The first C-130 took a hard landing, bouncing slightly on the sand flat, a storm of sand kicking up around it as it slowed to a stop, leaving behind a trail just over half a mile long where its landing gear had dragged along the ground. The ramp began to lower with a creak, and eventually descended.
Almost immediately, men in beige desert camouflage ran down the ramp, and began struggling with the rigging. One of them waved to the people who had been waiting for the supplies – a small group of Diyaristani workers that were employed with the nearvy refugee camps.
– “Alḥamdulillah, it is good to see you here!” – one of them said, in broken English. “There are riots in the city already.”
The Allanean smiled at the men. “We have twenty tons here. Milk in fifty-five gallon drums for the children, and powdered eggs.”
– “This will not be enough.” – the man said with doubt.
– “We are not the only ones. There are going to be more flights landing here soon enough. But now, you need to help me – I can’t load this onto your truck.”
They got to work – the Diyaristani shouting in Arabic, directing his men to load the milk and powdered egg packaged onto the trucks as fast as they could. The sand got into every possible thing, slowing down the metal hand-truck carts that the Diyaristani used. Meanwhile, the co-pilot inspected his plane.
“Bad news,” – he said, after pacing the length of the aircraft and returning to the pilot. “The front landing gear is no good, we can’t take off, and if we take off we won’t land again.”
The pilot swore softly as he reached for his mug of black, strong coffee. “Very well, then. We’ll help the loadmaster load the trucks, and then rest here until help arrives.”
Other planes came in soon – three more C-130s were sent to Darullah’s refugee camp, while others were landing at other refugee camps throughout the country. The Allaneans distributed blocked beef – large, block-shaped slabs of frozen meat – and tushonka, Allanea’s famous tinned beef, preserved in cans using the meat’s own fat as the preservative. In other words, it was incredibly fatty – and rich in protein, which was just what the doctor ordered, literally.
Moreover, several hundred combat engineers were airlifted in, using a freighted airliner. These men set to work immediately, using commandeered equipment until their own tools got in. They labored to restore water where damage had been done to canals and pipes, or drilled for new wells near the refugee camp.
Almost immediately, men in beige desert camouflage ran down the ramp, and began struggling with the rigging. One of them waved to the people who had been waiting for the supplies – a small group of Diyaristani workers that were employed with the nearvy refugee camps.
– “Alḥamdulillah, it is good to see you here!” – one of them said, in broken English. “There are riots in the city already.”
The Allanean smiled at the men. “We have twenty tons here. Milk in fifty-five gallon drums for the children, and powdered eggs.”
– “This will not be enough.” – the man said with doubt.
– “We are not the only ones. There are going to be more flights landing here soon enough. But now, you need to help me – I can’t load this onto your truck.”
They got to work – the Diyaristani shouting in Arabic, directing his men to load the milk and powdered egg packaged onto the trucks as fast as they could. The sand got into every possible thing, slowing down the metal hand-truck carts that the Diyaristani used. Meanwhile, the co-pilot inspected his plane.
“Bad news,” – he said, after pacing the length of the aircraft and returning to the pilot. “The front landing gear is no good, we can’t take off, and if we take off we won’t land again.”
The pilot swore softly as he reached for his mug of black, strong coffee. “Very well, then. We’ll help the loadmaster load the trucks, and then rest here until help arrives.”
Other planes came in soon – three more C-130s were sent to Darullah’s refugee camp, while others were landing at other refugee camps throughout the country. The Allaneans distributed blocked beef – large, block-shaped slabs of frozen meat – and tushonka, Allanea’s famous tinned beef, preserved in cans using the meat’s own fat as the preservative. In other words, it was incredibly fatty – and rich in protein, which was just what the doctor ordered, literally.
Moreover, several hundred combat engineers were airlifted in, using a freighted airliner. These men set to work immediately, using commandeered equipment until their own tools got in. They labored to restore water where damage had been done to canals and pipes, or drilled for new wells near the refugee camp.
*
West of the DCP-R held area, between the DCP-R area and the DRLFN bomber
They moved in the darkness – small groups of men, some walking, others on small jeeps, the teams streaking out towards the roads that terrorists had used to reinforce and resupply themselves. In the cold desert nights, the teams – some as small as half a dozen men, others as large as fifty - found their positions. Snipers lay in ambush, flat as crocodiles against the sand and rocks, their heavy rifles waiting. Mortar teams dug into the ground with their shovels, mortar tubes protruding only slightly from the surface. Electronic warfare agents set up in the empty desert, with portable, twenty-pound jammers waiting in the cargo compartments of their jeeps.
The first team would catch its prey near dawn – a convoy of armed pickup trucks and semi-trailers, moving through the grayish blue light of early morning.
They do not see the Allanean – a lump of beige hidden behind a boulder, almost boulder-like himself. His finger rests, calmly, on the trigger. The rifle slams into his shoulder, its entire mass rising an inch off the ground as the enormous bullet is fired, and a second later a bullet worth a hundred fifty Menelmacari credits slams into the windshield of one of the semitrailers. Inside it, the driver screams out in pain as his face is showered in broken glass and burning zirconium, and the truck begins to skid sideways off the road.
There is a comforting thumping sound as dozens of tiny explosions begin to boil up among the convoy. Half a mile away, a man crouching behind an automatic grenade launcher, hidden safely behind a dune, had let lose a beltful of grenades Knowing where the road is, all he had to do is pull the trigger. Some miss the convoy, others miss the road, but the effect is still fascinating – explosions upon explosions, showering the convoy. Several of the men riding in the backs of the armed pickups – called ‘technicals’ in that dry language that men in the military favor – are thrown off by the blasts, or fall off after the shrapnel injures them. One of the trucks is hit directly, smoke bursting from its engine as it skids to a stop.
The sniper’s partner – Allanean snipers work in pairs – puts two bullets, each an ounce in weight, through the windshield of yet another truck. The driver jerks spastically in his chair as the incredible bullets pound his chest to a mush, blood splattering on the windshield. Swearing, screaming his friend struggled with the dead man over the controls, as dozens of grenades rain all around them.
The few terrorists who still maintain some semblance of discipline begin firing, rockets, autocannon, machinegun rounds streaking out towards the dune – and in the storm of fire they do not notice the lone cracks of the sniper rifles. Smoke and fire burst from the engine block of a semi-trailer truck as it skids out of control, its massive waits slamming into the lighter vehicles, men thrown like rag dolls from their trucks and smeared against the tarmac.
Finally, the last element of the trap springs – three men, with rocket launchers equipped with electronic sights, fire their weapons at once from the very direction opposite to the one to which the DCP men are shooting. One misses. One misses just barely, showering a pickup truck with six men sitting in its bed with shrapnel and asphalt fragments. Another hits, a pickup truck equipped with a helicopter’s elderly rocket pod becoming a ball of all-consuming, coruscating flames. Before the DCP fighters can even figure out what happened, the Allaneans toss away the rocket tubes, and grab one more tube each. By the time the rockets impact, the three soldiers duck back into their foxholes.
On the road, what had been minutes ago an orderly convoy, is now a pile of steaming, burning, metal trash and screaming men. The few trucks that somehow survive are trying to navigate their way past the convoy as sniper fire and grenades rain down upon them. Maoist fighters – some injured, some disoriented by the sudden onslaught of fire and death – are crawling on the tarmac. Some get off the road and try to run through the desert, to get away from the terrifying trap. Others hide under the smoldering wreckage, quivering in cold and terror, hoping that the invisible marksmen will not get them there. Yet others try to fight, firing long bursts from their AKs at the distant flashes of rifle fire.
These, the snipers kill first.
In fifteen minutes it is over.
Allanean soldiers, armed with carbines, begin the meticulous task of sweeping the convoy wreckage, searching the corpses for documents, maps, and phones.
The first team would catch its prey near dawn – a convoy of armed pickup trucks and semi-trailers, moving through the grayish blue light of early morning.
They do not see the Allanean – a lump of beige hidden behind a boulder, almost boulder-like himself. His finger rests, calmly, on the trigger. The rifle slams into his shoulder, its entire mass rising an inch off the ground as the enormous bullet is fired, and a second later a bullet worth a hundred fifty Menelmacari credits slams into the windshield of one of the semitrailers. Inside it, the driver screams out in pain as his face is showered in broken glass and burning zirconium, and the truck begins to skid sideways off the road.
There is a comforting thumping sound as dozens of tiny explosions begin to boil up among the convoy. Half a mile away, a man crouching behind an automatic grenade launcher, hidden safely behind a dune, had let lose a beltful of grenades Knowing where the road is, all he had to do is pull the trigger. Some miss the convoy, others miss the road, but the effect is still fascinating – explosions upon explosions, showering the convoy. Several of the men riding in the backs of the armed pickups – called ‘technicals’ in that dry language that men in the military favor – are thrown off by the blasts, or fall off after the shrapnel injures them. One of the trucks is hit directly, smoke bursting from its engine as it skids to a stop.
The sniper’s partner – Allanean snipers work in pairs – puts two bullets, each an ounce in weight, through the windshield of yet another truck. The driver jerks spastically in his chair as the incredible bullets pound his chest to a mush, blood splattering on the windshield. Swearing, screaming his friend struggled with the dead man over the controls, as dozens of grenades rain all around them.
The few terrorists who still maintain some semblance of discipline begin firing, rockets, autocannon, machinegun rounds streaking out towards the dune – and in the storm of fire they do not notice the lone cracks of the sniper rifles. Smoke and fire burst from the engine block of a semi-trailer truck as it skids out of control, its massive waits slamming into the lighter vehicles, men thrown like rag dolls from their trucks and smeared against the tarmac.
Finally, the last element of the trap springs – three men, with rocket launchers equipped with electronic sights, fire their weapons at once from the very direction opposite to the one to which the DCP men are shooting. One misses. One misses just barely, showering a pickup truck with six men sitting in its bed with shrapnel and asphalt fragments. Another hits, a pickup truck equipped with a helicopter’s elderly rocket pod becoming a ball of all-consuming, coruscating flames. Before the DCP fighters can even figure out what happened, the Allaneans toss away the rocket tubes, and grab one more tube each. By the time the rockets impact, the three soldiers duck back into their foxholes.
On the road, what had been minutes ago an orderly convoy, is now a pile of steaming, burning, metal trash and screaming men. The few trucks that somehow survive are trying to navigate their way past the convoy as sniper fire and grenades rain down upon them. Maoist fighters – some injured, some disoriented by the sudden onslaught of fire and death – are crawling on the tarmac. Some get off the road and try to run through the desert, to get away from the terrifying trap. Others hide under the smoldering wreckage, quivering in cold and terror, hoping that the invisible marksmen will not get them there. Yet others try to fight, firing long bursts from their AKs at the distant flashes of rifle fire.
These, the snipers kill first.
In fifteen minutes it is over.
Allanean soldiers, armed with carbines, begin the meticulous task of sweeping the convoy wreckage, searching the corpses for documents, maps, and phones.
* * *
The drone is silent, its electric engine rotating the propeller almost entirely without sound, its plastic wings spread out like those of a small bird. In the early dawn, it can even be mistaken for a bird, perhaps an eagle or a vulture, as it circles over the road. Like a vulture, it seems to have a sense for human flesh.
Far below it, a convoy is moving – eleven elderly tanks on tank transporters, a tented truck full of men, a few vehicles that appear to be tractors and trucks adopted for combat – covered in rusty metal plates, turrets and guns.
The men don’t know that they are already dead.
Miles away, the drone’s operator has spotted them.
The platoon commander has issued his sentence upon them.
The mortar commander has raised his hand, and lowered it in a swift motion, and uttered the proclamation.
“FIRE!”
The first shell is already in the air. Fifteen seconds later, it lands. Hardly the best moment for Allanean artillerymen, it overshoots thte target by fifty yards. Several of the terrorists swear as the loud sound of the burst makes their bodies shake slightly, and the second mortar round hits the road in the spot that the last vehicle of the column had just passed. The third is just too far ahead, and several drivers are already hitting the gas to get out of the kill zone.
The fourth comes straight into the back of the tented truck. The air is filled now with the screams of the dying and the injured, it is not even possible to tell where one man’s body ends and another begins. The fifth, sixth, seventh shot slam into the road, shrapnel and fire showering the improvised vehicles. One of the tank transporters goes off the road and tips over, spilling forth its precious cargo – the tank itself, thirty-six tons of armor and tracks.
The next two shots are not regular mortar rounds – they are heatseeking anti-armor bombs, coming down onto the engine heat of the terrorist vehicles.
And then, up ahead, several miles away, something at the very edge of one’s eyesight begins to move., hissing, two spectral glowing flames cross the desert, towards the lead vehicles, and suddenly a mountainous, towering metal box that used to be a frontal loader is ablaze. The APC is also on fire, men screaming as the aluminum hull that u[p until seconds ago protected them is burning around them with the heat of a furnace.
The trap springs. Suddenly the desert is alive with gunfire. Heavy machineguns are clattering away madly, anti-tank rockets scream towards the convoy. The convoy’s commander screams into his radio, begging his comrades to stay strong. There are only crackles and static. He hits the radio with his fist, hoping the usual gesture will breathe life into the elderly machine. Nothing of the sort happens – and by now the convoy has ground to as half, the wreckage of the vehicles in front becoming a formidable obstacle.
It is this that the mortar men have been waiting for. Their target pre-sighted, all they need to do is throw shells into the mortar’s open mouth as fast as they can.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
From the unfeeling, bluish-grey skies, the mortar rounds come down on the convoy. From the dry desert sand, anti-tank missiles and machinegun bullets streak towards it. In his truck, the commander has given up on trying to make the radio live again – no doubt the Allanean EW officer would have giggled at his attempts at percussive maintenance – and jumps out on the road. With his black, heavy pistol he shoots one of the DCP-R fighters who is trying to flee.
“Don’t flee, you ingrate peasant scumbags!” – he shouts – “Are you Communists or not?”
But there is no heroic last stand for him. There is only the cold, merciless sky of the Diyaristan, and the mortar rounds.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Far below it, a convoy is moving – eleven elderly tanks on tank transporters, a tented truck full of men, a few vehicles that appear to be tractors and trucks adopted for combat – covered in rusty metal plates, turrets and guns.
The men don’t know that they are already dead.
Miles away, the drone’s operator has spotted them.
The platoon commander has issued his sentence upon them.
The mortar commander has raised his hand, and lowered it in a swift motion, and uttered the proclamation.
“FIRE!”
The first shell is already in the air. Fifteen seconds later, it lands. Hardly the best moment for Allanean artillerymen, it overshoots thte target by fifty yards. Several of the terrorists swear as the loud sound of the burst makes their bodies shake slightly, and the second mortar round hits the road in the spot that the last vehicle of the column had just passed. The third is just too far ahead, and several drivers are already hitting the gas to get out of the kill zone.
The fourth comes straight into the back of the tented truck. The air is filled now with the screams of the dying and the injured, it is not even possible to tell where one man’s body ends and another begins. The fifth, sixth, seventh shot slam into the road, shrapnel and fire showering the improvised vehicles. One of the tank transporters goes off the road and tips over, spilling forth its precious cargo – the tank itself, thirty-six tons of armor and tracks.
The next two shots are not regular mortar rounds – they are heatseeking anti-armor bombs, coming down onto the engine heat of the terrorist vehicles.
And then, up ahead, several miles away, something at the very edge of one’s eyesight begins to move., hissing, two spectral glowing flames cross the desert, towards the lead vehicles, and suddenly a mountainous, towering metal box that used to be a frontal loader is ablaze. The APC is also on fire, men screaming as the aluminum hull that u[p until seconds ago protected them is burning around them with the heat of a furnace.
The trap springs. Suddenly the desert is alive with gunfire. Heavy machineguns are clattering away madly, anti-tank rockets scream towards the convoy. The convoy’s commander screams into his radio, begging his comrades to stay strong. There are only crackles and static. He hits the radio with his fist, hoping the usual gesture will breathe life into the elderly machine. Nothing of the sort happens – and by now the convoy has ground to as half, the wreckage of the vehicles in front becoming a formidable obstacle.
It is this that the mortar men have been waiting for. Their target pre-sighted, all they need to do is throw shells into the mortar’s open mouth as fast as they can.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
From the unfeeling, bluish-grey skies, the mortar rounds come down on the convoy. From the dry desert sand, anti-tank missiles and machinegun bullets streak towards it. In his truck, the commander has given up on trying to make the radio live again – no doubt the Allanean EW officer would have giggled at his attempts at percussive maintenance – and jumps out on the road. With his black, heavy pistol he shoots one of the DCP-R fighters who is trying to flee.
“Don’t flee, you ingrate peasant scumbags!” – he shouts – “Are you Communists or not?”
But there is no heroic last stand for him. There is only the cold, merciless sky of the Diyaristan, and the mortar rounds.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
* * *
The Allanean commandos fan out against the Western border of the DCP-R held territory. They make themselves known in hit and run attacks against the cargo and resupply shipments , landmines planted in the roads or off their side, sniper attacks against terrorist officers. Worst of all, perhaps, they tell the bombers where to go. Their most lethal weapons are binoculars, radios, and satellite phones, with which they can summon drone attacks, precision bomb strikes or clouds of anti-vehicle submunitions from beyond the clouds.
Meanwhile, on coalition-held airfield throughout Diyaristan, more Allanean cargo planes are landing, some carrying food and supplies, others with ammunition and fuel. An AWACS plane lands at the Elevit airport, and an EW plane in Darullah. Strategic bombers are also being landed, and astute coalition observers may note that the Allaneans are keeping most of the deployment in reserve so far. Within a few days, the full number of B-3 Zeus bombers in Diyaristan build to fifty. Most of them are not flying.
The Allaneans are waiting.
Meanwhile, on coalition-held airfield throughout Diyaristan, more Allanean cargo planes are landing, some carrying food and supplies, others with ammunition and fuel. An AWACS plane lands at the Elevit airport, and an EW plane in Darullah. Strategic bombers are also being landed, and astute coalition observers may note that the Allaneans are keeping most of the deployment in reserve so far. Within a few days, the full number of B-3 Zeus bombers in Diyaristan build to fifty. Most of them are not flying.
The Allaneans are waiting.
