The Beginning
The war has raged for nearly a decade now. Neither side has backed down, probably because neither side knows how. Entire cities have been reduced to rubble, drenched in the blood of soldiers and civilians alike. Nowhere is out of reach of the devastation. From the shores at the sea, to the mountains in the north, the nation has been set ablaze.
Before the war began, the remains of the Arkanan Empire were divided into two opposing camps. To the north was the Federal Republic of North Arkana. To the south was the Confederacy of Arkanan Provinces. The two factions were largely tolerant of each other, generally avoiding needless conflict. But then, things began to change. The CAP began closing their borders, and cut off trade with the FRNA. We didn't think much of it at first. Things like that usually happened during a government transition, ending once new or altered power structures were in place.
By the time we finally realized everything was changing, it was almost too late. When the CAP consulate closed down, and contact was lost with the CAP's leaders, our government took action. A single plane was sent into CAP territory, armed only with cameras and radios.
That's when we first saw the war.
We had no idea how fragile the threads holding the CAP together were. They dominated seventy percent of the former Arkanan Empire's territory, always seeming to be united under a single banner. But the origins of the CAP, from a small trade organization to a nation of its own had left a sour taste in some people's mouths. Underneath the facade of unity, old tensions and disputes were constantly simmering, never quite reaching the boiling point, always calmed by negotiation and compromise. Even with peace maintained by diplomacy, the CAP was a powder keg waiting for a spark.
That spark came when CAP military police moved to suppress an ethnic terrorist organization. During the operation, several civilians were killed in the crossfire between government forces and insurgent fighters. Riots broke out in the local area, and quickly spread to neighboring cities. CAP forces attempted to disperse the mobs with non-lethal methods, but were bombarded with stones and firebombs.
Three days into the rioting, the local militia groups took up arms against the government forces. The mobs had military support and access to the militia armories, and they began to overrun the CAP garrisons. By the time our reconnaissance aircraft arrived and sent back images of the turmoil on the ground, the CAP was engulfed in a civil war in its entirety.
FRNA troops were moved to the border to prevent the conflict from spilling over. Dozens of independent factions were fighting CAP forces, as well as each other. The disunity of the rebels was initially an advantage, but it proved to become a severe problem for the CAP. One rebel force would be defeated or forced to surrender, only for an entirely unrelated rebellion to break out elsewhere. The enemy wasn't so much the rebels as it was the never ending series of uprisings.
Six months after the militias joined the fight, the CAP sent us the first message since the beginning of the conflict. They were requesting intervention by FRNA forces. It would be the first time in decades FRNA troops stepped foot on CAP soil.
Welcome toMirov Hell
That's how I ended up in this hellhole. My unit, the 51st Cavalry, was deployed to Mirov Province, just south of a mountain range, and one of the driest parts of the CAP. CAP units maintain control of most of the province, but we get deployed to the places at the epicenter of insurgent activity.
SPC Alexander Mueller
2d PLT, D CO, 51 CAV
My track is in the middle of the convoy,following another pair of M22 IFVs and an M3 light tank. I'd rather be in a two-two than a trip. Even though the trip has heavier armor and a 76mm gun, that just makes it the bigger target.
Our gunner, manning the 25mm chaingun, keeps watch from his open hatch. I can see him wave to the track behind us from inside the troop compartment. Only six of us can ride in the track with the 3 man crew, so there's two tracks per squad. Most of the tracks have been modified by their crews, and ours has an extra M38 on a skate mount on the rear deck around a hatch they welded on. No one else wanted to, so I man the extra gun. It's behind the turret, so it's my job to cover the side an rear angles of our track.
Without any warning, I'm flung against the side of the track. My ears are ringing, and it takes a few seconds before I'm aware what's happening. Popping the hatch open, I can see the track behind us burning. Someone is trying to climb out of the turret, but I spot the backblast of a rocket launcher from the corner of my eye. The missile streaks in and hits the damaged track, engulfing it in a ball of fire.
As the ringing in my ears subsides, a dull roar, like rushing water, takes it place. Seconds later, the roar breaks down into shout, gunfire, and explosions.
"Shift your base of fire!"
"Incoming!"
"Get suppressing fire on the building!"
Instinct takes over. I grab the machine gun and pull the charging handle, chambering the first round of the belt. A burst of fire, from a house to the left of the track, clatters against the gun shield of my machine gun. Before I can return fire, the turret of my track traverses to engage the building. A steady thump shakes me to my core as the 25mm cannon tears through the mud and brick walls of the house, but I don't have time to watch the building fall. I slide the gun around to the opposite side and place several bursts into the front of a nearby building. As I fire through the windows and walls, a squad of soldiers storms into the building under my covering fire.
"Find some cover! We have CAS inbound!"
Troops scramble for cover as the roar of jet engines cuts through the noise. Two fighters streak past at low altitude, letting off a salvo of missiles towards the ground. Clouds of dust shoot into the air around the convoy, obscuring the sun.
No more shouting. No more shooting.
I look around warily, expecting another attack at any moment.
"Hey man, it's over. You can get down now."
My teammates are okay. They're tired, we all are but they're okay. Only two guys made it out of the track behind us. The rest of them are dead, Our track helped tow the other one back to camp. It'll be back in action after repairs, and after they clean out the insides.
Sleep isn't something I look forward to, like some of the guys do. It's a pause, just a moment between each day. It's a moment between each life-long day of fighting to go back home, with everyone still in one piece.
House Calls and the Human Condition
It's Mitchell's turn today. He gets to stay with the track, man the MG.
It's my turn today. I get to play Russian Roulette with the house clearing teams.
Kicking ass and taking names, That's what they like to tell you house clearing is. It's nothing like what they say it is. You can never tell what's waiting for you around the next corner. Sometimes we're met by fearful civilians or quiet hostility, but other times we meet hail of bullets.
Our body armor can take quite a bit of a beating, but it doesn't give us the protection we want. Lucky shots or someone who knows where to aim have claimed plenty of us before.
The streets are almost empty. It's never a good sign during an operation. None of the tracks are hit by ambushes or IEDs. We'll have to take the fight to the rebels, they aren't coming to us this time.
It's never easy being the point-man. I'm the first one in. I'll be the first to die if the shit hits the fan.
Our squad moves to the first house on the road. It looks like most others. Made out of weathered bricks and clay, adding to the dust already ubiquitous to the region.
The thick wood of the front door barely creaks under the blow from the ram. It's probably reinforced by the steel rebar so commonly used in the area's buildings. The breacher moves aside, and I level my carbine with the spot where the locks should be.
My weapons kicks a bit against my shoulder as I fire a burst through the door. Splinters of wood fly from the shattered timbers, and I kick the door open. The frame shudders, and the door flies back on its hinges. The lights are out, which is never a good sign. i flick the switch to the light under the barrel of my carbine. A beam of light illuminates the room, and it becomes clear we're in the right place, we just got here too late. Several crates, now empty, are strewn across the floor.
Jackson picks up a few stray cartridges, dropped by the insurgents as they were leaving. They're old, probably from back when the Empire was falling apart. Still, they're lethal, and that's all that counts.
The fourth house we approached turned out to be the command post for the local rebel cell. We're laying down suppressing fire, trying to keep the insurgents' heads down while Doc Charles pulls Jackson behind the cover of a stone wall. The ballistic plates stopped the first two rounds, but the third hit outside the are covered by the armor. Jackson's shoulder is bleeding, what looks to be in a bad way. The bullet had shattered a bone, and the fragments had made the wound even worse.
Even so, Doc flashes us a thumbs up. Jackson will make it. We're all relieved, but we still have a job to do. Using our track for cover, the squad moves in on the house. Cade, the track's gunner, and Mitchell, on the extra MG, really let loose on the side of the building. I unload a burst through a first story window, while John rushes the front door and smashes it in with the ram.
I'm the point man, first one in. Right inside the first room, partially concealed by a metal covered door, I spot an insurgent. The AP rounds pierce the thin sheet metal with little trouble, and my first burst stitches across the man's chect.
Behind me, John moves through the door and puts a burst into the chest of an insurgent rushing into the room with an assault rifle. Right away, the rest of the squad enters the building. We have to clear every room. We can't let anyone get away.
"First floor, clear!"
We stack up by the stairs to the second floor, ready to move up once the signal is given. Once the track stops pounding the floor above us, we'll rush anyone left up there. The cannon's thumping ceases, and we start up the stairs. An insurgent jumps out from around the corner at the top of the stairs, right into my sights. He drops without a sound, missing half his head.
Moving past the gore splattered wall, the squad begins clearing the second floor. One of our guys takes a round through the head. A lucky shot by a rebel. John makes him pay though, putting a full magazine through the man's body. it dances erratically under the impact of the bullets, which pass through and strike a pair of insurgents in the room beyond.
I pull John away from the doorway, covering the room as he reloads his weapon. Once I'm sure the rebels are down for good, I motion the rest of the squad to continue moving. I take John back down to the first floor. he might have already reached his breaking point. All of us have one, but not everyone reaches their's at the same time.
Some of us are able to black out the horrors we've seen, keep them out of our mind for the time being. You have to stop being human, stop making the connections you'd make in anormal life. Becoming attached to anyone is the quickest way to push yourself over the edge. No human can survive war unscathed, the only way to make it is to stop being human. you have to stop thinking, stop dwelling on your fears and morals, you just have to want to survive.
The officers in the rear will try to shame John into rejoining the fight. But they don't understand, they will never understand the things we've gone through. None of us who've seen our friends die, our comrades suffer, think any less of John. As much as we try to deny it, we're still, at least partially, human.
We Don't Deserve This
Our company was pulled off the frontlines. We took 40% casualties in one day of fighting. Nothing, not the best training in the world, can prepare you for urban combat. My platoon was in the suburbs, we got off light. First platoon was almost wiped out by a rebel ambush, only three guys got out unscathed. Third platoon lost two tracks to IEDs and had to evacuated by dropships.
Us, in second platoon, and the weapons platoon are on perimeter security. We're the only ones still relatively intact, but my squad still lost two men. The base we've been moved to provides fire support to the local units. There's a unit of DV-22 dropships, and another unit of AV-36 gunships stationed here. They're almost constantly on the move. Every day, the dropships bring back wounded from the battlefield, and the gunships come back with empty cannons and missile pods.
Most of us who aren't on the perimeter do what we can to help.We may be cav, but we've learned how to reload and rearm the aircraft here. The ground crews were a bit standoffish at first,but they appreciate the help now. They work almost 24/7.
But even miles away from the battle zones, we can't get away from this war. Thunder is always just past the horizon, waiting for the boys we see pass through, who have no idea what's waiting for them. We give what advice we can on how to change the odds, ever so slightly, in favor of survival. Some of them listen, but not enough. Still so young, they think they're invincible, and in a few days I find myself hauling their body out of a bullet riddled dropship. Just kids really. Only two or three years younger than me, but they're kids. They don't know any better. I didn't back then either.
Apocalypse
The dropship flies fast and low, weaving through the ravine cut into the mountainside. Out the rear drop ramp, I can see the other eleven dropships behind us. Looking forward, into the troop bay, I see Mike and give him a thumbs up. Jackson is in the seat next to me. He recovered from his wound enough to rejoin us in the field.
We're doing something different. Instead of the usual actions moving by tracks, we're being inserted from the air. This is a joint operation with FRNA Marines and CAP Rangers. INCOM was able to locate the the regional command center of one of the largest rebel groups currently operating in the CAP. Command says this could be the turning point of the war. If we win here, we'll have cut the ground out from underneath the insurgents. Operations like this are occurring simultaneously across the CAP. The goal is to wipe out the enemy's command and supply structure.
The coast is approaching quickly, and I can already see the marine's tracks moving up onto the beach, towards the rebel positions. On the inland side, CAP rangers are closing the vice on the enemy. below us, on a stretch of open ground, two other formations of dropships have already dropped off Echo and Fox companies.
As the dropship begins its descent, bullets from rebel fighters on the ground start striking the armored body of the aircraft. Below the cockpit, on the chin of the dropship, the 25mm chaingun begins firing at the rebels. The gunners at the sides of the bay open fire as well, using the Mk2 12.7mm HMGs mounted to the windows to clear the LZ.
Right next to an MG, I can feel the muzzle blast of the gun. Tightening my grip on my carbine, I watch out the ramp as the ground comes closer. Before we even touch down, we're already running down the ramp. The last trooper is out by the time the dropship touches the ground.
We had to leave it quickly. The wounded have to loaded aboard the aircraft and evacuated. Delta Company forms a perimeter around the LZ. The area was cleared earlier, but the rebels tunnels means nowhere is secure for long.
"RPG!"
The vapor trail of the rocket is all I see before it explodes. One of the men to my left is hit by shrapnel, and my ears are ringing as I spot the crater only five meter away. A Marine track begins firing at a tunnel entrance across the field, and one of the troopers spots several rebels fleeing the tunnel from a different opening.
We all open fire at them. Rifles and machine guns tear them apart, leaving a red mist hanging in the air for several seconds. Without warning, the marine track explodes. It had been hit by a rocket from an insurgent position, and the exploding ammunition adds to the lethal envrionment around us.
"Harris! Mitchell! Jackson! Follow me!"
I call for my teammates to move out, advancing towards the ridge overlooking the LZ. Harris replaced John after he was pulled off the line, but he's no green recruit. He's already completed two tours, making our squad one of the most experienced in the unit.
We advance by fire an maneuver, leapfrogging as we alternate firing and advancing. Harris and Mitchell suppress a rebel machine gun, while Jackson and I ready our grenades. Both of our grenades land behind the sandbags and explode nearly simultaneously. Harris runs forward, spraying a burst into the position behind the sandbags. If the grenades didn't kill the insurgents, then the bullets did.
Doc Charles and Owens, the squad medic, manage to pull two men from the burning marine track with the help of a marine engineer. The squad advances to establish a perimeter around the two medics and the wounded marines. My team is on the north end of the perimeter, on top of the ridge between the LZ and the rebel positions. Machine gun fire from enemy pillboxes stictches the ground in front of us as we dig our foxholes into the hard packed, dusty ground.
Moving up from the beach, and M42 AAV (anti-air vehicle) turns its turret towards the pillbox firing on my squad. The machine guns redirect their fire towards the AAV, but their bullets just bounce off its armor plates. As soon as the AAV's gunner lines up the bunker in his sights, he unleashes his quad 25mm cannons on the enemy. Some of the guys cheer as the bunker is pounded by nearly 80 rounds per second, but most of us only watch, knowing there will be more positions to clear after this.
With the beach successfully secured by the marine assault, landing ships move to the shore to unload M42 Mechanized Fighting Vehicles and Grizzly battle tanks. Some rebel soldiers run forward and fire rockets at the vehicles lining up on the sand. Missiles hit several Grizzlies, exploding their anti-tank warheads against the tanks' armor. When the smoke clears, the Grizzlies are revealed to be undamaged. Before the insurgents can flee, they are cut down by fire from the coaxial machine guns of the tanks.
"Let's move out people! Get moving, we have a job to do!" shouts a marine sergeant.
My team gathers behind an MFV advancing from the beach. The 40mm cannon fires at 120 rounds per minute, sending shells screaming through the air, into the bunkers ahead of us. My teeth rattle with the concussion of a nearby Grizzly firing its 90mm cannon.
"Infantry in the open!" calls out the sergeant. "Let 'em have it!"
We all open fire, cutting down the retreating rebels with our fire. Some of the enemy drop where they stand, while others dance under the bullets ripping them apart before they fall. One of them takes a direct hit from the track's gun and just disappears.
A few meters ahead of us, a marine Salamander team is going to work. Liquid fire sprays from the muzzle of the flamethrower, working its way through any opening it can find into the insurgent pillboxes. Screaming men run out of the bunker, flames licking clothes and scorching their flesh.
Harris doesn't seem to think anyone should burn alive, not even the enemy. He raises his carbine and fires, cutting their agonizing deaths short. One of the marines gives him a questioning look for a moment before returning to his grisly work. Harris just shrugs.
Overhead, hovering above the battlefield, a dropship is taking heavy fire from enemy machine guns. Streams of tracers arc upward towards the aircraft in a dazzling mix of red and green. Yellow tracers, from the dropship's guns, rain down, trying to silence the enemy below. A trooper points and shouts. We all look as smoke pours from the aircraft's damaged engines and it plummets towards the unforgiving earth.
"This is Bravo-Two-Two, we are losing altitude! I repeat, Bravo-Two-Two is going down!"
We can all hear the pilots distress calls over the emergency channel, but none of us can do anything. I can only watch the dropship hit the ground and imagine the rending of metal as the aircraft is torn apart.
Seconds after Bravo-Two-Two goes down, the command channel crackles to life on the radio.
"All available units, move to crash-site one. Form a perimeter and protect all survivors until evac arrives. Don't leave anyone behind. Eagle-Red, out."
I look at Harris, and he looks back at me with an expression of resignation. both of us know how this kind of operations usually goes. A lot of men are going to pay the price for what might just be a bunch of corpses. The intelligence we have is sketchy. We don't know if Bravo-Two-Two was loaded or not, and if it was, we don't know if it was carrying troops, supplies, or wounded. No matter the situation, Delta Company is going to rescue anyone left alive to save.
Captain Hartman recruits as many M22s as possible. None of us are looking forward to walking to the crash site, and I manage to hook my team a ride with a marine M22. Just like our usual track, this one has the common modification of an extra machine gun on the rear deck. I rack the charging handle of the M38 and give the gun a few turns to make sure the mount is moving smoothly. Looking around, I can see Hartman managed to fully mount the entire company, even the weapons platoon.
At the head of the column, two Grizzly battle tanks begin rolling forward, paving the way for the tracks. Barely twenty meters out, and one of the Grizzlies hits an anti-tank mine. Pieces of track fly past my head as I duck behind the gun shield. The tank is immobilized, its track broken. Our column has to maneuver around the disabled vehicle, now under fire from rebel machine guns.
The M22s' gunners respond quickly, letting loose a hail of 25mm cannon fire. Spent casings are ejected from underneath the gun at the front of the turret, bouncing off armor plates with a clank on the way down. Side on to the enemy bunkers, their gunners hammer the flanks of our tracks. Bullets shatter against the armor plates, their fragments adding to the danger.
Everybody returns fire with all weapons available. We can't see the concealed firing positions of the insurgents, so we fire at everything, hoping to suppress the enemy machine gunners. Cannons thump and the ripping tear of machine guns firing at 900 rounds per minute assaults my ears without rest. I throw open the tray cover of my M38 and hook another belt of ammunition into the feed tray. With a slap of the cover down and a pull of the charging handle, I'm locked and loaded.
"Shift your base of fire! Infantry in the open at ten o' clock!"
"I need suppressing fire on that bunker! get that Grizzly up here now!"
Three humvees approach from the rear, their gunners firing their M38 machine guns at rebel positions. The vehicles are from the 4th infantry Division, part of the second wave of the amphibious assault. As the humvees ctake care of the rebel infantry and rocket troops, the M22s concentrate on the bunkers. 25mm shells punch holes through concrete and shatter steel, creating a storm of lethal splinters inside the pillboxes.
"This is Sierra-Red. We've reached the crash site. We've established a perimeter, but we are under heavy fire and are in danger of being overrun. Requesting immediate assistance from any friendlies in the area, over."
A unit of CAP Rangers has reached the wreckage of Bravo-Two-Two. They report the dropship was carrying a full load of air cav troopers. Four men, including the co-pilot, were killed in the crash. The pilot and one of the gunners are severely injured, and five air cav soldiers have less serious wounds. Alongside the rangers, the four uninjured troopers and the wounded who can still fight are trying to hold back the insurgents encroaching on their perimeter.
"Sierra-Red, thia is Delta-Red. We are closing to four-zero-zero meters from from the east of your position. Be advised, ETA is five minutes. Out."
Five minutes. Just five minutes. Such a small moment. Just a blink in time. Five minutes of terror, a horrible cacophony of noise. Five minutes of absolute hell.
The track behind us explodes in flames. So many insurgents are attacking we can't get them all. The rockets keep streaking in, throwing up clods of earth and clouds of dust.
Something hits my shoulder. A little sting which barely registers in my mind. I keep shooting, trying to protect my team. Someone grabs my leg, pulling me back inside the track.
Harris is shouting at me, saying something I can't understand, like he's talking through a pillow. He turns, saying something to Mitchell. Jackson cuts open my left sleeve with his knife, ripping the hole in my jacket wider.
I can hear their voices now, urgent, and struggling to be heard over the battle.
"Mitchell, get on that gun!"
"I need a light! I can't see where he's hit!"
"Take mine!"
Harris looks at me, patting my helmet solidly.
"Stay calm, Mueller, this might hurt a little."
Pain. Burning pain beyond understanding. It's so intense it becomes things it isn't. So cold it's hot. So numb it hurts. Then, I don't feel. I don't see. I don't hear. Am I still alive? Is this what it feels like to die?
Flash, Thunder
Summer, ten years ago. I was thirteen, living in the suburbs of Burville. it was an idyllic life, so far away from the war in the CAP. No one even knew the war was happening back then.
We were at the park, my family and I. From the hill the park was on, i could see the tall buildings of the city. Night was approaching rapidly. The sky was darkening, and the stars were twinkling to life.
My father had set up a telescope to look at the stars. Where we lived, the light of the city drowned them out, but here they were clear as the sun and moon. I spent hours looking into the cosmos, watching the stars cross the sky.
My little sister, only six, had fallen asleep, and my mother left to take her home. As the lights from the car disappeared into the city, three twinkling lights caught my eye, shooting stars streaking across the night sky. While i looked on in awe, my father took me by the hand, squeezing tightly. before I could ask what was happening, I could hear the reason. Air raid sirens were wailing in the city. They had been silent for nearly half a century, but now came alive one last time.
Looking on in horror, I watched the first shooting star crash into the city, exploding in a blinding flash of light. Then I understood. They weren't shooting stars.
My father and I could only watch the nuclear holocaust consume our home. We were helpless to do anything. We couldn't protect anyone. We couldn't save anyone. We couldn't protect ourselves from the wave of heat and pressure steamrolling across the ground.
The hospital was a place of suffering. No lives could be saved. Only their suffering could be eased.
People were horribly burned, clutching the charred cinders left of limbs, or dying in terrible agony as the radiation sickness claimed them. Anyone who could help, even patients already in the hospital, were pressed into service. The smell was horrible, it was burned into all the survivors' memories. Burnt flesh and hair created a stench I would smell many times more in the years to come.
Everyone was in a daze. No one knew why were attacked, but no one really cared anyway.
"Leave it to the historians," one man said, "we have enough to worry about."
Something inside me died that day. Something I could never get back.
Back in Action
I transferred out of my unit. I made the decision while I was bleeding on the floor of the track. I joined to save lives. Becoming a CMR won't change the fact I'm going to have to kill people, but at least now I can do more to protect lives.
SPC Alexander Mueller
23rd Combat Medical Response Team
"Man down, man down!"
The call goes out from the lead squad. Leaping from behind the cover of a burnt out car, I sprint across the open road. Bullets zip past, some giving off a crack as they come dangerously close. I slide behind a dirt embankment and sling my rifle over my shoulder.
A trooper is bleeding on the ground. One of his squad mates is crouching over him, trying to put pressure on the wound.
"Where's he hit?"
"Two bullets to the chest," a soldier says. "Neither went through, but the plate shattered."
I lift the wounded soldier's body armor. The ballistic plate took a hard hit from a high powered round, breaking into several pieces. Three shards of the plate punctured the man's chest and abdomen. I can hear air moving in and out of his chest with a bubbling sound. One of the lungs has been punctured.
I take a thin sheet of plastic from my medical kit and tape it on three sides over the wound. The covering will allow air to escape as the lung expands, but won't allow it back in.
The other wounds are simple punctures, much easier to treat than the chest wound. After removing the visible fragments, antiseptic foam is applied and then covered with a dressing.
Turning to the trooper's squad mates, I flash a thumbs up.
"I patched him up, he's going to be fine."
Before I leave the cover of the embankment, a trio of insurgents armed with assault rifles charge the position. The soldiers open fire, killing one of rebels. One of the remaining two dives for cover behind the corner of a building, but the other continues his charge. As I bring my carbine to my shoulder, I can see a bomb vest underneath the man's open jacket. Flipping my safety to burst fire, I shoot the rebel in the chest. The trio of bullets leaves a red mist in the air while the insurgent falls.
"Incoming!"
Dropping back behind cover, I hear the thumping of mortars in the distance. Rebel positions in the hills overlooking the village begin bombarding us with mortar fire. A lieutenant and a radioman sprint across the street, joining us behind the embankment.
The lieutenant, a young officer named Thomson, is trying to call for support from a local airbase.
"Charlie-One-Three, this is Sierra-Three-Two. We are under fire from enemy mortars in the hills. Requesting immediate air support. Over."
The radio crackles in response. "Roger that, Sierra-Three-Two, air support is inbound. Mark all friendly positions with IR, over."
"Roger that. Sierra-Three-Two, out." Lieutenant Thomson turns to one of the soldiers. "I need you to pop smoke, we have to fall back to main body of the unit."
The soldier grabs smoke grenade from the wounded soldier's webbing and throws it into the street. The can shaped grenade begins releasing a thick cloud of dense white smoke. Concealed by the smoke, we fall back from our position, carrying the wounded soldier with us.
A burst from a machine gun causes us all to drop to the ground. Thomson grabs the radio handset and contacts the main unit.
"Sierra-Red, this is Sierra-Three-Two. We are approaching from the east, hold your fire. Over."
"Roger."
Sierra Company is holed up in an abandoned school building, using the structure as cover against the incoming mortar fire. The upper floors have been reduced to rubble, but provide good protection to the spaces below. An aid station has been set up in an interior classroom, protected from shell fragments and small arms fire. With the help of another medic, I set the wounded soldier on one of the makeshift cots. The medical personnel from the company takes over care of the soldier, allowing me to return to the firing line.
Looking out one of the windows in the hallway, I can see several dropships engaging the insurgents in the hills. The aircraft use chainguns and heavy machine guns to pound the enemy below. Several fighters streak overhead, unleahing fire from their guns and dropping bombs on the mortar positions. Anti-aircraft guns firing on the dropships are leveled by a passing bomber. Smoke, this with soot, rises from the hils as ammunition burns and explodes.
Intelligence from aerial recon shows large numbers of hostile units moving towards the village. Unable to use artillery to defeat our forces, the rebels are attacking with everything they have. infantry, light vehicles, armored vehicles, and even suicide bombers are on their way, aiming to wipe out every last one of us.
"Sierra-Red, this is Sentry-Nine. There's a pair of Type 4 light tanks approaching from south of your position, over."
"Roger that, Sentry-Nine, thanks for tip."
Lieutenant Thomson hands me a Mk4 Raker rocket launcher. "Mueller, follow me, we're heading for the second floor."
As we reach the stairs, soldiers on the south side of the building spot the rebel tanks. "Sierra-Red, this is Sierra-Two-One. We have the hostile armor in sight, range two-zero-zero meters, over."
"Roger that, Sierra-Two-One. Hold your fire, there's AT weapons on the way."
At the top of the stairs, a corporal, sheltering behind a pile of rubble, points towards the south hallway. "Damn tanks have us pinned, we can't get at the infantry moving up behind them."
An explosion shakes the building as a shell crashes through the wall. Pieces of concrete and dust fall from the ceiling, some bouncing off my helmet. I peek around a column and see one of the Type 4s traversing its gun towards another part of the building. Shouldering the rocket launcher, I sight in on the tank, centering the reticle on the turret. I pull the trigger, firing the rocket. The backblast kicks up a cloud of dust which goves away my position. As i duck back down and move away, I see bullets peppering the area where i just was. Outside, the rocket hits home, the shaped-charge warhead blowing a hole in the front of the turret, killing everyone inside. A second explosion signals that the second Type 4 has been taken out as well. The infantry accompanying the tanks continue the attack, firing on full automatic while advancing. I take my carbine from my back and flip the magnifying optical sight into position. I take aim at the first target, an insurgent carrying an RPG. He's well within range. Two quick burst hit in quick succession. One hits him in the abdomen, and the other hits him in the chest. The rebel folds over as he falls, crumpling to the ground.
All along the south hall, soldiers open fire, cutting down and pinning down the rebels outside.
"Charlie-One-Three, this is Sierra-Two-One. We have a platoon sized force of hostile infantry pinned down south of our position, requesting air support."
"Sierra-Two-One, be advised, air support is cut off. Hostile anti-air fire has picked up heavily and is blocking are route in."
"Sierra-Red, this is Sierra-Two-One. We just got a report that air support has been cut off. Enemy anti-air is getting too heavy around here for air support."
"Sierra-Three-Two, take your guys to the hotel, two kilometers from your current position. You should be able to get a visual from there. The weapons platoon will be moving with you."
"Roger that."
Lieutenant Thomson taps my shoulder. "Mueller, you're with me. The platoon is moving out to that building, the hotel over there." Thomson points to the old structure. "Weapons platoon is coming with us, they're going to put fire on the anti-air guns."
Third platoon and weapons platoon leave by the north side of the perimeter, away from the fighting on the opposite side of the building. I'm behind the point man, PFC Collins. The streets are empty, with no sign of insurgent activity for the time being. We stay close to the buildings, peeking carefully around each corner. The weapons platoon is slowing us down, carrying their Mk6 mortars and M38 machine guns, making me feel nervous. I look in every window, expecting a sniper to open fire at any moment. My boots crush broken glass with a crunch as we pass an old storefront.
Someone runs across the street in front of us. Collins points his rifle, shouting for them to stop. "Hey! Halt!"
The man keeps running, and Collins fires several shots at the fleeing individual. he staggers, struck by one of the rounds, but doesn't drop.
"Damn it!" curses Collins.
He begins pursuing the man, not bothering to check if anyone is with him. I sprint after him, cursing under my breath. Collins is one of the new guys. He rounds a corner, dropping out of sight. Just as I approach the turn, I feel myself thrown to the ground by an incredible force.
Behind me, a soldier is shouting something. "IED! Medic up front!"
I crawl forward in the dirt, surrounded by dust thrown into the air by the explosion. Collins is in front of me. I can see him lying on his back in the dirt. I grab the back of his collar and begin pulling him back around the corner.
A medic grabs my arm, trying to break my grip on Collins. "Let him go! He's gone, there's nothing we can do for him!"
I look down, realizing, I'm dragging a corpse. Half of Collins' face is missing, and a gaping hole is where his chest should be. He's dead and there's nothing I can do to change that, but I feel as if I've failed. I didn't save his life. I didn't stop him. I could have shot the insurgent bomber when Collins missed, but I didn't. I can't help but feel I'm responsible for his death.
The war has raged for nearly a decade now. Neither side has backed down, probably because neither side knows how. Entire cities have been reduced to rubble, drenched in the blood of soldiers and civilians alike. Nowhere is out of reach of the devastation. From the shores at the sea, to the mountains in the north, the nation has been set ablaze.
Before the war began, the remains of the Arkanan Empire were divided into two opposing camps. To the north was the Federal Republic of North Arkana. To the south was the Confederacy of Arkanan Provinces. The two factions were largely tolerant of each other, generally avoiding needless conflict. But then, things began to change. The CAP began closing their borders, and cut off trade with the FRNA. We didn't think much of it at first. Things like that usually happened during a government transition, ending once new or altered power structures were in place.
By the time we finally realized everything was changing, it was almost too late. When the CAP consulate closed down, and contact was lost with the CAP's leaders, our government took action. A single plane was sent into CAP territory, armed only with cameras and radios.
That's when we first saw the war.
We had no idea how fragile the threads holding the CAP together were. They dominated seventy percent of the former Arkanan Empire's territory, always seeming to be united under a single banner. But the origins of the CAP, from a small trade organization to a nation of its own had left a sour taste in some people's mouths. Underneath the facade of unity, old tensions and disputes were constantly simmering, never quite reaching the boiling point, always calmed by negotiation and compromise. Even with peace maintained by diplomacy, the CAP was a powder keg waiting for a spark.
That spark came when CAP military police moved to suppress an ethnic terrorist organization. During the operation, several civilians were killed in the crossfire between government forces and insurgent fighters. Riots broke out in the local area, and quickly spread to neighboring cities. CAP forces attempted to disperse the mobs with non-lethal methods, but were bombarded with stones and firebombs.
Three days into the rioting, the local militia groups took up arms against the government forces. The mobs had military support and access to the militia armories, and they began to overrun the CAP garrisons. By the time our reconnaissance aircraft arrived and sent back images of the turmoil on the ground, the CAP was engulfed in a civil war in its entirety.
FRNA troops were moved to the border to prevent the conflict from spilling over. Dozens of independent factions were fighting CAP forces, as well as each other. The disunity of the rebels was initially an advantage, but it proved to become a severe problem for the CAP. One rebel force would be defeated or forced to surrender, only for an entirely unrelated rebellion to break out elsewhere. The enemy wasn't so much the rebels as it was the never ending series of uprisings.
Six months after the militias joined the fight, the CAP sent us the first message since the beginning of the conflict. They were requesting intervention by FRNA forces. It would be the first time in decades FRNA troops stepped foot on CAP soil.
Welcome to
That's how I ended up in this hellhole. My unit, the 51st Cavalry, was deployed to Mirov Province, just south of a mountain range, and one of the driest parts of the CAP. CAP units maintain control of most of the province, but we get deployed to the places at the epicenter of insurgent activity.
SPC Alexander Mueller
2d PLT, D CO, 51 CAV
My track is in the middle of the convoy,following another pair of M22 IFVs and an M3 light tank. I'd rather be in a two-two than a trip. Even though the trip has heavier armor and a 76mm gun, that just makes it the bigger target.
Our gunner, manning the 25mm chaingun, keeps watch from his open hatch. I can see him wave to the track behind us from inside the troop compartment. Only six of us can ride in the track with the 3 man crew, so there's two tracks per squad. Most of the tracks have been modified by their crews, and ours has an extra M38 on a skate mount on the rear deck around a hatch they welded on. No one else wanted to, so I man the extra gun. It's behind the turret, so it's my job to cover the side an rear angles of our track.
Without any warning, I'm flung against the side of the track. My ears are ringing, and it takes a few seconds before I'm aware what's happening. Popping the hatch open, I can see the track behind us burning. Someone is trying to climb out of the turret, but I spot the backblast of a rocket launcher from the corner of my eye. The missile streaks in and hits the damaged track, engulfing it in a ball of fire.
As the ringing in my ears subsides, a dull roar, like rushing water, takes it place. Seconds later, the roar breaks down into shout, gunfire, and explosions.
"Shift your base of fire!"
"Incoming!"
"Get suppressing fire on the building!"
Instinct takes over. I grab the machine gun and pull the charging handle, chambering the first round of the belt. A burst of fire, from a house to the left of the track, clatters against the gun shield of my machine gun. Before I can return fire, the turret of my track traverses to engage the building. A steady thump shakes me to my core as the 25mm cannon tears through the mud and brick walls of the house, but I don't have time to watch the building fall. I slide the gun around to the opposite side and place several bursts into the front of a nearby building. As I fire through the windows and walls, a squad of soldiers storms into the building under my covering fire.
"Find some cover! We have CAS inbound!"
Troops scramble for cover as the roar of jet engines cuts through the noise. Two fighters streak past at low altitude, letting off a salvo of missiles towards the ground. Clouds of dust shoot into the air around the convoy, obscuring the sun.
No more shouting. No more shooting.
I look around warily, expecting another attack at any moment.
"Hey man, it's over. You can get down now."
My teammates are okay. They're tired, we all are but they're okay. Only two guys made it out of the track behind us. The rest of them are dead, Our track helped tow the other one back to camp. It'll be back in action after repairs, and after they clean out the insides.
Sleep isn't something I look forward to, like some of the guys do. It's a pause, just a moment between each day. It's a moment between each life-long day of fighting to go back home, with everyone still in one piece.
House Calls and the Human Condition
It's Mitchell's turn today. He gets to stay with the track, man the MG.
It's my turn today. I get to play Russian Roulette with the house clearing teams.
Kicking ass and taking names, That's what they like to tell you house clearing is. It's nothing like what they say it is. You can never tell what's waiting for you around the next corner. Sometimes we're met by fearful civilians or quiet hostility, but other times we meet hail of bullets.
Our body armor can take quite a bit of a beating, but it doesn't give us the protection we want. Lucky shots or someone who knows where to aim have claimed plenty of us before.
The streets are almost empty. It's never a good sign during an operation. None of the tracks are hit by ambushes or IEDs. We'll have to take the fight to the rebels, they aren't coming to us this time.
It's never easy being the point-man. I'm the first one in. I'll be the first to die if the shit hits the fan.
Our squad moves to the first house on the road. It looks like most others. Made out of weathered bricks and clay, adding to the dust already ubiquitous to the region.
The thick wood of the front door barely creaks under the blow from the ram. It's probably reinforced by the steel rebar so commonly used in the area's buildings. The breacher moves aside, and I level my carbine with the spot where the locks should be.
My weapons kicks a bit against my shoulder as I fire a burst through the door. Splinters of wood fly from the shattered timbers, and I kick the door open. The frame shudders, and the door flies back on its hinges. The lights are out, which is never a good sign. i flick the switch to the light under the barrel of my carbine. A beam of light illuminates the room, and it becomes clear we're in the right place, we just got here too late. Several crates, now empty, are strewn across the floor.
Jackson picks up a few stray cartridges, dropped by the insurgents as they were leaving. They're old, probably from back when the Empire was falling apart. Still, they're lethal, and that's all that counts.
The fourth house we approached turned out to be the command post for the local rebel cell. We're laying down suppressing fire, trying to keep the insurgents' heads down while Doc Charles pulls Jackson behind the cover of a stone wall. The ballistic plates stopped the first two rounds, but the third hit outside the are covered by the armor. Jackson's shoulder is bleeding, what looks to be in a bad way. The bullet had shattered a bone, and the fragments had made the wound even worse.
Even so, Doc flashes us a thumbs up. Jackson will make it. We're all relieved, but we still have a job to do. Using our track for cover, the squad moves in on the house. Cade, the track's gunner, and Mitchell, on the extra MG, really let loose on the side of the building. I unload a burst through a first story window, while John rushes the front door and smashes it in with the ram.
I'm the point man, first one in. Right inside the first room, partially concealed by a metal covered door, I spot an insurgent. The AP rounds pierce the thin sheet metal with little trouble, and my first burst stitches across the man's chect.
Behind me, John moves through the door and puts a burst into the chest of an insurgent rushing into the room with an assault rifle. Right away, the rest of the squad enters the building. We have to clear every room. We can't let anyone get away.
"First floor, clear!"
We stack up by the stairs to the second floor, ready to move up once the signal is given. Once the track stops pounding the floor above us, we'll rush anyone left up there. The cannon's thumping ceases, and we start up the stairs. An insurgent jumps out from around the corner at the top of the stairs, right into my sights. He drops without a sound, missing half his head.
Moving past the gore splattered wall, the squad begins clearing the second floor. One of our guys takes a round through the head. A lucky shot by a rebel. John makes him pay though, putting a full magazine through the man's body. it dances erratically under the impact of the bullets, which pass through and strike a pair of insurgents in the room beyond.
I pull John away from the doorway, covering the room as he reloads his weapon. Once I'm sure the rebels are down for good, I motion the rest of the squad to continue moving. I take John back down to the first floor. he might have already reached his breaking point. All of us have one, but not everyone reaches their's at the same time.
Some of us are able to black out the horrors we've seen, keep them out of our mind for the time being. You have to stop being human, stop making the connections you'd make in anormal life. Becoming attached to anyone is the quickest way to push yourself over the edge. No human can survive war unscathed, the only way to make it is to stop being human. you have to stop thinking, stop dwelling on your fears and morals, you just have to want to survive.
The officers in the rear will try to shame John into rejoining the fight. But they don't understand, they will never understand the things we've gone through. None of us who've seen our friends die, our comrades suffer, think any less of John. As much as we try to deny it, we're still, at least partially, human.
We Don't Deserve This
Our company was pulled off the frontlines. We took 40% casualties in one day of fighting. Nothing, not the best training in the world, can prepare you for urban combat. My platoon was in the suburbs, we got off light. First platoon was almost wiped out by a rebel ambush, only three guys got out unscathed. Third platoon lost two tracks to IEDs and had to evacuated by dropships.
Us, in second platoon, and the weapons platoon are on perimeter security. We're the only ones still relatively intact, but my squad still lost two men. The base we've been moved to provides fire support to the local units. There's a unit of DV-22 dropships, and another unit of AV-36 gunships stationed here. They're almost constantly on the move. Every day, the dropships bring back wounded from the battlefield, and the gunships come back with empty cannons and missile pods.
Most of us who aren't on the perimeter do what we can to help.We may be cav, but we've learned how to reload and rearm the aircraft here. The ground crews were a bit standoffish at first,but they appreciate the help now. They work almost 24/7.
But even miles away from the battle zones, we can't get away from this war. Thunder is always just past the horizon, waiting for the boys we see pass through, who have no idea what's waiting for them. We give what advice we can on how to change the odds, ever so slightly, in favor of survival. Some of them listen, but not enough. Still so young, they think they're invincible, and in a few days I find myself hauling their body out of a bullet riddled dropship. Just kids really. Only two or three years younger than me, but they're kids. They don't know any better. I didn't back then either.
Apocalypse
The dropship flies fast and low, weaving through the ravine cut into the mountainside. Out the rear drop ramp, I can see the other eleven dropships behind us. Looking forward, into the troop bay, I see Mike and give him a thumbs up. Jackson is in the seat next to me. He recovered from his wound enough to rejoin us in the field.
We're doing something different. Instead of the usual actions moving by tracks, we're being inserted from the air. This is a joint operation with FRNA Marines and CAP Rangers. INCOM was able to locate the the regional command center of one of the largest rebel groups currently operating in the CAP. Command says this could be the turning point of the war. If we win here, we'll have cut the ground out from underneath the insurgents. Operations like this are occurring simultaneously across the CAP. The goal is to wipe out the enemy's command and supply structure.
The coast is approaching quickly, and I can already see the marine's tracks moving up onto the beach, towards the rebel positions. On the inland side, CAP rangers are closing the vice on the enemy. below us, on a stretch of open ground, two other formations of dropships have already dropped off Echo and Fox companies.
As the dropship begins its descent, bullets from rebel fighters on the ground start striking the armored body of the aircraft. Below the cockpit, on the chin of the dropship, the 25mm chaingun begins firing at the rebels. The gunners at the sides of the bay open fire as well, using the Mk2 12.7mm HMGs mounted to the windows to clear the LZ.
Right next to an MG, I can feel the muzzle blast of the gun. Tightening my grip on my carbine, I watch out the ramp as the ground comes closer. Before we even touch down, we're already running down the ramp. The last trooper is out by the time the dropship touches the ground.
We had to leave it quickly. The wounded have to loaded aboard the aircraft and evacuated. Delta Company forms a perimeter around the LZ. The area was cleared earlier, but the rebels tunnels means nowhere is secure for long.
"RPG!"
The vapor trail of the rocket is all I see before it explodes. One of the men to my left is hit by shrapnel, and my ears are ringing as I spot the crater only five meter away. A Marine track begins firing at a tunnel entrance across the field, and one of the troopers spots several rebels fleeing the tunnel from a different opening.
We all open fire at them. Rifles and machine guns tear them apart, leaving a red mist hanging in the air for several seconds. Without warning, the marine track explodes. It had been hit by a rocket from an insurgent position, and the exploding ammunition adds to the lethal envrionment around us.
"Harris! Mitchell! Jackson! Follow me!"
I call for my teammates to move out, advancing towards the ridge overlooking the LZ. Harris replaced John after he was pulled off the line, but he's no green recruit. He's already completed two tours, making our squad one of the most experienced in the unit.
We advance by fire an maneuver, leapfrogging as we alternate firing and advancing. Harris and Mitchell suppress a rebel machine gun, while Jackson and I ready our grenades. Both of our grenades land behind the sandbags and explode nearly simultaneously. Harris runs forward, spraying a burst into the position behind the sandbags. If the grenades didn't kill the insurgents, then the bullets did.
Doc Charles and Owens, the squad medic, manage to pull two men from the burning marine track with the help of a marine engineer. The squad advances to establish a perimeter around the two medics and the wounded marines. My team is on the north end of the perimeter, on top of the ridge between the LZ and the rebel positions. Machine gun fire from enemy pillboxes stictches the ground in front of us as we dig our foxholes into the hard packed, dusty ground.
Moving up from the beach, and M42 AAV (anti-air vehicle) turns its turret towards the pillbox firing on my squad. The machine guns redirect their fire towards the AAV, but their bullets just bounce off its armor plates. As soon as the AAV's gunner lines up the bunker in his sights, he unleashes his quad 25mm cannons on the enemy. Some of the guys cheer as the bunker is pounded by nearly 80 rounds per second, but most of us only watch, knowing there will be more positions to clear after this.
With the beach successfully secured by the marine assault, landing ships move to the shore to unload M42 Mechanized Fighting Vehicles and Grizzly battle tanks. Some rebel soldiers run forward and fire rockets at the vehicles lining up on the sand. Missiles hit several Grizzlies, exploding their anti-tank warheads against the tanks' armor. When the smoke clears, the Grizzlies are revealed to be undamaged. Before the insurgents can flee, they are cut down by fire from the coaxial machine guns of the tanks.
"Let's move out people! Get moving, we have a job to do!" shouts a marine sergeant.
My team gathers behind an MFV advancing from the beach. The 40mm cannon fires at 120 rounds per minute, sending shells screaming through the air, into the bunkers ahead of us. My teeth rattle with the concussion of a nearby Grizzly firing its 90mm cannon.
"Infantry in the open!" calls out the sergeant. "Let 'em have it!"
We all open fire, cutting down the retreating rebels with our fire. Some of the enemy drop where they stand, while others dance under the bullets ripping them apart before they fall. One of them takes a direct hit from the track's gun and just disappears.
A few meters ahead of us, a marine Salamander team is going to work. Liquid fire sprays from the muzzle of the flamethrower, working its way through any opening it can find into the insurgent pillboxes. Screaming men run out of the bunker, flames licking clothes and scorching their flesh.
Harris doesn't seem to think anyone should burn alive, not even the enemy. He raises his carbine and fires, cutting their agonizing deaths short. One of the marines gives him a questioning look for a moment before returning to his grisly work. Harris just shrugs.
Overhead, hovering above the battlefield, a dropship is taking heavy fire from enemy machine guns. Streams of tracers arc upward towards the aircraft in a dazzling mix of red and green. Yellow tracers, from the dropship's guns, rain down, trying to silence the enemy below. A trooper points and shouts. We all look as smoke pours from the aircraft's damaged engines and it plummets towards the unforgiving earth.
"This is Bravo-Two-Two, we are losing altitude! I repeat, Bravo-Two-Two is going down!"
We can all hear the pilots distress calls over the emergency channel, but none of us can do anything. I can only watch the dropship hit the ground and imagine the rending of metal as the aircraft is torn apart.
Seconds after Bravo-Two-Two goes down, the command channel crackles to life on the radio.
"All available units, move to crash-site one. Form a perimeter and protect all survivors until evac arrives. Don't leave anyone behind. Eagle-Red, out."
I look at Harris, and he looks back at me with an expression of resignation. both of us know how this kind of operations usually goes. A lot of men are going to pay the price for what might just be a bunch of corpses. The intelligence we have is sketchy. We don't know if Bravo-Two-Two was loaded or not, and if it was, we don't know if it was carrying troops, supplies, or wounded. No matter the situation, Delta Company is going to rescue anyone left alive to save.
Captain Hartman recruits as many M22s as possible. None of us are looking forward to walking to the crash site, and I manage to hook my team a ride with a marine M22. Just like our usual track, this one has the common modification of an extra machine gun on the rear deck. I rack the charging handle of the M38 and give the gun a few turns to make sure the mount is moving smoothly. Looking around, I can see Hartman managed to fully mount the entire company, even the weapons platoon.
At the head of the column, two Grizzly battle tanks begin rolling forward, paving the way for the tracks. Barely twenty meters out, and one of the Grizzlies hits an anti-tank mine. Pieces of track fly past my head as I duck behind the gun shield. The tank is immobilized, its track broken. Our column has to maneuver around the disabled vehicle, now under fire from rebel machine guns.
The M22s' gunners respond quickly, letting loose a hail of 25mm cannon fire. Spent casings are ejected from underneath the gun at the front of the turret, bouncing off armor plates with a clank on the way down. Side on to the enemy bunkers, their gunners hammer the flanks of our tracks. Bullets shatter against the armor plates, their fragments adding to the danger.
Everybody returns fire with all weapons available. We can't see the concealed firing positions of the insurgents, so we fire at everything, hoping to suppress the enemy machine gunners. Cannons thump and the ripping tear of machine guns firing at 900 rounds per minute assaults my ears without rest. I throw open the tray cover of my M38 and hook another belt of ammunition into the feed tray. With a slap of the cover down and a pull of the charging handle, I'm locked and loaded.
"Shift your base of fire! Infantry in the open at ten o' clock!"
"I need suppressing fire on that bunker! get that Grizzly up here now!"
Three humvees approach from the rear, their gunners firing their M38 machine guns at rebel positions. The vehicles are from the 4th infantry Division, part of the second wave of the amphibious assault. As the humvees ctake care of the rebel infantry and rocket troops, the M22s concentrate on the bunkers. 25mm shells punch holes through concrete and shatter steel, creating a storm of lethal splinters inside the pillboxes.
"This is Sierra-Red. We've reached the crash site. We've established a perimeter, but we are under heavy fire and are in danger of being overrun. Requesting immediate assistance from any friendlies in the area, over."
A unit of CAP Rangers has reached the wreckage of Bravo-Two-Two. They report the dropship was carrying a full load of air cav troopers. Four men, including the co-pilot, were killed in the crash. The pilot and one of the gunners are severely injured, and five air cav soldiers have less serious wounds. Alongside the rangers, the four uninjured troopers and the wounded who can still fight are trying to hold back the insurgents encroaching on their perimeter.
"Sierra-Red, thia is Delta-Red. We are closing to four-zero-zero meters from from the east of your position. Be advised, ETA is five minutes. Out."
Five minutes. Just five minutes. Such a small moment. Just a blink in time. Five minutes of terror, a horrible cacophony of noise. Five minutes of absolute hell.
The track behind us explodes in flames. So many insurgents are attacking we can't get them all. The rockets keep streaking in, throwing up clods of earth and clouds of dust.
Something hits my shoulder. A little sting which barely registers in my mind. I keep shooting, trying to protect my team. Someone grabs my leg, pulling me back inside the track.
Harris is shouting at me, saying something I can't understand, like he's talking through a pillow. He turns, saying something to Mitchell. Jackson cuts open my left sleeve with his knife, ripping the hole in my jacket wider.
I can hear their voices now, urgent, and struggling to be heard over the battle.
"Mitchell, get on that gun!"
"I need a light! I can't see where he's hit!"
"Take mine!"
Harris looks at me, patting my helmet solidly.
"Stay calm, Mueller, this might hurt a little."
Pain. Burning pain beyond understanding. It's so intense it becomes things it isn't. So cold it's hot. So numb it hurts. Then, I don't feel. I don't see. I don't hear. Am I still alive? Is this what it feels like to die?
Flash, Thunder
Summer, ten years ago. I was thirteen, living in the suburbs of Burville. it was an idyllic life, so far away from the war in the CAP. No one even knew the war was happening back then.
We were at the park, my family and I. From the hill the park was on, i could see the tall buildings of the city. Night was approaching rapidly. The sky was darkening, and the stars were twinkling to life.
My father had set up a telescope to look at the stars. Where we lived, the light of the city drowned them out, but here they were clear as the sun and moon. I spent hours looking into the cosmos, watching the stars cross the sky.
My little sister, only six, had fallen asleep, and my mother left to take her home. As the lights from the car disappeared into the city, three twinkling lights caught my eye, shooting stars streaking across the night sky. While i looked on in awe, my father took me by the hand, squeezing tightly. before I could ask what was happening, I could hear the reason. Air raid sirens were wailing in the city. They had been silent for nearly half a century, but now came alive one last time.
Looking on in horror, I watched the first shooting star crash into the city, exploding in a blinding flash of light. Then I understood. They weren't shooting stars.
My father and I could only watch the nuclear holocaust consume our home. We were helpless to do anything. We couldn't protect anyone. We couldn't save anyone. We couldn't protect ourselves from the wave of heat and pressure steamrolling across the ground.
The hospital was a place of suffering. No lives could be saved. Only their suffering could be eased.
People were horribly burned, clutching the charred cinders left of limbs, or dying in terrible agony as the radiation sickness claimed them. Anyone who could help, even patients already in the hospital, were pressed into service. The smell was horrible, it was burned into all the survivors' memories. Burnt flesh and hair created a stench I would smell many times more in the years to come.
Everyone was in a daze. No one knew why were attacked, but no one really cared anyway.
"Leave it to the historians," one man said, "we have enough to worry about."
Something inside me died that day. Something I could never get back.
Back in Action
I transferred out of my unit. I made the decision while I was bleeding on the floor of the track. I joined to save lives. Becoming a CMR won't change the fact I'm going to have to kill people, but at least now I can do more to protect lives.
SPC Alexander Mueller
23rd Combat Medical Response Team
"Man down, man down!"
The call goes out from the lead squad. Leaping from behind the cover of a burnt out car, I sprint across the open road. Bullets zip past, some giving off a crack as they come dangerously close. I slide behind a dirt embankment and sling my rifle over my shoulder.
A trooper is bleeding on the ground. One of his squad mates is crouching over him, trying to put pressure on the wound.
"Where's he hit?"
"Two bullets to the chest," a soldier says. "Neither went through, but the plate shattered."
I lift the wounded soldier's body armor. The ballistic plate took a hard hit from a high powered round, breaking into several pieces. Three shards of the plate punctured the man's chest and abdomen. I can hear air moving in and out of his chest with a bubbling sound. One of the lungs has been punctured.
I take a thin sheet of plastic from my medical kit and tape it on three sides over the wound. The covering will allow air to escape as the lung expands, but won't allow it back in.
The other wounds are simple punctures, much easier to treat than the chest wound. After removing the visible fragments, antiseptic foam is applied and then covered with a dressing.
Turning to the trooper's squad mates, I flash a thumbs up.
"I patched him up, he's going to be fine."
Before I leave the cover of the embankment, a trio of insurgents armed with assault rifles charge the position. The soldiers open fire, killing one of rebels. One of the remaining two dives for cover behind the corner of a building, but the other continues his charge. As I bring my carbine to my shoulder, I can see a bomb vest underneath the man's open jacket. Flipping my safety to burst fire, I shoot the rebel in the chest. The trio of bullets leaves a red mist in the air while the insurgent falls.
"Incoming!"
Dropping back behind cover, I hear the thumping of mortars in the distance. Rebel positions in the hills overlooking the village begin bombarding us with mortar fire. A lieutenant and a radioman sprint across the street, joining us behind the embankment.
The lieutenant, a young officer named Thomson, is trying to call for support from a local airbase.
"Charlie-One-Three, this is Sierra-Three-Two. We are under fire from enemy mortars in the hills. Requesting immediate air support. Over."
The radio crackles in response. "Roger that, Sierra-Three-Two, air support is inbound. Mark all friendly positions with IR, over."
"Roger that. Sierra-Three-Two, out." Lieutenant Thomson turns to one of the soldiers. "I need you to pop smoke, we have to fall back to main body of the unit."
The soldier grabs smoke grenade from the wounded soldier's webbing and throws it into the street. The can shaped grenade begins releasing a thick cloud of dense white smoke. Concealed by the smoke, we fall back from our position, carrying the wounded soldier with us.
A burst from a machine gun causes us all to drop to the ground. Thomson grabs the radio handset and contacts the main unit.
"Sierra-Red, this is Sierra-Three-Two. We are approaching from the east, hold your fire. Over."
"Roger."
Sierra Company is holed up in an abandoned school building, using the structure as cover against the incoming mortar fire. The upper floors have been reduced to rubble, but provide good protection to the spaces below. An aid station has been set up in an interior classroom, protected from shell fragments and small arms fire. With the help of another medic, I set the wounded soldier on one of the makeshift cots. The medical personnel from the company takes over care of the soldier, allowing me to return to the firing line.
Looking out one of the windows in the hallway, I can see several dropships engaging the insurgents in the hills. The aircraft use chainguns and heavy machine guns to pound the enemy below. Several fighters streak overhead, unleahing fire from their guns and dropping bombs on the mortar positions. Anti-aircraft guns firing on the dropships are leveled by a passing bomber. Smoke, this with soot, rises from the hils as ammunition burns and explodes.
Intelligence from aerial recon shows large numbers of hostile units moving towards the village. Unable to use artillery to defeat our forces, the rebels are attacking with everything they have. infantry, light vehicles, armored vehicles, and even suicide bombers are on their way, aiming to wipe out every last one of us.
"Sierra-Red, this is Sentry-Nine. There's a pair of Type 4 light tanks approaching from south of your position, over."
"Roger that, Sentry-Nine, thanks for tip."
Lieutenant Thomson hands me a Mk4 Raker rocket launcher. "Mueller, follow me, we're heading for the second floor."
As we reach the stairs, soldiers on the south side of the building spot the rebel tanks. "Sierra-Red, this is Sierra-Two-One. We have the hostile armor in sight, range two-zero-zero meters, over."
"Roger that, Sierra-Two-One. Hold your fire, there's AT weapons on the way."
At the top of the stairs, a corporal, sheltering behind a pile of rubble, points towards the south hallway. "Damn tanks have us pinned, we can't get at the infantry moving up behind them."
An explosion shakes the building as a shell crashes through the wall. Pieces of concrete and dust fall from the ceiling, some bouncing off my helmet. I peek around a column and see one of the Type 4s traversing its gun towards another part of the building. Shouldering the rocket launcher, I sight in on the tank, centering the reticle on the turret. I pull the trigger, firing the rocket. The backblast kicks up a cloud of dust which goves away my position. As i duck back down and move away, I see bullets peppering the area where i just was. Outside, the rocket hits home, the shaped-charge warhead blowing a hole in the front of the turret, killing everyone inside. A second explosion signals that the second Type 4 has been taken out as well. The infantry accompanying the tanks continue the attack, firing on full automatic while advancing. I take my carbine from my back and flip the magnifying optical sight into position. I take aim at the first target, an insurgent carrying an RPG. He's well within range. Two quick burst hit in quick succession. One hits him in the abdomen, and the other hits him in the chest. The rebel folds over as he falls, crumpling to the ground.
All along the south hall, soldiers open fire, cutting down and pinning down the rebels outside.
"Charlie-One-Three, this is Sierra-Two-One. We have a platoon sized force of hostile infantry pinned down south of our position, requesting air support."
"Sierra-Two-One, be advised, air support is cut off. Hostile anti-air fire has picked up heavily and is blocking are route in."
"Sierra-Red, this is Sierra-Two-One. We just got a report that air support has been cut off. Enemy anti-air is getting too heavy around here for air support."
"Sierra-Three-Two, take your guys to the hotel, two kilometers from your current position. You should be able to get a visual from there. The weapons platoon will be moving with you."
"Roger that."
Lieutenant Thomson taps my shoulder. "Mueller, you're with me. The platoon is moving out to that building, the hotel over there." Thomson points to the old structure. "Weapons platoon is coming with us, they're going to put fire on the anti-air guns."
Third platoon and weapons platoon leave by the north side of the perimeter, away from the fighting on the opposite side of the building. I'm behind the point man, PFC Collins. The streets are empty, with no sign of insurgent activity for the time being. We stay close to the buildings, peeking carefully around each corner. The weapons platoon is slowing us down, carrying their Mk6 mortars and M38 machine guns, making me feel nervous. I look in every window, expecting a sniper to open fire at any moment. My boots crush broken glass with a crunch as we pass an old storefront.
Someone runs across the street in front of us. Collins points his rifle, shouting for them to stop. "Hey! Halt!"
The man keeps running, and Collins fires several shots at the fleeing individual. he staggers, struck by one of the rounds, but doesn't drop.
"Damn it!" curses Collins.
He begins pursuing the man, not bothering to check if anyone is with him. I sprint after him, cursing under my breath. Collins is one of the new guys. He rounds a corner, dropping out of sight. Just as I approach the turn, I feel myself thrown to the ground by an incredible force.
Behind me, a soldier is shouting something. "IED! Medic up front!"
I crawl forward in the dirt, surrounded by dust thrown into the air by the explosion. Collins is in front of me. I can see him lying on his back in the dirt. I grab the back of his collar and begin pulling him back around the corner.
A medic grabs my arm, trying to break my grip on Collins. "Let him go! He's gone, there's nothing we can do for him!"
I look down, realizing, I'm dragging a corpse. Half of Collins' face is missing, and a gaping hole is where his chest should be. He's dead and there's nothing I can do to change that, but I feel as if I've failed. I didn't save his life. I didn't stop him. I could have shot the insurgent bomber when Collins missed, but I didn't. I can't help but feel I'm responsible for his death.
