StarDestroyer.Net BBS

CHAPTER 1

Arch-Strategos Von Shrakenburg looked down at the printed copy of the speech he was to give. He wasn't too surprised to find his hand was shaking slightly. Somebody at Castle Tarleton has gone quite insane he thought to himself nothing good will come out of this.

He shifted his attention to the crowd of officers who had been assembled to hear the announcement. Some looked bored, others anxious, other eager. Beyond the thin corrugated tin walls of the prefab he could hear the thumping of helicopter engines and the sounds of tanks and men being loaded onto the transport ships for their trip across the channel. From overhead came the occasional scream of a high-powered jet engine: squadrons of fighters and bombers already on their way. Even as he spoke he knew the first nuclear-tipped ICBMs would be bringing an early dawn to cities across Britain, Ireland, and Australia. Tens of thousands of men were being pushed into the transport ships like herded cattle. The first wave of Janissaries. Most of them were Indian or south-Asian conscripts; men rousted from their hovels at night and dragged to some army base to be given a gun and a five minute lecture on how to shoot it. Mere cannon fodder, higher quality men would have been wasted on the near suicide mission of securing the beachheads.

He coughed for attention. “Ladies and gentlemen” he began, reading off the paper. “Today is a day that will be remembered for generations. Today, for the first time in too many years, we go forth to expand the borders of the Dominate.” He gestured vaguely at the world map displayed, no doubt quite deliberately, behind the podium. The vast empire of the Draka covered all of Africa and most of Europe. A tendril of it snaked across the Middle East through India and Tibet to Indochina. To the north its progress was obstructed by the huge solid block of the Soviet Union, which incorporated much of what had once been China, Finland, Norway, Sweden, and a large portion of what had once been Western Europe. The two dictatorships had largely split the Old World between them, their dominions intruded upon only by Japan and what miserable scraps remained of the British Empire. “The naval forces of the British Empire have too long harassed our own navy vessels as they performed their duty. Today we shall teach them the consequences of their impudence. Tonight Operation Hadrian begins. Its goal: to seize the territories and protectorates of Great Britain for the Dominate. Officers of the Dominate go and prepare your men. Know that none can stand against you. The British are weak and small, clinging to the last rags of their Empire. Their forces will be driven before us like chaff before the wind. That is all.”

There were a few cheers from the assembled, not as many as might have been expected. Britain was a good choice for conquest. It was by far the weakest of the imperial powers, all that remained of its once vast holdings were Ireland, Australia, New Zealand, and a few islands in the Pacific. It wouldn't be a walkover, especially considering the fact that Britain was a nuclear-armed country, but the Dominate vastly outclassed it in terms of population and resources and a Draka victory would be inevitable by sheer weight of numbers if nothing else. The danger lay in either the USSR taking advantage of the situation or in the Americans coming to the aide of their main ally in the Old World. Personally Von Shrakenburg was convinced the risk of either or both of those happening was insanely high but he was a Draka and he would do his duty without complaint. Anyway, even if he refused to lead the expedition it wouldn't stop Operation Hadrian; there were half a dozen other generals who would gladly take his place.

Let's just hope the Yanks and Ivans keep at each others' throats instead of ours Von Shrakenburg thought as he walked out onto Normandy Beach to supervise the embarkation of the Citizen divisions. I don't trust that President of theirs, why did Tarleton have to pull this while somebody like him was in office.

* * *

Captain Duken struggled to impose something vaguely like order on the bridge of the aircraft carrier Nelson. It had been a perfectly normal night watch and then all hell had suddenly broken loose.

“Alright, what the hell is going on?” he demanded.

“Sir, I'm having trouble getting through” the radio operator reported. “There's bombs going off everywhere! Our entire chain of command has been taken out! I can only get some intermittent contact with some military bases-“

“Jesus Christ” Duken said. This was it. World War III. He just hoped the nukes would be used sparingly or the war after this one would probably be fought with pointy sticks. “Who is it? The Reds?”

“No sir” the radio operator gulped. “Nobody has any real clue what's going on-it's pretty much chaos over there, they took us off guard I'd venture-but from what I can get it's Draka.”

“Oh God” Duken said, closing his eyes in pain. If it was Soviets it would have been bad enough, but the thought of a Draka invasion of his home country… Duken had heard stories, everyone had… The Draka made Genghis Khan look tame. They'd have a field day in London. Duken forcibly wrenched his mind away from thoughts of the Snake bastards doing things best left undescribed to his wife and children. “We can't let those bastards... get a beachhead. Not if we can help it. Callis, is there any way we can help out?”

“We should be well within aircraft range” Lieutenant Commander Callis said. “I can have the Typhoons prepped and ready in a half an hour.”

“Do it” Captain Duken said. He grabbed the mike for shipwide address. “Attention all officers and men!” he called. “This is the Captain. Our nation has been attacked by the armed forces of the Dominate of Draka. Even now transport ships are undoubtedly pulling up to the southern coast of the channel. Transport ships loaded with Draka-subhuman trash with only one thought in their heads. And that thought is to kill and destroy and despoil; to kill your countrymen, to kill your families, to destroy your homes, to do things to your loved ones that you don't even want to think about, and when they're done to turn your country into a province of the Dominate and you into their personal shower bitches-and in many cases I mean that literally! As of this moment we are at war. Prep your aircraft; you're going out to face them tonight. And if we do go down it's not going to be quietly. We'll give them hell and take half the sorry lot of them with us!”

* * *

Airman Bignal flew his Typhoon over the dark waters of the Baltic Sea toward the channel and the Draka armies that would even now be pouring onto the coasts of Britain. The atrocities of the Draka in WWII and their border wars with the Soviets turned over in his mind like a poisonous jewel. His hands tightened involuntarily on the joystick as he imagined what the twisted psychos would do to his family if they could get their filthy hands on them. Well, if it was going to happen Bignal vowed that it would be literally over his dead body.

“Were hitting the coast” the squadron leader announced. “We should be over the channel in a few minutes.”

Bignal watched the landmass of Britain briefly roll below, and then he was again over water.

“We're almost over them” the squadron leader said. “I can see an aircraft carrier and a couple of transport ships.”

“I'm picking up something coming in at six-thirty” Bignal's wingman said.

“Looks like a sortie of Hellions” the squadron leader said. “OK boys; get ready to rock and roll.”


Centurion Rohm brought his Hellion up behind the British Typhoons. He smiled unpleasantly as he locked and loaded his weapons. The Draka airforce was small, but aside from some of the higher-end American craft their planes were the best in the world by far. The Hellion was equipped with state of the art weaponry and jamming systems to fool the targeting systems of enemy aircraft. The equipment given to Janissaries might be little better than trash but the airforce was Citizen only and a Draka would have accepted no less than the finest weapon for himself.

“Begin climbing for the attack run” he commanded crisply.

“Looks like they've seen us” one of his men observed. “They're breaking formation.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Rohm said. “Shoot them down.”

The Draka aircraft scattered and pursued the Typhoons. Rohm continued his climb toward the lead craft, determined to kill it himself. The Typhoon launched a missile but his jamming systems threw it off. The Typhoons had less sophisticated protection. His missile struck true and blew it to pieces. He veered off, searching for new prey. He spotted another Typhoon not far way from him and banked toward it. The pilot tried to evade but Rohm was too skillful for him. He kept on his back but the pilot was not without some skill of his own, Rohm had to admit that, for he gave him no opportunity to get a hard lock.


Bignal desperately tried to throw off the Draka fighter. The bastard was good, too good. It was all Bignal could do to keep from being blown out of the sky.

“Damn, he is right on my tail” he reported. “Can't shake him!”

“I'll help you out in a minute” his wingman reported. “I've kind of got my own problem here.” Bignal checked to see he was engaged in a furious dogfight of his own against two Hellions. He could only look on with horror as he was shot out of the sky.


“I have you now” Centurion Rohm gloated as the British fighter stopped its frenetic maneuvering for just a moment, enough for him to get a good lock. He let loose. A missile flew across the intervening distance and slammed into the British jet just below one of the wings, blowing half of it into flaming shards.


“I've been hit” Bignal called out. It was something of a minor miracle that the fuel tank hadn't cooked off. But his fighter was dead. There was nothing he could do. He could eject but he'd end up in the channel surrounded by the Draka invasion fleet. They'd leave him to freeze to death or shoot him if they spotted him… if he was lucky. Most of all he hated the thought of going down without taking at least one of the Snakes with him.

His fighter was rapidly loosing altitude. He could see the enemy ships clearly now. Wait, that transport… it was almost in his path. And it was undoubtedly full of Draka warriors just itching for the chance to get some killing and looting and raping under their belts. What worthier target could he hope for? He knew he was going to die anyway, and it would be an honor to die killing these monsters.

He nudged the dying engines of his fighter, urging one last burst of speed out of them. Just enough to send him crashing into the deck of the transport.


Recruit Trooper Tran-Nhu looked up to see the flaming airplane descending towards him. He had no way of knowing which side it belonged to. Before being conscripted he'd been a mere serf worker in the rice paddies of the Indochina Province. He could barely even spell his name, and the only flag he could have identified was the evil red dragon that had stared down at him through his miserable life of backbreaking hard labor. He cradled his T-50 assault rifle in his freezing hands. The black metal burned his skin, turned icy by the harsh winds of a part of the world much colder than he was used to. He knew he was unlikely to survive the battle to come. Those few Janissaries in his company more knowledgeable than him-chiefly troublesome European conscripts assigned to units like his as punishment-had told their comrades in embittered tones that what they were being sent on what amounted to a suicide mission. Part of him wanted to somehow escape, but that would have been desertion. His wife and son would have impaled publicly for his crime.

“Oh merde!” one of the French Janissaries shouted, pointing up at the burning plane. “He's going to crash into us!” he shouted up at the gunners' nest “Blow it apart you fools! Blow it apart before it hits us! What the fuck are you waiting for!”

The gunner looked down at him skeptically, then back up. Tran-Nhu could see panic spread over his face even from tens of meters away. The transports' guns came to life, throwing metal at the oncoming plane. Some of the fire hit it and blew chunks off. It fragmented into three pieces, but that was not enough. The pieces had just enough momentum behind them to slam into the top deck of the transport. Tran-Nhu screamed in fear and pain as burning fuel and metal fell on top of him.

* * *

President George W Bush looked incredulously from the report in front of him to Secretary of State Colin Powell.

“The Snakes are invadin' Britain?” he blurted out finally.

“So it appears Mr. President” the Secretary of State confirmed. “They've launched a surprise nuclear attack on Britain and its territories-most of the major cities are smoking rubble now. And satellite photos show they're moving a huge amount of troops across the channel and they've already started bombing runs.”

“God-darnit we can't stand by and let them get away with this bullshit!” the President pounded his fist into his deck. “Bring me a Declaration of War!”

“Uh sir” the Secretary of State said. “Are you sure we should be so hasty with this-this would mean a war that would make WWII look like a lovers' quarrel-at best. At worst… well, have you ever seen The Day After?”

One of the President's advisors, a Mr. Lafarge, stood up. “No, I think in this case the President's suggested course of action is exactly correct.”

“I realize the need for strong action” Colin Powell said. “But perhaps we should consider things a little more carefully before rushing into WWIII.”

Lafarge shook his head. “There's nothing to consider Mr. Secretary. We've made too many retreats, too many compromises already. The Draka took over Africa and we let it slide. They took over the Middle East and we let it slide. They took over Indochina and we let is slide. They took over Europe and we fell back. They took over India and we fell back. They enslave entire countries, entire continents and we fall back. They murder, torture, loot, rape, commit atrocities that would make Genghis Khan's hordes retch and we fall back. They're like a cancer that's been allowed to grow too long and now threatens to consume the body. And consume us it will if somebody doesn't stand up and say enough. This far, no farther. And like any cancer the more you let it grow the harder it's going to be deal with. I say we take a stand for once, draw the line here, now and make them pay for all they've done!”

“I think I'm startin' to like this guy” the President said. “Now where's that Declaration for me to sign.”

Looks good. You really like that 'the line must be drawn here' speech, don't you?

speaker-to-trolls wrote:Looks good. You really like that 'the line must be drawn here' speech, don't you?

Thanks. Yeah, Picard's speech at the end of first contact always strikes a nerve with me. It's so emblematic of everything that's wrong with the way the AFD acted in the Draka series. They were playing way too nice with pure evil. They just kept watching the cancer of the Draka grow and grow when they should have been sterilizing it, seemingly unaware of the fact that like any weed the more you let it grow the harder it's going to be to get rid off when you finally do have to deal with it-and you will have to deal with it eventually.
A little of the same happened in this universe, but at least they have a good excuse. The USSR is still around; you've got a three-way cold war going between the Draka, the Soviets, and the US and Britain.
Ick. How do I put an image into a post. I made a world map for this period showing the different countries but I can't figure out how to post it.

Put the picture into an online photobucket (or similar) account, type in the URL and then highlight it and press 'Img'.

CHAPTER 2

Arch-Strategos Von Shrakenburg examined the city of London through his binoculars. While most major cities of the British Isles had been destroyed with nuclear-tipped ICBMs the capitol had been deliberately spared such extreme destruction so that it might become the new Draka administrative center. Nevertheless fires were already burning in portions of it. Most of it was from the ongoing artillery bombardment, a little from partially successful overflights by Draka bombers. The air force was still having an extremely hard time taking control of the skies from the RAF. Von Shrakenburg had decided that once the city was taken he would have the administrative and industrial areas salvaged, but the residential areas would be permitted to burn. The inhabitants’ suffering would teach them their new place in the universe.

He turned back to his aide. “How long until we can begin advancing across the river?”

“Recon reports the Brits blew the bridges for fifty kilometers in each direction” the aide said. “We’ll either have to rebuilt them or use our amphibious units only.”

Von Shrakenburg thought it over for a few moments. “We lost a disproportionate amount of those taking the coast.”

“Yes sir, but we should still have enough left to take the city.”

Von Shrakenburg lifted his binoculars again. This time he paid close attention to the machine gun nests being set up along the river.

“Send a Janissary contingent across” he said.

* * *

“They’re on the move again sir” Lieutenant Woodward said, handing the binoculars to Colonel Towers. Towers took a peek. He saw legions of dirty, tired-looking khaki-uniformed Janissaries crowding into sleek bulbous vehicles that he recognized as Drakan Aardvark class amphibious APCs. The vehicles began moving towards the bank of the Thames. Specialized Hoplite-D amphibious tanks plowed through the scurrying ranks of Janissaries like plodding bulls.

Towers cursed. “Looks like they’re going to ford the river. How’s the artillery situation?”

“Sparse sir” Woodward reported. “They really used our confusion against us. By the time we managed to get our shit together they’d pushed halfway towards London. We never really expected to have a city fight in bloody London on our hands. C&C’s trying to get some stuff down to us but between the Draka roving units and having to deal with their bombers sniping at us they aren’t exactly making it easy.”

“Well, we’ll just have to hold out until reinforcements arrive and we can evacuate the civvies” Towers said grimly. “Whatever happens we can’t let the Draka get into the city. Lord knows what those sick fucks would do to the people there.” He stared out over the still river and a shiver traveled down his spine. “I’m sure they’re dreaming about the festivities they’ll have in here today as we speak.”

“Don’t worry sir” the Lieutenant said. “We’ll do our best to stop them.”

Towers squeezed Woodward’s shoulder. “I know we will.” He took up the binoculars again. The Draka were beginning their advance, the first ranks of tanks beginning their passage through the river. They dipped heavily into the water, making little ripples on the still grey surface. A few choppers passed over the river and took up hovering positions near the bank to provide covering fire for the advancing mechanized units. Towers gestured for a hand radio.

“Alright gents” he said, sending his announcement out on the general frequency. “I want Stingers to take out those helicopters, that’s first priority. After that I want the last of our arty and antitank rockets on the mechanized units. Lay down a blanket fire with the machine guns; shoot everyone who sticks their heads out. Wait for my signal” he paused to allow the enemy to get deep into the channel, where they’d be mired down when they attempted to turn and run. “Now!”

Stinger missiles flew outward to collide with the hovering Draka choppers, smashing into them like heavy fists. The choppers fell flaming onto the river bank to land with the loud crunching sounds of metal deforming and leaded glass panels shattering. Some exploded as their fuel tanks cooked off. Others burned more slowly, their crews stumbling out only to be mowed down by machine guns. Then it was time for the second phase. Antitank rockets and cannons fired from dozens of emplacements hidden in buildings and behind dumpsters and stalled vehicles. They exploded against the thick steel armor of the Draka vehicles. Aardvarks were thrown backwards, their armored shells crumpled and deformed. Hideous screams issued from them as their crews were burned alive. Some managed to claw their way out through the hatches only to be reaped by machine gun fire. Hoplites were left floundering; their treads broken, their bulky turrets canted crazily or blown off altogether. Occasionally one of them would explode as fire touched their ammo compartments. The survivors surged forward as if emboldened instead of discouraged by the destruction of their fellows, their turret-mounted guns blazing. More tanks and APCs continued rolling towards the river, undaunted by the perfect kill zone they were advancing into. Towers would have grudgingly acknowledged the Snake bastards’ guts, but he rather suspected those vehicles were almost certainly full of slave conscripts. Little more than human shields for the Draka units that would come through when their opponents’ resistance was broken to fall upon the helpless city like so many hungry predators. Well, if they thought the British were going to be easy prey they had another thing coming, Towers thought grimly as he gave the order to use the last of the arty.

Mortar and cannon shells began slamming home both in and behind the advancing Drakan front. Water splashed vigorously from the explosions, splattering the Draka tanks with white foam as well as shrapnel. But they did their real work behind the front lines, in the camp proper. Ammunition suppositories blew up, trucks and supplies were turned to splintered slag, and sharp pieces of metal from fragmented shells flew freely among the Draka and Janissaries at high speeds, ratcheting up many a casualty. Men lay on the ground dying from shrapnel wounds, or sometimes with their limbs blown off.

“Good job boys” Towers said. “Keep it up. Give these scum a taste of what it’s going to be like when they die and go to hell.”


Arch-Strategos Von Shrakenburg cursed in disgust as a British mortar landed uncomfortably close to his position. He saw a Janissary being thrown into the air to land some meters away. He lay twitching weakly in a growing pool of his own blood.

“Can we keep advancing into this kind of fire?” he asked.

“Depends on how much attrition we’re willing to suffer” answered Merarch Vanderveer, who was in charge of the armored thrust across the Thames. “We can rush our way through but we’ll loose most of the initial wave doing so. Oh well, they’re just Janissaries. We can always just conscript more.”

“I hate to waste resources like that” Von Shrakenburg said. “What are our other options?”

“We could call in some airborne units or a chopper Cohort” Vanderveer said.

Von Shrakenburg peered over the overturned metal desk he was hiding behind. “What about taking out those emplacements?”

“Well, arty could make things uncomfortable to them but we’d need to pound the place to rubble to really deal with them and if you’ll remember sir, we’re trying to take the city in a reasonably good condition if at all possible.”

“I was more thinking of gas” Von Shrakenburg clarified. “Didn’t look to me like most of them had NBC gear.”

“I’ll get on it right away sir” Vanderveer said.


“Beautiful” Colonel Towers commanded as an RPG round tore into the tread guard of a Hoplite and disabled it. The Hoplite returned fire with its main cannon; ripping big holes in the wall above Towers’ head and showering him with powdery fragments of brick. But it was now a stationary target and a shot from an antitank cannon finished it off.

“Hey look!” Woodward said. “They’re pulling back!”

Towers reached for the binoculars and saw that the Draka mechanized forces were indeed retreating back to their bank of the Thames, firing their cannons behind them as they went.

“We did it!” Woodward cheered. “We beat those mother-humpers!”

“I’m not so sure” Towers said. “Those blokes are slave conscripts, the Draka would happily have sent the whole sorry lot of them straight into our guns to force a breakthrough. They don’t care about loosing them. No, they’ve decided that tactic is inefficient and now they’re going to try something they think will work better.”

There was a momentary pregnant silence and then, as if to prove Towers right, there came the whistle of a descending artillery shell. It landed a few blocks away and exploded with rather underwhelming force. But in doing so it released a white mist that definitely wasn’t smoke. Towers didn’t like this at all.

The walkie-talkie blared to life in his hand. “This is Sergeant Belisha! They’re using gas! I…” the voice trailed off into the choking rattle of a man suffocating. Even as Towers watched more poison canisters began descending.

“Shit!” Lieutenant Woodward swore. “We’re not equipped to handle chemical warfare!”

Towers again talked into his radio. “Gents, I’m afraid our position has become untenable. I hate to let those Snakes into this city, but there’s no way we can hold the bank. We’re going to have melt back into the city and defend this place block by block. I know many of you have friends and family here, and I know that it pains you to think of what those douchebags may do to the people you care about, but there’s no way we can hold out here. Split up and make them pay for every inch of ground.”

Towers watched as the crew began removing the machine gun nest that had been set up by his position. He looked back towards London and thought of all the millions of good men and women trapped in there. The decision to commit to a city fight weighed heavily on his heart, but it was better that than stay and be mowed like grass. Because who would protect those people from the Draka then?

* * *

Ibrahim ducked as Draka machine gun fire raked the building behind him. The Draka were mercilessly crushing the Hamas-led rebellion; methodically moving through the cities and towns of the Gaza strip and killing any rebels. This translated to indiscriminate butchery in most cases. The massacres were carried out with brutal enthusiasm by Draka commanders who’d been sent to the troublesome Arabian provinces as punishment for pissing off their superiors and now had to spend their days playing a tedious perpetual game of whack-a-mole with the various fanatical resistance organizations that infested the place. As a general rule they hated the unruly serfs they were charged with keeping in line and reveled in the chance to kill them without mercy.

Ibrahim knew that his life was over. There Draka were decimating (in the traditional sense; killing every tenth person) the population of his village and while they might have let him live he wasn’t going to stand by and let that happen. He was hunkered down behind some packing crates with an old T-45 Hamas had managed to scavenge, waiting for the opportunity to kill a few of the infidels. Spartan APCs were slowly rumbling down the narrow street towards him, often knocking aside chunks of houses as they passed through places where the unpaved road was too narrow for them. Ibrahim watched as two masked Hamas fighters dodged out of a building to face them. One of them leveled an RPG at the Spartan but the infidel gunner was too fast for him. He was sprawled on the floor, badly wounded. His companion tried to dodge into one of the buildings but he too was too slow. Draka machine gun fire riddled his body with holes and killed him. The wounded man was right in the path of the Spartan and desperately trying to crawl away. Ibrahim could only look on as the driver veered off to deliberately run him over. Realizing what the infidels intended the resistance fighter tried harder to crawl away but he didn’t have a hope. The APC drove over the wounded man and crushed him to a bloody paste. The Draka driver actually laughed as he heard him scream. Ibrahim burned with the desire to do something but he lacked any weapon capable of hurting the APCs. If he wanted to do any damage he’d have to wait until their soldiers got out. Even then he was almost certainly going to die going up against them, but that was inconsequential. To kill even one of the beasts would be an honor, even if it cost him his life.

Something fell from the sky and there was an earsplitting noise. For a second Ibrahim was too shocked to fully register what had happened. Whatever it was it had thrown up a lot of dust. He coughed as the particle swirled around his nose and were drawn into his lungs with every breath. The dust made it impossible to see what was going on for a little while. When it finally lifted Ibrahim saw that three of the Spartan APCs had been crippled. One of them had been blown to pieces. He blinked, and then glanced upward. Instead of the heroic Hamas fighter with an antitank cannon that he had expected to see he saw a black aircraft fly low across the sky. As if flew over the village it performed a salute roll. It was emblazoned with what Ibrahim recognized as the American flag.

* * *

Lieutenant Lewis ducked behind the bullet-ridden wall as the Draka shot at him. He waited for the sounds of automatic rifle fire to die down and returned fire. There was a faint sound of surprise and pain and a human figure slumped in the bushes. The figure’s companion was still alive though and shot back. Private Edmond fell to the ground grunting in pain, a red stain spreading across the sleeve of his uniform jacket.

“Medic!” Lewis called out. Waiting for the Medic to come over and patch Edmond up he risked a peek. There was only one figure left. Lewis could see him moving in the bushes. He carefully took aim and killed him.

“Recon party” Sergeant Gorman informed him as they moved out of the cover of the house and signaled that everything was clear. The Medic came running over to attend to Edmond. He looked out over the countryside and the black curls of smoke coming from the burned radioactive ruins of Manchester in the distance. “We’d better move on sir, a serious force may be coming any time now.”

“We could try going back to that town we passed through” Lewis said. “They’ve already been through there and think it’s clear.”

“I remember” Gorman said, making a face. “We found the severed heads of the population lined up in the town square with their cocks stuffed into their mouths. Jesus Christ, why’d they do that?”

Lewis smirked grimly. “They’re Snakes, it’s how they operate. I think it’s supposed to crush our spirits and make us fear them or something like that.”

“It just makes me angrier” Gorman said.

Lewis went over to the bushes to examine the bodies of the two men he’d killed. They were both Citizens of course, the Draka weren’t going to send slaves out on their own of course. Lewis was surprised by how young and normal they looked. If not for the uniforms they could have been his own men. He knew it shouldn’t surprise him but he’d always had the feeling deep down that anyone as evil as they were should somehow be marked. That it would show on the face.

“Better get a move on sir” Gorman said. “Hey wait a minute! Check this out!”

“What?” Lewis asked.

“The Draka army camp just outside Manchester” Gorman clarified.

Lewis borrowed Gorman’s binoculars. For a moment he couldn’t believe what he saw. The camp was in complete disarray. Tents were on fire and vehicles were overturned and burning. He heard the roar of a jet engine very loudly overhead and looked up.

Flying very low overhead was a Hellion, so close Lewis could see that ugly red lizard painted on its side. He had a moment of panic, then he realized it was trailing smoke and going down hard. Following it was the strangest aircraft Lewis had ever seen. It looked like a broad black boomerang, or maybe a flying triangle.

“What is that?” Lewis asked.

“It’s the new American stealth fighter” Gorman said. “Beautiful, aint she.”

Lewis looked into the partially cloudy morning sky to see a squadron of planes flying overhead. The larger ones he recognized as stealth bombers, the smaller ones were like the plane he’d just seen.

“Great” Lewis said. “Just great. You know what this means? We’ll be listening to the Yanks lecturing us on how they saved our sorry asses for the next fifty years.

CHAPTER 3

Colonel John Towers groaned in frustration as he looked out the window. The Draka were bringing in another tank. The smoldering remains of the last Hoplite was still taking up space in the parking lot below, taken out by a well placed shot with the antitank cannon. But the cannon crew had been killed in a run-in with a Janissary squad on the way back and now they didn’t have a cannon. Towers had no clue how they were supposed to hold out without one. His men had set up a machine gun in one of the blown-out windows of the apartment complex they were currently holding out in and were peppering the Rhino with bullets, but it was predictably having no effect.

“Enough” Towers snapped. “You’re just wasting ammunition.” He could only look on in horror as the Rhino rolled up to the front door and unleashed its specialty: a coaxial flamethrower.

“Oh bloody hell” Towers said. “Get everyone out of here, now! Before they burn the place down right on our heads!”

“What about all these people?” Sergeant Ralson asked, indicating the huddled cluster of civilians down the hall. There had been some efforts to evacuate London but they hadn’t had enough time to get more than a fraction of the population out before the Draka completed their encirclement. In lieu of anything remotely resembling a safe place most of them had been herded into the underground, old WWII bunkers, or simply defensible buildings. It was a terrible strain on the defenders but leaving anyone to the Draka beasts was simply unthinkable in Towers’ view.

“We’ll take them with us” Towers said. “Out the back way. There should be a shelter not too far from here; we’ll just have to run for it.”

“There’s a squad of Janis blocking the back door” one of his men reported.

“We’ll just have to deal with them” Towers said.

Towers lead his men down the darkened stairway to the back door of the apartment building, a convoy of wide-eyed civvies in tow. They paused before the door. One of the Privates took out a frag grenade, pulled the pin, carefully opened the door a crack, flung it through, and violently kicked the door back. There was a muffled explosion and screams of pain on the other side as it did its work.

“Go” Lieutenant Woodward said tightly. The caravan of people streamed out. There was a single Janissary standing in the alley and about a dozen of them on the ground, either dead or writhing in the agony of their wounds. They dispatched the one still standing, leaving the others to their fate. Beyond the alley there was a street. Towers almost made it, then froze.

There was a group of Janissaries standing right across the street from him. One of them pointed at him, yelled something.

“Shit! Towers hissed under his breath. “Everybody get down!” he screamed. One of his men put the Janissary down but it was too late; they were already raising the alarm.

“Behind the bus!” Towers pointed to a stalled bus in the middle of the street that would give everyone a modicum of cover. The group ran. Assault rifle fire raked them, cutting down mostly civvies. Bullets shattered the bus’s windows, sending broken glass falling down on them as they crouched down in its shadow.

“Oh shit!” one of the Sergeants cursed as he peeked around the back of the bus.

“What?” Towers asked.

“There are a ton of them coming toward us! Like two bleedin’ platoons or something! And they’re bringing the Rhino!”

“We’ll have to run for it” Woodward said. “Randall-Keyes! Scout us a route!”

“Aye Lieutenant” Randall-Keyes said as he scuttled off down the street. A few seconds later he came back.

“It’s pretty bad sir” he said. “The whole place is crawling with Snakes. We won’t make two blocks without somebody spotting us. We’re stuck.”

“What the fuck are we supposed to do now?” one of the Privates asked rhetorically. “We’re fucked man!”

“We’ll have to stay here and hope they don’t send somebody down the other side of the street” Woodward said.

Towers could only watch as the Rhino was drawn up towards the bus. Its cannon let loose, tearing huge holes in the flimsy civilian vehicle. Machine gun fire punched holes in the body. Towers’ men traded assault rifle fire with the Janissaries hunkered down behind cars and other convenient cover.

“We can’t hold out much longer” Sergeant Peters reported as the Janissaries advanced slowly toward the bus.

Towers nodded grimly. This was the end. Well, he supposed the only thing left to do was give the Draka as much trouble as he humanly could while going down.

His gloomy musing were interrupted by the heavy clanking of tank treads. At first he thought it was the Draka bringing up more reinforcements. Then a group of tanks turned the corner from an intersecting street. They didn’t look like Hoplites or Rhinos. One of them turned its main gun on the Rhino and opened fire. The Rhino rocked with the impact but it was a grotesquely overarmored monstrosity and the hit did little more than shake it. It fired back but failed to damage the other tank. The tank shot the Rhino again, and again, and yet again and finally the Rhino seemed to collapse on itself as its hydraulics buckled. The turret wobbled unsteadily, its motors blown. Infantry hopped out from beyond the cover of a nearby building and made quick work of the Janissaries, with a little help from the tanks’ mounted machine gun. Six men were standing atop the crippled Rhino, taking the surrender of the helpless Janissaries trapped inside. The men were shaking. Some had pissed themselves in terror. No doubt, Towers reflected, they expected similar treatment to what the Draka meted out to prisoners of war. They had no other precedent to judge from.

A man climbed down from one from the tanks and walked towards Towers and his group. He wore fatigues and a beret, and he was brown skinned with a clean-cut look to him and his hair shorn in a regulation style. He didn’t look English.

“Looks like you were in a bit of a tight spot here” the man observed. “Good thing we came along when we did.” He spared a glance toward the civvies. “Don’t worry sir, we’ll get them out of here with all due expedience.”

“Thanks.” Towers stuck out his hand. “Colonel John Towers. 5th Infantry Division. Out of Cornwall.”

The man shook his hand. “Major Mark Vympel, 3rd American tank division, out of Bismarck.”

* * *

Archon Grudermann drummed his fingers on the dark wood of the table as he studied the huge map of Britain projected on the wall. Green lines representing Draka advance stabbed into the heart of the island like probing fingers, reaching along the major highways and toward the cities. Their tips extended all the way into southern Scotland, smashing through red lines of British armies, only to be set upon and turned back by yellow lines of American forces moving from the western coast and driving them back toward the sea.

“The situation in Britain is not good” Secretary Whittle explained. “Over the past week some three hundred thousand American troops have landed in Britain. This gave the Brits time to rally and they’re now attacking us in a systematic and coordinated fashion, driving us back toward the coasts. We’ve lost almost all of our initial territorial gains, right now we’re hanging onto a strip of coast along the channel and a few pockets in Whales, the North Sea coast, and the southern tip of Ireland.”

“This situation is unacceptable” Grudermann rumbled. “How soon can we regain lost ground?”

“Well, that’s tricky sir” Whittle said. “It’s a matter of how many divisions the Americans are willing to commit. And we can’t overlook the possibility of new fronts opening up-already their accursed stealth bombers are hitting targets all over our territories and our airforce so far has proved helpless to interdict them. They enter and leave our airspace and conduct their missions with impunity. They’re not doing us any real damage-yet-but they’re letting us know they can.”

“Arrogant gits” somebody muttered. There was a general rumbling around the table. The American stealth aircraft’s near total success in evading Draka radar was a matter of enormous embarrassment in the Dominate’s military. Everybody in the room was eager to teach the Yanks a lesson about their place in the world-a painful one.

“There must be a way we can overcome these obstacles” Grudermann said. “We are The Race! We fill not be defeated by a nation of overweight Krispy Kreme addicts!”

“Overweight Krispy Kreme addicts who have the most productive economy and the most powerful military in the world-except for our own of course” Whittle hastened to add.

“There is” Dominarch Caine; the head of the Dominate’s armed forces, stood up. He went over to the projector and changed the slide. The projection now showed a map of North America with several stylized mushroom clouds on the eastern seaboard and red lines cutting into its midsection like a belt around a woman’s hips. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Operation Xerxes.” He cleared his throat and continued. “Ever since WWII our armed forces have based their strategic doctrine around the principle that-ironically enough-the Germans invented. They called it blitzkrieg, but of course we don’t usually like to acknowledge its origin so we rarely call it that. It relies on striking the enemy swiftly and viciously; knocking him completely off balance and then pounding him into the ground while he’s down, before he has time to recover and bring his full strength into play. We find it plays to our advantages.

“In that tradition Operation Xerxes is not entirely dissimilar to Operation Alexander-what we launched against Britain. Now, we can’t use our ICBMs to the same degree here as we did in Alexander. That might start a full scale thermonuclear exchange, and that would give us a pyrrhic victory. But I think a few carefully chosen nuclear strikes to several key American military hubs and large cities-mostly eastern seaboard cities like Philadelphia, New York, and most especially Washington-will give us a similar debilitating effect on their chain of command. As they’re reeling and disorganized we will land our Legions here, at key points scattered over the east coast, and here at Los Angelos. Obviously we won’t have the advantage of surprise we did with Alexander, we’re going to need a huge fleet to pull this off and there’s no way the Yanks aren’t going to see it. But we can effectively hit them in the balls with a sledgehammer, then while they’re stumbling around holding their crotch our Legions land and push as far as they can. By the time they get their act together they’ll be caught in a vise.”

“Respectfully sir” one of the Archon’s minor aides interjected “the English were in a much worse position when they ‘got their act together’ and look how that’s ended up.”

“Only because of the intercession of a much stronger military power” the Dominarch argued. “If they’d been on their own our Legions would be stamping out the last brush fires in Australia and New Zealand by now and the Dominate would have had four or six new provinces in a couple of months. That won’t happen here.”

“It sounds awfully ambitious” somebody pointed out. “Aren’t you worried about the Ivans taking advantage of our distraction?”

Caine sniffed, his small black moustache twitching. “We have prepared against that possibility.”

The Archon considered. “It’s unquestionably ambitious. Risky. But from what I hear it’s the option that gives us the best chance of success.” Naturally the idea of simply suing for peace never occurred to him. The Draka’s ideology would allow them to settle for nothing less than total victory. He cracked his knuckles. “I shall present this plan to the relevant committees and if no unforeseen problems arise Operation Xerxes will be a go.”

A world map I made for the state of this ATL as of the beginning of the Final War. Sorry if it looks crappy, please excuse my horrendously bad drawing skills. Sorry I had to make it so small but at the original size it totally fucked up the whole page formatting.

I know direct image linking is frowned upon but the map is being stored in a file on my own yahoo board. Since I own the webspace I don't think there should be a problem.

Junghalli wrote:A world map I made for the state of this ATL as of the beginning of the Final War. Sorry if it looks crappy, please excuse my horrendously bad drawing skills. Sorry I had to make it so small but at the original size it totally fucked up the whole page formatting.

I know direct image linking is frowned upon but the map is being stored in a file on my own yahoo board. Since I own the webspace I don't think there should be a problem.

It would be nice except I can't see it... probably you mispelled something in the link there...

admiral_danielsben wrote:It would be nice except I can't see it... probably you mispelled something in the link there...

That's strange, it works fine for me.
Here's the direct link.
http://f1.grp.yahoofs.com/v1/gF1IQ2vhqW ... ld1600.jpg

Nice stuff. I shall have to use that commentary on americans in
my own drakafic:

"A nation of coca-cola addicts"

Some commentary: moving 300,000 american troops to britain is not
an easy task, unless of course, the USA simply had a defense treaty
with Britain, and had an entire Army Group's worth of tanks, APCs, and
whatnot sitting in depots in Britain, and upon W's DOW we simply flew in
all of our troops, who moved in and opened up the depots...

MKSheppard wrote:Nice stuff. I shall have to use that commentary on americans in
my own drakafic:
"A nation of coca-cola addicts"

I'm flattered.
The Draka are going to get a rude shock when they try actually invading the US. While the Draka army has vast numbers of Janissaries and some very leet soldiers and equipment in small numbers they're really lacking when it comes to putting together a balanced well-rounded military-and they're going up against the best military on earth in its home turf.
And just to make it extra-nasty their own history of brutality is going to work against them. Pretty much anybody fighting the Draka who knows what they're up against is going to fight fanatically. It's one thing to conceed a city to a normal enemy, it's another thing to conceed a city to a force who's idea of Miller Time makes the Rape of Nanking look tame.

MKSheppard wrote:Some commentary: moving 300,000 american troops to britain is not
an easy task, unless of course, the USA simply had a defense treaty
with Britain, and had an entire Army Group's worth of tanks, APCs, and
whatnot sitting in depots in Britain, and upon W's DOW we simply flew in
all of our troops, who moved in and opened up the depots...

I've heard some estimates for the invasion of Iraq that say it really should have been done with four hundred thousand troops, so it seemed fairly reasonable to me. The defence of Britain would have been a military commitment close to that level. Britain and Japan are pretty much the only countries in that half of the world that haven't ended up as either Draka provinces or Soviet sattelite republics (and Britain is the only one that has extended territories-including Australia which the US would very much want to keep in friendly hands so it can have access to the Indian Ocean). It'd be a very valuable ally and I imagine the US pretty much pulling all the stops to help it out.

Why haven't the major Drakan cities been obliterated by SSBN response to the use of nuclear weapons on British soil?

What I find more surprising is that they think they can nuke Washington DC and New York without seeing a mushroom cloud over Archona very shortly afterwards.

NecronLord wrote:Why haven't the major Drakan cities been obliterated by SSBN response to the use of nuclear weapons on British soil?

Because they're worried about starting an escalating series of nuclear strikes and counterstrikes leading to what essentially amounts to your worst case The Day After scenario with every country launching every nuke it has, and basically the complete destruction of modern civilization. Also now that the US has basically pushed the Draka off most of the island they don't think nuclear strikes are neccessary. That will change when the Draka nuke half the Eastern Seaboard and invade East Coast and California.
This is the US run by G-Dub, you know the Draka don't know what they're in for. I'd pity them if they didn't deserve it so richly.

speaker-to-trolls wrote:What I find more surprising is that they think they can nuke Washington DC and New York without seeing a mushroom cloud over Archona very shortly afterwards.

Oh they're taking nuclear counterstrikes into their plans. They figure having a couple of their cities reduced to smoking craters is an acceptable sacrifice for the tremendous victory it would represent to take over America. Especially since the real juicy strategic targets would be the industrial centers of Europe, which are basically populated by serfs (who cares about them, right). And since the Draka are really into blitzkreig they're not as worried about the loss of industrial capacity as we might be. I'm certain the Archon and company have plans to be elsewhere when the nukes start flying. Cold hearted? Sure, but these are Draka we're talking about after all.

To quote Zukov.... the US has too many coke bottles and gas stations to be invaded sucessfully.

Junghalli wrote:

NecronLord wrote:Why haven't the major Drakan cities been obliterated by SSBN response to the use of nuclear weapons on British soil?

Because they're worried about starting an escalating series of nuclear strikes and counterstrikes... etc etc

Hi. Love the story so far, but this strikes me as silly. Nobody sits still and takes it in the ass, fighting a nuclear war with conventional weapons, bringing a knife to a gunfight, for fear of "escalation".

LordShaithis wrote:Hi. Love the story so far, but this strikes me as silly. Nobody sits still and takes it in the ass, fighting a nuclear war with conventional weapons, bringing a knife to a gunfight, for fear of "escalation".

The gloves will come off big-time when the US gets hit with Operation Xerxes. As far as the Pentagon's concerned they're basically giving the Draka one last chance to back off from WWIII. You're going to be seeing retaliatory strikes in minutes when the first nuke hits Washington.
As for Britain... you have a point. I think I may add in the next chapter (retroactively) that when they pulled themselves together one of their first actions was to launch nuclear strikes, albeit at northern France instead of South Africa, which explains why we haven't heard of it yet.

Junghalli wrote:Because they're worried about starting an escalating series of nuclear strikes and counterstrikes leading to what essentially amounts to your worst case The Day After scenario with every country launching every nuke it has, and basically the complete destruction of modern civilization. Also now that the US has basically pushed the Draka off most of the island they don't think nuclear strikes are neccessary. That will change when the Draka nuke half the Eastern Seaboard and invade East Coast and California.

The dynamics of nuclear war are such that the US would have already begun launching their arsenal. That, and I would have expected the US to build a massive NMD system (nuclear-tipped if need be) when facing such a foe.

Oh they're taking nuclear counterstrikes into their plans. They figure having a couple of their cities reduced to smoking craters is an acceptable sacrifice for the tremendous victory it would represent to take over America.

I'm not familiar with your alternate-Drakaverse, but wouldn't the US strategic forces be developed into immense levels to assure the destruction of Draka?

Junghalli wrote:

admiral_danielsben wrote:It would be nice except I can't see it... probably you mispelled something in the link there...

That's strange, it works fine for me.
Here's the direct link.
http://f1.grp.yahoofs.com/v1/gF1IQ2vhqW ... ld1600.jpg

Still doesn't work. Says 'HTTP 404' in IE, and 'Document Not Found' in Firefox.

CHAPTER 4

The Gibraltar Fleet base at Rabat had not been this busy since WWII. Trucks and busses pulled up to and away from the yards in an endless stream, vomiting forth men from all around the Dominate’s far-flung territories. Ferries, cargo ships, and planes brought a cornucopia of tanks and heavy equipment over from the Dominate’s industrial heartland in Europe. Trains cued up on the many railway lines converging on Rabat, waiting to disgorge their cargos.

Rabat was the one of the two most important naval bases in the entire Dominate. Together with the Egyptian Fleet based at Alexandria and the Anatolian Fleet from Constantinople it formed a barrier of ships thrown up at the three critical choke points of the Mediterranean, turning the entire sea into a Drakian lake. Rabat itself was typical of cities outside the southern provinces: a dusty, shabby, sprawling collection of shantytowns populated almost entirely by serf laborers. A few military posts and a surrounding barrier sufficed to effectively turn it into an open-air prison for them. Egress was only possible through the railway lines and roads, which were guarded by checkpoints. It had grown around the huge naval yards and airforce base which it existed to service.

The yards were now filled to capacity, and cargo ships had to cue to dock. There was a long waiting line, so that it seemed as if a fleet was already in the process of being launched. Hardened submarine pens took up much of the yard space. The Dominate had invested massively in submarines; its great equalizer with the larger and more advanced navies of the British and Americans. The rest was now crammed with frigates, destroyers, and aircraft carriers, all being armed and fueled for the imminent invasion of the United States.

“Master, Arch-Strategos Lamley is ready to embark.”

“I will be ready for her in a minute” Strategos Setzer told the Janissary crewman. He walked off the bridge of the troop transport ship Skadi and to went below decks to his cabin. It was fairly spacious by the standards of the Navy; consisting of a living quarters, an office, and a washroom. Even if the rooms themselves were rather tiny. He began searching for his dress uniform. Strange, it wasn’t in his footlocker. He’d sworn it was there. He began to sweat, and not just from the stifling heat of the Skadi’s interior (in keeping with the Draka’s Spartan ethic the Dominate Navy considered air conditioning an expendable luxury). He’d taken the opportunity to study up on Arch-Strategos Lamley’s files the night before and she didn’t sound at all like the kind of person one would dare greet in a duty uniform. For the life of him he couldn’t remember where else it would be; he hadn’t worn it since the day he’d arrived on the Skadi.

“Am-Mai, have you seen my dress uniform?”

The girl peeked around the corner from the washroom. “I ironed it for you and put it on the bed Jake.”

“Oh. Thanks” Setzer felt foolish for not noticing it in such an obvious place. If any other Draka have noticed that they would have been shocked at Setzer’s personal serf daring to refer to him by his first name, and equally shocked at his lack of reaction to it. The truth was Setzer thought of Am-Mai more as his adopted daughter than his servant. Several years ago he had been passing through a serf auction in Saigon and his attention had been drawn to a small commotion in the line. He’d gone over for a closer look and seen a girl of perhaps eleven being dragged out of the arms of her parents by the guards. She was to be auctioned off separately from them. The guards took her to the auctioneers block and she looked out at the crowd with a strangely poignant mixture of stoicism and absolute terror. Resigned to suffer whatever horrible fate awaited her with as much dignity as possible. And, given the fact she was a rather cute girl although somewhat underage at the time, the possibilities for exactly what that fate would be ranged into some pretty bad stuff. Setzer had taken pity on her and purchased her. Of course, he could never let on his motive in doing so, for a Draka it would have been strange behavior indeed. Most of his men were convinced she was his bitch, and Setzer did nothing to correct that opinion.

As he donned the dress uniform and looked in the mirror Setzer felt his stomach turn as he contemplated the kind of society where keeping a thirteen year old girl as a sex slave was more respectable than caring for her. Damn the Dominate to hell he thought violently to himself.

Forcibly he turned his thoughts toward a safer subject: how he would look for his meeting with the Arch-Strategos. His physique was too thin and bony for a Draka. He looked borderline starved, his bones stuck out, but he was not weak. Fifteen years of hard training had turned what muscles he had to tough, strong strings. His features looked a little too fine and delicate, almost Oriental, and at times he wondered about his racial purity. Was it possible he had been born of a non-Citizen father, a serf perhaps? For Citizen women sleeping with male serfs was frowned upon, but he supposed it happened. Perhaps this explained why he lacked the strength and viciousness of his peers, and he had to struggle continuously to hide his repulsion at so many of them.

He scratched at a water stain on the jacket. The irons the Army provided had a nasty tendency to drip water all over the clothes. The uniform itself was of the khaki color typical to the Dominate’s military service. It reminded Setzer a little of old WWII Japanese uniforms. The dress uniform was chiefly distinguished by the many insignia that were stitched or pinned on it. He supposed there was nothing he could do about the stain. Lamley would be waiting; he didn’t have time to try to dry it out with the iron. He thanked Am-Mai and kissed her on the forehead quickly as he left, then went out onto the deck.

A helicopter lowered itself slowly onto the landing pad of the Skadi, its rotors generating a strong wind that ruffled Setzer’s jacket but didn’t seem very cool. The chopper’s skids touched the deck and the door in the side opened. Two men jumped out, wearing the uniforms of the Dominate’s Citizen Corps. The rotors slowed down as the motor died with a whine. Behind the two men a short, aging woman walked out. Setzer didn’t need to look at her insignia to tell she was the Arch-Strategos. She descended from the chopper with smooth, confident arrogance. Her curly graying hair was combed back behind her in a professional, militaristic style. Her thin-lipped mouth was pulled down in a perpetual sneer. The harsh lines of cruelty were worn deeply into her face. In a claw-like liver-spotted hand she held a fine chain with which she led around one of the most pathetic creatures Setzer had ever seen. It was a fairly light-skinned woman, probably either a half-breed or a Middle Eastern. She was fairly attractive and dressed in a miniskirt and revealing cut-off shirt that looked like it could perhaps be a vulgar copy of something an American teenager might wear. But the look on her face made Setzer want to shrink back. She wore the expression of settled, resigned pain of one who had already died inside years ago.

“Strategos Setzer” Lamley regarded him with an indulgent, condescending smile. She dipped her head toward the men on Setzer’s right. “Strategos Ingollfson, Strategos Venders”

“Arch-Strategos” Setzer acknowledged. He could feel the other two generals recoiling from Lamley’s poisonous gaze, much as he had. Janissaries and serf technicians seemed to give the group and especially wide berth, more than would be explained by the simple presence of so much rank in one place. The woman seemed to virtually radiate evil.

“We shall be departing in an hour and half” Lamley said. “I will want to see you all in my office at 2100, to discuss our strategy.”

“Yes Arch-Strategos” Setzer said. He pointed a passing Janissary. “You, escort the Arch-Strategos to her quarters.”

“Yes Master!” the Janissary said, obviously not at all happy with his new assignment.

“Thank you” Lamley said. “You are dismissed.” Setzer had never been happier to get away from someone in his life.

* * *

The launch of the Gibraltar Fleet was a long and unwieldy matter. Such a massive deployment had not been seen since the conquest of India back in the early 70s and it took hours for the Navy commanders to wrestle the huge fleet into formation. Setzer had watched the Skadi leave port from the railing of the conning tower. Despite the stakes of the endeavor he was entering he felt a certain almost childlike sense of excitement as the huge ship slowly pulled out of the dock, passing hair-raisingly close to an empty pier. From his perch the Rabat Yards looked small and he had the same godlike feeling he got looking down at cities from high hills or airplanes. There was always a certain sense of freedom that came with leaving familiar territory, no matter where one was going.

He returned to his cabin and spent the remainder of the day studying Krypteria maps showing the suspected deployment patterns of American forces on the Eastern Seaboard. He also made sure to review Arch-Strategos Lamley’s combat record. When he looked at the armies that would be marshaled against the Draka invasion and Lamley’s record he got a sinking feeling. Lamley had first made herself known in the India Campaign of ’72, when she had been in charge of the successful breaking of resistance in Bombay. The Indian Republican Army had turned the island into a fortress, and that had been a truly nightmarish incident in a war that had, for the most part, taken so long for no other reason than the sheer number of natives that had to be subjugated. Lamley’s solution had been to simply blast the place into smoking rubble with missiles and bombers and then drown its defenses beneath a tidal wave of conscripts. She repeated this pattern in the China campaign, and later in the Kirgiz Campaign. Setzer shook his head. That was no way to fight the US military. If she used her usual strategy here he saw the Legions being cut to pieces. He ate a small dinner in his quarters and went up to the wardroom to finalize his strategy with the Arch-Strategos. He didn’t have very high hopes for the meeting.

He found out very quickly that his sentiments were justified. The Draka strategy in America would be a simple one. ICBMs would be launched toward the cities of New York, Washington, Philadelphia, Boston, Providence, Harford, Baltimore, Norfolk, Charleston, Savannah, and Jacksonville on the East Coast. The cities of San Diego, Anaheim, Tijuana, Mexicali and San Bernadino in California and Baja would likewise be nuked. Immediately following this Lamley would land her armies at what the Krypteria suspected to be the most vulnerable points along the Eastern Seaboard, while Strategos Towns would seize Los Angelos and its surrounding areas. The two armies would push hard and fast into the interior, crushing everything in their path, until they met somewhere in the American heartland. The fact that Towns’ army would have to march across desert with a stretched and dubiously secure supply line didn’t seem to bother them. To Setzer the whole plan spoke of a potentially cataclysmic overestimation of the capabilities of the Draka, and an equally vast underestimation of the capabilities of their enemies. The problem with the Draka high command, he thought sourly to himself, was that they genuinely believed their own propaganda.

“The main problem” Strategos Myfwany Venders pointed out “will be assembling and coordinating the task force. The Mediterranean and Spanish fleets are on their way, along with elements of the Gold Coast Fleet and the Southern Fleet, but the Northern Fleet is having a hell of a hard time. A lot of their bases in northern France got nuked by the British response to our invasion. Most of the ships were away but add together the losses they took against the RN and… they’re not in the best of shape. We’ve had to leave a bigger chunk of it behind than we planned on to keep our coast secure. So I’m increasing our commitment from the Southern Fleet and the Navy is rotating some units over from the East African and Indian Ocean fleets to cover the Drakia and Transvaal coasts.”

“Excellent” crowed Lamley. “That’s that problem out of the way. I wish there was a way for us to do something about the Yank response; I hate to think of Archona and Johannesburg getting blown up as our toll for conquering the United States.”

“We’re directing ICBMs at all the missile bases we know of” Venders assured. “They’ll all be smoking craters before the invasion starts. Of course, Krypteria isn’t perfect, there are going to be ones that we don’t know about.”

“Yes, of course” Lamley sighed. “Regrettable, but that’s the price one pays for victory. Well, I think we’ve covered everything. You’ll doubtless be wanting to get some sleep. You’re dismissed.”

“Arch-Strategos, may I speak with you?” Setzer asked.

“If you wish” Lamley said with the air of an indulgent parent giving a sweet to a very young child.

Setzer waited for Ingollfson and Venders to file out. “Yes, what is it?” Lamley asked.

Setzer shivered inwardly at being alone with the Arch-Strategos. The unfortunate woman on the end of the chain-the leash-tied to Lamley’s desk hardly counted. She wasn’t really a person, not anymore. More like a pet. Not even a very well treated pet, he suspected. She was attractive enough and clearly efforts had been made to keep her beautiful, but when he looked carefully he saw fading bruises and even a few scars on her neck and face. The woman was far too broken, too meek to be a discipline problem. He suspected that for Lamley hurting her had at some point become an end in itself, or perhaps always had been. It was hardly uncommon.

Setzer considered carefully, for he got the definite feeling that Lamley was a very bad enemy to make and if he wanted to avoid that he would have to word what he was going to say carefully. “Respectfully Arch-Strategos I believe the plan you have outlined contains certain… problems.”

Lamley raised an eyebrow. “What sort of problems?”

“For one thing-I’m reluctant to question such an accomplished commander as yourself, but this simply must be addressed. I find our strategy of a hard push into the continental Unites States to be somewhat… lacking in certain areas.”

“What areas?” Lamley said coldly.

“It will stretch our armies on the East Coast out over a very broad area. You propose to methodically overwhelm every US Army concentration we encounter… and at the same time attempt to keep a mostly unified advance going. This will be problematic. If I may suggest an alternative we should make our advance along certain critical corridors and bypass troublesome areas. They can always be starved into submission or dealt with later, and also we should preserve an easy line of retreat in case we are forced back.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Yes, one thing, I must admit I find our choice of commanders rather questionable. Arch-Strategos, it’s well known that Ingollfson and Venders are…” he trailed over, leaving the implication in the air. “Is it wise to have them collaborating so closely? There’s a good reason the Army splits family and couples into different units. Can we trust that there will be no complications for our chain of command?”

Lamley stood up, walked over to Setzer, and put a companionly arm around him. He struggled to repress a shudder as he felt her claw-like hand picking at his jacket. “Strategos, you are a very brilliant commander. Your promotion to this rank at such a young age is testament to that.”

Setzer smiled weakly. “I wasn’t promoted so much as brevitized really. It was in the Kirgiz Campaign, which that fool Towns nearly cost us. The same man, I must point out, who you are putting in charge of the conquest of the western United States. I started out a Tetrarch. And my Legion got reduced from 13,000 men to a few hundred in a month. We tried beating the Red Army by throwing men at them and they one-upped us at our own game.”

“And you rallied the last remnants of five divisions” Lamley finished for him “and attacked a crucial Soviet installation at Barga. If you hadn’t done that it’s probable we wouldn’t have made the territorial gains we did and the war would have been a total loss.”

“Yes” Setzer said. “For that they let me keep my Brevet rank. I can’t see why. I was simply doing my job as I could. What every Citizen is expected to do.”

“I studied your raid on Barga” Lamley said. Her mouth twisted into a horrible, leering grin and a malevolent light danced in her eyes like a dead thing floating in formaldehyde. “It was a masterstroke. Swift, vicious, sudden.” She drew out the words as if savoring them in her mouth. “You were running out of ammunition but you ran over the Soviet defenses with sheer ferocity. You killed them with bayonets and knives and the butts of your guns. Your men went through the town, slaughtering everyone they could see. You spared no one, showed no mercy whatsoever.”

Setzer thought of telling her that his men had driven more by desperation and hunger than lust for conquest or glory. That they had killed everyone because the Soviets had resisted so fiercely, even women and sometimes children taking up arms against the Draka. That he was still haunted by the memories of those terrible months in the southern USSR, and that occasionally he would wake up in a cold sweat, having been transported back to Barga in his dreams. That he was haunted by the things he had been forced to do there. But he knew that wouldn’t impress Arch-Strategos Lamley. In fact, it would almost certainly have the opposite effect. She was enraptured by the vision his deeds had conjured up in her twisted mind.

“Yes, Arch-Strategos” he ground out.

“I believe you are a commander worthy of a certain amount of leave-way” Lamley said, pulling herself out of her reverie. “You may maneuver your Legions any way you wish, provided that it does not contradict with my plans or cause conflicts with Ingollfson. And, of course, provided you don’t fuck up.” She leaned close to Setzer, her face centimeters from his. He shuddered again; something he seemed to be doing an awful lot of since he’d had the displeasure of becoming acquainted with Arch-Strategos Erica Lamley. “Don’t disappoint me.”

“I can assure you that I will not” Setzer said, and meant it. It was bad enough simply being under the command of this… woman. He didn’t want to think of what it would be like to have her out for him. And she seemed like the kind of person who would hold a grudge for a long time. With that he quit the wardroom. He had the urge to run back to his cabin, lest she call him back on some pretext or other, but he restrained himself.

He chose not to go directly back to his quarters but to walk out on the upper deck. He needed to purge his system of the Arch-Strategos’s presence. The night was warm and the motion of the Skadi created a faint breeze over the deck. He could see the lights of the armada all around, stretching over the horizon. He could just pick out the boxy troop transports, sleek warships, and flat-topped aircraft carriers. He couldn’t see the subs, they were underwater, but he knew they were there.

His thoughts were interrupted by the distant rattle of antiaircraft fire. He saw faint pinpricks of orange bursting from a frigate to starboard. Overhead he heard the drone of propeller engines and look up to see a small aircraft with no running lights pass over him.

“Spotter plane” he muttered.

* * *

Jenny Kabila had never been near the sea before. The rolling motion of the transport made her stomach lurch, but she didn’t complain. She’d been born in a mining town in the Shaba Province, but she’d been blessed (or cursed, depending on ones viewpoint) with a pretty face. The Draka overseers noticed this, and when the mining company needed cash she’d been sold off to be a wench in a motel on one of the highways leading into the Shaba and Congo provinces. It had been degrading at first but she’d gotten used to being the night’s playtoy for the occasional passing Draka businessman, contractor, or army officer. Far, far worse was the pain of being separated from her family. The first few years she had missed them terribly. She still did, but like her humiliating position it was a pain that had lessened with time. Often she still wondered about her parents and siblings. How they were doing, if they were even still alive. Workers in the mines of the Dominate died frequently and young.

She could not read, and her entire knowledge of the world beyond central Africa came from the radio the motel clerk would listen to in the evenings. She had heard of the invasion of Britain and the American intervention. She was curious about the news, because the idea of a world beyond the Dominate seemed so strange to her. She had never considered the Draka as her oppressors really. To her they had always been more of a force of nature, like the weather. Their domination was like the day and night to her; something that simply was and the idea that there were places where things did not work that way was very weird.

A few days or so ago a Draka officer showed up and asked to speak to the manager. They had their talk right next to the door of her room and she overheard snippets of it. The officer was a recruiting sergeant, and he was looking for serfs to conscript into the Janissary corps. The manager assured him that he could spare no-one, but the recruiting sergeant was insistent. Many, many Janissaries would be needed for the conquest of America and the manager would just have to give up a few of his laborers. The men started to argue and the recruiting sergeant gave the manager a piece of paper. The manager sighed and pointed to Jenny. There, he said, you can have her. The recruiting sergeant looked at her dubiously. Couldn’t somebody better be spared? The manager assured the sergeant that she was strong enough and the sergeant looked defeated. He went into Jenny’s room and told her to come with him. She was frightened but didn’t dare protest. She followed him outside, where an old beat-up bus was waiting. The bus was already crowded with men and she had to stand. It pulled away from the motel and followed the highway down through Shaba, Zambia, and Drakia picking up more and more people as it went until there was barely room to stand and Jenny was afraid of suffocating. Finally it dumped its passengers in a dockyard somewhere in Drakia or Archona province; Jenny didn’t have a clue about its exact location except that she’d never seen such a big city. The sheer size of it intimidated her and she probably wouldn’t have dared step off the bus if the sergeant hadn’t shoved her off. She was lead into a big warehouse full of people, where she was ordered to wait in line to be examined and assigned a unit. She remembered that the place had been very cold, so cold it felt as if needles of ice were being worked into her flesh. She’d always hated examination, maybe because she had a horrible fear of being stuck with needles or maybe because they always reminded her of the day she’d been taken from her family and auctioned off. Her clothes had been taken away and she was poked and prodded. A blood sample was taken. They took down her name and stitched it onto the jacket of a Janissary uniform. She was handed two matching field uniforms, told to put one on and carry the other one, and marched into another line out by the docks. Draka officers would walk up and down that line, looking at the new conscripts and pointing out the ones they wanted for their units. She was one of the last to be picked. That didn’t surprise her. The hastily shanghaied conscripts lined up near the dockyard would have been the despair of any professional army, but at least most of them were big, strong men, toughened by a lifetime of toiling in the mines, farms, or factories of the Dominate. She was just an average little nineteen year old girl. Finally an especially mean-looking bald-headed Tetrarch took her. She obediently walked to the cluster of men that she presumed was his unit. He sorted the new recruits out, assigning four (as far as Jenny could tell at random) to each Janissary Corporal and marched them into a waiting transport ship. “You’re going to the USA” he said mockingly, smiling and displaying a winking silver tooth. “Land of the free of the brave.”

The ship had pulled away some hours ago. The inside was very crowded and hot. Between that and her stomach she felt miserable. And anxious. Half the Draka who’d gun through the motel carried guns but she’d never handled one. She listened as best she could while the Sergeant explained to the new conscripts the function and use of their equipment.

“This is the T-50 assault rifle” he said, showing the weapon to the men sitting on the bunks or the hammocks they’d been forced to hastily tie to pipes because they didn’t have enough beds for everybody. “When we hit the beach this is going to be your best friend. Take care of it, it’s cheap and it breaks easily, or did you think the Draka would bother wasting their aurics on the likes of us?” He was a young Egyptian and there was a distinct undertone of bitterness in his voice. “This mechanism over here’s the safety; turn it when you want to shoot. You put the clip in like this” he slapped a fresh clip into the rifle. “This clip only has so many bullets so don’t spray the area. That wastes ammo. Use tight controlled bursts. When you’re empty pull the clip out and slap in a new one. You hold it like this” he braced against his shoulder. “Make sure the stock is braced against your chest or you’ll break your arm trying to fire it. Don’t fire from the hip, don’t hold it away from you when you fire. It has a pretty powerful kick. Let’s see you try it.”

Jenny imitated the Egyptian Sergeant’s position, supporting the rifle against her shoulder. The lower end of the butt pushed into her breast. She tried loading it, then pulling out the cartridge. In the instant she held the loaded rifle she felt a strange feeling of power. She could kill somebody with this thing, anyone, even a Citizen. Her hand slid clumsily but sensuously around the trigger, like an awkward virgin touching a lover. She had a vision of herself suddenly pulling the gun up, aiming it at one of the Draka Tetrarchs, and just squeezing the trigger, watching the bullets fly out and hit him. She felt a bony hand tapping into the soft meat of her shoulder. It was Nsemi. It was easy for Jenny to remember her because she was the only other woman in the squad. She was very dark and she looked like she’d definitely worked in a mine or a farm before being conscripted. She was fairly young but lines were already beginning to carve their way into her face and forehead. She tied her hair back in a braid. Her hands looked almost like those of a mummy; the fingers like dry sticks and the skin chalky and wrinkled like a raisin.

“Hold your rifle higher” she whispered. “You hold it that way it’ll squash your titties when you fire. Trust me, a bruise on your nipple hurts.”

Jenny blushed. “I’ve had experience with that.”

“I thought you probably would have” Nsemi whispered. “Your hands are soft; you haven’t done a day of hard labor in years.”

“Alright” the Egyptian Sergeant yelled, pulling something out of a box on the floor. “Now this is your basic hand grenade. This one’s easy. You pull the pin out here and then throw it at the enemy. Make sure you do it quick if you don’t want to have a couple of dozen pieces of metal driven into you.” He opened his jacket and took out his pistol. “This is a .50 Ferman. You’ll have one just like. You slap the clip into the buttstock here. It’ll drop out automatically when it’s dry. It’s got nine rounds in it. Use it if your rifle runs out.” He picked up something like a long pole with a bulb on the end. “This is a rocket propelled grenade, or RPG if you want to say it fast. You use it against buildings or armored vehicles. You prepare it like this” he demonstrated the process of screwing on the grenade. “You point the grenade at the target and pull the trigger here. And whatever you do don’t stand behind it.”

The Sergeant looked around for a moment and took what looked like a small gas tank out from under one of the bunks. “This here’s a flamethrower. You wear it like this” he put it on. “You pull on the primer like this, then when you see a foxhole or someplace you got to burn the enemy out of you open the fuel nozzle here. Watch yourselves with these things; it’s very easy to set yourself or one of your own squad members on fire if you’re not careful.”

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to remember all of this” Jenny said softly. “I was always terrible with equipment.”

“Just remember how the rifle works” Nsemi said. “That’s all you’re really going to need to know probably.” Jenny nodded slightly.

“There, now you know how to fire a gun” the Sergeant said. “But you still don’t know how to survive. I can’t give you a five minute lecture on how to do that, that’s something that takes time to learn. The Draka aren’t going to waste money training you, but here’s the best I can give you.

“Stick close to your Corporals, do what they tell you. Corporal Grava here’s from the French Janissary Corps. Or at any rate he was until he refused an order to shoot a three year old child, they punished him by sending him down to us. Their loss is our gain. Corporal Taranto’s from the Italian Janissary Corps, sent down here for similar reasons. These guys are a hell of a lot better trained than you are. Do what they tell you.

“At all times keep your head down and stick with your fire team. Obey your superiors without question, because they know how to survive in a combat situation and you don’t. Hide behind rocks, trees, walls, whatever you can find and stick your head out of all of one second to shoot anything you see moving. When you don’t have something to hide behind crawl. You got it?”

There was a subdued chorus of “yes” and “yeah”. The Sergeant’s speech wasn’t exactly inspiring. There was a rapping sound of somebody banging on the pipes with a truncheon.

“Lights out scum!” a Draka officer shouted from the upper deck. The lights went out, leaving the deck in darkness. The only light came from the lights of the armada coming in through the portals. Jenny thought they looked rather pretty.

“Hey! Kabila!” Jenny blinked at the odd experience of being called by her last name. The Masters never had.

“Nsemi?”

“Yeah, it’s me” the other woman said. “Not very encouraging speech, was it?”

“I’ll probably die in the first five minutes” Jenny said. The inside of the ship was hot and sticky, but she shivered anyway. “I don’t think I want to die.”

Nsemi reached over from the hammock she was lying on and grabbed Jenny’s hand. “Kabila, I was in four rebellions. One in the Transjordan, one in Syria, one in Lebanon, and one in Arabia. If I can help I won’t die in five minutes. You just stick close to me when the day comes, OK? Just stay by me and I’ll make sure you stay alive.”

“Thank you!” Jenny said. “I want to reach out and hug you but I can’t reach you.”

She could just barely see Nsemi’s teeth flash in the night. “That’s OK Kabila.”

“Please, call me Jenny. Nobody ever calls me by my last name, it feels strange” Jenny said.

“Fine, Jenny” Nsemi said. “My name’s Amber.”

“Hey! Cut that chatter!” the Draka yelled from above.

Jenny shushed Amber into silence.

* * *

Junior Monitor Tim Davies looked out the portal, watching the play of the lights of the armada on the slowly rolling waves below. In contrast to the fleet’s purpose the picture was soothing, tranquil. It made him sleepy and quieted the chattering whisper of fear and doubt that scratched the back of his mind and spread waves of coldness down his spine. The outside air was cool against his face, and he couldn’t smell the foul smoke of his fellow squad members having their last cigarettes before lights out.

Tim knew, deep down, he wasn’t really cut out to be a member of The Race. He’d always hated confrontation. He had a slim and wiry physique and he appeared younger than he was. He was just old enough to serve but he still looked like a boy. It was something he’d always been teased about in school. A more aggressive person might have gotten in a lot of fights if they were in his position, but he backed down way too often. That was partly why he thought he felt fear. He hadn’t even been able to stand up to other boys in the boarding school, how was he now supposed to fight and dominate the Americans with their guns and tanks and planes? He knew he shouldn’t have doubts like this, but they kept coming up. He was much too ashamed of them to tell anybody about them, except maybe his mother, and he couldn’t worry her. His father had died when he was a small child, killed by an Arab who’d walked up to a check-point with a vest full of fertilizer and nails and blown himself up, taking two Draka with him into death. Tim was the only intimate she had left and although she much too good a Citizen to say it he could see how the idea of loosing him too ate her up inside.

He felt a tapping on the shoulder and turned around to see Decurion Carpenter. She was a short, compact, flat-chested woman, as most Draka women actually tended to be. Fifteen years of training and conditioning to be a warrior did not produce perfectly proportioned blonde goddesses, contrary to what you might think from the propaganda posters. She had curly black hair that she kept out of the way of her face with a holding band and Mediterranean features. She might have easily been mistaken for a Greek Janissary if not for the absence of a neck tattoo or the stylized chain emblem of the Janissary Corps on the front of her jacket.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Nothing Decurion” Tim replied. “Just watching the waves roll by.”

Carpenter sat down next to him on the bunk. She looked out over the water, resting her chin on his shoulder and putting one arm around his chest. Tim tensed. The intimate contact made him feel very uncomfortable. He could feel the contours of her body through her uniform. He’d never been intimate with a woman and it made him think of things one definitely should not imagine oneself doing with ones squad sergeant.

“You’re tense as hell” she observed. He blushed but didn’t say anything, keeping his face turned away so he couldn’t see the redness on his cheeks. “Doubts?”

“What?” he asked.

“Are you scared?”

“No, of course I’m not scared” Tim said defensively. “What’s they’re to be scared of? They’re just Yankees! Strategos Ingollfson says they’re weak, soft, they’ll fold in a day!”

The Decurion smiled. Her face was very close to his, and Tim felt a sudden urge to kiss her. The sheer inappropriateness of the desire embarrassed him. “Strategos Ingollfson is a good woman but when it comes to knowing your enemy she couldn’t find her own ass with a map and a flashlight. She listens too much to propaganda. I’ll be honest with you JM, from everything I’ve heard what you’re going to be facing is no picnic. The Americans… let’s put it this way. Imagine fighting the French Janissary Corps blown up to the size of the African Janissary Corps, with Citizen Corps equipment. That’s about what this’ll be like.”

“I’m not afraid of them” Tim said.

“JM Davies, fear is a human emotion” the Decurion said. “It’s much better that you admit it now, face it, and deal with it than have it overwhelm you on the battlefield. That’s a disservice to your training and your unit. That gets people killed. Deal with it now and the only casualty will be some misplaced sense of pride you may have.”

“OK” Tim admitted, hiding his face in his hands in shame. “I guess I’m a bit of a coward. But I can do my duty!”

“Coward? Well, by that definition I guess am I to” Carpenter said. “You know where I went when I was a JM, fresh out of school?”

“Where?” Tim asked, curious.

“Mecca” she answered. “The holiest place in the religion of Islam-and the place every Muslim fanatic rebel is drawn to like a bear to honey. Troops have to move through the streets in squads and armored convoys; the streets are unsafe for any Citizen alone or in a small group. Even when you’re in an APC you’re not safe. Any minute you could hit a roadside bomb, or some suicidal wretch who thinks he’s buying his way into paradise could hit you with an RPG he’s somehow managed to scrounge up. When you walk across the camp grounds you do so in the expectation that you may feel a sniper’s bullet entering your body at any second.”

“Freya” Tim muttered. “How could such an old province be so unsafe? Don’t they do something about it?”

“Oh they try, but the way these fanatics work the more you punish them the more mad they get. The whip isn’t a deterrent to them, it’s a goad. Short of the Bactrian Solution there isn’t much that can be done, and the Security Directorate doesn’t want to deal with the problems that could cause. And let me tell you something else there, the first few months there I was terrified. Oh, I was like you at first. I thought there was something wrong with me, that I was being weak. I was disgusted with myself and I didn’t admit it to anyone. But eventually I learned better. Courage is about ignoring and defying fear in the same way you would ignore and defy pain, not being fearless to begin with.”

“Thank you Decurion” Tim said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

Carpenter patted him on the shoulder. “Just part of my duty Junior Monitor. It’s lights out in a few minutes now, save your strength for The Day.”

“Yes Decurion” Tim said he lay down on his bunk. It was very warm and the men slept without blankets. He closed his eyes and let himself fall asleep as he listened to Carpenter telling his comrades to put their cigarettes out and get read for lights out.

Just double-checking something, September 11 2003 was a Friday, correct?
Yes, that is the date the opening assault of Operation Xerxes is set for. Just one of those little ironic coincidences of the multiverse.
I was originally going to make it 9/11/01 but I thought that might have been laying it on a little too thick. Also I'm going to totally rip off Stargate Invasion and have a certain refugee from Draka-controlled Austria turned bodybuilder turned movie star turned "governator" of California make an appearance.
It's almost enough to make me wish I'd kept Sterling's original minstral dialect for the Draka. I believe the combination of that with the Governator's accent would create a black hole of bad accents that would destroy the entire left coast more thoroughly than the Draka army ever could have.

Incidentally I may put in a brief appearance in the next chapter (or more precisely my mirror universe counterpart will). Have fun figuring out who I am.

Damn good stuff, although I am very dubious of the Drakian
invasion fleet even making it within 200 nautical miles of
the US Coastline without having it's aircover stripped by
F-14D Super Tomcats, and then attacked by A-12 Avenger II
Stealth Bombers flying off the decks of Nimitzes; and then
the survivors are mercillesly hunted down by the SEAWOLF
SWARM.

Remember, the Draka didn't collapse in 1991 like the Soviet
Union, so we got our 132 B-2s, and what not all waiting
in the wings, along with the full production run of the Seawolf,
several hundred F-22s...

Still, you got a damn great eye for writing characterizations;
and making your characters believable.

Once again excellent, you do a good job of putting a human face on the snakes. I have to wonder why Setzer continues to work for the Draka when he rightly despises them so much.

MKSheppard wrote:Damn good stuff, although I am very dubious of the Drakian
invasion fleet even making it within 200 nautical miles of
the US Coastline without having it's aircover stripped by
F-14D Super Tomcats, and then attacked by A-12 Avenger II
Stealth Bombers flying off the decks of Nimitzes; and then
the survivors are mercillesly hunted down by the SEAWOLF
SWARM.

By this point we'd probably have the F-14E or F - supercruising, AESA Tomcats with the AAAM, AIM-9X and AMRAAM

There's also the B-52 force with 8xHarpoon apiece. Heck, this USAF might have dual-equipped with TLAM and ALCM just so they could shoot something like TASM-N

Remember, the Draka didn't collapse in 1991 like the Soviet
Union, so we got our 132 B-2s, and what not all waiting
in the wings, along with the full production run of the Seawolf,
several hundred F-22s...

Plus the ANG units throwing F-16s a'plenty. Hell, the USA might have gone for equipping the ANG with F-14s in the interceptor role.