The Days After (Game Topic)

"Marcel, listen we are going to bleed out if we go backto camp, if we want to live we will head to their camp and surrender. We may get medical treatment and hopefully we can buy our way out with money or information" states liam

Spoiler:

Snowwolf

"Listen Marcel," said Liam, "If we want to survive, we're going to have to surrender to the West. We'll bleed out if we try and head back, maybe we can buy them out with money or information or something..."

Marcel immediately let go of Liam, whom he had been leaning on for support, and started to limp back to Durov's camp, "Challenge accepted," he didn't have to be anywhere near lucid to even take that seriously.

Liam pinched the bridge of his nose, "Marcel..."

"I'm going to imagine being a fascist right now," he began to imitate, "I've got a stick up my ass the size of the Griffon monument. Oh! Look at these guys! They're already bloodied and weak, that's like 90% of the work done already! Let me just take my anger out on them by kicking their asses, shooting them, then burying them in a shallow grave along with the rest of the soldiers that tried to surrender earlier!"

********

Luna is now in control and has Dimitri's body taken away.

Jagdgeschwader, KGBoom, Apocalypse, Westhybrid, Destroyer

The column of APCs bounced with the dirt road, headed for the hedgerow country. The hedgerow country were the farms in central North Dakota which were separated by miles and miles of hedgerows, grown by the farmers here years ago who used to live there hoping to divide the lines among them, the hedgerow country was also flanked by forested hills to the south. This terrain varied quite a bit from the fields and hills that surround Bakken for miles, but was more reminiscent of the badlands to the southwest of Bakken near the border of Montana. This terrain would also make it difficult to advance, but could work to their advantage in the stealth field. Nothing bar death though was causing this platoon to stop, and the West had pulled a special weapon to assist them, flying overhead as they rode.

"Wow," said Desmond, looking up with the rest of the platoon at the three aircraft hovering over them keeping pace at 40mph. They formed into a delta and started to fire unguided rockets ahead of them, the explosions in the foreground lighting the way.

"What are those?" asked Hunter,

Desmond went down and contacted Mendoza, wondering what had been sent to help them. None of them had ever seen an aircraft quite like it, a propeller on top, pilots one ahead of the other in a slender, thin, canopy armed to the teeth with armaments.

"New technology, Lieutenant," explained Mendoza, "Built upon current helicopter technology, facilitated by stolen technology from our eastern friends, loaded for bear with one fixed dual 30mm cannon, six pylons for varying equipment from fly-by-wire to guided missiles, any combination of 80mm rockets or bombs, with an appetite for death in all the right places, all of it put together in just three months, you're looking at the baptism of fire for the new GAH-20 Attack Helicopter. Those aircraft are just three of eight currently built."

Desmond got off the radio and went to the top, "Protect these aircraft with your lives!"

"U-RA!"

The flight fired another barrage, the orange-yellow streaks flying ahead of the aircraft and impacting into the ground a couple hundred feet ahead of them, throwing the dirt into the air. By now, the enemy entrenchments knew well of the assault that was underway. Artillery cannons formally used for indirect fire were now being aimed at the column through the hedgerows, the sounds of their shots passing by both deafening and terrifying, but the M113s, dauntless as they were, responded and fought back, with the Vulcan gun in the rear sending perdition in a package downrange at the sound of one hundred high explosive rounds in a second.

"HELL YEAH!" yelled Volke in ecstasy, "Suck on that, motherfuckers!"

"Gunner, cover the left side, tell the other gunners to alternate their fields of fire, number two vehicle cover 3 o'clock, number three 9 o'clock, etc." suggested Desmond, "We'll do our best back here,"

The M113s as fearless as they were, still couldn't advance much longer until running straight through the lines wasn't an option and only a death sentence. Out of fear, Desmond, who was given command of the tank crews as well, halted the column and ordered that they stay put and clear first before proceeding. Only twenty minutes into this operation and problems were already happening, not good for something as high risk as this.

"Well, if it happened the way it was supposed to that'd be a spoiler," Desmond said to himself, "Everyone, out!"

Stopped, the M113s opened their doors and out came the troopers, one by one, packed to the brim. The troopers took their positions behind the mounds of dirt firing from the hedges. To clear this area, they would need to get close. First order of business is to find where they're taking fire from. Immediate front and rear seemed to be clear, and not only that, the sparks flying out of the sides of the APC from bullets gave the troopers a good idea. Desmond looking briefly through the hedges had already spotted a hard point.

"Hunter!" Desmond called, prone against the mound, "Get over here,"

Hunter ran down the line to him, dodging suppressive fire along the way, getting down into the dirt with him, "Sir?"

"Take five guys with you, I need you to clear the entrenched positions south of here,"

"Where?"

Desmond moved Hunter up to him and looked through the hedgerow, revealing a position, "MAG 60.20s, one M2 emplaceme-"

A round hit the dirt in front of them, interrupting them, "...M2 emplacement, lots of infantry, if you get the jump on them, you should have the advantage, and it shouldn't be too difficult to move stealthily in these hedges and all this noise,"

"Just take them out?"

"I'm thinking..." Desmond pantomimed pulling a pin with his teeth and throwing something.

"I'm on it!" Hunter turned around, just in time to see the gunner of the first M113 take a round in the head, the only area not protected by the full circle gun shield, and instantly being killed.

"I'll be on the gun!" The Lieutenant mounted the M113 as gunner, pulling the dead body out and taking over the suppressive fire.

********

KGBoom, Apocalypse

"Hey, you guys, with me!" Hunter gathered Corsican, Pedraza, Masters, Kirschenbaum and Sawyer who were all fighting next to one another.

The troopers stood up and followed Hunter, who took them behind the M113 and into its relative safety. He quickly explained the situation to the troopers, who rallied with him, then went south through the hedges. The group came to an opening in the row and sat there to formulate a plan, but didn't take long, as time wasn't on their side. The entrenched position wasn't in sight, but Hunter predicted it be in the next field or two over. NET soldiers still occupied the area in defensive positions.

"Pedraza, stay here and cover us with your M60, Sawyer, you too, watch his back. The rest of you guys, with me!"

Pedraza set up, and swiftly started to lay the rounds downrange, "Suppressing!". Hunter, Corsican, Masters and Kirschenbaum moved out from the hedges and into the field, getting behind dead livestock for protection. They returned fire to hostiles in the hedges, downing at best minimal combatants, and continued to move closer. They needed to get into the entrenchments' flank and engage from behind.

Cover to cover and they'll make it. Pedraza's machine gun fire allowed them to move more freely through the field as the enemy retreated for cover from the hundreds of rounds per minute. Hunter waved him forward, and Pedraza picked up his machine gun, stumbling a little bit at the weight which he wasn't used to yet, but catching up in a dead sprint, holding the weapon by the carrying handle, and Sawyer following right behind.

The next group of hedges exposed the entrenchments that Hunter had saw before with his Lieutenant. He and his five men moved swiftly, guns straight ahead. Masters, Corsican and Kirschenbaum jumped into the edge of a trench, Corsican gunning down one of the men in it, then led the other two further in. Pedraza climbed above it, his back to hedges, and shot downrange with his M60 bracing himself with both feet planted firmly in the ground. Hunter and Sawyer followed behind Corsican and his group, throwing hand grenades far ahead.

"Forward!" Corsican knew that feeling now. Almost as if time slowed down, one soldier after the other locked into his sight, and one trigger pull after the other dropped another man. The first trench cleared, but the next trench opened fire on them, when friends from the armor column arrived, an M113 running over the bushes and sending lead through the defensive positions.

"ROUTE THEM OUT!" yelled Desmond in the gunner seat, going full automatic with the heavy machine gun.

"Why is Desmond in that APC?" asked Corsican,

Hunter ignored him though, "Kirschenbaum," Hunter pointed to Kirschenbaum's fanny pack, "Satchel charge!"

Kirschenbaum reached behind him, dropping his rifle on the floor of the trench and grabbing a satchel charge, a four pound block of plastic explosive all wrapped in a satchel, set off by a detonator in his other pocket. He held it by its strap, swung it around once, twice, three times, and threw it into the next trench about thirty feet away.

"Fire in the hole!" he yelled,

"Heads down!"

The group, hunkered in fetal positions, braced themselves for a large explosion, which threw them on the ground and showered them in wood splinters, foliage, dirt, rocks, and scant pieces of metal. As their ears rang, their heads spun, and vertigo set in, all six were quite immobile, but success was success, especially success with Desmond cheering from the inside of a gun turret a field away.

********

Note: It's been slow updating recently because I lost my flash drive. This particular update and the ones before it have actually been finished at the least two days before I post them, but seeing as I have to retype them, it takes a while for me to get around to it. The story is almost finished!

This will be updated sometime this weekend. I've decided to cut the last chapter (since it wasn't necessary) and instead this chapter will be final. After this chapter is finished, the epilogue will be written, and Days After will be officially completed.

Again, I have no USB drive right now to transfer from my laptop to the computer, and the updates tend to be large (and I don't like typing them out all over again.)

I'm also in the process of actually creating the character images for the epilogue. They'll probably be rendered in Fallout, redone in a photo editing software, and then posted. I figure everyone would probably like to know how I at least envisioned the characters, and if you didn't, well, it's still a plus.

Anyway, because I've decided to cut the last chapter and instead end it with this one, it will be done in February.

I also plan to start a new forum game on the next site, which will be centered in Eastern Europe in the same universe, thirty years earlier in the 2170s and possibly 2180s. With Days After I learned lessons on how to make these more immersive to the characters involved, and the next installment will have significantly more player choices that determine how your character's lives are shaped, instead of simply writing the story and having the players along for the ride. (It will still loosely follow a path though)

With that said, I hope to finish this as soon as possible. Thank you all for your support on my first forum game, which even though had its problems like anything, I considered successful. I hope you guys have so far enjoyed how your characters have been portrayed and I hope I didn't let anyone down too hard with some...uh...author choices I made.

Jagdgeschwader, KGBoom, Apocalypse, Westhybrid, Destroyer

Mile by mile the 7th advanced through the hedgerow country, M113s leading the charge, Mendoza leading the rest behind them. Above the Air Force flew near constantly bombing the battlefield and shaking the ground beneath them, almost as if there was just this small earthquake constantly happening.

And the Western troopers continued to advance. Any officer straight out of the Academy could see the point. Break the frontline, ignore the defense. Break into the largest airfield they use in the area, destroy it, break the back of the Air Force in the area. The 7th would reinforce the path cut, while to the North and South (and this was currently just rumor over the radio) over 8,000 soldiers rushed the lines of the tired NET Army. Ten miles, two M113s, and sixteen casualties from Castle later, it was nightfall. Settled in a small village on a hill in the forest, their current orders were to hold the position until dawn, wait for the rest of the 7th to catch up, then proceed at first light towards their objectives, another ten miles away.

Dietrick and Bishop's silhouettes came through the forest, being highlighted by the warring background. Both the men jumped down off a hill and into the village, finding Hunter.

"Sergeant," said Dietrick, "Bishop and I spotted hostiles, what looks to be platoon strength."

"Plus or minus?" asked Hunter,

"Plus,"

"Anything else?"

"One or two tanks,"

"Well which is it?" ordered Hunter, "One or two?"

Bishop and Dietrick looked at each other, "Two," Bishop admitted,

"APCs, armored cars, MBTs, what do you think?"

"MBTs,"

"Get to your comrades, I'll tell the Lieutenant,"

Hunter armed with the knowledge of an imminent assault went to his immediate superior, and currently the highest ranking one in the field, with it. Desmond was on the radio speaking to other 7th Battalion leaders on the current situation, which was going well more or less, but massive casualties across the fronts on both sides were making it a tricky situation. This was a massive shift in thinking from the Western side, which was holding ground due to lack of equipment, and that lack of equipment was still prevalent throughout most of the frontline troops. Casualties could only multiply.

"Lieutenant," said Hunter,

Desmond put his hand up to tell Hunter to wait, "Castle platoon is holding for the night at an...unnamed village...grid reference 034072, Alpha, what's the rest of the 7th's status?"

"Alpha is currently holding steady grid reference 031070 along with Bravo. Delta position 030070 is not combat effective and has lost approximately 80% of its strength, Castle what's your approximate strength?"

"Castle is around 60% strong, the mechanized element is also 60%, we're in desperate need of ammunition, the armor as well as ourselves are running on fumes. We'll have to use sticks and rocks if we don't get resupplied."

"Use what your scavenge. We can't reinforce your position until at least the morning. The 7th moves out again tomorrow morning without exception,"

"Lieutenant, we've got a platoon plus approaching the village, with armored support," said Hunter, low, as to not interrupt the radio.

"Alpha hold," Desmond put his hand over the radio, "What?"

"Bishop and Dietrick did some scouting and spotted a NET force, platoon strength and then some, with MBTs, approaching our position,"

"How long?" Desmond's face turned livid.

"They didn't say, but we should get ready, they weren't gone long,"

"Alpha, this is Castle, we have an enemy force approaching our position, platoon strength, with mechanized support, they're inbound and hot. We'll establish a defensive position and hold out as long as we can. Request immediate support, anything you can bring!" Desmond put the radio down and turned to Hunter, "Let's get everyone together,"

"Castle platoon!" called Hunter, "Center of village, let's go!"

Castle platoon assembled in the center of town, only starlight dimming their bruised, bloody faces. The first trench taken almost ten miles back was only the first of many defenses that had to be cleared one at a time, but the help of air support offered by Mendoza was also key to keeping casualties down. Surely without them, the entirety of Castle would be in a grave.
Now without that force multiplier of the helicopters, they were on their own, fighting the threat of a significant infantry assault with mechanized help. It wasn't anything that the 7th hadn't done before in Bakken.

"Alright Castle, here's the situation," Desmond got a stick from one of the nearby trees and drew out the plan, "We're here," he drew a large circle, "The force is approaching from the east, correct Dietrick?"

"East, northeast,"

"Alright," he pointed to different areas, "Due to a lack of NCOs, you guys are going to need to rely on your experience and training for the most part, if you have none, stick to someone who does. It's dark out here, so find someone and stay close to them. This group," Desmond started to divide the remaining members of the platoon by where they were resting, "You're holding the northeast end of town, use the buildings for cover, if the civilians here get testy, put them in their place, this isn't the time for it. This group," Desmond split it again, "Cover the east side of town. The rest of you are with me in the forest. We'll be the first line of defense and soften the attackers, falling back as we need to."

The sounds of diesel engines neared, only reminding Castle that they were taking too long. The platoon split up, defending the northeast, east, and the far northeast. Volke's men occupied the northeast corner of the village, along with ten other Western soldiers. Hunter and Corsican took the east end, along with another five soldiers, and the crews from the M113s. Desmond led the group in the forest with eight soldiers, using the trees and foliage for cover, but the armor would be a completely different threat. All tanks possessed some sort of low-light vision, whether it be thermal imaging or night vision. If they used thermal imaging, they'd stand little chance hiding. If they used night vision, they'd stand a better chance.

Desmond, Bishop, Kirschenbaum and five other soldiers that to Desmond's chagrin he didn't know very well, hid in the forest, using trees and bushes to hide in. One of his soldiers held a Drainpipe, a Carl Gustav recoilless rifle, using the tree for cover and waiting for the opportunity. The armor was just cresting the hill, just visible now, and if they were using low-light vision, it probably wasn't their thermal. The imaging systems used both by the West and the NET emitted very loud 'clicks' audible a good distance away from the tank. Ostensibly, if the tanks weren't clicking, they weren't looking.

"Wait for the armor to expose its side if you can," whispered Desmond, trying to speak quietly but also tank to someone several feet away.

"Wait, fire?" asked the soldier,

"Nonononononon," Desmond said, "Don't fire until you can't miss,"

"Alright,"

The attack led the attack, infantry right behind the two M60 tanks, their golden stars still shining prominently in the starlight. It was now, or never. It's not like they didn't know this was a big group.

"FIRE!"

"OPEN FIRE!"

The eight soldiers opened up with automatic weapons fire, and a Carl Gustav which launcher into of the M60s, even though it only annoyed the vehicle. This was the time to fall back, Desmond going first and the rest falling afterward. The eight ran straight back to the village, using the thick forest and foliage to conceal themselves, but automatic fire tended to ignore those facts and still hit soldiers anyways. As Desmond ran, the deafening sound of a cannon knocked him into the ground and splintered the wood of a sixty year old tree, shocking him as he was showered in the wooden shards of a tree. The Tree that had been split into began to fall from the top, and Desmond who rolled out of the way just barely dodged being crushed by it, instead being covered in small lower branches of the tree lying just adjacent to the trunk.

"I should start counting my blessings!"

Kirschenbaum, Bishop, and the other soldiers continued to run through the forest, being shot dead as they tried to evade the hostile fire. Desmond not wasting any time broke the small branches keeping him down and climbed out of them, fired a few more rounds downrange to take the attention off his retreating soldiers, and started to run again. It was time to fight the platoon full strength.

Back in the village, the rest of platoon covered the retreat of Desmond and the others, even though they'd lost sight of them a while ago. Volke and his team took refuge in one of the village homes, reminding the family to stay in their rooms and lock their doors. As the enemy advanced, they fought back.

"Hey Clarke, right down there! Going right to left, put fire down on him," said Volke, he paced his shots as much as the situation would allow, the entire platoon being low on ammunition.

Sarah fired off half of a magazine at the fleeting enemy soldiers as they dashed through the trees, but they returned effective fire as well, pinning many of the Volke's men down. The soldiers outside spread out along logpiles and large rocks, bullets landing all over in and around them while they fought back, while Hunter and Corsican with the remaining third of the platoon fifty meters away on the eastern side of the village fired at the attackers in enfilade.

Desmond already exhausted came back to the village, Kirschenbaum still in the fight, but seeing nobody else, he took cover with the soldiers on the eastern side of the village.

The Lieutenant ran past Hunter and turned to get in cover with him and Pedraza, who were firing in the forest, "Did anyone come back? he asked,

"Just you and Mark I think," answered Corsican, "I don't think the others made it,"

"Do we have any AT weapons left?"

"Does Mark still have a satchel charge or something?" asked Kaminsky, ducking his head at a bullet so close to him he could catch it with his hand.

"You said he came back, right?" Desmond asked Corsican,

"I think I saw him, he may be over with the other group,"

One of the M60s reared its ugly head, running over small bushes and trees, and traversing its turret to aim at the building on the northeast side and the soldiers there, while the commander's machinegun kept their group suppressed.

"TROOPERS GET DOWN!"

Termous heard an explosion, then the world turned white, then red, then black. The time she spent in darkness seemed like it was an eternity, encompassing her existence for that time being until she started to see the reality of the stars again and the reality of an all too familiar face by now. Unfortunately.

"You're not dead yet!" yelled Volke,

"I wish I was sometimes!"

"De la Fuente and Alvarez are gone! Come on, we need to fight!"

The house on the northeast end exploded, sending its debris everywhere and the soldiers on the east side in defilade. When they came to, the turret of the other M60 was staring straight at them.

"FUCKIN' RUN!"

"RUN!"

"RUUUN!"

The soldiers and crews sprinted further into the village, another house right next to them exploding above and sending Desmond, Hunter, and a few other soldiers flying forward. The platoon being chipped away little by little was about to be their downfall, the lack of anti-tank weaponry being the main problem. One of the tank crews, seeing no other alternative, decided to utilize the VADS turret on the Vulcan M113 as a force multiplier, hoping that massive infantry losses on the enemy's side would discourage them from fighting.

"I'm going for the gun!"

"You'll get the gun destroyed! Don't do that!" ordered Desmond,

"We're going to die if I don't do something!" protested the crew, continuing his run anyway and mounting the Vulcan turret behind the house. The crew jumped inside and drove the vehicle out into the open before shutting the engine off and moving back into the turret.

Desmond jumped into the turret and yelled directly into the man's ear, "Soldier, you get out of this turret right now! You're going to get it destroyed!"

The crew ignored Desmond and opened up into hostile soldiers advancing, tearing bodies into pieces with the gun's 6000 RPM. Desmond tried yelling over the gun, but it was futile and instead he hopped off, not wanting to be part of the scrap heap it would turn into if any AT weapon hit it.

While the crew held back the tide of the enemy, his sacrifice became ultimate as one of the M60s targeted the Vulcan and destroyed it. The defenders were highly disorganized now, nobody with each other like before, scattered about the village either dead, wounded, or close to it.

"I'm guessing none of you have any ideas on how to take down these tanks," Volke breathed heavily, nervously, "Huerta, what about you? I don't think now is the time to be close-lipped,"

Huerta's eyes jumped over to Sarah, who was confused at his awkward stare, "What?" she asked.

"Hand grenade," Huerta said, looking at a hand grenade on her chest.

"You need it?"

Huerta nodded his head.

"Don't tell me you're about to pull that hatch trick!" yelled Fierro in disbelief, "You know that won't work! How many raiders have you seen try to do that?"

"Cover me," Huerta turned the corner of the house and put his eyes on the tank. Four soldiers walking with the tank guarded, all of whom he eliminated easily as they were caught out in the open. The time was now, Huerta had an idea. A gutsy idea, but one none the less.

He ran up in front of the tank, being mindful to stay in the blindspots of the crew for as long as possible. The hand grenades supplied to Los Zetas as well as the other mercenary groups were from Mexico, PG-4 hand grenades were just small enough to fit down the 105mm main cannon, and with Huerta's long arms and good jump height, he pulled the pin, jumped up, threw it down the barrel and ran back behind the house. All the while only ever being seen by the driver.

"What is he doing?" asked Sarah,

The muffled detonation was followed by the pain stricken crews inside screaming and then being cut short, then the tank not reacting. Huerta had effectively killed the crew inside without even scratching the outside. Behind the house he took up cover with the rest of his guys again, with a smile on his face, the first they'd ever seen.

"That's how it's done!" yelled Huerta.

The Mexicans laughed, and that they deserved.

********

Mboddz, Cloakey

“Papa Bear, this is Lone Wolf, respond, over,” Boddy repeated the message, “Papa Bear, this is Lone Wolf, respond, over.”

“Getting nothing in this rat hole of a town,” said Reznor, “Just great, stuck in a destroyed city surrounded by the facists, looking up dead ends for a rogue Spec Ops commander,” Reznor pinched the bridge of his nose, “Where did we go wrong?”

Boddy took attention to that, putting down the microphone, “What do you mean ‘Rogue Spec Ops Commander’?”

“I mean Descateaux, Captain,” he explained, “He and Shepard both, I don’t think they’re taking orders from the central government anymore,”

“You really think so?”

“It would make sense. Why else aren’t we getting reinforcements from the homeland? Why do they always come from…from-prisons in the Deep South? I’ve seen the shipping manifests, tanks are coming from Shepard’s friends in Lima who falsify the records back to Washington. Supplies from Michigan, same story as before, why do you need to do those things?”

“Why are you looking where you shouldn’t?” asked Boddy,

“Because it’s our asses if we don’t! We’re pretty much Descateaux’s hitmen out here. If Descateaux is put on trial for going rogue, we’ll be associated and go in with him! Does anyone else in NI4 have to look for people that he just has a personal grudge against? For little to no reason? The only lead we had is as cold as the 5,000 dead buried here. We’ll never find him as long as he’s embedded with the military. It’s like finding a needle in a haystack.”

Boddy stood up out of his chair, “Doesn’t help we can’t even tell anyone about that either,"

“How long has that radio been out?” asked Reznor, “Three days now?”

“Never worked,” Boddy hit it, in spite, “We’re going to have to get another one,”

The lonesome NI4 operatives sat around the room, quiet, and forlorn. They pondered their minds for ideas to make contact with friendlies and escape Bakken, and for a while, the general idea was to just walk out. They had the uniforms, they could speak English well enough to pass for Western soldiers as well, and hitching a ride with the Western soldiers wouldn’t be difficult at all. The hard part would be getting over to the other side. They would likely be shot trying to make the run dressed in their enemy uniforms.

“Our Western friends might have one that works,” Reznor cracked his knuckles, “Sound easy enough?”

“Nope. It’s not like a radio wouldn’t be asking a lot from the facists,” he said sarcastically.

Outside, Boddy watched a jeep drive down the road, radio aboard it. Their goal was to contact Descateaux and see what they could do to get out of hostile territory. Nothing was here that they needed. If things on the frontline were like how the soldiers in the streets had been saying for the last couple of days, their days in North Dakota truly were numbered, down to weeks, at best, probably only days. The last place to be would be Bakken.

“What’s the plan?” asked Eckert.

“And what will it involve?” Crane said from the corner of the room.

“First we’re going to need to actually scope out the place, so Crane, you come with me,” Boddy instructed, “You guys hold down this fort. Just keep an eye out,”

Crane and Boddy put their coats on, grabbed their weapons and equipment and opened the door, to the protest of Reznor.

“Hey, so you want me to just sit here and do nothing?”

“That’s what I end up doing all the time Jean, you can take a turn for once!” said Crane with a smile.

“Ah, whatever!”

Boddy and Crane stepped outside, the door locking behind them. Lost in the big city, it was time to start working towards leaving it once and for all.

“If I survive this war, I’m retiring,” said Boddy.

“Wonder if they’ll even give us the option,” reminded Crane.

********

Snowwolf, Luna Durov

Marcel and Liam helped each other walk for miles, injured and limping all the way. Both of them, barely injured, could thank only luck for their survival of the catastrophic collision. Again, they could only thank luck for them not running into Fascist soldiers, and after many hours of limping, home was in sight. If Durov was angry at them for this, neither of them cared. He couldn’t hurt them more than they had already been.

They walked in to the scene of mercenaries and workers packing up and leaving again, a sight they had seen not even a week ago. Was the West moving in again on them and they had to move? Or were these men also finally giving up on him?

“Should just…” Marcel coughed, “Should just follow these guys’ lead. It’s what we were going to do anyway,”

“Something’s not right here,” said Liam, “Let’s go to his office,”

Marcel released Liam, “I’m getting my bags,” he limped away, “I’ll talk to you in a little while,"

Something didn't seem right to Liam. He walked up the steps to the porch, holding on to the guard rail while he walked and knocked on the door. Awaiting an answer, but getting none, he entered the building to silence.

"Mr. Durov?" he asked, but only the silence answered. He went further into the office, into Durov's room and discovered the scene. Blood spattered the walls, a gun lay on the floor next to Durov. Across the room, leaning against the wall in the corner, Mr. Durov's sister, blank at the situation.

"What happened?" he asked, to no answer, she only glanced at him for a moment, before again looking at her brother, sprawled out across the ground in a pool of his own blood.

"Miss Durov," he asked again, "What is happening?"

She spoke up, "Just give me a moment, OK? And I'll uh..." she shrugged her shoulders, and spoke lowly, "I'll talk to you in a minute."

********

Snowwolf, Luna

“Miss Durov, can you tell me what happened?’

She took a deep breath, left the room and went out to the porch, morning sun in her face. She flipped her hair and straightened it, stretched out her arms, and sat down on the front step, Liam following her and sitting down next to her in pain.

“Dimitri is gone,” she said, lowly.

“I uh…I…I noticed,”

“With him gone, I’m in command,”

“That’s why all the mercenaries are leaving?”

“I told them to,” she said, “Ironic thing being, most of them don’t even care about getting paid for their services. They’re just glad that Dimitri is gone and they’re going home anyway.”

Krieger wasn’t completely about the monetary side of the business, at least not when it came to this, “What do you need to do now?” he offered.

“Leave,” she said, “I want to bury my brother, but the fascists are coming. They’ll kill anyone that’s still here, and there’s no way we can fight them for more than a few minutes.”

“What are we taking?”

“There are a couple of trucks that are heading home, we’ll need to ride with one of them.”

Home. That was a rather loose term lately. “Alright then,” Liam tried to stand up, but his body still ached, “Help me up?”

Luna helped up Liam, who clenched in pain a little, but after he got up and walking, he was fine. In war, there are no uninjured soldiers, and being a mercenary, he was still no exception. He thought to himself about retiring into more legal work when he went home, which when thinking about it, reminded him of the fact, that he was going home today, or at least starting that journey. It was such a strange thing to say.

Six three quarter ton pick-up trucks lined up on the road headed east, waiting for everyone to get their things packed and to climb aboard. Liam and Luna took the same truck, she riding shotgun and he taking the driver seat, they anxiously awaited the call to go. These mercenaries longed for their homes and had already spent too long in foreign lands, as did Luna.

“Are you ready to go home?” asked Liam, heading resting on his gashed arms on the steering wheel.

“I think I am,” she said, “I’ve been all over the world, and I’ve traveled more than the regular person, but right now the only right place is home.”

“Think I’m going to go to sleep when I get home,”

“Ha,” she laughed, “Same,”

Marcel in the truck ahead of them sat in the back, talking with fellow mercenaries trying to get just a few final laughs before it all. “So we’re actually heading back home to fight dinosaurs, did you know that?”

“Dinosaurs?” said another mercenary.

“Yeah man, dinosaurs, I’m not even lying,”

“Hey!” Liam shouted from inside the truck, playing into the joke.

“What are you shouting about Liam?” asked Marcel,

“Don’t you be talking about that dinosaur shit!”

Marcel jumped out of the bed of the truck, and walked up to Liam, being humorously aggressive, “What are you yelling about?!”

“Oh! Oh! We’re going to do it like this?” Liam stepped out of the truck, flinching at his pain, but still getting out.

“Yeah we are! What are you yelling about?”

“Man, you’re going to go head to head with a guy, pistol in hand, ready to go?” Liam racked the slide on his handgun.

“Damn straight, I’m not scared of you! Try me!”

Liam whispered to Marcel, “Man the dinosaur stuff is a secret, don’t be so loudmouth about that,”

“Ah shit man, I’m-I’m sorry,” said Marcel, “I just didn’t know,”

“No no no no, it’s OK, here, just…just punch me so it looks like we had a fight. OK? Everything will be OK.”

“Alright, alright, hold on a moment,” Marcel looked both ways and then ‘punched’ Liam, Liam reacting to it realistically.

“Oh, you bitch!” shouted Liam, “Man, my nose! Seriously?”

“Yeah, just get back in your truck Liam!” Marcel walked back to the bed of the pick-up truck, hopping in the back.

“Yeah, you just get in yours!”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

“That was a good punch, good punch,” said one of the mercenaries Marcel talked to, Liam getting back into his driver seat slowly, but happy nonetheless to lighten the mood a bit.

“Did you see that guy punch me?” he asked Luna,

“I did, that was bullshit,” replied Luna, she got a smile, “You should ride up on their truck just a little, yeah?”

“Don’t do that,” said a mercenary in the back in a very sarcastic, apathetic tone.

Liam laughed, “You’re not my dad man, you can’t tell me what to do!”

He laughed back, “Hey, what’s your name?” the mercenary poked his head through the rear window into the cabin.

“Liam, Liam Krieger,”

“Alright, I just want to know in case I need to scream your name like a bitch,”

“Sounds good, sounds good.”

As the remaining mercenaries loaded up in the pickups, the convoy’s engines started. Liam couldn’t even remember what happened before he blacked out last night, but with these trucks overloaded and sagging low to the ground, the extra truck would’ve been nice to have right about now.

The ride home was going to be long. They’d be riding through practically every frontier town on the two thousand mile ride back home, filled with endless landscapes and narrow roads heading into the horizon, nothing but the ground, sky, and passing train or vehicle to keep them company. It would be long and filled with boredom, but the end result of finally seeing the homeland again would be worth it.

“Long drive ahead of us,” said Liam,

“Maybe so,” said Luna, “But the wait is finally over.”

********

I liked this... this was nice.

Mboddz, Cloakey

Pieces of concrete fell from the tops of buildings in the high winds, crumbling as they hit the ground. The skeleton of Bakken echoed its voices constantly, the hums of the soldiers bellowing through the alleys and empty streets. This was a lonely city now. It may be on a lifeline being an outpost for the West now, but with the war dying down, it would die again, its shell a testament to potential destroyed by national pride and jingoism.

Armed with M14s, clad in longcoats, armor, helmets and bandanas to cover their faces, they scoped out the remains of the city looking for a radio to ‘borrow’. They were aware of equipment shortages in the West, which could make a long range radio hard to find, emphasis on the word ‘could’.

“Let’s just tell someone we’re looking for the local comm officer. That’ll make it easy,” suggested Crane.

“Except for the fact that a local comm officer won’t want to give up his radio. Not only that, it’s not like these things are small, they’re the size of a small TV man, come on. Be realistic,” implored Boddy.

“We go from officer to officer if we have to, take the one least guarded off his hands,”

“Alright, we’ll improvise.”

“We’ll need to get a radio away though without being suspicious, what about a ruse? Update encryption? Radio problems and callback?”

“Let’s do encryption, it’s more plausible,” Boddy put his eyes on a trooper, “We’ll ask him,”

Boddy and Crane stopped a pair of soldiers across the street, getting their attention and approaching them. With hope, they could get the location of nearby communication officers.
“Trooper!” yelled Boddy, “Hey, comrade, can I ask you a couple of questions?”

The two troopers looked at each other and looked back to Boddy and Crane, “Yeah, sure, what’s going on?”

Boddy looked both ways and crossed the street, “So, here’s the situation,”

“Mmhmm?”

“We were ordered to update the local radio encryption so it matches frontline, but we haven’t been here in about a month, could you tell us where we could find the local comm officers?”

“I don’t really know…” said one of the troopers, “Do you know Wes?”

“Um…I believe so, if you gentlemen keep going down this road to the next intersection, then take a left, you’ll come to the yard of a bombed out Catholic church. Last I checked there was a communication officer there, Technical Sergeant Lincoln.”

“Thank you,” said Boddy, tipping the brim of his helmet.

The two followed the directions of the troopers down the grey streets, stepping on shattered glass and broken concrete the whole way. The church wasn’t far away, only a short five minute walk down the way before they arrived. Standing across the way from the church, the two waited for an M60 tank to pass before crossing, but upon seeing it cross, an epiphany came to the Captain.

“Better idea!” he said,

“What?” asked Crane,

“Same deal, do it on a tank. All tanks have long range radios, if we can get alone in one for a little while, we can talk to home,”

“I can watch for anyone coming on the outside,”

“And I’ll talk to North Point,”

“Alright then,” said Crane, excited, “Sounds good, sounds good. Privacy and a radio,”

“Now where do we find an empty tank?”

“The West uses this as a forward armor depot, that’s why there are so many tanks here all the time,”

“Figured as much.”

Boddy and Crane put their minds next to finding the armor depot in the city, using the same routine of being new and not knowing their way around since it worked every time. They always seemed to be getting one step closer to safety, but safety itself was still a long ways away.

********

Jagdgeschwader, Apocalypse, Destroyer, Westhybrid, KGBoom

Morning came late, the sun refusing to come out beyond the overcast and thunder clouds. The sound of lightning striking across the sky woke the survivors of the platoon to the aftermath of the fight, the NET survivors retreating into the forest and fading away after a hard battle.

Castle Platoon was even further wounded now though. Previously at 60% strength, they now stood around 40% optimistically, with the Vulcan cannon out of commission and almost fifteen dead. Orders were clear though: No excuses, the 7th moved out in the morning regardless of the strength, there was no walking back now.

Castle’s Lieutenant worked on the radio again, communicating with the other platoons in A Company, coordinating with the rest of the battalion. The rest of Castle picked up the pieces, scavenged their dead for surplus magazines, hand grenades, explosives, rations, cigarettes, anything, anything that could help them continue on.

Volke dragged Alvarez along the side of a house to put with the rest of the casualties, Fierro behind him carrying De la Fuente to place as well. In other places, soldiers sat around at ease smoking, talking, and ignoring the locals grieving over their dead friends and family and destroyed property. As far as Castle was concernced, it wasn’t their problem.

“We might end up capturing this tank later,” reminded Pedraza, “We should get engineers down here, get a tank recovery vehicle, we can put this in service,” he said, opening up the hatch, “Needs a good cleaning inside though; stench of death is strong.”

“Good luck getting engineers down here,” said Hunter hopping off the hull, “Can’t even get soldiers down here,”

The radio traffic was clearing up. The 17th Battalion was approaching to help spearhead the operation, but only a few tanks were arriving to help Castle platoon specifically. With the sun just illuminating the grey sky, it was time to mobilize. Desmond organized the platoon back into the M113s, riding down a dirt trail back down to the hedgerows, time to push through them again.

The trees above them, overgrown into the dirt trail, brushed and hit the soldiers at every chance, who quickly opted to sit inside their APCs. Above, the Air Force flew again, wasting no time at breaking the sound barrier and storming into enemy airspace. Fifteen minutes later, when the M113 column finally left the forest and approached into the hedgerows, the sign of 17th Battalion M60s and the rest of Alpha Company inspired the troopers of Castle, who, alone in the night fought for survival, finally had met with friendly faces. Time to take the fight again to the enemy.

“7th Battalion, fall in behind the M60s from the 17th, we need to make as much ground as possible today. NOTHING sends us running,” ordered Mendoza over the radio, riding in another M113. The hedgerows split into various roads which divided the mechanized force. Upon grouping up, the roll call commenced.

“Alpha Company, all units, report,” called Captain Grant,

“Alpha Platoon: Ready.”

“Bravo Platoon: Ready.”

“Castle Platoon: Moving On.” reported Desmond,

“Dog Platoon: Waiting for orders,”

“Companies, report” called Major Burdick,

“Alpha Company: Ready,” responded Grant

“Bravo Company: Awaiting Orders!”

“Castle Company: We’re on the move,”

“Dog Company: Ready for Orders,”

“Echo Company: Ready to fight!”

“General Mendoza, 7th Battalion is combat ready. All units are accounted for and processed. Alpha Company has rendezvoused with the 17th’s armor and has consolidated their positions heading east. We’re inbound and hot,” reported Burdick

“That’s an affirmative, Major, I’m riding with them right now,” replied Mendoza

“Roger, message received.”

“Alpha has the lead! Bravo through Echo, follow our path! Next stop is Minot!”

“URA!”

“URA!”

The sound of jet engines at full throttle pitched high into the ears of the soldiers in the formation, who upon looking to the sky, saw two Thunderbolts fly over, no more than three hundred feet off the ground, much to the cheering of Western soldiers. Callsigns Thunder One, and Thunder Two, escorted the company into the fray.

“Alpha Company lead, this is Thunder One, A10 CAS, we’ll walk you through the fray!”

“Affirmative Thunder One. A Company lead copies.”

The eight M60s in the lead moved into a wedge formation, disregarding the roads and instead running over the ten foot hedges in their way. Then, the cannons opened up.

********

Mboddz, Cloakey

As many times you commit espionage, the nervous feeling of routing through something that’s not yours, with full knowledge that you’re acting with enemies just around the corner, and knowing that whatever you’re doing needs a good explanation if it’s to slide, never goes away. Crane and Boddy had spent the last hour tracking down the M60 and M48 depot in Bakken, which was much more elusive than one would think.

Using the radio in the armor provided a few advantages. The key one, would be that they wouldn’t have to take a radio somewhere for privacy. All MBTs had to have long range radios in them to communicate with each other and coordinate with ease. Tanks also tend to be rather boring and uninteresting when not moving, especially in a yard with about forty of them. Getting alone in one means an almost indefinite amount of time alone on a radio.

“Alright Crane, keep me covered. Knock on the turret if you see anything suspicious coming or if I need to be quiet. Sound good?”

“I’ll be out here keeping an eye out,”

Boddy looked both ways for soldiers then jumped onto the hull. He looked over the turret down the line of tanks for other soldiers and upon seeing none, climbed onto the top of the turret, putting a foot up on the cannon and lifting his weight on that. Getting into a parked tank was simple. The hatches weren’t locked when not in combat for obvious reasons, so getting into one was as simple as opening it up.

One more check before he entered, he looked at Crane who gave him the go ahead to hop in. Once inside, he closed the hatch above him and tried to identify the different machines and appliances in front of him.

“Let’s see here…” he looked around, “Ruby laser-based rangefinder...remote controlled .50 caliber...thermal imaging system...ballistic targeting computer...controls for the turret stabilization system...instrumentation for ad hoc artillery..." Boddy's eyes widened, "The thermal imaging is a little old, but still a reliable model, this is pretty top notch technology, I’m actually kind of surprised…”

Boddy continued to talk to himself inside the turret, looking through the devices and finally found what he was looking for, “Long range radio. This should work,” he took note of the frequency it was on so he could turn it back to that afterwards, wrote it on a notepad inside, and switched to NET frequencies, specifically a frequency used by NI4 outposts deep in enemy territories. With hope, he’d run across some. These outposts generally only communicated over the radio using the ‘Lazaresco' code, a Morse code-esque system that National Intelligence used to communicate in secret between outposts, bases, and various installations, but if he properly identified himself as a NI4 operative, they'd probably break code to speak to him. It would be his only chance, he didn't have the equipment to speak in code anyway.

A knock on the turret signaled him to quiet down. Something was coming. Probably just a couple of guys on break, or mechanics, but still, he was too far to risk exposing himself.

********

Kiwi

Darkness retreated and the light of day brought new problems. Morrison and the rest of Minot airfield’s pilots had been flying non-stop sorties for the past 36 hours, all of them exhausted from the lack of sleep, but as of last night, the first shifts for sleep had just started, and Morrison among them getting to sleep 0517 on the dot. Even with the roar of jet engines, the rumble of explosions on the horizon, and constant yelling between ground crew members, he fell asleep almost instantly in his tent, even on the hard ground.

As of 0710 though, the rain started, and it wasn’t from the overcast. The West began its bombardment of the airfield just in range at ten miles, 155mm shells causing carnage on the airfield. The explosive power woke up Morrison and the other ten pilots getting shut-eye. Two hours of sleep was better than nothing.

Colonel Martin practically ripped the tent flap off, “Morrison, Caron, Fournier, all of you, we’re going up! GET IN THE FUCKING AIR!”

Morrison ran out, the pilots actually never taking off their G-suits, to the parked F16s. Left, right, forward and behind them, explosive rain fell from the sky, indiscriminate of what it hit and destroyed. They sprinted as fast as their bodies allowed, the parked fighters always seeming just out of reach.

After having run across the tarmac, they reached their fighters, climbing quickly into the fighters and starting up the engines. There was no time for pre-flight procedure. The fighters needed to go immediately if they were to avoid the artillery landing around them. From inside the cockpit Morrison witnessed cloud after cloud of asphalt, rock and dirt fly through the air, knocking pilots, crew, and security down to the ground.

Morrison closed the canopy and strapped himself into his seat. He flipped both engines on and waited for them to start up. The engines’ turbines spun slowly, getting their speed and warming to operation. He then tested his voice over the radio to establish communication, which would be essential to establishing any sort of coordination between them. For simplicity sake, their base had been using the same callsigns for two days.

He monitored the instruments as the engines started, a normally five minute long procedure had been shortened to about thirty seconds, necessitated by the fact that any one of these shells hitting the airfield could strike one of their aircraft or come close to it. From the looks of fires on the airfield, two aircraft had already been destroyed by artillery.

“Star Four-Two, test,” said Morrison,

“Star Four-Four, test,” announced Fournier,

“Star Four-One, test,” said Martin

“Star Four-Three, test,” Caron said last.

“Alright-” Morrison was interrupted by a grapefruit sized chunk of asphalt hitting the canopy, he flinched at the hit, “That would’ve decapitated me! Let’s get going guys! Two-by-two!”

Without allowing the engines to warm up, the pilots laid on the throttle, taxiing onto the taxiways and double timing it, easily hitting 80kmph on the narrow path. Morrison and Fournier were one and two on the runway, putting the throttle all the way forward as they straightened with the runway. No air traffic controller today. It was all on the pilots to navigate themselves safely.

“Star Four-Two and Four are up!” Morrison immediately gained altitude, performing a high angle climb, “Going Angels Two.”

“Star Four-Two, One and Three will be right behind you!” said Colonel Martin, just taxiing onto the runway.

Morrison reached Angels two and then pulled right on the stick, leveling out with Fournier then turning left on a 15 degree turn. He looked behind him and saw Martin and Caron pulling the same maneuver to get in formation with him and Fournier, steeply climbing for about ten seconds before leveling off, "What's needs to be done Colonel?" he asked.

"Go directly west, get to about five thousand meters. We've got a target rich environment not too far from here. We need to buy the Army time to retreat in a dignified manner. We can help by clearing the skies first. CAS is tearing those poor men to pieces," as Martin announced that, Fournier fell into formation alongside Morrison.

"Affirmative," Morrison got off the radio, "It's going to be a long day,"

********

Mboddz, Cloakey

“To all National Intelligence, Section Four operatives in the Bakken area, this is Captain Michael Boddy, 1332875, Operator 4115. I am stranded behind enemy lines with three other operators and request immediate evacuation. To anyone who can hear me, please, respond immediately,” Boddy would repeat the message, identifying himself multiple times in a row, becoming monotonous with his cry for help.

“To all National Intelligence, Section Four operatives in the area, this is Captain,” Boddy sighed, “Michael Boddy, 1332875, Operator 4115. I am stranded with three operators behind-”

“Captain Michael Boddy, 1332875, Operator 4115, this is Lieutenant Stefan Duvall, 1343858, Operator 4475, report position.”

The voice of another delighted him, a smile came across his face, “4475, we’re in north Bakken, what can you do for us?”

“The only thing I can tell you 4115 is to get to grid location ‘340270’ in Sector 7-Delta. There will be a way out of there at roughly 1130 hours,”

Sector 7-Delta was Bakken, so that was a break. 27 Easting wasn’t far north either, so now was time to go. If Boddy had to guess, this was probably an evacuation of NI4 operatives in the area. This really was a full-on withdrawal if NI4 operatives were being evacuated.

“Thanks 4475, you’re a saint,” Boddy turned back the frequency to the Western one it was set to, turned off the radio and opened the latch to crawl out. Crane, who had avoided detection, was awaiting eagerly outside, ready to leave at a moments notice.

"So," said Crane, "What's the plan?"

"Evacuation at 340270, sector 7-Delta. We'll get Jean and Angela and head on out of here. 27 Easting is just north of here," Boddy took a deep breath, "What came by?"

"Mechanics. Let's get going,"

********

The Western Men

Forward they pushed, every second, every minute, every hour that passed, the full extent of the Western’s crippled military masqueraded as a more powerful entity, gambling the structure itself of the 4th Division.

Minot airfield was one mile away, bought with the lives and equipment of those involved. The 7th Battalion was by and large broken by this point, at best hoping for Pyrrhic victory in the fight as nightfall came with heavy rain, persisting for hours on end drenching the warriors of both sides in the mud and ash of intense fighting. The last mile of this trek would be the worst by far, the defenses of Minot ranging from mortars, to armor, to entrenched infantry and an uncountable number of mounted machinegun emplacements.

Above Castle platoon, spearheading with the near complete loss of Alpha, was Thunder One, having lost his wingman during his third sortie by a surface to air missile, flew the entire day in support, currently on his eighth sortie. He had just come back from the airfield, well needed by the men on the ground.

In the fields, armor maneuvered around them, using the landscape to put the advantage in their favor while infantry scrambled through the dirt and hills, one line of defense at a time. Behind them, a recently overtaken M2 emplacement and trench, in front of them, another one and squad of virulent soldiers.

Corsican lay stomach down in the dirt, rain deflecting off the brim of his helmet keeping him just a little bit dryer than normal, until Durant ran by him and splashed mud into his face and mouth, gagging at the muck. She dropped down to the ground, rifle just above the high point of the trench, the rain also deflecting off the brim of her helmet, making it difficult to aim.

“That’s pretty disgusting Durant!” said Corsican light-heartedly, spitting out the grime in his mouth, but the moment was ruined by a long-range radio operator being killed by a shot through his helmet, his corpse slumping over and bleeding into the dirt. Unfortunately, the timing couldn’t have been worse, because Thunder One just started to radio back.

“Anyone still alive in the front, respond immediately, this is Thunder One, over,” said the radio,

“Corsican, get on that radio, call it in for us!” ordered Durant, firing downrange,

“How do I do that??”

“Just try it!”

Corsican went around Durant, pulling the ANC-343 radio off the body of the fallen, pulling out his map from his coat pocket, “Thunder One, this is Tyson Corsican of the 7th Battalion, I’m in the front, do you read?”

Thunder One passed over again, “Tyson Corsican, I’m reading you, give me the coordinates and I will fire,”

Corsican struggled to understand the map. They’d passed so much throughout the day, he couldn’t tell what was what and this became very evident to the pilot, “Umm…” he struggled, “I’m trying to get a bearing on where we are, stand by,”

“Wait, do you even know how to read the map?” asked Thunder One,

Corsican figured that white lies wouldn’t help here, “No, but I’m trying-”

“Alright, I need you to get someone on that 343 who knows what the fuck is going on so I can get you guys out of the pinnacle. Give the radio to your squad leader, if he’s still alive,”

Corsican didn’t know where Desmond was, or if he was even still alive, “Alright,” he got up and tapped Durant on the shoulder, “I’m coming back!”

“I’m going to hold you to that!” yelled Durant, taking a round in the arm and screaming in pain.

“Courtney!” Corsican heel face turned back to Durant, who was now injured.

“I’m a big girl, I can take my licks!” she said, shouldering her rifle again, “Get going! Find the Lieutenant!”

Corsican second guessed himself leaving for a moment, but went anyway regardless of his thinking that he was abandoning a comrade, “Desmond!” he yelled.

In a trench only thirty yards away, it seemed like an entirely new situation. Here, Desmond, Volke, Huerta, Termous, and a few other soldiers sat in three small craters, all arranged in a circle. The gunfire kept their heads down, the hand grenades made them cringe, but at no point was death on any of their minds, it was always in the back. It takes a lot to make a man contemplate his death.

“Ideas?” asked Volke,

“Could try shooting our way out,” suggested Pedraza,

“You practicing your smartass routine Pedraza?” shouted Desmond,

“Sorry sir!”

“FUCK!” Volke threw a hand grenade out of his crater, pitching it like a baseball, “HEADS DOWN!”

The hand grenade detonated in the air, sending shrapnel everywhere in its airburst, injuring an unknown amount of people, but including Desmond in the count who took shrapnel. He held in his pain, but gave Volke a dirty look after the fact.

“Who’s got a damn idea?!” asked Desmond, angrily,

“You’re the Lieutenant, you tell us!” quipped Volke,

“I’ll kick your crippled ass all the way back to Mexico if you don’t cut the sarcastic shit!”

“There’s an idea!” commented Pedraza,

“It’s a promise!”

Mortars fell around them now, the soldiers lying into the trenches, hoping something wouldn't hit them, and lucky as they'd be, an 85mm NET mortar landed in Volke's crater who jumped at the tremendous kick of dirt, along with Huerta and Termous, who were practically crossing their hearts at the undetonated ordinance.

"Made in Carolina!" said one of the fellow soldiers,

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Termous,

"Carolina makes really shitty equipment!" explained Desmond, "You guys may not get lucky the next time," he pulled the pin on a smoke grenade, "Fix bayonets! You may need to use them!"

"Lieutenant!" shouted Corsican, running through the battlefield, side stepping and zig zagging to avoid fire, "Lieutenant!"

Corsican jumped into the crater with the radio in tow, "Call it in!"

"Call what in??"

"Thunder One!"

"What happened to the radio operator?"

"He's dead, call in the strikes, I can't read the damn map otherwise I would!"

Desmond pulled open the map, taking out his flashlight to see in the dark, "Hand me the phone," he reached out, calling to Thunder One, "Thunder One, Thunder One, this is Lieutenant James Desmond of the 7th Battalion, do you read? Over,"

No response came.

"He's not there, operator," explained Desmond,

"No! No! He was there just a little while ago, wait up!"

"Does it look like we can wait? We've got to maintain momentum, get your ass back to Durant, why did you abandon her?"

"I-I-I didn't!"

Desmond ignored Corsican, "My guys! On me!" he threw smoke grenades throughout the length of the small no man's land, to give them a little bit more room to maneuver and surprise the enemy, if only for a moment. They fixed bayonets, gritted their teeth, and prepared for what would be the most reckless moment of their lives.

"The smoke is set! Follow me!" Desmond raised out of the crater and was followed by Volke's troops and the others, bayonets fixed ready to fight the enemy in their own trench. They went through the smoke, their eyes watering at the thick gas, their lungs burning at the little they inhaled, and throats irritated at the hydrochloric fumes, but onward they pressed until they passed through, the wind blowing the smoke into the trenches and stunning the NET soldiers as well.

Desmond leading, he stood at the top first, stabbing a man below him and firing three times into the combatant's chest. He directed Volke and his mercenaries to head left, while directing the Western soldiers to head right. Volke's mercenaries made as much progress as they could in the toxic fumes, firing freely down the trench line. With the right side absent of hostiles, the soldiers took up arms with the mercenaries, backing them instead.

The situation tensed though as both sides dove into a firefight not dissimilar to the one that had been going on for the last half hour. They were stuck in a bad situation behind trench corners, firing back and forth ineffectively. The situation would turn to whoever the defenders were.

"Hand grenades, whatever you have left, up and over!" said one of the troops, lobbing his last grenade up over his head hopefully into the NET occupied portion of the trench. Volke pitched his down the trenchline exposing himself for a moment, while the others followed suit, each throwing a grenade, and about seven moderate explosions detonating afterward. Momentum needed to be kept if they were to make progress. They could not stop moving.

Desmond coughed, "Volke..." he coughed again, "Take point, I'll look above and cover you!"

"Going," Volke and Termous headed down the trench, crouched low to avoid fire from above. Volke taking the lead put his concentration into what was ahead of him, and he shot down a NET soldier with a quick pulse of the trigger as the hostile peeked around the corner.

But fighting in trenches was deadly close quarters combat, and a blast accompanied by a large muzzle flash which stood out in the night blasted Volke into the wall of the trench, where he crumpled up limp injured.

"Volke!" shouted Termous, "Guys! Shotgun around the corner!"

"There's a corner??!" asked another Western soldier in the back,

Pedraza, who was sitting next to Desmond climbed quickly out of the trench and moved swiftly to what was a junction in the trench, where it connected to another down the way. Having the element of surprise, Pedraza got the jump on the soldier with the shotgun, who was stabbed and shot to death by his strike from above, ending that current threat. Pedraza then watched the direction the shotgun-wielding soldier came from, covered by Desmond who poked his head out along with a couple other men to keep NET troops from scaling ground above them.

Meanwhile, Sarah went to Volke, who barely had the strength to sit up against the wall. She put her hand on his torso which was torn apart by buckshot, bleeding profusely.

"That's...that's the last one for me..." he said, before closing his eyes.

"You fought well," she said, "You fought well,"

"We've still got more where that came from!" exclaimed Pedraza, pumping shells from the NET soldier's shotgun down the trench to suppress the other men. Above the soldiers in the trenches, an M48 from the 17th passed by, apparently running again after being severely damaged in combat. Behind it, the other soldiers, including Corsican and Durant, advanced in relative safety as it traversed trenches just inches above the friendly troops.

"Move it on up Lieutenant!" said Hunter with reinforcements from the rear, "We've got more ground to cover!"

The soldiers from the charge looked forward as the M48 put its cannon down as low as it could traverse and fire a 105mm HEAT into the next trench, downing many soldiers and injuring more.

********

Kiwi
Martin, Morrison, Caron and Fournier flew west towards Bakken at 20000 meters with the goal of escorting the NI4 extraction back home, again on order of Descateaux himself, who had grown fond of asking the Air Force to watch over his NI4 operatives, Morrison personally having been involved on five separate occasions.

“With all these pings on the radar,” said Morrison, “I’m surprised the S70s even need us. The only thing they need to be worried about are Vulcan ADSs.”

“Be prepared for anything Major,” replied Martin, “They won’t stand a chance if jets get a lock on them,”

“Neither will we if we don’t see them in all that chaos,” said Fournier, “Anyone else extremely nervous about passing up all the enemy pings? They’ll get the jump on us, I’m telling you,”

“Just keep an eye out. We’ve got clear skies above all the clouds for the most part,”

“With all due respect Colonel,” started Caron, “They’ll lock on to us before we ever see them,”

“Hope for the best,”

The flight was uneventful to the naked eye, with only rain clouds in the way of their paths, but below the warfare was unbelievable, a front that rivaled only the beginning of the conflict about a year ago. Morrison remembered that day specifically.

“If I think back hard enough, this is almost like the first strike a year ago,”

“Did you take part in that Major?” asked Caron.

“I was a Phantom pilot, doing anti-aircraft artillery suppression in the beginning raids. It was bad. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that the West wasn’t just preparing out of healthy suspicion, they knew for damn sure we were coming that day,”

“How so?”

“Their response was too organized, too effective, and too large for it to be a quick reaction. Someone was on the button waiting to fire; they knew they just didn’t want to start the war. The missiles went out seeking their radar, and if I didn’t know the opposite, I would say our missiles left our wings, went about a klick, and boomeranged right back into us.”

“Sounds hectic, I unfortunately was off in the south bombing raiders at the time,”

“I remember it too,” said Fournier, “I was stationed out of Stanley at the time, and our guys were wasted upon the first strike. I’m akin to agree with you Major, they were waiting for us.”

“Shit! SHIT! SHIT! Missile lock! I’m locked!” yelled Caron, he dove out of formation and threw flares, six sets of two flying out of the back of the aircraft in quick succession.

Morrison looked south, where the missile came from. The smoke from its rocket engine came out of the overcast, a surface to air missile, unknown if a MANPAD or otherwise. In any case, the next came for him, which he evaded with flares and evasive maneuvering.

********

Mboddz, Cloakey

The incognito National Intelligence operatives waited for the Sikorsky to come, sitting at the edge of a tree line in the foliage to conceal themselves. They shared stories with each other, telling of each other’s misfortunes, their victories, their failures, and their homes.

Most of the operatives here didn’t operate like Captain Boddy’s team. They were generally placed behind enemy lines for months, maybe years, spending their times listening in to the frequencies of their Western counterparts, participating in clandestine number switching, subtle subterfuge, and sitting in underground caverns, missile silos, even living amongst the enemy for extended periods of time. When it came down to it, Boddy had the high life of being an NI operative. Not many people could say that they get orders straight from the boss, go and kick some heads in, and they’re back home in time for supper most of the time. No, most of the men don’t get to enjoy the easy living of North Point, with warm barracks waiting for operatives. They instead sit in solitude with only a few other agents, sleeping in the cold underground with only a lantern to light the darkness.

While Boddy listened to these stories, he definitely knew the like. He wasn’t exempt from it, after all, he had spent most of his career in that situation, but he also understood that among his peers, he was privileged. Sometimes he envied the regulation troops, since after this war, they’d get to go home, at least for a little while if they didn’t retire. For him he’d just go back to work, but he’d had enough of this work. A career of almost twenty years was about to come to an end for him if he had a say in it.

“There it is,” said Eckert, standing up, “That’s the ride,”

Boddy looked around, “Is this all of us?” he asked, there was only maybe, eleven, twelve men for the entire area waiting for this evacuation. Quite a sobering thought for what the pre-war levels of spies were.

“Used to be far more,” said one of the operatives, he moving out of the concealment of the tree line and marshaling the helicopter down.

Boddy motioned the operatives to move out, and out of the bushes they came out, emerging from a spectacular feat of camouflage, becoming nearly invisible with the environment. The S70 lowered collective, making minute adjustments for the landing under a white smokescreen.

“It’s over for us now,” said Reznor,

“Yeah, until we get another goose chase to continue,” reminded Boddy.

Gunfire suddenly, violently, and deliberately started to destroy the trees around them, sending leaves falling, branches to snap, and splinters to fly. Upon the first couple of rounds, two operatives dropped dead, the rest scattered, confused and caught off-guard at the assault.

“Where is that coming from?” asked Boddy,

“Southeast! Southeast!” yelled Crane, shooting downrange. Crane pointed to the positions of the Western men, who numbered at least platoon strength, firing from the cover of broken stone walls from the local farmer, and a large line of bushes along a berm. An army convoy headed towards the east had spotted the helicopter making his approach.

“More heading along the left!” shouted an operative, he rallied his men under fire, “Another five, I see them! Someone get fire on these guys!”

The operatives struggled in the fight, who lacked support weapons on any kind, whether they be AT weapons, light machine guns, or even rifles for the most part, only Captain Boddy’s troop being armed with Western M14s.

“A few are going right,” yelled Reznor, “They’re heading-”

Reznor was silenced.

“This is it!” yelled an operative, “We’re dead!”

“We are if you keep talking that way!” Boddy came under the influence of incredible accuracy, who singled out a few soldiers making a run for their flank, firing once, twice, three times downing, one, two, three combatants.

The S70, unarmed with the exception of a single .50 caliber in the side, made his run again, having bugged out under fire. The helicopter came in fast and low, landing on the other side of the forest. The previous twelve operatives had been lowered to five, who ran as it landed. None of them wanted to stay any longer than they had to, seeing as a thirty second engagement had downed more than half of them already.

Boddy and his operatives sprinted to the helicopter, the .50 caliber in the side firing suppressive through the trees to keep the Western men down. Boddy sprinted and jumped in, then Eckert, then Crane, who fired behind himself, then the last two operatives.

“GO-GO-GO-GO!” yelled Boddy to the pilot, who hardly needed the encouragement. He stood up in the helicopter, firing out the side.

“I’M DONE WITH THESE ASSHOLES!” yelled Crane, throwing his pistol against the wall after emptying the magazine, "FUCKING DONE!"

********

Jean Reznor

“I’m not interested in it dad, I want to be an artist! The wars we fight aren’t for safety anymore, they’re for living space. Living space we don’t need! ”As far as I’m concerned, the soldiers are at just as much fault as the politicians.”

“Jean, the girls and I can’t take that anymore,”

“You’re an inspiration to me father. You sacrifice for the rest of us. We all should make that effort. The world would be a better place.”

His vision went blurry, his muscles delayed, he looked out from the trees to see the Western forces advancing, covering each other as they moved tactically. When he looked to his left, he saw his other lost comrades, most dead, some injured. In particular, one injured man spasmed uncontrollably, screamed at his pain.

Reznor looked ahead, opposite the hostile field. If he could crawl away, he might get spared. Looking back to the injured operative, a Western soldier blasted him with his shotgun to silence him, and Reznor feared for his life. He kept crawling, staying behind bushes and foliage to conceal himself.

“Find the casualties, deal with them!”

Reznor reached for his holster and took out his Hi-Power, which was his last way to protect himself and kept crawling. He focused so much on surviving, he didn’t even realize that simple breathing was one of the greatest toils at the moment.

“Trying to get away?!” yelled a Western soldier, turning Reznor around as he crawled, but Reznor had anticipated a fight and fired his handgun into the soldier three times, killing the man. Now flipped around, he saw two other soldiers, and fired at them. Reznor tried to yell at the enemy, but he did nothing but wheeze.

The soldiers hid behind trees, and Reznor shot at them, but they only evaded his rounds and returned fire, ending Reznor’s life.

********

The Western Soldiers

“Follow the tanks!” yelled Hunter over the carnage, “Keep up with them!”

Advancing soldiers followed through the trenches, stepping and climbing over the dead that lay in them, West and East alike. The next line of trenches awaited, about two hundred feet ahead of them, through no man’s land.

This would be in the history books. Telling the story of the courageous Western men who charged the line fearlessly, undaunted and made the sacrifice to push the Eastern enemy out of Bakken, securing energy independence for the Western people.

The soldiers charging the lines though were not fearless, but neither did they stop for anything. In the soaked earth, they struggled, dodging rounds and but ultimately being hit eventually for most of them. It was akin to the souls who passed the no man’s lands in the thousands, almost three hundred years ago to the day.

Unlike their ancestors hundreds of years ago, their technology gave them slightly better chances. Those chances may just have been what they needed.

********

Mboddz, Cloakey

Minot airfield stood mostly burnt out, with the exception of some hardened aircraft bunkers which held NI4 secrets inside. Boddy, Crane, Eckert, and the other survivors disembarked, but only Boddy’s team would be taking the next task on. Orders straight from Descateaux himself, who had been ordering his men in the field personally, Boddy’s team was to help facilitate the orderly retreat of Eastern forces in the immediate area, as Shepard pulled the last remaining troops out. What was left of the Air Force was in full strength, reinforcing the sky to keep Western air off the retreat also.

“I’m glad you guys are finally here!” said a pilot, approaching them.

“What do we need to do?” asked Boddy.

“I’ve lost my crew chief in artillery barrages, speaking of which, can you use an artillery piece?”

“Why?”

“Follow me!” The pilot ran into one of the hardened shelters which had been damaged heavily, its arch just barely holding the structure.

“NI4 special,” he said, revealing an enlarged S70, dubbed an S75, which instead of housing two machineguns, was strictly offensive, and instead fielded a dual .50 caliber machinegun and a 100mm howitzer, armed with APFSDS rounds, which could punch through the armor on Western tanks easily.

“This is big,” said Crane.

“Which of you knows how to operate a cannon like this?” The pilot pointed to it, such a large cannon for a helicopter.

“I have elementary knowledge,” said Crane,

“You’re on it then,” said the pilot, “Help me push this beast out,”

The pilot and the remaining NI4 agents pushed the helicopter out which was on wheels, the beast rolling slowly out. They pushed it about thirty feet away from the hangar and jumped inside, Crane taking the gun operation, Eckert taking the loader position, and Boddy taking the MG position.

“Our orders are to knock out the tanks that are approaching the airfield, as well as assist in the organized retreat to safe areas,” said the pilot,

“What’s your name?” Boddy asked over the sound of the engine starting.

“Chief Warrant Officer Leduc,” he replied as he flipped switches, “There’s boxes for that machinegun where the other machinegun would normally be,”

“I noticed,” said Boddy, “There’s practically no room to walk in here!”

“That’s why this variant had to be 50% larger!”

********

The Western Men

As the night passed on, more trenches were passed, more defenses were routed, more soldiers were lost. The 7th Battalion was almost through the defenses at this point, having gone through two miles of lined defenses on the south side, bypassing as many as the situation would allow. The last three miles were a straight shot, guarded lightly if at all, commanders expecting that the Eastern military wouldn’t be able to react in force to a breakthrough.

Desmond’s Castle platoon regrouped outside the entrance to a village, which was surrounded by hedges two feet high. All in all, Desmond, Sawyer, Pedraza, Wells and Termous made one group. Hunter, Corsican, Masters, Kaminsky, Kirschenbaum, Dietrick and McKenna made the other, they were the last remaining soldiers of Castle platoon, with the others all either killed or lost in combat.
“Where’s Durant?” asked Corsican,

“I thought she was with you?!” responded Desmond lividly,

From behind, out of the trenches Durant climbed out, winded, wounded, and tired from the days of fighting. It was hard to believe that they had advanced close to seventeen miles in two days. She limped over to her friendlies, holding her sides as she carried her equipment, fatigued.
“Sir, I’ve got three different gunshot wounds, I can’t do this anymore…” she said painfully.

“Everybody is shot, including myself, some more than others,” Desmond dismissed her injuries, and Durant sat down next to Corsican, “Hunter, what d’you think of this?”

“They’re launching mortars from inside, so I’d guess they have a sizable garrison inside. I’ll take my people, go around the side, you hit them from here.”

“Make it fast Hunter, we won’t hold long,”

“I’ll double time,”

Hunter took his group around the side, Durant coming with Desmond’s group instead.
“Are we it or not? Does anyone know if we still have the M2?”

“The M2 crew were wasted a while back, Lieutenant,” said Sawyer, “Anything you need them for, I’ve still got the ’60.”

“How many rounds?”

Sawyer looked into the box attached to the machinegun, “Maybe eighty?”

“That’ll do us for about five seconds,”

“We’re all about to go into using enemy weapons anyway, Lieutenant,” commented Pedraza.

“Yeah, yeah, all you guys on me.”

Meanwhile, Hunter’s team went around the hedges, to the southern entrance of the village. The mortars were emplaced inside sandbag barriers, very impromptu, but still dangerous to take on. Hunter and his group opened fire, killing two of the soldiers who manned the mortars, but their immediate reactions weren’t expected, one of the mortar crewman taking a mortar, arming it, and throwing it at the soldiers.

The soldiers ran, the house next to them exploding, sending parts of rock and wood flying at dangerous speeds, and killing Masters instantly in the blast, knocking the rest over.

“Pedraza, Durant, hang right, secure that house! Sawyer, Wells, and…you,” Desmond had forgotten Termous’s name, “With me, we’ll go through this house.”

Pedraza and Durant breached the house, Pedraza blasting the lock off the door with his rifle by firing twice into it, then breaking it open with the stock of his weapon, Durant then throwing a hand grenade in. On Desmond’s house, it was the same procedure, and they took the house, with a clear line of sight of NET soldiers who were attacking Hunter’s men.

A firefight broke out between the houses, and a stalemate. But the arrival of tanks, signified by their engines roaring, signaled a break.

Although the sound of rotors, mentioned something else.

********

Mboddz, Cloakey

Operation in mind, the first shell was loaded. The crews readied themselves.

“Armor below, inside the village!” warned the pilot, “Target it!”

“On it,” said Crane, “Shot!”

The helicopter rocked considerably, as expected from a gun of such large caliber, and the advancing tank below them took the shot from above, impacting the right track and dismantling it, immobilizing the vehicle.

"Hit on it's tread!" called Eckert, "It's immobilized!"

"Hey, great shot!" complimented Boddy, soon going back to firing down at the ground.

The next shot came up. Eckert loaded it, and Crane targeted it while Leduc made his orbit, flying around 70kmph clockwise. Crane aimed carefully for the immobilized tank, which trained its machine guns onto the helicopter, and fired again, this time the shell going in through the top. The fire immediately stopped.

Again, the cabin bursted with cheers, "Load that with high explosive, there's a lot of infantry down in that village!" Boddy put bursts into the hostile infantry, "Hard to tell which is which though, I would assume the ones coming from the direction of that armor are hostile."

"Loading!" cried Crane, who waited for Eckert to find the correct shell.

"Do you have high explosive or anything pilot?" she asked,

"What?!" called back Boddy, deafened by the helicopter blades and engine.

"Do you have high explosive?!!"

Boddy asked the pilot, "Are there high explosive shells on board?"

"Negative!" yelled the pilot, "Hold on!" The helicopter jerked unexpectedly.

********

The Western Soldiers

"Did you hit him?" asked Desmond,

"Missed!" said Wells, "Does anyone have another LAW?" she asked,

********

NI4

"Angela!"

Eckert, thrown off her feet at the sudden jerk of the helicopter, slipped and fell towards the open end where the cannon aimed out of, hanging on by a door handle and sheer strength, she panicked at the fact that she may fall hundreds of feet down to the ground. Crane jumped to her assistance, going around the cannon and grabbing her hand to pull her up.

Boddy looked out the window to see Eckert hanging out of the S75, just holding on from falling to death, "Hey, pilot, bank left!"

"What?" answered the pilot.

Boddy yanked the pilots helmet off and yelled straight into his ear, "BANK. LEFT."

Meanwhile on the other side of the helicopter it absorbed massive amounts of fire, not from the soldiers in the village, who were too busy with their own problems fighting infantry in the adjacent buildings, but from the infantry who were advancing, wasting no time in turning the emplaced weapons in the trenches against the aircraft, which was a very distracting target.

"This thing's a damn bullet sponge..." said Boddy to himself, "Why did they get rid of the other machine gun?"

"Hold on Angela!" Crane pulled with all his strength to bring her in, "You just hold on!" With emergency strength that Crane didn't even know existed, he pulled her back in to safety, Eckert herself trying to ignore the fact she almost splatted on the ground 200 meters down.

"IR lock! I'm throwing flares!" warned the pilot. The crew could see the bright orange flares fall out of the back of the aircraft fall to the ground, but what came with that protection was also a curse, as the sound of crunching metal increased as lead flew through the aircraft.

"We're turning this thing around, I'm going to lose the bird! The armor can't take all this punishment!"

"Do what you need to! This isn't a death or glory mission!" ordered Boddy, not about to risk himself seriously on a stalling operation.

"Banking out, just hold on," The pilot barely finished his sentence before the deafening sound of obliterated metal knocked them all to the floor of the cabin. Eckert was pounded by ordinance falling on her, Crane hit his head hard on the cannon, and Boddy slammed into the floor at what could only be described as warp speed. Outside, they'd been hit by a cannon from one of the advancing tanks, a quick reaction to a fast target, it seemed almost impossible.

The pilot was knocked out by the impact, and with the pilot unconscious and the helicopter losing altitude fast, the crew stood little chance of survival.

********

Western Soldiers

The soldiers down in the village made good process, with the loss of Kaminsky and Masters only, they had routed the remaining infantry, not necessarily out of a superior fight, but because the NET troops knew they wouldn't hold out much longer against the advancing horde known as the 4th Division. Above the battered men of Castle platoon, a helicopter fell out of the sky, almost in pieces, spinning out of control.

"HEADS DOWN!" "WATCH OUT!" "MOVE!" cried the soldiers in terror as the helicopter fell from the sky, Pedraza and Durant running from the building they were in to avoid it. The impact was great, the wreck was spectacular, the world seemed to almost stop for a moment as the dust settled.

"Casualties?" yelled Desmond, terrified of the response he'd get.

"Hunter is hit bad!" replied a voice, "Nobody else!"

"We should go, Lieutenant," said Termous, "Investigate that helicopter crash,"

"Alright," agreed Desmond, "Can you guys see it? Through the window?"

"Looks like nobody survived..." reported Sawyer, trying to look through the window, but upon seeing movement inside it, he opened fire in full automatic, hip firing inaccurately.

This unexpected fire attracted the attention of all the other soldiers who were around, and they all promptly started to fire on the wreck, the vehicle's armor deflecting all the rounds put into it by their small arms.

********
Mboddz

Unarmed, disorientated, and fatigued to the point of immobility, it took all the effort that Boddy had to get himself moving. His new environment looked strange to him, one of rubble, twisted metal and broken lumber. Towards the pilot seat, he saw the mangled body of the pilot, who from what he could tell, took the brunt of the crash. Towards the rear, he saw the cannon dug into the floor of the house, the helicopter tilted at a 70 degree angle lying on the house, which did little to stop, or even cushion the fall. Around the cannon, Crane, who was quiet, leaning against the cannon.

"Hey..." he rocked him gently, "Hey...wake up..."

No response.

"Wake up Lieutenant..." he pleaded, "Wake up..."

With no response, he looked elsewhere, and below the cannon's barrel he could see Eckert, split in half from the waist down, and most certainly dead from the crash. Without regard for himself, he climbed around the side door, crawling out of the wreckage, bothered by the rain which deflected from his helmet, and mixed with the blood that coated him all around.

"That's typical," he maneuvered through the broken support beams and splintered wood, stepping over broken tables and chairs, shattered dishes and a broken vase, he walked out of the house, holding his stomach, and limping out at a pace.

********

Western Men

"Hey!" said Pedraza, "One of them got out!"

The wounded man walked across the village square, avoiding the buildings that housed the two groups. Neither group fired at him, yet, instead marveling at the fact that someone could survive that crash.

One soldier from Hunter's group fired from the other house, hitting the ground next to the man, who looked at them, and then tried to go to the other way, away from the soldiers.

Sawyer shouldered his weapon and got a grin on his face, firing at the ground next to the soldier again, which made him go the other direction. The survivor had no fight in him left, he only wanted to get away.

"Don't kill him! Let's have some fun with the son of a bitch!" shouted another soldier from Hunter's group, who shot at the ground again, confusing the survivor. He only tried to excuse himself from the situation. It was obvious he had no fight in him.

Many of the soldiers had no quarrel joining in on the situation, shooting at the ground around him, Desmond included. It was fun for them.

********

Mboddz

Boddy tried to walk away, but every time they'd shoot at the ground, he'd go the other direction, every time they shot again, he'd go the other. It was a game to them, he knew it. They were sparing him for their entertainment!

He could hear their laughter. They were heartless. When someone was on their last legs, they refused to care. No quarter given. No mercy received.

Damned if he would be killed lying on his stomach! Infuriated, heartbroken, loyalty broken, the only thing he asked for was an end to his torture. His body bled all over. His body was broken. With his last move, he threw his helmet into the ground, which bounced off the ground, bloodied, dirtied, and broken, just like its owner.

He screamed with anger. This was it?! This is how it happens? He had not even reached forty, and his end was that of a rabid dog being put down? As an animal hunted for sport? He screamed again in anger, and weeped in sadness. He taunted his enemies in their own tongue.

"SHOOT ME!" he screamed, "SHOOT ME YOU DAMN COWARDS!"

He was responded to with a rifle round to his shoulder blade, shattering the bone, dislocating his arm. He again screamed in pain, and bled profusely, "End it!" he yelled, "DO IT!"

"Hey, start running asshole!"

"Where's your Griffon now?!"

The soldiers laughed, and they still shot around him.

"Do it! SHOOT ME RIGHT HERE!" he pointed to his chest with his mobile arm, his dead one hanging limp. The next shot shattered his pelvis, and dropped him to his knees, the unbearable pain from his wounds succumbing him to his fate.

"Roll over, bitch!"

********

Western Soldiers

In both groups, there were dissenters. Corsican took no part in the activity that his friends and comrades were reveling in, instead becoming ashamed at the actions that they involved themselves in. Here was obviously a helpless man, someone who couldn't dream of defending himself, and he had lost all hope. Corsican contemplated ending it, if only to end the man's suffering.

Sarah in the other group also dissented. She never wanted to be a soldier, and this was the reason why, even as her 'comrades' took pleasure in it (even her CO!), she refused, instead only looking at what was truly a dark time in her days here. It was wrong to glorify war. There was no glory in this, she thought to herself.

"Shoot him in the leg!" yelled Desmond, "No mercy!"

Pedraza fired his handgun, "I got his gut!"

"Run, fucker!" insulted Dietrick, shooting at the ground. Corsican who sat beside him in the window of the house, situated above the injured man, raced in his mind what to do. He knew this wasn't right.

"SHOOT ME, FASCISTS!" insulted the injured man, "SHOOT-ME-YOU-GODDAMN-COWARDS!"

"Put your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye!" yelled a voice from Desmond's building. Corsican decided what to do, and he acted on it. He sighted his rifle and aimed down the sight at the injured man, Dietrick cheering him on.

"Yeah, Tyson! Get him in the ass!"

Corsican aimed center mass, and fired his rifle once.

********

The final sting had struck...

********

Twice.

********

The pain ceased...

********

Once more...

********

Darkness enveloped.

********

The laughter stopped. The cheering halted, the clouds continued to cry and thunder, the soldiers' grins went to disappointment, and the soldiers in Corsican's house lowered their weapons and looked to him, "What'd you do that for?" asked Kirschenbaum.

Corsican only looked at him once with melancholy dissatisfaction, and walked down the steps to the first floor.









End

The Epilogue should feature my guy sitting in a hot tub with a cigar and several women, celebrating West totally never killing me. What a chump, getting super murdered.

The epilogue will be posted within a couple of days.

Hooray! Everyone's either an asshole or dead! What a story!

WestHybrid 360 wrote:Hooray! Everyone's either an asshole or dead! What a story!

Well, you chose your fate. More than some can say.

Epilogue






James Desmond

James Desmond was promoted to 1st Lieutenant after leading Castle Platoon to victory at Minot airfield, alongside his fellow commanders in the field. Upon the NET’s final withdraw from the Bakken region one week after the victory, the 1st through 10th Battalions were sent home to Idaho with a quiet celebration, with the remaining 11th through 20th returning a few weeks after.

He would retire six months later from service after being awarded along with the rest of his division the “Bakken Campaign” award. Returning to his wife and mother in Eastern Idaho, he would take up work as a physical education teacher in a local secondary school. Working for years with his depression, he fathered one son and one daughter with his wife and raised them until committing suicide at the age of fifty in 2237, his depression finally becoming the end of him. He is buried, alongside his wife, in the Western State Veteran’s Memorial and Cemetery in Boise, joined by thousands of veterans from the days before and the days after.

Tyson Corsican

Tyson Corsican returned to Alaska after serving out the remainder of his time embedded with the Western military’s 4th Division, nicknamed the “Fighting Forth” after their fight through the Resource War. Corsican, who was awarded the Meritorious Service Star, the second highest civilian award offered by the Western government, returned a hero of the state in Alaska, being hailed by newspapers across the bush country as a ‘War Hero’ and ‘Shining Example of the Next Generation’. Upon being made a celebrity, he wrote an autobiography, detailing his accounts of the Resource War, criticizing the destruction nations were willing to cause ‘with good intentions’ and recounting in great detail of the heroes he served with, which even though he didn’t consider himself one, considered all the men and women of valor he served with, as true examples.

After the war, Tyson, even though born into indentured servitude and among the lowest class in Alaskan culture, attended classes at Juneau University and became a psychologist, dedicating the rest of his life to helping men overcome their internal conflicts and demons, the likes of which he saw far too often in Bakken go untreated.

Francis Hunter

Francis Hunter died two days later after Minot was captured, succumbing to his injuries sustained during the fight, dying in his sleep quietly anesthetized to complete numbness in a field hospital.

He was returned home after the war, being spared a burial in the field like many of his comrades had to settle for, and was buried in the Winnemucca cemetery where his family lived as of 2216. He was survived by his mother and father, who had lost their only son in the Bakken Conflict.

Darius Ico

A soldier at heart, but driven to monetary gains, Darius Ico, while changing his identity once and evading death numerous times before, could not survive the final gauntlet that the nation who had killed his father, put up for him. His eagerness to expand his empire and see things through himself, not to mention his arrogance in his pursuits for personal grudges, only worked to endanger his family and personal friends, who had to spend the next many years in low-profile work to avoid what they thought would be death. While his family did not suffer any more than they had to, the company which his father had made went through dark times for the next six years before finally stabilizing, albeit at a much lower point then they held before. Ico is buried in a makeshift graveyard in western North Dakota, alongside many other Western soldiers who fought beside him.

Sarah Termous

Being exposed to the life of a soldier for only a couple of months was enough for the daughter of a career soldier, who couldn’t get away from it and eventually met his end following it. Sarah traveled back home after the conflict ended, settling back into work as a welder in Bend, Oregon. She wrote an autobiography which met moderate success about her experiences in the conflict, which arguably would’ve been more popular if she had been an enlisted soldier, and not a mercenary working on behalf of the government. Sarah Termous would later face charges by the Western Government on behalf of her tribal marks, which were strictly taboo in Western society, after a co-worker reported them to local authorities. She would write many texts in prison about the indignities brought upon the native peoples of the UGW, which would get little attention.

Michael Boddy

The stalwart and loyal warrior of the NET who had dedicated his life to facilitating its political and moral ambitions would be rewarded not with a chorus of praise, but with the whisper of defeat, as the survivors of the conflict did also receive. Along with the rest of the NET soldiers who fell in battle at Minot airfield, he was placed in a mass grave, and cast aside.

While the NET veterans who arrived back home were greeted to apathetic streets and quiet cities, not everyone in the government had forgotten the sacrifice that was undertaken by the loyal warriors of the country. While his body, along with many others, was forgotten in the many unmarked graves by the Western enemy, many markers were placed for the unrecovered dead in cemeteries across the northeast in memoriam for the fallen men and women who gave the ultimate sacrifice. Captain Boddy is marked in Arlington National Cemetery, which even in the days after, retains the honor and privilege it did before the current government.

Harry Cloake

Retired after surviving multiple gunshot wounds in the prison riot, Harry Cloake, while disabled, continued his life successfully afterward remaining quiet and humble about his military service. Cloake worked odd jobs after two years of rehabilitation until finally finding steady work in the Ashland Police Department, in Maine, as a Police Officer.

Angela Eckert

After the soldiers occupying the village left, Eckert had awakened to a crash with the limp body of Crane beside her, and no Captain to account for. Upon discovering she had lost her legs, Angela Eckert crawled out of the building, crawled across the fields for a mile before coming upon friendly NET forces who were faring better against the advancing 4th Division. She was immediately transported across the river, where she would be put into care safe from Western influence.

She was one of the few casualties to return home from Minot airfield, one of only seventeen who survived the fighting in the fields. After rehabilitation efforts, she returned home with an honorable discharge living on disability for the rest of her life, always in the care of loving family and friends, remembering the sacrifices that her fellow comrades laid down and how they were the finest men she ever had the privilege to serve with.

Jean Reznor

Jean Reznor as well met the same fate as his comrade and Captain, being forgotten in a mass grave at the hands of the Western victors, leaving a wife and two daughters behind, and becoming nothing but a name in the records, despite his many accomplishments and achievements on his behalf. Without the income from her husband, Sharon Reznor quickly fell into poverty, having never worked before and being completely dependent on her husband. While she tried as hard as she could to get work that she could perform, the massive flux of women whose husbands had died in combat applying for work meant that jobs were hard to come by, and consequently, work was very part and parcel, only challenging the raising of her children that much more.

Cyler Crane

Cyler Crane who was knocked unconscious from the crash, was captured by Western soldiers and sent back west to work in camps in the Rocky Mountains and at times sent to correctional facilities in an attempt to turn him over for OFSA. Crane always resisted, and after five years in captivity killed himself in prison by stealing a guard’s weapon and staging a one man assault. As a result, one guard was killed before Crane was gunned down by five different guards. He is survived by no family.

Liam Krieger

Liam did sleep when he finally got home, quitting his work at Rising East and going to school to become a French teacher. He married in ’25 a woman from New York, fathering four children with her who went on to become successful themselves. He never heard from his brother Mordecai again, who he thought was overtaken by the Midwestern bandit lands, as so many had been before him, and so many to come.

Eric Morrison

Among a mostly quiet and apathetic return for the warriors of the NET, Eric Morrison was one of the few exceptions, who was awarded the Wreathed Griffon Cross w/ Swords and Diamonds, the highest military award, by Minister Griffon himself and given considerable media attention upon his return, hailed as a war hero who never failed the territories. Morrison continued to serve in the Air Force for fifteen years afterward, attaining the ranks of Lieutenant Colonel and then Colonel by the end of his career. Shortly after the Bakken Conflict, Morrison was asked to head the newly formed Aerial Combat Assessment and Tactics school in Virginia, training Air Force and Naval aviators in the art of aerial combat to better prepare pilots for future wars involving other modern militaries.

He as well lead a successful life afterward, learning many lessons from a war which redefined combat for an entire nation. He married later in life and raised a son with his wife, who, just like his father, and his grandfather, became a fighter pilot, flying the same F4 Phantom his father had, all those years ago.

Eric John

While his wartime career was cut short, John was recommissioned as a flight instructor when the Aerial Combat Assessment and Tactics school was created alongside his pilot, Eric Morrison. Together, they trained pilots as the top instructors for fifteen years until they both retired, when they were occasionally called in as guest speakers. John would later die in a fatal accident in 2235 while performing in an airshow, leaving behind a grieving family. He is buried in Wisconsin.

Charles Descateaux

The esteemed commander of North Point faced incredible scrutiny and criticism by his colleagues after the war. Since Descateaux and Shepard had disconnected with the central government and disobeyed orders to withdraw units from the frontline as early as November of 2215, NET Army High Command had pinned the deaths of almost five thousand soldiers on the two, and were convicted in August of 2217 of treason and war crimes.

Descateaux continues to claim that appeasement was never the correct policy, and perhaps he was correct, as even though they were convicted of these high crimes, they were only punished in being dishonorably discharged and placed in low security traditional Federal prisons, sitting out their sentences. Descateaux swears to the day that he did nothing wrong, claiming that “A nation that prefers disgrace to defeat is worthy of a master, and deserves one.”

Luna Durov

The sister of the infamous slave trader lived the quiet life throughout the rest of her days, living in relative silence, dropping her surname and replacing it with one more common. She lives today among the population a new woman, forgetting her troubled past and instead setting forth to start a new life, one more in line with the status quo of middle class life in the NET.

Courtney Durant
Courtney Durant, along with most of the 4th Division, retired after the war. She quickly spent most of her savings on property, which experienced a boom after the war, and became the landlord of an apartment complex. While in the profession, she gained a reputation for being hard, but fair, and gained the nickname among her tenants as “The bitch who survived the war”, being one of the few soldiers who survived not only the opening battle of Bakken, but the continuous street to street fighting that persisted for months on end, and then the last months of fighting in the eastern fields. A very exclusive group.

Later in life, she invested in a ranch in Northern Idaho, while trying to keep relationships, the only ones to ever stick were between her and her animals.

Tom Sawyer

Sawyer continued his career in the military, the only son of his parents. He retained a relatively normal career after the Resource War, and remained in the service for another two years before his term expired, allowing him to retire from the military at twenty years old.

Charlie Wells

Forced into service she never cared to partake in, Charlie Wells served the remainder of her term relegated to occupational duties in Southern Nevada, providing security for small time farmers, shooting at rocks and the occasional bandit. She retired immediately upon becoming eligible, at the age of nineteen.

Mark Kirschenbaum

Mark received a similar end to his comrades in Castle platoon, sitting out a few months in hospitals to treat his wounds, then returning to service in the field, but Mark found his calling in the military, enjoying the discipline and structure of the work. He began a career ten years long, rising to the rank of Staff Sergeant, retiring successfully with many commendations and awards reflecting his good conduct, meritorious service, and professional behavior, at the age of twenty-eight.

Frank Pedraza

Frank Pedraza received the Bronze Star for his loyalty and exemplary conduct in the Assault on Minot, and later received the Silver Star for distinguished actions in raiding a bandit outpost in Southern Nevada when he assumed command of his squad, after the squad leader was incapacitated and unable to act, leading them to victory with no friendly casualties. He retired after six years of service at the age of twenty three, becoming a veterinarian afterward.

Mason Dietrick

Mason Dietrick was honorably discharged due to injury a year after he enlisted due to injuries sustained during his service, retiring from service at the age of eighteen. After he retired from service, he took on work as a firefighter in Nampa, Idaho, and continued that for the next twenty years.

Cody Wooten

Cody Wooten continued his career supplying everything from militaries to prisons with his wares, continuing to fund wars and government projects alike, his corperation grew to new heights, and he enjoyed the life of luxury for the most part, exempting when he actually did have to gets his boots dirty, every now and again.

For even him though, there would still be no congratulations or saluting, only scant mention in the history books. Even though they went without the gratification of their people, the soldiers and airmen of the NET were the true heroes of the war, a generation of great men and women who stood to the end against the hold of fascism.




In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

And no epilogue for Evan Garret...

Not the worst way for Darius to kick the bucket. Thanks for the story Jag. It was fun.