Old Wahdabad
2200 Hours Local Time
Wadhabad, Zevretin
Cornithian Strykers of the 7th Cavalry crept slowly through the bombed-out streets of Old Wadhabad, engines laboring as they navigated across scattered debris and RPG craters. The burnt out buildings around them stood like eerily silent, skeletal hulks. Forced to drive single-file by the narrow road, the Strykers moved in groups of three, followed by members of the 101st Airborne (which had been airdropped earlier into the southern fringes of the city).
The entire procession was moving painstakingly slowly, various guns swiveling as they surveilled the neighborhood. Since nightfall, the urban terrain of Old Wahdabad had become strangely quiet, with the only sounds being that of the whining Stryker’s turbodiesels and the far-off clatter of machine-gun fire. Zevreti forces had holed up within the deeper confines of the city, electing to establish a defensive position at higher ground. Cornithian generals, on the other hand, had ordered the 7th Cav to move up deep into al-Kabaab territory for recon duty.
Even with their high-powered night-vision goggles, the soldiers stumbled through the dark as they maneuvered the crumbling rubble. “Where the hell are these bastards?” muttered one corporal irritably, as he shuffled through yet another pile of broken building.
Al-Kabaab forces had clashed in these streets for months, trying to push through the defenses of the Republican Guard. They had been armed to the teeth with improvised weaponry, blasting away with suicide bombers and insurgent fighters. The sudden nighttime quiet was unnatural, and the Cornithian soldiers swung their sights wildly, every fibre tense as they searched for the enemy.
The procession abruptly halted, with the Stryker’s brakes squealing in protest. “Thermals, up ahead, 100 meters,” reported the squad commander. “Check your fire; they might be civilians.”
The members of the 101st collectively crouched behind their AFVs, guns leveled at the buildings up ahead. A slight shuffle echoed through the street.
Suddenly, the night was ablaze.
KABOOM.
Half of the Cornithian commandos were thrown to the pavement as a RPG detonated infront of the head Stryker; stopped only by the vehicle’s onboard APS. A wave of heat and pressure flattened the nearby ruins, and the entire road was temporarily lit a dazzlingly bright white. The soldiers clutched at their heads and shielded their eyes; blinded by the light of the explosion, amplified trifold by their night-vision goggles.
“CONTACT!”
“No shit,” swore one of the recovering Cornithians, picking up his carbine as he scrambled off of the ground. He dove behind cover as a camouflaged Al-Kabaab machine gun began chattering at the end of the street, spraying the air with LMG rounds. Rebel insurgents were clambering from out of alleyways and over rooftops, leveling their guns down at the shocked members of the Airborne. As he watched, one of the still-dazed soldiers on the street was was riddled through with automatic rifle fire, his chest bursting with crimson as he screamed his life away.
The Strykers had begun to respond, with the 105mm of the lead M1128 blasting flame as it fired canister shells into the crumbling buildings ahead. Out of those same buildings came the hiss of two more RPGs, which hurtled toward the M1128.
The first RPG was deflected, again by APS, and exploded meters short of it’s target. The second, however, flew true to it’s mark - and there was a resounding GONG as the AFV detonated, sending it’s turret flying into the air.
The remaining two M1126s fired up their engines, reversing through half-smashed brick walls as they attempted to back up into a better position. RPGs kept flying at the vehicles, crashing against their reactive plating and cage armour; though the Strykers seemed relatively unharmed. They returned fire with their .50 Cals, sending tracer rounds flying across the street. The soldiers of the 101st Airborne, too, had begun to reorganize and open up against the attackers.
Cornithian Executive House
1400 Hours Local Time
Cornithius, Cornithium
Over a thousand miles away, President Jonathan Saunders was watching all of this unfold from one of the soldier’s helmet feeds. He was surrounded by his military advisors, who stiffened as they saw the spectacular destruction of the first Stryker.
Saunders turned, ever so slowly, to the generals assembled in the room, who were staring back at him ashen-faced. His throat dry, he swallowed quickly before he spoke.
“And these are the people who have called for ceasefire?"
General Payton was the first to respond. “Yes, sir, but only in the Nasir AFB area” he spoke, somewhat uncertain. “The rest of their troops seem keen on continuing the fight.”
Saunders leaned against the desk, running his hands through his hair. His voice turned bleak.
“Tell me what happened back there. In Wadhabad,” he clarified. “How were we so outgunned?”
The General cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. “We weren’t outgunned, sir. We’re being outfought”. Saunders looked up at him, his expression inquisitive.
“We’re fighting a war of urban combat. The al-Kabaab have been in combat for months. They’re grizzled. They know the lay of the land, and were ready for us when we came.”
Saunders sighed. “So we’re waging asymmetrical warfare at it’s worst. A superior conquering army thwarted by guerilla warfare. And we can’t afford to fight otherwise, either, for risk of civilian injury”.
General Payton nodded, somber. “Yes, sir. It seems that way”.
The President cradled his head in his hands, silent. After a minute of thinking, he looked up, seeming resolute.
“It looks to me, gentlemen, that we have no choice. We’ll grant the Cesopians their ceasefire. Hopefully, the forces of diplomacy can do their work and end all of this madness.”
The assembled staff members nodded tersely. General Payton had a pained expression on his face. Saunders turned to look at him. “An objection, General?”
Payton straightened, returning the President’s gaze. “With the greatest of respect, sir, I do not feel this decision wise. The Rebels have been in this conflict for months. Again, with respect, It seems imprudent to believe they will give up after some political peace talks.”
For the first time in a while, Saunders cracked a dry smile. “Perhaps that may be so, General. Perhaps you’re right, and all of this will be for waste. But I do not see an ulterior option. If this is a way we can reduce the further killing of innocents in Zevreti, I’ll take it. Please, feel free to give me an alternative, general”.
The room was quiet. Saunders clasped his hands together. “Alright then. We’ll ceasefire in the Nasir AFB immediately. The rest of our operations in Zevretin will continue. And, just in case General Payton is indeed correct, I want our heavy armored divisions ready to be mobilized and en-route to Zevretin at my command. Dismissed.”
The assembled Cornithians all nodded, hurrying out of the President’s briefing room. Saunders turned to his desk, closing his eyes. He spoke to the empty room.
“What have we gotten into?”
