SUBJECT: CAPTAIN HENDRIK VANAGS.
CURRENT LOCATION: RĒZEKNE, LATGALE REGION, BALTIC UNION.
TIMESTAMP: 09:45 (LOCAL TIME), 23.06.2132 (TERRAN STANDARD CALENDAR).
The squad proceeded through the ruined city with utmost caution, hugging the walls. The battered Tier Twos were covering the rear while the Ones and the Frenks in their exos and more durable body armor led the way. Every now and then, a missile or shell made its screaming descent nearby, kicking up a pillar of dust and debris with a heavy thud and forced everyone to dodge into the nearest stairwell or shellhole. The area was deserted, evidently abandoned already yesterday. Bodies lying here and there attested to the heavy fighting, neither side having had the time to collect them. Two civilians, a woman and a young girl, laid mowed down near a bullet-riddled wall, evidently cut down by a Mekh machinegunner mistaking them for enemies. The blonde woman was dressed in a white-and-red polka dot skirt and a bloody denim jacket, lying face-down, her hands reaching forwards. Apparently she had been cut down running. Next to her laid a blond girl of maybe 12 years, curled tightly in her last throes and still clutching a plush puppy in her hands, her face now as grey as the overcast sky of her fatherland towards which her blue eyes now stared lifelessly.
Most probably the woman's daughter, Vanags thought as he glanced at the bodies, making a mental note of these two nameless women as another two innocent victims to avenge. Not far from them, the corpse of a man dangled out from the window of a burnt-out flat, his back charred completely down to bare bone, the remainder of his torso, arms and head swollen and covered in burn blisters. The corpse's right hand still clutched a G36KV rifle with its plastic parts partly melted. The burnt rags covering his flesh were fused to his skin but remained in places intact enough to be recognizable as a military uniform of pattern no longer in standard issue, denoting him as a Tier Three militiaman. That he and any of his comrades probably still inside hadn't died entirely in vain was attested by three dead Mekhs in paratrooper gear lying on the corner on the opposite side of the courtyard. None had their weapons on them, indicating that whoever won this fight had time to collect them. The weather was hot, so flies were already circling around the bodies. By evening, they would already start to bloat, and would be teeming with maggots in another day or two, thought Vanags. Corpses rotting on the battlefield was something one never quite got used to, only learned to ignore at most.
"Wonder if the Mekhs will give those two a proper burial this time," Sgt. Pētersons grumbled, brushing his hand over his spectacular moustache angrily, "Bastards were too lazy to bury even their own back during the last war!"
"Stay focused," Vanags reminded him, "They are beyond all trouble and concern now."
A nearby shell blast made everyone flinch, sparse bits of concrete and shrapnel raining down from over the ruined three-story apartment building that was still smoldering in some places.
"Pihlak, Rollins, scout ahead and see if the street is clear!" the captain ordered at half-voice. The two nodded without a word and took point, each taking the opposite side of the pedestrian tunnel through the apartment building that lead out to the next street. Each carefully pointed out their ChemRail around the corner, their smart-scopes being synced to the soldiers' helmet HUDs. After briefly examining the far ends of the street, both men gave the thumbs-up sign, Vanags gesturing to the Lunar operatives to form up and assume their place while the two repositioned across the street.
Once such a perimeter was set up, the team began to cross the road one at a time. The first to go were the injured Tier Twos and Perez who was carrying the captured android. The rest would follow, until Vanags, Zīle and Pētersons were the only ones remaining in the tunnel.
Just as Vanags was about to make his dash across the street, an alarmed Brinkmeyer who was currently on overwatch on the Eastern direction on opposite side of the street raised a clenched fist, the captain freezing and slowly pulling back into cover.
"Enemy patrol approaching, squad-sized, a hundred meters!" she conveyed with hand signals.
"Shit..." Pētersons grumbled quietly, "Nobody else but me and her have a shot, and there's no way we two can drop all of them before one of them can make a fuss. Any ideas, skipper?"
"What's their formation like?"
"The usual street-sweeper, one fireteam on each side, checking openings and covering the other, by the looks of it," Pētersons whispered.
"Keep on the first two on the opposite side and signal Brink to do the same! Zīle, come with me, let's see if we can get a drop on them from the rooftop! We drop them on my signal!" Vanags responded, gesturing the squad's marksman Sgt. Zīle to follow.
"Hold on, what's the signal?" the machinegunner asked as the two were already taking off.
"People starting to die quickly," Vanags retorted before rounding the corner.
With the patrol under 100 meters away, taking the stairs was too much of a risk. Captain Vanags took point and gestured his marksman to use the exoskeleton's grappling dart to get to the roof.
"Wait for a shell to drop so they don't hear us," he instructed quietly.
With shells and rockets dropping all around town every few seconds, the wait wasn't long before one dropped sufficiently close to mask the distinctive thump of the grappling dart being fired. In just five seconds, Zīle was already on the ledge of the roof, prying the dart loose from the wall where it had glued itself firmly with its adhesive rim. Moments later, he had assumed overwatch over the deserted courtyard, allowing Vanags to wait for his moment to zip up.
This time the wait took uncomfortably long, even though the time elapsed was only some 30 seconds. Two muffled explosions coming from down the street indicated the Russian patrol was apparently lobbing grenades into suspicious openings at ground level. Vanags suddenly thought with terror that they might be escorted by a UAV that would spot their rooftop ambush effortlessly, but it was too late to back out now. Moments later, a shell rocked the apartment block just next to the one his men were currently at, giving him the moment necessary to zip himself up to rooftop.
Crawling quickly but quietly across the roof was no easy task, it being littered with debris kicked up by surrounding artillery blasts, some still raining down from the sky after the last nearby blast. Zīle quietly pointed to one of several openings in the flat roof's elevated brick edge, left there to drain rainwater.
"Paratroopers," he whispered after getting a first look, "I think the third on the opposite side is their squaddie."
Vanags peered through an opening of his own and agreed to the marksman's assessment. The burly starshina with a grizzled look and a cyber-implant replacing his right eye was currently cussing on the radio, apparently demanding one of the artillery batteries to shift fire 150 meters west under threat of being introduced to Kuzma's Mother among other colourful characters in case of non-compliance.
"Can you get him and the guy covering the rear?" Vanags whispered to Zīle.
"They won't know what hit'em," the marksman answered, pushing back his helmet slightly for better view. The captain in the meanwhile tapped a few keys on his exo's field computer, browsing through the helmet cameras of the other soldiers on his team to make sure they all could see their assigned targets. Content with the results, Vanags started to crawl along the roof, slinging his ChemRail on the back where a magnetic lock held it securely fixed.
"Captain, what are you...?" Zīle seemed surprised at first until he saw Vanags draw his combat knife with a predatory grin. The distinct dagger-style knife that was favoured among Tier One commandos was based on the historical Fairbairn-Sykes combat knife, albeit thicker and sturdier, crafted from an almost unbreakable ceramo-metallic composite, the grip often augmented with a knuckle duster and a skull-crusher pommel. The knife was designed specifically with use against robotic and power-armored foes in mind, also considering the wielder's own exoskeleton-augmented strength - something that necessitated sturdier materials and design than an ordinary combat knife would need.
In another instant, Vanags was already over the edge, plummeting down from the rooftop straight on top of the unsuspecting Mekh paratrooper below. Smashing the man face-first into the pavement to cushion his landing, Vanags simultaneously struck the dagger in the back of his head, ending his life instantly. The starshina commanding the Mekh squad turned to see what the commotion was about, when a ChemRail slug tore through his neck just above the thick armor plate covering his chest. At the same time, Pētersons and Brinkmeyer opened up from their positions, the torrent of hypervelocity flechettes literally shredding the men ahead to ribbons. Vanags rolled, pulling the body of his first victim on top of him for cover, and took down his other opponent by emptying the magazine of the rifle still clenched in the dead man's hand into him. The only man who even managed to let loose a few shots was the soldier walking behind the starshina and covering the rear, who managed to spin towards Vanags and let loose a short burst that narrowly missed before Zīle's next shot put an end to his attempted resistance by blowing away the better part of his head. The whole takedown had lasted for less than 5 seconds.
"Well done," Vanags praised his companions as he got back to his feet, "Grab what you can from these clowns but be quick about it! Their buddies will no doubt come looking for them shortly."
His men left their concealed positions, quickly collecting weapons and ammunition from the dead Mekhs, also collecting their dog tags as proof of kill and searching their pockets for intel. Brinkmeyer seemed especially interested in the squad leader's radio.
"Give me a couple minutes with this thing, and we might just be listening in to their conversations," she said, examining the device, "At least until they figure out that one of their squads and their radio have gone missing."
"Try your best, but we stay on the move," Vanags responded. The agent nodded departed, carrying off the captured radio to fiddle with it at an opportune moment.
~
For the next fifteen minutes, the team's journey through the city was uneventful. Signs of heavy fighting were everywhere. A burnt-out Iron Wolf tank stood parked behind a barricade of sandbags between two apartment buildings just some 15 meters away from a destroyed and turretless T-25. The Mekh crew had evidently proceeded ahead carelessly and failed to spot the entrenched Baltic tank between the buildings, only to suddenly find an Iron Wolf's railgun literally poking in their right side. Whatever had destroyed the Iron Wolf afterwards definitely hadn't been them, the T-25 being completely obliterated by a catastrophic internal explosion. Judging by the open rear door of the Iron Wolf and the absence of any bodies in tanker attire, the Baltic crew had managed to escape the destruction of their vehicle. Same could not be said about a dozen or so Mekhs who laid scattered about on the street and between buildings, although the bloodstains and dragging marks in the dirt indicated that the Baltic defenders of these positions hadn't gotten out of this scrape entirely unscathed either.
"I think I've got it, Captain," Brinkmeyer informed Vanags, having been tinkering with the captured radio on opportune moments, "Their company frequencies and their network encryption keys, I mean. We can now listen in to their comms until they figure out we are and switch to reserve keys."
"Good," Vanags nodded, "I'll send it over to Valdis, he and his boys will be our eyes and ears for this mission."
Having the data transferred to his field computer, he got on the radio.
"Bravo One, this is Alpha Actual. I'm sending you a data package, see what you can make of that, how copy?"
"Copy, Alpha, receiving your package now, over!" Valdis could be heard responding.
"Over and out," Vanags concluded the comms session.
After passing through another deserted and damaged block of apartment buildings, the group came to stop in the cover of a deserted barricade of rubble, sandbags and razor wire. There were numerous Mekh bodies scattered on the street that it covered, a burnt-out T-25 and two APCs indicating a successful ambush. The success hadn't come without cost to the defenders, a tank shell having blown through the barricade, trails of blood and a severed arm in a Baltic-pattern camo sleeve indicating they had taken casualties as well.
"How far yet?" Perez inquired as the Tier Ones assembled to get their bearings.
"Almost there, Agent," Vanags responded, "According to my map, it should another block away and three up west next street."
"Hate to rain on your parade, skipper, but I think it's going to be a problem getting there," Zīle spoke, pointing south east. From that direction, an ominous engine rumble and grinding of treads indicated approaching armour, multiple distant shouts in Russian signifying sizeable enemy presence.
"Must be that attack force the lads warned about," Vanags nodded, "I guess we better hassle up then. Good thing there's a tunnel access point nearby, with any luck it won't be collapsed or rigged yet."
"How can you tell?" Rollins seemed curious. In response Vanags pointed towards the doors of a nearby staircase, one leading to the stairwell proper and the other down to the building's basement which housed storage rooms for the apartments above. An inconspicuous symbol adorned the basement door, something an outsider would easily mistake for a meaningless graffiti.
"Easy enough if you know what to look for," the Captain added with a grin and gestured the team to form up, "I'll take point."
~
The team went down in the dank, mouldy-smelling darkness of the basement. At first glance, there seemed to be little to suggest there could be anything resembling a secret tunnel here. The narrow corridor ran the entire length of the house, both sides lined with rows of storage rooms nailed together from rough unplaned boards. Some were padlocked, others open, but none revealed anything of interest inside - most storerooms held bags of potatoes and other vegetables along with assorted junk, others had been hastily cleared out recently. From experience Vanags knew these rooms probably housed private arsenals of the building's residents. After a brief search, the Captain finally stopped at one storeroom with its door ajar, pointing at the same graffiti that had adorned the door outside, this time stencilled even more inconspicuously on the floor end of the door.
"Where is it?" Brinkmeyer was curious to see, looking over Vanags' shoulder into the room that seemed to hold nothing but more crates of potatoes. Vanags said nothing, but stepped in and pulled a stack of crates to the side, revealing a cleverly-disguised hatch in the concrete floor. The stack itself was placed on a skid connected to a rope, so that the last man to enter the hatch could cover his trail by pulling it back in place by the rope.
"Clever," the Frenk clearly seemed impressed as Vanags opened the hatch carefully to see if it wasn't booby-trapped.
Having made sure it was safe, Vanags descended into the shaft below, reminding the last to enter to close the hatch and pull the rope until it would no longer give way. The shaft went down about five meters until stopping inside a dank tunnel dimly illuminated by the flickering light of electric bulbs along the ceiling. The makeshift tunnel was supported by sturdy wooden beams and sheets of corrugated steel, the floor being paved with rubble. It zig-zagged forwards, intentionally being made that way to diminish power of any potential explosions and make enemy advances more difficult, every next bend and turn potentially concealing a barricade and an ambush.
"Watch your step and nobody touch anything you didn't put there," Vanags reminded his men, his words being aimed more at the Frenks and the Lunars who were new to the Baltic tunnels and their intricacies, "Just because I've gone past it doesn't always make it safe."
The team moved on at best speed their situation allowed. The Russians most likely didn't even suspect the existence of this tunnel, their intel on Baltic underground defences being very limited at best besides the fact that they existed and were probably extensive as the previous two wars had attested - which meant that the tunnel probably wasn't booby-trapped or rigged with sentry guns yet. However, Vanags still took the time to peer around every corner using his ChemRail's smart-scope synced to his HUD to make sure. It could be an embarrassing way for a Tier One to die otherwise, to be gunned down over an amateurish mistake by what would most likely be a couple of snot-nosed 16-year-old kids sent down to relative safety to guard the tunnel.
The tunnel occasionally shook violently from nearby artillery strikes, beams creaking and trickles of sand pouring down from between the metal sheets. The less-experienced Philak and Āboliņš a bit concerned at the sight, their previous combat experience involving artillery being limited largely to sporadic mortar fire from raider gangs. However, the two lads looked for inspiration from their captain, who seemed entirely unfazed. In truth, Vanags didn't quite feel comfortable in the claustrophobic tunnels under barrage either. Although the gravel and clay soil beneath Rēzekne absorbed blasts well enough and the tunnels here were at least 10 meters deep owing to relatively deep water tables, the relatively-soft soil also meant that delayed-action shells could burrow deep before exploding, a hit directly above a tunnel still having a good chance to collapse it. There were probably deeper levels that would have been safer to go through, but Vanags hadn't seen any indications of them so far, nor was there any time to look for them.
Moments after rounding another corner, the captain suddenly froze, gesturing for everybody to halt.
"Anything wrong, Captain?" Perez asked with hushed voice from behind.
"Tripwires," Vanags explained, "Looks like our friends are expecting uninvited guests. Everybody secure your gear and make sure absolutely nothing is loose, and make sure to move exactly like me!"
Having said that, he leaned down and carefully slipped underneath a hair-thin filament stretching diagonally across the tunnel at roughly chest height, almost invisible in the dim lighting. Halfway through, Vanags suddenly twisted to the right and carefully stepped over another wire placed the opposite way at roughly knee height, designed for a careless enemy to step on even as he noticed the first wire and tried to avoid it. Having made sure there were no wires further ahead, Vanags gestured the men to follow.
Minutes seemed to drag on like hours as his companions carefully navigated the trap one at a time. Everyone's heart almost stopped when the wounded machinegunner Corporal Berdinskis from Zeltiņš' platoon stumbled halfway through the wires when the tunnel was suddenly shaken by a nearby artillery strike. He only managed to arrest his fall with his wounded right hand, for a moment resting his whole weight on the bloody stump of his severed hand while the muzzle of his M60E6 touched the lower wire. Although an agonized groan escaped his lips and a few tears rolled from the man's eyes, Berdinskis managed to regain his footing much to everyone's relief and make his way out of the trap.
"Respect, man!" Rollins seemed impressed, "If it weren't for your pain tolerance there, we'd probably be toast!"
"Better thank our medic over there instead, Frenk," the machinegunner grumbled and pointed to a squadmate of his, still wincing in pain, "Him pumping me with a half an apothecary's worth of morphine and stims is the real reason we're all still breathing!"
The rest of the team made it through without further accident, the two Lunar agents noting for future reference that their powered armour would likely be too bulky to navigate the Baltic tunnel networks safely, but so would be the Russians'.
After rounding another corner, the group came to a halt near a ladder, the topside sealed by a heavyset metal hatch. Muffled commotion upstairs indicated there were people in the room above.
"Sounds like friendlies. Let's hope they don't have itchy trigger fingers up there," Vanags said more to himself after listening to the voices for a moment, and banged on the hatch thrice. Judging by how it stirred up the movement above, it definitely got somebody's attention.
"Who goes there!?" a brash voice demanded to know, several concealed vents near the ceiling of the tunnel suddenly popping open, evidently intended as murder-holes to drop grenades, hot sand, flaming fuel or whatever other unpleasantness the defenders could conceive of upon a would-be enemy.
"Captain Hendriks Vanags, 2nd Special Tasks," Vanags responded, "I have my squad, a couple survivors from the 56th and a foreign... uh, volunteer team with me!"
An instant later, a periscope popped down from the ceiling, almost bumping Vanags on the head. After briefly examining the soldiers in the tunnel, the tube pulled back up to its original position, and the hatch could be heard being cranked open. Finally it opened, four our five faces looking down with guns still trained at the newcomers.
"56th, you say?" a grizzled-looking Tier Two first lieutenant with a bandaged head and shoulder demanded distrustfully, "Let me talk to them!"
Correctly deducing that trying to pull his rank and Tier One status on this one would likely end in him being ventilated by the other four troops above and the rest of the team decimated by whatever they had in store in those murder-holes, Vanags merely gestured to Zeltiņš to come over.
"Hugo?!" the officer at the hatch was visibly delighted to see him, "Is that you or your ghost? We thought the whole bunch of you were feeding worms already!"
"Andrej, let us through, you paranoid old fool!" Zeltiņš chuckled, letting the lieutenant pull him up where the two men warmly embraced as old friends, "Captain Vanags and his boys here helped us out of a tight spot."
"Any friend of my buddy here is my friend as well," the lieutenant gestured for his men to stand down and Vanags to come up, "First Lieutenant Andrejs Lazda, 56th Infantry, at your service!"
"How's the fighting going?" Vanags inquired while the rest of his team climbed out of the tunnel. The room seemed to be some kind of basement, the hatch being inconspicuously placed in the corner next to a boiler and other utilities. Further inside there were stairs going up, troops going on their business up and down. A large room to the right seemed to be the infirmary, multiple wounded being lined up along the walls on their stretchers while the far end of the room was repurposed as an improvised operating theatre, lined and curtained off with blood-spattered plastic sheets. A surgeon and two nurses seemed to be performing a surgery at the moment there. The room ahead of the hatch in turn seemed to house the supplies, soldiers emerging from it every now and then carrying crates of ammunition and AT missile tubes.
"The fighting? Like piss and shit, what else did you expect?!" Lazda grumbled irately, "Ivan's been throwing everything he's got at us since yesterday afternoon. Started off as a whole company of us, now there's barely a platoon still left in fighting condition. We'd already be fucked were it not for all the Threes and Fours helping out every way they can."
"Are you in charge here, Lieutenant?" Vanags inquired.
"Technically I am, 'least since Captain Krauze bit it last night. Practically, though, it's ol' Major Urtāns. Retired as he is, that old coot's got balls of steel, I'll give him that! Tier Threes certainly look up to him," Lazda spoke and frowned upon noticing the Frenks exit the tunnel, "What's with the gook and the darkie?"
"Hey!" Rollins protested at such blatant judgement.
"Foreign volunteers," Vanags explained, sticking to the cover story, "And the bunch all speak at least some Latvian, so I'd be more picky about the ethnic terms."
"Volunteers? Right..." Lazda didn't seem convinced in the least and turned to Rollins in a ham-handed attempt at apology, "No offense, lad, we're just not used to seeing a lot of your kind here in our parts, or calling you whatever fancy newfangled names you folks in the West prefer to call yourselves!"
"I can see that..." Rollins remarked sarcastically, "And none taken."
"As long as you and your friends there are shooting the same guys I am, you bunch are good enough for me," Lazda waved him off.
"Where can I see Major Urtāns?" Vanags inquired, having gathered that the retired veteran had apparently assumed command over the local Tier Threes.
"He's probably in his house upstairs and across the street," Lazda grinned at the mere mention of the old-timer, "His wife's been nagging him since yesterday to evacuate and let the young men do the fighting. Stubborn old bastard simply told her to stove it and either grab a gun and help him or fall from sight."
"Guess I'll go pay him a visit," Vanags spoke and got on the radio, "Bravo One, we're in position, full contingent plus six, HVC is secure. What's the status on that data package?"
"Got good news, bad news, and really bad news, Actual," Valdis answered on his side.
"Lay it on me, Bravo," Vanags sighed, "Let's start with the bad news."
"The bad news is that the Ivans are splitting up for a flanking manoeuvre around the city, so our window for exfil is closing rapidly. The really bad news is that Ivan just airdropped another company's worth of paras and armour right outside town in your proximity. On the bright side, Charlie managed to secure a couple extra Spikes and a whole platoon of 81's and a sterva."
"Sterva sounds great! How long is it gonna take for you to get here?"
"Ten minutes, give or take."
"Copy that. Tell Charlie and his new friends to be on standby for a HUD sync."
"Roger that, Actual, over."
"Over and out."
"Bad news, Lieutenant," Vanags turned to Lazda, "There's another wave of Ivan reinforcements headed this way, and in another hour or two the city's gonna get cut off. I suggest you tell your guys to get ready to bug out or go underground, whichever you prefer. Evac will be here for us in about 10 minutes, and we have some space to spare for your wounded, so you might want to pick out those you want evacuated and get them ready. My medic here will help you with them if necessary. I'll go talk to the Major, feel free to make use of my men if you need your defenses bolstered in the meanwhile."
"Right..." Lazda nodded and spoke, "The infirmary is to the right, as you surely have noticed by now. I want you to go check and see which lads can still be fixed back to fighting condition within a reasonable timespan and get them ready for evac. I see you've got a sniper on your team, we could use one in overwatch somewhere nearby, and a couple of Tier Ones on the barricade would be great for morale, inspire the Tier Three kids. The rest of you can just stick around, look impressive and unafraid, and make yourselves useful once the shooting starts."
"Andrejeva and Zīle, you know what to do! Pēterson, Pihlak, Āboliņ, you three are on the barricades! The rest come with me," Vanags instructed his men and proceeded to the stairs, his radioman Slišāns and the foreign advisors following in tow.
"What's your plan about the droid, Captain?" Perez inquired.
"The safest bet would be to await extraction and pull back to some safer place before we try anything with that thing," Vanags spoke, "But if anything happens, we might have to do it right here. I trust that won't be a problem?"
"No, it won't."
MEANWHILE, AT THE GROCERY STORE...
Silence.
Of death, or of a state more sinister?
Imran did not know.
Boss!
Imran!
~
Imran Rudnitsky's eyes jolted open to behold the silvering sky overhead. He was on his back like an overturned tortoise, his body overtaken by a trembling sensation. Clearly he had been knocked out by some sort of explosion, with a piece of shrapnel lodged somewhere into him at some point.
"Boss, you with us?!" It took him a few seconds to recognise that voice, until he realised that he was being seen to by Pichugin.
"What the hell happened...?" the captain asked, his vision still blurry as he fluttered back to life. "Please tell me nobody kissed me."
"The fucking Balts," Trofima enunciated. "That's what happened!"
"Balts?!" Imran's eyes flashed as he reached for his rifle. "Where are they?!"
The captain raised the weapon to his shoulder, his death stare trained down its sights and focused down the street before him. However, neither beheld any Balts – or at least, any that were still alive. The roadway ahead was covered with bodies with varying integrity, a platoon's worth of enemy soldiers who had launched a counterattack in an effort to retake the grocery shop. Imran remembered mortar fire raining down from afar, and a confrontation with an Iron Wolf light tank. That same tank now lay smouldering and inactive down the street, riddled with holes from some sort of powerful autocannon shells.
"Relax boss, they're gone!" Pichugin tempered his commander's battle-fury with one simple statement. "They just got trashed by this huge dude in some kinda power armour. Apparently nobody thought to tell us we had the Imperium of Sidhae on call!"
"The what?" Trofima's face sprouted confusion.
"It's from a TV series," said Pichugin. "I'll explain later!"
The aforementioned giant stepped forth from behind them, each boot step pounding against the pavement like thunder. It was a soldier in a towering suit of powered armour, at least two and a half metres tall and almost the same width. That much could be readily ascertained through the mechanical whine preceding each thumping step of their march, taken with perfectly syncretic distance from one another. The armour was covered in dull, smoke-grey plates, with sections not covered by plates having been painted in tsifra camouflage. Embossed upon its flat faceplate just above its thick gorget was a grinning silver skull.
Clutched in the soldier's right arm was a huge, heavy barrel automatic cannon, Imran recognising it as a modified AK-20 aircraft cannon; the ammunition belt looped around to an armoured canister on the back.
"For the record, you really look quite edgy," Trofima stated aloud.
"Your compliment has been noted, Corporal Medveditsa." The armoured giant's dry riposte came with a booming voice, as if reverberating from within a metallic mountain. He turned to Imran: "I am from Special Tactical Research Group Vympel, acting rank Major, codename 'Onyx' or 'Blackhand'. What is your present objective, Captain?"
"Seize the city headquarters, secure the area and await further orders," Imran answered. "What about you?"
"Same objective, though for a different purpose," the soldier identifying himself as Blackhand informed him. "What forces are available to you?"
"Most of my company, down one platoon," Imran stated. "What about you?"
"An armoured platoon, plus two mechanised companies," said Blackhand in his dry, quasi-monotonous tone. "We were ... delayed."
"So we heard..." the captain remarked with a grim tone.
"You may need your troops for the assault on the centre," stated Blackhand, holding his cannon to the air. "I expect stiff resistance."
"SpetsTak?" Trofima stated with a sudden dreadful realisation. "Shit, this must be serious..."
"Quite!" Imran quipped, turning to his engineer. "Tolstoy, Malashenko! You got those planter-boxes ready?!"
"Ready and waiting!" Malashenko's voice could be heard from the store's parking lot.
Before the fighting, Imran had asked some of in his company to set up a pair of 'planter-boxes' – 2B22 Seyalka-B electronic volley guns designed to fire a bombardment of mortar shells. When the Balts launched their counteroffensive, the unloaded weapons had been left out in the open, only to be returned to when the assault was repelled by Blackhand and his group. Each weapon was armed with nine barrels, each bearing several stacked shells ready to fire at a moment's notice.
"Meheheheheheh..." the squad engineer Tolstoy emitted a menacing cackle as he switched on the signal reception equivalent on one of the Seyalkas. "Thirty-six fist-sized bunker-busting warheads raining down from above, fired by just one of these bad boys. Yeah, I don't think taking this city will be a problem..."
He was just about to tap on the boxy mortar when he froze, having caught witness of the warning sign on its top at the very last moment.
WARNING!
ELECTROTRIGGERS ARE SENSITIVE.
AVOID PHYSICAL CONTACT WITH MORTAR
ONCE SHELLS ARE ARMED.
ELECTROTRIGGERS ARE SENSITIVE.
AVOID PHYSICAL CONTACT WITH MORTAR
ONCE SHELLS ARE ARMED.
"Fine piece of kit indeed!" Bogdan enunciated, giving the Seyalka a good slap on the top. Tolstoy literally shrieked with terror as he dove for cover, prompting everyone else to look over to him. Bogdan burst into laughter on cue.
"Relax, you dumbshit! I haven't armed it yet!" he wheezed out a reassurance.
The distant rumble of an artillery shell exploding did not help to reassure Tolstoy.
~
The room that Vanags, his crew and the Entente operatives left turned out to be the basement of another heavily fortified apartment building. As the team went outside, the entire street to the left was walled off with an impressive fortification of Jersey walls, rubble-filled gabions and sandbags, covered trenches cut into the street. The private home on the opposite side of the street, the address that Captain Urtāns had given as the residence of his parents, was equally heavily reinforced, resembling a fortified blockhouse more than a family home. The positions were manned by battered Tier Twos and a significant number of Threes, mostly boys aged 15-20 along with some girls and older men, several of whom looked like the fathers and grandfathers of some of the young fighters. Although a number were wounded and looked frightened, the kids held up bravely, especially once they caught sight of the of Vanags and his men.
"Tier Ones! Praise God, we're saved!" an awed whisper ran through the ranks.
"Look, they have foreigners with them! Where do you think the black one is from? The Empire or Oldies...? The Chinawoman is definitely from the Empire..." others whispered, some snapping to attention and crisply saluting as Vanags approached.
"At ease, lads, at ease, for the love of God! Did your instructors never teach you not to salute out in the field?" Vanags dismissed them, "If Ivans have a sniper or a drone somewhere nearby, who do you think they'll be shooting first when they see you saluting him as if he was the High Marshal himself?"
"Uh... They did... sir... Sorry, sir!" the few nearest culprits apologized. Vanags didn't blame them - for these youths, war and its necessary departures from everyday military protocol was still a new thing.
The group walked past a rather long line of casualties taken from previous assaults who were lined along the footpath on the opposite side of the street. Most had blankets or their own jackets put over their faces, a Catholic priest performing last rites for the fallen. A bit further lied several mortally wounded troops, another priest granting them absolution and offering comfort.
"Father, I'm afraid!" one wept bitterly, "I have sinned a lot in my life, I have blasphemed and never taken the word of God seriously, but now I'm afraid! Will I go to hell when I die?"
"Not if you truly repent your sins, my son," the priest reassured him, "Falling in defence of the Fatherland from godless foes is the purest of all deaths, and the Lord will remember all those who have given up their lives for such a righteous cause on the Day of Judgement."
"I repent ... I repent!" the young lad, no older than 18, cried, coughing up blood.
"God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit! Amen!" the priest began to recite the formula of absolution.
"An overdose of morphine would have helped that poor kid more than a prayer," Vanags grumbled at the scene, never having fancied religion of any kind much.
"You seem quite the cynic, Captain," Brinkmeyer remarked.
"Comes with the job, Agent," the captain said, "I've seen way too many good men die their pure deaths for their Fatherland in a pool of their own blood and filth crying for their mothers while merciful Lord God gave exactly zero fucks to put much faith in him. Or his self-proclaimed servants, for that matter."
The group entered what had been the garden of Urtāns' home before the war, but was now more of a staging ground. Old Urtāns had certainly done an impressive job fortifying his house, the walls being shielded with stacked gabions and sandbags up to window height, windows being boarded up and reinforced with concrete slabs and metal plates, leaving only narrow embrasure slits. In peacetime, Balts were required by law to keep adequate fortification supplies stocked in the basements or other convenient places of their homes and maintain them in good order, so that when the time came, they could contribute to the community fortification effort. The roadsides in towns were likewise commonly walled off by Jersey walls. Visiting outsiders usually assumed it was for traffic safety, though in truth this was merely a desirable side effect - the real purpose was to have sturdy material readily available for the erection of barricades.
"I'm here to see the Major," Vanags demanded as two boys of about 16 near the entrance stood in his way to challenge him. These two were presumably posted as sentries to keep them off the breastworks away from immediate danger.
The lads said nothing, making way and looking at the foreigners in tow with curiosity. The Frenks and Zeltiņš' men chose to stay outside and let Vanags do the talking.
Inside, Vanags immediately recognised old Major Urtāns poring over a table laden with maps along with a couple second lieutenants from the 56th and some sergeants of the town militia. The numerous scars on the grey-haired old warrior's face told plenty of his youth exploits, as did the many medals pinned on the chest of his uniform that was of a pattern last issued before the Second Liberation War.
"I'll be damned...!" Urtāns spoke out once he noticed the newcomer, "Do my eyes deceive me, or has the brass really deemed it necessary to send Tier Ones to back up our humble efforts?"
"Captain Hendriks Vanags, 2nd Special Tasks," Vanags introduced himself, "Your son in Firebase Lubāns asked me to check on you if I got the chance."
"Well, tell my boy that his concern is appreciated," old Urtāns grumbled, "Now, I trust that you didn't drop by just to say hello from my son?"
"There's a major Russian advance headed your way. They could be here any second now," Vanags warned, "They are dropping reinforcements just outside town here in your sector, and I have reports that there is a flanking force attempting to cut off the city as we speak. In light of that, I would suggest you consider evacuation."
"Nonsense!" the old Major barked, "This is my town, and my house! I'll damn my soul to hell before I let any filthy Russkie set foot in my own home!"
"Listen to the captain, husband," an elderly woman entered the room, also clad in camouflage and carrying an old M4 carbine slung over the shoulder, "We will have to retreat or go underground sooner or later!"
"Bah! Go back to the kitchen, woman, if you've got nothing useful to say!" Major Urtāns barked at his wife grouchily, "There's a bloody war going on in case you haven't noticed! I ain't gonna sit around on my ass waiting for some Ruskie scumbag to come and fuck me in it!"
"This is not your war! Let the young men fight!" his wife argued.
"The young men?! Feh! Half of these kids barely even know which end of a gun to point at the enemy! Whose gonna keep them alive?! This bunch of jokers who've never commanded more than a platoon?!" Urtāns scoffed, pointing at the assembled lieutenants and sergeants.
"Captain, please!" the wife turned to Vanags. "Maybe you can talk some sense into that stubborn old goat!"
"I'm afraid I would have as much luck as you, Mrs. Urtāne," Vanags remarked. "That being said, Major, I cannot allow you to squander the lives of Baltic citizens now when the real war is only about to begin. As a Tier One officer, I have the seniority here, especially considering how you are officially retired, so if you do not order your men to prepare for withdrawal, I will!"
"I'm fully aware of that, Captain," old Urtāns responded. "But I didn't order all these young folks to stand their ground here – they came to me and asked me to lead them in battle on their own accord. This is their town and their homes as well as mine. So if you want to assume command and tell them to withdraw, that's your prerogative, you can go outside and tell them that yourself. But I'm afraid most of them will just tell you to go fuck yourself!"
"Then at least let us evac your wounded," Vanags argued. "I don't have much capacity, but I can take some 10 walking wounded on my 5-tonner and maybe squeeze in another few in two DAGORs."
"That I have no problems with. You should speak to the medics at the infirmary if you haven't already..." Urtāns spoke when a nearby shell blast shook the building violently, more shells starting to burst outside, "Damn, looks like the Ruskies are prepping up for another go!"
At almost the same time, radioman Slišāns ran into the room.
"Bad news, Cap! Bravo and Charlie ran into stiff resistance on their way, no telling how soon they'll get through! Looks like we're gonna have to weather this one out here!"
"Man the positions! Shit's about to get hot!" Vanags shouted outside to the Frenks and the men of the 56th who had taken cover near the fortifications.
The Frenks rushed inside, Perez finding a covered spot behind a counter in the living room and dropping the droid on the floor while the rest of the group dispersed around the building and the gabion wall outside, taking positions at the embrasures.
For around a minute, some two dozen additional mortar shells fell around the barricade strongpoint, being meant more to drive the defenders into hiding than kill. Some exploded with a pop rather than thud, releasing clouds of white smoke to cover the enemy advance. As soon as the shells stopped falling, Vanags ran out to see how the men outside were holding up.
"You're in no condition to fight!" he shouted to machinegunner Berdinskis who struggled to load his M60E6 with his one remaining hand, "Go down to the infirmary!"
"I'm still good," the gunner barked defiantly, "I could just use someone to load for me!"
"Fine," Vanags nodded, realizing that every gun would matter in the coming fight and called to a Tier Three boy manning a position next to Berdinskis: "You there - help him load!"
The chap nodded, getting to the machinegunner's side and helping him place the ammo belt in the receiver. No sooner had the gunner loaded up when autocannon shells coming from the smoke-filled area ahead started to burst overhead, prompting Vanags to run inside. The barrage was joined by a torrent of suppressing machinegun fire.
Vanags looked to the centre of the room. Behind the cover of the counter, Brinkmeyer had apparently dragged the disabled bot with her and seemed to be getting ready to do work on it.
"Is now really the time for this?" Vanags yelled.
"It's as good a time as any, Captain!" she replied as she gently removed the knife from the android's head, not sparing so much as a glance at him. She then flipped the knife over and began using it to carefully pry sections of its skull off. With the gentleness she was utilising, it almost felt as though she were performing brain surgery on a real human.
"Bingo…" She said aloud, evidently finding whatever it was she was looking for throughout the mess of metal and wire. She casually dropped the knife at her side and went for the bag she kept on her back, wiping some of the oil off of her hands and onto her clothes as she did so.
"Let her do her thing, Captain! It shouldn't be too long!" Perez shouted over the sounds of battle, between bursts from his LMG. "But Brink? Do hurry the hell up!"
"Yeah, yeah…" She calmly dismissed him as she fished pieces of equipment out of her bag, including her signature holopad and an ancient-looking laptop computer. Though Vanags was interested in the progress of the RM hack, a bullet narrowly whizzing by his head snapped him back onto the battle ahead, turning back towards the enemy to continue the fight.
~
"Keep moving!"
Imran's microphoned helmet bellowed into the radio over the tonitruant roar of cannon fire, urging the soldiers of his company forward. They had been joined by the mechanised force in leading the assault on the city centre, spearheaded by a T-25 main battle tank and three BTR Barsuk wheeled APCs. Four of the newcomers were riding desant on the back of the tank, using its turret for cover while the others remained behind the vehicles' sluggish advance. As the leading tank drew to a halt some one hundred and fifty metres away from the defenders' position, two of the Barsuks fanned outward, giving the advancing soldiers cover as they moved along the boulevard in search of an attack position. The smokescreen launched by those Seyalkas back at the store were doing work, having successfully shielded the advancing force from the wrath of the veritable fortress now facing them. Now that the screen was beginning to fade, however, the raw determination of the Balts would be unveiled in full.
Imran himself had taken his squad into one of the three-storey apartment buildings, while Malashenko and his group had assaulted one across the street. Imran's block was empty, but the gunfire resonating from over the street denoted that Malashenko and his group were facing quite the fight with some more militia. Bogdan's machine gun, Knyazev's grenade launcher and Trofima's rocket launcher faced the fortified house ahead while the lighter firepower of Imran's squad turned to pick off any stragglers inside the nearby apartment block.
The stuttering racket of Bogdan's MMG filled the bathroom he was stationed in as he unloaded burst after sharp burst upon the fortifications before him, adding to the already formidable wall of suppressive fire blazing forth from the Mekh assault force. His main focus was on the living room of the fortified house, each piece of furniture being chopped apart satisfying him intensely as the enemy forces within ducked for cover. Tolstoy, his shotgun being all but useless at this range, was helping him load while Trofima and Knyazev fired shots from the apartment's dining room.
His inner reminiscences of trench warfare was interrupted when a distant sharp electric chatter filled his ears. He recognising the noise in an instant: his father Petr had fought in both the first and second Baltic invasions as well as cross-border raids. The threat was confirmed when he saw a periodic blue muzzle flash from within the house, followed by residual electrical sparks along weapon barrels.
"Oh, fuck..." Beneath his helm, Bogdan's face turned white as a sheet. "Boss! We got Tee-Ones in that fort! I'm certain of-"
He was most rudely interrupted when, after leaning back to address Imran of the Tier Ones' presence, a powerful shot struck his chin with the force of a gratuitous punch to the face. The blast sent him spinning straight into the shower behind him, his armoured bulk crashing through the glass screen.
"BOGDAN!!!" Imran saw him get struck as he turned around and bellowed aloud, but quickly recomposed himself. "Fuck... Pichugin! Our MG just took a hit to the head! Go get him!"
"On it!" the medic spared not an instant in recovering Bogdan, running to the bathroom with the intent to drag him out of the shower and into the bedroom. The advance itself briefly drew to a halt as the presence of the dreaded Tier Ones became clear to the Mekhs. The hesitation, however, was only momentary: they knew that for every one of their troops killed, a hundred more would take their place. This battle was not about winning or losing, but rather winning with minimal losses.
"Bogdan!" Pichugin saw to the disoriented Bogdan, putting him on the bed. "Talk to me! You alright, buddy?!"
Just a flesh wound.
The words manifested in Bogdan's dazed mind, yet nothing flowed forth from his mouth but blood and burning, agonising pain. It was at this exact moment that it became apparent that this was because he no longer had a mouth to speak from. His newly acquired speech impediment had been delivered courtesy of a ChemRail shot having failed to decapitate him by a mind-numbingly tight margin.
Nevertheless, the culprit, a certain Vanags, grinned viciously as the smart-scope confirmed two kills on the second floor and a serious injury on the third.
"Those shots came from the living room of the fort!" Tolstoy announced.
"Good enough for me!" Imran stated, his voice filled with renewed battle fury about his best friend's wounding. "Med! Frag 'em!"
"With pleasure, boss!" Trofima seethed through her teeth, no less enraged by this turn of events. She grabbed her Kastet rocket launcher from her back and loaded an egg-shaped RPG in through the front, raising it up high. Before long, the living room rested firmly within her sights.
"Back blast!" Trofima proclaimed, the nearby Knyazev stepping away from her. She depressed the trigger and sent the rocket howling towards the fortress with a brilliant roar.
