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– –
"...wiped out. Total loss. Every last ship, they say."
"Even Admiral Mirkenses?"
Haakon's ears pricked at the words "total loss" drifting from the corner of the tent. Damned gossiping pups. He'd been a soldier long enough to know how rumors could rot morale faster than gangrene.
"Oi! You two!" he barked, relishing how the young officers jumped. Mikkelsen and Roth, if he remembered right. Fresh from Haufgard, still wet behind the ears. "Got something you'd like to share with your commanding officer?"
The boys exchanged glances, terror written plain across their faces. Haakon fought back a smirk. Let them stew for a moment.
"Sir, I have the reconnaissance— " Voss's voice piped up beside him.
"In a minute, Voss," Haakon cut him off, eyeing the cornered lieutenants. "Well? I'm waiting, lads."
Mikkelsen, the marginally braver of the two, cleared his throat. "It's... it's probably nothing, sir. Just talk from the signals corps."
Haakon raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what's the signals corps chattering about that's got you two looking like you've seen a ghost?"
"They're saying..." Mikkelsen swallowed hard. "They're saying the Artticus fleets have been wiped out, sir. By the Americans."
The words hit Haakon like a punch to the gut. Haakon clenched his jaw. He'd seen a lot in his years, against the Divine Kingdom of Kain. None prepared him for this, though. The Artticus fleets? There was a time he would've thought this to be impossible. Now? Not anymore.
He'd known the Americans were trouble from the start. Warned High Command not to underestimate them. But total annihilation? It beggared belief.
However, rumors this outlandish didn't sprout from nothing. He'd seen it before – when the truth was too terrible to comprehend, soldiers cloaked it in exaggeration, as if that might soften the blow.
Total annihilation? Perhaps not. But a decisive defeat? That he could believe. The Americans had already proven themselves formidable. If they'd managed to bloody the Artticus fleets' noses, well, that might mutate into tales of utter destruction as it passed from mouth to mouth.
Haakon's stomach churned. The very fact that such a rumor existed pointed to a harsh truth: something had gone terribly wrong out there in the Artticus theater.
He shook his head, forcing himself to focus. Speculation wouldn't win this battle.
"I see," Haakon forced the words out, tasting bile. "And where exactly did this earth-shattering information come from?"
Mikkelsen shrugged helplessly. "Intercepted transmissions, sir. But it's all jumbled, passed down the line."
Haakon sighed. That was the exact same rumor plaguing his officers. Jumbled or not though, it explained a lot. His men joked that the Muans must've made a blood oath with the god of war himself, the way they kept holding out. But gods don't supply fancy bazookas or artillery pieces.
Americans do. The thought had nagged at him ever since they'd lost a good chunk of a tank column to weapons that, by rights, the Muans shouldn't have had. That is, if the Muan ports were truly blockaded and the Artticus was under their control, as the Imperial Navy so claimed. Whatever was happening out there, he had a sinking feeling it wasn't anything good.
Still, he had to keep things under control. "Right. You two, not a word of this to anyone else. Understood?" He fixed them with a glare that had cowed tougher men than these boys. They nodded frantically.
"Dismissed. And next time you feel the urge to gossip, remember: loose lips sink ships. And careers."
Haakon watched the boys flee, then rounded on Voss. "Now, Captain. What's this about reconnaissance?"
Voss cleared his throat. "Sir, Muan patrol activity's spiked along their forward trenches. Started 'bout two hours back."
Haakon grunted, eyes fixed on the map. Chauvert Ridge. Weeks of bombs, and the damn hill still stood. Like it was laughing at them.
"Odd hours for a stroll, isn't it?" Haakon muttered. "What's your take, Voss?"
Voss's face scrunched up like he was trying to solve a particularly tricky math problem. Good man, Voss. Bit dull, but at least he engaged his brain before his mouth. Unlike some of the glory hounds Haakon had suffered through.
"Doesn't fit their usual, sir," Voss finally managed. "Could be gearing up for a push, but..."
"But why now, after we've been hammering them?" Haakon finished. "Unless they've got an ace we don't know about."
He let that hang there. The damn hill had been a thorn in his side for weeks now, stubbornly refusing to fall despite the tonnage of bombs they'd dropped on it. He could almost hear his old man's voice: Son, if something seems too good to be true, it probably is.
"Voss," he called, not bothering to look up. "Talk to me about our birds."
"Sir?" There was that hesitation in Voss's voice again. Good man, Voss, but sometimes Haakon wondered if the captain had been born nervous.
"Our bombers, Voss. Are we actually accomplishing anything, or just redecorating the landscape?"
Voss cleared his throat. "Oh, yes sir. Very effective. We've taken out most of their visible AA emplacements. Our pilots report-"
Haakon held up a hand, cutting him off. "Spare me the novel, Captain. Give me the meat of it."
Voss straightened, seeming to gather himself. "Two days, sir. Maybe three at the outside before Chauvert falls. We've reduced their eastern sector to about 30% strength, and the western sector isn't far behind."
"Two, three days? Damn optimist, aren't you, Voss?"
Weeks of bombs, and the ridge still stood. The rumors of Americans gnawed at him again. Should he just move forward with the offensive? They'd weakened the Muans enough.
"So what's with these patrols?" he asked, eyes narrowing. "If we've got them cornered, why're they scampering about?"
Voss shifted. That hesitation again. "Could be prepping a counter, sir."
Haakon snorted. "With what? You just told me we've gutted their strength."
"Well..." Voss paused. "Maybe they're expecting reinforcements, sir?"
There it was again.
"If we made all of our decisions based on hypotheticals, we'd have long lost to Kain." He hated playing devil's advocate, but someone had to. He couldn't send his men at a heavily defended position full of American guns without good reason. "There has to be something else here we're not seeing."
Voss glanced down at the patrol routes – the ones they managed to map out from aerial surveillance, at least. "The scouts were spotted far from their position. One would think they'd consolidate around their position, get situational awareness on their surroundings. But no… it seems… sporadic."
Haakon knew what that meant. "Secure and destroy anything important."
"They're cleaning house," Voss realized.
He straightened, biting back a wince. "Alright. Notify me if anything comes out of that ridge. And get Eriksson on the line. Tell him to have the 15th ready to move."
– –
"Well, isn't this a right cock-up," Remlant Ashcroft grumbled to himself. The outpost below might as well have been the Gra Valkas Empire's summer palace for all the defenses it boasted. So much for 'lightly guarded'.
His eyes burned. Too many hours squinting through shite optics. Better than nothing, though. He blinked hard, trying to clear the grit. Fuck all good it did. The outpost squatted there, already under enemy control. Bastard thing looked even more fortified in this piss-poor light.
"Lightly guarded, my arse," he muttered. "I count three squads on patrol, machine gun nests at each corner, and... is that a bloody Wilder?"
He passed the binoculars to Thornton. "Tell me I'm seeing things, Sergeant."
Thornton took a long look before grunting. "Wish Ah could, sir. That's a Wilder a'right. Prob'ly Mark III by th' looks o' it."
Fuck. Ashcroft's temples throbbed. A Wilder. Because of course there was. Why not toss a bloody dragon in there while we're at it? He blinked hard, trying to will away the grit in his eyes. No use. Still there, still fucked.
His head pounded. He needed sleep. Needed a drink. Needed this whole sodding war to be over.
"Mercer. What've you got?"
"Nowt but gibberish, sor," Mercer muttered, fiddling with the MBITR. "GVE's chatterin' away, but it's all encrypted. Can't crack it."
Of course it was. When had anything in this mess gone right? Ashcroft squinted at the outpost again. They needed that radio. Needed it bad. But how to get past all that?
"Beaumont. See anything useful?"
"Northwest corner's a mess, sor. Fresh diggin'. Might be our way in."
Ashcroft looked where Beaumont pointed. There it was. A chink in the armor. Risky as hell, but what choice did they have?
"How long for a distraction?"
"Ten minutes, sor. Make it loud, yeah?"
"Five," Ashcroft growled. He glanced at Sylvail, who looked ready to keel over. "How long on that concealment?"
"An hour," Sylvail managed. "At most."
An hour. It'd have to do. Ashcroft's head spun. How the fuck were they going to pull this off? Every option reeked of suicide or court-martial. Probably both. Then it hit him. It wasn't the best, but it was something.
"Right, you lot," he hissed. "Here's what I've got: We're going to waltz right into that bleeding fortress and nick their radio. Because we're either the bravest bastards in Mu or the stupidest. Jury's still out on that one."
Ashcroft's eyes swept over his team. Five of them against a small army. Bloody marvelous odds, that.
"Beaumont, I want you to cook up something special. East side of the compound. Make it loud, make it bright, make those Valkie boys shit themselves."
Beaumont's grin promised mayhem. He pulled out a block that looked like a stick of butter, but without the cold – C4, courtesy of the Yanks. "Aye, sir. I've got just the thing. They'll think the sun's risen early, they will."
"Good man. Thornton, you're our eyes. Find a perch with a view of both Beaumont's fireworks and our approach. If that Wilder so much as twitches in our direction, I want to know."
Thornton's eyes were already picking apart the landscape. "Aye, sir. They'll no' catch us wit' our kilts up."
"Mercer, you're with me. We get in, we find their comms, we get that message out. Quick and quiet."
"Roger that, sor," Mercer said, patting his pack.
"Sylvail," Ashcroft turned to the magus, who looked like death warmed over. "I know you're knackered, but we need every scrap of mana you can muster. Once we're in, fall back with Beaumont. If it all goes tits up, you two make for the rally point. No heroics, clear?"
Sylvail nodded, sweat beading on his brow despite the icy morning.
Ashcroft checked his watch. 0529. Daylight was creeping in, stripping away what little cover they had left. Bollocks to it all.
"Right, we move in one minute. Any questions? No? Good. Let's go bollocks this up properly."
The next sixty seconds crawled by like treacle. Then Beaumont was off, worming through the scrub like he was born to it. The rest of them hunkered down, waiting.
Five minutes later, the world went mad.
The explosion turned night to day, brief and blinding. The boom hit a heartbeat later, rattling Ashcroft's teeth. Shouts erupted across the compound. Valkie troops poured from buildings, fumbling with gear and weapons.
"That's our cue, lads," Ashcroft growled. "Move!"
They sprinted for the fence, Sylvail's magic shimmering around them. With luck, the Valkies would be too busy pissing themselves to notice a few extra shadows.
They hit the perimeter at the northwest corner. Up close, the "fresh digging" looked like a drunken giant had been playing in a sandpit. Mercer produced wire cutters, and they were through in seconds.
Ashcroft's heart hammered as they slipped into the compound. So far, so good. No shouts of discovery beyond the chaos Beaumont had kicked up. Just pandemonium from the "surprise sunrise" show.
"There," Mercer whispered, pointing to a squat building bristling with antennas. "Has to be it."
They weaved through the compound, ducking behind crates and vehicles. Twice, they froze as patrols rushed past, close enough to smell their sweat and hear the panic in their voices. Good. Let them run around like headless chickens.
At the comms building's door, Ashcroft hesitated. No guards. It felt wrong. Too easy. But then, why guard a radio when the world's ending outside?
"Fuck it," he muttered, and they were in.
The comms room hit Ashcroft like a slap to the face. Stale air, thick with ozone and old sweat. A right mess of kit, Muan leftovers tangled up with Gra Valkan additions like some demented spider's web. And there, nestled in the chaos like the holy grail itself, sat their target.
"There's our golden ticket."
Ashcroft's eyes locked onto a hefty black case, out of place among the Gra Valkan and Muan hodgepodge. Sleek lines, ruggedized exterior, and that unmistakable Stars and Stripes sticker half-peeled off the side. Their golden ticket, courtesy of Uncle Sam.
Mercer jumped on it immediately, flipping latches and revealing a face plate dense with controls. A chunky frequency knob dominated the center, surrounded by a dizzying array of smaller dials and buttons. Ashcroft squinted at labels like "WOD," "ALE," and "ECCM." Might as well have been bloody pictograms.
"How long?" he asked, eyes darting back to the door. Every second felt like an invitation for some trigger-happy Gra Valkan to crash their little party.
Clacks filled the air as Mercer punched in a string of numbers. "Gotta load the freq hopping sequence first," he muttered. "Then crypto. Three minutes. Four, tops."
Bloody marvelous. Might as well be a lifetime.
Ashcroft's skin itched. Too exposed. Too vulnerable. Like standing starkers in the middle of a minefield. With all the proper chaos outside, he'd be lucky to hear anyone approaching. Beaumont's distraction was still going strong, but for how long?
"Got it," Mercer hissed suddenly. "Frequency's set. Authentication code?"
"Echo-Tango-Seven-Nine-Three," Ashcroft rattled off, the digits burned into his brain. "Then 'Blackbird.' Tell 'em Chauvert Ridge is hanging by a thread. We need those Yank reinforcements."
Mercer nodded, fiddling with the handset. "Right, transmitting now." He keyed the mic, voice low but clear. "Echo-Tango-Seven-Nine-Three. Blackbird. Chauvert Ridge critical. Require immediate support…?"
Static crackled back at them. Ashcroft's knuckles went white around the M4's grip. His eyes bounced between the door and Mercer like a bloody ping-pong ball. Felt like his whole body was wound tighter than a cheap watch, ready to snap. And that sodding radio just sat there, quiet as a grave. All that tech and the Yanks couldn't pull through, just this once? Each tick of silence was another shovel of dirt on their coffin.
"Bollocks," Mercer muttered, adjusting a dial. "Too much interference. Trying again."
A noise outside. Footsteps?
"Mercer..." Ashcroft growled.
"I know, I know." Mercer repeated the transmission, voice tight with urgency.
More static, then a garbled voice. "...repeat... not copy..."
"Fuck's sake," Ashcroft hissed. "One more try, then we bail."
Mercer nodded, sweat beading on his forehead. He keyed the mic again, enunciating each word like he was talking to a deaf grandmother. "Echo-Tango-Seven-Nine-Three. Blackbird. Chauvert Ridge critical. Require immediate..."
The radio squawked, cutting him off. "...identify... over."
"Bollocks to this," Ashcroft growled, snatching the handset from Mercer. "This is Lieutenant Ashcroft, 3rd Recon, 7th Light. Authentication Echo-Tango-Seven-Nine-Three. Blackbird. SITREP: Chauvert Ridge critical. One Valkie armored division plus three-zero to six-zero Guti Maun bombers. Ground: one-zero thousand troops, three-zero-zero plus tanks, Wilders included. Air raids ongoing, three runs yesterday. No effective AA. Can hold two-four to three-six hours. Request immediate air support and ground reinforcement. How copy? Over."
Silence. Then, clear as day: "Copy, Blackbird. Standby for..."
The door handle turned.
Ashcroft dropped the handset, bringing his rifle up. The door swung open, revealing a wide-eyed GVE officer.
Two muffled shots from the M4A1. The officer dropped like a sack of spuds.
"Bugger," Ashcroft spat. "Mercer, grab that radio. We're blown."
Mercer yanked the handset free, stuffing it and the main unit into his pack as the radio crackled again. "Blackbird, this is Nest. Message received. Hold position. Air support inbound. ETA ninety minu–"
"Rog'," Ashcroft cut in. "We're legging it. Out." He clicked off the radio. "Shift your arse, Mercer. Time to scarper, 'fore his mates start looking."