Operation Southern Cross (Excalibur IC)

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Halting the flight at the doorway, he heard Red Flight moving around inside and poked his head in. "White calling Red, we're at the entrance. Do you need support?"

Her eyes still fixed in the direction of the mysterious noise, slowly stepping forward, it took a moment for Alix to realize Talbot was talking to her. She forced herself to sound calmer than she felt.
"No...No, we're fine, Five. Keep your eyes glued on the perimeter until I say otherwise. I may be out of contact for a moment or two."

The sound kept going, just on the edge of hearing - an odd, scratchy wash of noise, like static over the radio, coming from the end of a side hallway off of the main foyer that Red Flight found itself in. Alix slowly crept towards and through the dark hallway, the rest of the flight following.

Smythe nodded, following on after Flight Lieutenant Noble to investigate the source of the sound. As he did so, he half turned and whispered to the remaining NCOs in his flight. "Okay guys, stick together in case this is a trap - there's no need to split up and look for clues."

"Too bloody right," Alix breathed. There was no mistaking it - the sound definitely was getting louder the deeper into the hall she went. There was a room right at the end...could that be the source?

it was only a minute or so, but it felt like a small eternity as Alix finally closed the distance. Finally, stacking up on the door, the sound more and more resembling static as it grew louder, she was ready. Looking back at the other four (Reide having returned from his errand), she could tell that the rest of them were as well. She slowly turned the doorknob, and then threw it open, Colt at the ready.

The room was as abandoned as the rest, save for one significant exception. In the center of the room, a wooden table was placed with a single chair alongside. Upon the table was placed a radio set, with microphone attached - the clear source of the noise, which was indeed static. Alix scanned the room, eyes wide and suspicious. There was nothing else - no sign of any traps, bombs, concealed gunmen, or anything of the sort. Confused and not quite knowing what else to do, she sat down in the chair. She gently tapped the microphone with her finger, with the resulting pops of static feedback confirming that it was live.
"Hello?" she spoke into the microphone. No response. She waited a few seconds, then-
Suddenly, a loud, harsh, Afrikaner-accented voice cut into her ears, ringing throughout the room and shattering the quiet.

"You're in my home."

She nearly had a heart attack. "Who...Jesus, who the hell is this?"

A chuckle. "Who do you think I am? I am the owner of the house that you've just broken into - and the employer of all those guards you've just murdered. Disappointed you weren't left anything to burglarize or destroy while you were here? No cash laying around? No jewelry to pawn? No bearer bonds in a safe, somewhere? No women to brutalize?"

Alix tried to collect herself. She opened her mouth to respond - but Jackal beat her to it.

"Make no mistake. I know exactly who and what you are. You band of killers and thieves are the British death squad sent to assassinate me. You no doubt hoped to find me asleep in my bed unguarded, so you could slit my throat and steal away under cover of night like hyenas...and were it not for my good friends, that may have been how you would have found me. But instead, I made preparations..."

[Kouralia]

As the voice began speaking, Smythe sighed. "Oh dear... He's got an ill-placed sense of drama." The SNCO muttered before moving to the door and keeping an eye out to prevent anyone sneaking in or opening up on them, as might be the Antelope Jackal's plan.

[The Two Jerseys]

Halting the flight at the doorway, he heard Red Flight moving around inside and poked his head in. "White calling Red, we're at the entrance. Do you need support?"

Her eyes still fixed in the direction of the mysterious noise, slowly stepping forward, it took a moment for Alix to realize Talbot was talking to her. She forced herself to sound calmer than she felt.
"No...No, we're fine, Five. Keep your eyes glued on the perimeter until I say otherwise. I may be out of contact for a moment or two."

"Understood."

He turned back to Stanford and Carter.

"Right, we're on sentry duty. You two post yourselves on the opposite corners of the building, I'll take the center of the angle. Try to find a spot with cover but where I can see you and you can see me. And remember, we have a blind spot on the far side, so make sure to keep a good eye on the back of the building. Any trouble, raise the alarm and I'll provide you with covering fire. Questions?"

[The Tamerelian Empire]

As the voice started speaking, Lev froze, and his eyes bulged. After watching Smyhte's reaction, he too went to the door and leaned against the wall on the opposite side of him, poking his eyes out of the doorframe to make sure no one was coming. He quietly shouldered his rifle and took out his already-cocked Browning, though there was only a few bullets left in the clip. It would take too much time to load another one, and too noisy as well. he though to himself, as he waited for something unexpected to inevitably happen. After all, why would Van Huidebroeke contact them if it wasn't to inform them, or perhaps stall them for, their deaths?

[Gibberan]

"And what are we to do with this magnificent example of German engineering?" Carter said smirking as he gestured to the MG-34. "It'd be a waste to just leave it here, when it's probably our most valuable defense against any left over Stormjaers in the complex. And besides," He paused, and leaned over closer to the others so only they could hear. "I don't especially trust the UDF fellows with it, especially that one," jerking his head in the direction of Reide. "Something's just.....odd about them. I can't tell how or what, but something just keeps bugging me." His eyes turned toward the building Red had gone into as the faint sound of a voice over the radio escaped from it's slightly open door. As if to alleviate the already-tense situation, his voice took a lighter tone.

He convinced himself into cracking a joke, "Maybe it's just the feeling that those Saffies don't know how the shoot the damn thing," though he felt it was forced; he certainly didn't feel jokeful.

[Goram]

...Questions?

"None"

Stanford replied. He turned to look at the building they were stationed outside, trying to find a decent vantage point for the machine gun. Despite their lacklustre defence, it seemed the OB had got one thing right. The ruined machine gun nest was in a perfect position to cover the wide expanse of open ground, over which the Squadron had been forced to cross, to the west.

And what are we to do with this magnificent example of German engineering?

Carter chimed, as if reading Stanford's mind. Once he had finished speaking, Stanford replied

"That nest over there, the chaps in Blue flight blew it to buggery, but it covers a gorgeous field of fire - if we set the gun up there, we can cover the entirety of the western approach to the compound. Especially useful if, as Mr. Carter suggested, those UDF chaps aren't to be trusted."

He hefted the machine gun back into his arms and gestured to the aforementioned position with the muzzle

"That's where I'll be, Mr. Talbot. Honestly, that's where I think we all ought to be. The woods and cliffs to our rear look rather impassible, if you ask me."

[The Two Jerseys]

...Questions?

"None"

Stanford replied. He turned to look at the building they were stationed outside, trying to find a decent vantage point for the machine gun. Despite their lacklustre defence, it seemed the OB had got one thing right. The ruined machine gun nest was in a perfect position to cover the wide expanse of open ground, over which the Squadron had been forced to cross, to the west.

And what are we to do with this magnificent example of German engineering?

Carter chimed, as if reading Stanford's mind. Once he had finished speaking, Stanford replied

"That nest over there, the chaps in Blue flight blew it to buggery, but it covers a gorgeous field of fire - if we set the gun up there, we can cover the entirety of the western approach to the compound. Especially useful if, as Mr. Carter suggested, those UDF chaps aren't to be trusted."

He hefted the machine gun back into his arms and gestured to the aforementioned position with the muzzle

"That's where I'll be, Mr. Talbot. Honestly, that's where I think we all ought to be. The woods and cliffs to our rear look rather impassible, if you ask me."

"OK, I think you're right. Stanford, you're with me in the machine gun nest. Carter, I don't want all three of us to get wiped out by one grenade, you find a good position over here by the door where we can set up interlocking fire. If Red Flight calls, you're to relay the message to me. How are you fixed for ammo?"

[Goram]

...How are you fixed for ammo?

Stanford wrapped long belts of Mauser ammunition around his arms and the barrel of the black machine gun. To his estimation, he had at least 700 rounds and perhaps more in the remnants of the OB machine gun nest. For his personal weapons, he still had several hundred rounds of .303 and 9mm ammunition, along with several Mills Bombs. To say the Flying Officer wasn't hurting for ordinance would have been an understatement.

"Fully stocked, Flight"

Stanford said, as he staggered under the weight of gear, rifle and machine gun. Fortunately, the position was little more than 20 yards away and it didn't take him long to haul himself over to it. Dumping the weapon down, Stanford set about clearing the nest's previous occupants from the position. The Flying Officer grabbed the nearest man, or what was left of him, by his webbing straps and began to drag him away. As he dragged the body, which was really little more than a bloody mess, he passed Talbot going the other way.

"I'm afraid there's another dead chap in there, would you awfully mind removing him?"

He said, as he passed. Stanford dropped the remains of the OB trooper behind the low wall, just outside the main building, before returning to make his preparations. The RAF man braced the bipod of the German made weapon against a pair of sand bags, that hadn't been completely obliterated by Blue flight, before looking for several more, with which to fortify the position. Around him he splayed out his ammunition - a mixture of long belts of 7.92mm and five round strippers, containing .303 rounds for the rifle, which he lay within arms reach with it's bayonet still in place. With the amount of ordinance that the three present members of the flight could bring to bear, coupled with the advantageous position they found themselves in, Stanford felt that they could take on an entire Regiment if they had to.

[Gibberan]

"Carter, I don't want all three of us to get wiped out by one grenade, you find a good position over here by the door where we can set up interlocking fire. If Red Flight calls, you're to relay the message to me. How are you fixed for ammo?"

"Don't have a lot left, but I think I'll be able to hold out." Carter sprinted over to the door, poking the doorknob with the rifle barrel. There was a sickening creak as the door slowly swung open that Red Flight undoubtedly heard, and Carter poked his head in. Sure enough, he could hear the echoing sound of a crackling radio voice with a noticeable accent, which he guessed was Afrikaner, flowing through the hallways. He brought his head back outside but kept his rifle pointed inside.

Turning his head towards the machine gun nest, quietly, but enough to be heard, he said,"There's someone talking through a radio, definitely Boer."

[The Tiger Kingdom]

As the voice began speaking, Smythe sighed. "Oh dear... He's got an ill-placed sense of drama." The SNCO muttered before moving to the door and keeping an eye out to prevent anyone sneaking in or opening up on them, as might be the Antelope Jackal's plan.

The voice on the radio trailed off. Alix's mind was racing, but she forced herself to remain calm and respond sensibly.
"Now see here, sir. This is Lieutenant Alexand-"
She cut herself off as she remembered to deepen her voice.
What should be the last name? Mum's maiden name? Perfect.
"-er Harrison of the British Army, and if you're 'General' Pieter van Huidebroeke, yes, we're charged with bringing you in on charges of treason during wartime, among numerous other offenses. You can make this as peaceful or as violent as you like, but it'll only end one way, no matter which. You're coming with us. So come out from wherever you're hiding, and make it easy on yourself."

There was a long pause. Alix held her breath, wondering if he'd pick up on her deception.
"Unfortunately, Lieutenant," the gravelly voice returned (Alix sighing with relief as it was clear he wasn't going to draw attention to her odd vocal shift), "I will not be returning with you to Pretoria, or to London, or to anywhere you intend to take me. I do not recognize the laws of Great Britain as legitimate here, nor do I recognize the laws of the puppet government that you British has installed here, in my country, as legitimate. And unfortunately for you, you have no way to get at me here with your guns and knives - and even if you did, my forces are so strong, you'd never get through. You are perhaps a dozen. I have tens of thousands of soldiers at my beck and call."

His voice became angrier.
"And once again, even if I recognized all the laws you intend to throw at me, and were I there in the flesh with you, I still would not surrender. I would die first. The things you have done over the decades and centuries to my country...to my people...to me...are utterly unforgivable."
Alix scoffed, trying to play her part and string him along. "What we've done to you? Right. You poor oppressed diamond baron, you. What horror did Britain commit upon you? Did a Rolls cut off your limousine in traffic? Did you have to deal with a snotty doorman with a Scouse accent? Your nanny make you eat mushy peas?"

"Enough!" Van Huidebroeke roared, cutting her off - clearly, she'd struck a nerve. "You have no idea what you're talking about, fool. Hold your tongue."
Another pause. Alix could hear him breathing heavily, trying to calm down.
"It isn't wise of you to try and aggravate me, anyways. I'm offering you a deal."
"You're in no position to bargain," Alix countered. "We've already finished off all your people here. It's just a matter of you giving up the ghost here and coming out of whatever closet you're hiding in."

Smugness crept into the Jackal's voice.
"Now that's not quite true. But then again, it's only your problem, not mine, if you don't believe me. No matter. My offer, Englishman, is this: surrender all your forces here and now, to me, over this radio, and you will be taken alive and treated fairly - at least, far more fairly than you've treated my associates guarding my house. If you don't...if you don't, then you will be annihilated - snuffed out like a candle. You will not be able to resist, or fight back, or survive. I guarantee it. This is the only chance you all have to leave this situation with your lives."

Now it was Alix's turn to scoff.

"Oh yeah? You and what army?"

---

Meanwhile...

Aboard the Anson, still peering down at the house below, Page was starting to get stir-crazy. Alix and Red Flight had entered about fifteen minutes prior, and while them maintaining contact while they were indoors would be impossible and it would be odd for them to be done with their sweep, successful or no, this soon, it was worrying nonetheless. Gradually, he let his view of the house slip away, drifting idly over the plains in front of the house, lost in thought. The light from the stars and moon was bright - even though it really was fully night now, it wasn't at all hard to see (including the distinct majesty of the Southern Cross itself). He could even see the shadow of the plane on the ground as it -

Suddenly, Page seized his glasses and looked again. Yes, his eyes hadn't deceived him, it wasn't a trick of the light - there were the silhouettes of people down there, lots of them - dozens, maybe a hundred, shadows stretching across the ground, marching towards the house. Who were they? If they were the UDF...why hadn't they waited to be called in?
Out of the corner of Page's eye, a few of the stars on the southern horizon suddenly went black. With a growing suspicion that something was wrong, he pulled up his binoculars to get a view. What he saw caused his stomach to drop and his palms begin to sweat.

There was something moving in the sky out there - and judging from the patch of sky that was now denuded of stars and actually blacker than the sky bordering it, whatever was moving, it was plane-shaped and it was big.
And when he noticed similar patches in the sky to the right and left of this patch, he practically dropped the binoculars.

---

Why's this taking so long?
Coetzee was practically sweating with anticipation. It had been almost fifteen minutes since he'd triggered the acid, and the plane was still up in the air...the pilot sstill none the wiser. What had happened? What had gone wrong? What should he do now?
If it were down to him, he'd just act now - kill Page and the girl before either of them could do anything - but his own instinct to obey orders worked against him. That hadn't been in the plan...he had to follow the plan...surely, if he waited a few moments more...
His train of thought was derailed by Page's sudden order.
"Sergeant, get Blue Flight right fucking now. Tell them there are air contacts inbound from the south-southeast, bearing right down on the house, and they're to intercept them. Then get the ground team and tell them that there's a whole group of-"

Suddenly, Coetzee's radio crackled.
"Attention unidentified aircraft. This is Buffalo Squadron, coming up on you from the southeast. Identify yourselves immediately. You are trespassing in a Union Defense Force operational zone."
Coetzee looked at Page for orders."that was an open frequency, Captain - everyone up here probably heard that."
The Captain looked utterly taken aback for a moment, then collected himself and set his jaw.
"Get Blue Flight on them. I'll try to get them to back down and clarify what the hell they're doing here, but if they keep coming, they need to be stopped. Vector Blue flight, get the ground team, then pass the mic to me."

Coetzee nodded.
"Blue Flight, contacts inbound. Intercept them and keep them under your guns, but do not fire until ordered - the situation is unclear."

[Morrdh]

"Copy that Sword Lead." Charlie replied as he switched over to his unused 20mm cannons, feeling a little vindicated after using his .303 guns up until now. Going high had put him in bit of an advantageous position, the moon lit up the approaching bombers making it easy for him to pick out and line up his aircraft on them. Arguably out of the entirety of Blue Flight he was the most experienced night fighter pilot, least the one most suited for this job. They'd been told to hold fire, which was fine for him since it meant he could move into a better position relative to one of the bombers and get lined up on one of it's engines before permission to engage was given. Hell, if he positioned himself right he could possibly take out a couple on his first pass.

[Kassaran]

There was a distinctive wobble in the steadiness of the wings of the Spitfire as if flew over the house, Jonah inside catching wind of the potential for a contact. Catching the other's response, he silently pulled back on the stick and began to open the throttle, looking to get as much altitude as he could possibly manage. He knew that something was wrong now and by this point they should have said that all of the house was secured and that Jackal was in custody. Obviously he either wasn't home, had invited them to tea, or was dying, meaning there was going to be trouble, and now with this precedent of a potential airborne flight inbound, he shuddered. His body tensed and he looked out the cockpit of his Spitfire into the darkness now descending everywhere, and yet he still couldn't pick out anything, so he simply went on what he had heard and continued to climb, watching his altimeter slowly spin across the face registering his height over the plains below.

[Gibberan]

Carter waited, his rifle squeezed between his hands. The moonlight was the only thing stopping it from getting pitch black, and, to tell the truth, he was getting a bit sleepy. Nothing changed, though he was able to see the faint silhouette of the Anson in the sky and the quiet but fast hum of other aircraft engines. Yawning quietly, he was able to jolt himself completely awake with the crack of his rifle butt hitting the thick wooden door. C'mon, something's gotta happen.

He looked over at the machine gun nest. No activity. He wondered where the rest of the EDF was; he had seen Reide a minute ago but he was nowhere to be seen; and, come to think of it, he hadn't seen any other UDF people who had assisted them during the initial assault.

He stared straight ahead of him, into the woods. There were several shadows out there that he hadn't seen before. But maybe that was just because he hadn't been paying attention to his outside surroundings until recently. A few clouds passed over the moon, darkening the world. Keeping his rifle in his hand, it seemed like forever until the clouds left. He looked out onto the woods beyond the plains, stood squinting for a momen, and then was taken aback.

The shadows had moved. It was only a slight difference, but they had moved. They were not in the same place they were before the clouds, they were a bit closer, and more clear. And upon closer inspection, they were still moving.

This is getting weird.

"Uh, Lieut?" he said, calling out to Talbot. "I think there's something...or things.... moving over by the woods; d'you see it?"

[Goram]

I think there's something...or things.... moving over by the woods; d'you see it?

Stanford squinted down the sights of the machine gun, eyes trying to pierce the veil of night. He turned his gaze from left to right and back again. As the full moon moved out from behind a cloud, it bathed the plains in it's silvery light, illuminating the area as if it were day. That was when Stanford's eyes clamped on a human figure, complete with rifle, darting behind a tree. His heart stopped, his blood turned to ice and it was all he could do to stop himself from clamping his finger down on the MG34's trigger.

"I see them Mr. Carter!"

He softly called back

"There's definitely people moving in those trees and they don't look pleased to see us!"

He gripped the stock and pistol grip of the weapon tighter, mentally telling himself to stand by on the barrel and belt changes. The way the men were moving, in the fractions of a second he had seen them, did not seem friendly. Equally, Noble had not told the Flight to look out for any friendly troops approaching. Stanford suspected, very strongly, that these chaps were OB troopers. The entire assault had seemed to easy and now it was apparent why. The tables had turned; the predators had become the prey.

It was at that moment, that his ears pricked up, noticing a slight deviation in the drone of the engines that floated around the area. It lacked the sweet note of the Merlin and sounded too deep to be the Anson and yet, the noise was familiar. Mentally he scanned through the engines that had been burned into his memory during the airfield bombings of the previous summer.

Daimler-Benz?

He thought

No, too high pitched. Perhaps, Jumos? Yes, that's it.

As the noise drew closer, Stanford became more and more sure. The dull drone sounded an awful lot like a Junkers-Jumo engine, which could mean only one thing - German aircraft.

"Mr. Talbot, there's chaps in the tree line and I think we've got a number of enemy aircraft headed our way. I strenuously request permission to open fire."

[Gibberan]

Carter leaned away from the door and waited for Talbot's orders. He was in charge after all. While he waited, he ducked his head into the doorway and called out, "Ms. Noble, we have people approaching from the woods; most likely OB. They are armed, getting closer, and do not seem friendly!"

After there was no response from inside the building, he began to get worried. "Are you there?"

[United Kingdom of Poland]

"Copy lead" Polanski climbed until he was roughly 2,000 feet above the bombers, careful to not be silouetted by the full moon. Below him he could see the bombers in their semi-full glory. Even from this distance he culd make out the fact that these were not planes of british origin, even if they did have the patented shoot me here bullseye the brits all so loved. They were two slender. then the sound hit him as he circled behind, German engins, Same as the aircraft that bombed his home for the first month of the war. "Sword lead this is Blue flight, do the UDF have any German aircraft because i can garuntee thos are not british made bombers."

[The Two Jerseys]

I think there's something...or things.... moving over by the woods; d'you see it?

Stanford squinted down the sights of the machine gun, eyes trying to pierce the veil of night. He turned his gaze from left to right and back again. As the full moon moved out from behind a cloud, it bathed the plains in it's silvery light, illuminating the area as if it were day. That was when Stanford's eyes clamped on a human figure, complete with rifle, darting behind a tree. His heart stopped, his blood turned to ice and it was all he could do to stop himself from clamping his finger down on the MG34's trigger.

"I see them Mr. Carter!"

He softly called back

"There's definitely people moving in those trees and they don't look pleased to see us!"

He gripped the stock and pistol grip of the weapon tighter, mentally telling himself to stand by on the barrel and belt changes. The way the men were moving, in the fractions of a second he had seen them, did not seem friendly. Equally, Noble had not told the Flight to look out for any friendly troops approaching. Stanford suspected, very strongly, that these chaps were OB troopers. The entire assault had seemed to easy and now it was apparent why. The tables had turned; the predators had become the prey.

It was at that moment, that his ears pricked up, noticing a slight deviation in the drone of the engines that floated around the area. It lacked the sweet note of the Merlin and sounded too deep to be the Anson and yet, the noise was familiar. Mentally he scanned through the engines that had been burned into his memory during the airfield bombings of the previous summer.

Daimler-Benz?

He thought

No, too high pitched. Perhaps, Jumos? Yes, that's it.

As the noise drew closer, Stanford became more and more sure. The dull drone sounded an awful lot like a Junkers-Jumo engine, which could mean only one thing - German aircraft.

"Mr. Talbot, there's chaps in the tree line and I think we've got a number of enemy aircraft headed our way. I strenuously request permission to open fire."

Talbot grabbed one of the packs slung over his shoulder and pulled out a Very pistol and an illumination flare. "Let's at least give ourselves a chance to avoid a court martial first," he said as he poked his head over the sandbag wall.

He shouted at the treeline in the loudest voice he could muster: "HALT! WHO COMES THERE?"

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Alix's defiant challenge hung there for a few seconds. Finally, the voice, a note of amusement seeping through its tone, responded.

"You have no idea of the forces that I've marshaled to destroy you. Even now, they encircle you, bearing down. You cannot stop them. This is the last chance you have to spare your life - and the lives of your people. But do not mistake this generous offer for unwillingness to fight on my part. We are doing this for the sake of God's mercy - a quality you British seem to be totally ignorant of. Do the smart thing. Surrender and save your own lives. This will not be-"

Whatever remark was coming next was cut off by the sound of Alix literally pulling the microphone out of its socket by its wire on the radio console, and definitively punctuated by her throwing it as hard as she could at the console. With a metal crash, the device toppled to the ground.
"Well, I've had just about enough of that shit," Alix muttered to nobody in particular, still trying to get the emphasis of the expletive right (she wasn't used to using such coarse language).
And to think I wanted to be a diplomat...

---

Over in Pretoria...
"- a battle that you can win. We will strike with-"
The sound of several metallic bangs cut off the General's words.
"Hello? Lieutenant Harrison?"
Huidebroeke waited several seconds.

"They're not going to respond, the SS colonel seated next to him remarked testily. "I told you that was a waste of time."
Huidebroeke sighed."Fine."
He turned to his aide. "Give the orders for Buffalo Flight to carry out their run, and for the battalion to move in with extreme prejudice. They are to take no prisoners."
"Yes, sir."

Something odd in that voice... the SS colonel thought to himself. Sounded almost feminine...
He turned his thoughts back to business. He couldn't afford to lose himself in speculation now, especially when he clearly had to take a tougher line with this "General". The German, if he was to be honest with himself, expected much more professionalism from this Boer warlord - asking them to surrender was ridiculous, for one. Much less in that ridiculously overwrought manner. Such a waste of time. And now, the British would be expecting a counterattack.
Perfect. What a masterstroke.

His train of thought was interrupted once again by the arrival of another aide.
"General, message from our Johannesburg Commando. The recon reports say that the Kaffirs in the South West Township have been sufficiently agitated - they are preparing to move in a demonstration to happen tonight, at the Township borderline. The police are riding out to meet them."
The aide consulted his notes.
"Erm...didn't quite understand this part...the Kommandant wishes to know if the plans that he and you discussed on the 25th are to go into effect as a result of this."

Huidebroeke took a heavy swig from his flask. "Tell him that it's good to hear from him, that the plans are to go forward exactly as given, and that I wish him good luck in tonight's campaign. Send in Lieutenant van Brecht on your way out."
The aide saluted.
The Boer turned to his German ally and grinned. It wasn't returned, but he didn't mind. Some people just didn't know how to have fun.
"Now, the really fiendish part starts."

---

Back in the house...
A moment after Alix ended negotiations, Reide's radio crackled.
"Ground Flights, eyes on perimeter - you have a large number of unidentified troops moving on your position."
Almost at the same moment, Alix could hear Carter's voice call out through the house:

Carter leaned away from the door and waited for Talbot's orders. He was in charge after all. While he waited, he ducked his head into the doorway and called out, "Ms. Noble, we have people approaching from the woods; most likely OB. They are armed, getting closer, and do not seem friendly!"

After there was no response from inside the building, he began to get worried. "Are you there?"

"Yeah, we're here, Flying Officer," she called out.
"Why the hell would the UDF be moving in?" Reide wondered aloud.
"You didn't call them in?"
The South African shook his head no.

Alix swore very loudly in her mind.
"Well, one way or another, let's go meet our gallant allies and see what they want. Double-time it, people."

---

Up in the air...

"Copy lead" Polanski climbed until he was roughly 2,000 feet above the bombers, careful to not be silouetted by the full moon. Below him he could see the bombers in their semi-full glory. Even from this distance he culd make out the fact that these were not planes of british origin, even if they did have the patented shoot me here bullseye the brits all so loved. They were two slender. then the sound hit him as he circled behind, German engins, Same as the aircraft that bombed his home for the first month of the war. "Sword lead this is Blue flight, do the UDF have any German aircraft because i can garuntee thos are not british made bombers."

Page racked his brain for the old intelligence information on German aircraft exports he'd read weeks ago (at best).
"...You know, Nine, I actually think they might. I'm just spitballing here, but I seem to recall that the Saffies bought a few dozen Junkers 86s from the Luftwaffe prewar - and just judging from here, those silhouettes don't look wrong. They may not necessarily be hostile."
"Captain?" a nervous voice ventured from the front of the plane - the pilot. "What's the situation? We're hearing some pretty worrying things here."
"Just hold your course," Page called back, feigning calmness that he didn't feel. "Everything's under control."

He turned back to Coetzee. "Get me an open channel."
Coetzee, for the first time looking nervous, did so, and handed Page the microphone. Just as he did so, another broadcast came in.
"Buffalo Leader calling unidentified aircraft. This is your final warning-"

"This is Sword Lead to Buffalo Squadron," Page yelled back into the microphone. "I don't know what's going on on your end, but we're not the ones intruding on an operation - you are! This is our operation. Right now, I'm going to assume you're planning on dropping some bombs on that house down there, right? Well guess what: if you do, you're set to plaster my people. This isn't a debate - back yourselves off, or you will be shot down."

The response from the bombers was muted. "Erm...copy, Sword Lead. Stand by while we check in with Swartkop. We haven't heard anything about-"
"NO!" Page roared back. "I am not going to stand by, Buffalo! Nobody has called you in! You are directly threatening my team! I don't know what the hell you're doing here, but I am ordering you, as a Squadron Leader of the Royal Air Force, to pull yourselves back immediately or so help me God, I am going to order my people to down you all - and believe me, they will! You have-"
Page furiously checked his watch.
"-five seconds to change course before I tell them to shoot!"

---

Back to join White Flight...

Talbot grabbed one of the packs slung over his shoulder and pulled out a Very pistol and an illumination flare. "Let's at least give ourselves a chance to avoid a court martial first," he said as he poked his head over the sandbag wall.

He shouted at the treeline in the loudest voice he could muster: "HALT! WHO COMES THERE?"

There was no response from the dark void, save for the wind in the trees, the rustling of the foliage below (perhaps because of the tramping of combat boots?) and in the distance, the rising whine of unfamiliar engines from above.
A moment later, another sound entered the fray as Red Flight emerged from the building. Alix rushed to join her fellow flight lead, diving under the sandbag wall.
"Jackal's not here, the whole thing was a set-up," she muttered to Geoff through gritted teeth. "I guess you've already noticed that we're surrounded-"
She craned her neck upwards as she noticed the Junkers noise. "What the hell is that? Those don't sound like Spitfires..."

[Goram]

Stanford sweated behind the bulky machine gun. He could see the faceless figures stealing closer in the dying red light of the Very flare. Next to him, Talbot yelled out

HALT! WHO COMES THERE?

And behind him he was vaguely aware of Red Flight reappearing. The shadowy figures did not seem to care. On they came, like an irresistible tide. Did he dare risk it? Opening fire, without orders, on a potentially friendly force? In his mind, he weighed up his options. The entire operation had clearly been a set up. The target wasn't there and now they had enemy aircraft headed their way and a battalion sized force moving slowly towards them. His finger flexed on the trigger. This was the logical option, but the threat of the court-martial loomed over his head. Suddenly, it dawned on him that it was an empty threat. He had killed one of the OB in cold blood, not more than 20 minutes ago and, what's more, Carter had seen it. Given the fact that Stanford and Carter had an icy relationship, to say the least, that little incident would result in a court-martial anyway. He had nothing to lose at this point.

"Oh, bugger this"

Stanford said, almost to himself. He eased back on the gun, raising the barrel to fire several feet over the advancing troops and squeezed the trigger. The weapon worked flawlessly, pumping out a short burst of not more than seven rounds. Stanford played the weapon across to the left and right, briefly squeezing the trigger again. Tracers arced a few feet over the heads of the oncoming troops, looping away into the brush. The first two bursts, perhaps 15 rounds between them, had been the final warning. If the incoming force took no heed, the RAF officer would open fire, with the intent to kill. At this point, he had decided that whether he had orders to engage or not was irrelevant.

[Kassaran]

jonah had been climbing steadily, the moon shining on the plains below him as he pulled over and out of his steep climb, the engine straining to keep turning as it began to stall. Closing the throttle and leaning back on the control column, he felt his insides shift as slowly the plane flipped onto it's back, and the sound of wind rushing over the tops of the wings now became evident as all upward motion ceased. Checking hisaltimeter, he could read in the upside down darkness an approximated 2 or 3 in the thousands position and that was enough for him as he opened the throttle yet again and felt the plane lurch as it began to fall back towards the plains now far below, and looking down, he noted something odd, on the horizon to the South, several large aircraft approaching.

Must be what all the fuss is about, still inverted, he had begun to flip himself rightside up when he heard one word over the radio, German... he listened now, the idle chatter becoming top-priority as he pulled against his webbing, trying to move close to the instruments on his plane as though it would help make the plane turn faster around so he could engage. Something was being said about the South Africans having bought German bombers, but his mind quickly moved back to inspecting the ibound flight, and over the radio, Page's voice roaring practically without end, delivering the five second punchline, was enough for Jonah to mark them as his targets.

Slamming the right rudder and jamming the stick hard right, he felt himself pressed against his seat as not only the aircraft suddenly pitched down, but also hard dstarboard, back around to charge, if not face down the inbound planes head-on. He was ready for Page to give the warning, and he called it in over the radio," Sword Lead, this is Sword Eleven here, I have eyes on and optimal angle, my Hurricane 3 still has full munitions load. Requesting permission to engage if they fail to comply, switching to my eight 20's now."

He knew he was broadcasting likely on a channel all could hear, but he could have cared less, he knew he was hardly on the optimal angle, even more so he was nowhere near being in a Hurricane 3 whatever that was (if he lying as it were, no need to give them anything accurate), and the blatant outright lie pertaining to the amount of firepower he had was laughable, but they were British SOE and they had resources that these Dutch Boer-boys didn't, but through it all there was one point he had yet to lie about. He had eyes on the targets, and sure enough he was bearing down on them and through the fast fading light, he could pick out their silhouettes below, the moon still sitting low and off to one side of him in the north east.

[Morrdh]

Maintaining his position behind the engines of one of the bombers, Charlie listened as the radio conversation went back and forth between Page and the lead bomber. They were starting to get close to the compound now, making Charlie a little impatient for action. 'C'mon, bloomin' remove ya finger ya ruddy clots!

---

Kaya anxiously waited to see what would happen, feeling almost powerless as Page tried to get the bombers to scrub their supposed mission.

[Kouralia]

"Well, one way or another, let's go meet our gallant allies and see what they want. Double-time it, people."
"Yes, ma'am." Smythe said, hurriedly turning about and yanking the door fully open to let Ms Noble lead the team out. As they formed up for a little chin-wag with Talbot, he took a knee a few meters away from them, keeping an eye out toward the approaching infanteers and carefully readying his SMLE to give them the good news if necessary. Peering out toward the UDF (or OB) troops, he began to hunt for objects to use as ranging markers so he could rapidly adjust the rifle's sights and ensure that he'd hit with every bullet.

[The Two Jerseys]

The sound of Stanford's warning shots faded away, allowing the rustling of oncoming footsteps to be heard. "Well, they had their warning," muttered Talbot to Stanford and Noble as he raised himself from a crouch to a kneeling position.

"READY ON THE FIRING LINE!" he shouted to the squadron as he raised the Very pistol above his head. "LET THERE BE LIGHT!" he cried as he pulled the trigger, sending up an illumination flare; the area lit up like daytime as he quickly ducked down behind the sandbag wall. "As you please, Mister Stanford!"

[The Tiger Kingdom]

Those bombers had better not chicken out at the last second.

That was the prime thought in the head of the man who called himself William Reide as he followed his targets out into the open, where they would (hopefully) be trampled under foot by the twin hammer-blows of the UDF battalion and the co-opted Commonwealth patriots of Buffalo Squadron. This was no rare deception: he had gone by many names in his five years of service to the Wehrmacht and then the Schutzstaffel: Heinrich Glaubach...Olaf Lundqvist...Jean du Fiere...Teodor Wolodarski...Giovanni Arrano...Neil Grier...among others. William Reide was simply the latest false front, behind which he could submerge hsi real identity so deep behind a ready wit, a flawless accent (in no less than four languages), a pair of steely yet vulnerable, yet entirely trustworthy eyes, and a pair of truly killer cheekbones that nobody could ever even fathom it was there.

This wasn't even the most difficult job he'd ever undertaken. Back with the Brandenburgers, before he'd joined the SS, he'd spent weeks undercover behind the enemy lines in France and the Low Countries during the Phony War, reporting on defenses, cutting telephone wires, intercepting couriers...all sorts of cloak-and-dagger work. It had been the time of his life and it had been tough work at that - compared to those heady weeks of derring-do and skin-of-the-teeth sabotage, South Africa and the UDF were utter sieves. It really was child's play. The French were far better opponents. He grinned internally - I can't think of a better insult to the English than that, really.

As they dashed out of the estate at high speed, a calculated and well-rehearsed look of mixed confusion and determination plastered across his features, "Reide" weighed his options. He had the legendary Excalibur Squadron effectively in the palm of his hand, thanks to him keeping the OB, as well as the headquarters in Pretoria, apprised of the British movements, culminating in him calling the "UDF battalion" in (thankfully, he'd only taken a few seconds to do that as Red Flight went in - nobody seemed to have noticed). Within five minutes, they would all be dead - incinerated, exploded, shot, or gutted by bayonets.
Excellent.
Now, all he had to do was get out of the blast radius...and fast.

But it would be nice to have a prisoner, though...perhaps it would it be possible to draw one of them away from the main group, and out of the bombing zone along with him? He could probably afford then to reveal his true colors and take them by surprise in such an instance - obviously, if he tried that here, he'd get filled with holes.

Taking up his spot on the line, "Reide" waited, rifle in hand, fully ready to fight. He had no compulsions about killing Boers.
Anything to gain the trust of Excalibur, after all...

---

Keeping her head down behind the impromptu sandbag wall, Alix held her breath. Suddenly, the flash and ripping roar of Doug's appropriated machine-gun exploded across the night.

The weapon worked flawlessly, pumping out a short burst of not more than seven rounds. Stanford played the weapon across to the left and right, briefly squeezing the trigger again. Tracers arced a few feet over the heads of the oncoming troops, looping away into the brush. The first two bursts, perhaps 15 rounds between them, had been the final warning. If the incoming force took no heed, the RAF officer would open fire, with the intent to kill. At this point, he had decided that whether he had orders to engage or not was irrelevant.

The sound of Stanford's warning shots faded away, allowing the rustling of oncoming footsteps to be heard. "Well, they had their warning," muttered Talbot to Stanford and Noble as he raised himself from a crouch to a kneeling position.

Seeing he was about to fire off a flare, Alix's first instinct was to yell at Doug and Geoff for acting without orders - but a second's thought put that idea down. They were right - for whatever reason, the UDF had backstabbed them. They'd been double-crossed.
Again.
In a wild fury at this fact, she readied her Enfield, and lined it up on the sandbag wall. In the diatance, she could finally hear the cracks and pops of distant gunfire, and bright flashes coming from the veldt plain below. Clearly, the enemy was finally firing. It may have been dark, but the flashes gave away their positions handily...

"READY ON THE FIRING LINE!" he shouted to the squadron as he raised the Very pistol above his head. "LET THERE BE LIGHT!" he cried as he pulled the trigger, sending up an illumination flare; the area lit up like daytime as he quickly ducked down behind the sandbag wall. "As you please, Mister Stanford!"

...And then Talbot went and eliminated even that shred of cover. The UDF troopers stood out a mile in the blazing red light of the flare. From their defensive position on the house's plateau, the entire veldt plain looked now like nothing less than a massive turkey shoot.
"SQUADRON!" Alix yelled out as authoritatively as she could (in her estimation, she was getting better at it). "FIRE AT WILL!"

---

Up above...

The five seconds had been reached. The 86s were still coming on, no more than a handful of minutes away from bombing position at best.
The radio crackled, the South African bomber pilot's nervous voice coming back into his ears. "Excalibur, this is Buffalo - listen, I think there's been some kind of mistake here, but we were specifically told that-"
All for nothing, the pilot babbling pointlessly to someone who was no longer listening. There was only one right answer - turning back immediately - and they had not turned back.
Out of time. Sorry, traitors.

"Turn it to the Blue frequency," Page muttered icily to Coetzee.
"Are you su-"
"Do it."
Coetzee, never one to meaningfully challenge an order obediently toggled the switch, cutting the pilot off in mid-excuse.

For the tiniest second, Page understood the impact of what he was doing. He was ordering Blue Flight to fire upon what were still technically allied units. He could easily be court-martialed for such a thing, and even end up swinging from a gibbet if the verdict didn't go his way. Maybe it was all some kind of mistake - maybe if he tried to talk them out of it just a little bit more, for a little bit longer, he could get them to turn back.

And maybe, a year ago, he would have tried harder. But not today. Today, he just couldn't bring himself to care if the South African bombers were legitimately enemy forces or simply friendlies caught up in circumstances - if he hesitated, they were likely going going to kill his friends. So he would have them killed first.
It was simple as could be. There was nothing on Earth, no obligation higher, than the fierce attachment he had to all of those people down there. Next to them, the lives of a few dozen South African bomber crewers he didn't know were nothing - less than ants. Maybe they had good intentions. Maybe they had families. Maybe he, personally, would pay for ordering this.
It didn't matter.
What else did he have to live for...but to do what was right for his people as the Squadron Leader? What other purpose did he have?

Maybe a year ago, had he decided to do what he was doing now, he would have felt bad about it - or guilty, or shameful, or something like that. Maybe he'd have even shed a tear, or let his voice quaver.
But his voice was cool, sure, and commanding as the word went out:

"Blue Flight, this is Lead. All bombers are hostile. Kill them all, quickly. Out."

If there was one lesson the last year had taught him - all that loss, all the pain, all the terror and fear and grief and hopeless despair he'd witnessed and caused and felt in his bones - it was that one could not gamble with the lives of the people you trusted. When confronted with evil, you didn't try to make bargains with it, or negotiate with it, or bluff it. No negotiation was possible. Surrender, maybe, if you had your enemy in a stranglehold.
But never negotiation, bargaining, cajoling, appeasing - that way lied failure and death. This was total war - everyone and everything he cared about was at risk, all the time. No measure was too extreme, no risk wasn't worth taking, and no sacrifice was too great to protect what you loved and cared about in the face of this horror.

Like a ghost, a pair of betrayed, accusing, painfully blue eyes flashed up in his memory. It may have just been his imagination, but his scarred left arm twinged with the memory, and the tattooed left shoulder simmered and burned.

I've made that mistake before - thinking I could talk and bluff my way out of reality.
Never again.
And if sacrifices have to be made, then so be it.

[Goram]

It looked like something from the last war. Faceless troopers, coming on over open ground, bayonets glinting in the dull red blaze of Talbot's freshly fired Very light. Stanford brought the muzzle of the machine gun back down, only by a few degrees, and levelled it at the oncoming force. His finger curled tighter on the trigger, as the flare arced through the night sky. Talbot ducked down next to him, behind the makeshift sandbag wall.

As you please, Mister Stanford!

Suddenly a number of cracks and flashes could be seen and heard from the oncoming troopers, followed quickly by the whine of bullets passing overhead. Stanford needed no further encouragement, and as Noble yelled the command to fire at will, Stanford muttered to White Flight's commander

"With pleasure, Mr. Talbot."

His finger tightened on the trigger, pulling back in a smooth motion. Tracer looped away from the gun, cutting their luminous green path across the Veldt. In the red light of the descending flare, the tracer was barely visible, the only indication of out going fire was the deafening roar of Stanford's long bursts and the collapsing figures of the assaulting forces. In the darker areas of the vast plain, however, it was a different story. The lethal rounds put on a light show to make the Blackpool Illuminations look superfluous. Rounds zipped over and through the incoming forces, the green bolts disappearing when they found their mark or flying off into the air when they impacted something they could not penetrate.

The machine gun chattered out it's deadly roar, putting long blasts of fire down on the enemy, but it didn't seem to be stopping them. The sheer weight of fire that the Squadron could put down did not seem enough to stop the Battalion sized force. They needed more firepower, something more explosive. Something like a mortar.

"Rifle grenades!"

Stanford bellowed, over the roar of the German built machine gun

"Who brought the rifle grenades!?"