound and defiant. The prisoner's eyes darted around as he was forced to his knees, hands tied behind his back.
Volkov stepped forward, his cold eyes fixed on the captured soldier. "Good work," he said flatly, turning his gaze to the building they had cleared. "Continue pushing forward. Secure the rest."
In this whole war, while the US military might be outclassed in terms of tanks and airplanes, there was one area where they were unrivaled: urban combat. For over two decades, the US forces had been honing their skills in city environments, particularly the older, battle-hardened soldiers who had seen action in conflicts from the Middle East to urban operations in Afghanistan. These veterans had learned the brutal and unforgiving nature of urban warfare, where every corner could hide a threat, and every building could turn into a fortress.
However, the younger generation of soldiers hadn't seen the same level of action. Many of them had been stationed at embassies or performed peacekeeping duties, far removed from the intense combat of their predecessors. For them, this war would be a trial by fire, testing whether they could quickly adapt to the chaos of urban combat or fall under the pressure.
"Granata!" yelled the VDV soldier, his voice sharp and urgent as he hurled the grenade into the darkened home. The clink of the grenade landing inside was followed by a panicked, "Oh shit!" from a U.S. soldier hiding within. There was barely a moment of silence before the grenade detonated with a deafening roar, shaking the building's foundation and sending shrapnel flying in every direction. The explosion left a thick cloud of dust and smoke, the once-quiet home now reduced to chaos.
"Whoever's inside, get the fuck out, blyat! I've got more where that came from!" the VDV soldier shouted, his grip tightening around the next grenade as he prepared to pull the pin. Before he could act, the door creaked open, and three young U.S. servicemen, likely in their early twenties, emerged with their hands raised. The look of fear in their eyes told the story—these weren't seasoned veterans.
The Yuktobanian soldiers might not have the same depth of experience in urban combat as their U.S. counterparts, but they had been through hell before. First in the brutal war with Osea, and later, along side Osea in the fierce, door-to-door battles against the ruthless Belkan forces. This war had hardened them, giving them the skills they needed to fight in these grim and confined conditions. This was no different, just another battlefield, another city to clear.
"Granit, clear that window. I think I just saw something move inside," a VDV soldier called over the comms, his voice tense and alert.
"Da, understood," the vehicle commander of the second BMPT responded without hesitation. The twin 30mm autocannons whirred into position, aiming at the window in question. Without delay, a rapid salvo of high-explosive rounds tore through the walls and windows of the building, sending debris and dust flying into the air. The building shook under the assault, anything that might have been lurking inside now either destroyed or too battered to pose any further threat.
"Target neutralized," the VC confirmed coldly over the radio, the smoking ruins of the building standing as evidence of the BMPT's brutal efficiency.
Up in the skies, the air battle for Rondel was reaching a fever pitch as more and more US Air Force fighters flooded into the fray. Dogfights erupted all over the sky, tracer rounds lighting up the horizon as both sides fought for control of the airspace. Below, the ground situation was worsening. The B-52 bombers had reached their designated positions, but the fast-hitters—the coalition forces tasked with assaulting the airbase via the main street—had come to a sudden halt.
US ground defenses, still heavily entrenched, had overwhelmed the advancing troops, halting their progress and pinning them down. Trigger could see plumes of smoke rising from the main thoroughfare, indicating that something had gone very wrong below.
"Longcaster, this is Trigger," he called through the radio, weaving his jet between incoming fire, "What's the status on the ground? Fast hitters aren't moving. We need that airfield neutralized before they send more jets up here."
"Copy, Three Strikes," Longcaster responded, his voice steady despite the chaos. "The fast hitters are bogged down by heavy resistance. Ground defenses are thicker than expected. We're working on getting CAS on station, but it's going to be tight."
Trigger clenched his jaw as he banked hard to avoid incoming fire. The longer the ground forces were held up, the more reinforcements the US could bring in. And without control of the airfield, this battle would only get bloodier.
The sudden alert from the RWR startled both Trigger and Strela. "We're spiked!" Strela called out, panic evident in his voice. A missile was rapidly closing in on their Wyvern.
"Shit," Trigger muttered, instinctively breaking hard and flipping the plane onto its back before diving to evade the incoming missile. The G-forces pressed them into their seats, and Strela let out a panicked, "Ohh blyat!" as the world spun around them.
"I told you to hold tight!" Trigger quipped with a smirk, his nerves steady despite the danger. As the missile shot past and failed to track, Trigger pulled the aircraft out of its steep dive, bringing it level again as he scanned the skies for the plane that had taken the shot. His eyes locked onto the sleek form of an F-35C ahead, the one responsible for the near miss.
"Got you," Trigger muttered under his breath, his focus razor-sharp. He lined up the crosshairs, steadying his aim. His finger squeezed the trigger, and the M61 Vulcan mounted in the nose of his Wyvern roared to life, spewing out 20mm high-explosive rounds. The rounds tore through the air, finding their mark with surgical precision.
The F-35C didn't stand a chance. Its vertical stabilizer was severed cleanly, and the engine shredded under the hail of bullets. A fiery explosion erupted as the aircraft was torn apart, spinning uncontrollably out of the sky. The pilot ejected just in time, his parachute opening as the wreckage of the Lightning tumbled to the ground below.
"Splash one bandit," Trigger said coolly, already scanning for his next target. His eyes quickly found it—a lone F-15 attempting to lock onto an Erusian Eurofighter below. Without missing a beat, Trigger maneuvered his Wyvern into position.
"Good lock!" Strela called from behind as the AIM-9X Sidewinder's growl intensified, signaling it was ready to engage.
"Roger, Fox-2," Trigger replied, steady and composed, before releasing the missile. The Sidewinder streaked forward, leaving a trail of smoke behind it as it closed the gap between Trigger's Wyvern and the unsuspecting F-15.
Seconds later, the missile struck its target, detonating with precision. The F-15 erupted into flames, spiraling toward the ground as debris scattered through the sky.
"Splash another Bandit," Trigger muttered, his focus already shifting to the next threat. The skies over Rondel were still full of enemy planes, and the battle was far from over.
"Splash another," Trigger muttered, his eyes already scanning for the next target amidst the chaotic dogfight over Rondel. The sky was a battlefield of twisting jets, streaking contrails, and plumes of smoke. He caught sight of another group of US fighters trying to outmaneuver his squadron, a pair of F-16s banking hard to get into position for a strike on the B-52 bombers below.
"Target spotted, two F-16s closing in on Arclight. Moving to intercept," Trigger called over the comms. He pressed the throttle forward, the Strike Wyvern roaring ahead as he closed the gap with deadly precision.
"Strela, get ready," he warned as he lined up his sights. The twin-engine roar of the Wyvern screamed through the air, catching the F-16 pilots off guard.
"Fox-3," Trigger calmly called, firing off an AMRAAM missile. It shot off the rails with a thunderous boom, locking onto one of the F-16s. The missile found its mark with brutal efficiency, ripping through the F-16's fuselage and sending it spiraling in flames.
"Viper 1-3 I'm hit! I've got nothing—I've got no controls! Eject Eject Eject!" screamed the pilot of the downed F-16.
"Jesus! He just wiped out 1-3 in seconds!" came another panicked voice over the US channel. "What the hell is that plane?!"
There was a brief silence, the tension palpable even through the comms, before a pilot spoke in a hushed, almost trembling voice.
Trigger didn't slow down. He pulled up into a tight loop, diving on the second F-16 from above. The enemy pilot hadn't seen him coming.
"Fox-2," Trigger called again, loosing another Sidewinder. The missile streaked toward its target, and despite the F-16's desperate attempt to evade with flares and a sharp roll, the Sidewinder adjusted course and slammed into the jet, turning it into a fireball mid-air.
"Splash two more," Trigger said, his voice as cold as the sky around him.
"What the hell is that thing?!" a terrified pilot yelled as he frantically rolled his fighter in an attempt to evade Trigger's deadly pursuit.
"Oh shit, he's behind me! Get him off, get him off—!" another panicked voice came through, the desperation clear. Trigger had locked onto him, the F-15EX struggling to outmaneuver the ace. But before the call for help could be completed, the sky lit up with a fiery explosion as Trigger's missile connected, the plane engulfed in flames.
"One more down," Trigger muttered, his voice calm and composed, unfazed by the destruction he was leaving in his wake.
"He's everywhere! We can't see him until it's too late!" shouted one of the pilots. "It's like he's invisible!"
"Oh fuck, I can't shake him. Support! Someone, help—!" The desperate cry was abruptly cut short as Trigger's missile found its mark, slamming into the enemy fighter and turning it into a fireball that disintegrated midair.
"Another one down," Trigger muttered under his breath, his voice cold and emotionless as he scanned the skies for his next target. The battlefield was chaos, with enemy fighters scrambling in all directions, trying to escape the relentless onslaught.
"He's taking us apart one by one!" an enemy pilot shouted in panic over the open comms.
"This is insane—what kind of pilot is this?!"
Trigger Pulled hard left, then pushed the throttle forward and accelerated to Mach 2 as he caught up to to a enemy Squadron. He didn't hesitate and Immediately locked on with his AMRAAMS and let lose a total of four missiles. All four screeching to a seperate target.
"Overlord, this is Viper 2-4! We need backup now! This guy's ripping through us like paper!"
The missiles hit their targets, sending four planes tumbling down in fiery wreckage. "Splash four," Trigger muttered, briefly noting three parachutes deploying. His focus had already shifted, locking onto another target—a lone A-10 Thunderbolt attempting a desperate strafing run below.
"Fox-3," he called, sending another AMRAAM screeching through the sky. The missile tracked the slow-moving A-10 effortlessly, slamming into its fuselage. The explosion lit up the sky as the Warthog crumpled, debris spiraling toward the ground.
"Splash another bandit," Trigger whispered coldly, eyes already scanning for his next target.
Panic continued to spread across the enemy comms.
"We can't take him! He's ripping us apart! Where the hell is our backup?!"
"Three Scratches…" another pilot murmured in a hushed, broken voice, seconds before his plane was obliterated in a violent explosion.
Suddenly, Longcaster's voice cut through the chaos on the radio, calm but urgent. "All callsigns, this is Longcaster. Skies are clearing, and the bombers are in position. Wolverine 1-1, can you push through the enemy defenses?"
The comms crackled as Wolverine 1-1, the leader of the fast hitters, responded amidst heavy gunfire in the background. "Longcaster, this is Wolverine 1-1. We've eliminated the last enemy combatant at the gate. BMPTs and Bradleys are moving up. Stand by, over."
"Roger Wolverine 1-1, standing by." Longcaster replied calmly, his voice cutting through the radio chatter like a thread of focus amidst the chaos.
On the ground, Osean Wolverine units, Yuktobanian Tigr squads, and Erusian Charon armored forces surged forward, rolling through the now-breached main gate of Rondel. The area had been a hellish battleground, with the fiercest US defenses dug in like ticks. Machine gun nests had sprayed bullets relentlessly, recoilless rifles were entrenched in makeshift bunkers, and there were dug-in IFVs and even tanks buried deep in hardened positions, trying to make the Coalition forces bleed for every inch they took.
But the tanks hadn't lasted long. The precision-guided ATGMs fired from Osean Bradleys, Yuktobanian BMPTs, and Erusian Puma IFVs made short work of them. However, the recoilless rifle teams had been a whole other story. The entrenched US soldiers proved to be a real thorn in their side, moving between fortified positions and taking potshots from cover. Their mobility and the heavily fortified nature of their defenses slowed the advance to a crawl.
The usual methods weren't working. It wasn't until the Oseans brought out their XM-25 Airburst Grenade Launchers that things began to shift. The advanced grenade launcher allowed them to program the rounds to detonate in mid-air, raining shrapnel down into the trenches and over walls. With pinpoint accuracy, they targeted the dug-in soldiers who had been near impossible to dislodge. The airburst grenades sent concussive blasts and a hail of fragments down into the trenches, forcing the US forces out of their cover.
One by one, the recoilless rifle teams were either neutralized or forced into retreat, allowing the Coalition's armored units to press forward. The tide was turning, but every inch gained came at a high cost in sweat and blood.
Then everything seemed fine as the coalition forces rolled onto the main runway of Rondel. No enemy contacts, no resistance. The coalition ICVs, IFVs, and infantry advanced cautiously, their confidence growing as they secured key points on the airfield. It wasn't until they moved towards the north side of the base, where the main buildings stood, that the situation drastically changed. One Osean Marine would later describe it as the exact moment when "shit hit the fan."
Without warning, US Abrams tanks rolled in from behind, unnoticed, while simultaneously, Bradley IFVs surged forward from the front, cutting off the coalition forces in a perfectly executed pincer movement. It was a trap, and they had fallen right into it.
The tanks opened fire first, sending 120mm HE rounds straight into the two rear Erusian Puma IFVs, tearing them apart in fiery explosions. The coalition forces didn't even have time to react before the Bradleys at the front launched T.O.W. missiles and 25mm sabot rounds from their Bushmaster cannons. Two Osean Bradley IFVs leading the column were shredded within seconds.
"Ambush! Ambush!" screamed the VC of the third Osean Bradley as chaos erupted all around them.
"Wolverine 1-1, how copy? Wolverine 1-1, do you read me?" Longcaster's voice came through, laced with concern as he monitored the increasingly chaotic situation from above.
"Longcaster, this is Wolverine 1-3!" The voice on the other end was frantic. "Wolverine 1-1 and 1-2 have been taken out by hostile armor! Anti-tank units are unable to engage!" the VC of Wolverine 1-3 shouted, the desperation clear in his tone as the sounds of gunfire and explosions filled the background.
"1-3, is there any way for you to retreat or get away from the airfield?" Longcaster asked again, his worry growing as the situation on the ground spiraled out of control.
"Negative, Longcaster! Enemy units have appeared on our rear out of nowhere! We are cut off, I say again, WE ARE CUT OFF!" Wolverine 1-3's voice cracked as the severity of their predicament sank in. The coalition forces were surrounded, their exit routes blocked by US armor. Time was running out.
"Longcaster, Wolverine 1-4! 1-3 just took a direct hit from RPG fire!" the VC of Wolverine 1-4 shouted, panic creeping into his voice as the sounds of explosions and gunfire raged around him. "We are being overrun! Requesting Broken Arrow! I repeat, BROKEN ARROW! Tell Arclight to drop everything they have on the red smoke, NOW!"
Longcaster froze for a brief second, the gravity of the situation sinking in. A "Broken Arrow" call was a last-ditch request, signaling that friendly forces were about to be overrun. It was a desperate move, calling in airstrikes dangerously close to their own troops.
A brave Erusian soldier, had dismounted from his ICV, saw the only chance to save his comrades. Without hesitation, he grabbed two red smoke grenades from his vest, sprinting through the chaos of gunfire and explosions. He ducked low, evading the whizzing rounds as best as he could, adrenaline coursing through his veins.
He threw the first grenade at the rear of the column, the red smoke billowing up, marking the strike zone. With gritted teeth, he pressed forward, running toward the front of the column. He pulled the pin on the second smoke grenade just as a sharp pain tore through his chest. The force of the bullet knocked him to the ground, but with all the strength he could muster, he managed to throw the second grenade before collapsing.
As the red smoke rose, the Erusian soldier lay there, blood pooling beneath him, knowing he had done his part. His sacrifice had marked the target, and now all they could do was wait for the inferno from above to hit.
"Copy that, Wolverine 1-4," Longcaster responded, his voice steady despite the urgency. He immediately switched channels to the bomber squadron. "Arclight, Longcaster. Broken Arrow requested by Wolverine 1-4 at the airfield! Drop everything you've got on the red smoke, I say again, Red Smoke. How copy, over?"
The B-52s from Arclight Squadron had been holding position, awaiting the call for a full strike. Now, with the red smoke marking the kill zone, it was time.
"Longcaster, Arclight copies all. Broken Arrow confirmed. Full payload drop on red smoke. Moving in. Tiger Squadron, cover us."
"Roger, Arclight! We got you," Mrkoss II, the lead of Tiger Squadron, replied from his MiG-29 as he skillfully evaded an incoming missile, his tone confident despite the intensity of the fight.
The B-52 Stratofortress bombers banked left, aligning with the airfield for their bombing run. Two would target the upper half, and the other two the lower half, leaving the center untouched to avoid hitting the coalition forces still pinned down.
"Arclight-1, bombs armed and ready. ETA one mike to drop zone, over." The pilot's voice remained steady.
"Roger, Arclight-1. Longcaster copies all."
On the ground, the situation grew increasingly tense as the bombers approached. The B-52s had to drop to a lower altitude to visually confirm the red smoke marking the drop zone, putting them in a vulnerable position. But in this moment, keeping the coalition ground troops safe took priority.
"Bombs away, bombs away," the pilot of Arclight-1 reported, his voice calm as the massive payloads began to drop from the bombers' bays. The planes carried unguided munitions since GPS guidance was compromised, and there was no time for precision laser-guided strikes.
The first of the Mark 84 General Purpose Bombs hit the ground, their 2,000-pound warheads detonating with earth-shattering force. The shockwaves ripped through the area, obliterating U.S. Bradleys and Abrams tanks in their path. Infantrymen scrambling for cover stood no chance, especially as one of the B-52s dropped CBUs, Cluster Bomb Units, showering the U.S. forces with a deadly rain of smaller submunitions, ripping through anything that moved.
The airfield shook with the intensity of the blasts as the bombers executed their devastating payload delivery, marking a turning point in the chaotic battle.
As the dust settled and the ground forces regrouped, the sound of gunfire and explosions finally died down. The battlefield was littered with the burning wreckage of tanks and IFVs, twisted metal smoldering in the aftermath of the B-52's devastating payload.
The vehicle commander of Wolverine 1-4, now the acting commander of the assault unit, cautiously opened the hatch of his Bradley. He poked his head out, scanning the battlefield in the eerie calm that followed the chaos. Destroyed U.S. vehicles lay scattered around, their hulking forms motionless, engulfed in flames.
"This is Wolverine 1-4," he called over the radio, his voice steady but weary. "Hostile victors are no factor. All hostiles suppressed. Good shit, Arclight."
"Roger, Arclight copies all. All enemy victors suppressed. Arclight Squadron breaking off to rearm at Fort Harling. Stay safe down there, boys," the calm voice of Arclight's lead bomber crackled through the radio.
The airfield lay in ruins, its once-functional runway now cratered and unusable. As the Fast Hitters regrouped, they began moving eastward, aiming to link up with Magic Spear and the Grunt forces. Their advance was relentless, pushing further into the city to continue the fight.
At the front of Magic Spear, the scene was eerily silent. Burned-out hulks of U.S. Abrams tanks littered the streets, each bearing massive holes, some the size of car wheels. These were the brutal marks left by the Osean M1A4's railguns, which had proven their devastating firepower in the urban battlefield.
Despite the fierce resistance, the Iron Horse Battalion had suffered minimal losses. The battalion's advanced tech, including the APS on their tanks, had kept them largely safe. But war is never without its casualties. There had been one unfortunate incident of friendly fire—a tragic mistake where an M1A4 had sped ahead of its formation, unknowingly crossing into the line of fire. The APS had absorbed much of the projectile's force, but the shell still penetrated the armor, killing the loader inside the tank.
Harris' forces had come to a stand still, deciding to wait here until the Grunt forces managed to push through the defenses and link up with them.
But the Grunts where struggling. North of Volkov where Mitchell was, they where hindered by snipers in a Building. Three Marines had already been taken out and now Mitchell was trying to figure out what to do. Since the ICVs and IFVs they had wouldn't fit in the narrow alleyways, they had to proceed on foot as their Victors had to go around.
"Longcaster, this is Basilisk 0-1. We've confirmed snipers holed up in a residential building. Requesting permission to use thermobaric warheads against the position. How copy, over?" Mitchell asked, referring to the thermobaric rounds they had for their Nordennavic Carl Gustaf M4 recoilless rifle.
"Uhh… Roger, Basilisk 0-1. Stand by. I need to get confirmation on that, over," Longcaster replied.
"Roger, standing by," Mitchell answered, keeping his eyes on the target.
Switching channels, Longcaster called out, "Station, this is Longcaster. Basilisk 0-1 is requesting use of thermobaric warheads against a sniper nest inside a residential building. How copy, over?"
"Longcaster, Station. Copy that. Are there any civilians in or near the building? Over," came Station's response.
"Stand by, Station," Longcaster replied before switching back to Mitchell. "Basilisk 0-1, Longcaster. Any civilians near or inside the building? Over."
"Henry, you see something?" Mitchell asked his marksman, keeping his voice low but urgent.
Henry peeked over the window ledge, raising his binoculars to scan the area again. He quickly ducked as a sniper round whizzed by, nearly taking his head off. "Bloody fuck. I'm not impressed, motherfucker!" Henry taunted, leaning briefly over the ledge before ducking back down.
"Negative, boss. Nothing there!" Henry replied, gathering himself after the close call.
Mitchell nodded and pressed his PTT, "I confirm no civilians near the building. I say again, no civilians near the building. I can't confirm what's inside, but this thing is fortified with machine gun nests, snipers, and even a mortar. How copy, over?"
"Roger, stand by." Longcaster switched back to Station. "Station, Longcaster. Basilisk confirms no civilians outside but cannot confirm inside the building. They report it's heavily fortified with machine guns, snipers, and mortars. How should they proceed?"
Station took a moment before responding. "Longcaster, Station. McKinsey has approved the use of the thermobaric Carl Gustaf round. They are cleared to level the building. But remind them: rules of engagement state no damage to surrounding structures. Over."
"Roger, Station. Longcaster copies all." Longcaster switched back to Basilisk. "Basilisk, Longcaster. You are cleared to level the building, but no damage to assets around it. How copy, over?"
"Basilisk copies all," Mitchell confirmed. He turned to the Marine holding the launcher. "Yo Joel! Level it!"
The Marine nodded defiantly and opened the breach of the recoilless rifle. The soldier behind him quickly shoved the thermobaric shell into place.
"Backblast?" the gunner called out.
"Clear!" came the reply from the Marine who had just loaded the shell.
"Fire!" With a steady hand, the gunner squeezed the trigger. The shell rocketed out of the Carl Gustav with a deafening roar, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake as it soared through the air. It entered the building through a window and hit an interior wall.
A split second later, a massive explosion shook the ground. The thermobaric warhead unleashed its fiery payload, creating a pressure wave that sent debris and flames bursting from every window. The shockwave was felt even in Mitchell's position, and a plume of smoke and dust rose from the now-obliterated building.
"Direct hit," Mitchell muttered with satisfaction, watching the building smolder.
A/N:
Wassup peeps. There is nothing much to say except for that I have cracked 40 Chapter. And close to 200 K words.
Hope y'all are safe. See you in the next Chapter.
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