Above Aleppo, Syria
2 Weeks After Initial Deployment
"Red Hawk Battalion, all targets are confirmed hostile. Strafe away."
Dozens of F-22 Raptors roar, shaking the ground beneath their flight. One by one, they drop towards the ground at Mach 2, firing their coaxial machine guns at nests of IS soldiers and buildings. Structures collapse and blood splatters everywhere among the rubble. The insurgents scramble to their stations of World War II-era Nazi anti-aircraft weapons and attempt to fire at birds flying almost four times faster than their canvas-winged ancestors. Very quickly, the second wave of fighters fire missiles, completely eliminating all enemy fortifications.
"Position one liquified, General; moving to the second site," the deep-voiced commander relays on selective comms.
The general overseeing the operation grins while looking at a digital layout of the situation. He finds the location of the craft commanded by the man with the Southwestern American accent and mouths the English words that had passed over the radio. He'd never been too efficient at translating the language into his own, but now the extra effort it requires brings him nothing but gratification. The radio pitch rings once more, but the language of the pilot is entirely different.
"Falcon squadron coming in from the North, watch your fire," a young Russian voice yells, "en route to designated coordinates; fire support ETA five minutes."
The general's grin only widens, as the hellhounds of the two most powerful countries in the world are under his complete control. This mission would go very smoothly with this international alliance against the common enemy.
Now, where was the final announcer?
"Buzzard squadron, reporting the neutralization of yet another terrorist base," yet another voice adds. "Push 'em out, boys!"
The final announcer is of the Syrian Arab Army Air Force who seems extremely eager to go along with the operation. The cooperation of the three commanders, under the direction of the general and his vast underlings, furnishes a sure-fire operational strategy. This organization - this cult, this den of demons - ought to fall by the end of the month, as directed by the President of the United States. After the strikes, the Joint Task Force from the three nations - currently situated in airfields in the freed portions of Syria - would ground deploy alongside the local army and eliminate all contacts.
After approximately three days of heavy air suppression, deployment along the border of contested territory begins. I stand among the Russian division of the task force, rearmed with an upgraded, short-barreled model of the VS-121 to replace the earlier edition that the insurgents had confiscated upon my capture. Equipped with a light PKA-S sight, I move as quickly as a standard infantry unit instead of remaining as a stationary marksman.
The treads of the T-14 Armata rolling in front of me spray sand in the faces of the soldiers of my battalion trailing it. My heart pounds with excitement as Su-35s make laps around the objective and strafe the hell out of the enemies sitting below.
Our tank suddenly halts before a few structures near an abandoned ranch, falling behind the advancing groups. The automated turret snaps onto a hostile aiming an RPG at us and guns him out of the window that frames his figure. With the motorized optics and AI-coordinated system, only two bullets are expended to confirm the kill.
Things sure have changed since the last time I watched a war movie…
A radio dispatch abruptly sounds.
"Comrades, there is a medium-sized village where hostiles have holed up two clicks west of target. Reports state that they hold a few hostages. Steer clear of this area; our Syrian allies are to take care of the situation."
So, they're worrying about casualties now, are they? Once I'm finished here, I ought to check it out.
I smirk, reaching into a pouch on my plate carrier with my fingerless-gloved left hand to reveal the Chronos. My team breaks out of advancing positions and moves to our room-clearing stance. Each member goes to their respective breeching positions. Oleg flashes a smile at me before the door goes down.
Our team pushes into the building we had just fired upon, clearing the structure room by room. I contribute to this effort for a bit before losing focus on the second of three floors. I gaze out the empty window frame to the slightly destroyed fields where livestock once grazed. Something outside my peripheral catches my attention, and to confirm whether or not I was hallucinating, I shuffle over to the window with my sidearm drawn. Slowly creeping around the wall, I feel resistance in my steps. I kicked a viscous liquid, which covered my hydrophobic boots in a deep red hue.
This was the window we shot the guy out of. Great. I've stepped into a pool of his filthy blood.
I step over the shattered glass and look to the window. I cannot see through the cracked glass remaining on the frame, so I peek with my pistol. I pause to reconsider, then bash the rotting wooden edge with the stock of my rifle, causing it to quickly fall out onto the corpse lying below.
"Contact?" a few panicked voices sound above me.
"No, just me. Found the fucker we killed earlier," I yell to assure my squadmates that the disturbance was of my doing.
Their heavy footsteps continue on through the last few rooms above me. I return to observing the outside once more.
Instinctively, I begin laughing at the militaristic inferiority of our enemies. What I had suspected is true; in the open shed sits an old Ural Cossack bike, oblivious to its incongruity to its surroundings. I grab the ledge of the window and pull my body out, dangling on the edge of the structure. I momentarily activate the Chronos - I've gotten so used to it that it's almost an extension of my thought - and allow myself to drop two stories, rolling to break the fall.
I rush to the shed, slipping around the doorjamb while trying not to be seen. I find my unlikely steed waiting quietly by the back wall and notice that the previous owner had rather courteously left the keys in the ignition. Something tells me that I shouldn't touch it, that I should be mature enough to leave well enough alone and do only as I'm ordered, but I shrug and figure that it's high time that this wartorn country pays me back a little for what I've done for it.
Besides, I can't be expected to be as stoic as my comrades here; I'm just an 18-year-old schoolboy, after all. Surely, I haven't any real-world experience.
I feel once more like a youth as I bolt to the back of the shed, straddle the bike, kick its stand back, and turn the key. It grumbles to life beneath me and I can't help laughing again, this time from boyish glee instead of amusement.
You're really such a five-year-old Vasily, I swear.
I haven't been on one of these things in years, but I surprise myself with my balance. I rev the engine until it sounds like it might shatter and burst out of the shed like a bat out of hell.
If using the Chronos has taught me nothing else, it's shown that speed is a cardinal factor in victory. And any first-day entrant at Suvorov would know that whatever can be done to increase advantage without sacrificing security should be put in place as soon as possible. In that spirit, I hunch over the body of the bike while taking one hand off its handlebar - trying to keep balance even at this velocity - and reach for the Chronos. I just manage to click it on before losing equilibrium and careening into a house's veranda.
The streets are mine when I travel this way; the few hostiles that I encounter on the road between nests of battle - alone and out of cover - are to me like mice in a spring trap are to a hungry cat with sharp claws. I make easy work of them with my sidearm in a driveby, like a knight and his horse in a jousting match; quite like that son of a gun the West has started calling the "teleporting jihadist."
Within about two minutes of real time, I arrive at my target scene of battle and deactivate the Chronos. I've pulled in late to a bloody, grueling match being fought between the Syrians and the Islamic State insurgents. The latter somehow seems to have an advantage, which in itself is out of the ordinary, but there's… something else.
Something seems off, just feels wrong. The Chronos suddenly begins buzzing with that same nameless energy I felt pulsing from it the night that it was given to me. Perhaps there is... an unexpected force at play here.