The Days After (Game Topic)

Liam heading down the road occasionally every little while taking a glance at the bullet hole in the wind shield, wondering how he just missed the bullet." Is everyone ok back there?"
If yes "Well that sucks for durov" if no "Shit...durov will be moderately happy"

Kiwi

Two F16s flew through the cold air 20,000 feet above the ground. They always told the pilots that the seats were heated and that they worked, but either that was a complete lie, or they were just so cold that the heat was completely negated, and the pilots highly doubted it was the latter. Although, if you were to get into a fight, then you forgot about the cold really fast and if anything, you began to sweat, so maybe it wasn't all bad.

"That's them," said Caron, Morrison looked over to Caron's airplane to see him pointing, "There's Dog,"

A flight of F4 Phantoms, armed to the teeth with iron bombs, HARM missiles, and unguided rockets, rose through the clouds, red outlined golden stars signifying their friendliness.

"Dog flight, this is Spectre," called Morrison, "We're on your three o' clock, watch yourself,"

"We see you," responded Dog leader, "Twenty minutes to target?"

"I would guess," said Morrison, "We'll keep you protected,"

Spectre and Dog flew adjacent to each other, keeping an eye out for Western fighters, which during these days, infested the skies more then ever. With only two aircraft to protect the fighter-bombers, a lot was being asked of the F16 pilots, who regularly matched against the comparable Western Linebacker fighters piloted by many experienced pilots unlike the NET Air Force, which was being filled with unskilled replacements all the way up the chain from Airmen to even Colonels commanding entire wings, their newest Colonel heading the 334th, being a prime example of that. The casualty rates of the replacements was not good, with some fighter squadrons taking as much as many 80% total losses among them.

Spectre and Dog kept themselves alert, always on the watch for hostile sorties flying into the area. Avoiding combat was key to the success of this operation, and the actual ground attack portion of it wouldn't be long, maybe stay on station for fifteen minutes, if their ordinance lasted that long.

********

Mboddz

Boddy and Eckert returned to the center of town where Gerard was still scavenging ammunition; Stergess in the meantime trying to work up the nerve to get into the turret of the tank coated in gore. Nothing solid, but a feeling just came to Boddy that something was coming. Something was coming and they’d need to take a stand. Whether it’s the Battle of Thermopylae or the Last Stand at the Alamo, the Battle of Shiroyama or any story where few stood against many, they all have one thing in common. They’re not famous because the little guys won. They’re famous because the little guys put up a damn good fight…

Before they died…

“Find anything else?” asked Boddy,

“If this is it,” said Gerard, “We’re going to have to use sticks and snowballs with rocks in them for weapons.”

“Well,” Boddy sat down on a weapon crate, “Maybe so,”

“CAPTAIN!” shouted a voice, “CAPTAIN!”

Boddy stood back up to see who was shouting for him. Crane and Reznor were running back, sprinting into Chapoi kicking the snow up as they ran. Boddy and Eckert went to meet them, the village so small that a short run and you almost ran out of it.

“What’s going on?” asked Eckert,

“Captain,” Crane tried to catch his breath, “Mechanized infantry are en route to our position, accompanied by additional heavy armor, M60s not M48s.”

“Did you see the dust?” asked Boddy,

“No, the snow’s keeping it down. They’re close, maybe a few miles, you can see over on the overlook,” explained Reznor, “Listen, we’ve either got to make a stand or get the hell out of dodge, it's a real catch twenty-two.”

“Make a run out of here, they’ll see us for miles,” said Eckert, “Make a stand…”

The group was quiet.

“I don’t have to say what will happen,” finished Eckert, crossing her arms and shaking her head in disbelief, “What say you Captain?” she asked, “What do we do?”

********

Jagdgeschwader

The 7th and 9th Battalions important personnel met that evening in conference rooms to converse about redeployment, reinforcement, and reimbursement, with a deployment back to the frontlines inevitable in the next few weeks. Meetings like these were commonplace, in peacetime, but not so much in wartime when all of said personnel would be off on the frontlines. Because of the fighting in Bakken, most officers in the 7th and 9th Battalions were actually fresh officers or transfers from other units. Throughout the war, a need for high ranking officers was higher than ever, which is why some NCOs were promoted straight to 2nd or 1st Lieutenant, sometimes skipping anywhere from four to six ranks altogether, and also the reason why when Desmond denied the 2nd Lieutenant promotion, he was denied and promoted anyway. Many officers were new, some were not. For Grant and Desmond, it was a wake up call looking at the entirety of the command structure and noticing all the holes that were plugged. Officers almost never saw combat against raiders, it was strange that there were even holes.

"The 7th Battalion is called together to represent the common needs of ourselves, so that we may work together to be stronger, faster and more proficient in our works for the glory of the West, unto the will of the country, and its leader Chancellor Weston, God be with us," began Lieutenant Colonel Michael Cutter, a replacement transfer from the 2nd Battalion.

To clear up jargon, the West organized their elements much like the countries before them. In the West, a rifles division (Like the 4th) is composed of 20,000 soldiers. This is divided into 20 Battalions, each Battalion with 1,000 soldiers. Every Battalion has five Companies, identified by name (Alpha, Bravo, Castle, Dog, Echo) with 200 soldiers in it. Armor elements existed in each Division, the 17th - 20th Battalions making those up, with mechanized infantry elements in each as well.

"God be with us," responded the officers,

"OK..." Cutter read from a transcript, "CSM Moore, you requested, directly I might add, an increase in infantry weapons across the board in light of 'reserves that are 1000% understocked'," Cutter looked to her, "Is there any reason you bypassed the head Quartermaster, Captain Aldous?"

Moore adjusted herself, "After formally addressing Captain Aldous four times, requesting for an increase in infantry weapons, and being denied four times, I found it unacceptable that I was being denied. If anyone remembered in Bakken, 90% of our soldiers were using captured L1A1s off of fallen NET soldiers, even with supplies that dropped into the enclave on a regular basis,"

"Our factories are already overburdened as it is," said Captain Aldous, "Like I told you and the other Quartermasters Company Sergeant Major, we don't have the supplies to fill that order,"

Moore retorted, "You didn't even put in a queue though, you just denied our Battalion weapons, weapons I might add, that we desperately need. Right now, if we were to go back to battle, we would have only one rifle for every six soldiers. Did you not learn at the Academy how at the Battle of Stalingrad, one in every three Soviet soldiers were given a rifle, leading to the deaths of thousands of soldiers needlessly against German fortifications? If we're to continue this assault into the Eastern fields, our soldiers need weapons."

"As I said before, our factories are overburdened and can't even sufficiently supply the frontlines with the rifles they need," repeated Aldous,

"Captain," said Desmond, "If your Quartermasters are requesting rifles, they need rifles,"

"And who are you?" asked Aldous,

"2nd Lieutenant James Desmond,"

"And what is your role?"

"I'm in charge of 50 men and women, their lives I'll pin on you," Desmond pointed, "If only eight of them go into battle with rifles,"

"Alright, alright," said Cutter, "Calm down," he turned to Aldous, "Aldous, put in an order for rifles. As overburdened as factories are, we all need weapons. Pull strings if you have to."

Aldous agreed, and the officers turned to a different topic. Cutter again turned to the transcript, which was mainly just complaints by officers, requests, and a few glaring issues within the group sprinkled in from place to place.

********

Destroyer, Westhybrid

This fool of a man she'd been tricked into joining with was already starting to get on her nerves, as if things were bad enough, and even though she had many problems with her father, Sarah didn't take kindly to people bad mouthing him in any fashion. He was still after all her father.

"Don't be so sure about that," she warned, running a finger across his neck but Volke just slapping it away, "Feisty huh?"

"Remember who the lesser is in this relationship," said Volke ominously,

She rested on a railing, "Didn't matter how much you were paying him, if you did something he didn't like, you would've heard it. Money didn't mean anything to my father,"

"Loyalty kept him in place," said Volke, "The fact of the matter that I gave your father a reason to do something with himself was enough to keep him complacent, and the fact that I'm such an outstanding civil servant gave him even more reason," he said sarcastically.

"Meaning?"

"You don't know a thing about him, which is scary because I knew him a whole month or two. All of you Westerners will go above and beyond the call of duty if only to bring glory to yourselves, it's really quite easy to manipulate,"

She furrowed her eyebrows, "Speaking of manipulated, how is your company coming along?"

"Alright," Volke backed off, "You got me there,"

After settling differences, they proceeded further into the building where Sarah spent the next hour becoming registered as a member of Los Zetas, which is really just a ton of paperwork and selling your soul to absolutely everything. The level of secrecy was actually quite surprising, since they needed to keep deniability, it seemed like black ops or something rather, which in retrospect, it actually was since they were tools for the actual black ops.

What came with the secrecy though also had to come with basic training. When it came to mercenaries, they were as varied as snowflakes, some good, most were horrible, but all needed to know basic weapons training, and the signature rifle of Los Zetas, North Mexican manufactured M16s, were their favored weapons. Smaller compared to the M14, faster RPM, but smaller rounds made it a far more user friendly weapon compared to the Western M14s that were standard place in the Western military.

"I told you, I didn't sign on to this to fight," said Sarah,

"I know, and I'll recommend you for a non-combatant role, but everyone needs to know their stuff when it comes to these things, besides, this probably isn't the first time you had to protect yourself against a giant piece of meat!"

Sarah looked at him strangely, then down at the dead hanging pig being used as a target.

"Bad joke?" asked Volke,

"Yeah," she said,

"Alright, well, whatever. Take aim and start beating that meat like it owes you money!"

She again looked at him strangely,

"Bad joke. Just start shooting."

********

Crane: looks at boddz hoping he has a sound idea and not a suicidal one
"im with you, making a stand is the best thing to do"

Boddy looked up at his group before scanning the horizon.

"I guess we don't have much of a choice. Hunker down and stay the fuck out of sight. I don't want that fucking armor pelting us if they the get the drop on us. If we're forced to engage, then try and keep some of the buildings between you and the formation.

Guys...see if you can get a coupe HEAT and AP rounds and rig some IED's outta them at the the towns outskirts. And comrades... if we don't make it...its been an honor."

mboddz751 wrote:honor."

Honour

Cloakey100 wrote:

mboddz751 wrote:honor."

Honour

Sorry, we don't speak mushmouth.

Jagdgeschwader wrote:

Cloakey100 wrote:

mboddz751 wrote:honor."

Honour

Sorry, we don't speak mushmouth.

Psst, the pronunciations are the same. Only the spelling is different.

So, y'know, the proper term would be mushspell. Ha! Get it? Because "mushspell" is similar to mispell? And the spelling of honour/honor differentiates with each culture? It's gold! Comedy gold! Guys? Isn't it funny? Guys?

ApocalypseVVolf. wrote:

Jagdgeschwader wrote:

Cloakey100 wrote:

mboddz751 wrote:honor."

Honour

Sorry, we don't speak mushmouth.

Psst, the pronunciations are the same. Only the spelling is different.

So, y'know, the proper term would be mushspell. Ha! Get it? Because "mushspell" is similar to mispell? And the spelling of honour/honor differentiates with each culture? It's gold! Comedy gold! Guys? Isn't it funny? Guys?

Shut up.

DJDimitri, Desert Sleepy, Snowwolf

"That's not looking good," said Wooten, looking out the window of Durov's office,

Durov walked up to the window right next to him, "No, looks like they did what I needed," he took a drag from his cigar, "That's Arthur Platform, has to be,"

"Why aren't you evacuating this place?" Wooten walked over to the desk, "This place will be overrun, just like Arthur, just like Baker, just like Romeo, they're all falling," Wooten adjusted his belt, "I'm pulling out. Some slack-jaw mercenaries aren't going to protect your stuff, not when the entire Army is in retreat."

"Do I look like an idiot? I know I'll have to leave, but twenty miles is a lot of land to cross. While I'm still here, I'm making profit. The West has been gaining ground steadily, and at this pace, I'll have a couple weeks at best. That's a lot of time,"

"You've got some courage, I'll give you that,"

Outside, the convoy was just arriving that Durov had sent, which excited Durov, eager to hear of progress since that was one of the first groups he sent to combat to actually return. He went outside, leaving his door open, Wooten following him. The pickups stopped in front of the office while Liam parked parallel to the pickups, offloading the remaining NET troops. Only when Liam actually disembark the truck did he see how damaged the truck was from combat, bullet holes riddling it. Liam went to greet the soldiers, who he hadn't gotten the opportunity to meet in all of the chaos.

"Fomin, you're back!" said Durov, "How did things go?"

The mercenary leader approached him, "Derrick was destroyed, but the NET executed your workers. They were dead when we got there."

While Durov was pleased to hear about the derrick being destroyed, the fact his workers were dead upset him, but he was not surprised by it, "Good work Fomin," he said, "Go and relax, you've earned it,"

Even Durov was being changed by the environment. If only a few months ago this had happened, he would be furious at the soldiers who had done that, even if it was because they were ordered to and just doing their work. Now, he understood that they were lucky to escape with their lives. Durov himself had had his life threatened once, back in Bakken almost a year ago, when a soldier knocked his tooth out with the stock of his rifle, right after getting into a gun battle in the middle of broad daylight. It took a little to realize that was what those soldiers endured everyday, one hundred fold. Wartime really did change everyone, for better or worse.

"How are you guys doing?" asked Liam to the soldiers, closing the door on the five ton. Six soldiers hopped out of the back, bloodied and dirty from the fighting.

"Got to thank you civilian," a soldier offered his hand, "You saved us,"

"It wasn't a problem," said Liam, the other soldiers crowding around him to pat him on the back,

"No, you don't understand," said another soldier, "You SAVED us. Every day for two months I've felt like it was going to be my last, but you gave me another," the soldier hugged Liam, "You're a godsend,"

The soldiers assumed Liam was from the homeland, noting his perfect French and accent, "Were you conscripted back in the homeland?" asked another,

"I'm not exactly a law abiding citizen," said Liam,

"Most of the officers treat us like faceless drones since a lot of us didn't want this," he explained, "They're worse than usual since most of the professionals are gone, and they have to rely on us,"

"Aren't you devoted? You were fighting pretty hard at that platform,"

"They don't care!" said the first soldier, "Conscripts have always had a horrible reputation. No matter how hard we fight, we've been dying by the droves being left behind, making last stands, if you hadn't saved us from that hole, we'd probably be dead now,"

"I lost ten friends five days ago," started another, "We were ran over by an armored force at a village where practically all of us were killed holding it so the rest of the platoon could evacuate," the man started to cry, "We fell one by one, until most of us were just bloody piles on the ground! My best friend since primary school, we hid among the dead, but the Western soldiers started to fire into the wounded! Spraying into my friends!" the soldier continued to cry, and one of his comrades comforted him.

Liam tried to not dwell on that story, and the first soldier introduced himself, "Anthony, Anthony House,"

"Liam Krieger,"

"Garrett Farland," said another, offering his hand,

"Greg Schumer," offering his hand,

The man crying stopped for a moment, "Sam Celice,"

"Garnier D'Arras" offering his hand,

"Art Auger," said Celice's comrade,

House started again, "There's a lot more stories like Sam's out there," he explained, "We didn't ask for this fight, we didn't want it,"

"None of us did," said D'Arras, "But these days...like Garrett was saying, we don't know when our last day will be, when our number comes up,"

"It was always a bad deal," explained Schumer, "But it's worse than ever,"

"How many of you guys know each other?" asked Liam,

"House and I have been in the same squad for almost three months now," said Schumer, "The rest of us are scattered, we were all pitched into this platoon a few days ago,"

"Already broke the first rule," said D'Arras,

"Which is?" asked Liam,

"You don't talk to new guys," he said, "Don't get to know them, because they die fast,"

Problems would be problems. The unofficial rule among any unit actually was that you didn't socialize with the replacements. Replacements on both sides had extreme casualty rates, too much for someone to endure if they constantly made friends. It was best in war to just tough it out to the end, whether or not you were in it for the long haul or cut short by a speeding bullet or cannon shell. There was no other choice.

"If it means anything," began Liam, "I'm glad to have met you all,"

*********

Mboddz

The group turned at the Captain, waiting on him to make a decision on what they should do. Boddy thought hard about it, knowing full well in situations like these, it was an extremely delicate process that if done incorrectly could result in catastrophic failure. There was no hope of even attacking these enemy in an ambush type scenario, unless…

“Does anyone know how to rig one of those shells to explode?” asked Boddy,

Stergess looked at him, “Like what? What do you mean?”

“Like a HEAT shell,”

“That’s a shaped charge meant to slam into a target at 4000 feet per second. It wouldn’t be a very good bomb, since it relies on the pressure made by hitting the target that hard. It punches a hole in the armor and kills the crew inside, if it succeeds in penetrating the armor.”

“I hear stories of soldiers rigging artillery shells to go all of the time, why not one of these?”

“Well, those are specifically meant to blow up buildings, fortifications, large radii,”

“Alright, alright, I get it,” Boddy stopped that line of conversation, but he still had a plan, “We don’t stand a chance if we try to attack them. We also don’t know if they’re actually coming for us or just passing through. In all honesty, if they’re coming for us, we’re screwed anyway, so the plan,” he pointed to the buildings, “Is to hide. If we masquerade as the dead, cover ourselves with their blood…”

“That can’t be sanitary,” said Eckert,

“Unless we’re compromised, nobody is firing. Alright? You do, you jeopardize all of our lives, and our slim chances turn into none,”

“We’re with you,” said Crane,

“Hide among the dead-DON’T HIDE ON THE ROAD,” Boddy warned, “If the tanks use the road you don’t want to get squished like a tube of toothpaste,”

The group went to hide, wiping blood from their fallen comrades onto themselves to be convincing. Boddy before going to hide went to the top of the two story house that he set the machine gun up in to get a look at the attacking force. The view was obstructed, but he could see a few. What looked to be three MBTs and a few M113 personnel carriers, possibly just an armored convoy, but definitely too much firepower to deal with. Still, nobody pays attention to dead bodies (Nobody that’s a soldier anyway) and staying still isn’t difficult.

Boddy went back downstairs to see Reznor and Eckert wiping blood on themselves, Eckert in disgust, Reznor…somewhat apathetic.

“This is disgusting Captain,” she said,

“Noted Sergeant,” said Boddy, doing the same. It was pretty gross actually.

“We’ll be here, Captain,” said Reznor, “Hell, if things get comfortable I might go to sleep,”

“My God, you are strange,” complained Eckert,

Only a few minutes away, they took their positions, most opting to stay with bodies rather than hide somewhere for fear of being singled out. As much as the Western soldiers weren’t looking for soldiers hiding as the dead, it still didn’t hurt to be careful.

********

Kiwi

“Height: One-Zero. Vector: Two-Six-Five"

Spectre and Dog dropped in altitude to one thousand meters after hitting waypoint Castle. The target was only a minute away at this point, but things still weren't showing up. Morrison kept his eyes on the sky but also on the ground looking for the village of Chapoi.

"Major," said Caron, "Down below, there's the village. See the overlook?"

An overlook was in the foreground, and the village just behind it. Morrison radioed to Dog, which Dog was already in formation line astern. Spectre, Morrison's group, kept a height of one thousand meters above the target area, scanning for targets, and about to enter the village, the column appeared.

"Dog, this is Spectre. Eyes on the armored patrol, inside the village, I repeat, inside the village! If that wetwork team is inside there, this will be danger close. You will be firing on friendlies!" warned Morrison,

"Spectre, abort or continue?" asked Dog leader,

Morrison thought about it, "Hold for orders," continuing the orbit around. It came to him that he should probably ask Descateaux if possible. It was his team after all, so Morrison contacted Minot airfield and asked for Descateaux to get on the line.

Fire came from the village, the guns on the tanks firing skyward to attempt damaging the aircraft. Meanwhile, the aircraft continued their orbits, eyes on the ground.

********
Mboddz, Cloakey

Boddy was sweating bullets at the armor parked right in front of him, firing its commander seat .50 caliber at the jets flying above. While he could see the jets every now and again come into his sight, he couldn't get the thought out of his head that they would be attacking the armor there. Why else would they be loitering? But then again, why were they loitering?

Two Western soldiers took cover behind the tank, so close to Boddy that he could reach out and grab either one of them, "What are they doing?" asked one soldier,

"I don't know, they're just flying around,"

"God forbid they try to do runs,"

"AIDAN!" came a shout from afar, "Aidan!"

Another soldier came running up to the previous two, "You got that Stinger?"

"It's in the carrier," said Aidan, "I've only got one though, it won't do much,"

Elsewhere, Reznor and Eckert were also having the same problem. A soldier actually tripped over Eckert, she trying her best not to move or make a sound, but it was harder than thought. The entire situation made both of their hearts beat like a drum, not wanting to be discovered and so far going unnoticed by the Western troops. The combined shots of the machine guns firing was deafening, along with the jets that still were orbiting. Every soldier thought about what was going to happen, what if the jets made a run in on top of them?

In another part of the village, secluded by hedges walling off the house's backyard, Crane, Stergess and Gerard hit among a group of fifteen or so soldiers fallen around a damaged M2 machine gun encased in sandbags. The Western soldiers were staying away, but it still made it no less unsettling. One thing was for sure, if they survived this, it would make a hell of a story.

********

Kiwi

"Spectre lead this is Papa Bear," said Descateaux, Papa Bear being his permanently assigned callsign, "What is the situation from your view?"

"I see armor inside the village that you said your team was inside before you lost contact with them. A lot of it, at least four tanks, more personnel carriers,"

"What do you need me for?" asked Descateaux,

"I need permission to fire. If your team is in there, there is a very real chance of friendly fire. They could be killed,"

The radio was quiet...

"Papa Bear, are you there?" asked Morrison, "Papa Bear, respond,"

********

Liam says his farewells to the soldiers and heads to report in

Liam says his farewells to the soldiers and heads to report in

Jagdgeschwader

"CMO Willingham," announced Cutter while he read his transcript, "You wanted to address a reinforcement problem?"

Chief Medical Officer Hailey Willingham was a transfer from the fatherland, part of the replacements since the 7th returned from Bakken, the previous CMO being killed in an artillery strike. An officer of five years, she was an academy graduate and not battle hardened, her MOS not requiring it.

"Ah, yes, Colonel," she went through the transcripts of a previous meeting, "On 19 February, 2216, you stated that, 'Injured soldiers will have to return to combat when leave is up. It is non-negotiable,'"

"Is there a problem with that?" asked Cutter,

"Well sir, it seems pretty obvious...but uh...that won't be possible,"

"And why is that Chief?"

Willingham laid the paper down on the desk, becoming flabbergasted, "The soldiers in physical therapy and the clinics right now are in no shape to return!"

"Casualties were unbelievably high Colonel," stated a lieutenant, "Almost half of the 4th Division was KIA, the 3rd and 1st had to back up the lines substantially, the 3rd, 5th, 14th, 1st, and 6th Battalions were completely lost, the 7th and 9th have to be rebuilt from almost scratch,"

"I'm fully aware," said Cutter, "All the more reason why the injured unfortunately have to go and fight. Replacements are slow to come, we're making due with what we've got. Conscription is in full effect right now,"

"Colonel, we've all seen plenty of battle to know that wounded soldiers are next to worthless in a fight. Healthy soldiers die easily enough," Willingham tried to explain,

"Next to worthless is better than nothing. Any soldier who can fight, needs to be put back into the fight. It doesn't matter if his arms are shaky, we need bodies."

"I just don't see how it can end anyway but badly," she said, putting the papers into the pile, "It won't be good, it can't be."

"Chief," said Grant, "Those of us who survived know what we're asking for. It's a lot, but we need who we can get. 15,000 dead is a big hole to fill,"

"I don't know, Colonel," said Desmond, "I agree with the CMO, we saw plenty of soldiers try to fight wounded. It wasn't pretty. In the end, they just bogged us down even more and the good majority of them fell anyway,"

"Being wounded slows down a group enough, it doesn't hurt to get rid of them in a useful way!" exclaimed Cutter, "

"Sir, what's the point in having these personnel to advise you if you're just going to ignore them anyway?" asked Desmond,

"Excuse me Lieutenant? I'm not some Niedermayer who demands respect straight out of The Academy. I know what it takes to win a war, and while I don't enjoy sending wounded men to their deaths, it is what will be necessary,"

"Yes sir, sorry sir," Desmond already hated the Officer Corp. It seemed to be nothing but arguments and doing whatever the top said. There was a reason why he never accepted the promotion. Officers were half politician and half soldier. Sometimes one more than the other, but hardly ever more the latter than the former.

Inside the medical ward, after that meeting had concluded, the rest of Desmond's platoon congregated in there to finish their combat evaluation, and to begin physical therapy for those who needed it. Desmond went to meet Chief Medical Officer Willingham, to discuss his platoon's well being.

"Thanks for seeing me, Chief," said Desmond,

"Sure, sure," she adjusted her glasses, and adjusted her uniform, "What did you want to talk about?"

"Have you run most of my soldiers through?"

Willingham went through her filing cabinet, rolling over to it in her chair, "I think my assistant put them away, the last of them are getting finished now..." she continued to look, "Here you are-Wow, this is small,"

"Not very many made it back,"

"Sorry to hear that," she rifled through the lists, "What did you want to know?"

"Who's going back? Who's staying?"

"Oh, man," she said, "Out of...twenty two remaining, fourteen are returning, the other eight are staying,"

"Who's staying?"

"Uh...Sergeant Hunter...Sergeant Vasquez...Operative Corsican...Private Durant...Corporal Silva...Private Hawkins, actually, I take that back, six are staying."

"Why is Hunter staying?"

"He has minor coordination problems which can probably be fixed with physical therapy, I'm more worried about his eyesight," she stated, "He barely passed the 20/40,"

"Why isn't he being sent home then? 20/20 was the requirement during training,"

"It is, but it goes back to the problem we have with people. They're allowing up to 20/100 vision if it can be corrected to 20/70 and below. 20/70 is the new requirement since the shortages,"

"That meeting was pointless. Cutter refused to even listen to you, or anyone who went against him."

"It's OK," she said, "It happens a lot. Officers higher up think of me as a desk officer, a graduate who just does paperwork and thinks she's more important than she really is,"

"You're the CMO of the Battalion," said Desmond, "You are important. Very much so,"

"I'm glad you think so," she said with a smile, "But it's OK. I do my work, and a lot of soldiers benefit for me. That's why I took this up in the first place."

********

Volke:

Volke sat there looking at Sarah's recent files while participating in Los Zetas exercises. Decent shot, not bad working with a team. Not a soldier, but easily able to take care of herself.

Volke had managed to set himself up pretty nicely with the Los Zetas, being given a squad to command, all of who were former New Mexican special ops who fought and survived the conflicts in LA. While Volke had managed to dodge the New Mexican draft, he participated in many combat situations with the UGW, and defending his caravans personally.

One of the members of his squad, Stefan, walked into his office.

"Needed to see me, sir?"

"Yea. Grab Franco, Termous, Camila, and the others. We'll be moving out soon." Volke said.

Littered behind him were numerous papers nailed to the wall, some with pictures, some without. Among the names were Dimitri Durov, Cody Wooten, and Liam Kreiger, who all had photos. The wall was a mess, but the name "Cyler Crane" stuck out amidst the dossiers.

Volke held on to a file labeled Liam and Mordecai Kreiger.

Westhybrid, Destroyer

Spoiler:

A week passing by, paperwork sorted out, and deployment settled, Volke went over his documents in Boise waiting for the call from his superiors. Still with access to bank accounts through third parties, and with some nepotism in play, he became a team leader in a rifle team, a six man team and the base group in Los Zetas, which were organized into rifle groups, forming the bulk of Los Zeta's militant portion. With only a membership of 3,000, a number mandated by the North Mexican government to prevent mercenary groups from gaining too much strength, small team tactics were important and thoroughly taught. Although training was normally around one week long, since mercenary forces were constantly needed. Volke himself while not a military man, had enough combat experience that he could pass for a soldier. In his opinion, not a very good one, but a soldier. His leadership experience spoke for itself, as he had been trained since he was a child to become a leader, to gain results, to study strategy not only in business but also in warfare, such was the way of his father, and his before him.

One of his subordinates entered his office, almost slamming the door open, "Needed to see me?"

Volke lowered his glasses to his nose, "Yes, rally the troops. The top is putting us through the ringer today."

"Are they?"

Volke stood up, pulling an M16 rifle from behind his desk, pulling the charging handle, "Get ready for action, we'll be backing the police. They're taking out some Mafia types,"

Mercenary groups could be hired out by the government for a plethora of work archetypes. While Los Zetas and other groups were tools used by black ops organizations, they were also hired out by the local governments to be used as muscle against organized crime. While the West experienced less petty crimes than other places, organized crime was still just as rampant. When it came to punishment, it normally involved destroying the members, but the unspoken truth was that the only reason organized crime would be there in the first place would be to appeal to a group.

Social order and unity was very strong in the West, that much was true, but sometimes it may have been...exaggerated.

On Volke's wall, before he left, Volke looked again at the numerous papers pinned to his board. Among them, dossiers on Dimitri Durov, Ari Parsons, and fellow North Mexican Cody Wooten. These targets were assigned to his rifle group, which was ten rifle teams, by OFSA to stage assaults on. Dimitri Durov was an influential slave trader, with a hold on thousands of slaves in the field. The reasons were more political than ethical. With no leader, the work force in the Bakken region would fall apart. Ari Parsons was an oil tycoon, the reason again being that eliminating the top would cause the organization to fall apart, especially with all of the pressure already being put on them. Cody Wooten was an arms dealer, who funded eastern mercenary groups, private protection firms, and the military partly. Other problems were already being created to knock him out of the game, but physical assaults couldn't hurt either.

"Spooks weird me out in every sense of the word," said Volke, walking with Stefan,

"Who?"

"The 'Foreign and Strategic Affairs' guys," stated Volke, "Everything with them is on a need to know basis, you know the tycoons we're supposed to take out when we get deployed?"

"Something like that,"

"That's all I know. I assume that the reason is to cut the heads off their organizations, but all I know when I get the document is 'Adrian Volke-Date-Censor, censor, censor, censor, you are ordered with staging an attack on so and so, so and so, and will be transported and extracted by agents of the Office of Foreign and Strategic Affairs'. That's all we get, then we just go on it,"

"That's how things are," said Stefan, "Doesn't make it any less fun,"

"And the pay is always through the roof,"

"Just to get you to shut up!" remarked Stefan sarcastically, "Here's $5000, now forget everything!"

"Makes you wonder why they don't just send their own special forces from the Army to do that stuff,"

"They probably do, we just get the suicidal annoy-the-enemy type work,"

Volke and Stefan coming to the squad outside, Volke rallied them together. Six men and women came forward to him, Sarah eyeing him evilly for putting her in this situation. She never asked to be a soldier, but she kicked herself for not knowing any better. What do your parents tell you when you're a kid? Don't talk to strangers? So much for being an adult.

"Alright people," said Volke, "Today we're helping the police here take down some Mafia types at one of their warehouses where narcotics and weapons are fed in to the local raiders, probably funded by the NET. We'll be working with Police assault teams from their Special Purpose groups, so be professional. I know I don't need to tell you that anyway,"

His team nodded in approval,

"Our superiors are putting us on these operations to steel ourselves for operations in the East. We'll need it because once we get deployed here in a few weeks, we'll be big game hunting. These guys are small time compared to what you see out there, so with that, we're due in ten. Get in the truck,"

While Sarah still didn't like the situation she was in, she still remembered that he didn't necessarily lie to her. She was definitely helping in ways she never was before, and with that, she figured silver linings were something to look for in these times. Local Mafia families in Boise were always breaking the news throughout the country, it's high time that she gave them a piece of her mind.

********

Apocalypse, KGBoom

"Tyson!"

The voice was heard, but made no sound, and around him were the reminders of a time more chaotic. Images would change from one to the next, then finally rested on the last. It was back in Bakken, months ago. Around him, Desmond, Gunnar, and his fellow soldiers falling back, taking casualties as they retreated.

One soldier fell, round sending his helmet flying off his head as they retreated. A tank was forcing them down the road, running down the survivors as they fell back. At this time, the best chance was to sprint and blindly fire behind yourself in a vain attempt to suppress the enemy, but just like when it happened, it was pointless. Gunnar stopped to fire on a few soldiers who were inflicting many casualties, but when Tyson turned to grab him again, Gunnar fell, killed by the tank. It ended like it always ended, Desmond throwing him into an ally, falling on his back before it-

"*Gasp*!" he awakened in a cold sweat. Corsican grabbed his limbs, feeling everything to find it all, and when it was all real, and not a dream, he laid back down into his bunk. Looking around the barracks, he was the only one not awake. Other soldiers were reading, smoking, and conversing with each other, and as he looked at the clock, it was about 0900. He grabbed his medication from his case and went to the bathroom; washing his face and waking up. Corsican had been diagnosed, along with the majority of the rest of his comrades in Bakken, with Frontier Syndrome, which was caused by trauma and resulted in depression, flashbacks, nightmares, and anger. Most Western soldiers developed it through the course of their careers and very few managed to go without it. Some more so than others, the effects varied from person to person. Corsican had a bit of irritability, nightmares, and restlessness, managing to get by on a mild dose of Alpha blockers and anti-depressants. This was the low end of the spectrum. The high end of the spectrum were generally from long term enlistees, such as his handler Desmond, who was among the few soldiers going through MDMA trials in psychotherapy. Although it was important to note that he had been taking MDMA for two years.

Desmond was generally such an angry person, that even a drug that made people lively, promiscuous, euphoric, and empathetic with 'uncontrollable urges to dance', just made him slightly less of a curmudgeon.

After washing his face, taking his medication, and getting dressed, he exited the barracks and went down to the rehabilitation ward to visit Hunter, still recovering from his wounds in combat. One would imagine that a rehab ward would be depressing, but to Corsican, it was a silver lining. Many soldiers that he had come to know and care about slowly worked themselves back to better health here. They became strong again, or at least normal again, and the mood here was worlds ahead of the mood in combat. This was a place he could work with without losing sanity, in fact, he thought to himself that if he survived the ordeal, he may return to one of these places.

Hunter was being walked around by Chief Willingham, who was working with the patients today as opposed to working in her office. Hunter's abilities were improving, much better from Bakken when he could hardly walk, let alone run. Hunter thought to himself it was a miracle he survived a full scale attack in that state. It had to have been.

"Alright," said Willingham, "On this one, I'm going to let go. Don't use your cane, try to walk the distance without any help. I'll be right here if you do,"

"OK then," Hunter struggled a bit, feeling like he was going to fall. His injuries had actually been worse than the field medic in Bakken had predicted, and being released before enough time had accumulated had only set him back, not much, but backwards.

"You're doing fine," she encouraged, "Keep going,"

Hunter struggled further, then losing his strength and falling back into Chief Willingham, "I'm sorry" he said,

"Don't be sorry! It's OK, it's only been a few days. You're making progress," she said, "Why don't we take a break for a little? We'll start again when you're ready,"

"Thank you Chief," said Hunter, sitting down slowly as to not hurt himself, he turned to Corsican, "Hey there, what's happening?"

"Just woke up actually," he answered, yawning,

"Are the medications working for you Operative?" asked Willingham,

"Yeah, a bit," remarked Corsican, "I only had one nightmare, I didn't wake up the whole night,"

"That's good, that's good," she said, "That with therapy should help your restlessness and nightmares," Willingham turned to Hunter, "I'm going to go and work with Caparzo, if you need me, I'll be over there,"

"Many thanks, Chief,"

Chief Willingham walked off to another patient and Hunter stretched, trying to get his muscles to cooperate, but only pain ensued. His muscles in his trunk were almost locked up at times, restricting him from moving efficiently, causing problems with his walking. It was the result of a spinal cord injury when the NET attacked the enclave and he took a nasty fall. Being weak already, he was susceptible to injury.

"You think you'll be fine in a couple of weeks?"

"Oh yeah, probably, maybe," said Hunter sarcastically, "In all honesty I think so. I survived getting the hell shot out of me I don't see how I wouldn't recover from a fall,"

"Who's Caparzo?"

"Amputee," replied Hunter, "If you catch my meaning, he's learning how to use everything with his left hand now,"

"Ah," Corsican getting the implication, "That's unfortunate,"

"He's a good guy. He was manning a machine gun in Bakken until a hand grenade took him out. Mangled his face pretty good, they took his arm off at the shoulder, his wife was a..." Hunter chose his words wisely, "Bit of a screamer..."

"That's too bad," said Corsican sympathetically, "Did she come back?"

"I've seen her only once, but she's apparently visited a couple of times,"

Corsican almost felt an obligation to help the staff with their duties. With about forty patients, and only three staff on hand, including the Chief Medical Officer, they seemed like they needed as much help as they could get. Not only that, but it would help clear his mind and conscious. It was high time he stopped destroying and started building.

"How many there used to be of us, only these few made it back," he said, "This isn't a strange thing in your country, is it?"

"No," confirmed Hunter, "No, it's not,"

"Does that not bother you? Is this how every generation returns?"

Hunter thought about his answer, looking at the soldiers in the ward, "It's an obligation, as a man, to put yourself into this," he said, "My father committed, and so did his before him, and before him, et cetera,"

"There's really no problem with that then?"

"Men and women are equal, but men are expected to serve, with few exceptions. A man who doesn't is a coward. A woman who does is a hero. There's a lot of social glory in going through these hardships, it's almost like a social rite of passage."

"No nation has ever benefited from prolonged war," stated Corsican,

"Hey!" said Hunter enthusiastically, "Art of War!"

"There's always time to read,"

"You want to know another passage?"

"What?"

"So it is said that if you know your enemies and know yourself, you can win a hundred battles without a single loss,"

Corsican nodded.

"If you only know yourself, but not your opponent, you may win or may lose,"

Corsican nodded again,

"If you know neither yourself nor your enemy, you will always endanger yourself,"

"And what's that relating to?"

"I don't know if the West truly knows their enemies, but it definitely knows itself. War is one of the things that we all know. We don't glorify it, we approach it with truth. What you see here is not a shock to the West, they predicted it twenty years ago when we first met the NET,"

"So what are you saying?"

"You're singing to the choir. Western men are born to die."

********

Kiwi

“Papa Bear, do you copy? I need an answer!” repeated Morrison,

“Spectre lead, fire at will,” and Descateaux put the radio away,

Morrison, acknowledging the permission, looked back down to the village. Nothing had changed, and he took a deep breath as he realized that whatever Dog did, if the team was down there, they were going to be killed.

“Dog, fire at will,” ordered Morrison,

“Roger,” replied Dog, and the Phantoms orbiting quickly turned again into line astern formation, “Dog, on the attack. Target: Armor. Rockets first,”

“If you keep that line of attack,” suggested Morrison, “You’ll hit the armor perfectly,”

********
Mboddz

Boddy had been keeping an eye on the aircraft as much as possible as they orbited and the thoughts that ran through his head of the sheer firepower those aircraft carried was enough to make him adjust his position.

Hundreds of feet in the other direction.

The enemy infantry scattered from the armor, the last thing they wanted to be a part of was the explosive hell seconds away from raining down on them. 80mm rockets flew out of the pods underneath the wings of the fighters, as they hit houses they shattered walls, deformed the ground, and the tank Boddy was just by exploded after taking multiple hits. The column of tanks scrambled to react in time, trying to back up in the narrow village road proving to be just as difficult as it sounded.

Four volleys of rockets crashed into the village, Boddy hiding behind a house to protect himself. Beyond the hollering of the enemy soldiers and further machine gun fire, he wondered where the rest of his survivors were. Looking to his right…

“Hey Jean,” said Boddy nervously,

Reznor and Eckert braced against the same wall of the house. If things weren’t so chaotic, half of the crap they went through would probably be quite hilarious if in a different context.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this!” said Reznor, “Where’s Crane and the soldiers?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t see anything,”

“Quiet! Quiet!” said Eckert, the aircraft pulling up and away, “Let’s move through these hedges, towards the overlook,”

“What about Crane and the others?” asked Reznor, “We can’t leave them behind,”

“They know where to go if we get separated again,” said Boddy, pointing east, “The bottom of that overlook,”

“Good point,”

“Do we want to head down there now?” asked Eckert,

Boddy looked at the Phantoms flying around for another pass, “Yeah, let’s go now,”

Carefully moving through, Boddy took point, Hi-Power loaded. After the first attack, the Western soldiers scattered everywhere, impossible to know where they all went, so discretion and caution was a policy for the best.

********
Kiwi

"My flight, repeat attack. Rockets: target the armor," stated Dog. This time around, Dog broke formation and came in from four different directions, each plane coming from a different angle.

"Dog, don't forget about the armor attempting to leave the village. Don't let it get away," said Morrison,

"On the attack!"

********

Mboddz

"Those planes are coming in again," said Reznor, showing Boddy. Four planes came from four different angles, firing their rockets down onto the ground, deafening them. The explosions were larger than one would think, dirt clods and rocks were sent far from the impact craters with some landing near the NI4 operatives trying to exfiltrate. Boddy cleared yard after yard, while Eckert and Reznor cleared the houses.

They approached the overlook, which was about fifty meters down to the bottom. It was mainly dirt on rock at about a 80 degree gradient. Sliding down would be painful, but climbing down would be a gamble. As the three looked down, they decided to descend it, being their only option. As they started to slowly work their way down, gunfire from the town erupted in a lull between the attack runs.

"Shit!" said Boddy under his breath, "They found them!"

But more gunfire ensued. The survivors looked over the top of the cliff to see three figures sprinting towards the cliff, then three figures appear behind them coming from a building. The Western soldiers took up firing stances and aimed at Crane, Stergess and Gerard, the first few shots dropping Stergess, Crane and Gerard continued their sprint, but Boddy wouldn't allow Eckert and Reznor to help for the sake of the survivors. They were on their own.

Gerard turned around to return fire, but was cut down taking a few rounds to the midsection and a final to the head, falling down crumpled. Crane reached the overlook and turned around, a few more muzzle flashes coming from the building and Crane then going limp over the edge. Eckert, Reznor, and Boddy could do nothing but watch.

The aircraft came in again, this time dropping iron bombs. The pure shockwave of the bombs dropping knocking all three off their footing on the overlook and falling down. Boddy hit an edge, then slid down the rest, falling end over end until the ground, where the deep snow of a snowdrift cushioned his fall. He was headfirst in it, struggling at first to get out, but after a few attempts, getting himself on his feet. He was covered in snow, being in his hair, in his coat, in his mouth, and in his boots. He looked around to find his handgun, which was missing from his holster, before locating it in a handgun shaped hole in the snow. Flanking him, Eckert and Reznor were also reorientating.

"Everybody alright?"

Reznor coughed snow out of his mouth that he had breathed in during the fall, "God...dammit!"

"Are we fine?"

Eckert popped her neck, clearing her throat, shaking her head to get the snow out of her hair, "You guys..." she said, "This is going to be the death of me,"

"Are we good though?" repeated Boddy,

"Where's Crane?" asked Reznor, "Did he make it?"

"I think I saw him get hit," stated Eckert, "Did you see him Captain?"

********

Jagdgeschwader

Early in the morning was the time to exercise. Most soldiers took advantage of the early morning wake up calls in that respect, since the sun didn't come up until 0800. Weight lifting, running, and stretching were all very important to the average soldier's daily regiment. An out of shape soldier was a dead one.

Desmond and Grant were regulars in the weight rooms, spotting for each other and pushing each other to new maxes. Desmond was up to lift, with Grant just finishing another set of ten.

"Twenty down?" asked Grant, "Push yourself a little, Lieutenant,"

"I'm not repping maxes today," replied Desmond, "200lbs is good for this. You got me spotted?"

"I'm on it," Grant moved behind Desmond and put his hands on the bar, spotting for Desmond. Normal work routines for him and Desmond were bench pressing, curling, squatting and the occasional mile run. All soldiers were encouraged to exercise constantly, and most did since there was hardly anything to do in the first place besides sit and look pretty, play cards, play sports or watch television on three channels.

"Not bad, not bad," complemented Grant on Desmond completing a set of ten reps, "Tell me when you're ready to finish the next twenty,"

Desmond caught his breath, "Alright...ready,"

"Lieutenant," called a voice, "A word?"

The voice seemed directed at the pair, and both turned attention, "Which one?" asked Grant,

"James Desmond?"

"Speaking," said Desmond,

"I'm your new Company commander," said the man, "Captain Amarro,"

"Replacement?" asked Desmond grudgingly,

"Transfer," stated Amarro, "I've been in it,"

Desmond saluted, "How can I assist you, Captain?"

"Recruits from Carson arrived just last night. Conscripts, some not even out of secondary school yet. Put them through the ringer today, I want them out of the parade grounds running training and qualifying for their marksmanship. Can you do that?"

"A question, sir," asked Desmond,

"Ask away,"

"How come one of the NCOs isn't doing this? This is something for them to do."

"Originally, I had a Sergeant Hunter slated for this, but then I saw he was slated for rehab the next few weeks. The other NCOs are busy, and you're a senior enlistee turned officer,"

Desmond thought about it for a moment, not like it was his choice anyway,

"Doesn't hurt to go back to roots every now and again, Lieutenant," said Amarro,

"Yes sir," replied Desmond, saluting then both officers returning to their previous works. That was something for him to do the next couple of weeks, and hopefully it wasn't the only platoon being sent so he wouldn't be singled out.

Two hours later, the recruit replacements of the platoon were just waking up, assigned to the same bunkhouse the others in Castle Platoon were. They were green as grass, but spirited, the unwarranted hostility of the veteran members of the platoon not bothering them in the least.

"John," said Dietrick with a bar of soap in a towel in hand, "You game?"

Bishop lowered his book and got a grin of disbelief, "That's mean Mason,"

"And damn funny!"

"I'll watch," said Bishop. Dietrick was the kind of guy that liked to smack you in the stomach with soap in a towel for sleeping past everyone else, and today, Dawson was the victim. Dawson slept on the top bunk, arm hanging over like a slouch, and Dietrick readied the swing. By this time, the entire bunkhouse was paying attention, waiting for things to happen.

He slammed the bar of soap as hard as he could down onto Dawson, who woke up violently falling out of the top bunk onto the ground. The recruits bursted into laughter at the misfortune, Dawson standing up immediately trying to act like he didn't just fall out of bed. The veterans didn't; Corsican, Durant, Silva and the others just shaking their heads at the misfortune and continuing their activities.

"Oh my God Stu!" laughed Bishop, "OH MY GOD THAT'S FREAKIN' FUNNY!"

"Damn it," Dawson said, "You guys are dicks!"

"Look at Mason, not us!"

The group continued to laugh at Dawson's misfortune, embarrassed and humilated, but it was also just in good fun. Dietrick did this to everyone who slept in, and it was impossible to get him back without being a jerk since he was always up before everyone else.

"Shut the fuck up!" yelled Durant across the room, tying her hair,

"Seriously, you goddamn mooks," said another soldier,

"Christ alive," said another. The newer soldiers were always subject to hostility, no matter what, it was almost guaranteed across the entire military.

"Those guys have a good point," said Masters, listening to the radio, "Can't here the radio with you guys screaming," Masters and Wells were listening to the radio broadcasts, a news outlet which went to soldiers and told them about news in the fatherland, and how things were progressing in the world around them. Some of the recruits sat around it, the news was interesting to keep up in.

"In other news, NET resistance has fallen again to Western pushes as the 2nd and 4th continue to bulge the lines east. Three oil derricks and the surrounding area fell to Western forces and unsuccessful attacks on the derricks by NET forces to light them were averted when the West quickly deployed its sappers to snuff the flames. The top believes that most captured derricks will be put into production for the West within a year of the conflict ending. Sport now, and Reno, Nevada successfully halted Portland's ten game winning spree after taking them from the fifth inning onwards..."

"Damn it, Reno," said Bishop, "Why are you so cruel?"

"Dietrick, Glass, Vega, McKenna, Sawyer, Wells, Dawson, Kirschenbaum, Rivera, Kaminsky, Masters, Ferrel, Bishop, form line!"

The recruits formed into a line as quickly as they could, half of them scared by the sudden yelling. Desmond had arrived to put them onto the parade grounds, on orders from Amarro.

"You were all due on the parade grounds fifteen minutes ago, and most of you aren't even dressed! Get your asses in your fatigues before I stitch them into footballs and kick them from here to the Pacific!"

The recruits moved out to the parade grounds, while the remaining veteran infantry sighed in relief at the absence of them. While their happiness was annoying, all veterans treated new recruits unfairly. To the veterans, they'd be dead within a week anyway.

********

Snowwolf, DJDimitri, Desert Sleepy

Liam excused himself from the soldiers and went to meet Durov, who was speaking to the team leader of the mercenaries he worked with. For once, Durov seemed rather complacent. He wasn't stressed, he wasn't angry, he was only understanding and thankful that at least something had been done.

"Mr. Durov," asked Liam, walking over to him.

Dimitri turned to him, "I know what happened, you did your work well,"

"Um..." Liam was confused, "Thank you...sir,"

"Mr. Wooten wanted to talk to you, he's in my office," Durov shooed him away, and Liam proceeded into the office, which was heated, comfortable, and seated Mr. Wooten in the corner.

"I say," said Wooten, "I need to get an office like this, it must be twenty degrees in here!"

"It is pretty warm," Liam sat down next to him, "Dimitri said you wanted to talk to me?"

"Yes, actually," Wooten took a shot of liquor and lit a cigar, "Shot?"

"No thanks," Liam knew better than to drink on duty,

"Cigar?"

"I don't smoke,"

"Damn, you're no fun," Wooten took a drag of his cigar, "Alright, here's the deal,"

"I'm listening,"

"Government is up my ass about lending out mercenaries to do work that their soldiers are supposed to, but I hear those are in short supply these days,"

"Point being?"

"This work requires a bit of espionage. Maybe some finesse..." Wooten took another drag, blowing the smoke in Liam's face, "Do you know anything about explosives?"

"I've done my fair share of blasting bank vaults..."

"You ARE good! I've got a truck with some rainy day toys in it, you know that white pickup with the roll bar and the spotlights? The half ton? A few guys will back you up. The West likes to roll armor from the north, and there's a road they like to use since the fields make for a bumpy ride that causes you to get concussions rather easily. Once you see what I've got in there, you'll know what to do. Get to it,"

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Liam walked out of the office, saluting Durov on his way out. The white truck with the roll bar and spotlights was easy to find, since three people just loitered around it apparently waiting for him. Liam wondered sometimes how everything just gets done prior to him knowing, then he's yelled at to act, no matter what.

********

Snowwolf

Liam walked over to the truck and met the team, loaded for bear armed with rocket launchers. Inside the truck were anti-tank mines, four M19 anti tank mines, plastic encased using minimal metal to prevent detection.

"So," Liam got into the driver seat, "Who am I working with?"

The man in shotgun threw him keys, "Gaston. This is Guillaume,"

"Good to meet you," said Guillaume, reloading his weapon,

"And this is Marcel,"

"Hey," waved Marcel,

"Good to meet you," replied Liam, "Hopefully you guys know more than I do,"

"We were supposed to just follow you!" said Gaston, making Liam get very obviously nervous and shaken.

Gaston grew a smile, "Ahh! You're easy! Do you guys see this?" said Gaston to Guillaume and Marcel, "I know where we need to go, don't worry. Just drive."

They pulled out of the compound, heading north on the road. The armored column they were supposed to hit was supposedly about ten miles away, but that distance could be closed fast if needed, so they rushed to the position. From what Gaston explained, the goal of the plan was to mine a road out, planting what few they had strategically to cause as many casualties as possible. The mines though wouldn't be enough to destroy them, even though they had enough Comp B in them to destroy a small house. That's where the second part would come in. The four would have to then use the Vipers they had in the truck to destroy the remaining, which may prove far easier said than done. As they say, one problem at a time.

"So that's the plan?" asked Liam in disbelief, "Sounds suicidal,"

"Did it enough in the army," assured Gaston, "It's not too hard,"

Liam caught how implausible that was, "When were you in the army fighting tanks?"

Gaston was bluntly honest, "Never. I was just hoping it would get you to stop worrying,"

"How many launchers are in here?" Liam was being annoyed by the launchers that kept moving around on the floor of the truck, "They're in the way,"

"I think we've got..." Gaston thought to himself, "I think fifteen? Maybe sixteen?"

"Is that counting or not the ones that Marcel and Guillaume had strapped over themselves?"

"It's a lot, don't worry. These guys aren't going to know what hit them."

"If you say so. Seems like I'm always on suicide missions,"

"These guys are tougher than anyone I know, right guys?" Gaston yelled through the rear window,

"Screw you!" yelled Marcel back, freezing in the back of the truck going 40 mph on the road. The country roads were bumpy, but not nearly as bad as the fields. The thing to hope for was that something wouldn't see you in these big open plains. With optics, you could see for miles in any direction in the flatlands, almost nothing was there to stop your sight.

Better yet, tanks could fire for miles in any direction. If they somehow spotted the truck, Liam and the crew would be only a few seconds away from a 105mm shell that came flying down at hypersonic speeds. They wouldn't even know what hit them. At least that was the good part, you wouldn't hear anything or see anything, you would just suddenly blow up. Sounds...painful.

********

Destroyer, Westhybrid

These days it seems like there's no rest, in fact for some it felt like years since they had just sat down...

Everyone was always in a rush to go somewhere and somebody always needed killing. Such were the ways of the new world, almost calling back to simpler times almost four hundred years ago when Western man was first settling these lands. It was interesting how history turned full circle like that, and how history liked to run in circles. What was also interesting was what things would be after this civilization; after all, nothing lasts forever.

"Turn in behind the squad cars," directed Volke to the driver. The city streets of Boise were packed with horse drawn carriages and cars, police cruisers clearing the way for their motorcade. Police staged these kind of raids all of the time, and when it came to organized crime, the police considered everyone guilty. A 'shoot first, ask questions later' policy wasn't far away.

"These guys aren't even going to know what hit them," said Alvarez, prepping his rifle, "Going to be quick and dirty,"

"You're loose a few screws Franco," said De la Fuente, "You like getting shot at, don't you?"

Alvarez pulled the charging handle back, "Too right sweetheart, just look at this rifle. It's BEAUtiful," he held it out, "M16A2, 15 rounds a second and only weighs nine pounds. How can you not love it?"

"Like I said, you're strange,"

Volke's team was better than average for a team of mercenaries. By in large mercenaries were unprofessional insurgent raider types who were in it to get paid and live a fantasy life of being a tough guy (or gal) like in the movies, but the reality was much different from that, something many found to be true once they realized they were in for warfare against raider tribes which fought like cornered animals. Ruthless, aggressive, and dangerous despite being doomed. The weak link was probably Termous, understandable since it was a completely new skill set, but the rest of the team were a bunch of winners when it came to mercenaries.

Franco Alvarez was a rifleman in the Mexican military, three years of service under his belt, most of it spent in raider infested Los Angeles where the Mexican military was in a constant state of battle for almost ten years. With much experience in urban combat, he was essential to any team as asymmetrical warfare was one of the more difficult concepts to teach. Urban combat being some of the deadliest fighting in modern history.

Camila de la Fuente was another rifleman in the Mexican military with two years of service under her belt driving trucks into and through Los Angeles. More than enough experience was given to her driving said trucks through roads and alleyways that would post 1990 Mogadishu to shame, making her also a valuable member of the team with abilities and experiences normally available only to the dead.

Stefan Fierro was the machinegunner and heavy lifter. He operated the G8 machinegun which was basically a G3 with a heavy barrel, hardened bolt, and some other bells and whistles. Like the others in the team, he was a veteran, and like the others, he turned to the same job, just now with better paychecks and a chance to see something other than a blasted city.

And lastly, was Huerta. Nobody knew much about Huerta.

Sarah tried to like them, but she was also a little shy. Lots of armed people made her a bit nervous, but she figured it would be something she would get used to, since it seemed like guns and violence were going to be a heavy presence in her future for a while. The soldiers continued to joke with each other, but with all of them speaking in Spanish, it was even more alienating.

"Come on Sarah," she said to herself, "Make the best of a bad situation,"

"Hey gringo," said Fierro, "Don't talk or something? You haven't said a word,"

Surprised at the sudden attention, she thought about what to say. If these were her new co-workers, she may as well develop a good relationship with them.

********

Sarah laughs nervously. "Just, y'know, trying to psych myself up." And not throw up. Ugh. Sarah checks her rifle. "Might be a little nervous."

Volke:

Volke kept his eyes out the windshield from the passenger seat. "Don't. You'll be hanging back for the most part, with the rest of us taking the lead. This is more of a learning experience for you than anything. We're still working on getting you courier work, so don't get shot." Volke said.

Jagdgeschwader

Recruits in line, they stood parade rest. In 'peace'time, soldiers were generally given six months of training, refining young boys and girls into warriors of the West. These were the soldiers the West prided itself on. Disciplined and deadly soldiers that could take on anything thrown at them with efficiency and prowess, but war with the NET, another nation with soldiers similarly skilled, changed all of that. Soldiers on both sides suffered from terrible casualties, casualties that bothered commanders on both sides to no end, but having to comply anyway with no other choice. Replacements in the West, like these recruits, were hastily trained. Given two weeks of crash course physical engineering, there were misfits and below average recruits that at any other time would've either been snuffed out of training quickly or trained harder, but because of conditions were sent anyway.

Soldiers at this point were needed just to fill ranks, and survivability was second. It was well known that survival rates were bad, but replacement survival rates were even worse. These men were truly made to die, but officers wherever they were intervened to change that if possible.

"Pedraza, stand up straight, get your shoulders back," ordered Desmond, "Suck that gut in Bishop!"

Bishop sucked in his gut, to Desmond's approval, "That's more like it. Now, if I was from the east, I would take one look at you bunch of schoolgirls and laugh all the way back to the fatherland. You boys and girls may be here officially to rest, enjoying the calm before the storm, but if I send you in the thick of it like this, you're all going to die!"

The recruits stayed quiet, thinking about what he was saying, "The most important asset an individual soldier can have, is their fitness. In combat, the only thing you can rely on is your own fitness, and your comrades, but if they don't have the prerequisites: They. Are. Useless!" Desmond got close in, "Before I ship you out, I'm going to shape you up!"

Two soldiers annoyed Desmond the most, "Bishop! If anyone needs to shape up Bishop, it's you. I could use your gut for a down pillow and call it good. See the truck and those soldiers on the far side?"

Desmond pointed to a five ton truck and two soldiers holding a conversation near it, and Bishop recognized it, "Sir!"

"Get to it fatty! Burn that gut off!"

"Sir!" Bishop began the run, the five ton truck about a hundred yards away. He turned to the next soldier that annoyed him, "And you, what's your name?"

"Sir, Charlie Wells, sir," she replied,

"Why is your name Charlie? Only men and pedophiles are named Charlie, do you like pussy?"

"Sir, no I do not, sir!"

"Do you like little boys?!"

"Sir, no sir!"

"Then why are you named Charlie?"

"Sir, because my parents named me that, sir!"

"YOUR PARENTS ARE IDIOTS! But I like you, you're honest!" Desmond went on to the next recruit, the only other woman, "I don't like you! Go run with Bishop!"

"Yes sir!" and Masters went to run with Bishop. Desmond continued to haze, if anything just to get the soldiers to respect him out of fear. In time, they may grow to respect him for his other traits, but most instructors found that fear was better than nothing.

Desmond stopped at Kaminsky, who was skinny and lanky, "Dude! EAT SOMETHING!"

"Sir, noted sir!"

"None of that 'noted' shit, you respond to me with 'Yes sir', 'No sir', and 'Aye sir'. Understand?"

"Sir, yes sir!" said Kaminsky,

"Very well!" replied Desmond. He analyzed the rest of the soldiers he hadn't spoken to yet, but didn't bother with hazing them. Time was short, these soldiers were already in their places. Training was due, and there was little time, "Unto the state, people and strife?"

"Unity, compassion, love and a knife!" the recruits yelled rhythmically.

Desmond lowered his tone, "I'm not going to break you down. I'm just going to remind you all, that the training you've been taught, and what I will teach you in the next few weeks is all you will have in the battlefield. This is not a joke. This is not what your parents did fighting raiders in Nevada. There is no curbstomp to win this day, our enemy is ruthless, efficient and deadly. He will shoot you down like the animals we are before you can think. When we fight, you must fall back on your training. It must be second nature, muscle memory,"

Bishop and Masters returned, so Desmond allowed them back into the line, "A small mistake is all that it takes to snuff your flame out and send you to the devil himself. Do not grant them the opportunity! When I am done with you, you will be warriors and killers of men. The shouts alone of armed fighting men will rout the rats our enemies are from their holes and send them running all the way back to the Atlantic."

The recruits stayed quiet, but silently rallied in the speech. Desmond took them to another part of the fort by vehicle, where the recruits would be turned into soldiers, and where officers in the top hoped to turn what would be cannon fodder into well made troopers.

********

Mboddz

The snow was cold, but the worse part was that when it melted, it would keep you freezing for the next long while. Everyone seemed to be OK, a little shaken up, but OK, the mystery still being what happened to Crane, who fell off the cliff before the bombs were dropped. Above, the Phantoms flew eastward, heading back to their bases throttling up 100% towards the sky.

Boddy took off his coat, shaking it wildly to get the snow out. Eckert and Reznor looked for Crane, who probably lied in a hole in the snow. Eckert trudged through the snow as efficiently as she could and knocked the snow out of the way digging for Crane. He was easy to spot, and from there, she continued to dig. Crane was conscious and looking around, albeit a bit dazed.

"Are you alright?!" she yelled,

Crane looked around confused, "I can hear bells!" he said, "A lot of bells!"

"Ha ha!" Eckert smiled widely, and continued to dig him out.

"Is he alright?" asked Reznor,

"Are you alright? Are you wounded?" prodded Eckert, digging him out more.

"I don't think so," Crane was lifted up and out by Eckert, "I think I'll be fine,"

"You took a nasty fall," said Boddy, "Are you sure you're fine?"

"I'm good," he assured, "Unfortunately can't say the same about the soldiers,"

"They'll be remembered," Boddy called everyone together, "Sometimes I think we're living on borrowed time,"

"We are," said Reznor reminding him,

"Any plans?"

"What's even left? It's not like anyone is coming for us, we just barely survived this, we're knocking on heaven's door here Captain,"

"We've just got to keep heading east," stated Eckert, "Nothing else to it,"

"Everyone down!" whispered Crane, the team responding to him. The other three had no idea what he was talking about, but ducked down into the drift anyway. On the road east was a jeep, heading south down a road. Once it had passed, the team eased a little, but kept alert. This would be important.

"They've got patrols looking for us probably,"

"Unlikely," replied Boddy, "It's unlikely anyone survived the blasts of all those bombs that close. No way they're connected,"

"Kind of gives me an idea actually," said Reznor, "Just might work,"

"What?"

"Does anyone feel like stealing a car?"

They looked at each other dubiously, but as far as exit strategies were concerned, few were on the table. A little bit of grand theft auto just might work, as long as they could go largely unnoticed.

********

Snowwolf

Liam continued to drive, Gaston telling him where to go. So far, so good, they hadn't been spotted, and everything they were bringing with them was still intact. Liam had never done anything like this before, so he was obviously nervous, but when tasked with an objective, it was best to take things one at a time, think clearly, and know what you need. Four men against four tanks? Plausible. While he had no formal training on how to deal with the threat, he knew that how NET soldiers were trained, was to treat it like hunting big game. Stalking the enemy, laying traps, establishing choke points, and hitting it where it hurts, which was the engine. Having done big game hunting with his father, stalking moose, caribou and the like, he had a little bit of experience.

"This is it," said Gaston, "We walk from here,"

"Are we carrying all this stuff?" asked Liam,

"It's not like it's heavy," replied Gaston, picking up Vipers and mines. They parked behind a tall shrub, concealing the truck, and the four men walked out armed to the teeth with Vipers strung over their backs and bags of mines over their shoulders.

"Guillaume, you and Marcel cover the north side of the road, Liam and I have the south," ordered Gaston, he turned to Liam, "I'm thinking we'll let them hit the mines first, setting off as many as possible, let them get some distance, and then hit them with the rockets."

"Sounds good," replied Liam, "We'll hide in these ruts on either side of the road,"

"Where should we put these mines down?" asked Marcel, "Any ideas?"

"What do you think Liam? We have to get it right the first time."

********