April 10, 2028; 03:10 Hours
Latinian Border, Kuhlfrocia, Levantia
105th Airborne Division, 505th Regimental Combat Team
Private First Class. Walt Sanderson
It was dark and next to nothing was visible, the only way Walt was keeping track of his NCO, a Sergeant First Class Anders. Anders had a bit more of experience on his belt which made Walt feel safe, being a particularly large figure standing at 6’7. Which made him zero fun for playing basketball, but physically intimidating, but despite this, Anders seemed to be a bit of a Type-B personality and was academic enough to make college but he decided to stick with the Army. Sanderson was the only junior enlisted soldier in the squad, which had about ten soldiers in it, to have actually seen combat, which made him the right hand man of Anders. Though his combat experience also made the younger members of the squad, especially the peacetime enlisted, bug him constantly about his war experience in the Talion Union.
“Sanderson, up here, with me.” Anders ordered and then brought the squad to a halt in a column formation. The rifle squad of about ten men was perched on elevation, with a dirt path with a hill taking their right side, and a forest taking their left. It was decided that this path provided the most concealment and visibility at the same time. Walt stalked slowly up to Anders with his rifle in hand.
“What do you need?”
“See those dogs down there?” SFC. Anders pointed down to a trio of dogs chained up to Latinian cargo trucks, which were unattended by them for some reason.
“You want me to shoot them?”
“You know you’re the only one in the squad that can make the shot, I’m sorry.” Anders apologized.
“No need…” Walt shouldered his M4 carbine and screwed a tan Rotex suppressor onto the barrel then squared the first dog within his sight. The glowing red reticle was then aligned with the first mutt, he squeezed the trigger and the bullet went through the dog’s head, snapped to the second target, aligned, fired, and the third he hesitated thinking about his own dog, a German Shepherd by the name of Maxwell. “Fuck it.” Sanderson pulled the trigger a few times more than necessary, three rounds went through the final dog.
“...Good shooting.” Anders then patted Walt on the back a few times, “Squad, move. Walt if you need a moment.”
The rest of the squad moved on, Walt lowered his carbine and kneeled down for a moment, odd, his first kills of his second conflict were animals. He thought back to Patria and wondered what she would think when he came back and if he would even tell her… If she was even interested.
Sgt. Ruck patted Walt on the back and gestured for him to fall back into the line of the squad, he did so, jumping in at the tail end behind another PFC. Who looked inexperienced and white as could be, but maybe that was just the rain that had harassed the squad earlier, still.
“You’ve been in combat right?” He turned around, Walt read the name off of his plate-carrier. PFC. Ishmael Green.
“I play a lot of Call Of Duty if that’s what you’re asking.” Walt joked.
“No, I mean like seriously. I heard you did some badass shit over in Talion.” Ishmael insisted, Walt sighed at the soldier’s lack of humor. But he understood why.
“Depending on who you asked, but I wouldn’t say badass.” It sounded like someone had hyped up Walt’s reputation in Talion. Rumors spread quickly he supposed, and if it raised unit morale, fair enough, but he didn’t want to be hyped up to something he wasn’t, and stayed silent for the rest of the march to the city they were overlooking. The city was a little bit more of a border town per se, it had a population of about 10,000, so not so much a city as more of a larger town, that said, it still had a few high rise buildings that represented the commercial business that grew there.
“Stalker 2-1, Stalker-2 Actual, your objective is the enemy anti aircraft emplacement atop the hospital. We’ve got a few artillery batteries on standby but Leviathan Actual doesn’t want you to level any of the buildings, so they’re strictly for armored vehicles.” The long range two-way radio started up on Cpl. Marshall’s AN/PRC-119.
“Roger.” Marshall picked up the radio and replied to the command center.
“Christ, did they put anti aircraft guns on top of a hospital?” Ishmael commented, “Bastards.”
April 10, 2028; 03:52 Hours
10,000 Ft, 12 Miles within Latinian Airspace Borders
177th Fighter Squadron, F-35A Lightning II
Cpt. Harry Ackerman
"Reaper 1-1, you're cleared for weapons release." The airboss's voice had a distinct radio filter to it, but was no more hard to understand than standard English, it was barely audible over the hum of the P&W F135 Engine in the cockpit. Of course it was a thousand times louder outside of the plane than inside of it.
The glow of the touchscreen cockpit illuminated Acerkman's flight jacket, he brought up a video display of the targeting pod, built into his F-35, and targeted a submarine that was surfacing for air. An SH-60 deployed from an Amerigan missile-destroyer had forced it out of the water with the drop of a few depth charges.
Ackerman scrolled with a few presses on his interface to a Quickstrike-J bomb, fitted to a Mark-84 Snake-eye. The Quickstrike-J was an anti-ship weapon built on the already existing series of Mark-XX bombs the Air Force had developed and had tens of thousands left over from the stock of a cold-war era. It was a useful application for a tool that hadn't aged.
"Bombs away, pickle one." Harry armed the weapon, a beeping tone played in his Helmet Mounted Cueing System as the bomb bay opened to let out a 1000 pound munition.
A massive, wonderful explosion lit up the nightsky as a 1000 pound munition slammed into it's seaborne target.
Latinian Border, Kuhlfrocia, Levantia
105th Airborne Division, 505th Regimental Combat Team
Private First Class. Walt Sanderson
It was dark and next to nothing was visible, the only way Walt was keeping track of his NCO, a Sergeant First Class Anders. Anders had a bit more of experience on his belt which made Walt feel safe, being a particularly large figure standing at 6’7. Which made him zero fun for playing basketball, but physically intimidating, but despite this, Anders seemed to be a bit of a Type-B personality and was academic enough to make college but he decided to stick with the Army. Sanderson was the only junior enlisted soldier in the squad, which had about ten soldiers in it, to have actually seen combat, which made him the right hand man of Anders. Though his combat experience also made the younger members of the squad, especially the peacetime enlisted, bug him constantly about his war experience in the Talion Union.
“Sanderson, up here, with me.” Anders ordered and then brought the squad to a halt in a column formation. The rifle squad of about ten men was perched on elevation, with a dirt path with a hill taking their right side, and a forest taking their left. It was decided that this path provided the most concealment and visibility at the same time. Walt stalked slowly up to Anders with his rifle in hand.
“What do you need?”
“See those dogs down there?” SFC. Anders pointed down to a trio of dogs chained up to Latinian cargo trucks, which were unattended by them for some reason.
“You want me to shoot them?”
“You know you’re the only one in the squad that can make the shot, I’m sorry.” Anders apologized.
“No need…” Walt shouldered his M4 carbine and screwed a tan Rotex suppressor onto the barrel then squared the first dog within his sight. The glowing red reticle was then aligned with the first mutt, he squeezed the trigger and the bullet went through the dog’s head, snapped to the second target, aligned, fired, and the third he hesitated thinking about his own dog, a German Shepherd by the name of Maxwell. “Fuck it.” Sanderson pulled the trigger a few times more than necessary, three rounds went through the final dog.
“...Good shooting.” Anders then patted Walt on the back a few times, “Squad, move. Walt if you need a moment.”
The rest of the squad moved on, Walt lowered his carbine and kneeled down for a moment, odd, his first kills of his second conflict were animals. He thought back to Patria and wondered what she would think when he came back and if he would even tell her… If she was even interested.
Sgt. Ruck patted Walt on the back and gestured for him to fall back into the line of the squad, he did so, jumping in at the tail end behind another PFC. Who looked inexperienced and white as could be, but maybe that was just the rain that had harassed the squad earlier, still.
“You’ve been in combat right?” He turned around, Walt read the name off of his plate-carrier. PFC. Ishmael Green.
“I play a lot of Call Of Duty if that’s what you’re asking.” Walt joked.
“No, I mean like seriously. I heard you did some badass shit over in Talion.” Ishmael insisted, Walt sighed at the soldier’s lack of humor. But he understood why.
“Depending on who you asked, but I wouldn’t say badass.” It sounded like someone had hyped up Walt’s reputation in Talion. Rumors spread quickly he supposed, and if it raised unit morale, fair enough, but he didn’t want to be hyped up to something he wasn’t, and stayed silent for the rest of the march to the city they were overlooking. The city was a little bit more of a border town per se, it had a population of about 10,000, so not so much a city as more of a larger town, that said, it still had a few high rise buildings that represented the commercial business that grew there.
“Stalker 2-1, Stalker-2 Actual, your objective is the enemy anti aircraft emplacement atop the hospital. We’ve got a few artillery batteries on standby but Leviathan Actual doesn’t want you to level any of the buildings, so they’re strictly for armored vehicles.” The long range two-way radio started up on Cpl. Marshall’s AN/PRC-119.
“Roger.” Marshall picked up the radio and replied to the command center.
“Christ, did they put anti aircraft guns on top of a hospital?” Ishmael commented, “Bastards.”
April 10, 2028; 03:52 Hours
10,000 Ft, 12 Miles within Latinian Airspace Borders
177th Fighter Squadron, F-35A Lightning II
Cpt. Harry Ackerman
"Reaper 1-1, you're cleared for weapons release." The airboss's voice had a distinct radio filter to it, but was no more hard to understand than standard English, it was barely audible over the hum of the P&W F135 Engine in the cockpit. Of course it was a thousand times louder outside of the plane than inside of it.
The glow of the touchscreen cockpit illuminated Acerkman's flight jacket, he brought up a video display of the targeting pod, built into his F-35, and targeted a submarine that was surfacing for air. An SH-60 deployed from an Amerigan missile-destroyer had forced it out of the water with the drop of a few depth charges.
Ackerman scrolled with a few presses on his interface to a Quickstrike-J bomb, fitted to a Mark-84 Snake-eye. The Quickstrike-J was an anti-ship weapon built on the already existing series of Mark-XX bombs the Air Force had developed and had tens of thousands left over from the stock of a cold-war era. It was a useful application for a tool that hadn't aged.
"Bombs away, pickle one." Harry armed the weapon, a beeping tone played in his Helmet Mounted Cueing System as the bomb bay opened to let out a 1000 pound munition.
A massive, wonderful explosion lit up the nightsky as a 1000 pound munition slammed into it's seaborne target.
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