Tales from the Frencoverse [Canonical Anthology]

[Gigaverse]

In keeping with our venerable thread's tradition of always starting every page since page 2 with this, I present to you,

[Lunar Union]

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CAPTAINCY

ONT - TPP - MCN - MAT - UPS

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• English
• German

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SKAGERRAK
NORTH OF DENMARK
15. NOVEMBER 2130
15:00 UTC/16:00 LOCAL TIME

The last sun-rays of the day washed over the sail of U-122, the vibrant orange giving it a certain life despite its drab grey paint. Two identical Dolphin-class boats, O-14 and U-95, trailed behind her in a rightward echelon. The flat and barren coast of Skagen could just be seen off their port side, and to the southwest - about twenty degrees south from their heading - hung the sunset. With little wind, the water's surface remained smooth, and with only scattered high-altitude clouds, the whole brilliant range of colours that accompanied the setting of the sun was painted onto the sky.

The air was chilly, biting into exposed skin. Three figures stood atop the sail; all three wore heavy, black naval coats and white cloth peaked caps. One of them, a small woman with short, sleek black hair, flicked a cigarette away into the sea and raised a pair of binoculars to her eyes. Elisa Morgenstern served as the boat's and the squadron's commanding officer, intimately familiar with the technical details and operation of the Old Nations' submarines. She had served on them for nine years by now - most recently as the first officer on a boat which had gone down in the Channel. She had been decorated - presumably for the remarkable personal achievement of being fished out.

But this boat was newly-built, and of a new design, and departing on its first patrol; she tried to remain as confident in its capabilities as she could. Though it possessed no nuclear powerplant - for the sake of simplifying construction - it was smaller and quieter for it, and could still comfortably sustain twenty knots and sprint at thirty.

Through his own set of binoculars, her first officer, a man a little older than her by the name of Hans Wepper, could see O-14's own captain atop his submarine's own sail, sucking on his famous corncob pipe, creating enormous clouds and grinning at them.

"Look at that Dutch bastard." Wepper chuckled. He seemed a little more lively than his captain, and maintained the sort of well-trimmed brown beard that could immediately distinguish a man as a sailor.

The third man, Franz Höss, served as the boat's second officer, and was younger than both of them, not long out of military academy.

The captain trained her binoculars on the destroyer escorting them. White letters spelt out "VERDUN" at the bow; at the stern, the naval jack of the Old Nations fluttered in the wind. The horizon beyond was flat and featureless, save for scattered civilian shipping and a few friendly surface vessels. A large guided missile cruiser faced west in the distance, and an amphibious assault ship followed behind it.

"Those ships are all wasted hiding in the Baltic." The second officer grumbled.

"We can't risk moving them into the North Sea." Answered the captain to the implied question. "It's too dangerous. Their role is defensive. This way they stay afloat."

She had not known her new crew long, and only met her officers a week before. Conversation did not yet flow naturally. Sighing, she lifted the sleeve covering her right wrist, and peeked at her watch. It would be time soon.

Her officers had, by now, noticed that her uniform was in immaculate shape for a submariner, and so was her appearance; Wepper had scarcely known such people. Such things would naturally find their way further and further down any sailor's list of priorities, he had always reasoned.

"Make yourself useful on the bridge, second officer." She commanded. "See that all the crew are at their posts and that we are ready to submerge."

The other officer soon left too, to check on the final preparations; he did not, perhaps, fully trust the young second officer yet.

She stayed, just a little while longer; here, she was almost ten meters above the waves, and here, it was quite safe.

She watched the waves lap against her boat's rounded sides.

---

It took her eyes - after staring at the sunset - a short while to adjust to the dim lighting of the bridge. Everybody was, indeed, at their posts already as she wound the circular hatch above her closed. When it was watertight, the flick of a mechanical switch located on the ceiling nearby brought electric motors to life. A dull grinding announced that non-watertight doors, lined with anechoic tiling, had slid shut over the top of the sail where she had just stood, sealing what would otherwise be a gaping hole in the boat's shape.

"Last crewmember down the hatch. Hatch secure."

She made her way to the bridge's center, where a large 'table' rose from the floor and displayed a digital map on a screen that covered the majority of its top surface. It, in and of itself, provided some of the bridge's illumination, bathing the ceiling above it in the blue of the bathymetric map it displayed. It was not a proper touchscreen, so that one could not accidentally change its settings (it was controlled, instead, from a conventional terminal next to it); it would, however, accept certain electronic implements which would draw lines on it.

It displayed, for now, the three submarines along with numerous surface contacts, each marked with a letter and a number; in this case, almost all were marked with an 'M', for 'master', indicating that they had been acquired by both sonar and passive radar. Next to the marker corresponding to U-122, the system also showed the depth of water below her - by now some hundred meters.

"Retract the ESM mast. Rig ship for dive." She ordered. Another officer repeated the words, and she searched above her for a speaker-microphone, a small box-shaped object connected by a coiled wire to the ceiling and to the ship's communication system.

"Retract the ESM mast, rig ship for dive, aye ma'am."

She took the speaker-microphone, and cleared her throat, then switched it to the main circuit.

"This is the captain speaking." Her voice boomed through the vessel. "It's an honour to sail with you all on the first operational deployment of our ship. With some luck, we'll have some good hunting, and teach those Frenkish and British bastards a lesson or two! Now; all of you are here because you enlisted. The submarine service does not conscript. Which means that all of you are sailing on this dangerous voyage both for our country's sake and of your own volition, and I'm proud to command such a crew. Let's give them something to remember."

She put away the microphone.

"You have the conn, first officer. Take us below the surface."

With that, she left the bridge in the direction of the officers' quarters.

---

Morgenstern walked briskly, then, and tried not to pay attention to the diving procedures going on behind her, even as the diving alarm blared from every speaker. Now that nobody was around, she exhaled deeply, and then breathed slowly and heavily, leaning with one hand against the metal wall in front of her cabin.

Footsteps.

In a flash, she stood up straight once again, catching the deep breath in her throat and finally managing to open the heavy door, and then almost falling through it into her cabin.

She slammed it shut.

This was her responsibility. While her country was in peril, it was her responsibility to put her experience and skills to use in its defense; she may have had no love for its government - for they were clowns, and like very many others she liked to think she had no naive illusions here - or for many of its policies, or even for many of those who went out of their way to support the government - but governments could change and reform was possible. No; it was the idea of her country that she clung to so dearly, just as before the Great War people had clung to the idea of the United States, or Russia, or Britain, and so on.

Her being in this place at this moment meant that her friends were less likely to see war tear their homes apart, and if some small amount of discomfort was what it took, she would throw herself into it. She could be strong.

She opened a cabinet, and poured a shot-glass of some strong spirit, and lit a cigarette.

They would be proud of me, she repeated to herself, sitting very upright. She meant her father, and her mother; perhaps even her grandfathers. If everything else she had told herself just now was false, this much she knew to be true. They had never tolerated her young brother's paramilitary shenanigans - a "glorified street gang", they called it - and even less so her sister's decision to become an academic, but they had always approved of her own career.

She found herself staring at a portrait on the wall; a portrait of a much older man with far more ribbons and decorations than she wore.

---

THE NORWEGIAN TRENCH
16. NOVEMBER 2130
01:48 UTC

The second officer approached the captain's cabin though a corridor lined with pipes and equipment. It was odd that she would summon him, he thought. Perhaps he did not have enough experience to properly judge.

He knocked, and after a positive response from within opened the heavy door. Morgenstern sat at the small table, two glasses and a wine bottle before her. A closed laptop computer sat on the otherwise immaculately-made bed behind her, along with a thick book, a bookmark slotted about halfway through it.

"Please, second officer, take a seat." She motioned to the bench opposite her.

Now even more nervous at the sight of this strange scene, he did as ordered. She offered him a cigarette; he declined, and she put the packet back into her coat without taking one for herself.

"Wine?"

He quickly nodded; it was usual, he had thought, for one not to be too friendly with their commanding officer. He imagined it might defeat the military spirit, whatever that was.

She raised her glass, and he hastily realized; a little flustered at this apparent failure of his education at military academy, he raised his too.

"To happy hunting." She seemed very relaxed.

He decided to be slightly bold.

"Captain, I don't mean to be impolite, or to overstep my rank, or to appear too direct... but I am wondering why you've summoned me."

"Oh, you can't relax over a bottle of wine?"

"I apologize, captain."

She looked him dead in the eye and sighed. She walked over to a record player which Höss had managed to miss completely, and carefully set the stylus down onto the record. Höss wondered, briefly, what sort of music the captain might enjoy.

Predictably, music filled the room; a beautiful female voice in French, singing something he did not understand to a lively and upbeat melody played on piano.

"Tell me, Franz Höss, how long have you served on submarines?"

He looked down.

"This is my first deployment, ma'am."

"Are you afraid, Franz Höss?"

The question was strikingly direct.

"...Afraid, ma'am?"

"Did military academy prepare you properly for the reality of the submarine service?"

"I don't imagine I'd be able to tell yet."

"If you're uncomfortable, second officer, I wish to know. I believe a crew's well-being is the captain's concern, regardless of what the brass or any military traditionalist thinks, and I'd like to think I know enough about how this boat works to try and help you. Besides -" she added "- you won't get many opportunities to drink more than your ration outside this room, will you?"

She poured him more wine.

"Do you have hobbies, Franz Höss?"

"...I draw, sometimes, ma'am." He admitted. She seemed to be listening quite attentively, the second officer judged. "People, mostly, though you won't find them hanging in an art gallery."

She interrupted suddenly. "When does your watch begin?"

"Not for two hours, captain."

"Good, good. Now, unless there's a fire or a radiation leak or we sink, you're going to stay here and we're going to talk and drink some more!"

She paused, waiting for some - any - response.

"...Responsibly." She added.

---

Morgenstern startled awake. What had she dreamed of? She could recall only in the most vague of terms.

With the flick of a switch, the wall-mounted light by her bedside illuminated the room. A clock synchronized to UTC read midnight. She did not survive on a proper sleep cycle; instead, more regular one- or two-hour periods of sleep were better-suited to a captain's role, for she had to be always available in the case of some emergency.

There was a rapping on the door.

"Who is it?" She called out. It was strange that whoever it was didn't simply use the telephone.

No answer.

The rapping continued.

Perhaps they did not hear her.

She kicked the blanket off her, and strode over to the door. She swung it open. A wall of dark, oily water greeted her and with bone-snapping force drove her body across the cabin, head-first into the opposite wall.

Morgenstern awoke, and found herself sitting slouched at her table, an empty shot-glass at the other end of it. She sat there a while longer.

---

NORTH OF THE FAROE ISLANDS
16. NOVEMBER 2130
23:50 UTC

"New speed, five knots."

"New speed five knots, aye sir."

The seventy-meter boat glid, slowly, to an almost complete stop. It hung in the lightless void, some hundred meters of water above and some two-fifty still below it. There was nothing to hear, either; sound curved away from this depth - either back toward the surface or away towards the deep - creating a phenomenon known as a shadow zone. It was a perfect place to hide.

By an unfortunate side-effect, however, U-122 was itself rendered deaf too.

"Release the sonobuoy. Depth fifty meters."

A small hatch at the boat's aft swung open, and a cylindrical object rounded at the ends shot upward, its ascent controlled by a thick cable tethering it to the ship. It climbed, and soon enough it had moved into the surface duct - a region through which sound propagated particularly well, reflecting for long distances between the sea's surface and the shadow zone.

The sonar operator abruptly perked up. Through her headset, she could make out - though it was nearly silent - the squealing of active sonar, each 'ping' a whine of steadily increasing pitch.

"Conn, sonar, new contact, designated Sierra Four. Bearing two-two-one."

The first officer, assigned to take control of the bridge during the potentially dangerous transit of the GIUK gap, watched a contact flicker into existence on the tactical display.

There was no reliable estimate of the target's range yet, and its heading and speed were impossible to determine altogether; an incoming active sonar ping provided disappointingly little data aside from a very definite bearing reading and a distance estimate.

---

The captain lounged on her bed, her boots kicked across the room and the blanket piled up behind her so that she could half-sit. The book in her hand, very heavy and thick, was volume five of a seven-part work on the Great War; the topic had fascinated her since childhood. She admired the book's attention to detail, and the painstaking and meticulous research behind it, and the wonderful artwork and photography woven through the text.

Another song played, and she sung quietly along in French; not loud enough that anyone passing outside might hear.

She had often thought about the Great War.

The telephone on the wall next to her rang. A bit irked as being disturbed in the middle of an interesting train of thought, she set down the book, walked over to her record player to pause it, and picked up the handset.

"Captain Morgenstern." She answered it.

"First officer Wepper, bridge!"

"What's happening?"

"Captain, we've aquired a new sonar contact, surface vessel, bearing two-two-one. The sonobuoy is picking up its active sonar."

"Have you identified it?"

"Negative."

"Do you know if it's alone?"

"Negative, captain."

She covered the handset with one hand and sighed.

"Any other information?" She requested.

"Negative, captain." Came the same reply. "Wait." There was a short pause. "There now appear to be... at least three surface signatures, all active on sonar."

"Very good, first officer. Reel in the sonobuoy and take us up to speed again. Maintain course and depth."

"Captain, don't you think we should engage the surface group?"

"Negative, first officer. This is not our mission target."

"It's a target of opportunity, ma'am."

Another pause, as she composed what to say.

"What separates us from a surface ship, first officer, is the privilege of picking our battles. Usually. If we reveal our presence in the north Atlantic, that intelligence could quite easily lower our chances of finding our actual targets."

"...Understood, ma'am."

She put the handset back into its place on the wall, and turned on the music again, and returned to her book.

She had wondered, sometimes, where her interest in the Great War might stem from. As she devoted perhaps an hour or two each day to her reading, she took this time to think about the deeper reasons and motivations behind the war. It felt like she was working towards some interesting conclusion, maybe.

She regarded the sinking of the USS Lyndon B. Johnson an immeasurably stupid move on the part of the Chinese, and this was no uncommon sentiment among academics and historians - but had her own country done it, she could easily imagine a good contingent of the population throwing their wild support behind it.

As, apparently, the Chinese population had done. And she could imagine that, were it done to her country, perhaps the only quick cure to the wound opened in its national pride would be retaliation. And, of course, this was what the Americans did when they sunk the Chinese aircraft carrier Yunnan.

And she had realized that had she lived in America in 2046, her voice would have joined those calling for the enemy's blood.

The thought shook her. When it first came to her, she had eventually managed to force it out, but every so often, it - or some exciting new variant of it - managed to intrude into her mind.

---

Morgenstern startled awake. She reached for the light-switch, and fumbled around for it. It was nowhere to be found.

The wall, she realized suddenly, was deathly cold. It was covered with condensation.

Her eyes adjusted, and she came to realize the room was not pitch black. A dim red light covered every surface. And she was not in her cabin. It was some submarine's bridge - not that of a Dolphin-class, but certainly that of an Old Nations' boat.

"C-Captain?" She called out. Her voice was frail and faint.

Elisa struggled to read the face of her watch under the dim emergency lighting. It had been days already.

All systems but life support had been turned off to conserve their limited energy. The entire bow half of the boat had been flooded, and with no warning. Their best estimate was that they had struck a mine. The majority of the crew had perished. She knew their lifeless bodies remained on board. Afloat in the dark.

She doubted anybody would come for them.

The man she used to make idle conversation to had arrived at this conclusion the previous day, and he had decided to go out on his own terms rather than to starve or suffocate. Dried blood still decorated the wall next to her.

She found herself playing with her own gun, too, releasing the magazine and inserting it, over and over. The only reason to keep going seemed to be that she may see her sister and her brother again. She wondered how her brother was doing, and whether he had built up the courage to sever contact with their parents yet.

But so many with far better reasons to live had already died; what would be one more?

She played with her gun again.

---

THE MID-NORTH ATLANTIC
17. NOVEMBER 2130
17:22 UTC

A very astute observer - one equipped with the proper instruments to pierce the darkness - might have noticed a long, slim anthenna breach the stormy waves, and cut through them at speed. Soon enough, a second pierced the surface a few hundred meters north, and as the first had begun to disappear, a third became visible trailing behind.

"This is safe, captain?" Höss asked, though the question seemed to be more one of how.

"Put the sonar return on audio." Morgenstern ordered, and it came over the bridge's speakers. From below the waves, they could subtly hear the thunder overhead, and the background noise was overwhelming. "I'd like to see any passive sonar make much sense of that, especially with us running this slowly."

First officer Wepper tore a large sheet from the receiving printer. The bridge pitched forwards, after a while dramatically enough that the second officer had to keep his cup from sliding to the floor, as the boat's dive planes quickly took her back to the depths again.

Wepper set the sheet down on a metallic table and flicked a light above it to life, and began to read.

"Submarine squadron twenty-two has been designated a new target... intelligence reports indicate that a convoy, from now designated C-96, is due to sail from World City in around a day's time, heading for Bristol."

"Loose lips sink ships." Remarked the captain, evidently in jest, but her tone of voice might have suggested just a little of something else, too.

The first officer continued.

"Convoy C-96 is expected to comprise of... between forty and sixty civilian cargo ships and around ten escorts. Escorts expected to be primarily destroyer or frigate-sized vessels, but the possibility of some heavier firepower cannot as yet be ruled out."

Wepper glanced at the captain; she already seemed to be quite deep in thought.

"How long can we expect this weather to keep up?"

"Difficult to say, captain. Maybe a few hours, maybe more, maybe less."

An odd question, the first officer thought; the second officer wasn't too sure what to make of it. The captain remained deep in thought, but one could see on her face that she had hit upon something. After a few minutes, she snapped out of it.

"Give the message signal."

The boat pitched forwards once again, and then back, repeating this a few times; it took such a large vessel some time. This maneuver relied on O-14 and U-95 noticing her strange motion, but the signal was relatively simple to interpret. All three boats began to rise again as the periscope was lowered by electric motors from the bridge's roof, and the two handles on its sides unfolded.

"Is your morse any good, first officer?"

"I'm a little rusty too, captain."

"...It wouldn't happen to be relatively fresh in your memory still, would it, second officer?"

"Actually - " Höss lit up. "It may be."

"Good, good. You're up."

She began to hastily scribble something on the back of the sheet containing their orders, striking pieces of text through and adding modifications in the margin. As she handed it to the second officer, the three boats' periscopes breached the surface, and a signal-lamp affixed to U-122's own periscope began to flash morse at the boat to her port.

---

870KM EAST OF NEWFOUNDLAND
EAST OF THE FLEMISH CAP
19. NOVEMBER 2130
09:20 UTC

Morgenstern sat alone in her cabin, once again, and clutched a cup of very strong coffee. She had only had - she estimated - an hour of dreamless sleep. It was time to act on their orders, and she worked to suppress an uncomfortable firmness in the chest.

Downing the coffee, she examined her appearance before a mirror located directly above the wash basin in her cabin. She brushed specks of dust from the neat black naval coat, and straightened her cap, and ensured the ribbons and decorations were properly upright.

One quick, quiet step took her out of the door.

---

The bridge remained quiet, though all the officers were present already. In silence, the strolled around the tactical display, arms together behind her back, taking in the situation, bathing in the blue light. They had trailed the convoy for around half a day, successfully avoided detection, and aquired a good targeting solution on what seemed to be every contact there.

"What are the torpedo tubes loaded with, first officer?" She asked, rather casually.

"Spearfish supercavitating torpedoes in all six tubes, captain, as you ordered."

"Good, good." Morgenstern looked up at him. "Sound general quarters."

He relayed the order to somebody else, and an alarm blared twice through the hull.

"This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. General quarters. General quarters. All hands, action stations."

The silence returned, except for the sound of a rushed clanking produced by many boots on the ship's metallic floors; everybody waited.

"New bearing, zero-eight-one."

"New bearing zero-eight-one, aye ma'am."

The boat, sluggishly, turned its bow toward the convoy. The bridge rolled to port, and gradually levelled off again.

"Firing point procedures, contact sierra one-two, tube one, bearing zero-eight-two, set enable range five thousand meters. Fire tube one. Maintain the command wire."

---

FRENKISH DESTROYER ESCORT FIS ZIMBABWE
PORT SIDE OF THE CONVOY


"Conn, sonar, torpedo in the water. Torpedo in the water. Bearing two-seven-eight, range ten thousand meters. Torpedo is supercavitating, speed two hundred knots. Estimated time to impact one minute thirty seconds."

The Frenkish captain, in response, took immediately to shouting commands, his voice stern and clear. He must have done this before.

"This is not a drill. General quarters. General quarters. All hands, man your battlestations." Announced another officer's voice over the ship's intercom.

"Starboard full rudder."

The Captain remained significantly calmer than his crew.

The helmsman threw his controls right, and the ship began a tight turn, accelerating rapidly all the while.

"Counterfire! Two ASMs!"

"Counterfiring with two ASMs, firing cells five and six now, aye sir!"

Through the bridge's frontal windows, the helmsman saw the doors of two missile cells spring open, and plumes of smoke roared toward the sky. Missiles rose atop them, carrying lightweight torpedoes as their payload.

"Conn, sonar, torpedo has not gone active but is tracking our turn! One minute to impact!"

It had all been quite sudden, the helsman thought.

"Forty seconds to impact!"

"Port full rudder!"

The helmsman complied.

He had never known exactly what to expect from naval combat, but he supposed he had had his own subconscious biases and assumptions. This, however, had shaken those deeply; this was nothing like whatever expectations he had previously held.

"Twenty seconds to impact, captain!"

"Deploy countermeasures!"

Small rockets fired from their angled launchers, and dropped into the sea. Some flew for longer ranges, and eventually great pillars of water rose from their impact positions.

The helmsman had sometimes fretted over whether he'd come back, but he had simply brushed it off every time.

"Ten seconds!"

He would have liked to see England. He had even made detailed plans with his friends for what they would all do when each of them returned from the war.

The floor lifted below him. A feeling like flying. A wave of pressure and noise and thick dust tore through every inch of his being, throwing him forwards. He put a hand against the side of his face to shield himself. It came back shiny with blood. The whole room had tilted, sharply, to one side. A man lay on the floor next to him. The side of his head had been opened like a can. It had all shot onto his uniform. Others were yelling, but he heard only a deafening screech.

He found the will to look away from the man on the floor. In the distance, more columns of smoke and dust and water shot into the sky.

The captain twitched on the floor.

Finally, he could move, and he threw open a door, barely catching himself on a railing outside it. A freezing wind immediately bit into him. There were people in the water. The vessel's fuel or ammunition might detonate at any time, and there would be little time to launch lifeboats, for its keel had probably broken. He threw himself overboard too.

The water was not like water. It was dark and thick. It was oil.

The screech slowly faded from one ear. It heard shouts and screams, and the ship's deathly metallic moans. They shook him to the bone.

A spark somewhere on the ship. A spreading circle of flame washed over the oil. He ducked underwater; he could see crew caught in it. He could see legs writhing.

Concentrate on swimming, he told himself. He needed only to make it to the oil's edge.

But he was not the strongest swimmer. He was not making good distance, he realized.

Almost there. Just a little longer. You'll see land again, he promised himself.

Cold panic washed over him, colder than the Atlantic waters, like flames had washed over the men above. His instincts shot him upwards, where they knew they would find the relief of a breath of fresh air.

An intense pain caught in his throat and filled his mouth. He could not see. Every nerve ending on his head flared to life as the skin blackened and charred and became crispy. It was overpowering. Through his destroyed throat, he screamed, and put his lungs into it like nothing before; shrill and blood-curdling last words.

Water extinguished the flame with a mighty sizzling, and worsened the pain. He no longer registered the world properly. His entire mind had filled with one sensation with no spare room.

And so the helmsman sank for good into the North Atlantic.

---

ABOARD U-112


"Conn, sonar, torpedoes in the water. Bearings zero-seven-seven and zero-eight-nine. Range one thousand meters."

Morgenstern glanced at the tactical display. Four of her torpedoes had made their marks already; the others would do so within half a minute.

"Switch the remaining torpedoes to active and cut their command wires. Begin reloading all tubes with barracudas."

Her speech became stern and quick.

"Conn, sonar, torpedoes have gone active. Torpedoes assuming circular search patterns."

"Estimate time to impact if they acquire."

"Forty-five se-" The sonar operator paused for a second. Her sensors had begun to spit more information at her. "Forty-five seconds. Torpedo at bearing zero-seven-seven has acquired, ma'am!"

A tenseness began to take hold.

"New course, two-eight-zero." She made a quick and rough mental estimate of the bearing opposite to zero-seven-seven. "New speed, fifteen knots."

"New course two-eight-zero, new speed fifteen knots, aye ma'am!"

"Recompute time to impact."

A brief pause. The tenseness had gripped her in the chest.

PING

"One minute, ma'am!"

"Captain!" Wepper interjected. "We must increase our speed!"

"We'll cavitate."

"Fourty-five seconds to impact!"

PING

"Captain, they know where we are anyway! They heard our launch transience!" Wepper persisted. His speech grew faster. She began to hesitate, and her scalp itched terribly.

PING

"Twenty-five seconds!"

The intervals between the torpedo's screeching grew more and more brief.

PING

"Captain, we must launch countermeasures now!"

PING

"Shut up!"

PING

"Ten seconds!"

The torpedo's screeches fused into a continuous howl.

"Captain! Five seconds!"

"Deploy countermeasures! Rudder full to port!"

Morgenstern closed her eyes and gripped a railing tightly, her palms drenched with sweat. She tried to close her ears, too. The countermeasures made a far deeper sound, an ear-splitting fizz. The impact alarm joined them. Noise drowned out thought.

"Torpedo is going into countermeasure evasion, turning port!"

The great grey shape banked steeply through the water, two masses of bubbles behind it. But the torpedo was agile, and the boat handled like a pig. As it headed in the other direction, the torpedo had begun to turn back onto its original heading, and now it headed for the bow directly. The sound of its engine drew louder; it permeated the ship along with every man and woman aboard. Another impact alarm.

It increased in pitch, at first slowly but now more and more rapidly.

It peaked. The pitch began to fall. The torpedo sailed past. It would not go active again for a few more seconds; at that point, it would not find them.

Entire seconds passed, and Morgenstern registered Höss looking her way, likewise latched onto a railing. His pale face and eyes betrayed his feelings. Elisa realized, quickly, that her own feelings must have shown too. But there was no more tightness in the chest. She found herself elated.

"Did you think we wouldn't outsmart a torpedo, second officer?" She grinned. Such a response might calm him. "Descend to one hundred meters! New speed, five knots! Heading zero-eight-one!"

The boat felt as maneuverable as a real dolphin now, as the bridge pitched sharply once again, turning the nose back toward the convoy. The tactical display revealed that most of the escorts had either been hit, or were maneuvering sharply to evade; eighteen supercavitating torpedoes launched against eleven targets did not constitute fair odds. The cargo ships were maneuvering too - they had all accelerated to their maximum speeds, and were moving to disperse.

"Load those torpedoes! Schneller! Schneller!"

---

Morgenstern awoke to her alarm's incessant beeping. A firm slap of the top of its plastic casing quieted it. She picked herself up as she always did, strode across her cabin, and pushed down on the handle of the door to open it.

Something shoved her with force, and her body slammed hard against the door, propelling it open and her into the corridor.

Instinct made her turn her gaze.

The cabin was crowded. Crowded with many bodies.

They stood and watched her in silence, through empty eye-sockets and with their bloated faces, clad in scraps of uniform. The one at the front had raised a hand as if reaching out. A peaked cap just like hers decorated its hairless head.

Elisa awoke with a start, once again to the sound of that same alarm. She whimpered. Oughtn't these have stopped, or become less severe, or perhaps less frequent by now?

She was no expert; the extent of her knowledge was what she had absorbed through cultural osmosis. Perhaps she was doomed to this forever.

She lit another cigarette.

---

ATLANTIC OCEAN
WEST OF IRELAND
22. NOVEMBER 2130
12:00 UTC

The intercom startled Morgenstern awake.

She had taken her sleeping tablets only twenty minutes prior.

She was deeply groggy, and try as she might, did not register the outside world properly.

But she knew, quite instinctively, that it was important.

"...ot a dr...epeat..is not....neral...ers...ner...uarters...ll hands...tion statio...eneral quarters. General quarters. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. All hands, action stations. General quarters. General quarters..."

Was this another dream? They often began with her waking up. A sense of primal dread ran down her spine and settled in the pit of her stomach. She desparately did not want to have another one.

She'd do anything.

The telephone rang.

She reached out, and found that in her sleep she had cut off blood circulation to her arm.

"Captain Morgenstern." She did not plan to sound as exhausted as she did.

"Second officer Höss, bridge!" Though he covered it up well, Elisa could tell there was something deeply wrong.

"Höss! What's happening?"

"Captain! We've just been overflown by a low-altitude multi-engine aircraft! There are two torpedoes in the water right now!"

Franz Höss fell silent, and Morgenstern was left alone with her thoughts.

But his voice soon came back.

"Captain, a third torpedo has just entered the water!"

The Captain slammed the headset back into its place, and leaped towards the door, flinging it open and herself through it, and sprinting - as steadily as she could, given the boat's rapidly-increasing tilt - towars the bridge.

"Report the situation!" She commanded, taking her place by the tactical display.

"Three torpedoes in the water, bearings zero-eight-eight, zero five-zero, and one-one-nine! All within one thousand meters! All have gone active, and the torpedoes at bearings zero-eight-eight and one-one-nine have acquired!" Höss rattled off the situation, relieved that Morgenstern had arrived to take over command from him; he trusted her an order of magnitude more so than himself. "Captain, I have taken the boat up to thirty knots and onto a new heading of one-zero-three!"

"Very good." She told him, whilst fishing for a packet of cigarettes and lighter inside her coat. "New depth five hundred meters!"

"New depth five hundred meters, aye ma'am!"

Morgenstern steadied herself with one hand tightly latched onto the railing, and inhaled very deeply from her cigarette. The bridge tilted, sharply, forward.

"Estimate time to impact!"

"One minute, three seconds, captain!"

Sixty-three seconds.

"Contact the engineer about pushing the drive to thirty-five knots."

"Aya, ma'am." Somebody answered with a firm nod.

"Fifty seconds!"

The torpedoes' screeches began, gradually, to become audible.

PING PING

Like the steadily-accelerating and intensifying rhythm of a heart. Everybody save for a few officers had, apparently entirely organically, fallen into an oppressive silence. It remained intact for the longest time.

PING PING

"Captain, the engineer reports thirty-five knots could result in serious damage to the drive!"

Morgenstern considered the option all the same. The nearer the time to impact, the heavier the dread and tightness in her chest and the drier her mouth. But they could not afford such a risk. What if they became stranded, or were forced to surface, or experienced an electrical fire? She would never put the crew in such a position.

PING PING

"Fourty seconds!"

The sounds of their own propeller quietened as they descended further and further; the greater the pressure, the faster the rate of spin required for cavitation.

PING PING

"Thirty seconds!"

The hull creaked with the rapid changes in temperature and pressure. There was no rhythm or pattern to the groaning's frequency, or to its volume; one had to make a conscious effort to ignore it. Morgenstern could see few did. She did not. Though it was nothing new, it was rarely so intense; this boat had never dived so steeply before.

PING PING

"Twenty seconds!"

The torpedoes' howls shook her now.

PING PING

"Fifteen seconds!"

"Rudder full to port! Blow ballast, ascend to one hundred meters!"

PING PING

"Rudder full to port, blow ballast, ascend to one hundred meters, aye ma'am!"

A sound like distant thunder, and a strong hissing, as compressed air rushed into the boat's ballast tanks and seawater was forced out through now-open hatches.

Elisa's hand had begun to shake. Of its own will.

PING PING

"Ten seconds!"

As the bridge banked and tilted acutely, she found she felt exceedingly hot, and could not sense the bridge's chilled air.

"Deploy noisemakers!"

PING PING

"Noisemakers away, aye ma'am!"

PING PING

Again came the deafening fizzing.

PING PING

And again rang the impact alarm.

"Conn, sonar, torpedoes are in countermeasure evasion, turning starboard!"

Elisa felt her heart stop.

"Reverse turn! Rudder full to starboard!"

"Rudder full to starboard! Aye ma'am!"

The tilt reversed.

PING

"Conn, sonar, one torpedo has re-acquired!"

PING PING

"Emergency blow ballast!"

PING PING PING

"Emergency blow ballast, aye ma'am!"

PING PING PING PING PING PING PING PING

With a skull filled by a terrible whine, Elisa landed roughly on the floor, her fall only half-coushioned by a partly-outstretched arm.

"D-DAMAGE CONTROL!" She yelled. "SEAL THE BULKHEADS!"

She could hardly hear a response, though the screech had partially subsided.

Others had been knocked to their feet, too, and the metallic groaning had returned in full force. Still others clung barely to the handles on their consoles. Great bellowing clouds of some white vapour had filled the bridge; some emergency valve had burst open. She registered Wepper climbing to his feet, feeling for the source on the ceiling.

Her hearing continued, gradually, to return. She tried to speak - to yell - but it caught in her throat; involuntary, short, rapid breaths would not allow it.

"Captain! The main ballast tank is ruptured and rapidly flooding! We must evacuate while we are still at escape depth!"

She raised a hand. She still could not speak. She was no longer even sure what to say.

"Captain!"

She pulled herself up, but only barely, and through her body's adrenaline. Her thoughts were not hers; she felt the tidal wave of panic wash over her as the bridge pitched, once again, but now under nobody's control.

"Captain!"

[New Frenco Empire]

-The River Kongo: Chapter IV-
(MCN - UPS - CIN - ESL - MAT - NFE - PRO - WAR - TPP)

Major Kendrick Masterson
Congo River, Sub-Saharan Wildlands
September 10th, 2096

"This cute little number goes out to the boys and girls of STARLIGHT. If you're not changing history, at the very least, you're changing the geography down here planetside!" As the music overtook the airwaves, Masterson's eyes drifted up from the dossier.

The rain had let up in the several hours since it started, and the sun beat down on the river, the humidity becoming much more apparent with each passing minute. Most of the crew were out lounging on deck, having long since shed their shirts, letting the sun's rays bask upon their flesh. Squeaky was among them, showing no more modesty than the two young men. And with her bare chest came her small, yet quite well-developed breasts, exposed plain as day.

Masterson made it a point to keep his eyes off of them. With the replacement of the "American" with the "Frenkish" came new views on "acceptable" public decency. Still, his parents grew up under the old American point of view, and it rubbed off on him well enough, despite his military lifestyle theoretically making it so such a thing shouldn't have bothered him. He just figured he was "old fashioned" enough to never look at a pair of women's tits in a completely neutral manner.

Cookie was lazily sprawled out on the middle of the deck, sunbathing, with a reflector in his hands and his sunglasses pulled down over his eyes. Lancer was leaning against the main turret, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, patting his pants in search of his lighter. Squeaky was towards the back of the boat, scanning the nearby treeline with a pair of binoculars.

"What the fuck are you lookin' for, Squeaky?" Lancer inquired after finally locating his lighter. "There ain't gonna be no hostile mumba in this sector. Especially not this time of day..."
"I'm, uh...trying to see if any animals will turn up. A gorilla, or-or maybe even an elephant..." The young soldier replied, her tone giving away a hint of enthusiasm. "They told me this place was like an open-air zoo when I shipped out!"
"We've been in this shithole a long fuckin' time, chica..." The NCO chuckled. "You ain't gonna see much in the way of critters out there. You know...aside from one of those big fuckin' crocodiles over half the size of this boat! Those motherfuckers are way too common for my liking!"

"Remember that one near the rapids four months back?" Cookie joined in. "That really big one?"
"I ain't never gonna forget that shit, man!" Lancer excitedly yelled back. "Hombre tried to eat the fuckin' boat! Eat it! Understand, Squeaky? Broke all his goddamn teeth in the process, but that didn't stop him! Rads musta melted his brain or somethin'!"
"That mean son of a bitch wasn't expectin' Cap to come out of the cabin and put forty mil between his eyes though!" Cookie laughed.
"Man, we were too busy shittin' our pants! Cap was the real hero that day!" Lancer nodded.

As the men calmed down from their high-strung tale, Cookie looked over to Lancer and shook his head.
"Lance, man, that's like the fourth smoke you've had in the past hour..." He noted. "You were runnin' low earlier..."
"What the hell else am I supposed to do? I'm bored out of my fucking mind..." The NCO replied. "I'm down to three smokes and I don't feel like rationing..."
"Whatever you say, man." Cookie shook his head, raising his reflector back up. "But I don't want to hear you bitch later. You get way too high-strung when you don't smoke..."
"Fuck you, man!"

Masterson took a break from listening in on the banter to take in the surroundings. They were in a wider, more open section of the river. Lush greenery surrounded them, separated by about a football field's length on either side of the boat. The murky greenness of the river and the fresh smell to the air (having long since moved from the lingering smell of plasma from the warzone) only complemented the atmosphere.
And in the corner of his eyes, he spotted a few moving shapes...
A career sharpshooter, Masterson had exceptional vision, and could point out things with the naked eye that most would miss with a pair of binoculars. It didn't take him long to make out what these shapes actually were...

Chimpanzees.

"Private..." Masterson nodded at Squeaky. "I see something hanging on the treelines near the bank on my right..."
"Really?" He didn't expect her to rush towards him and move (uncomfortably) close to him, practically climbing over him in the process. He had to jerk his head back and lower his arms to avoid seeing or (at worst) touching the subjects of his current discomfort.
"Let's take a look!" She said, raiding the binoculars once more.

"Aww! Look at the monkeys!" Squeaky excitedly called out once she got a firm view of the creatures on the treetops, before turning back to Masterson (who instinctively turned his head again to avoid seeing anything he didn't want to, though inconspicuously enough as to not give her the wrong idea) and offering the binoculars. "Want to take a look, sir?"
"I'm uh...I'm good, Private." The Ranger curtly replied before returning to his dossier. This girl, this soldier was acting like a child on a field trip to the zoo. Such raw, sheltered innocence didn't belong in a place like this...

"Woah, monkeys?" Cookie leaned up, lifting his sunglasses onto the top of his head. "Far out, man!"
"Hell yeah, I wanna see!" Lance joined in, and within seconds, the two men had joined her, sharing the binoculars in their admiration of the local wildlife. "I wanna see!"
"Maybe it wasn't just Squeaky..." Masterson thought to himself, as he watched the young soldiers clamber over one another, sharing the binoculars.

---

They had been traveling for some time, now. The harsh afternoon gave way to gentle sunset, as the first hints of evening dropped over the river. The melancholy of the current song playing softly over the radio only enhanced the sleepy environment.
But with the night came more mosquitos, and with more mosquitos came the increased risk for malaria.

All Imperial military personnel were inoculated for the ubiquitous disease before setting foot on Africa, but the vaccine was still quite new, and reports suggested it didn't work as intended (with bite victims still susceptible to the debilitating symptoms). Hence, all soldiers were instructed to take proper precautions when conducting operations late in the day. On patrol boats, this meant checking the "bulbs" on a number of repellant lamps on a nightly basis. The lamps gave off a very dim light, but also secreted a chemical screen in the air to prevent the bugs from coming anywhere close.

Cookie was the one given that particular job this time around. It wasn't the cleanest task aboard the boat, and Cookie made sure everyone knew it.
"Goddammit!" The soldier whined. "Why the fuck they always gotta be sticky! Shit..."
"In the Rangers, we don't get to use lamps..." Masterson casually remarked, fingering through the dossier. "We have to use nets if we don't wanna wake up with mosquito bites."
"That sounds like a shit-ton of work, sir..." Cookie remarked, wiping the stickiness from his fingers onto his pants. "But a net ain't hot and sticky!"

Lancer emerged from the lower deck, obviously stressed about something.
"Where the fuck are the rest of my smokes!" The NCO angrily shouted. "They have to be on this boat somewhere!"
"You smoked 'em all, dumbass!" Cookie replied. "Remember? 'duhhh I'm down to three smokes and I don't feel like rationing duhhh'!" He imitated Lancer's latino accent in an unflattering manner.
"Hey Corporal..." Masterson said, failing to grab his attention.
"Cook, unless the next words out of your mouth are 'hey I found your smokes', I don't wanna hear another fuckin' word out of your mouth!" Lancer boomed. "Help me look!"
"Corporal..." He said again.
"I can't help you look, they aren't anywhere!" Cookie replied in annoyance. "This is exactly why I said you should cut back! Way too fuckin' high-strung!"
"WHAT THE FUCK DID I TELL YOU, COOK!?" Lancer yelled. "IF YOU DON'T FUCKIN-"
"Corporal!" Masterson shouted.

"WHAAAT!?" Lancer answered back, turning to Masterson. His eyes widened and his expression changed, as though he knew who it was he just shouted at. "I, uh uh, I'm-uh, sorry. Sir. I just, hehe, get a little...antsy without something to smoke..."

"I can tell..." The Ranger casually replied. He then reached into one of his duster's pockets and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. After taking one for himself, he offered one to Lancer. "Take one and let it tide you over. If your yelling disturbs any nearby primitives, I'll be slightly upset..."
"Oh, uh...thanks, sir."

"And Corporal?" Masterson said as Lancer walked to the other side of the boat.
"Yes sir?" He replied, not looking up from his cigarette.
"If you ever raise your voice at me again, I'll throw you overboard and leave you for the crocodiles..." He coldly said, returning his eyes to the dossier.
"Good joke, sir..." Lancer chuckled. "It, uh, was a joke right? Sir?"

"Wait, what the hell is that?" Cookie called out, pointing at a pair of crude (yet large) wooden signs erected on the left riverbank. One in English, the other in localized French. It was clear that they said the same thing...

ROSS'S RIVERSIDE SHOPPING VILLA

SUPPLIES, GUNS, &

LOCAL GIRLS!

Military Welcome! 100% Frenkish Owned and Operated!

KEEP LEFT, 1/2 MILE


"What the fuck? They openin' stores out here, now?" Cookie asked, confused. "We ain't even taken Kinshasa yet. And I don't think we're gonna be spreadin' this far out anyway..."
"Hell if I know..." Lancer responded, taking a drag from his cigarette. "But that might be just what we need! I can pick up smokes. And local girls? That's a big fuckin' bonus!"

"I don't know about you, but I don't trust mumba pussy!" Cookie loudly replied. "How many showers have you seen around here? I know I ain't seen very fuckin' many! Once the dress comes off, man, I'm sure that aroma will just punch ya right in the jaw!"
"Shut up, Cook!" Lancer yelled back. "Just because they ain't got showers don't mean they ain't got hygiene! Just last week we saw those mumba bitches washing in the river! Dark chocolate mamas! Oh man, if any of them asked for it, I'd have definitely give it to 'em! Right then and right there!"
"Yeah well...if river water is your idea of 'clean', you-"

"Cut the chatter." Masterson interrupted. "We're not stopping."
"Sir-" Lancer started.
"No delays." He sternly cut him off. "The sooner we get upriver, the sooner I can complete my mission."

Cap and Squeaky then emerged from the upper deck. Squeaky, who had been sleeping for the past few hours, was wearing nothing more than a pair of shorts. This, of course, prompted Masterson to shift his full attention on Cap.
"Sergeant?" He addressed her. "Is there an issue?"
"No sir." She stated. "I just saw the signs, and understand there is a Frenkish establishment nearby that can resupply us. I'm requesting permission to stop and stock up."
"Negative." Masterson sighed. "We don't have time."

"With all due respect, sir. We've been patrolling up and down Malebo non-stop ever since Squeaky signed on. When we reported to Nsele to pick you up, we didn't have a chance to pick up anything more than fuel and ammunition. On account of the attack, as I'm sure you're aware." Cap stated. "Smokes aside, we're probably going to need more food and clean water if you intend to keep us running night and day. The only army outpost there is this far upriver is at least three days away at our current pace. Our current rations can barely sustain us for that long."

"...Private...what's our supply situation looking like? Food and water?" He turned and faced Squeaky (taking extra care to keep his eyes locked with hers, trying his best to ignore her bosom). "You're the one they got keepin' track of that, right?"
"Uh, yes sir!" Squeaky took a minute to get her thoughts together, rubbing the sleepiness from her eyes. "As of about three hours ago, the water reserve is only about half full. And we have about sixteen MREs currently aboard."
"Half a drum and sixteen meals for all five of us ain't gonna last three days..." Cap remarked. "And if we're forced to call in an aerial resupply, that would take even longer..."
"Fine, Sergeant." Masterson coldly complied. "But I don't want this boat stopped for more than ten minutes. Water, food, and smokes, and only the last one if we have time. No stopping to play with the girls. Am I clear, Corporal?"

All eyes shifted to Lancer.
"...yes sir." He begrudgingly nodded.

"And Private, put a shirt on." Masterson then directed his attention towards Squeaky.
"Why, sir?" The girl asked, confused at his request.
"Frenks can handle a topless woman without succumbing to animal instinct. Savages cannot." The Ranger replied ominously. "It's for your safety, Private."
"...yes sir..." She replied with a hint of annoyance, aimed more at the realization than at the Ranger's order. Masterson wasn't completely untruthful. The presence of a half-naked white woman would have been strange to a native. And there was no telling what he could do. Honestly, though, Masterson doubted a local would be inclined to lose his mind and try to rape a Frenkish soldier, especially one surrounded by a number of armed comrades. Her redressing was more for his own comfort than her safety. But she didn't have to know that...

As Squeaky tracked down her white undershirt and slipped into it, Cap returned to the wheel, retaking control from the autopilot and gently steering the vessel towards the nearby dock when it came within range. Once it was near, Cookie threw the anchor overboard.
"Stay with the boat, Cook." Cap nodded. "We'll pick you up somethin' nice. Promise."
"Yes ma'am." The soldier replied, retrieving one of the boat's rifles to pull sentry duty.
"Ten minutes." Masterson reminded everyone, throwing his cigarette butt into the water before taking a closer look around. The village (presumably where this "shopping villa" was) was located a short distance from the dock, a break in the treeline connecting it with the dock. Insect lamps like the ones on River 5-15 illuminated the path upwards. "Skip the bug spray. They got lamps."

The four proceeded down the well-illuminated trail, quickly coming to the outskirts of the remote village. Everyone noticed the lack of natives, and what few there were peered out of windows, timid at their presence. They saw no young men or women of any age them - all of them were just young boys and old men.
"They seem scared..." Squeaky noted.
"I don't know what the fuck is goin' on here, but I don't like it..." Lancer said, raising his submachine gun.
"We can turn around and go back to the boat if you'd prefer..." Masterson suggested. "I didn't want to stop here in the first place."
"Let's just get what we need and get out..." Cap nodded. "The war hits villages like this the worst. I'm sure it's nothing but a bit of shellshock."

Along the sides of the main trail, there were two armed men patrolling up and down. Natives, judging from the dark ebony skin and rough "makeshift" appearance about them. They didn't acknowledge them at all, but kept their eyes on the villagers huddled in their houses.

"I still think somethin' shady is goin' on here..." The Corporal remarked.
"Listen to your Sergeant." Masterson blew him off. "We get what we need and leave."

They passed under a large wooden sign that read "ROSS ENTERPRISES" and towards a large building on the top of a hill. The concrete construction was of a higher quality than the humble huts and shacks that surrounded it. At the bottom of the hill waited two more armed black men, Kalashnikovs in-hand.
"Lower your weapons..." Masterson ordered Lancer and Squeaky, who were toting SMGs.

"Customuhs?" One of the armed men asked with a deep Sub-Saharan accent as they approached. His lack of a more French-sounding accent indicated he probably wasn't a local.
Masterson took another look around before facing the man again and nodding. "Sure."
"Mistuh Ross will be right with you." The man acknowledged them without a hint of emotion, pressing a button on a pager device located on his belt.

Within a minute, the door to the compound opened wide, and out stepped a short, white-skinned man. He was dressed in a flamboyant, leopard-print suit, and wore a matching fedora (the decorative feather Masterson recognized as belonging to the indigenous Congo Peafowl. He had studied local the local bestiary extensively before arriving in Africa).

"Helloooooo, my new friends and pahtnahs!" The man, Ross, spoke with a high-pitched Brooklyn, indicating World City origin. "Ah, military! Don't see too mucha youse guys this far up the rivah! And is that a Rangah coat and hat I spy with my little eye? Hello, hello, hello!"
As he got close enough, he grabbed Masterson's hand and gave it a firm, fast shake.
"Nevah thought I'd get to see a Rangah up close! Man, they say youse guys are like Grim Fuckin' Reapahs out here!" Ross politely stated.
He repeated the motion with Lancer without a word (he reacted in much the same manner as Masterson - confused).

"Aw man, you are a beauty, little miss soldiah girl!" Ross said to Squeaky, gently raising her hand and giving it a kiss.
"Uhh...thanks?" Squeaky replied, confusedly glancing down at her hand once he released it.
"Oh, but you mama!" He continued, shifting his attention towards Cap. "You are anothah kinda specimen entiahly!"
He tried to lift her hand and kiss it just as he did with Squeaky's, but Cap quickly jerked back, flashing the small man a look of anger and impatience. Ross quickly got the idea, raising his hands and stepping away.

"Sorry, sorry! I just get a little carried away when I see such beautiful ladies! My moms, God rest her soul, always taught me to be respectful to a pretty lady!"
"We're here for supplies. Not flattery." Cap plainly responded. "Are you who we talk to for that?

Masterson got a closer look at him. He was a hatchet-faced weasel of a man, and his small squinty eyes (ever-so-shifty) only completed the picture. Masterson could see his crude form of charisma (if it could even be called that) only succeeding in making honest folk nervous were he trying to sell himself in the Empire.

"Oh, shoor shoor!" Ross enthusiastically remarked. "Watcha lookin' for?"
"Food and water." Masterson said. "And if you have any cigarettes, we'll take some off your hands."
"I can do that, no problame-o!" Ross nodded. "I can hook you up with a couple dozen MREs, a few gallons of watah, and two cahtons of smokes right heah, right now. And payment ain't requiahed for those sorts a things! I get Ahmy credit."
"Army credit?" Masterson inquired. "They consider you official out here?"
"Oh yeah they do! With all the outposts disappearin' on the river, it's up to me to supply the odd patrol if they pass through here. Just like youse guys! They give me supplies, I give 'em out, the Ahmy pays me for mah time!" He answered. He then waved over for one of his hired guns and whispered something in his ear. The goon departed with a nod.
"I got a few guys gonna load up yah boat right now! Shouldn't take moah than five minutes!"

"So you're a logistical contractor..." The Ranger noted.
"But I'm moah of an entreprenuah! A real businessman in the haht a' dahkness here!" Ross corrected him. "You see the sign? 'Ross Entahprises'! I'm here teachin' the savages the joys a' commerce! I'm contributin' to the civilizin' mission, just like you! You saw the sign, roight? 'Local girls'?"
"You're running a brothel out here?"
"Well, my friend...you can certainly call it that!" He chuckled. "And special emphasis on 'local girls'! No offense ladies, but backwards shitholes like this make the best women! Nice and submissive! Frenkish broads are way too mouthy..."
"You're fuckin' disgusting..." Lancer spoke out.
"Corporal!" Masterson calmed him down.
"Maybe, but I'm honest!" Ross was quick to rebuke. "Any of ya care to, uh, rent a girl for the evenin'? Special discount for our troops!"

As though it were divine intervention, a piercing screech echoed throughout the village as the Frenks were preparing to leave. The Frenks raised their weapons, thinking something had gone wrong, but the local goons didn't seemed bothered.
"That came from the othah side of the compound..." Ross noted, before turning his head. "What the fuck is goin' on ovah there!?"
"Surry Mistuh Ross. This one got oot." A thug apologized as he turned the corner, bringing a squirming girl over to them, pulling her by her thick, unkempt hair. She wasn't much older than Squeaky, if even that.
"Goddammit..." Ross sighed in annoyance. "Rough her up a bit an' throw her in solitary! But no bruises or broken bones this time around! I want her ready for service in the next few days!"
"Yus mistuh Ross." The thug nodded.
Ross turned to face the soldiers. "Heh. Savage girls. Feisty little bitches..."

The realization hit them like a bullet.
"Oh, I see. You're a filthy fuckin' slaver!" Lancer angrily stomped, wrapping his hands around his gun. The thugs were quick to step forward and defend their employer if this led to a confrontation.
"Boys, calm down..." Ross waved them off. "Look kid, I don't like the term 'slavah'. These are savages! Human beings, sure, but they're damn-near feral! I'm givin' these girls a better life than they ever knew! And you gotta be kinda rough to civilize 'em! You know how all of youse guys had to go through boot camp? It's kinda like that! 'Aggressive' job trainin'!"
"It's nothing like that, scum." Cap coldly replied, drawing her pistol. "This is slavery. Slavery is expressly forbidden by Imperial law. And that particular law is subject to military enforcement..."
"Sergeant, he's not the mission." Masterson cooled the situation before a full-on firefight broke out between his crew and the local goons. "We'll report him once we get back to the boat. We don't have the numbers or firepower for a full-on anti-slavery op."

"Repoht me?" Ross grinned. "You don't think I'm doin' this in secret, am I? I got powahful friends in the brass! The Lurps stop by and take advantage of my services! They ain't gonna do shit to me!"

"We gotta do something about this creep..." Cap shook her head.
"That poor girl..." Squeaky chimed in. "There has to be something..."
"I'll kill that fuckin' greaseball right fuckin' here!" Lancer loudly announced his intent.
"Get. Back. To the boat." Masterson ordered. "He is not the mission. This is not our jurisdiction."
"Sir, isn't this the kinda shit Rangers were made to stop?" Lancer rebelliously answered. "You ain't doin' a real good job if we just walk away from this..."
"Corporal, get to the boat!" The Ranger coldly. "We're gonna have a talk when we get back on the river. Everyone. Now!"

Masterson didn't blame him for his passion. He was going to chew his ass out for insubordination and disrespect of a ranking officer later, sure, but he wasn't planning on holding it against him (too much). Truth be told, there wasn't much they could do. Ross was an Imperial citizen, meaning he had the right to a trial. And there were no courts this far from civilization. There wasn't much they could do that wouldn't slow them down. And Kurtz was still out there. He was the one they needed to focus their energy on...

The soldiers reluctantly complied, Lancer flashing him a hateful look before walking away.
As Masterson turned to follow them, Ross tried one last time to lure him in.
"You know where all the little girls in this village went, Rangah?" Ross asked. "They're with me! And I've been savin' 'em for choice clients! Virgins, all of 'em. Evah wanted to pop a cherry? I'm prepahed to give you one absolutely free if this little bit a' information don't leave this place..."

Masterson stopped dead in his tracks, and slowly turned back to face Ross.
"Ha! Knew I'd reel ya in, Rangah! I pegged you for a man who takes his meat rare..." Ross chuckled.
Without a word, Masterson strolled over to him, before he came face-to-face with the weasel.
"Shake on it?" Ross smiled. "I like to shake with all my deals..."

Ross extended his hand. Masterson's hand floated downwards. However, he didn't make physical contact with Ross. Instead, it was within his trenchcoat. Right where he kept his sidearm holstered...

Within half a second, the gun was drawn and aimed at the nearest thug, the one hanging over the slave girl. He shoved Ross to the ground and pulled the trigger, and the silent pop of the integrally suppressed magnum tore through the air. The thug fell over, and the girl screamed in horror.
Within the space of two seconds, before anyone really knew what was going on, he fired twice more, flooring Ross' bodyguards with perfect accuracy, a section of each of their heads blown cleanly off by the powerful 12.7mm round.

And there it was. The firefight Masterson tried so adamantly to avoid was over within five seconds. His comrades had figured out what was going on, and readied their weapons. The two guards that were patrolling the village, who were caught completely off-guard by the sudden betrayal, had thrown down their rifles and surrendered to the Frenks, getting on their knees with their hands on their heads at Lancer's command.

Masterson focused on Ross, who was on the ground, trembling in the dirt.
"L-look man! I-I didn't mean it!" He nervously stuttered, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "I-I'll let the girls go! I'll leave Africa for good! Just don't kill me!"
"Are all of your hired guns neutralized?" Masterson casually asked, keeping his pistol leveled at his head.
"What? Y-yeah! You killed all my boys! T-those five were all I had! Just ple-"

One final pop silenced him for good.

He walked back to Cap and Lancer, who were standing over the prisoners.
"Hell of a job, sir." Cap remarked with a grin. "One less piece of human trash. They always said Rangers were the fastest guns in the world, but I guess I needed to see to believe. What should we do with the prisoners? Take them back to Nsele? Call in a chopper?"
"And what about the slaves?" Lancer added. "We need to get them out of their cages. Make sure they're alright..."

Without a word, Masterson walked over to them, pistol still in hand. He looked over to Cap.
"No more pit stops." He said without a hint of emotion, raising his gun on one of the prisoners. Pop.
He stepped over to Lancer and looked him in the eye. "No more delays..."
The prisoner shook in fear as he stared down the barrel of the pistol. His mouth opened to say something, but before he could make a sound, he was silenced by one final shot. Pop.
Masterson didn't even look at the men he executed.

Lancer saw the coldness and malevolence in the Ranger's eyes. He knew not to say anything now.
"Let's go..." Masterson cooly ordered, casually changing the magazine of his weapon before resituating it in his shoulder holster.

Squeaky, who Masterson suddenly remembered was missing, had found herself near the traumatized (now former) slave, silently trying to comfort her.
"Private!" Masterson yelled.
She quickly bolted to her feet, and with one final empathetic glance at the girl, followed the rest of her comrades back to the river.

[New Frenco Empire]

-The River Kongo: Chapter V-
(MCN - UPS - CIN - ESL - MAT - NFE - PRO - WAR - TPP)

Major Kendrick Masterson
Congo River, Sub-Saharan Wildlands
September 12th, 2096

"July the Twentieth, Twenty Ninety One. I am soon to reach my ninth month in Africa. Intelligence suggested there would be organized resistance in the region, and right the suggestions were. Old world forces from Kinshasa and Brazzaville. The ‘People’s Republic’ they call themselves. A vague term as any. Bitingly nationalist, and answering to any sort of Imperial presence here with violence…”

Masterson had listened to Kurtz’s audio logs on-and-off for the past two days, usually keeping to himself on the upper deck, rain or shine. The crew hadn’t said so much as a word to him since the confrontation at the village.
“Those kids are never going to look at me the same way again…” He noted to himself with a slight grin and shake of the head. “And they shouldn’t.”
Maybe now, he supposed…they would understand the gravity of the situation. They would never understand the mission, nor truly know anything about it beyond the fact that it required someone of Masterson’s caliber to go deep into the Basin. But that last aspect alone should have been enough to keep them focused.

"Now, throughout the years, I’ve grown to loathe the intellectual, but my hatred has only truly materialized tonight. Hatred of the academic and the scholar, who thrive only on ignorance and hypocrisy! All of them so focused on defending the narratives and interpretations they picked up in their classrooms and libraries. So focused on debate and rebuttal that they never stop and consider learning. They never stop and listen! The euphoria of being proven wrong is greater than a hundred orgasms! The feeling of the ignorance leaving your mind, the space filled with raw truth and uncensored knowledge! And wrong I was! I’ve discovered only those who can venture outside the cozy halls of some university or think-tank and come here, in the deep jungle, can determine what true ‘savagery’ is…I have seen true savagery, and they are not wearing the ubiquitous camouflage uniform of the PRM…”

While Kurtz monologued, Masterson lit a cigarette and scanned the area around him. Darkness. Only the blackened shapes of trees and the moonlight glistening on the river stood out beyond the dimly-lit deck space of the boat. This far from the war, this far from civilization…there was only serenity. Even as a man of the outdoors, Masterson never recalled seeing these many stars in the night sky. It was getting close to 2300, last he checked. And tonight’s night shift only consisted of Cap and himself.

“The People's Republic, and their militarized PRM counterparts, are enemies of the Empire. They are opposed to our generous gifts to this dark continent. So I fight them without the slightest hesitation. But...we Imperials...I've learned we are perhaps too quick to label them 'savage'. What really constitutes a savage? The People's Republic...however crude and regressive they may be, they have laws. They seem to be in the process of developing a proper economy. The PRM wear uniforms and has a clear rank structure. 'But what language do they speak?', you may ask. 'Surely some obscure Bantu tongue?' No. They communicate in French. A very localized and corrupted French, but French all the same. French...a language from Mother Europe, and one I doubt many would consider 'barbaric'. But the thing that really convinced me we are against a crudely civilized foe...was their ideology..."

Kurtz briefly paused before continuing.

"Believe it or not, they have a sense of history and culture. For context, I just finished interrogating an officer of the PRM. Not three hours ago did I think the PR a pack of bloodthirsty primitives. I was no different from anyone else surveying the region. But then...after this decisive skirmish, I found Leftenant Alain. Alain...a name one would not expect to see given to one so isolated from proper civilization. A tall, muscular Bantu specimen, not an unattractive man. And clean and dignified in his appearance, despite his dire circumstances. Once it was clear he was defeated...he simply threw down his old rifle and respectfully surrendered, nothing if not gentlemanly about the whole affair. No animalistic last stand. No voodoo curses. Just a civilized acceptance. Once it was clear he was of no immediate threat, I had his binds taken off and had him placed in my tent. I brought in my local translator, but I soon understood she was not needed...he spoke passable English. I asked him if he wanted anything. He merely chuckled and asked if I had any ‘strong drink’. By this time, the man had piqued my curiosity. Did I perhaps come across a Frenkish double agent? But no...he was a native. And loyal enough to his cause. We talked for some time. I didn’t drill him for intelligence, no – I just asked him what his life was like. What his organization really represented. This...this was a truly remarkable eye-opening experience.”

“We talked for almost three hours. He told me of a wife. A young child. A dream to open a restaurant in Brazzaville! He told me his life was hard, but mostly stable under the PR. Alain told me their system follows the teachings of one ‘Patrice Lumumba’, an ancient icon of independence. African nationalism. I have no idea where soldiers get their beloved ‘mumba’ terminology, but it makes me think…I also learned the PR, ever since their inception some decade-and-a-half ago, has been locked in a grueling civil war against true savages – Mayi Mayi. Wasteland dregs and cannibals, united only in their hatred of stability and prosperity! These are the real savages! We are focusing too much time and too many resources on the People’s Republic! No, I feel, that with some proper…’conditioning’, the PR can be made into a ‘vanguard’ of our ideals, standing side by side with our mighty army, banishing the true savagery from this blasted land…”

"I've falsified your reports for you, Major." Cap’s biting voice prompted Masterson to blink and glance upwards. Sure enough, she was looming over him, arms crossed.
If there was one thing he would give her, she could certainly get the drop on someone if she wanted. As a Ranger, he should have perceived her coming the second she intended to approach him, even with his ears unavailable. He must have been getting rusty...

"Sergeant..." He acknowledged her, pausing the media player and returning the earpieces to their proper place. "What do you mean?"
"'Altercation in Grid Alpha Casper, near Ngomoutcha.'" She dryly stated, a hint of sarcasm apparent on her breath as he replaced the dossier in his coat. "Frenkish national killed by armed locals, suspected slave deal gone wrong. All known native combatants killed in firefight with River Five-Fifteen. No casualties. Suspected larger presence, immediately retreated."

"You know...if they send someone to investigate, they'll see the bullet wounds...the primitives certainly aren't packing subsonic twelve-sevens..." Masterson remarked, returning his cigarette to his mouth.
"That's why I included 'slave deal'..." She slyly grinned, moving to sit next to him. "They aren't going to investigate the death of some two-bit slaver. They never do. Not out here."
"Perceptive." He replied, exhaling smoke. He reached into one of his pockets and retrieved his pack of cigarettes. He offered Cap one, but she merely waved him off.
"Don't smoke."

He shrugged and returned the pack to his sleeve, getting another puff in before taking the cigarette out.
"This is one good thing about being out here in wild country..." She mused, her eyes listing up to the night sky, the limitless black peppered with an equally limitless speckling of glimmering white. "It really is beautiful out here. I'm sure you see this kind of thing all the time..."
"Most of us spend our lives in the muck of North America. Never too far from any of the megacities. And megacities create a lot of light pollution..." The Ranger remarked with a blink, joining her in stargazing. "But out here? There isn't a busy enough city to blot the stars out. Not for a thousand miles in any direction..."
"Hmm. I guess we're lucky, then..." She responded with a sarcastic chuckle before turning back to the Ranger. "I know you're not going to tell me, but...who are you here to kill, Major Masterson?"

"What makes you think I'm out here to kill somebody?" The question prompted him to take his eyes off the stars and return them to her.
"I'm not stupid, Major. I take one look at you, and I take one look at the environment..." She remarked with a condescending smile, returning her view to the stars above. "I had my hunch from the first minute. The scoped rifle. The suppressors. That fancy invisibility tech. The way you strut around with that coat and that hat, even though it paints a big bullseye on you. Then I figured it out for sure back at the slave village. How fast and competent you were with killing. How comfortable you were with it. And how focused you are on the mission...you're a career assassin. And a damn good one if that alone got you to Major..."
"I'm a Ranger." He replied with utmost neutrality. "You've described most of us, officer or not..."

"Please..." She shook her head. "You're not the first Ranger that's been on my boat. If they send me a Ranger, the brass either needs something important blown up or surveyed, a new militia built, or someone killed..."
She squirmed a bit in her position, finally leaning back in a comfortable position before continuing. "There ain't nothing out here worth blowing up or getting a closer look at. And the way I see you handle my boys? No offense sir, but you don't really do a good job at stirring morale and motivation, that's for sure. If they sent someone like you to recruit, arm, and train an insurgency? They're a lot dumber than I thought..."

"You know the mission is classified, Cap." He plainly responded, tossing his expended cigarette overboard, having long since hit the butt. "And I told you no questions before I even got aboard..."
"I know." She flatly stated, evidently not caring about any of that. "But I care about everyone on this boat. Lancer, Cookie, even Squeaky who I've only known for the better part of a week. Hell, I worry about her the most. She doesn't deserve to be out here..."

With a blink and a frown, she continued. "I've been in the Congo a long damn time, Major. I've seen too many good people die, some of them under me. I've survived the worst these jungles can throw at someone. Yet somehow, I get the feeling you're leading us into something beyond even what I've seen. Something much more dangerous..."
"What makes you think that?" The Ranger shrugged. "As far as you're concerned, this is a fairly standard deep river patrol into mostly-uninhabited land. Just listen to my orders and we'll all be fine..."

"Major...the first good look I took of you, and I knew you were bad news. Wherever we're going...it's not going to end good. I just know it..." Cap turned to face him again. However, this time, her eyes seemed to convey a more honest look than her signature confident gaze. She almost looked afraid...
"Just for my sake...tell me the best lie you can. Convince me it'll all be worth it to get you to some vantage point so you can put a bullet in the head of someone who may or may not deserve it. Just so I can say it was all worth it over the flag-draped coffin of any of these kids. Tell me something. Anything. Who are you out here to kill, Major?"

"Cap, I'm sorry, but-" He was interrupted by a faint sound in the distance. He couldn't quite make it out, but it sounded awfully familiar...
He rose from his sitting position and recovered his rifle, which he kept leaning next to him.
It didn't take him long to locate the source of the commotion with his superior perception, noticing several pillars of rising smoke accompanied by familiar flashes of orange a ways to the northwest, about a klick downriver. It was then he understood...Explosions. Gunfire.

"Do you hear that?"
"Yeah...sounds like fighting..." Cap remarked, quickly raising from her spot against the cabin. "That...that can't be right. We're not far from Ngabe..."
"Might be a skirmish between the locals..." Materson noted. If that was the case, he would have been content to let the PRM and Mayi-Mayi kill one another.

The thumping of helicopters above soon dispelled the idea that they weren't involved.
"That's an Imperial bird if I've ever heard one..." Cap said, putting her hands on her hips and scanning the sky above them.
"We need to wake everyone up." Masterson waved for Cap to follow him. "It looks like we're gonna be swimming right through a warzone..."

They busted right onto the lower deck, where everyone else was snug in their cots.
"Up! Up!" The Ranger barked, banging his fist against the ceiling. "I want everyone fully kitted-out in two minutes! Helmets, flak jackets, and weapons!"

The three sharply emerged from their bedding in varying states of nakedness.
"Ah man...what a shit surprise party..." Lancer remarked with a yawn, stretching his arms out before shaking himself awake.
"We're about to roll right through a warzone, ladies and gentlemen!" Cap added as she strode towards the cabin entrance. "Listen to the Major if you don't want things to get hairy!"

"Private, get the drone in the air!" He yelled towards Squeaky, who was the last to fully rise and get dressed. "I want to get a full picture of what's ahead!"
"Drone?" Squeaky replied, visibly confused at his request.
"Don't all Raider-class boats carry a recon UAV?"
"Heh. A PRM stinger took ours out the sky a month ago..." Cap cynically chuckled, shaking her head. "I've filed three requests since then and haven't got so much as a word back. Guess Logistics didn't think we'd actually be goin' this far away from the main force to warrant another one..."

By now, the explosions had become clearly audible, even inside the boat.
"Shit...looks like things are already hairy..." Cookie remarked after visibly flinching.
"Then everyone's going on deck! Lance, Cook, turrets! Squeaky, grab a rifle and follow me! You're gonna help me do fire control!" Masterson nodded, quickly jumping up the accessway back onto the upper deck.

By now, they were nearing the altercation. The only thing that truly separated them from the action was a turn in the river, and it all seemed to be concentrated on the left bank. More sounds could be made out aside from the odd explosion or burst of gunfire. Screams. The thudding of helicopters. A splash of water. The buzzing of a minigun. The thumping of a mortar. Smoke had started obscuring the view around them, and as Masterson looked closer, he could spot certain details. The shadowy outlines of running figures, and a hail of orange tracers tearing into them.

It didn't take long for Lancer to emerge on deck, rifle in one hand, toolbox in the other, ready to respond to any issue that the vessel may face. Masterson noted his uniform, which had a number of exotic pins fixed to his jacket, and his helmet had a few philosophical quotes scrawled on. A large peace symbol was placed on the strap of his helmet, and one of his cigarette packs was secured tightly within the strap. He also kept a small socket set in the strap for easy access.

Cookie followed him out, his dress conveying a different sort of message. He had evidently found time to cover his face in camouflage-esque paint. His sleeves were cut off, revealing his muscled, tattoo-covered arms. Across his chest rested a bandolier of 7.62mm ammunition, ready to feed anything from the rifles to the minigun. His helmet, as opposed to Lancer's, espoused a more "raw" feeling, with it's decoration consisting of skulls, shell casings, and tally marks indicating at least a dozen "mumba" KIAs (along with two seperate marks labeled "CROCS"). His helmet also featured a mounted visorpiece to protect his face from flying shells and provide night vision.

"There couldn't have been a more poignant divide," Masterson thought to himself. There always seemed to be two separate schools for the seasoned - rejection and acceptance. Lancer covered himself in symbols of peace and tranquility, while Cookie embraced his killer instinct, showing himself as such. Soldiers exposed to the elements tended to be either bleeding heart pacifists or unapologetic warmongers. There was rarely a middle ground.

Then there was Squeaky.

She emerged onto the upper deck, dressed for war. M19 in one hand, rifle-grenade in the other. With her clean uniform free from personalized effects, she hadn't had time to join either of the schools.
Masterson still had a hard time taking her seriously, what with her misaligned helmet and flak jacket noticeably too big for her, but it would suffice if the bullets started flying. That was all that mattered.

"Squeaky!" Cookie yelled for her, prompting her to dart her eyes forward.
As he strolled over, he pulled a can of paint from one of his pockets and bent down a bit to compensate for Squeaky's shorter stature.
"What are you doing, Private?" Masterson sighed.
"Man, we don't got time for that, Cook!" Lancer (for once) agreed with him.

"Squeaky's first taste of combat, man! She's gotta look mean!" Cookie replied, digging the index and middle finger of his free hand into the substance. He quickly rubbed two green marks across her cheeks and gave her a light slap across the head, departing to his position on the turret with an encouraging grin.

With a fresh coat of "warpaint", she sat opposite of the Ranger, her frame covered by the boat's siding. She was visibly shaking, and it took her a decent amount of time just to steady her hands and secure the grenade to the barrel of the rifle, finally twisting it into place after a couple of attempts.
"Nervous?" Masterson casually inquired, raising the brim of his hat a couple of inches and locking eyes with the young soldier.
Squeaky quickly jerked up. "U-uh, n-no sir..."
"You don't have to lie to me, Private..." He cooly remarked, flashing a professional grin.
"I-I just...I haven't seen any real combat yet...s-sir..." She hesitantly admitted. "The smell, the noise...this...this is nothing like the simulations..."
"You handled the altercation in the slave village pretty well." The Ranger acknowledged.
"That was over before it even started. W-with all due respect, sir." She sighed, lowering the rifle and laying it flat on her lap. "This...this is different. Th-they're going to be shooting at me..."

"From what I've seen, mumba has a hard time shootin' at ya when he's got bullets flyin' at him at three-thousand a minute, haha!" Cookie tried to encourage her with a hearty laugh, patting on the chamber of large minigun turret that loomed over them, right where the name "IRENE" was crudely painted. "Irene will take good care of us!"
"And Maria ain't too much of a pushover either!" Lancer called back. "Mumba don't like bein' blown the fuck up either!"
The NCO was, of course, referring to the Forty Millimeter GMG linked to the mingun control, affectionately named and marked "Maria".
"We got enough firepower on this boat to take on an army of savages!"

"Relax. You're doing fine, Private." Masterson assured her with a nod.
"Damn right." Lance chimed on, turning from his turret towards Squeaky. "Most FNG's your age woulda already shat their pants and tried to hide in the engine compartment when the time came to fight for the first time! Just ask Cook!"
"Hey, fuck you man!" The gunner angrily responded, flipping an outstretched middle finger towards the NCO. "That wasn't hidin', that was-"
"Cut the chatter and keep your eyes on the damn treelines!" Masterson impatiently ordered, jolting his arm towards the jungle that flanked them.
They returned to their watch without a word.

"Cap, do you have a connection to the local battlenet yet?" Masterson inquired, tapping on the window.
"Patching you through now, Major!" Cap answered with a brief glance back and a nod.
The Ranger's earpiece was bombarded with a cacophony of static, gunshots, and helicopter rotors.
"Uh, Freebird, we're gonna need a little bit more forty mike-mike on the west bank, middle-north quadrant. I got mumba sappers crawling all over the damn place." A clearly-anglophone male voice called through the transmission.
"Solid copy, Buccaneer!" A woman's southern drawl responded through the radio static. "Might wanna start gettin' your people outta there. It's gonna get messy!"

"Eyes open, people!" Masterson loudly announced to his crew. "We got friendlies engaging local forces! We'll lend a hand if we need to, but I'm gonna see if we can't keep moving!"
"Priority hail, repeat, priority hail to incoming vessel marked 'River Five-Fifteen'." A voice called through the battlenet, obviously directed at them. "This is Sandman. Come in, Five-Fifteen."
"Sandman, this is River Five-Fifteen." Masterson immediately hit the switch on his earpiece and responded. "We are approaching the hotzone, about a quarter of a klick downriver. What's the situation?"

"A bit late to the party, Five-Fifteen." The officer, "Sandman", responded. "We're mopping up the last of a sizable PRM presence that plowed through here this morning. We've got a number of civilians we need airlifted out if you want to assist in corralling them to the birds on the east bank."
"Negative, Sandman. This boat is carrying a Section Two Army intelligence asset. We have orders directly from AFRICOM. We need safe passage."
Sandman paused for a brief second. "Wait, AFRICOM? Who am I speaking to, Five-Fifteen?"

"Major Kendrick Masterson, Army Service Number RO Thirteen-Seventy-Five. We have to keep moving downriver through all non-critical situations, Sandman." Masterson responded with a hint of impatience. He didn't have time for protocol.
"Roger, Five-Fifteen. I'll send a boat to escort you through the muck." The officer immediately responded in a slightly apologetic tone. The "RO" tag on his service number (standing for "Ranger Officer") seemed to erase whatever doubts he had about the incoming boat.

"We're turning in! Keep your eyes open and fingers on the triggers!" Cap shouted from the cabin.
Masterson gave one last look around, to ensure the crew was ready for whatever happened down this stretch of river.

Squeaky dug in one of her jacket pouches before recovering a magazine. Holding it for about a second, she tapped the magazine on her helmet (whispering to herself, probably trying to recount what she learned in training) and brought it down, trying desperately not to fumble about as she loaded the rifle and pulled the bolt back. Despite her apparent nervousness, she remembered the proper safety precautions, and kept the grenade-loaded rifle pointed over the boat's edge.

Cookie did one last check on the ammunition belts feeding his turrets, before tightening the strap holding his helmet in place (eventually knocking it around a bit to ensure it remained secure). He then lowered his visor and placed his hands on the sticks, acknowledging himself with a confident nod.
Lancer, on the other hand, simply lit a cigarette and let it hang out of his mouth as he secured the rifle to his back and did one last look over on his mounted MG.

The boat gently glided over the water, turning against the bank and onto the hot stretch.
Masterson took in his surroundings once more; the river before them was wide and busy. A number of Raider boats cruised up, down, and across the river as far as his eyes could see. Many were unleashing their payloads onto the left treelines, the orange of their tracers lighting the black waters under them. A couple of helicopters hovered above, close enough so their rotors disturbed the foliage. They shined spotlights across the west bank, and the door gunners occasionally joined their comrades on the water in lighting up the darkness that surrounded them.
All the while, a conflagration raged on the west bank. A good portion of the jungle was on fire. Incendiary weapons were in play, no doubt.

The east, however, was a different sort of business. A large village sat desolated, a handful of Imperial troops running about, carrying wounded civilians on stretchers and filling buckets with river water to douse fires. Masterson spotted an evac chopper, filled to the brim with civilians, take off into the night sky.

"Looks like our escort is on the way!" Cap shouted.
Sure enough, a Raider marked "RIVER 5-12" was gliding it's way towards them, flashing its spotlight to hail them.
As the vessel neared, loud rock music blared, and was quite audible even to Masterson over a dozen yards away.

As it came close enough, a bearded, dusky-skinned soldier stepped to the edge of the boat, lowering his rifle and waving for Masterson.
"Hey, ya'll turn that shit off for a minute!" The soldier turned back and shouted, prompting the music to abruptly end.
He then turned to face Masterson with a salute. "Sir! Sergeant Davis, Five-Twelve!"
Masterson returned the gesture. "Sergeant. What's the situation here? I didn't think we authorized operations this far up-river..."
"It's a mess, sir. PRM rolled on through here this morning, prolly lookin' to blow up some rail lines. Got a tip-off from some of our sympathizers in the village there. We came from Ngabe, and they sent Air Cav from Nsele. We still can't seem to get 'em outta this part of the river..." The soldier sighed, wiping sweat from his brow as he nodded at the fiery section of jungle behind them.

As though it were a prompt, a series of loud explosions shook the boats, and a series of flames shot up, consuming the treeline behind them.
"Yo, what the fuck was that!?" Lancer shouted, his hand firmly glued to his helmet.
"We got a magic dragon up there running CAS." Davis smiled widely, unphased by the shock. "Beautiful, ain't it?"
"AC-240s? In Africa?" And here Masterson thought all of the Shades were tear-assing above Indonesia...
"Good kills, Freebird." Sandman transmitted through the battlenet.

"Is the river itself hot?" Masterson inquired, glancing over his shoulder towards the populated waters ahead of them. Towards the left half, an oil leak had caused the river itself to catch fire. "We need to keep going up the river..."
"Mumba's been shootin' off a whole lotta mortars tryin' to hit our boats." Davis nodded. "They ain't good shots, and that's about the only threat you gotta worry about. Just keep away from the west bank."
"Right." Masterson acknowledged.
"We'll follow you until it's clear. After that, you're on your own, sir. Let's move!" Davis jumped back down into his boat, knocking on the cabin. Masterson did the same, signaling for Cap to continue.

As they started to make their way, the first thing visible was the village center. Troops were still moving civilians, corralling them away from their homes and in front of a prefabricated platform where two soldiers, one of them an officer, towered over the horde.
Masterson spotted a number of children among them, many of them seeking their mothers' embrace, terrified at the death and explosions surrounding them.

"THIS REGION IS UNDER CONTROL OF THE OPPRESSIVE MILITIA FORCES OF THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC! THOSE OF YOU WHO WISH TO REJOIN THE LEGITIMATE PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT OF MOANDA WILL BE RELOCATED UNDER THE PROTECTION OF THE GRAND IMPERIAL ARMY!"
The officer loudly stated with biting authority. She was flanked by a Lance Corporal, who translated her every word to French for the locals to understand.
"CETTE RÉGION EST SOUS LE CONTRÔLE DES FORCES DE MILICE OPPRESSIVES DE LA RÉPUBLIQUE POPULAIRE! CEUX DE VOUS QUI SOUHAITEZ REJOINDRE LE GOUVERNEMENT PROVISIONNEL LÉGITIME DE MOANDA SEREZ RELOCALISÉS SOUS LA PROTECTION DE LA GRANDE ARMÉE IMPERIALE!"

A bit further down the river, Masterson saw an old woman run out of a ramshackle hut, screaming incoherently. Cradled in her arms was a bleeding toddler. A pair of soldiers (one of which wearing a medic's cross) responded to the disturbance. The medic gently took the child from her arms and jogged towards a nearby medical tent. The other grabbed her arm and escorted her to the gathering.

"PLEASE LINE UP IN AN ORDERLY FASHION! MORE HELICOPTERS WILL BE ARRIVING SOON!"
"S'IL VOUS PLAÎT, FAITES LES QUEUES D'UNE FAÇON BIEN ORDONNÉE! PLUS D'HÉLICOPTÈRES VONT BIENTÔT ARRIVER!"

A few corpses of PRM militants littered the ground around the village, and with them, their weapons remained, the Imperial troops obviously lacking the time (or desire) to clean up the battlefield.
"We got one makin' a mad dash!" An anglophone voice boomed, warning his comrades about some development or another.
It was then that Masterson spotted a boy of about 16 or 17 sprinted through a thicket of bushes towards the corpses, almost tripping as he did so. He figured he was trying to escape, until the Ranger noticed him go for an old, yet well-maintained FAL laying atop the closest body...
"He's armed!" The soldier shouted, as he and a couple others finally caught up with the teen. "Take him down, take him down!"

The signature ping of several M19's echoed off the river. Squeaky winced at the sight of the boy being torn apart by rifle fire.
"It's alright, Private." Masterson attempted to console her. "It's alright..."
"Goddamn, I sometimes forget mumbas are about as smart as the chimps out here!" Cookie chuckled. "Kid musta forgot about the company of olives literally on top of him!"
"Man...I don't know about all that..." Lancer sadly replied. "Their independence was about the only thing they had out here. And now we're takin' it away. Kid was probably just desperate to make some sorta stand..."
"Cut the chatter, we're not out of the woods yet..." The Ranger put them back on track.

"LIMIT PERSONAL ITEMS ONLY TO WHAT YOU AND YOUR FAMILIES CAN COMFORTABLY CARRY!"
"LIMITEZ VOS AFFAIRES À CELLES QUE VOUS ET VOS FAMILLES PEUVENT CONFORTABLEMENT PORTER!"

By now, the voices barking orders at the civilians was getting muffled as they moved away from the village. On the outskirts, more soldiers were present, using plasmathrowers to burn the surrounding jungle of any lingering PRM presence.
Masterson thought it was a bit overkill at first, but soon enough his instincts were proven wrong. A piercing screech bit into the air, and a blazing figure burst from the inferno of the treeline, flailing about until he fell off the ridge line and into the river.
A second burning militiaman followed, maintaining enough composure to willingly jump in. His leap was pretty considerable, and he got close enough for the boat to smell his seared flesh and for Masterson to catch a glimpse of his blistered face.
When he hit the water, he was close enough to the point where some of it splashed on-deck. Some of it even got on Squeaky.

Sure enough, she responded with a horrified shriek.

"HAHA! RUN, MUMBA, RUN!" Cookie yelled with a hearty laugh.
"Poor bastards..." Lancer remarked with a hint of empathy for the dying PRM combatants. "They never had a chance, did they?"
Masterson blew to himself and gave Lancer that one. "They never had a chance" he reflected as the plasma fire continued to burn the jungle, the Shade continued it's bombardment from 10,000 feet above, and the miniguns on the boats continued buzzing unleashing volley after volley of orange into the dark foliage. At this point, it was hardly war - it was slaughter. What's a few ancient rifles and nationalist pride against the best military force in the world armed with the latest technology of the 2090s?

He gently moved across deck to check on the young Private, who had buried her face in her jacket, lightly sobbing. Most rookies saw their first combat at no fewer than several hundred yards. They surely never saw what she just had to. Even hardened troops would have been disturbed by that...
"You alright, Private?" He sympathetically inquired, squatting to her eye level.
"I...I'm a-alright...sir..." She sniffed, raising her head. "I-I'm just-just ready to get out of here..."
She eventually got over herself, took a deep breath, and repositioned herself, checking to make sure her rifle was secure. "At least the kid didn't let it stick too long. She may have some soldier in her after all..."

"WE ARE HERE TO HELP..."
"NOUS SOMMES ICI À AIDER..."
With those last words, the voices soon became inaudible. Soon enough, they were clear of the danger, and all that was left behind them was the fire light and the smoke trails.

[New Frenco Empire]

-The River Kongo: Chapter VI-
(MCN - UPS - CIN - ESL - MAT - NFE - PRO - WAR - TPP)

Major Kendrick Masterson
Congo River, Sub-Saharan Wildlands
September 13th, 2096

Even at this hour, lower Ngabe was respectably busy, populated with local villagers up before daybreak to attend to chores, Imperial troops kept awake and active by an eventful night consisting of alcohol and soma, and military policemen to keep said troops in line. Upon arrival, Masterson witnessed a group of drunken soldiers leer and catcall a young local woman who was busy at work, carrying a heavy pot of produce atop her head. However, this indecency was cut short by a patrolling MP, who menacingly banged her shock baton against a nearby wall. The sight of the sparks stopped any potential for misdoing.

Despite the problems that might have presented itself with such a diverse crowd, it was actually quite harmonious aside from negligible hiccups such as that just seen. The troops tended not to bother the villagers, and the villagers likewise enjoyed the patronage a thousand passing soldiers brought to their local businesses. If Ngabe was any example to follow, it might have seemed as though Frenkish imperialism was going without a hitch. It was just as well none of the people here knew of Kurtz.

Masterson walked the streets with Lancer and Cookie. Cap stayed with the boat, and he had sent Squeaky away for a small bit of rest. God knew she needed it after last night proved eventful for her in-particular.

"What are we even doin' sir?" Cookie asked as they walked along the streets. "Logistics was back that way. I thought we were gonna stock up..."
"We are." Masterson called back. "Or rather...you two are. I'm gonna head up to the HQ. Track down the commanding officer and see if I can't get a connection to Comnet. Get a little intel. Shouldn't be more than an hour or two. Then we can get back on the water."
"I mean, it's just that...you told Squeaky she could go let off some steam..." Lancer said.
"Well, Corporal, that's because some man's guts splashed onto her face during her first combat op." The Ranger remarked. "That kid probably needs it. You two are a lot of things, but I doubt any of it includes being prone to some shellshock-driven emotional breakdown while under my command..."
"No offense, sir, but we've been on-duty for about five days straight." Lancer pleaded. "All we're wantin' to do is get a fresh meal and see if we got any wires from home..."

Masterson turned to face the two, hands placed firmly on his hips. They stopped firmly in their tracks.
"Fine. Three hours R and R. No more." He bluntly relented. "If you're not all aboard exactly three hours from now and the boat's not completely stocked with food and fuel, I'm going to be a bit upset..."
"Yeah, of course, sir!" Lancer nodded with a smile before darting off with Cookie into the wider town to the left of their current position.
"And no drugs or drinking! I shouldn't have to make myself clear!" He called after them with a sigh and a shake of the head before continuing on ahead.

Near one of the larger buildings, Masterson spotted a Political Officer standing on a simple wooden platform, addressing a modest crowd of locals. Political Officers, the ones responsible for upholding "ideological purity" among the military and in the conquered lands, were often flippantly called "commissars" by the troops in reference to an old-world Soviet position of similar occupation, though the POs did not appreciate being labeled as such. Masterson, having had a lot of experience with the "commissars", didn't care for them one bit. They were authoritarians who stayed cozy behind the frontlines, judging the merits of soldiers who fought and bled in the jungles and trenches based on their supposed "ideological purity". More often than not, one word from them was all it took to ruin the lives of ambitious and loyal young troops. Luckily, Masterson didn't believe in any "criminal ideologies" and was far too useful to the military to be judged on such a degree, but after breaking the nose of one such Officer in South Africa back in '91 (after said Officer made a vague threat towards a Ranger comrade for not saluting "impassionately" enough), it wasn't for lack of trying. He was merely advised to "keep his nose clean" in the future.

He was flanked by a native woman, her uniform revealing her to be a part of the Army Auxilia - local collaborators and supporters finding empowerment in Imperial military service, working primarily as translators, guides, logistics workers, town sentries, and any other low-skill, non-combat duties that needed to be done here.
In Africa, women dominated the ranks of the Army Auxilia, which correlated well with the support the Empire enjoyed among the female populations here. This part of the world was remarkably regressive in regards to gender, and women were often considered second-class citizens in many areas. The Empire carried no such prejudices, and a few flowery speeches from the commissars was all it took for many local women to abandon their abusive families and seek a future with the strange invaders promising them bright futures.

The Political Officer confidently spoke without a microphone, the Auxiliary next to him relaying what he said to the people below in (what Masterson thought was) Lingala.
"Frenks are not Americans! Frenks are not Mexicans! Frenks are not Canadians!" The Political Officer boomed, his translator closely behind him, translating with every bit of passion he was exhibiting and then some. "A 'Frenk' is one of many different faces and tongues! 'Frenk' is an identity determined not from where you were born or the color of your skin or what language you speak! No, good people of Ngabe, I see in all of your faces a Frenk! One becomes a Frenk by pushing away cultural ties and ethnic identities and accepting greater enlightenment in the greater brotherhood and sisterhood of mankind! To call yourself a 'Frenk' instead of an American or a Mexican or even a Congolese is the mark of one dedicated to civilization and progress!"

As Masterson walked past, he noted the crowd was generally mixed. Some showed genuine interest. Others were chuckling to themselves at the words being spoken. The Frenks certainly weren't the first overseas force to dominate over the people here, and they definitely weren't the first to bring them messages of civilization.

Since he gave his troops three hours of downtime, he decided he'd take a bit of it for himself. He decided to visit one of the local bars and refresh with something cold and flavorful.
Upon arriving at the establishment, he opened the saloon-style doors, revealing a small, sleepy (yet evidently well cared-for) space, with a few tables and chairs on one side and a bar on the other. He spotted a group of female soldiers occupying one of the tables, two of them were passed out and the other two seemed close enough to doing the same, lazily tapping liquor glasses. The two that were still awake giggled to themselves as he entered.

The bar was populated with a few natives. A large, bearded old man stood behind the counter and curtly acknowledged Masterson's presence with a nod. Sitting at opposite ends was a young man wearing the simplistic green uniform of the Auxilia, and a middle-aged man in more traditional grab slumped over a couple of beer bottles. A radio behind the counter was blaring a broadcast - one from the Empire, judging by the spoken content.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. It is currently ten o'clock in New Rome, and you're listening to the Forum with Doctor Jay Brantley. Relevant issues explained through the eyes of an over-qualified academic. Our first topic on this cool autumn night - our effectiveness in colonial affairs. How is it so? How has our Empire, untested in foreign conflict, managed to succeed time and time again on the battlefield? It's certainly a fair inquiry. Why, over the past five years or so, we've conquered almost five percent of the world's total landmass with only a force of about two million strong at any given time! The answer lies in our technology. More specifically - space power. With the help of our Lunar friends, we have become the only nation on Earth to militarize the final frontier to our collective benefit. In Africa and Asia, this is shown most through the bombing campaigns of what our esteemed officers fittingly deem 'Operation Starlight'. And there would be no truer testament to our Frenkish Imperial dominance of the heavens as the Battle of Bunkeya Plain..."

"Good evening! Or should I say morning! Hehe!" The Congolese greybeard chuckled in a thick Francophone accent as Masterson took a seat between the other two men. He looked to be a jolly man, with his thick beer belly and laugh lines visible even past his beard. "An old man really shouldn't be up at this hour, yes? You soldier-types really keep me busy, haha! But I digress...what can I get for you, friend?"
"Are your plantains picked fresh from the jungle?" Masterson asked.
"Yes, yes, my friend!" The man nodded. "I send my barmaid outside the town every few days to pick them from the trees. Only the freshest in my humble establishment!"
"Then I'll have a plantain juice. No liquor." The Ranger plainly nodded. "Just the juice."
"Aha, the Ranger must be on some big important assignment to take his refreshment without a spike!"

"On a hot July afternoon in Twenty-Ninety-Four, a token garrison of one hundred Imperial troops, most of them logisticians and military policemen with only so much as a platoon of proper riflemen among them, held their own against an opposing force that, some sources state, numbered almost six thousand Baluba savages, local white slave masters, and foreign whore-soldiers; all up to their knickers in heavy firepower..."

As the radio broadcast continued and the barman plucked a pair of plantains from a nearby shelf and set about mixing them and turning them into juice, Masterson took the opportunity to look at the two men sharing the bar with him. The Auxiliary politely nodded at him, while the other seemed to be deliberately ignoring him.
The bartender soon returned with a tall glass of thick yellow liquid, gently sliding it towards Masterson.
"There you go, my friend! On the house for a Ranger!"
"Thank you."

"With all nearby potential reinforcements wrapped up in other matters and many hours away, and the savage's noted lack of principles towards any honorable prisoners of war, certain doom was creeping on our courageous boys and girls. Enter the space bombers. With the utmost accuracy and determination, they struck the advancing horde, exposed and packed tightly together on those open plains. Upwards of two thousand hostile combatants were killed or wounded in the first bombardment alone. A second claimed hundreds more. A third sent the slaver forces running for the hills, tails between their legs. Such is the fate of any vile opportunists or savages who would oppose our humanitarian efforts! As for the casualties suffered by the Imperial garrison? Naught but a few cuts and bruises. A fitting and just end to this nasty affair."

Masterson took a sip from his glass. Lightly sweet and creamy, frothy with milk, and thick with fruit chunks. Definitely the best thing he had the pleasure of drinking since his arrival in the Congo.
"Frederic, we're surrounded by Frenks!" The middle-aged man to Masterson's left eventually spoke out, giving Masterson a rude glance as he did so. Like the old man, he leaned chubby, and his clean, rounded face sported a pair of small glasses. He had the look of a college professor, if Masterson had to guess his profession. He was clearly making a statement by voicing his opinion in English for Masterson to hear. "Do we really have to listen to their propaganda?"
"You know the rules, Jean!" The bartender, Frederic, answered with a chuckle. "I like Jazz, so Jazz plays in my bar! If you can't handle the talking in-between, you can plug your ears!"

"In conclusion, the future of warfare clearly lies in the stars above us! Africa and Indonesia will serve as a model for future conflict, of that I am certain. Next topic - eugenics. Are we really heading down this path? I think not! More food for thought after the music."
The airwaves were then dominated with jazz music of the sort that was popular among Imperial civilians, as opposed to the rock and doo-wop that military brats preferred. It made for easier listening out in the sticks, after all.

The bespeckled man, Jean, merely sighed and took another swig from his bottle.
"You think it's just propaganda?" Masterson cooly inquired.
"I know it's propaganda!" The man impatiently replied. "You Frenks are just another type of colonialist overlord! No different from the French or the Belgians or the Americans!"
"Maybe so." Masterson shrugged, taking a sip from his glass. "But our interest is in the people. We're here at Ngabe to keep the river secure, after all. We need a way to ship raw material up from Katanga and Tanganyika. Eighty percent of everything we extract is going right back into local development, you know."
"And what of the other twenty percent, huh?" Jean shook his head and took another sip from his bottle. "Lumumba didn't die just to see this land perpetually in the hands of non-Congolese. To be exploited for her riches..."
"Well I'm optimistic about the Frenks..." Frederic smiled as he began wiping the counter. "I'm old enough to remember the family stories about Belgian rule. I don't think this is anything like that. The Frenks have been good to us so far. Hell, if they managed to make Americans and Mexicans get along enough to share the same flag, whose to say they can't work that magic here? And if you can't beat them, join them!"

Frederic finished by waving towards the Auxilia. "Isn't that right, my boy?"
The Auxilia merely chuckled and shook his head. "You told me to sign up for the service, Papa. So that's what I did!"
"Yes. And it's better than bleeding to death in Kinshasa for the benefit of gunrunners and drug dealers, Jean! You need to stop sympathizing with the Republique Populaire. It's not good for your health." Frederic grinned. "If there's anything the conquests have taught us, it's that the Empire's bombs are louder than God's revolver!"
"You know, Frederic, at one point you would have agreed with me." Jean said as he finished off his beer. "The Frenks are shitting on us!"
"Well, Jean, the Frenks leave, and then what? Wait for the 'Lumumbists' to repeat the mistakes of Mobutu or Kabila?"

With that, Jean merely spat, got up, and stormed out the door.
"You'll pay your tab next week, yeah Jean?" Frederic called after him with a hearty laugh. He then turned back to Masterson.
"Don't pay him much mind, my friend. He's an academic type. Real whiner! I'm sure his attitude towards my Frenkish friends will perk right up once his little girls grow up and they're allowed to attend some bigshot school over in the Empire..."

"You know, you are remarkably well-spoken, for a, uh..." Masterson struggled to find a fitting term.
"For a savage? A Barbarian?" The barkeep grinned, throwing his rag to the side and meeting him eye-to-eye.
"Uh, no. No." He was quick to deny it. "Not a savage. My intention wasn't to offend."
"No offense on my part, friend!" Frederic boomed with laughter. "It's only right you might have trouble finding some reason in this blasted rainforest! We Congolese, what can I say? Proud and stubborn! Especially towards white men!"

"I'm not white, though." Masterson casually remarked. His father was white and his mother was black, and he felt his light-caramel skin and wiry black hair reflected that well enough. "Even so. Doesn't really matter. The Empire has, theoretically at least, moved past such prejudices. You should consider doing the same."
"All due respect, my friend. I've seen men darker than me wearing an Imperial uniform. And the way they strut, the way they talk, the way they carry themselves...white men in all but skin, haha! There's no mistaking you Frenks for what you are - Imperial conquerors!"
"Then why do you support us?"

"I was a young man when the bombs fell across the globe. A few hit Kinshasa and Brazzaville, a missile or two in Lubumbashi...but we managed to escape the apocalypse relatively unscathed. It was that Winter that really did us in. But the jungle...the jungle remained strong through the decade of darkness. Anyone who didn't retreat deep into it probably starved to death or went ghoulie from all the rads."
Frederic sighed as Masterson finished the last of his juice. The old barkeep was quick to refill his glass.
"Yep, we trusted the Congo and all of her bounty to get us through that terrible time. Once the sun came back, we were able to start farming. Our soil wasn't as bad as most. Yet...many of us didn't have the pre-war luxuries that allowed you Frenks to bounce back so quickly. Education. Industry. Medicine. For the most part, we didn't regress to throwing spears and dining on roast Pygmy, but...I can't say some of us didn't! The Mayi-Mayi are proof of that! The jungle...it can drive men mad..."

The last words resonated deeply with Masterson. Perhaps Kurtz was proof this "jungle madness" wasn't exclusive to the Congolese...
"What about you?"
"Me? Ha! My father was a drunk, but he was resourceful! Not a good combination, but he taught me how to tap my own palm wine and brew homemade rice beer long ago! So I started this bar! It was a living, but you Frenks...you like to drink! I've made more money in a year than I have in two decades, thanks to your base you built here! Once my son completes his service, I can pass it down to him and retire in comfort! Not a lot of Congolese can do that! Anyway, you've let an old man ramble...why do I like you Frenks? Well...I'm an old man. I'm never going to see a united, independent, and strong Congo ever again. Regardless if you were here or not..."

Frederic then sighed, and for the first time Masterson witnessed, frowned.
"Our country was never rich or prosperous. It was always a hard life here, but we never complained. But with nuclear hellfire, a decade of darkness, and decades of civil war...I just think it's time we give something else a try. If not for ourselves, for our children."
He nodded at his son.
"Our pride, mighty it may be, can take a small hit if it means we have a chance for a better life. You Frenks say you're going to give it to us? We don't have a lot of options otherwise. I'll probably be dead long before I can see any meaningful change here, but...I just hope your lot don't disappoint me in the end, yeah?"
"Well, Mister Frederic, I hope we don't either..." Masterson respectfully nodded before taking another swig.

"You said you've ran this bar for two decades?" Masterson inquired.
"Has a Frenk ever stopped in here? Before the military showed up, I mean." He continued. "He probably came through with a well-armed outfit. A lot of them were probably ghouls?"
"You mean Mistah Kurtz, yeah?" Frederic chuckled.
"Wasn't expecting that to be so easy..." He reflected with a shake of the head.
"Yeah. Kurtz. You remember anything about him?" The Ranger asked, leaning in close. "He's...an old friend of mine."
"Oh, it was years ago, my friend..." Frederic sighed, pondering. "He was, uh, very friendly. Long before the Army showed up, so everyone in the village was talking about him. He bought two glasses of palm wine and we debated for the better part of an afternoon, haha! Very, very smart man! He was the one who convinced me to keep an open mind for when you Frenks showed up. The next morning, he and his men left. He tipped very well, and his mercenaries were nothing if not polite! Even if their rotting faces scared the children, haha!"
"Hmm. He didn't happen to mention any campsites or regular haunting grounds, did he?"

Just as he asked, however, the doors to the bar opened up, and a pair of MPs stepped in.
"Major Masterson." One of them stated, followed by both of them saluting.
"At ease." He dismissed them. "What's the situation?"
"Sir, we were sent to find you." The MP stated plainly. "One Lieutenant Colonel Madison has requested your presence at the command post!"
"Hmm. Very well..." He turned back to Frederic. "Duty calls, Mister Frederic. You take care of yourself."

As he got up to leave, he swiftly produced a note worth 100 Victory Credits from one of his pockets and left it on the counter.
As Frederic examined it, he turned to the departing Masterson with a smile.
"Good luck to you, my friend!" The jolly Congolese greybeard called out as the Ranger left.

---

The proper base at Ngabe was more comparable to a fortress than a sprawling installation. Located on a hill overlooking the village, it dominated the view, and served as a constant reminder of Imperial power in the region.
Just as Masterson said in the bar, the compound at Ngabe was established to help keep the river secure. While a small outpost on the river served as a dock for a decently-sized FAC fleet, the fortress was fitted with artillery, comms relays, and several aircraft. Once construction was finished, it would be capable of housing and outfitting hundreds of soldiers and dozens of patrol boats, and would theoretically be capable of policing a couple hundred miles of river. A few more planned installations would guarantee secure river passage from Katanga all the way to Moanda and Matadi.
If the bar conversations were of any indication, this installation was either a local symbol of hope and security...or one of oppression and dominance.

The walk to the base was more-or-less uneventful. Masterson passed a couple of checkpoints, the guards not bothering to stop and check his papers, instead saluting and talking to themselves in hushed whispers about the wandering Ranger officer.
He eventually reached the base. In the main area, several troops were gathered around a holoscreen, watching a recorded Broadway production - predictably one bringing awareness to the conflict in the Congo. One of it's musical numbers was in full swing when Masterson passed by.

"Major!" Another MP approached him, greeting with a salute. He dropped it as Masterson returned the gesture. "Lieutenant Colonel Madison is in an office to the left!"
'Lieutenant Colonel?" Masterson asked. "I thought an installation this size had a Major in charge..."
"Colonel Madison comes from Malorey Town, sir!" The policeman answered. "She has a new development in your mission!"
"Oh yeah?" Masterson nodded. If they were coming to him with new developments, that made his job easier. "Take me to her, trooper."
He followed the MP to the office he was talking about. Once he reached his destination, the MP held the door open for him. Once Masterson stepped through, he gently closed it behind him, the MP waiting outside with his hands crossed behind his back.

The office was large and bare, indicating no one had necessarily made it their own yet. Madison was sat at the main desk, and acknowledged his presence with a nod. Masterson could tell from one of the patches on her uniform that she was Army Intelligence. It made sense they sent her after him.
"Major Masterson!" She called out in a thick Northern accent. She was short and lean, with dark auburn hair cropped closely to her head (greying in a couple of spots due to age). Her eyes were obscured by a pair of dark sunglasses, which was typical of a spook. "So you're the one they got chasing after Kurtz?"
"Yes, ma'am." He saluted, releasing after she returned the gesture.
"Well you're certainly making good time..." She remarked with a grin. "I wasn't expecting you here for another day or two, at least. Hell, it's four in the morning! I was asleep."
"Apologies, ma'am." Masterson nodded, taking a seat at the small conference table situated opposite the desk. "I've been keeping my vessel mobile at all hours, day and night. I intend to make good time."

"Well, you're nothing if not determined, Major." She smiled. "Let's get down to business, shall we?"
Madison immediately produced another dossier folder. This one was much smaller than the one he was carrying, and carried the same "classified" stamp.
She tossed it on the table in front of him, inviting him to look through it with a nod.
Masterson flicked through the documents and photos. The pictures in-particular told a telling story. He recognized Kurtz's mercenaries, prowling the jungle or posing in some village. Often, they were flanked by locals, poorly armed in comparison, but armed all the same and apparently collaborating. The dates penned at the tops and bottoms of these photographs revealed just how recent they were. The latest was just a couple weeks old.
"We found him." Madison stated with a grin. "Or, at least...we're pretty sure we did."

She directed her attention to the only decoration in the room; a highly-detailed map of the Congo Basin, standard in command centers across Africa. She pointed at a place to the northeast, somewhat close to the old-world borders of Rwanda and Uganda. There, the river seemed to fork off for a short distance and end at a minor blip labeled "Lumumbaville".
"We believe he's operating out of Lumumbaville. Pre-war planned community, strategically placed to offer some glimmer of development in a region known for violence and unrest. Was never finished before the bombs dropped. The jungle's reclaimed most of it, but it's highly defensible, and we believe it has symbolic value for the People's Republic, considering the name."
"That might be why he's there..." Masterson nodded. "A taunt."
"Exactly." She affirmed before walking back over to the dossier folder and pulling out one particular document. "Three days ago, just before you left Kinshasa, a Lurp squad in the area found a few of what they called 'well-armed ghouls with Imperial gear'. They didn't know about Kurtz or any of that, but they were given special instruction to detain anyone matching he or his PMC's description. They tried, and, well..."

She sighed before reaching into the folder and pulling out another photograph. She handed it off to Masterson.
He was greeted with a gruesome sight. What he recognized as being dead Frenkish soldiers were strung about a treeline in various states of mutilation. One was hanging by his own intestines. Another was hanged by his testicles. A couple were beheaded, their screaming faces decorating a few nearby pikes. The poor quality of the photograph and it's lack of a date indicated the camera was in bad condition - likely taken by Kurtz's band and used to show off what they were capable of.
"Jesus Christ..." Masterson said, wide-eyed. "They really have lost it..."
"Yep." Madison solemnly acknowledged. "Too far-gone if they're attacking Imperial military personnel and doing...that to them. He's a murderer and a traitor now. This can only end with his death."
"But with all due respect, ma'am..." He answered, sliding the photo back in the dossier. "Is my mission not over? We know where he is. Wouldn't we just carpet bomb that entire sector and be done with it?"

"Were it so simple, Major." Madison answered as she walked to the other end of the room. She returned toting a large box, just as large (if not even more so) than she was. She very gently put it on the table next to him.
"We think there might be a lot of civilians in Lumumbaville. Probably followers of Kurtz, but civvies nonetheless." She stated. "We're not going to bomb them to kingdom come if we don't absolutely have to. Ergo, your mission continues. It's just a lot more suicidal now..."
"Wouldn't be my first." Masterson stoically remarked. He pulled out his River Kongo map and jotted the general location of Lumumbaville on it. Adding the word "KURTZ" in bold over it. He then felt for his Section Two target designator lying secure in one of his inner pockets. "About the Section Two..."

"If it comes down to it?" She replied. "Use it. But only in a last-ditch scenario."
"Understood."
"Now..." She continued, rubbing her hand over the large box she was previously toting. "Your mission is a lot more difficult if they're willingly firing on Imperial troops. You are to continue by boat - we can't risk an airlift. And you're not gonna be able to get anywhere close to him. That's why I'm giving you this..."
She quickly undid a latch holding the container shut and pushed the lid open, revealing the contents inside. Masterson walked over and examined it.
At first glance, it was obvious it was a weapon. A rifle, fitted with a large, computer-assisted scope. However, it was unlike any rifle he had ever seen before. It was mostly simplistic in it's design, yet the barrel was surrounded by several shielded rows of metallic spirals. On the receiver was a heat sink of some sort, with a wire leading to small box on top of it. The thickness of the barrel indicated it fired something heavy-hitting, like fifty cal or fourteen-mil, yet the magazine was remarkably small.

"XM One-Sixty-Two Anti-Materiel Rifle." Madison cooly explained. "Electromagnetic propulsion. The first effective, man-portable gauss rifle in the world. Very experimental, as it's barebones build would suggest. It's not even ready for the R and D units. The IIA had to pull some pretty serious strings to get it to you..."
"Gauss." Masterson remarked. "So...it's kinda like the railguns we have on the navy ships and the tanks?"
"Yep. And just as powerful and accurate as anything can be on this scale." She proudly remarked. "And unlike rails, it's safe for man-portable. Won't blow your arms off if you try to shoot it..."

"Point is, satellite scans of the region indicate there is very little in the way of a safe vantage point in the immediate area of Lumumbaville. But since you can't get anywhere near him, the best way to do your job would be at a distance." She said. "This monstrosity is capable of effectively confirming kills from klicks away. There are a few potential sniper spots a mile or two away from Lumumbaville. The dossier has a map marking them. You'll need to bring that rifle along, post up in one of them, and wait until you see Kurtz. Then you do what you have to do."
"Right." Masterson said as Madison resealed the rifle box, sliding it towards him when she was done.
"Like I said, it's a flimsy prototype. It can not get dirty or damaged at all." She said with a tone of seriousness. "And I shouldn't have to explain it can't get wet. Keep it below the decks of your boat and do not let it leave it's case until you are at a chosen location. If it's raining, you'll have to wait until the skies clear. And do not fire it at anything that isn't Kurtz."
"Understood, ma'am." He answered with a deep understanding of the situation's gravity.

"Now, that's all I have for you, Major." She said with a grin, returning to her chair. "Good hunting."
"Thank you, ma'am." He saluted one last time before picking up the large case and departing for the boat.

As he found himself outside the compound, he found himself tapping on the case. This mission just got a hell of a lot more complicated.

[New Frenco Empire]

-The River Kongo: Chapter VII-
(MCN - UPS - CIN - ESL - MAT - NFE - PRO - WAR - TPP)

Major Kendrick Masterson
Congo River, Sub-Saharan Wildlands
September 14th, 2096

As was usual on the boat, music was often kept at an audible volume for the deck crew to idly listen as they stayed on watch.
For now, it was only Masterson and Lancer, which was pretty standard during evenings such as this. The Ranger was reviewing his dossiers for what was probably the tenth time, while Lancer was lazily leaned against one of the bulletproof sidings. Both were casually smoking.

After a minute, the music ended. Instead of transitioning to another song or to the request line from Garcia the DJ, they were instead greeted by the authoritative tone of General Jim Benson, supreme commander of AFRICOM, and the one who assigned Masterson to his mission in the first place.
"This is General Benson with a special announcement. I am here to remind all men and women of the Grand Imperial Army that they are here to be a positive example of an occupation force. The people of the Congo are to be treated with the same respect you'd give to any civilian back in the Empire. For all intents and purposes, they are now citizens of Frenkish Zambeziland, ergo, they are now Frenks. We are here to reintroduce civilization to this godforsaken region, so start acting civilized, goddammit! Some of the reports I've been getting are simply disgraceful! Theft. Assault. Even a few rapes!"

"Heh. Now he tells us..." Lancer blew as he finished his cigarette, throwing the expended butt overboard. "I'm sure all those civvies in Kinshasa will be real appreciative..."
"Any criminal action on the part of any Grand Imperial Military personnel that directly victimizes a Congolese person will be dealt with punitively from here on out! Public flogging! Five-to-fifty strikes with a baton, depending on the severity of the crime!" Benson sternly continued. "If you wouldn't act that way at home, don't act like it here! Benson out."

Lancer merely blew as another song began. "Yeah, ol' 'Sit-and-See' Benson at it again. Corporal punishment. Real 'civilized'."
"It sends a message..." Masterson said, exhaling smoke. "Not to the offending soldiers, though I'm sure the pain and humiliation will make it clear enough for them. No, it's for the natives. Shows them their conquerors won't tolerate any barbarity on their own behalf. So they should be expected to act the same way..."
"Fuck man, what's wrong with just telling them 'hey, we didn't mean it, be nice please'?" Lancer sarcastically remarked as he played with his zippo lighter, continuously flicking the top, each time resonating with a metallic "clink".
"Out here in the wildlands, violence is about the only language we share with them." The Ranger replied before taking another drag. "A lot of them speak French, and enough of us can speak that. But there are a lot of obscure languages spoken in this region. How many of us know Lingala or Kituba? Mboshi? Bateke? But with violence, you don't need a translator..."
"Man, that's some deep shit, sir..." The NCO blinked. "Sounds more like some fascist apologist bullshit, but deep nonetheless..."

Masterson merely grunted in response. He had only just realized what he had said. Those weren't his words. Those were Kurtz's...
He remembered it from the audio log he listened to last night.
"Language. The way we communicate is the penultimate expression of mankind's geographic, cultural, and ethnic differences. In our world, communication is key, and the language barrier will perhaps be the chief obstacle of our mission. Yet, there are ways mankind can communicate to one another without language..."
He didn't think much of it, though. Kurtz was on his mind. That was all...

The sun continued to set as another hour passed in general silence, aside from the music and Lancer's occasional humming along when a number he particularly liked popped up. Masterson merely flipped through the dossiers, occasionally listening to another audio log. Despite the need for intel dropping significantly with his discovery, the Ranger was attached to the habit more than anything.

"The deep blue of a fading afternoon...is this what the Empire truly is?" The familiar voice echoed. "A pleasant, but oh-so brief phenomena, only to eventually fade away, replaced by the dark?"
"The course of human history has proved one thing - nationstates are fickle things. They collapse as often as they rise. Take the example of the United States of America. She was always strong. If any state were to break the conventions, it was to be her. Yet...she was broken all the same by a combination of nuclear hellfire and a tide of progress. New Rome's victory over the hangers-on was the defining moment of a century, and a glorious occasion, for sure, yet...it also dashed any hope of a precedent being broken. America was created and consumed just like any other great empire. We Frenks...our system is also strong. We represent a method of human progress that has never before been attempted. Why shouldn't that last for thousands of years? Yet...one can't help but wonder, are we just going to be a brief footnote in human history, like so many before it? Will all my efforts here in the wildlands be for nothing? After much deliberation...I have decided it does not matter. We think too much about the impact our actions will leave on future generations. However...we do not live in terms of the future or the past. We live in the present. Even if all were to collapse, and the Congo was once again to degrade...I would have lived a life worthy of the storybooks. Surely that is all that anyone can ask for..."

---

"Major? Major!" Masterson was stirred by Lancer's words. What was going on?
He had evidently dozed off listening to an audio log. It was quite unlike him to "accidentally" fall asleep...
He gently lifted his slouch hat up from over his eyes, meeting Lancer face-to-face.
"Yes, Corporal?"
"Sir, we got something going on about a quarter of a klick downriver! I saw smoke..."

Masterson yawned and got on his feet. He unholstered his magnum pistol (just in case) and walked near the back of the boat, picking up a pair of binoculars as he did so.
"Let's take a look..." He said, kneeling low and focusing in on the source of the smoke
"Yo, Lance!" Cookie's voice boomed as he loudly ascended the stairs to the upper deck. "Shift change! It's twenty-hundred!"
"Shut up, man!" Lance called back in a hushed tone. "We got activity on the east bank!"
"Oh yeah...Cap told me to tell you about that."
"Hush!"

Masterson carefully adjusted the dials on the lenses, until the scene came perfectly into view.
There were dozens of men surrounding a raging bonfire. Some of them were armed, some with rusty rifles old even by pre-war standards, others with spears and bows. Their clothing reflected their primitive weaponry well enough, some wearing ragged old shirts and jeans, while others wore more traditional, hand-sewn clothing.
Many of them were dancing and chanting, engaged in some festive ritual of some sort. Others were passed out, drunk and stuffed if the bottles and plates scattered all over the place were of any indication.
Upon closer inspection, it seems the bonfire was host to a cooking spit. What was on the spit he couldn't yet tell.

"Corporal, turn off all the mosquito lamps!" The Ranger called out.
"What do we got sir?" Lancer asked as he worked, quickly shutting off all the lamps, robbing the boat of it's only visible light source.
"Mayi-Mayi." Masterson said, motioning towards the campsite. "I count about forty of them."
"What the fuck are they doing?" Lancer asked, focusing in with his own pair of binoculars (an extra pair he "borrowed" from Ngabe).
"Tribal ceremony of some sort." The Ranger nodded. "Looks like they're celebrating something with a feast."

By this time, Cap and Squeaky emerged onto the deck. Cap had already turned all the boat's lights off, and judging by the turns the boat was taking across the wide river, she had evidently plotted a course for the autopilot.
"Where is the boat going, Sergeant?" He asked as he attempted to zero back in on the Mayi-Mayi, trying to find any potential lookouts or fortifications that would be a threat to them.
"See that tree overgrowth?" She said, pointing out a portion of the river to the far west, where several tree branches had grown out several meters out into the water. Between the bank and the branches was an opening that looked to be just big enough to fit the boat. "We're stopping there so we can assess the situation. Well-hidden..."
"Good thinking, Cap." He nodded, just as he managed to get back on track with his view.

As the boat slowly slid into the hiding place, Masterson could see a lot more of what was going on. The village or camp or whatever it was, was densely populated with tribal militiamen. Upon closer inspection, it seemed the party was revolved around five men, all seated ceremoniously around the bonfire.
At this distance, he could make them out clearly. They were older than most of the other militants, and the most well-armed, wearing flak jackets and ammo bandoliers. He could even make out more intimate details...including the fact that all of them were wearing severed body parts. One man had a hand dangling from his neck. Another a bracelet of what appeared to be toes. One of them even had a human head dangling from his belt, it's expression contorted in an infinite scream.
However, it was the man in the center, the oldest out of all of them that really captivated Masterson. He wore an Imperial Army helmet and flamboyantly displayed a necklace of ears. Like the appendages worn by his comrades, most of them were of a dark brown, suggesting they came from natives (likely their PRM enemies), but more than a couple of them were white. With that, there was no denying it - he had managed to kill Imperials, and was considered some sort of great warrior in the tribe for it.

Eventually, the music and cheering stopped. Masterson saw several of the warriors step out of the way, as something was brought forward from the inner village.
Then he saw it...a pair of warriors were escorting two people (naked, cuffed, and gagged) to the center of the celebration. They were both very short in stature, standing a good foot or two less than their captors. This combined with their bloated physiques (the mark of Kwashiorkor) and tried paints across their bodies pinned them as Pygmies. Considering the history between Pygmies and rural Bantu? Masterson knew this wasn't going to end pretty...

"What the hell?" Lancer openly pondered. It was obvious his attention was focused on them as well.
They both watched as the chief warlord rose from his makeshift throne, his collection of preserved ears jingling as he did so, and strode towards the Pygmies, the surrounding militants dutifully watching him. He inspected them, occasionally touching them, feeling the mass in their appendages or the tenderness of their skin.
Eventually, the warlord drew his machete, and as his warriors cheered, the two watched as he quickly hacked one of the Pygmies to death, the blade smashing his skull.

"Oh my god..." Lancer exclaimed, horrified at the sight.
"What-what's going on?" Squeaky hesitantly asked.
"Nothing, Private." Masterson nonchalantly replied, keeping his eyes on the event.

"They weren't done here..."

It was then that a couple of the Mayi-Mayi approached the bonfire and removed the spit. Only now could Masterson and Lancer tell what was being roasted...

Lancer was the first to comment on it.
"They're..." He murmured, his jaw agape im horror at the revelation of a charred corpse. "They're fucking eating them..."
"Jesus..." Cookie solemnly remarked. "Really?"
"Take a look for yourself..." Lancer grimaced, unceremoniously tossing the binoculars into Cookie's hands. "Son of a bitch, I think I'm gonna be sick..."
"Woah..." Cookie muttered. "They...they really are cannibals..."
"Pygmies are traditionally cannibalized." Masterson added, not taking his eyes off of the ceremony. He even watched as they removed the cooked body and moved it to a platter, replacing it with the freshly-slaughtered one. "Part of some black magic ritual nonsense. Say what you will of the People's Republic, at least they're not the Mayi-Mayi..."

Masterson and Cookie continued observing, watching as the warlord scarfed down a few strips from the groin region. He made himself another plate, however, he didn't touch it himself. Instead, he strolled over to where the other Pygmy was still tied. He removed the gag and picked up a piece of "food" from the plate. As the Pygmy cried out, the warlord shoved the roasted flesh into his mouth, force-feeding him several more pieces of his slain-and-cooked colleague...

"Why are you two still watching them? We need to put those sick fuckers in the ground!" Lancer angrily stated, staying quiet as Masterson ordered. "We can't let this happen..."
"You think the five of us can take on forty-plus of them?" Cap asked with a hushed blow.
"Forty on open ground armed with spears and rusty AKs." Cookie said with a grun. "Five of us with a trained Ranger sniper, two machine guns, a minigun, and an automatic grenade launcher all on an armored boat? We ain't got the worst odds if we wanna go down that route..."
"I agree with Cook." Lancer nodded. "But we can't go in guns blazing. We gotta see if they have any more prisoners..."
"Lance, man...we can't save everyone." Cookie remarked. "I don't wanna stage some daring rescue mission for a bunch of weird tribal midgets that are gonna starve to death anyway!"

"Quiet." Masterson coldly waved them down. "Both of you. I need to think about this..."
After only a few seconds of pondering, he knew what he was going to do...

"Get my rifle." He calmly ordered, turning to Cookie who was closest to it.
"Sir?" Cookie asked, bemused. Surely he wasn't about to snipe all of them from here. They could have just gotten closer and wiped them out his way...
"My rifle. Go get it." Masterson repeated, clearly in no mood for questions. He took the opportunity to hand his binoculars off to Cap, so she might get a feel for the situation.
"Uhh...sure, Major. Your rifle..."

Less than a minute later, Cookie emerged from the lower deck, cradling the Ranger's rifle. He quietly shuffled towards him, carefully handing the M19 off to him with a nod. He must have been eager to see what he was planning...

Masterson quickly examined the rifle, and then went to work. He removed the magazine and pulled the bolt back, ensuring the chamber was empty. Once he verified it was, he reached for his belt and pulled out a large cylinder, easily recognized as a rifle suppressor.
He calmly screwed it onto the barrel, tapping it lightly to ensure it was secure. After that, he set the rifle down and turned his attention back to the magazine, carefully taking a single round from it.
He reclaimed the rifle and pulled the bolt back once more, gently placing the bullet in the chamber, firmly securing it in front of the firing pin. This was an old Ranger trick, as without a magazine, the M19's iconic "ping" (produced during rechambering) was silenced. While the signature sound of the M19 contributed greatly to the Empire's favored brand of shock and awe, it didn't help when trying to be subtle...

He then took aim, carefully adjusting his scope in the manner he needed to.
"Do you need me to spot for you?" Cap inquired.
"No." He bluntly replied as he continued zeroing in. She was right to offer help. After all, he was trying to make a precision shot from about four football field lengths away with a semiautomatic. But all the same, he didn't need it...

Out of all them, Squeaky seemed to be the most drawn to what the Ranger was doing. She didn't witness any of what happened, thankfully, but from what she heard...
Viola. The perfect adjustment. All calculations in order. He found his shot...
He breathed deeply, taking one last gasp as his finger wrapped around the trigger.

After what felt like years, the air was finally pierced with a quiet pop and the slight ping of the ejected brass cartridge banging against the floor of the boat.
Masterson, Cap, and Cookie watched through scope or binoculars as the shot landed. To the latter two's surprise, however, it wasn't the warlord's skull (as Cap anticipated) or a nearby fuel canister (as Cookie would have thought) that the bullet hit.

It was the Pygmy.

It was only after Masterson watched the Pygmy (tears pouring down his face, mouth full of the cooked flesh of his comrade) died and the warlord was painted with his blood and brain matter that he took his eye out of the scope and lowered the rifle.
"You...you hit the tribal..." Cap asked, dumbfounded, as she lowered the binoculars, revealing her blank, petrified expression. "Did you miss, sir?"
"I don't miss." He plainly retorted.
"But...why?" She asked, her expression remaining still.
"Mercy killing, Sergeant." Masterson stated, nonchalantly handing his rifle off to Squeaky (who was no less horrified). "It's Mayi-Mayi custom to enslave Pygmies and use them as scouts and foragers. The unsuccessful are butchered and eaten. However, the strongest of the group is kept alive and in-service...but they often force feed his family to him for the failure. He was probably going to survive tonight, but he still would have been a slave. Would have had to live with himself with the taste of his tribesmen on his tongue..."

"What. The. FUCK, MAJOR!" Lancer roared, approaching Masterson, chest puffed out. "We could have wiped out that entire village, yet you kill the one who didn't deserve it!"
"Corporal, shut up!" Masterson angrily retorted in a hushed tone, pushing the enraged Lancer back. "They're gonna be looking for us, now! If you don't wanna end up like those Pygmies, you will keep your mouth shut!"

Lancer merely blew and glared at Masterson with contempt before taking kneeling and throwing himself against the side of the boat, arms crossed.
"Cap was right." Masterson said. "We're not gonna take on all of them. Their warlord was wearing Imperial gear, and he was decorated with the severed ears of white men - Frenks. If he can get away with killing Frenks, they're obviously a lot more dangerous and resourceful than they look. The Mayi-Mayi own the jungle, and I'm erring on the side of caution. I did all I could. And all I could do was put a victim out of his misery..."
"I'd have at least considered taking down the warlord. With all due respect, Major." Cap remarked.
"Then what, Sergeant?" Masterson asked with a sigh. "He gets replaced with someone even stronger and more savage, and this little warband continues terrorizing the jungle. It wouldn't have changed anything. Like I said - our mission is not to hunt Mayi-Mayi and play the part of judge, jury, and executioner of the wasteland!"
"Always the mission..." Lancer stated emotionlessly, shaking his head. "It's Ross's Villa all over again..."

Masterson ignored Lancer's snide remark and took another look at the village, taking the binoculars from Cookie.
The warriors were clearly astonished and dumbfounded at the development. All had taken up arms and were searching around the village, looking in vain for the mystery sniper. None thought to look across the river...
Evidently, one of them found something off to one of the sides deeper in the jungle. He yelled to his comrades, who immediately darted off to the left of the village, weapons drawn and ready for a fight. None of the Mayi-Mayi remained on the bank, leaving the fire and Pygmy corpse unattended.
"We're clear." Masterson stated, looking to Cap. "Let's get moving before they come back."

Without a word, Cap, Squeaky, and Lancer retreated to the lower decks, and they were off.
Masterson and Cookie were left on deck to continue the watch in darkness.
"Well, sir..." Cookie eventually remarked with a grin. "I'm not going to hold it against you. Besides, once Ngabe is fully-operational, all those savages will be wiped out once and for all! A bleeding heart will just make it so you bleed out in the jungle. At least, that's what the drill sarge told me. Right, Major?"
"Private?" Masterson said, as he reached into his dossier for the media player, intent on blitzing through another few audio logs.
"Yes sir?"
"Shut up."

[New Frenco Empire]

-The River Kongo: Chapter VIII-
(MCN - UPS - CIN - ESL - MAT - NFE - PRO - WAR - TPP)

Who Was Once Major Kendrick Masterson
A Strange Land
Unknown

Where...where am I?

Masterson was still in the Congo. He could decipher that much. The trees, the tall grasses, the murkiness in the air...
He seemed to be in a swamp of some sort. The familiar cloudy, greenish-brown muckwater nearly came up to his shins. The bush surrounded him in all directions, the skies clouded with overgrowth. He must have been far away from the river, but why? Where were his troops?
"CAP! SOUND OFF!" He yelled out, hoping to get a response from the Sergeant. Nothing but his echo.
"CORPORAL, SOUND OFF!" No response. Where could the squad be?

"ANYONE!? FIVE-FIFTEEN, SOUND OFF! THAT'S AN ORDER!"
He continued to no avail, pacing across the wooded swamp as he did. Wherever he was, he seemed to be alone. He wasn't sure how he managed to get so deep into the bush, but he was going to have to find his way out. Luckily, after feeling about on his belt and pack, he determined the only serious piece of equipment he was missing was his rifle. Heh, only the rifle. This was not the kind of place one wanted to be caught out in without a reliable long arm. He had his sidearm and his machete, sure, and as a Ranger, he was skilled with both. Ranger he may have been, however, he did not want to engage a patrol of innies at point-blank with limited ammunition. He needed to find his way back to the river as soon as he could.

However, just as he was about to check his compass and see if he had GPS reception, he heard a crackling and a rustle in the treelines a dozen yards or so behind him.
Masterson quickly drew his pistol from his coat holster and took aim at the disturbance, finger coiled around the trigger and sights zeroed in before even three seconds could pass since the noise was first heard.
A large, black mass of muscle and fur, the creature's dark beady eyes locking with his own.

It was a gorilla.

The creature was scarred and somewhat mangy-looking, and quite a bit larger than pre-war records suggested. Yet, the way it looked at Masterson, equal parts curious and hesitant, suggested it wasn't gunning for him. If the beast was feral, it would have mindlessly charged the second he found himself in it's vicinity.
Masterson merely sighed in relief and holstered his sidearm.

"You lost, big guy?" He warmly remarked to the ape with a slight grin. "Me too..."
The gorilla yawned in response and walked a bit to the side of its current position, keeping it's eyes glued on the mysterious human.
Being a Ranger meant spending a lot of time in the bush, and for a lot of them, that meant getting some memorable encounters with the wildlife. A benign run-in with an ape was certainly preferable to a cobra bite to the groin (a story one of his former commanding officers told to no end). Hell, this was a lot better than that time he ran into a hippo back in the bayous of the Metropole...

He calmly continued observing the ape from a distance, the creature doing much the same. Masterson wasn't quite sure how the Great Ape population was doing, other than (if this weren't proof enough) they hadn't gone extinct. His thoughts flashed to his childhood, remembering one of his favorite books detailing the involvement of the United States Marine Corps across Africa in the years before the coup (an executive order from President Winslow, he believed it said), deployed on anti-poaching patrols in one final, desperate attempt to preserve the world's greatest animal specimens in the face of global climate change and opportunistic hunting. He recalled said attempts were mostly successful, and the populations of apes, elephants, rhinoceroses and other critically endangered populations experienced some remarkable growth before the coup government recalled the forces. He was a bit skeptical if it was truly a "happy" ending, since it was indeed just a kid's picture book, but it was fun to speculate nonetheless.

Eventually, the gorilla seemed to lose interest and calmly retreated deeper into the treeline. Masterson couldn't help but grin. He swore to himself, one day, he would retire from frontline service and request a transfer to the Wilderness Reserves, where he could spend more time like this admiring the interesting fauna. A lot of old Rangers went there once they tired of combat, where they spent their days hunting in the Imperial-held wildlands, be it for game or for poachers. It was the closest thing the Empire had to proper "game wardens", but it was an effective alternative. Illegal ivory really wasn't worth being pursued by a bunch of grizzled old Rangers.

As Masterson prepared to set off, however, he heard a chilling voice creep up from behind him...

"Major..."

He turned to see an old man standing about ten yards away, staring him down menacingly. How he managed to get there, Masterson was unsure - he was standing in the swamp water. He couldn't have gotten this close without the Ranger hearing him. There was no way...

Sure enough, he looked familiar. Mid-to-late sixties, looking a strange mix of wonkish college professor and grizzled army General. He wore combat boots (mostly obscured by the swamp water) and camouflage overalls, a stained and well-worn shirt beneath that. His overalls were fitted with a chest rig and holster, which held an antique pistol. His militaristic outfit was contrasted by his warm and grandfatherly face, complete with thick circular eyeglasses and soft white hair. He looked like he belonged behind the counter of a bookstore or in a lecture hall. Not in the heart of the African darkness.

"Do you think...that you have the right...to judge me?" The old man said in a soft, yet biting tone. Adopted transatlantic, with only the vaguest hints of a German accent.
It was...it was him. Kurtz.
"Where are we, Kurtz!?" Masterson demanded, quickly redrawing his pistol and training it on the enigmatic elderly man. "I have orders to kill you. Best start talking!"

"You have a right to kill me. You may do that. But you cannot judge me..." Kurtz ominously replied.
"You may believe what you will. You may call me a sinner. And a sinner I am. Yet...are we not all sinners? Are my sins really more evil than yours? Than Benson's? Edwin's? We are all sinners, Major..."
Masterson expected Kurtz to go for the gun on his person, yet, he didn't do that. He just stood there, monologuing.
"As we stand here, a bomber crew, given free reign of the stars above to destroy whatever they could find, has mistaken an Angolan schoolyard for an insurgent camp. Can you really blame them, only able to witness life and death on Earth through little thermal screens?...Regardless, no one can stop the firebombs now. They should be hitting just about now..."

"You wanna play that way? Whatever. It doesn't matter. I got you, you son of a bitch..." Masterson triumphantly stated. His words and actions, he felt, were barely his own. He had questions. What was this place? What were they doing here? Why?
However...here Kurtz was. All he needed to do was raise his gun and pull the trigger. Then it would all be over...

"Can you hear it now? The screams of dying children?"
Masterson licked his lips as his finger coiled around the trigger. He never hesitated this much before with any other mark...
Still, within a second, the all too familiar pop sounded the end to the mission. Kurtz died cleanly, a single bullet wound piercing his heart as he flopped into the dirty water below.

Was this really it? Was it over? He supposed it was.
Masterson retrieved his field camera from one of his packs, intending to photograph Kurtz's corpse and send it back to AFRICOM. A job well done. Only...

"You think you have the right to judge me...?"

The familiar voice, the very one he (believed he) had just silenced, was speaking to him once more.
He immediately shifted his focus to the source, and sure enough, Kurtz was standing before him once more, five yards behind him, where he was standing not a few seconds prior. He dropped the camera into the muck, immediately retrieving his pistol in a fit of confusion.
"Right now, over three hundred innocent people in Jakarta are spending their dying moments gasping for air..." He said, slowly walking towards Masterson.
"I-I killed you!" The Ranger defiantly yelled, quickly looking over his shoulder to confirm the corpse was still lying half submerged in the swamp muck. It was. "This...this doesn't make any sense!"

"...their lungs filling with the volatile fumes of plasma, their insides melting at an even faster rate than their flesh..." Kurtz continued, stepping forward slowly yet methodically. His movement matched the tempo of his words. His feet shuffled with every emphasis. Plasma. Melting. Flesh. As though he were performing some sick, twisted dance.
"Shut up!" Masterson shouted in defiance of the ritual, pulling his gun on Kurtz once more. With another echoed pop, the old man was silenced, the splashing of his corpse against the water to be the last sound he was ever to make.

This...this wasn't right. What the hell is happening? He turned at another disturbance to his right. No, to his left. In front of him. Behind him. In the blink of an eye, the entire jungle was covered with Kurtzes. All of them monologuing in the same ritualistic manner as before.

"Have you not sinned, Major?" One of the eerie voices remarked as it approached.
"Is this not the price of civilization?" Another chilled.
"You...you're not real! None of you are real!" Masterson shouted in firebrand defiance, shifting his pistol's barrel from one Kurtz to another in rapid succession. "None of this is real!"
"We are all sinners in this jungle, Major. You have no right to judge me..." All of them said at once. Then they began converging on him, slowly yet surely.
"Get the fuck away from me!"
Pop. He fired once more, downing another Kurtz into the muck. Pop, went another. He turned behind him, where one was close enough to strike. He whipped the heavy barrel of his pistol across the closest one's head, flooring him.

As more drew closer, he unsheathed his kukri from his backsling, and began hacking away at the horde. However, no matter how many times he slashed with his blade or pistol-whipped, the Kurtzes continued coming at him, and in increasing numbers.
Pop. He fired at another. How many rounds was that? His fifth. He had one last bullet, but no time to change magazines...

After killing two more in hand-to-hand, however, it was very clearly over. He was completely overwhelmed, having to squirm and kick his way out of the malevolent arms. His body was covered with the hands of Kurtz, the mass of bodies growing around him made it difficult to breathe. There was only one for sure way to get out of it...
The horde had already wrestled his machete away from him, yet they had no such luck with his gun. The gun with a single bullet left in it...

The Kurtzes attempted to pin the arm down, yet with all of the Ranger's strength, he managed to pull it up and away. His muscles ached, and he somehow found himself down in the swamp water (only his neck and arm above water level) yet adrenaline forced him to push on. A deadlocked battle for control of his arm that he slowly overcame. Eventually, he regained control of his wrist, tilting it upwards and knocking two more hands off of him in the process. He was able to bring the pistol to chest level, and he was staring down the barrel of the handgun.

As the Kurtzes struggled to get on top of him, Masterson took one final breath as his finger coiled around the trigger of the pistol now pointed at his head. With one final gasp of air, he pulled it.

Pop.

Major Kendrick Masterson
Congo River, Sub-Saharan Wildlands
September 16th, 2096

"Major...? Major!"

Masterson's eyes flashed open. He found himself breathing heavily, and he was drenched in cold sweat.
He darted up, seeing Lancer standing over him. He was back on Five-Fifteen, laying in one of the cots.

"You alright, sir? You were thrashing around and muttering some shit when I walked in..."
"I'm...I'm fine, Corporal..." The Ranger sleepily replied, rubbing at his eyes. "What's the situation..."
"I don't mean to rush you, sir..." Lancer said, his eyes darting about, wearing a worried expression on his face. "But you need to get out on deck and see this..."

---

Masterson and Lancer came up on deck, coming into full exposure of the morning Congo sun. The river was narrow here, and the jungle on both sides thick. The ground "rolled" in some sections, creating tall hills overlooking the water.
It was on these tall hills where Masterson noticed the obvious issue; there were dozens, perhaps even hundreds of Bantu tribesmen surrounding the boat on both sides of the river.

Most were casually squatted, and seemed to just watch the boat glide past. They were situated on the hills, but also on whatever nooks and crannies were available. Some were even in the treetops.
Many of them were armed. Some with primitive spears and bows, others still with rusted and ancient rifles.
Masterson, at first, assumed them to be Mayi-Mayi, yet the presence of women in their armed ranks seemed to disqualify them from the "average" Mayi-Mayi groups. They also looked far too primitive, even by Mayi-Mayi standards. Masterson didn't spot one pair of pants or polyester shirt among them, instead just leather-and-palm tribal garb.

"What the hell is going on...?" Masterson inquired to Lancer, keeping his hands glued to his rifle.
"I can't tell you, sir..." Lancer nervously whispered, shifting his view back and forth among the gathered tribals. "They just sorta...emerged from the trees once we entered this section of the river. Cook was about to open up on them once we saw weapons, but Cap told him to hold fire. They've just been...watchin' us ever since..."
"It's an ambush waitin' to happen is what it fuckin' is!" Cookie yelled from the seat of his gun. Unlike Lancer, Cook was fully decked for combat, was sitting behind the controls of his minigun/GMG, keeping the barrels menacingly trained on the tribesmen. Either the tribesmen didn't know the danger of said weapons, or they were all too aware...

"Settle down, Private..." The Ranger reassured him. "If they were going to ambush us, they probably already would have done it. They certainly outnumber us. Corporal, have you tried yelling at any of them?"
"Yes sir." Lancer nodded with a sigh. "But I don't think any of 'em speak French..."
"Damn..." Masterson blew, blinking as he continued to observe the armed people around shifting his head left and right. "I don't like this any more than you do, Private. But we can't open up on them without due cause. Gun ownership and watching us aren't crimes."
"May not be a crime, but it's making me damn uncomfortable..." Cookie blew in annoyance.

As the boat slowly proceeded, Masterson could see the faces of the closest tribals. Their looks didn't suggest any sort of menace, just a mix of curiosity and worry. It was as though they were just as afraid of Five-Fifteen as they were of them.
“What do you got on the scanners, Cap?” He calmly asked, speaking through his earpiece to the cabin below.
“Hundred-plus footmobiles, sir.” The Sergeant calmly responded. “I’m not getting anything suggesting an ambush. No hidden reserves behind the treelines or anything like that. Recommend we keep on our toes, Major.”

“Pfft. I’m already on my toes…” Cookie cynically remarked. “But I know a fuckin’ hornet’s nest when I see one…”
“If it’s a hornet’s nest, then we should probably not kick the damn thing, Private.” Masterson calmly replied, adjusting the sling carrying his rifle. He shouldn’t need it…if Cookie could stay calm, at least.

The minutes dragged on, and only seemed to get longer with every inch of river they proceeded down. The GIM’s Occupation Laws allowed frontier locals in Army operating areas to own handguns and rifles for self-defense purposes, but brandishing rocket launchers, heavy machine guns or any other “devices of destruction” (said devices being in abundance within the group) could be taken as a threat, and troops were allowed to act accordingly. Masterson wasn’t going to lie to himself – had he been in a different situation, he might have had them all decimated. However, while the boat might have been carrying heavy weapons suitable for the job, the coverage the opposing force had would have dragged the engagement on far longer than necessary. His job was to get to Kurtz, not search and destroy in possible innie territory.

“With all due respect sir, they’re holding back because they know they can’t take us down…” Cookie said, nervously licking his lips. “You really think they’ll show the same restraint if they come across a six-man patrol of our guys in the jungle? We really gonna leave our boys and girls to get overwhelmed if they ever come into this sector?”
“Drop it, Private. That’s an order.” Masterson coldly ordered. “You fire one bullet without my permission, and I’ll have you court-martialed! Assuming we survive!”
“But sir-“
“Get off the gun.” He interjected. He was done.
“Sir?”
“I said get off the gun.” Masterson repeated, with biting authority. “I can’t trust you not to start an incident. Off.”

Cookie merely stood in disbelief, as though he was asking something impossible of him. Masterson had to reiterate to make his point.
“Private, if you aren’t off that gun within the next five seconds, I’m going to take you off of it, and-“
He was interrupted, however, by the sound of something cutting through the air above them. It sounded like something buzzing or whistling. And it only got louder as time went on.
“What the fuck is that?“ Cookie asked, perplexed.
Masterson, however, knew what an incoming mortar shell sounded like all-too-well…
“GET DOWN!”

As Masterson dove and slammed onto the deck, he felt the boat violently rock, as a loud (yet muffled) explosion sounded off. Within the next second, everyone on the boat was drenched in mud and river water – the mortar obviously missed them, striking just yards away from the vessel into the river.

However, while he was recovering from his impromptu defense, he heard Cookie begin screaming, followed by the all-too-familiar sound of a spooling minigun…
Masterson darted upwards.
"Private, stop! STOP!!!"
But it was too late. The Ranger could only watch as the closest tribals were cut down in a blaze of minigun fire, turned into a crude red mist by the hundreds of rounds being spat out.

He had no idea where the mortar shot came from, or even if these tribals were responsible (in the brief moment he saw them before Cookie losing control, they seemed just as confused as they), but they had no choice now – they had to fight for their lives.
“Open up on ‘em! Short controlled bursts! Suppress them or kill them, just keep them off us!”
Lancer quickly crawled on his knees to the back of the boat, quickly taking hold of the mounted machine gun and firing off the boat’s left, careful to track Cookie and cover whichever side he didn’t get.

By now, most of the tribals not exposed in the initial volley knew well-enough to dive behind the hills and thicker trees to avoid certain death from the spraying minigun.
Despite Cookie keeping them well-enough suppressed, they surrounded them in almost every direction, and they were capable of returning fire in short bursts.

Masterson crawled behind one of the bulletproof panels as the bullets whizzed over his head. The mortars that started this mess was still active. However, it didn’t seem that Five-Fifteen was being targeted anymore – from what he could see, the shells were impacting the banks around them. As though they were supporting them. It didn’t matter. If that mortar wasn’t going to kill them, the hostiles piled around them certainly had a good chance.
He took a deep breath and took hold of his rifle. He crawled over to the right side of the boat, next to Cookie’s gun mount. Quickly screwing on a rifle grenade, he peeked over the side of the boat, where he saw about a dozen armed tribals scattering across the treelines, trying their hardest to avoid Cookie’s barrages. By now, he was unloading all he had, constantly switching between his minigun and GMG.
Enemy casualties were mounting, but they were putting up as fierce a resistance as they could – there were many RPGs among them, most of which being fired off from secured positions deep within the jungle. Fortunately, the boat’s protection systems were online and fully-functional. Any rocket or grenade that dared get close went up in a fiery conflagration.
“I’m outta grenades!” Cook yelled out. The GMG had dried up, evidently because they only ever opted to keep one belt on-hand at any given time. “Lance, can you go grab more forties?”

Lancer attempted to comply, dashing towards the hatch leading to the lower deck. Unfortunately, a barrage of bullets narrowly fluttered around him once the tribals saw he was exposed, prompting him to quickly fall back to his gun and continue covering.
“No can do!”
“Cap, we need more forty mils for the gun!” Masterson transmitted. “It’s too hot up here for us to come down!”
“Solid copy, I’ll send Squeaky up with another box!”
“Tell her not to poke her head out! Have her slide it to me when she gets up the stairs!”
However, as Masterson sent his orders, the minigun’s signature “brrt” halted. The first time the gun was silenced since the fiasco began.
“What’s wrong? Why have you stopped firing?”
“Jam!” Cookie casually shouted, opening up the trapdoor, revealing the weapon’s innards.

“How fuck does a minigun jam?!” Masterson shouted, not taking his eye off his sights.
“Hydraulics are gummed up!” Cookie yelled in reply, keeping his head low as bullets impacted his shielding. “Mud from that shell got in there somehow!”
“Or you just skipped cleaning it out last night!” Lancer answered back over the roar of his MG.
“Don’t start, goddammit! Get that gun back online or we’re dead!” The Ranger ordered. “Corporal, keep him covered as best you can!”
“Right trophies are running dry!” Cap hurriedly transmitted. “Clear that jam, Cook! You’re about to be the only line of defense!”
“Trying!” He impatiently retorted, as he continued banging on the side of the minigun as enemy bullets continued bouncing off the hull and rockets were being repeatedly intercepted by point defenses.

“Major!”
Masterson turned to see the familiar blonde hair of Squeaky poking out from the hatch, obviously struggling with the heavy box of ammunition.
The Ranger cursed at the situation and quickly took aim and pulled the trigger, watching as the grenade spiraled through the air, detonating over the heads of several gunmen, instantly flooring them.
“I’ll get you more ammo! Just focus on getting that gun up!”

Masterson slung his rifle over his back and knelt to the floor before carefully crawling across the hull, lightly burning himself on a few of the still-hot brass casings spat out by the minigun moments prior. He eventually reached the hatch (intact, save for a few tingled fingers), reaching down in front of Squeaky until he had a firm grasp on the box.
With his help, she effortlessly lifted the box up and over.
“Thanks, Private.”
As the hatch closed behind him, he took hold of the box, intending to make a mad dash back to the turret.

However, before he could start, he noticed another RPG gunner in the trees, blinking as it fired with a bright flash. At first, he dismissed the threat – the trophies were still up, weren’t they?

However, something was wrong. The trophies were quiet. The rocket should have been intercepted by now…

Time seemed to slow as Masterson could only watch as the rocket sped right towards the turret, with Cookie still on it.
He yelled incoherently, attempting to get him off. However, instead of diving for cover, Cookie instead locked eyes with him in confusion.

Their eye contact was maintained as the turret briefly disappeared in ball of fire.

“PRIVATE!!!” Masterson shouted as the fire and smoke cleared, adrenaline drowning out the continued roar of mortars and gunfire. There was no mistaking it – the turret was totaled, what was left of the minigun and GMG were contorted into an unrecognizable mess of metal and wires. His eyes shifted to the ground, where he was met with the grisly sight…

Cookie (or what was left of him) lay in a pool of blood. The rocket tore his chest open, revealing bone and organs, and his left arm was ripped clean off, the missing appendage nowhere to be found. His head, remarkably, was one of the few things left of him and recognizable - it was permanently locked in a horrified expression. His eyes still bearing that confused glance he gave Masterson only a second before his death…
Masterson gave a defeated sigh as Lancer took notice of what happened.

“Cook? Cook!?” He said, briefly turning from his MG. Masterson watched as his pupils dilated in terror. “C-Cook! Oh god! Oh my god! Jesus Christ, sweet Mary Magdalene!”

“Corporal, please, keep shooting!” Masterson abruptly pleaded, taking an oddly sympathetic tone for once. “We’re all gonna end up like him if we can’t keep them off us!”
Instead, Lancer just continued to stare at the remains of his friend with a wide stare. Shellshocked.
“Corporal!” Masterson yelled, breaking him out of the spell. Lancer hesitantly returned to his post, continually unloading on the tribals that still had the numbers to overrun them.

Masterson cursed as he still laid on his back. He wasn’t about to expose himself, but he figured he had no other option.
He screwed another grenade onto his rifle before abruptly darting to his feet and dashing behind some of the panels towards the other end. He quickly shot the grenade at a group of three moving on the bank. With the minigun permanently out, their attackers were suddenly empowered, and they knew it.

“What’s going on up there?” Cap transmitted. “I’m reading significant damage to the turret…”
“Trophies are out. RPG. Private Lewandowski is KIA.” Masterson responded bluntly. “I’m going to lay down whatever sniper support I can. It’s the only way.”
“Cookie’s dead? Fuck…” Cap replied, with the slightest hint of melancholy. She knew he could be mourned later. “Front fifty’s starting to run dry, and we’re on rapids. We’re sitting ducks out here without that gun…”
“I’m gonna do what I can, Sergeant…”

Behind the safety of the panels, Masterson took aim with his rifle through a firing port and began systematically picking off whatever “choice” targets he could spot. RPG gunners, anyone who looked to be shouting orders, snipers…his rifle couldn’t compensate for the firepower and defenses they had lost, but it was their only hope. He wondered how many they had killed or wounded already? What would make them back off? They had already lost one. One too many…

It couldn't have been longer than a minute, but it felt like hours. Masterson took out many RPG gunners, but he couldn't get all of them before they pulled the triggers. Several got through, impacting primarily on the back right, where the engines were.
"Shrapnel damage! Right engine is almost fried!" Cap transmitted. "I'll have to slow her down or the whole compartment's going up in flames! Lance?"
"I need him on the MG!" Masterson replied, eye still on his sight. "Or at least, I need someone up here laying down fire!"
"...Squeaky, take the stick. I'm coming up there!"
“I-I…” Masterson heard Squeaky attempt to protest.
“You’ve been watching me for weeks! Just glide it, and for the love of god, don’t give it too much gas! Not right now!”
“Absolutely not!” Masterson interjected. “It’s too hot. And you need to focus on getting us over these rapids!”
“We’re not going anywhere if Lance can’t get that engine fixed!” She retorted. “Keep me covered!”

Sure enough, the hatch opened up within a moment, and Cap burst out, unloading one of the boat’s M33s into the jungle with no regard for accuracy. After closing the hatch behind her, she hit the floor and crawled under the bullets, tapping Lancer on the foot and handing him the SMG.

As Cap took the gun over, Lancer was much more timid leaving than Cap was entering, crawling much more slowly, and making considerable moves only during lulls. He wasn’t the hardened veteran Cap was, that was for sure.

Unfortunately, his route took him close to Cookie’s corpse. Too close for his comfort. He merely laid there, and stared with a blank expression.

“Lance! The engine!” Cap yelled, taking a break from firing to snap him back into place.
Lancer quickly roused, and immediately flung himself back down the hatch.
“I’ll…I’ll fix what I can…” He transmitted once he was safely down.
“Hurry every chance you get, Corporal!” Masterson responded.

Cap continued gunning, and Masterson sniping, but how much longer could they realistically hold out? He had three more magazines, and he just saw Cap snap the last belt on deck onto the machine gun. They must have killed nearly a hundred tribals by now, but they just kept coming out of the woodwork, meaner and more determined than before. His once pristine trench coat was now riddled with holes and tears from close calls with the zipping bullets, and his wrist was bleeding from a graze. He considered himself lucky their aim was piss-poor.

You could kill many hornets once you disturb the nest, but you can’t hope to stand up to the full might of an agitated swarm…[i]

However, as he reached for another magazine, he spotted muzzle flashes coming from deep in the jungle past the left bank. There many of them. Dozens, at least. It was [i]much deeper in than the insurgents, and the only thing they would be capable of reliably hitting from that range would be the tribals.

Then it clicked. The mortar…these strangers were trying to assault the tribals. Five-Fifteen was caught in the crossfire.
“Cap, hit the deck!”
“What? Why?”
“Trust me!”

The pair hit the floor, diving behind the panels. In theory, they would be protected from the small arms fire of either side. Masterson focused his attention to the left, where new outlines began to emerge from the jungle – these fabled “fighters” that were inadvertently assisting them. The Ranger could, just barely, make them out over the tall grasses and distance.

They wore dark green jungle fatigues under sleek plate carriers and ceramic trauma plates, their faces and heads obscured by balaclavas, goggles, and combat helmets. They were certainly kitted out, carrying enough gear for proper combat deployment, and their weapons seemed to be in order too – many wielded Imperial M19s, but Masterson also spotted a wide arrange of old (yet well modified and maintained) pre-war weapons, including M27s and Vektor rifles. From what Masterson could see, the majority of them had pale skin, indicating they weren’t locals.

The strange forces were utilizing advanced maneuvering tactics, advancing in a fast, yet coordinated manner under the cover of overwhelming firepower (both from the mortar and from what appeared to be machine guns from the back treelines). Numbering only a couple of dozen, they seemed to be overpowering the tribal insurgent force twice, even three times their size all without (as far as Masterson could tell) a single casualty. Whoever they were, they were certainly professionals, if their gear and operating procedures were of anything to go by.

All the militants on the west bank were dead or driven away by the foreign assaulters, and they soon reached the river, trading fire with them. Once again, Five-Fifteen was caught in the crossfire, but luckily, they weren’t anyone’s immediate concern this time. It was perhaps the only time Masterson ever felt somewhat at ease while bullets whizzed over him.

Finally, a loud warhorn signaled the tribal retreat, which was anything but organized, as Masterson could hear (and vaguely see) the insurgents climbing over one another in a mad dash to the safety of the deep jungle. The mystery combatants, however, did not relent – they fired ruthlessly into the fleeing crowds, hitting as many as they could in the back. Grenades, mortar shells, and automatic fire continued well from the west side long after the east was silenced. It was only after the remaining tribals disappeared into the jungle that they silenced their weapons.

It was in this quiet moment that Masterson could hear voices…

“Hardloop vir jou waardelose lewens, barbaars!” He heard one of the men shout in (what he presumed) to be some European language. Afrikaans, if he remembered correctly.
“Heh, you can say that again, mate!” Another replied in heavily accented anglophone English.

“Uh…dah boat?” Another of the fighters remarked, bringing everyone’s attention to the boat. This was the moment of truth, Masterson knew. If they were to be saved or damned…
“Roight. That’s it, come on out!” The anglo shouted towards any potential survivors. Masterson could see dozens of gun barrels pointed towards them. They must have thought the tribals got aboard the boat. “I’ve gotta buncha mean crunchies just waitin’ to blast some more kaffer! I’d hate to let ‘em loose, yeah?”
The Ranger turned to Cap, and with a nod, they both rose to their feet, hands high up in the air, finally meeting their mystery combatants face to face.

"...Army uniforms! We got Army heah!" One of the masked fighters shouted in a thick Afrikaner accent upon noticing their uniforms.
"Stand down boys, we got live ones!" The lead anglo merc remarked, lowering his M19 as he met Masterson’s eyes. "You lot! We're with the government! We can help!"
Masterson and Cap slowly lowered their arms, with Cap inquiring as to who they were.
“Yeah. We’re Army. Who are you boys with?”
“Darkstah.” One of the Afrikaner mercs bluntly stated.
“Darkstar?” She repeated in confusion.
“Darkstar.” Masterson nodded plainly. He knew who they were. Vaguely. “South African mercenaries. They’re on our side. I’m pretty sure, at least.”

“Oi, I said I was with the government, didn’t I?” The anglo grinned. “We ain’t gonna go pickin’ fights with the brave, if heh…underpaid Imperial boys and girls in uniform! Cap’n Taylor, at your service! Well…I ain’t no Cap’n, but that’s what the boys call me!”
The merc saluted.

“Coulda fooled me…” Cap blew. “That was your mortar, right? Almost blew us sky high and it prompted this…shit show.”
While Cap and the merc conversed, Masterson retrieved a tarp from one of the side crates and covered Cookie’s corpse with it. They weren’t in danger anymore. Now was the time to look after casualties…
“My apologies, miss!” The anglo merc, Taylor, was quick to apologize. “We were trackin’ that warband for damn near a week. And you lot were right in the bloody middle of ‘em! We thought you were one of them. Why the hell didn’t they start shooting?”

“What warband?” Masterson asked as he recovered his rifle. “The tribals?”
“Oh yeah! Nasty buncha savages! God damn, no good animals is what they are! My current employer shipped us up here to wipe ‘em off this beautiful stretch of jungle.”

“Anyway…” Taylor concluded. “I don’t what brings you this far up river. This is pure wildlands…”
“Classified.” Masterson answered. “But I assure you – it is of utmost strategic importance that I continue on. And if you really are working for the government, it is in your best interest to give what help you can.”
“For sure.” The mercenary agreed. “I ain’t about to ask one of you Ranger types any questions! My employers base of operations is a couple hours downriver. One little word to him, and you’ll have everything ya need!”

Just then, however, the hatch to the lower deck opened, and Lancer emerged with Squeaky in tow.
“I fixed what I could. But we won’t stay afloat much longer without proper service…we took a beating. In more ways than-“ Lancer stopped wiping the grease off his hands as he glanced up the mercenaries gathered on the ridge ahead of them.

“What the hell’s going on? Who are these people?”
“They’re friends, Corporal.” Masterson nodded. “They’re gonna escort us up river to their compound, help us fix the boat and let us get some rest. Then we’re continuing with the mission first thing in the morning…”

“Sir, we lost Cook!” Lancer protested, sparing a considerate glance at the bloodied tarp. “This mission, whatever it is, is FUBAR! We don’t have a main turret anymore, and we’re down a man!”
“Too late to turn back, Corporal.” The Ranger stoically replied with a shrug. “Besides, as cold as it may sound…I’m the only one that needs to be alive to carry it out. If need be, I’ll hike through this entire godforsaken rainforest if need be…”
“Yeah, well…” Lancer shook his head. “That might be the best thing for you to do, sir…”
“Lance!” Cap snapped.

“It’s alright, Sergeant.” He waved her off. “It’s not been a pleasant day. Let the Corporal get a hot meal and some R and R. We all deserve it. Now you two…get the boat ready for departure. We’re burning daylight.”

Cap and Lancer departed without a word. Squeaky, on the other hand merely stood there, taking in the sights and sounds of the post-battle, including Cookie’s covered body.
“You’re dismissed, Private.” Masterson stated, trying to break her out of it
“Uh-uh, yes sir, but…” She stuttered searching for the right words. “How did he die?”
He was briefly taken aback by the sudden morbid inquiry. He blinked before answering her question.
“RPG. Trophies were dry.” He solemnly remarked. “There was nothing anyone could do…”
She merely sighed. “At least it was quick, I guess…”

With that, then she departed to the lower decks, the hatch gently closing behind her. It was…quite a surreal. Masterson made a mental note to himself. He would have to keep an eye on her.

With that, he turned to the mercenaries.
“We can guide ya to our humble little place down the river, sir. Kruger, van Graan. You two come with me. The rest of you, mop up here.” Taylor signaled his men as he climbed down the ravine and trudged through the shallow of the river, two of his comrades in tow. Masterson lowered the ladder, and the three climbed aboard.

“So, uh…about your recently departed comrade…” Taylor said as he accepted a hand from the Ranger. “We can take care of him, if ya like. Once we get there. We’ve done many a funeral…”
“I might take you up on that…” Masterson nodded. He didn’t feel guilty about it until now. It was only just now that he was remembering that night he was alone with Cap. What she said to him…
“Just so I can say it was all worth it over the flag-draped coffin of any of these kids…”

Within a few minutes, they were off. The Darkstar mercs Taylor left behind did as he said and mopped up – almost literally. The many tribal corpses left behind from the battle were being piled up and unceremoniously tossed into the river below.
“Why are your mean doing casualty cleaning?” Masterson inquired.
“Heh.” Taylor chuckled. “We’re here to, uh…how did my employer put it? Oh yeah! We’re here to ‘preserve and guarantee the natural beauty of this protected area of the Congo River Basin!’ I don’t know what you consider ‘natural beauty’, Rangah, but I doubt it involves a bunch of smelly kaffer corpses all over the place!”
“You not gonna airlift them out? Just toss them in the river?”
“Waste perfectly good fuel on that? Nah, this feeds the fishes! Makes them more useful than they were in life!”

Masterson also heard a series of gunshots – they were executing any wounded ones they came across. The Ranger, in his long career, rarely met any merciful mercenaries, but this? This was pushing it.
He heard stories about Darkstar. He supposed he just needed to be in the field with them to believe them. They were some of the best around, but they definitely didn’t have a reputation worth disclosing…

As they were speeding away, Masterson spotted one of the mercs erect a crude wooden sign in front of one of the many corpse piles, easily read even from there…

GOSSAMER NATURE RESERVE
PROPERTY OF THE NEW ROMAN GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY
TRESSPASSERS WILL BE SHOT