The Pentagon
Lieutenant General Vincent Stewart is a Marine first and everything else second.
Combat is well beyond him - even he willingly admits that he wouldn't last more than a few moments on the battlefield these days - but he retains the necessary spirit. He doesn't like Russians - he supposes it's a genetic thing that they screen for before allowing entrance into the armed forces - but he concedes that in the case of this war against the Islamic State, they've been admirably proactive. Somehow - they aren't letting on how, small wonder - they managed to find and obliterate a number of IS strongholds and target its headquarters. Their airstrikes were chillingly accurate, and overall their work was worthy of commendation.
How they got their hands on information precise enough to allow them to do that kind of work with the hostile territory bristling with threats to conventional intelligence efforts, he didn't know. But he did know that they had a source. He'd been working for Defense long enough to know that nothing as decisive as what the Russians had done can happen without exceptional intelligence, and he'd been working in the Intelligence Community long enough to know that that critical type of intelligence doesn't materialize out of thin air.
Or come from hacking, despite the Russians' alleged affinity for that backdoor method.
They had somebody on the ground. Initially, he'd thought it was an insider, someone within the State hierarchy who the Russians had paid into their back pocket. Then the video of that kid - he couldn't have been much older than the legal age of adulthood - had made its way to his side of the world and he'd found a new potential operative. Whoever he was, he was using that thing that the IS youth had used, and that was unnerving. They - he, his people, the DIA and the entire Department of Defense - couldn't say what it was yet. On the bright side, there was now a foil to the Islamist teleporter, time-shifter, whatever he was. And this foil was evidently a pawn of a country that his own nation was working with.
For now, anyway. Russians were still Russians in Stewart's book, the Russians of the '50s and decades thereafter until the fall of the Berlin Wall and collapse of the Red government, and that would never change.
But he was grateful to them to a certain extent. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but Russia's willingness to bulldoze its way past what the rest of the international community had deemed "acceptable" was making his job quite a bit easier. His own sources were either confirmed dead, presumed dead, compromised and now insecure, or now useless for one of another myriad reasons. He had very little actionable intelligence to contribute, and all the IC could offer the D.o.D. was coming from the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency. It was concrete, but not the kind of thing one could send screaming warplanes or marching boots to war on. They would need more, more which they didn't have and couldn't get.
If things weren't difficult enough, the Turks were complicating the situation in Syria nearly beyond the limits of his patience. The Russians had moved into former IS territory after wiping it clean of jihadists, but Turkey - a closer ally of the Eagle than he presumed the Bear would ever be - had challenged that occupation and thrown a fit about unauthorized foreign forces so close to its border. Turkey and the Russian Federation hadn't been on good terms in his memory, especially since Moscow had welcomed the Kurds - a group Ankara regards as terrorists - into their fold after the US refused to bring them to the negotiation table in response to Turkey's refusal to attend negotiations should America's allies against IS - who weren't as involved in the fight against Assad, a second conflict in the same country which was the focus of the negotiations - be given a seat. Russia had done it mainly to antagonize the Eagle, he was sure, but in this case, this rare and unique case, he was on the Bear's side.
The Turks were being insufferable, he thought.
The Marine in him - not the administrator or government official - would've liked to take a hammer to their front lines. To tell them to leave well enough alone and not get paranoid about an invasion. But in only the last few hours the Bear had done that for him. While local news outlets spat out stories about Russia being the aggressor, Ankara had ordered forces over the border with Syria, ostensibly for self-defense, and the Bear had quietly swept them back into place. The body count was low, in the single digits if the report that sat on his desk was to be believed, but the effort had been successful. For all intents and purposes, the conflict was over.
For all intents and purposes, despite the still-unidentified weapon that the Russians and the Islamic State had - although the latter was no longer a threat - the Pentagon and his Agency ought to be peaceful. There is still the issue of what the Russians would do with their device, and what might've happened to the IS weapon, had it survived its owners' destruction. But he couldn't worry about that for the time being.
Now, Lieutenant General Stewart sits at one head of a long oval conference table in a silent room in the polygonal fortress in the capital. The rest of the seats are full, save for a few on the far end, including the other seat of honor. He'd rather not have the stress of this conference weighing on him at this very moment, but he pushes politics aside and resolves to do his duty. He is after all a loyal Marine first, and anything else - including a politician or a pundit - second.
The door at the far side of the conference room opens and he shoots a look at the civilian Director of Central Intelligence on the left side of the table, who for some reason was invited to this military intelligence briefing. A stream of secretaries and advisors files in and finds seats. A shadow from the hall stretches into the room and Stewart and the DCI rise and move toward the door to greet the final, and most important, arrival.
A man in a black civilian suit and loud red tie saunters into the room with an air of confidence, even to the point of conceit. Stewart clenches his jaw to steel his nerves and reminds himself of his duty. He steps forward and offers his hand to the man in the red tie.
"Good afternoon, President Trump," he says with a saccharine smile.
Azaz, Syria
"Multiple M60s on the ridge! What should we do about them?" a panicked soldier reports to his commanding officer in desperation.
The officer laughs.
"They're using outdated American tanks. Aim for their bellies and they'll fall on their asses."
He casually waves his hand. His motion is followed up by a barrage of Cranberry-colored rockets. The tanks erupt in flames as their own ammunition generate massive internal explosions. A Turkish soldier climbs out of the tanks on fire.
"You almost hit me with the backblast, chipmunk!" a soldier yells at his squadmate, jerking him around rapidly.
The soldier bursts out into laughter. The rest of the company joins in as we reload the launchers. This victory is short-lived, however, as a second wave of tanks rolls in. These tanks are different though. Instead of sending out scrap iron, the enemy had deployed their own main battle tank: the Atlay. Panic once again sets it.
"Are you even Russian soldiers? It seems sometimes like command sent me mere civilians," he mumbles.
I attempt to suppress my laughter, as I somehow feel more comfortable in the company of this battle than I ever did at that boarding school.
"Bring out the Hooks." the officer calmly commands.
The RPG-28s are placed back into their cases and are thrown in the back of our Tigr. RPG-30 cases are withdrawn in the opposite manner.
As the next wave of Turkish tanks rolls over scraps of the previous, they are once again fired upon. The upgraded armor still not able to defend their crew from the shredding power of the new RPG. Rather than an instantaneous detonation, the rockets rip through the heavy armor and explode on the inside, causing some to tumble down the elevation into the depression below.
"Advance!"
Each soldier repeats the process of replacing the RPGs into their cases, then takes position behind the vehicle. The transport drives forward slowly so us foot mobiles them as forward cover. As we scale the ridge, light resistance meets the convoy, forcing us to engage a few scout teams. We expend little ammo and receive little in return; the hostiles are all killed without any casualties.
The smile plastered on my face only expands. I haven't used the Chronos a single time this entire week.
Now, this is how having good teammates feels like.
As the convoy approaches an overgrowth, we begin to hear unusual levels of noise approaching from the western end of the vegetation. I activate my Chronos, prioritizing my no-casualty streak over the other challenge.
I sprint to take the lead of the vehicle motorcade and dive into the bushes. From there, I see a multiple tank battalions rolling our way. One could tie this presence to the proximity of the strike zone to the Syrian/Turkish border, however, it is more likely that it is a result of the assassination. Perhaps Ankara and London are better allies than I had initially thought.
I return to the Tigr and stack all launchers on the passenger seat. I grab the driver out of his seat and toss him onto the ground below. I hit the gas and haul over to the point of contact.
As I approach, I slam the breaks to make a violent turn, positioning the coaxial machine gun adjacent to a wave of hostiles. I empty the launchers relatively quickly, and after expending all rockets, I hop onto the Kord to remove the remaining ground troops. Due to their sheer number, a few manage to take cover behind their destroyed technicals, even in this difference of time flow.
As I drop the first box of heavy ammunition, a sickening feeling suddenly strikes me. I picture myself in the position on the opposite side of this massacre. Had an enemy been able to decimate my attacking force in such a catastrophic manner, I'd have laid down my weapons and prayed to my Gods for salvation. I watch from the quivering eyes of one of the hostile soldiers, noticing for a second just how drastic the difference in strength truly is.
I laugh hysterically, dispelling any negative thoughts.
All those who dare oppose the Russian Federation, my mother country, shall feel her wrath. There is no room for mercy.
I throw the truck in reverse, heading back to where I had left my team. I deactivate the Chronos and stop the Tigr in an impressive fashion in front of the team that had barely had a chance to respond to my offense. Emerging from the vehicle, I wave for our company to fall back.
"All hostiles neutralized at the expense of all remaining explosive ammunition. Regroup for mission debriefing." I inform the officer.
Though I am not the highest ranking in the battalion, I am able to give the commands to the flabbergasted soldiers. They salute me, and quickly, the company disappears from view. Though I am sure a few scouts had spotted us moving out, we do not have a tail.