Chapter 1
Lately, I've been hooked on Gunner Heat PC (TANK SIM) and Six Days in Fallujah, which inspired me to finally try my hand at writing military fiction. Full disclosure: I've never served in the military, so my knowledge is based on books I've read, some hasty Google searches during lunch breaks, and a handful of Tom Clancy books.
I hope you enjoy the story! If you spot any glaring inaccuracies, feel free to point them out—I'll do my best to correct them (or I might not, but I'll appreciate the heads-up either way).
The mountains of Elbe
The loose shale rock that made up this portion of the Mountain range crunched under The apostle of Emroy's feet as she walked. Her destination was somewhere she never thought she would go...willingly. But this was an offer she couldn't refuse.
She'd finally reached the summit and stared into the open maw of a cave. Rory turned around to take a look at the valley below before walking into the cave...into the lair of Hardy. As she tread down the path in the cave's gullet the pathway turned into a twisting staircase lit by torches. The way leveled out to a large spacious room.
As she draws closer she sees Gisele sitting cross-legged chanting with a slashed wrist, her blood flows into golden chalices. Rory slammed her halberd into the ground to get Gisele's attention and prepare for a fight. Hardy appears in a ray of light before the two apostles can come to blows.
"Ah Rory I'm glad you've accepted my invitation," Hardy said in a smug tone.
"You said you were planning on opening another gate again, I wanted to see if I could stop your little pawn from completing the ceremony" Rory responded.
"As fun as that would've been to watch, I have a deal for you. Are you interested in hearing me out?".
Rory narrowed her eyes and cocked an eyebrow "A deal? You've never offered any deals before".
"True, but see I'm in desperate need of entertainment, but it's always so boring trying to decide where to put the gates. So I'm offering you complete control of the gate, temporarily of course. You can select what worlds are connected and where and you can keep the gate open as long as you like, on the condition that I find it entertaining" Hardy offered smugly.
"So I get to choose what world gets connected to ours?"
"No" Hardy smiled "What worlds get connected" With one hand Hardy tore open the fabric of the reality showing dozens maybe hundreds of different worlds. "Choose wisely".
Rory's eyes widened and her mouth hung open as she took in the scale of the cosmos. Rory steadied herself before reluctantly stepping through the void. Rory had learned a long time ago about the existence of other worlds but she could hardly take in the scope of what existed. Two worlds in particular caught her attention. She reappeared from the space-time continum after a few moments "I've made my choice".
"Those two worlds?" Hardy looked surprised before smiling "Oh, this will be very entertaining indeed.
On the border of northern Gallia
Within the towering stone walls of the fortress of Ghirlandaio, the nerve center of the Imperial invasion into Gallia, a council of war convened. The chamber was dimly lit, illuminated by flickering sconces and the faint light of the setting sun streaming through narrow slits in the walls. The air was thick with tension, the weight of impending decisions pressing down on every attendee.
At the head of the room, Prince Maximilian sat regally upon a grand throne, its polished surface reflecting the firelight. Draped in an ornate crimson cape, he rested his chin on one hand, his cold, calculating eyes staring into the middle distance as he mulled over the cryptic warning delivered by the Oracle.
"The power that lies beyond the Gate could bring great prosperity... or your empire's undoing. What you do will determine which," the Oracle had declared, her words heavy with foreboding.
General Berthold Gregor sat with his usual air of irritation at the massive war table dominating the center of the chamber. His thick brows furrowed deeply, and his gloved fingers tapped an impatient rhythm against the polished wood. The shadow cast by his imposing frame stretched across the map of Europa splayed before him, dotted with markers for armies and fortifications.
General Radi Jaeger, ever the voice of reason, broke the silence. Leaning forward, his calm, measured tone contrasted sharply with Gregor's perpetual agitation. "Are you certain it was wise to send a scout and tank platoon across the Gate, Gregor? We are on the cusp of launching our invasion into Gallia. Diverting forces at this juncture is a risk we can scarcely afford."
Gregor slammed his palm against the table, the echo reverberating through the chamber. "Nonsense! Damned nonsense!" he barked, his voice laced with arrogance and disdain. "Nothing—nothing—can stand against the might of the Empire! Not Gallia, and certainly not some backwater savages from beyond that Gate!"
The tension in the room escalated as Selvaria Bles, the Empire's most fearsome Valkyria, rose gracefully from her seat. Her red eyes burned with restrained anger, and her silver hair seemed to shimmer like the edge of a blade in the dim light. When she spoke, her voice was cold, precise, and unwavering.
"The Empire's power is not in question, General," she said sharply, her words cutting through the room like a blade. "However, we are already embroiled in a multi-front war with the Federation, and now we prepare to strike Gallia. Sending forces through the Gate without authorization—without His Grace's command—is not only reckless but insubordinate."
She turned to face Maximilian, her posture rigid and respectful. "What say you, Your Grace?" she asked, her voice softer but no less resolute.
Maximilian remained silent for a long moment, his gaze unfocused as if staring through the stone walls and into the vast unknown beyond the Gate. His expression was unreadable, a mask of contemplation. At last, he spoke, his voice low and solemn, tinged with an uncharacteristic uncertainty.
"What lies beyond the Gate will bring prosperity... or destruction," he repeated, almost as if to himself. His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of prophecy.
The room fell silent. Even Gregor's defiance seemed to falter under the Prince's solemn tone. The flickering light of the torches cast shadows that danced across the walls as if the very fortress itself was uneasy with the path that lay ahead.
Jacksonville North Carolina
In the spring of 2005, before everything changed, a small feeling of hope lingered. The U.S.-led invasion of Iraq swiftly toppled Saddam Hussein's regime in 2003, and the former dictator was captured in December of that year. The following year, with the 'successful' recapture of Fallujah—a victory marred by devastating destruction and a stubborn insurgency—Coalition forces claimed control of key strongholds. This fragile progress planted a small seed of hope that the region might stabilize, and perhaps, at least one front of the war on terror could begin to wind down.
The Onslow Pines Park festival was alive with energy. The scent of grilled food mingled with the sweetness of funnel cakes as laughter and music filled the air. Families strolled among rows of vendor tents, colorful banners fluttering in the gentle breeze. Children darted between fair-style games, clutching oversized stuffed animals and sticky cotton candy. Near the sports field, a concert stage stood as the centerpiece of the festival, though the performers were currently on break.
Two event staff members lingered by the stage, their neon safety vests standing out against the vibrant backdrop of the festival. One of them frowned, gesturing toward the peculiar structure serving as the stage's backdrop.
"You remember that being there yesterday?" he asked, his tone uneasy.
The other worker shook his head, a skeptical look crossing his face. "No. Hell, I don't even remember it being there this morning."
The backdrop in question was unlike anything that belonged at the festival. It was a grand marble pavilion-like structure, its pristine stone columns resembling Roman architecture. The columns were arranged in parallel rows, forming a tunnel that stretched back into an unnatural void. At its apex, a massive turquoise gem glimmered faintly in the sunlight, perched at the center of the structure's roof. Yet it was what lay between the columns that unsettled the workers most. The depths of the pavilion were consumed by an abyss—a pure, impenetrable blackness that seemed to devour the light around it. It wasn't simply dark; it was a void, darker than the farthest reaches of space.
"I don't know, man," the first worker said, nervously waving off the concern. "We don't get paid enough to deal with that kind of crap." He turned back toward the bustling crowd, eager to distract himself. Festivalgoers moved about in blissful ignorance, enjoying the food and entertainment. The vibrant scene was a stark contrast to the workers' unease.
"Wait a second." The other worker's voice broke the momentary calm, his finger pointing toward the structure. "What's that? At the very back of the stage."
From the pitch-black void, figures began to emerge. First five, then ten, then twenty, and soon forty men stepped forward, their synchronized march echoing ominously against the marble floor. They wore almost blackish-grey medieval armor, their polished metal glinting faintly in the sunlight. Leather pouches hung from their belts, and in their hands were rifles with wooden stocks that seemed both archaic and deadly.
"Hey... those guys have guns," the first worker stammered, his voice rising with alarm.
Before they could react further, one of the men, dressed in ornate red armor that signified rank, stepped forward. His voice boomed across the festival grounds, harsh and commanding. "This area is now under the control of the Eastern Europan Imperial Alliance! Vacate the area immediately, or be shot!"
The festival crowd froze, stunned into silence by the strange sight and the officer's proclamation. For a brief moment, no one moved. Then, without warning, the officer raised his rifle and fired a shot into the crowd. The sharp crack of the weapon echoed as thunder, and chaos erupted.
Screams filled the air as the Imperial soldiers followed their officer's lead, their rifles and submachine guns roaring. People scattered in all directions, desperate to escape the onslaught. Families were separated, children cried for their parents, and panicked festivalgoers trampled one another in the mad rush for safety. Tents were overturned, and vendor carts were abandoned as the attackers advanced, their fire cutting down anyone in their path.
It wasn't long before the Onslow County Sheriff's Office arrived on the scene. Deputies sprinted toward the sound of gunfire, their service pistols drawn. A few had the presence of mind to grab rifles or shotguns from their vehicles, but they were woefully under-equipped for what they faced. The deputies took up positions, firing back at the advancing soldiers.
One deputy crouched behind a vendor cart, grabbed his radio, and shouted into the microphone clipped to his vest. "Multiple armed contacts! Automatic gunfire! We need more units—mass casualty event!" His voice cracked with urgency.
"What the fuck is that?!" another deputy shouted, his eyes wide with disbelief as he peeked out from behind cover.
The answer came rumbling from the abyss. From the dark void of the pavilion, four old-looking tanks emerged, their antiquated designs offset by the eerie glow of blue radiators. Their treads ground against the marble, and their cannons loomed like harbingers of destruction.
"Oh, you've gotta be shitting me," one of the deputies muttered, his voice trembling. "Are those tanks?"
The lead tank's cannon fired with a deafening roar, the shell obliterating a food truck where officers had been taking cover moments before. The explosion sent a fireball into the air, the heat searing their skin even from a distance. The tanks began to fan out, their main guns and coaxial machine guns unleashing devastation upon the park.
"They've got tanks!" another deputy screamed into his radio. "We need some help out here!"
"Roger that, SWAT is rolling now," the dispatcher responded, her voice barely masking the tension.
"Forget SWAT! Did you not hear me? They have tanks! Get the fucking Marines down here!" the deputy bellowed as another shell tore through a vendor tent, sending debris flying.
Camp Lejeune North Carolina
A coastal breeze blew through the Carolina pines of the Sandy Run training area. In what used to be a lush field, it turned to churned mud and clay by tank treads and truck tires. A lone Abrams tank sat in a pit up to its hull. Inside the closed hatches caused the air to stagnate and be taken over by the the smell of cheap chewing tobacco, B.O., and frustration.
Lance Corporal Eli Thompson thumbed the yoke of his gun controls, known as the Cadillac in the gunner position. He took a large inhale of the musty air in an attempt to calm himself.
"Yo, E you set?" Corporal Hector Hidalgo The tank commander's Tex-Mex accent said.
"Good to go Hefe" He responded.
"GUNNER! HEAT! PC! TRAVERSE RIGHT!" The TC Called out. The turret hydraulics whined as the gunner Thompson traversed the turret. Corporal Williams the loader hit a switch with his knee causing the door to the ammo rack to open with a bang. Surprisingly nimble fingers found the desired round, whipped it around, and punched it into the 120mm gun's ravenous breech. The Breech clacked shut.
"Up!" shouted Williams.
Simultaneously Thompson had finally found his mark as he swung the gun sights over the personal carrier "IDENTIFIED! PC! RANGE! 1500!"
"FIRE and ADJUST!"
"On the Way!". The Thunder crack of cannon fire filled the air. The gun rocketed backward so fiercely the tank rocked, the empty shell was spat from the breech and clanged against the floor. The gunner's sight blacked out by the cloud of dust kicked up by the canon, however, the tank commander called the shot "Target! Cease Fire" he said in a Texas drawl.
"Driver! Forward" Hidalgo ordered.
"Roger!" Private First Class Adam Ramirez shouted.
The tank's turbine engine spooled to a steady scream as the tank lurched forward, the tank tracks ground against the red southern clay. The tank rolled down the trail till it came to a dip that just exposed the turret. "Driver Halt" The TC, ordered.
The tank commander, gunner, and loader all scanned for their final target, tense moments ticked by till the TC called out "Gunner, Sabot, Tank! Traverse right!".
The door to the ammo rack opened with a resounding bang as the tank's hydraulics screamed. As Thompson's gunsights fell over the 'enemy' tank the cannon's breech slammed shut once more. "SABOT UP! Williams shouted before pressing himself against the wall of the turret, bracing for impact.
"IDENTIFIED! TANK!2000 METERS!"
"FIRE AND ADJUST!"
"ON THE WAY!" The cannon boomed again, this time not kicking up as much dust. Thompson watched with great satisfaction as a red streak tore across the field and slammed into the tank target in a shower of sparks.
"Target!" both Gunner and tank commander shouted in unison. Hidalgo dropped from his commander's station to swap channels on the radio, after which he keyed his.
"Bravo one this is Bravo two all targets destroyed".
"Bravo two, Bravo one good copy gunnery table complete bring it back"
"Roger Bravo two out," Hidalgo said as a grin slid across his face as he turned to his gunner and loader. "Good work boys. You too Ramirez, get us outa this hole will ya, hang the next left and bring us back to staging".
"Roger that," Ramirez said giving a thumbs up. The tank lurched again as its powerful turbine engine spooled up to constant shriek. Williams reached above his station to an mp3 player that had jerry-rigged to the tank's internal comms. The sound of West Coast rap classics began to filter through comms drowning out the engine noise.
The ride back to the staging area was comfortable and quick, partially by the Marines engaged in one of their favorite activities 'smoking and joking', and by the fact that Ramirez couldn't help himself when the opportunity arrived to run the tank at full throttle.
Hidalgo saw their commanding officer in his tank on the trail ahead and he ducked back into his cupola. "Hey tighten up Lt. is up ahead". The Marines quieted down and assumed a professional posture. As the tank came parallel with the commanders Lopez ordered Ramirez to halt.
Lopez snapped a crisp salute "Sir".
Lieutenant Wilson nodded. Lieutenant Jason Wilson was a graduate and football star of the Naval Academy in Annapolis, his combat record as well as his stocky muscular frame gave him all the authority he needed. He returned the salute "Gunnery table complete your crew is qualified to deploy, Corporal Hidalgo. Top off your fluids and do your maintenance checks, and a well-deserved smoke break".
"Roger that sir. Driver forward!" Hidalgo said. The tank's engine spooled again as they set off to their staging area. They quickly found an open spot and backed in. Thompson stood from his gunner's station and opened his hatch allowing more fresh air in. He got out, on top of the tank to begin maintenance on the tank.
"Yo, why the fuck did you guys name your tank 'Big Gurl' anyways?" Lance Corporal Brown, Gunny Johnson's gunner a lanky ginger-haired kid from Tennessee asked.
"Because Ramirez and Williams have a thing for fat chicks" Thompson deadpanned as he checked the hydraulics on the tank's turret.
Williams gained a dopey smile before flexing in a strong man pose "Hell yeah! Boy they call me the big game hunter back home".
"Ese, they call me the torta pounder," Ramirez said with an exaggerated cholo accent and a grin.
A smile crossed Brown's face, he started to laugh so hard he nearly fell back into his tank's hull. A smirk tugged at Gunny Johnson's lips as he shook his head "Oorah".
"Hey gunny, what's the word on this deployment we're training up for?" Hidalgo asked.
"The word for now is we are going to be attached to an MEU going over to the Middle East, most likely Afghanistan" The Gunnery Sergeant answered.
"How the fuck do you use tanks against insurgents?" Ramirez asked.
"Well, Ramirez, if you'd use that thing between your ears, what do tanks have?" Hidalgo asked rhetorically. "Powerful optics, Thermals, three machine guns, and a cannon. As long as your logistics are in order, you've basically got a mobile FOB wherever you want it."
"That's the idea, the crunchies are training on one of the other ranges as well" Gunny Johnson nodded.
A pair of Cobra attack helicopters flew low overhead missiles and rocket loaded for bare on her stubby wings. "I guess the fly boys are getting some practice in too," Thompson said absentmindedly.
"Yeah, I guess," Gunny Johnson said with some suspension as he scratched his bald head, he couldn't place why but an icy ball began to form in his stomach. The same feeling he'd get when heading down an IED-laden road in Al-Anbar province.
The Commanding Officer's tank roared up the path, its engine growling like an angry beast. Lt. Wilson leaned out of the commander's hatch, his face pale and tense. "Everybody restock and mount up! We've got a no-bullshit DEFCON One situation!"
Gunny didn't bother hiding his concern as he jogged toward the tank. "What the hell's going on, sir?" he called, his voice steady but edged with worry.
Wilson's gaze locked onto his senior NCO. His voice was tight, and his tone of disbelief was clear. "Unknown enemy armor and mechanized infantry just attacked downtown Jacksonville. America is under attack—by an actual, no-shit military force."
The weight of his words hit like a sledgehammer.
"WHAT!?" the Marines shouted, their collective disbelief echoing across the camp.
Twenty minutes earlier, at another training area…
Sergeant Kirby and his fire team stacked up against the weathered facade of a mock-up house in the training yard. The structure looked like something thrown together from spare parts and plywood, but it served its purpose.
"Taylor, shotgun the lock," Kirby ordered, his voice calm and clipped.
Taylor, a tall Marine with a focused glare, slung his M16 over his shoulder and pulled out his Benelli M1014. Without hesitation, he placed the barrel between the doorknob and the frame and squeezed the trigger. The shotgun roared, the breaching slug obliterating the lock with a sharp crack that echoed through the clearing.
Kirby stepped forward immediately, planting his boot against the splintered door. It swung inward with a crash, slamming hard against the opposite wall.
"Move! Move!" Kirby barked, signaling his team to flood into the room.
Taylor rushed in shotgun at the ready, and Kirby followed after. There were two paper targets at each corner of the room sporting the image of Islamic terrorists. Taylor shot the closest one upon entering the room the target now practically torn in half from the volley of buckshot. The blast roared through the enclosed space, the walls reverberating with the shockwave. The boom echoed off the room's tight confines, making it feel like the shot had gone off right in their ears. Kirby's ears rang despite his helmet and earplugs, the concussive force thickening the air for a moment. Kirby snapped up his rifle and double-tapped the other target, the bursts cracked sharply, muzzle flash flickering in the dim room. Each shot pounded against the walls, the confined space amplifying the sound into a deep echo as the scent of gunpowder mixed with the stale air. Soto and Balletto made their way into the room last given their weapons weren't optimal for clearing rooms.
"Rooms clear," Kirby said, which was parroted by his fire team, with a nod from Kirby the four Marines advanced toward the interior door at the back of the room. They split stacked door the door. "Soto open it," Kirby ordered. Soto opened the door and pushed it hard so it would open fully. Kirby spotted a target at the very back of the room, an 'insurgent' kneeling with an RPK pointed at the door.
Kirby felt a small but familiar pulse of panic but quickly reigned it in. He had been in a similar position in Fallujah, back then the men with RPK's pointed at doors were real. He threw the stock of his M16 to his shoulder Kirby pulled the trigger four times in quick succession, two in the chest and two in the head. "Target down, Go go!".
The Marines flooded into the room, Another target was down a far hallway to the left. Sato hefted his M16A4 and fired a volley of rounds the sharp cracks of his rifle felt like punches to the chest, each bullet's report louder than the last, bouncing back from the corners of the room. "Target down rear side clear!".
"Room is Clear," Kirby said, his men confirmed that they had cleared the room. "Let's head back out. Four Marines coming out!" Kirby shouted. The Marines walked out of the 'shoot' house.
As the sunlight greeted the Marines the voice of Staff Sergeant Knox grated on their ears. "Well, congratulations Bravo, you maggots clear houses like old people fuck! Now reload and Reset to go again on my order. Though I'll give it to you, you did better than Alpha, who should HURRY THE FUCK UP AND GET DONE!" Knox shouted as he walked away to continue chewing out Alpha.
Watching the spectacle from a raised tower was the platoon's lieutenant taking notes on the raining exercise with a small smirk. Lieutenant Christian Kitss was a tall dark-haired man with a bookish eager beaver appearance and demeanor. Due to his appearance and thick glasses, he was affectionately nicknamed Clack Kent by his men. And much like Clack Kent's alter ego in combat Kitss was calm cool and effective.
Knox having finished his come to Jesus meeting walked up the tower with the PL. "How are the men shaping up sarge?".
"They are shaping up well enough Lt. Are we going to give them the brief on the deployment?" the sergeant asked.
"Yeah, you do it though, I like listening to your speeches too," Kitts said with a grin as Knox left the observation tower.
Down at the training area, Balletto shifted his SAW that was slung around his front and looked to a poster board where the training cadre kept track of the various unit's times clearing mock-up houses, They had broken the record for the First Battalion, Eighth Marines. "Man Is Knox ever happy with anybody?" He wondered aloud, though not too loudly.
Sergeant Kirby smirked. "Careful, he might hear you. And no, I'm pretty sure he exists solely on caffeine, nicotine, and human sadness. Anyway, what were we talking about before we got called?"
"You explained to El Bruto over there why the Middle East is perpetually on fire and why we're probably heading over there for our next deployment," Soto said, working on clearing his weapon.
"Oh right, who had a Ray-gun again?" Balletto chimed in, looking genuinely confused.
"NO, fucktard! Reagan, not Ray-gun! Ronald Reagan, the fortieth president of the United States!" Taylor exclaimed, exasperation dripping from his voice.
Balletto waved him off. "Whatever, dude."
Kirby continued, "Anyway, Reagan had to deal with the same nonsense back in the eighties—insurgents trying to overthrow their governments. Back then, the powers that be in Afghanistan asked the Soviets for help."
"Fags," the machine gunner commented.
"This pissed Reagan off so much that he and the CIA whipped up Operation Cyclone. The CIA armed and trained the Mujahideen. One of these CIA-trained Lawrence of Arabia types who sent the Ruskies packing ends up being none other than Osama Bin Laden himself." Kirby said.
"Oh shit," Balletto said, his eyes widened at the information, he'd never heard before.
"After the Muj won in Afghanistan, the Soviet Union's economy collapsed, and just like that America had no more bad guys to fight," Kirby said.
"Go, America! It's your birthday!" the SAW gunner chimed in, his tone dripping with enthusiasm.
"But in the meantime, Osama and his now well-armed Al-Qaeda buddies start screwing with everyone—Egypt, Algeria—hell, he blew up something in almost every Middle Eastern country, trying to create a unified Muslim kingdom. The kicker? The locals didn't want it," Kirby explained.
"Why?" Balletto asked, genuinely puzzled.
"I don't know," Kirby shot back sarcastically. "It's almost like most people prefer their lives not getting turned upside down. So Osama marks them all as targets."
"He started blowing up his own fucking people; that's fucked up," Balletto mused.
"That's why they're called terrorists, douchebag," Taylor chided, as laughter erupted among the Marines.
Kirby continued with gusto. "So then, Bush Sr. becomes president. Before we know it, he's knee-deep in Kuwait, fighting Saddam for the Saudis. Osama starts bad-mouthing Saudi Arabia, and they kick him to the curb. Now he's living in a cave in Afghanistan, and declaring jihad on America and her allies. What happens next?"
"Nine-eleven!" Balletto interjected proudly.
"Aw shit, give this man a gold star," Taylor said in a mocking tone.
"Fuck you, bitch!" the SAW gunner retorted, flipping him the bird while sporting a grin.
Kirby smirked at the banter. "Ever since then, the Marines have been neck-deep in the shit in Iraq and Afghanistan, with whispers about expanding to even more theaters like North Africa and the Philippines."
Bravo strolled over to a large table cluttered with ammo boxes and loose rounds and began methodically refilling magazines. "Hey, Sergeant Kirby, you did this stuff back in Fallujah, right?" Soto asked, genuinely curious.
Kirby took a sip from his canteen. "Yeah, though in Fallujah, if we ran into a house with that many Muj in it, we usually just leveled it with explosives. You know, the gentle approach."
"Oh man that's fucken awesome dropping a whole house on a motherfucker" Balletto said with a wide grin. "Shame I didn't even get to shoot mine though, " he said stroking the side of his Saw.
Taylor narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips "You know Balletto if you keep talking about your weapon like it's a piece of strange, everyone is gonna know you're a total psycho". Kirby and Soto chuckled, Balletto huffed and walked away.
At that moment the rest of the platoon had regrouped and Staff Sergeant Knox addressed them with the LT. right behind him. "Listen up Fucktards, I know you're sitting here bitching about how I'm still riding your ass even though our slowest team barely matched the battalion record for clearing the shoot house. That's because in combat good enough isn't, you can always be better, that and thinking your hot shit breeds complacency and complacency kills".
Knox paused to gauge his men before continuing "I'm not supposed to tell you this but in a few weeks we're going to be deployed as a part of the twenty-fourth Marine Expeditionary Unit to the Middle East, the scuttlebutt is we are going to be a part of some serious action. I'm talking about the type of shit every Marine would give his left nut for, gospel".
A subtle chorus of whoops and hollers came from the Marines.
"Argh!"
"Kill!"
"Get some!"
Knox allowed a ghost of a smirk to cross his features "That's what I like to hear devil dogs, but don't get-"
The staff sergeant was cut off by the sound of sirens from the base. A cobra attack helicopter flew overhead…with a full payload. The Radio crackled to life "Outlaw two, this is Mustang, interrogative, you boys are jocked up at the shoot house already? Over."
"Affirm Mustang, over" Kitts replied.
The radio crackled again, this time with a tense urgency. Mustang's voice came through, sharp and unmistakable. "Outlaw Two, this is Mustang. Unidentified enemy infantry, roughly platoon-sized, is attacking Jacksonville near Onslow Pines Park. They've got four tanks in support. This is not a drill. Get your men ready to mobilize and move to reinforce the civilian area. America is under attack. Abrams from the second tank battalion will be rolling with you, Mustang, out."
Knox turned to his Marines, voice hard as steel. "You heard it, Marines! Enemy infantry with armor is hitting Jacksonville. Grab your gear, mount up, and move out!"
The Marines scrambled, rapidly grabbing magazines, securing their helmets, and cinching down their plate carriers. Kirby exchanged a look with Taylor, both men recognizing the shift from training to reality. "Sounds like we're about to see some action at home no less," Kirby muttered, slipping a fresh magazine into his M16.
"You think it's a drill, and Knox and the LT. are just messing with us?" Taylor asked his voice tight with adrenaline.
Kirby shook his head. "Doubt it. That Cobra wasn't up there for show."
Soon the scream of turbine engines and clacking of tank tracks could be heard as four Abrams tanks rumbled past behind the tanks three 'deuce and a half' trucks pulled up. The Marines loaded up in the trucks and quickly sped off after the Abrams towards Jacksonville. Much to the chagrin of the Bravo team Staff Sergeant Knox chose to ride with them.
"Alright, listen up, Outlaws," Knox growled, his voice hard with anger. "We've got more intel from Mustang. The enemy appeared at Onslow Pines Park during a music festival or some shit, attacking anyone they saw. Local cops are doing what they can to hold them back and evacuate civilians, but they're outgunned—those tanks are chewing through everything. And let me make this part clear. The enemy whoever they are thinks they can waltz right in, in our backyard, and Kill our people! This will not fucking stand!"
"Kill!"
Fury broiled within the Marines, the same fury many felt on that fateful morning in September years ago. The truck's engine downshifted as they came off the highway. The Marines could see columns of smoke coming from the city, and vacant cars were beginning to clog the highway when the lead Abrams tank commander's voice broke through the radio.
As the convoy of Tanks and deuce and a half trucks rumbled down the highway the city of Jacksonville came into view. Columns of smoke rose in the distance, sirens blared, and canons and gunshots roared.
"Hey, I see a tank!" one of the Marines shouted in the back of the truck.
"Gents we are about to witness a no-shit tank fight" Kirby muttered.
"Holy shit" Balletto breathed.
In 'Big Gurl' The lead Abrams, Hidalgo spotted the unknown enemy tank. "Gunner! Sabot! Tank!, Traverse right!" He screamed into internal comms.
Thompson twisted the Cadillac, hydraulics whirred as the turret rotated once a white blob appeared in his thermal sights He stopped and centered it in his reticle "ON! Range SIXTEEN HUNDRED!".
Williams hit the knee switch, and steel doors slid open with an audible bang. He quickly selected the main gun round from the rack, whipped it around, and rammed it into the main guns-hungry maw. The gun breech clacked shut. Williams slapped the safe lever arming the gun.
"Up!" he shouted and pressed his body against the wall of the turret.
"Fire and adjust!".
"ON the Way!" Thompson screamed as he pulled the trigger.
The Thunderclap of the 120mm main gun filled the air, the shock could be felt all the way back in Kirby's truck. Thompson's sights were clouded by smoke and dust. The tank rocked backward as the main gun's breech rocketed back and spent out the empty shell casing.
Hidalgo watched a bolt of bright red streak across the sky and impact the inter-war tank with a shower of sparks. The enemy tank's hatched erupted a column of blue fire.
A predatory grin stretched across the tank commander's face. "Target, Ceasefire, Target destroyed," He said with satisfaction.
The convoy rumbled to a halt at their staging area, and the infantry dismounted swiftly, their boots crunching against the debris-strewn pavement. Staff Sergeant Knox surveyed his Marines, his voice sharp and commanding as he addressed them.
"Alright, Outlaws! We're providing support for the tanks, clearing this sector, and sending these wannabe knights back to whatever hellhole they crawled out of. Rah?"
"Rah!" the Marines shouted in unison, their voices brimming with adrenaline.
"Good. Kirby, your team is with Crazy Horse Two. McGee, you're on Crazy Horse One. Sorensen, you've got Crazy Horse Three, and I'm with Four. Now go get me some scalps, Marines!"
"Rah!"
Kirby and his fireteam jogged off, weaving through the staging area until they found their assigned tank—a massive Abrams with "Big Gurl" scrawled in bold letters along the barrel. The tank commander, his helmeted head poking out of the hatch, scanned their surroundings with a wary eye.
"You Crazy Horse Two?" Kirby asked, his voice barely strained from the jog.
"Yeah, that's us," the commander, Staff Sergeant Hidalgo, replied. "I'm guessing you're our escort. Alright, crunchies, keep enemy infantry and AT off our backs, and we'll handle the armor." He ducked back into the turret and sealed the hatch.
The tank's turbine engine roared to life, the distinct whine echoing through the street as its treads clanked against the asphalt. Kirby's team followed close behind, their rifles at the ready.
As the combined arms team advanced through the urban terrain, Williams, one of the tank crew, suddenly groaned into his comms. "Oh, GOD! No!"
"What's wrong?" the rest of the crew asked, alarmed.
"They shot Tobie's with a tank round—the bastards!" Williams sobbed, staring through his periscope.
The crew turned their eyes to confirm the horrifying truth. The beloved strip club, a local institution, had indeed been struck. A collapsed wall and billowing smoke left no doubt about its fate.
"NOOOOO!"
Before the crew could properly mourn, a group of enemy infantry emerged from a nearby alley. Gunfire erupted, bullets cracking through the air and ricocheting off the Abrams' thick armor. The Marines dropped into cover as rounds sparked against the surrounding walls and shattered glass rained onto the street.
"Troops, coax, dead ahead!" Hidalgo barked from inside the tank.
"Coax on the way!"
The tank's coaxial M240 machine gun roared to life, its bursts hammering out a rhythm that rattled the crew's teeth. The dismounted Marines joined in, their M249 SAW and M16A4 rifles spitting streams of suppressing fire. Tracers lit up the air, reflecting off shattered windows as enemy soldiers crumpled under the onslaught. One soldier was nearly bisected by the heavy fire, while another dropped awkwardly, his lifeless body slumping back into the alley.
The remaining enemy infantry retreated, kicking open the back door of a nearby bookstore and firing sporadically from its windows.
"Balletto, stay with the tank. Soto, Taylor, you're with me," Kirby ordered.
The three Marines stacked up against the bookstore's front door. Soto gave it a solid kick, the door crashing open as the pair surged inside.
Three knights were huddled near the back wall, their rifles half-raised in a desperate attempt to fight back. But Kirby and Soto were faster. Through the ACOG sights on his M16A4, Kirby aligned the reticle on a knight's chest and squeezed the trigger. Soto did the same.
The 5.56mm rounds punched through the knights' armor with ease. They crumpled to the floor, leaving red streaks smeared against the pristine white walls. The two Marines cleared the rest of the room before stepping back out into the street.
"Marines coming out!" Kirby shouted, signaling to avoid friendly fire.
The tank engines rumbled back to life, and the convoy continued its advance toward Onslow Pines Park. As they pushed through the town, the devastation left in the wake of their mysterious adversaries became increasingly apparent. Buildings lay in ruins or were consumed by flames. Vehicles were reduced to smoldering husks, and bodies—men, women, and children—lined the sidewalks.
The haunting scenes fueled the Marines' determination as they pressed onward. The thunderous crack of tank cannons and sporadic gunfire echoed in the distance, a grim reminder that their comrades were locked in combat elsewhere.
When the team reached an impromptu roadblock of burnt-out cars, Kirby approached the back of the tank, lifting the external phone to communicate with the crew inside.
"Want us to try and get some engineers out here?" he asked.
"Negative," Hidalgo replied, his voice tinged with grim amusement. "If we don't stay in line with the other units, we'll get flanked—or worse, enveloped. We'll transition to another road. Follow us, crunchies."
"More like into a fucking ambush," Kirby muttered under his breath as he hung up the receiver. Turning to his team, he added, "Alright, boys, the Cowboys are taking a shortcut. Stay sharp."
The Abrams tank pivoted with a low growl, its treads grinding as it turned onto a parallel street. The Marines followed close behind, their eyes scanning every door, window, and alleyway for signs of movement. Dust and smoke stung their eyes, the acrid smell of burning wood and gunpowder hanging heavy in the air.
Machine gun fire ripped from a two-story building, the sound of a ripping buzzsaw was uncannily reminiscent of the infamous mg3 used by the German military. Green traces tore through the air zipping and cracking over Marine's heads as they dove cover, and others bounced harmlessly of the tank's armor. Kirby crawled to the back of the tank and grabbed the phone.
"Think you can send some HE at that!" He had to scream to be heard over the roar of gunfire.
"Negative, not cleared to shoot the main gun at buildings. These are our buildings, our people remember. The best we can do is pop smoke and cover you with coax, out"
"Oh fuck me" Kirby muttered "Roger do that, out".
"Alright boys once the smoke is out follow me and run like hell"
The Abrams launched its salvo of smoke grenades and intermittent fire from its coaxial machine gun.
"Coax, MG nest, second floor".
Thompson slowly traversed the turret, and two small white blobs glowed through his thermal sights that could see through the smoke screen. "Coax, on the way".
The dueling machine guns sounded like tearing cloth, red and green traces traded space in ungodly bolts of light.
Kirby and his marines sprinted through the noxious white smoke trying to hold their breath as they ran through the cloud. They slammed against the wall of the enemy-occupied building underneath the field of fire. Kirby tried to open a door to the stairway but the door was locked and considering the door was metal kicking it down was a less pleasant option.
"Balletto get the door" Kirby ordered.
The machine gunner slung the SAW and hefted a sledgehammer that had been slung under his webbing gear. Balletto may not have been smart but he was ridiculously strong, himself claiming he had "retard strength". The sledgehammer head slammed into the door lock twice before the door crashed open. Balletto quickly returned to his saw and took up rear security with Taylor and Kirby rushed through the door. A knight soldier was on the stairwell above them and fired but his shots went high impacting the wall behind them dropping drywall and dust on them.
The hollow boom of Taylor's shotgun engulfed the stairwell. The armored soldier slumped against the back wall, what was left of his head left a red streak as he fell. Taylor took point up the stairs. Kirby spoke into his radio to tell the tank to quit firing into the building as they climbed the stairs to clear the rest of the building.
Back outside at the tank, Williams and Thompson scanned for targets while their tank commander coordinated with other units on the radio. More gunfire rang out from the building being cleared by the Marines.
Thompson traversed the tank's turret quickly back and forth scanning for targets, eyes glued to the thermal sights. A hot white blob rolled into view down the street just over 200 yards away.
"Identified Tank! 200! Load Sabot" Thompson screamed.
Without a word, Williams hit a knee switch and the ammo rack door slid open. Practiced hands nimbly grabbed the desired round, whipped it around, and rammed it home into the gun breech.
"Come on man! It's fucking looking at us!" Thompson urged his loader as he finished the loading process.
Williams was about to slap the arming lever but the thunder crack of the enemy tank's canon cut him off.
The high-velocity 75 MM round shrieked through the air and impacted the side of Abram's turret. The round ricocheted off of the armor and redirected into the building Kirby and his Marines were clearing.
Balletto and Soto were lifted from their feet as the building yawed from the explosion. "
In the tank, "Everybody good?" Hidalgo asked trying to reorient himself.
Williams was slumped against the turret wall but stirred and gave a thumbs up "All good, bro".
"E you good" Hidalgo moved to kick the gunner's seat.
"MOTHERFUCKER! Arm the gun!" Thompson shouted in anger as he righted himself and centered the thermal gunsight on the offending tank.
"Fucking Kill him!" Hidalgo ordered.
"Up!" Williams shouted.
"ON THE WAY!" Thompson pulled the trigger of the Cadillac control, The thundercrack of cannon fire filled the air once again. An angry red streak tore through the air and slammed into the tank's front plate in a brilliant shower of sparks. The antiquated tank's turret blew off and landed beside it.
As the Marines moved through the harsh daylight of Onslow Pines Park, the tension in the air became palpable. The sun, glaring and unrelenting, did little to soften the grim scene ahead. A knot formed in Kirby's stomach as he caught sight of the enemy huddle—a grim array of infantry clustered around the park stage, their movements methodical, almost ritualistic. Officers clad in gaudy red armor loomed over an antique radio, voices low, weaving the sinister threads of their command. Kirby and his team slid behind some cars and concrete planters.
Kirby's heart pounded like a war drum, but another thought clawed its way into his mind—there had been a music festival at the park earlier. He remembered seeing posters and hearing people talk about it just days ago. His breath hitched. The realization settled in, heavy and cold: the civilians, fellow Americans, who had gathered for a day of music and joy were now likely casualties. Dozens, maybe hundreds, could be lying lifeless near the stage, their happiness replaced by horror in the wake of the enemy's assault.
His grip tightened around his rifle as the weight of that knowledge bore down on him. "Get online but spread out," Kirby's voice barely cut through the stillness of the park, urgency clinging to the air like a storm about to break. He keyed his radio, the static a harbinger of death. "Outlaw, we have eyes on a squad-sized element and what looks like an enemy command center. How copy?"
"Good copy, Bravo. Alpha and I will join you with the Abrams shortly. Stay sharp," the reply was steady, but an electric tension crackled—they were teetering on the edge of oblivion.
"Good copy, laying low, out." The weight of the moment settled heavily on Kirby's shoulders. "Start picking targets as soon as Knox gives the word—we'll unleash hell."
Suddenly, chaos erupted. A storm of rifle and machine gun fire tore through the distance, reverberating off the trees like the tolling of a sinister bell. Panic crackled through the radio as Charlie's team leader's voice pierced the tension, frantic and raw. "The enemy spotted us—they've got us pinned!" Each word exploded from the speaker, a visceral mix of dread and adrenaline clawing at the edges of sanity.
"Rap on some nuts, Marine!" Staff Sergeant Knox barked into the radio, the command cutting through the panic. "Bravo, open fire and get them off of Charlie, team. Alpha, move up and support. Crazy horse, stay frosty for that last tank."
"Go for the officers first, the clowns in red armor!" Kirby commanded his voice a steel edge forged in the furnace of impending violence. Balletto steadied his light machine gun and unleashed a hellish torrent, the gun roaring to life as it chewed through the enemy's cover, transforming the park into a battlefield steeped in death's embrace.
Taylor ducked behind the engine block of a car, slid open the chamber of his M203, slid a fresh rifle grenade in, and closed it. He popped up braced his arm on the trunk and fired his rifle grenade. The grenade spun through the air and detonated right on the enemy's radio taking out a few of their remaining officers.
A few streets over the Abrams burst into view as its tracks flattened a car. The tank's coaxial machine gun roared to life, and the Alpha team ran out to join the symphony of fire. The remaining armored soldiers scrambled to cover and began returning fire. Two of the knights ran forward, they wore much heavier armor than the others and carried strange weapons.
"Is that a fucking Lance!" Taylor yelled in disbelief.
The question was quickly answered when the knights stopped and hefted their lances toward the Abrams tank. The tips of the 'Lance' launched toward the American Tank with a firey gurgle similar to an RPG. One rocket glanced off the angled armor of the Abrams and flew into the side of a brick building where the explosion showered the marine below in rubble and debris. The second rocket flew low and slammed into the tracks immobilizing the Abrams.
Soto raised his M16, the crosshair of his Acog swung over the center mass of one of the lancers his finger curled comfortably around the trigger. The rifle barked sharply three times. The heavily armored lancer crumpled in the street, his companion was also cut down from a burst from the now-crippled Abrams machine gun.
"God damn it!" Knox said, "The abrams got tracked! Bravo flank these morons. Alpha lay suppressing fire!" he ordered.
Before Kirby could embark on his squealing of tank tracks could be heard as the last of the knight's tanks rolled into view. The enemy tank's main gun roared, and its round glanced off the Abrams armor though it jammed its turret.
"Ah, shit this ain't good, our tank is dead in the water! Somebody get a SMAW or an AT4" a Marine shouted.
Thankfully sound of buffeting rotors could be heard as a Marine cobra flew overhead. A hellfire missile flew from its rails and screamed toward the imperial tank. The missile splashed down right through its top hatch and detonated its ammo blowing its turret off.
The Marines pumped their fist in the air and cheered triumphantly. "Hell yeah!, get some air wing!" a Marine from Alpha shouted.
"AMERICA!" Balletto shouted.
With the final enemy tank destroyed the Cobra turned to the dwindling infantry. Its twenty-millimeter rotary canon's sinister thrum droned above the Marines showering them with spent brass. The attack helicopter even launched a few Hydra rockets. The knight troopers broke under the fusillade of fire and ordinance. Only a single armored trooper managed to escape back across the portal.
The enemy had been destroyed for now and all that was left was wreckage and fire. Lieutenant Kitts stood in the street and studied the burning husk of one of their mysterious enemy tanks "God damn" He said solemnly.
Knox turned to look at his Co. with an expression that mixed question and worry.
"Never thought I'd see the day, Abrams slinging tank shells in anger on American soil," He said Gravley.
"I don't think anybody has sir," Knoxy said.
"So when are we going across the portal to kick these knight dipshits in the teeth?" Balletto asked.
"Not soon enough, but I know we're gonna burn it down when we get there," Kirby said.
"Rah," The machine gunner said.
"When the times right Private, when the times right," Knox said.