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Stellar Year 2148, May 21st
Republic of San Magnolia
Somewhere inside District 86
"Alright, everyone! Listen up," Paul's voice boomed through the room, commanding the attention of the NATO crews standing in formation. He held up a small, metallic earcuff for all to see. "This is a Para-RAID device. You're all holding one in your hands right now."
The crews glanced down at the devices they'd been handed, their expressions unreadable, their postures rigid in parade rest.
"This little thing is going to be our new main method of communication," Paul continued. "It doesn't use radio waves, which means it can't be intercepted like conventional comms. Instead, it allows direct neural communication with other Para-RAID users—like Anju here." He gestured toward the young Processor standing beside him.
Anju tilted her head, a warm smile gracing her lips as she gave a small wave. "Hi," she said softly.
The NATO crews remained silent, their stoic expressions unchanged, their eyes locked on her without a hint of response.
Paul cleared his throat, breaking the awkward moment. "Anju will help me show you how to use it. She volunteered for this, so pay close attention." With that, he stepped back and motioned for Anju to take the lead. "Your stage, Second Lieutenant," he said, his face impassive but his tone encouraging.
Anju nodded, uncuffing her own Para-RAID from her ear. The skin where it had been was reddened, with a faint indentation marking where the device had rested. She fidgeted for a moment, clearly nervous, but managed to steady herself.
"So, um… hello, everyone," she began, her voice wavering slightly. "I'm Anju Emma. My personal name is Snow Witch."
Her cheeks flushed as the NATO crews continued to stare at her with unwavering neutrality, their eyes locked on hers. She gripped the device in her hand, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves.
"This is the Para-RAID device," she said, holding it up. "To open it, you press the small button here."
She hesitated, glancing back at Paul, who stepped closer and rested a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
"Show them," he said gently. "Don't just tell them."
Anju nodded quickly. "Right, sorry." She flipped the device over, holding it up so everyone could see.
"If you turn it over like this, you'll find a button here," she explained, waiting as the crews examined their devices.
"Press it, and it'll open like this." She demonstrated, folding the earcuff open to reveal a needle hidden inside.
"This is the needle," she said, pointing to it. "It's used to pierce your ear and simultaneously establish a neural connection. It extracts and transmits your brain data to other Para-RAID users over long distances. The process might feel… uncomfortable at first, but you get used to it after a while."
She paused, letting the words sink in, before continuing in a more serious tone. "Once the needle pierces your skin, the device will start transmitting almost immediately. This means you need to learn how to control the data flow—both incoming and outgoing. If you don't…" She hesitated, glancing at Paul for reassurance before finishing.
"…you'll fry your brain. Literally."
The NATO crew members exchanged weary glances before cautiously lifting their Para-RAIDs to their ears.
"Ah well. The captain managed just fine." Elijah said confidently before beginning to put on the device.
One by one, they began to put them on. A few hissed in discomfort as the needle punctured their helix, while others clenched their jaws, forcing themselves to remain stoic.
Emma, however, slid the device into place with practiced ease, her expression calm and unbothered. She barely flinched as the needle pierced through her ear—it was almost second nature to her, thanks to the piercing she'd had long before joining the military.
Though Emma wasn't fit for combat just yet, Adrian and Paul had agreed that she needed to familiarize herself with the Para-RAID system. Even if she wasn't on the frontlines, understanding how to use the device was crucial—after all, communication was just as vital as any weapon in the fight ahead.
Almost instantly, the NATO crews winced, their faces contorting in pain as the Para-RAIDs activated. It hit them like a freight train—an overwhelming flood of voices and data crashing into their minds without warning.
The sudden influx of information was unlike anything they'd ever experienced. It wasn't just sound; it was as if their thoughts were being invaded, their brains assaulted by the chaotic, unfiltered chatter of the Processors outside and the colleagues standing beside them.
Some of the soldiers stumbled, clutching their heads as the sensation grew unbearable. A sharp, splitting pain radiated through their skulls, like hot needles being driven into their temples. The overwhelming noise—the words, the emotions, the sheer presence of so many minds—felt like a storm raging inside their heads, drowning out their own thoughts.
A few dropped to their knees, groaning in agony as their brains threatened to overload. It was disorienting, suffocating, like being dragged underwater with no chance to surface. Their vision blurred, and beads of sweat formed on their brows as they struggled to endure the mental onslaught.
The room was filled with a cacophony of strained breaths and muffled curses as each crew member fought to adjust, to claw their way through the chaos and find some semblance of control.
"Uh… Anju?" Paul asked, his voice laced with concern as he watched the NATO crews writhe and struggle under the mental onslaught. His hand hovered at his side, unsure if he should intervene.
Anju, however, simply shook her head, her expression calm but firm. "Let them," she said quietly, her voice steady despite the chaos around them. "They need to find their own way through this."
Paul's brow furrowed, but Anju continued before he could press further. "If you help them now, they'll never make it past the Black Sheep. This is part of the process—learning to endure, to adapt. If they can't push through this, they won't survive what's ahead."
Her gaze flicked back to the crews, her eyes softening slightly as she watched their struggle. Though her words were harsh, her tone carried a quiet empathy—a silent understanding of the pain they were enduring.
Matteo groaned as he pushed himself off the floor, his movements sluggish and unsteady. He shook his head to clear the lingering dizziness. "Son of a bitch… goddamn, that was… fucking intense," he muttered, his voice rough with lingering discomfort.
Nearby, Noah was leaning against a wall for support, his face pale but his usual dry humor intact. "Bloody hell, mate," he grumbled, fixing Paul with a weary glare. "Couldn't you have warned us?"
He straightened up slowly, still a bit unsteady on his feet, but the irritated tone in his voice masked the exhaustion in his posture.
Elijah was hunched over, his body convulsing as he emptied the contents of his stomach onto the floor, each retch leaving him weaker. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his hands trembling as he clung to his knees for support.
Nearby, David groaned softly, planting his hands firmly on the ground as he pushed himself up with deliberate effort. Each movement was slow and unsteady, but there was a quiet resolve in his eyes as he forced himself upright, his jaw tightening against the waves of lingering disorientation.
"Motherfucker…" he muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Felt like some guy named fucking Jerome shoved his black—"
Before he could finish, a sharp smack landed on the back of his head.
"Shut yer trap, mate," Jack snapped, his voice laced with exasperation. "We've got kids here, ye bloody dimwit."
David winced, rubbing the spot where Jack had hit him. "Alright, alright," he grumbled. "No need to knock my head off…"
"Ich kack doch die Wand an… was zur Hölle war das?!" Otto groaned, cursing in German as he staggered upright. ("I could crap on the wall… what the hell was that?!")
The Brits and Americans exchanged puzzled looks at his colorful phrasing, their expressions caught somewhere between confusion and amusement. Adrian, however, simply nodded in agreement, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he himself tried to gain his senses back. "Kannst das laut sagen," he replied. ("You can say that again.")
Paul let out a quiet breath, his shoulders relaxing as he observed the NATO crews slowly regaining their composure. Despite the initial chaos, they seemed to be pulling through.
"Alright, gentlemen," he said, his voice steady but carrying a hint of relief. His gaze shifted briefly to Emma, offering a small nod. "And Emma. From this moment on, you're officially Processors."
The reaction was, as expected, mixed. Some of the crew managed to straighten up, adjusting their posture with an air of determination, while others remained hunched over, their hands clutching their heads. The mental assault on their brains was still lingering, the overwhelming flood of information refusing to fully subside.
Their faces betrayed varying degrees of discomfort—some pale and sweating, others gritting their teeth as they fought to steady themselves. It was clear that not everyone had adjusted to the Para-RAID's invasive connection just yet.
Okay… great. That's number one on the list of problems checked off," Paul muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with both relief and lingering tension. He turned to Adrian, his tone growing more focused. "Number two is the SATCOM. Did the Major give you the access codes?"
Adrian let out a groan, raising a hand to his forehead as if trying to shake off the last remnants of dizziness. He gave his temple a few firm taps with the palm of his hand before glancing at Paul.
"Ja, she gave us this," Adrian replied, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handing it over.
Paul took the paper without hesitation, unfolding it and scanning its contents quickly. His eyes widened ever so slightly, a flicker of surprise breaking through his usual composure.
Earth Calendar, 2074
Rammstein Airbase, Gernany. Current NATO command Center.
General Silas Morshower
"Breaking news tonight: The Russian Federation has shattered the century-old Non-Aggression Pact of Space, an agreement that has preserved peace in the boundless expanse above our planet. Armed cosmonauts have forcibly taken control of the International Space Station, holding the astronauts aboard hostage. In response, both the United States and China have issued urgent warnings, demanding Russia relinquish control of the ISS immediately and peacefully—or face dire repercussions.
Meanwhile, on the ground, the Pentagon has confirmed the use of 'dirty bombs' in a devastating attack on Poland. The heart of Warsaw now lies gripped in fear as residents are instructed to seal their windows and remain indoors for the next two weeks due to concerns over lingering radiation. The attack has plunged the city into chaos, leaving its citizens reeling in the aftermath.
During a press conference earlier today, a NATO spokesman revealed, 'Intelligence points to Russian ultranationalists, led by the infamous war criminal and terrorist Daniil Govravov, as the primary suspects behind this atrocity.'
In a public address, Russian President Kravchenko vehemently condemned the ultranationalist group, asserting that their actions are a betrayal of the values the Russian Federation upholds. 'These criminals do not represent our nation,' he declared, promising a comprehensive investigation into the perpetrators.
However, skepticism surrounds his statement. Historian Lukas Butnovski, during an interview with a GCNN correspondent, voiced his doubts, stating, 'Whether President Kravchenko's promises can be trusted is highly questionable. In times of chaos and uncertainty, such declarations often amount to little more than political theater, destined to be drowned out in the relentless fog of war.'
Amid escalating tensions, NATO forces are mobilizing once again, and have established a foothold inside Berlin and are pushing inward. Germany's Defense Minister, Martin Hummel, delivered a resolute statement earlier today, words that are already being etched into the annals of history. 'Berlin shall not fall again—not to fear, not to tyranny, and most certainly not to a Red Army that dares to reclaim what was never theirs to begin with.'"
This is Charlotte Hayes reporting for Global Conflict News Network—where every voice is head, and every story matters.
Morshower pressed the power button, silencing the GCNN broadcast as its logo faded from the screen. He turned his attention to the three men standing before him, their presence as sudden as it was unannounced. One wore the crisp uniform of a lieutenant, another carried the air of a seasoned reporter, and the third bore the distinct demeanor of a NASA scientist.
"Well then," Morshower began, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "What can I do for you fine gentlemen on this lovely, utterly chaotic day?"
The three men exchanged uneasy glances, shuffling awkwardly as Morshower continued signing papers and attending to the mountain of duties that came with leading what was shaping up to be humanity's greatest military offensive in history. His pen scratched across the pages with methodical precision, the weight of the task barely reflected in his calm demeanor.
"General Morshower, sir," the lieutenant finally spoke, his tone steady but his gaze faltering under the General's piercing eyes. "Dr. Edwards here is from NASA. He… he may have an explanation for the issue with the missing tanks."
Morshower paused mid-signature, his sharp gaze snapping up to the three men standing before him. Slowly, he set his pen down, lacing his fingers together and bringing them to rest just below his chin. His expression hardened, the air in the room growing heavier under his scrutiny.
"I have two questions, Lieutenant, before we proceed with this… matter at hand," he said, his tone low but commanding.
The lieutenant immediately straightened his posture, falling into parade rest. "Yes, sir."
"First," Morshower began, his piercing eyes locking onto the young officer, "who is that other man?" His gaze then shifted momentarily to the reporter. "And second, how in God's name did two civilians manage to step foot on my base—without my knowledge?"
"Uhm…" The Lieutenant stammered, clearly caught off guard by the General's piercing gaze. "Sir, I—uh—"
Before he could fumble further, Dr. Edwards stepped forward, his voice firm but respectful. "General Morshower, sir, what we've uncovered is of the utmost importance. We cannot afford to waste any more time."
Without waiting for permission, the NASA scientist flipped open a secure laptop he'd been carrying. The screen flickered to life as he began typing furiously, the faint clacking of keys filling the tense silence in the room.
Morshower's eyes narrowed as he leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "I'll be the judge of what's important, Doctor," he said coolly, his tone razor-sharp. "Now, I suggest you start making sense—and fast, or I'll have you arrested for trespassing on United States military property."
Dr. Edward visibly gulped, his hands trembling slightly as he set the laptop on the desk. "This feed," he began, his voice wavering, "comes from a satellite that was orbiting Germany at the time. It captured what we believe to be the exact moment when five main battle tanks disappeared."
Morshower's interest piqued, his previously stern demeanor shifting ever so slightly. This could be the breakthrough he had been waiting for. "Play it," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument.
Dr. Edwards pressed a button, and the screen flickered to life. The feed cleared a veil of clouds, revealing the chaos unfolding on the battlefield below. NATO tanks and IFVs were locked in a vicious clash with Russian T-34s and BMPTs, their positions clearly marked. The satellite camera zoomed in on a Russian T-34 as it maneuvered through the combat zone.
Suddenly, static rippled across the field, followed by a bright, blinding light. When the static cleared, the T-34 was gone—vanished without a trace.
The camera feed shifted, zooming out to focus on a NATO column attempting to flank the Russian defenses. The tanks and vehicles moved with precision, their strategy evident—until the same phenomenon occurred. A burst of static, a flash of light, and the entire column disappeared as if they had never existed.
Morshower's gaze remained sharp, scrutinizing each man in turn. He leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers still steepled as he exhaled a long, measured breath. "Who knows of this?" he asked, his tone heavy with expectation. His eyes shifted deliberately, first to the scientist, then to the Lieutenant, before finally settling on the Reporter with a piercing glare.
The Lieutenant straightened instinctively, his voice careful but steady. "Currently, sir, the information is limited to President Palmer, NORAD, SOCOM, and you."
Morshower raised an eyebrow, his focus now on the scientist. "And NASA?"
The Lieutenant gestured toward Edwards, who visibly tensed under the scrutiny. "Just him, sir. Dr. Edwards personally extracted the file, purged all remaining copies, and brought it directly to the White House. From there, they directed him here."
Morshower allowed the silence to linger, the weight of the moment pressing down on the room. His eyes narrowed as he turned over the implications in his mind. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice low and deliberate. "What about the Russians? They have satellites up there too."
Dr. Edwards closed the laptop with a soft click and held it close to his chest. "The likelihood that Russian scientists have observed this anomaly is high, sir. To address this, a platoon of Navy SEALs and 75th Rangers, accompanied by a team of scientists, is en route to the location. We've secured the area, but there's a significant chance the Russians have also deployed their own special forces to investigate."
Morshower's eyes briefly widened before narrowing into a sharp glare. His gaze darted from the Lieutenant to Edwards, his voice now cold and cutting. "On whose authority?"
The Lieutenant shifted uncomfortably, clearly uneasy under the weight of the General's scrutiny. After a brief pause, he straightened his posture and took a deep breath. "The order came from the highest level, sir. The President himself signed off on the operation."
Morshower let out a heavy sigh, dragging his hands down his face in frustration before planting his elbows on the desk. "Dear God," he muttered, his voice dripping with exasperation. He fixed Edwards with a sharp glare, his tone turning icy. "That area is not secured, Doctor. It's contested. Actively contested. The damn place is shelled day in and day out, and you're telling me we've sent teams in there like it's some picnic in the park?"
Edwards shifted uncomfortably, clutching the laptop closer as if it could shield him from the General's ire. "Sir, the operation was deemed urgent. The risk—"
"The risk?" Morshower interrupted, his voice rising. "You mean the risk of sending some of our finest soldiers and civilians into a goddamn war zone where they're just as likely to be taken out by friendly fire as enemy shells? Tell me, Doctor, how exactly do you justify that kind of risk?"
"They are accompanied by two ICVs, model LAV-50, sir," the Lieutenant interjected, his tone steady. "They won't be as vulnerable. If they encounter tanks, the Rangers have AT-7s and Javelins to counter them, and the Bushmaster on the LAVs is also a nasty piece of work."
Morshower's eyes narrowed at the Lieutenant, a flicker of disapproval crossing his face at the choice of language. He said nothing, however, and waved it off with a slight gesture. "Well, at least they won't die immediately," he said dryly, his tone laced with sarcasm. "What about air support?"
"Only the two transport helos that will bring them in," the Lieutenant replied.
Morshower let out a long, frustrated sigh before finally speaking, his voice decisive. "I want him arrested," he said, gesturing sharply to the Reporter. "He knows too much."
The Reporter opened his mouth to protest, but Morshower's glare silenced him instantly. The General continued without missing a beat.
"Then, I want two Super Raptors on standby for immediate launch. If those men call for help, we'll deliver it fast and hard. And I want eyes on them at all times—keep at least one satellite over their heads around the clock."
The room fell silent as the weight of Morshower's words settled over them. The Lieutenant snapped to attention, saluting sharply. "Yes, sir."
Dr. Edwards visibly stiffened, his grip on the laptop tightening as if it were his lifeline. His pale face betrayed his growing unease.
Morshower's gaze locked onto him like a predator eyeing prey. "And Doctor," he said, his tone icy and deliberate, "if you plan on leaving this base, you better leave that laptop here. This is my one and only warning."
The weight of the General's words hung heavy in the air, and Edwards slowly nodded, his hands trembling slightly as he clutched the device closer to his chest. "Understood, sir," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Morshower didn't respond. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his steely expression making it clear there would be no room for negotiation.
Two CH-85 Mammoth helicopters skimmed low over the shattered remnants of Germany's cities, their rotors slicing through the smoke-laden air. The iconic insignia of the German Luftwaffe was emblazoned proudly on the tail of each massive aircraft, a symbol of resilience in a war-torn landscape.
The CH-85, a direct successor to the legendary CH-53 Super Stallion, was a marvel of modern engineering. Boasting nearly double the maximum takeoff weight and speed of its predecessor, the Mammoth was built to dominate the battlefield. Its four powerful turboshaft engines, an upgrade from the Super Stallion's three, gave it unparalleled lift and agility for its size.
More than just a transport, the CH-85 could be reconfigured into a formidable gunship. Its wing stubs featured hardpoints capable of mounting Hellfire missile launch racks, additional fuel tanks, or remote-controlled machine guns. This arsenal complemented the onboard firepower of its crew-operated machine guns, positioned at the side doors and rear ramp. Designed for versatility and power, the Mammoth was as much a weapon as it was a workhorse.
"Thirty seconds to LZ!" the loadmaster of the Mammoth bellowed over the roar of the engines, his voice sharp and commanding. He raised three fingers, signaling the imminent touchdown to the soldiers and scientists packed tightly inside.
Inside the cockpit, the tension was palpable as the pilots kept their focus on the instruments and the terrain ahead. Their voices crackled through the comms, carrying a sense of urgency.
"Overlord, this is Spirit 1-1," the pilot called out, his tone measured but tight. "Requesting any intel on SAM sites in the AO. Do we have a clean approach? Over."
"Roger, Spirit 1-1," came the reply after a brief pause, the operator's voice carrying a slight edge of urgency. "Stand by. Checking for recent SAM activity at this time."
"Copy, Overlord. Standing by," the pilot responded, his tone steady despite the tension in the cockpit.
After a few tense moments, the comms crackled to life again. "Spirit 1-1, this is Overlord. Latest recon indicates no active SAM sites in your immediate AO. You are cleared to proceed to LZ-Xray. Over."
"Roger, Overlord. Proceeding with the mission at this time. Out."
As the transmission ended, the cockpit was filled with the hum of the engines and the faint chatter from the rear. The lead pilot adjusted his grip on the controls, his eyes flickering to the altimeter. "Let's hope they're right about no SAMs," he muttered to his co-pilot, his tone grim.
The co-pilot nodded, tapping the radar display. "Yeah, because if they're wrong, we'll know real fast."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the MAWS, short for Missile Approach Warning System, screamed to life, its shrill alarm filling the cockpit with urgency.
"Son of a—FLARES!" the pilot barked, his hand slamming down on the countermeasure controls. Bright streaks of magnesium flares burst from the helicopter's sides, blazing like miniature suns in an attempt to distract the heat-seeking missile.
The co-pilot yanked the cyclic stick hard to the left, sending the CH-85 Mammoth into a sharp evasive maneuver. The helicopter groaned under the strain, its massive frame protesting as it veered off its original course.
The second helicopter followed suit, its own MAWS alarm echoing through the comms. "Spirit 1-2 deploying flares! Breaking right!" the voice of its pilot crackled over the radio.
Twin trails of flares lit up the sky as both helicopters weaved and rolled in opposite directions, their engines roaring in protest. Below, the devastated urban sprawl of Germany seemed to tilt and spin as the massive aircraft fought to evade the unseen threat.
Behind them, inside the cabin, chaos reigned as the sudden evasive maneuvers sent the passengers into a frenzy. The SEALs and Rangers, trained for combat but not necessarily for being tossed around inside a violently shaking helicopter, gripped whatever they could—straps, seats, or the overhead rails—to keep themselves steady.
"Hold on to something!" one of the SEALs barked, his voice barely audible over the screaming alarms and the roar of the engines.
The NASA scientists, far less accustomed to such situations, clung to their harnesses with wide eyes, their faces pale. One of them let out a sharp yelp as the helicopter jolted again, sending a loose pack of equipment skidding across the floor.
"Is this normal?" one of the scientists shouted, his voice cracking with panic.
"These pilots do this shit every day!" a Ranger replied with a grin, his tone dripping with confidence despite the chaos.
The scientist stared at him, unsure whether to feel reassured or even more terrified. "That's supposed to make me feel better?" he stammered, clutching his harness tighter as the helicopter jolted again.
The Ranger laughed, though it was hard to tell if it was out of amusement or adrenaline. "Relax, Doc! If they can't handle it, nobody can."
Another sharp jolt threw everyone to the side, and the scientist muttered under his breath, clearly unconvinced. "God help us all…"
The missile streaked toward Spirit 1-2, slamming into its tail and shearing it off cleanly. The helicopter spun violently, thrown into an uncontrollable tailspin. Alarms blared throughout the cockpit as the pilots fought in vain to regain control.
"Drop the ICV! Now!" the pilot shouted, his voice barely audible over the chaos.
The heavy Infantry Carrier Vehicle was released from the cables, plummeting to the ground below in a desperate attempt to lighten the helicopter's load. But the damage was too severe.
"Mayday, mayday, mayday! This is Spirit 1-2! We're hit, repeat, we're hit! Airspace is contested!" the pilot's strained voice crackled over the comms. "I have no control over the craft! We're going down over Schwerin! Mapgrid Papa Uniform one-niner-one-one—"
The transmission abruptly cut off as Spirit 1-2 slammed into the ground. The helicopter rolled violently down a wooded slope, crashing through trees before striking a massive oak and coming to a stop, its rotors crumpled like a discarded toy.
"Overlord, this is Spirit 1-1!" the surviving helicopter's pilot called out urgently over the radio. "We're landing to assist Spirit 1-2! Request immediate CSAR teams for search and rescue, and activate the QRF! ASAP!"
Spirit 1-1 banked hard, releasing another burst of chaff and flares as it plunged into a steep descent. The pilot aimed for a patch of relatively open ground near the spot where Spirit 1-2 had made its catastrophic impact only moments before. Smoke and debris still billowed from the crash site, a grim marker guiding their rapid approach.
"Roger, Spirit 1-1. CSAR teams are en route to your location and— uh... break. stand by for further intel," the operator at Overlord said, abruptly cutting off his transmission leaving the two Pilots perplexed.
Seconds later, his voice crackled back over the comm. "Spirit 1-1, be advised—surveillance reports hostile operatives closing in on Spirit 1-2's crash site. You need to land immediately and deploy your cargo to form a perimeter around the wreckage. How copy, over?"
"Solid, Overlord," the pilot replied without hesitation. "We're landing now. Over."
"Understood, Spirit 1-1. Overlord out."
The Mammoth hovered briefly before lowering into position, cables groaning as it released the LAV-50 onto the ground below. Only after the vehicle was safely detached did the helicopter settle down, its landing gear kicking up a cloud of dust and debris.
As soon as the ramp dropped, Rangers and SEALs poured out, weapons at the ready. The Ranger Captain's voice cut through the roar of the rotors: "Martinez, Ramirez—cover the left flank! SEALs, you take the right. Everyone else, secure our twelve!"
He paused, quickly scanning the smoldering crash site for signs of movement. "Engineers, search for survivors—move, move!" he barked, gesturing sharply for them to fan out. The sound of boots hitting broken asphalt mixed with the distant crackle of the still-burning wreckage, setting the stage for whatever might come next.
The NASA scientists disembarked as well, watching from a short distance while the helicopter took off again to fetch additional reinforcements. Almost immediately, the Rangers began unfurling their so-called "Barrier Blankets," while the SEALs quickly deployed their ballistic foam. Both technologies had been specifically developed to provide soldiers with rapid, reliable cover in open terrain—eliminating the need to dig foxholes under fire.
Though each system came with its own pros and cons, they shared a single, vital purpose: to stop bullets. And in that role, both methods performed admirably.
"Nolan! Movement on the left—possible contact!" Martinez shouted, leveling his M5 rifle above the barrier blanket. His voice was tense, and the quick shift in his stance made it clear he wasn't taking any chances.
Nolan, the Ranger Captain, reacted instantly. "You two—flank left with Martinez!" he barked, pointing to a pair of nearby Rangers. "Stay low and keep your eyes open!"
The designated soldiers sprinted over, taking up defensive positions alongside Martinez. Muzzles trained on the tree line, they scanned the area for any sign of hostile movement, adrenaline surging through their veins as they prepared for whatever might emerge.
Then the radio crackled to life. "Nolan, this is Engineering Team-1. We've located around three dozen survivors! At least fifteen are severely wounded and need immediate medical attention. The rest have minor injuries—nothing our quick fix can't handle. Over."
Nolan exhaled sharply, relieved that some had made it out alive, but the weight of the situation was still heavy. "What about the two pilots?" he asked, his voice barely above a murmur, as if not wanting to hear the answer.
The radio crackled again, the transmission coming through choppy but unmistakable in its grim finality. "One's black, the other's dark, dark red."
A tense silence followed. Nolan felt it settle over him like a physical weight, pressing on his chest. He closed his eyes for a split second, picturing the cockpit wreckage and the pilots who had carried them this far. He clenched his jaw, fighting back the welling frustration and sorrow that threatened to derail his focus.
"Roger," he said, trying to keep his voice from wavering. "Begin triage of all wounded. And any who can still fight, send them my way. We need all hands ready if hostiles show up."
A moment later, the radio sputtered back to life. "Understood, Captain. Team-1 out."
He let out a slow breath, wishing for just a moment's peace to process the loss—but there was no time. "I want the radio! Now!" Nolan barked, his voice cutting through the cacophony of chaos around him.
Less than a minute later, an Air Force serviceman appeared at his side. A patch on his plate carrier identified him as a JTAC, and multiple antennas jutted from the radios and GPS devices strapped to his gear.
"Call artillery, air support, or both—level that tree line!" Nolan ordered, stabbing a finger toward the distant woods where they'd spotted movement.
"Sir?" the JTAC operator asked, momentarily taken aback by the captain's intensity.
Nolan's eyes narrowed. "I don't know what's in there," he said, voice tight with resolve. "All I know is I don't want it there anymore."
As simple as Nolan's order might have sounded, there was a certain logic behind it—at least in the heat of the moment. The JTAC straightened his shoulders, giving a curt nod. "Yes, Captain," he said, then pressed the push-to-talk button on his plate carrier.
"Station, this is Delta-1-Juliet," he announced over the static-filled comm. "Requesting FDC Archer to pound this position. Over!"
Moments later, the reply crackled through his earpiece, laced with interference.
"Negative, 1-Juliet," the voice crackled over the comm, underscored by distant chatter and the hum of machinery in the background. "FDC Archer is currently tied up with another high-priority target; they can't provide support at this time. However, we have a pair of F-22C Super Raptors inbound to assist. Another flight of Hogs is gearing up on the tarmac. Raptor ETA is two mikes; Hogs will arrive in about five. Over."
"Roger that, Station. Delta-1-Juliet out!" the JTAC operative acknowledged, ending the transmission with practiced efficiency. He moved quickly to where the Captain had relocated, his voice raised to be heard over the commotion.
"Captain, we've got two Super Raptors inbound—ETA two mikes!" he called, lifting two fingers for emphasis.
Nolan offered a brief thumbs-up and refocused on the mounting threat. Humanoid figures were now visible at the edge of the tree line, their movements growing more apparent by the second. In response, two M-250 machine guns and several M5 assault rifles, along with M6 carbines, were trained on the approaching shapes, the gunners and riflemen poised to unleash controlled fire at the slightest provocation.
Seconds later, a deep rumble sounded from behind, followed by the blinding glare of the LAV-50's headlights cutting through the dim surroundings. Engineering Team-2 had succeeded in bringing the vehicle back online, and judging by the hum of its engine and the whir of its turret motors, they'd be ready to open fire any moment now.
Static crackled over the JTAC's comm unit just then. "1-Juliet, this is Raptor Flight. ETA—one mike."
"Roger that, Raptor Flight," the JTAC responded, tapping the transmit button. "Be advised, we're lasing the target. I say again, the target is marked by laser. How copy, over?"
"Solid copy," came the immediate reply. "Weapons armed. Preparing to engage."
High above the scarred German landscape, two sleek, next-generation F-22C Super Raptors roared past in a thunderous display of speed and power. Their silhouettes cut through the sky at supersonic velocity, a sharp contrast to the devastation unfolding below. Despite their elegant design, each jet carried a lethal payload tucked away behind internal weapon bay doors.
Within the main bays sat eight GBU-93 munitions—direct successors to the older GBU-39 Small Diameter Bomb. Although similar in size, these newer bombs packed a significantly heavier punch. Mounted in the side weapon compartments were two AIM-21 heat-seeking missiles on each side, marking the end of service for the venerable AIM-9 in favor of more advanced technology.
Thanks to miniaturized electronics and improved aerodynamics, the F-22C boasted increased firepower without compromising performance or stealth. Its engines still provided blistering speed, and the sensor suite remained as cutting-edge as ever, processing massive amounts of battlefield data in real time. In short, the Super Raptor carried more ordnance than ever before—while retaining the hallmark agility and invisibility that made it the premier fighter in the skies.
The pilot of Raptor-1, the leader of Raptor Flight, reached out and pressed the button labeled "FCS" on the control panel. The acronym stood for Fire Control System, and with a single press, the jet's advanced weapon systems unlocked, transitioning from standby to combat-ready.
One of the central displays lit up, showcasing the aircraft's lethal arsenal:
"XM-64 Vulcan II—2400—Armed—RDY"
"GBU-93 SBD—8—Armed—RDY"
"AIM-21 Diamondback—4—Armed—RDY"
The screen's green indicators flashed briefly, confirming the systems were primed. The pilot's gloved hand hovered momentarily over the controls before gripping the stick again, his eyes scanning the terrain below.
"2, this is 1, bank left. We're approaching from the west," the lead pilot of Raptor-1 ordered, his voice steady and focused over the comms.
"Wilco, Raptor-1," came the swift reply from Raptor-2's pilot.
Raptor-2 broke formation smoothly, banking to the left in perfect synchronization with its lead. The two jets adjusted their course, aligning their approach for maximum effectiveness as they prepared to deliver their payload.
"1-Juliet, this is Raptor-1, ETA thirty seconds," the lead pilot said over the radio, his voice calm but firm. He waited for the sharp reply he expected from the JTAC operative—but only static greeted him.
Frowning, he glanced over at his wingman, Raptor-2. The other pilot shook his head through the cockpit glass, his expression grim.
"I got nothing," Raptor-2 said over their private comms. "They ain't replying."
The lead pilot's grip on the stick tightened. "Damn it. Check your systems—make sure it's not on our end."
Raptor-2 tapped at his console, double-checking the comms. "Comms are green. This isn't us."
"Baseplate, this is Raptor-1. Our observer on the ground is not replying," the pilot of Raptor-1 called over the radio, his voice steady but tinged with concern as he contacted the airbase they had launched from.
The line went silent for a moment, the hum of the engines filling the cockpit as the pilot waited. Finally, the operator at Baseplate responded, their tone measured and authoritative.
"Understood, Raptor-1. Proceed with tasking but do not engage unless fired upon. Fly over the area and provide a detailed report of what you see. Over."
"Roger, Baseplate. Raptor-1 out." Raptor-1 acknowledged, glancing at his radar and then over to his wingman. "Looks like we're eyes in the sky for now. Keep it tight—we're going in for a closer look."
Back on the ground, the situation was eerily calm. Too calm. The usual noise of orders being barked by Captain Nolan was absent—he wasn't there anymore. The LAV-50, which had been a loud and imposing presence with its rumbling engine and piercing headlights, was gone as well.
The area where the crash site had been active with SEALs, Rangers, and NASA engineers just moments ago now sat empty. No movement, no voices, no equipment—nothing but the lingering haze from the crash and the faint smell of burnt fuel. It was as if the entire team had vanished into thin air, leaving no trace behind.
Stellar Year 2148, May 21st
Republic of San Magnolia
Somewhere inside District 86
Inside a massive crater, Nolan slowly came back to his senses, his head pounding as he tried to piece together what had just happened. Moments ago, he had been in a dense forest in war-torn Germany, leading a rescue operation alongside SEALs, Rangers, and NASA scientists to extract survivors from a downed helicopter. He could still hear the hum of the LAV-50's engine, the chatter of his men, and the tension in the air as they prepared for potential hostiles.
Then, without warning, everything had changed.
A blinding white light had engulfed him and his team, so intense it forced his eyes shut. He remembered feeling weightless, as if he were levitating, before the sensation abruptly ended—and he found himself lying on his back inside this massive crater. The air was different here, thinner and almost metallic, and the terrain surrounding him was completely foreign. This wasn't Germany. It wasn't even close.
Nolan swiveled his head to the right, his vision still blurry from the disorienting light. Through the haze, he spotted the JTAC operative a few feet away, sitting upright and shaking his head as if trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. The antennas on his gear jutted out awkwardly, covered in a fine layer of dust, and his expression was a mix of confusion and unease as he slowly came back to his senses.
"You good?" Nolan called out, his voice rough but steady as he tried to assess the situation.
The JTAC operative looked over at him, blinking a few times before nodding weakly. "Yeah… I think so," he replied, though the uncertainty in his tone betrayed his words.
Around the two, Rangers and SEALs were stirring, helping one another to their feet as Corpsmen moved quickly through the chaos, tending to the wounded. The scene was a mix of confusion and groans of pain, but the discipline of the troops began to reassert itself as training took over instinctively.
"Everyone, rally on me for a headcount!" Nolan bellowed, his voice cutting through the murmur of disoriented soldiers and medics.
At first, the SEALs and Rangers glanced at him, hesitation evident in their faces, as if still trying to process their situation. Then, one by one, they began moving toward his position. Some supported their comrades, others limped heavily, their faces twisted in pain. A few leaned on rifles, using them like crude crutches, while others sought leverage from whatever they could find—fallen gear, each other, or even the scorched ground itself. The group slowly formed around Nolan, battered but intact.
Nolan scanned the group, making a quick headcount in his mind as he surveyed the battered team assembling around him. He let out a faint sigh of relief that, despite the chaos, most of his people were accounted for. But the unease in their faces—and the strangeness of their surroundings—hung heavy in the air.
He straightened up, taking a moment to steady his voice before speaking. "Alright," he called out, his tone calm but firm. "Does anyone have any idea what just happened?"
The SEALs, Rangers, NASA scientists, and the JTAC operative all exchanged glances, some shaking their heads, others shrugging helplessly. The JTAC made a half-hearted gesture toward his equipment, indicating he was just as in the dark as the rest of them.
"Nothing?" Nolan pressed, his gaze sweeping over the group again.
"Not a clue, sir," one of the SEALs muttered, leaning heavily on his rifle. Another Ranger, holding a bloodied rag to a gash on his forehead, shook his head. "Maybe we experienced what those Tanks wenr through. The ones we have to investigate."
The NASA scientists remained silent, their faces pale and tense, as though struggling to comprehend what had just occurred.
"Well, shit…" Nolan muttered under his breath, rubbing his temple as he looked around the crater and the unfamiliar terrain surrounding them. He straightened up, squaring his shoulders as he let out a sharp exhale. "Only one way to find out, then," he added, his gaze shifting to the JTAC operative.
The operative, already understanding the unspoken order, gave a curt nod and reached for the PTT on his plate carrier. He pressed it firmly, the familiar motion grounding him amidst the uncertainty.
"Station, this is Delta-1-Juliet, how copy? Over." he said, his voice steady but edged with tension as he scanned the faces of the team.
The faint static that followed was almost maddening, stretching into an uncomfortable silence as everyone held their breath, waiting for a response.
"Station, this is Delta-1-Juliet. Do you copy? Over?!" the JTAC operative repeated, his tone more urgent this time as he pressed the PTT again.
The team around him fell silent, ears straining to catch any response. But once again, the radio crackled faintly, offering nothing but static in reply.
The JTAC frowned, adjusting the dials on his comms gear, trying to boost the signal or find a different frequency. "Come on…" he muttered under his breath, frustration creeping into his voice. But no matter what he tried, the result was the same—only static.
Nolan watched, his jaw tightening as the silence from the radio stretched on. The lack of connection only deepened the unease hanging over the group.
"Wait. Let me check that radio real quick," one of the Rangers said, his voice steady despite the situation. He carefully handed off his wounded comrade to another Ranger, ensuring the injured man was supported before stepping forward.
The JTAC operative glanced over his shoulder and, seeing no harm in it, turned slightly to give the Ranger full access to his radio. "Be my guest," the JTAC said, stepping aside but keeping his eyes on the surroundings.
The Ranger crouched slightly, inspecting the comms setup with practiced hands. He adjusted a few dials, checked the connections, and tapped the antenna. "Everything looks fine," he muttered, narrowing his eyes at the device. "But let's see if we're dealing with interference."
He reached for the frequency selector, scanning through several channels while keeping one hand steady on the PTT. Each attempt was met with the same result—static. Frustration began to creep into his expression as he tried one last adjustment. "Station, this is Delta-1-Juliet. Do you copy? Over?" he called, but the response was no different.
After a moment, he leaned back and shook his head. "Radio's working fine. Signal's strong. Whatever's wrong, it's not on our end."
The group exchanged uneasy glances, the realization settling in that their connection to the outside world might be completely severed.
Outside the crater, faint voices echoed through the still air, just barely audible over the unsettling silence that had settled around them. The SEALs and Rangers exchanged tense glances, their instincts kicking in as they silently adjusted their positions, raising their rifles toward the source of the sounds.
The voices were muffled, indistinct, but they were undoubtedly growing closer. The team shifted into defensive positions, some taking cover along the crater's edge while others crouched low, eyes locked on the direction of the noise.
"Anyone make that out?" one of the Rangers whispered, his voice barely audible.
"Negative," a SEAL replied, his tone steady but his grip on his rifle tightening. "Stay frosty boys."
Out of nowhere, a man clad in Russian camouflage scrambled over the edge of the crater wall, his movements quick and deliberate. Without sparing so much as a glance at the Americans, he dropped flat against the dirt, his rifle aimed intently at whatever lay beyond the crater. His sharp eyes darted across the terrain as he peered over the edge, his breathing steady despite the tension.
Suddenly, he extended his free arm toward the lip of the crater. "Davai, Alex! Davai!" he barked in Russian, urgency lacing his voice.
A second later, another hand reached up, grasping the first soldier's wrist in desperation. With a grunt, the Russian hauled the second man over the edge, pulling him into the relative safety of the crater. The new arrival collapsed against the ground, panting heavily, his own rifle clutched tightly as if it were a lifeline.
Seconds later, another Russian soldier jumped into the crater, followed quickly by another, and then another. One by one, they piled into the hollow until more than a dozen Russian soldiers stood among the Americans, their uniforms dusty and worn, their movements tense and hurried.
The SEALs and Rangers froze, their eyes darting between one another in silent confusion. These were the very men they had been fighting for years, their sworn enemies—but now, they were crammed together in this crater, the Russians seemingly oblivious to their presence.
The Americans held their rifles steady, their sights trained on the newcomers. Fingers hovered over triggers, ready for the worst. Yet, no one moved. The Russians were focused entirely on the crater's edge, their weapons aimed outward, scanning the horizon for whatever had driven them into this unexpected sanctuary.
None of the men inside the crater said a word. The silence was broken only by the heavy, labored breathing of the Russians, a clear sign they had been running hard—and from something. The Americans exchanged uneasy glances, unsure of what to make of the situation.
What stood out the most to the SEALs and Rangers was that these weren't ordinary Russian grunts. Their gear was high-end—similar to what the SEALs and Rangers themselves wore. Advanced optics, modular rifles, lightweight tactical vests, and state-of-the-art communications equipment. These were Spetsnaz—or some other elite unit. And if they looked this shaken, it meant something truly horrifying was out there.
The Russians were tough—some of the toughest soldiers in the world, hardened by brutal training and countless operations. They didn't rattle easily. Yet here they were, chests heaving, sweat pouring down their faces, eyes wide with fear as they kept their weapons trained on the lip of the crater.
One of the Russians, his hands trembling slightly, pulled the magazine from his rifle to check his ammo. In his haste, the mag slipped from his grasp, clattering against the dirt before sliding down the crater wall. He muttered a quiet curse under his breath—"Chyort"—and scrambled after it, sliding down on his hands and knees to retrieve it.
He caught the magazine, brushing the dirt off quickly, and was just about to reinsert it when he looked up. His movements stopped cold. Less than a foot away, he was staring directly into the barrel of an M5 assault rifle. The Ranger holding the weapon didn't flinch, his finger hovering just above the trigger.
"Oh, blyat…" the Russian muttered, his voice barely audible, but it carried a weight of realization that sent chills down his spine.
Behind him, the other Russians perked up at the sound of his voice. One by one, they turned to look, their movements slow and cautious. As their eyes fell upon the Americans standing at the edge of the crater with weapons trained on them, their expressions shifted from confusion to collective shock. Wide eyes and stiff postures told the entire story—what they thought had been a momentary safe haven had just turned into a powder keg.
Nolan, sensing the tension rising to a dangerous and potentially catastrophic level, knew he had to act fast to defuse the situation. Slowly and deliberately, he lowered his M5 rifle with his support hand, ensuring his movements were measured and non-threatening. His other hand came up, fingers spread wide in a universal gesture of calm.
"Alright… nobody—moves a muscle," he said, his voice low but firm, cutting through the thick silence that had settled over the crater. He glanced between the SEALs, Rangers, and the Russians, ensuring everyone heard him. "We don't want a shootout in here. Not now. Not like this."
The Russian soldiers, still frozen in place, exchanged wary glances, their hands still gripping their rifles. The SEALs and Rangers shifted slightly, keeping their weapons at the ready but following Nolan's lead, their barrels lowering ever so slightly.
"We're all in the same boat here. Alright?" Nolan continued, his tone steady but authoritative. "Whatever chased you into this crater, it's still out there. So let's not kill each other before we figure out what the hell is going on."
The words hung heavily in the air, both sides quietly absorbing the precarious truth of their shared situation. Then, cutting through the oppressive silence, a sound unlike anything they'd heard before echoed outside the crater—a deep, mechanical grinding, rhythmic and deliberate. It sent a shiver through the already tense soldiers.
The Russians reacted immediately, scrambling back to their previous positions, rifles snapping toward the lip of the crater. Their breathing quickened, panic flickering in their eyes as they braced for what was coming.
Then, without warning, a massive, spider-like leg of metal and cables descended from the edge of the crater. It came down with terrifying speed and force, slamming into one of the Russian soldiers before he could react. With a sickening crunch, his body was crushed, split in two as blood sprayed across the crater floor.
"Yebat! ALEX!" one of the Russians screamed, his voice breaking as the remaining soldiers dove for cover, rolling and sliding out of the way, their rifles spitting fire at the monstrous limb.
"Holy shit!" one of the SEALs yelled, his eyes wide in disbelief as he instinctively raised his rifle.
"THE FUCK IS THAT?!" a Ranger shouted, his voice laced with a mix of shock and fear as he swung his M5 toward the massive metallic leg.
The creature's leg withdrew slightly, then slammed down again, sending another tremor through the ground. The Russians instinctively moved further down into the crater, taking cover beside the Americans. For a moment, there was a strange sense of unity as both groups crouched together, their eyes fixed on the monstrous thing revealing itself above the crater wall.
It bore a faint resemblance to an ant, though its jagged, mechanical frame gave it a far more nightmarish appearance. Its body, a sleek and deadly amalgamation of armored plating and exposed hydraulics, glinted faintly under the pale light. From the front of its main hull jutted two cylindrical structures that, on closer inspection, looked unmistakably like gun barrels.
As it fully emerged over the crater's edge, its hexapedal walking system became clear. Each leg, long and skeletal, moved with calculated precision, emitting the same mechanical grinding that the soldiers had heard earlier. The creature's unsettling movements were unnaturally smooth, each step deliberate and deadly.
The barrels on its front swiveled smoothly, scanning from one end of the crater to the other as if evaluating its prey. For a fleeting moment, no one dared to breathe.
Then it fired.
The sharp crack of its guns echoed through the crater as a burst of 12.7mm rounds ripped through the air. The rounds slammed into a SEAL, his body convulsing as the bullets tore through him, armor and flesh alike. He dropped to the ground in a lifeless heap, blood pooling beneath him.
"Shit!" someone yelled, the spell of shock breaking as the soldiers scrambled to avoid the incoming fire.
The creature's barrels tracked them with mechanical precision, spitting out another deadly burst. Dirt and debris erupted around the soldiers as they dove for cover, some leaping behind the crater's natural outcroppings while others slid into the trenches formed by its uneven walls.
Despite the chaos, the men fought back. M5 assault rifles barked in retaliation, their muzzle flashes illuminating the desperate scene. The Russians joined in, their own rifles—sleek and modern—adding to the cacophony of gunfire aimed at the machine.
"Spread out! Don't let it focus on one spot!" Nolan shouted, his voice barely audible over the roaring gunfire.
The soldiers moved, dodging and weaving to avoid the creature's relentless onslaught as they poured round after round into its armored frame. But the mechanical beast showed no signs of faltering, its relentless advance forcing them deeper into the crater as it continued its assault.
More men fell under the relentless storm of bullets, their cries of pain drowned out by the deafening roar of gunfire. The wounded from the prior engagement, already weakened and unable to move fast enough, were cut down where they lay. The scene was chaotic—desperate men scrambling for cover, their weapons firing in futility against the monstrous machine.
Amid the chaos, a Ranger sprinted through the firefight, diving and rolling behind the creature. His heart pounded as he slid into cover behind a supply crate. He pried the lid open with trembling hands, his breath hitching as he spotted exactly what he needed—a launcher.
He pulled it free—a sleek, upgraded AT-7, the direct successor to the legendary AT-6, built with significant improvements to its warhead. While its launch tube closely resembled the classic AT-4, this version packed far more power. Its warhead was designed to defeat even ERA-protected armor without needing a tandem warhead, giving it unmatched versatility and destructive capability.
The Ranger quickly armed the launcher, adrenaline surging as he created some distance between himself and the mechanical behemoth. The creature remained focused on his comrades, its guns swiveling as it continued its deadly assault, oblivious to the threat behind it.
Dropping to one knee, the Ranger steadied his aim, the weapon's targeting reticle aligning perfectly with the center of the creature's back. His finger tightened on the trigger, and with a deafening whoosh, the rocket launched from the tube, streaking toward its target with incredible speed.
The warhead struck dead center, burying itself into the machine's core before detonating with a massive explosion. A fiery shockwave ripped through the air, sparks and debris flying in all directions as the mechanical legs faltered and collapsed.
For a brief moment, the creature seemed to pause, its systems attempting to compensate for the catastrophic damage. Then, with a final burst of light and a thunderous explosion, the machine was torn apart, its remnants raining down in a shower of jagged metal, wires, and scorched debris.
The remaining soldiers, battered and bloodied, stared at the wreckage in disbelief. Smoke billowed from the crater floor as silence finally settled over the battlefield, broken only by the labored breathing of the survivors. The Ranger who fired the launcher slowly stood, his weapon still in hand, his face a mix of exhaustion and grim satisfaction.
Current Character and Vehicles:
Iron Horse-1 (M1A5 Abrams):
Captain John Paul Keller—Iron Horse-1 VC
Lance Corporal Gregory Sampson—Iron Horse-1 Gunner
Specialist Felix Erickson—Iron Horse-1 Driver
Private First Class Theodore Meyer—Iron Horse-1 Loader
Wardog-2 (Challenger 4):
Lieutenant Noah Piers—Wardog-2 VC
Warrant Officer Jack Leeman—Wardog-2 Gunner
Corporal Arthur Williams—Wardog-2 Driver
Lance Corporal Jasper Robinson—Wardog-2 Loader
Kaiser-1 (KF-51 Panther):
Feldwebel Adrian Koch—Kaiser-1 VC
Unteroffizier Emma Neuman—Kaiser-1 Gunner
Obergefreiter Otto Klein—Kaiser-1 Driver
Warpig-3 (M7 Bradley II):
Gunnery Sergeant Elijah Jones—Warpig-3 VC
Sergeant Matteo Miller—Warpig-3 Gunner
Corporal David Anderson—Warpig-3 Driver
75th Rangers:
Captain Nolan Simmens
Sergeant Martinez
Corporal Ramirez
Eighty-Six Spearhead Squadron (M1A4 Juggernaut):
Captain Shinei Nouzen "Undertaker" "Reaper" 1st Platoon & Squadon Leader
First Lieutenant Raiden Shuga "Wehrwolf" 2nd Platoon Leader & XO to Spearhead
Second Lieutenant Anju Emma "Snow Witch"
Second Lieutenant Kurena Kukumila "Gunslinger" 6th Platoon Leader
Second Lieutenant Theoto Rikka "Laughing Fox" 3rd Platoon Leader
Second Lieutenant Daiya Irma "Black Dog" 5th Platoon Leader
Second Lieutenant Kaie Tanyia "Kirschblüte" 4th Platoon Leader
Ensign Kujo Nico "Sirius"
Ensign Haruto Keats "Falke"
Ensign Io Dodanthe "Argos"
Ensign Ochi Anton "Gladiator"
Ensign Shuri Gilith "Dendroaspis"
Ensign Kariya Rohga "La Bete"
Ensign Hariz Senya "Cato'Nine"
Ensign Mina Shiroka "Artemis"
Ensign Matthew Nanaki "Walpurgis"
Ensign Kuroto Hinie "Manticore"
Ensign Lecca Lin "Burnt Tayl"
Ensign Tohzan Sasha "Gunmetslstorm"
Ensign Mikuri Cairo "Leukosia"
Ensign Myna Yatomika "March Hare"
Ensign Chise Authen "Griffin"
Ensign Touma Sauvy "Helianthus"
Ensign Louie Kino "Fafnir" K.I.A.
San Magnolia:
Brigadier General Jérôme Karlstahl
Major Vladilena Milizé
Major Cecilia Amaranth
Technical Lieutenant Victor Lysander
Technical Lieutenant Henrietta von Penrose
Sergeant Elliot Fainwright
Alive: 43
K.I.A.: 1
A/N:
Sorry for the late update folks. Not aweek ago I went through Eyesurgery. Hurts like a bitch but I'm pulling through, my eye also. Updates will still be delayed somewhat because the surgery but they will come. Have a great day you guys!
Reviewes:
Guest—Ghostly—First review: The Other member nations where either overrun or have no militaries to fight anymore due to a devestating first strike (none-nuclear). Iceland has and had no Military at all, Balkans where overrun in the beginning, Portugal also has no real Military that can be any harm to Russia. As on the rest of the Nations, I just concentrated on these three cuz main protagonists and all that stuff. Going as deep into NATO doctrine and members and laws etc. would make the story souly about Nato... which it obviously isn't.
Guest—Ghostly—Second review: Can you elaborate pls? I really want to know what you mean by the Plotholes. Maybe I can fix em.
Guest—Ghostly—Third Review: So, I don't want to spoiler too much, but San Magnolians are pretty darn good at hiding stuff from their folks. Seeing how they lied bout the Legion shutting down in some years until they believed it themselves is astonishing and concerning at the same time. Nonetheless, they're in for a rude awakening for when they suddenly see NATO Boots on the ground inside their precious Wall. Hehe.
Guest—Ghostly—Fourth Review: I already got something written down about that. Don't you worry. And why should I start researching?
To answer your latest Review Ghostly—Implementing all the NATO nations would be a Huge Clusterfuck for me. I'd lose sight over everything and then I'd be fucked. This was the main reason why I kept to these five. Maybe I'll take more in later but for now having four Nations bashing the heads of the fifth nation is more than enough writing material for me, especially considering, I have almost no time to actually sit down and write this on my PC. I write most of the story on my Phone.
I took refference of the Modern Warfare Russians and how these mfs managed to invade mainland US. Yes, they where besten back but the fact that they set foot on mainland US was enough for me to make my Russians here just as Powerful if not more. I get that the Russians here are pretty incompetent and plagued by corruption and sanctions. Mine aren't.
If you want more realism and a All out NATO-Russia Clash type story, there are many others you could read. I appreciate you being here and taking the time of your day to write the reviews, I really do. But of you want more realism and or keeping stuff more grounded, I think this isn't a Story for you. I try my best to keep the Weapons as real as Possible to what they'd MAYBE look like in 50 years. That's why I haven't done flying tanks or AI killer dog Bots running around with a 50 cal on top or some shit like that.
Then, I just went through the chapters again and think I never said the Russians are atill using the AK-47. Maaybe it was misscomunication on my side but their new Seevice issue rifle (in the fic) is the AK-262. The HCAR was never implemented in Military service, I know. Again, misscomunication on my end, I should have made that clear that most of the "relic" weapons are the personall belongings of the Bradley crew. The Russian Tank that went Missing I did not forget my friend. I can't say to much cuz spoilers and stuff but its comming.
I ain't even sure If I go into the NAVY. Maybe if I add China to a more deeper level to where they act, then Maybe yes. But before that the Navy will stay out of my Story.
To the Question with the Foreign Legion, this isn't a Gate fic where a Gahe appeared and people eun through whenever they want. Here the guys just suddenly dissappear because they stepped into a certain Area, and no one can explain the What, How and whens. So sending in Mercs in there is the laat Thing I'd do.
And the last question, believe it or not. I thought the same thing. Maybe yes. Maybe no.