Breaking Strain: Sequel to Proof Through the Night

[Saint_007]

YAY! You're back! Just posting because I missed this story so much. Will do my comments later, but first let me take this opportunity.

Chaser confirmed that this was the Proof-verse equivalent of the Cuban Missile Crisis. So I got thinking what other equivalents would there be.

Until I realized that, really, equivalents would be hard to find, if not non-existent to begin with. For instance, the Vietnam war was partially fueled by a strategic overestimation of the value of Vietnam vis-a-vis the security of SE Asia (i.e. the infamous "Domino Theory") and the underestimation of how hard the conflict would be. If anything, the ones more likely to blunder into a Vietnam war quagmire would not be the Americans, but the Japanese, given that their "Banzai!" mentality wasn't removed after the Eurasian War in this timeline.

[ChaserGrey]

Hmmm. Now *there's* an interesting idea. A Vietnam equivalent, but with America in the role that the Soviets and Chinese were in this history- sitting back, supplying weapons, and using the conflict to bleed their adversary. Me likey...

[Not that that necessarily wins you the Cold War, but hey- history is full of people who won a battle but lost the war.]

[Pelranius]

Thanks for the shout out! I probably should start using my actual name one of these days... ha.

It would be interesting to watch how Tokyo is going to spin the whole thing after the Americans, Drakans and everyone else takes a good look at the evidence.

Liquid rocket fuel... dare I hope for a catastrophic explosion?

[MondoMage]

Liquid rocket fuel... dare I hope for a catastrophic explosion?

Not sure what kind of rockets these are, but if they're anything like the German V-2s from our own history, then I'd say the potential is definitely there. The chemicals the Germans used (generally with high-concentration hydrogen peroxide as an oxidizer) tended not to react nicely if not treated with the utmost respect. While a fuel-air-bomb will definitely ruin the rebel's day, in all actuality it probably wouldn't take all that much to start a disastrous chain reaction. It's definitely not an easy thing to follow exacting and cautious procedures when people are shooting at you and dropping humongous fireballs on your head

This is definitely working it way up to a stupendous conclusion. The wait has been driving me crazy, but as Maya said... I'd rather wait a bit (impatiently) for an excellent story than get a mediocre one quickly.

[ChaserGrey]

The Japanese missiles the Draka are using have "non-storable" propellants, which in field-deployed missiles usually means some very nasty hypergolic chemicals. Fun stuff like dimethyl hydrazine, nitrogen tetroxide, red fuming nitric acid, and so forth. Highly corrosive, toxic as hell, and- this is the fun part- combustible just by mixing. (That's why they're used so often in simple rocket engines- all you need is a combustion chamber and a pair of appropriately aimed fuel injectors and wham, rocket.)

Missile bodies also tend to be of very thin aluminum to reduce weight. A fuel-air bomb should tear apart a few partially fueled missiles rather handily, and mix all the propellants in them.

Executive summary: stand back. Stand WAY back. And enjoy an old fashioned Snake barbecue.

[Scottish Ninja]

... what happens to one of those missiles if you shoot it with an anti-tank gun?

I suspect Andrew McIlhenny would enjoy the Mythbusters.

[ChaserGrey]

On a localized scale, nothing good. The problem isn't getting the missiles, which are pretty fragile- it's making sure that Bohner's whole supply gets caught in enough heat to destroy it. Blowing up a missile will put paid to any gas loaded in its warhead, but the stockpile is another story unless you drop something seriously antisocial on it.

Conveniently, the A4R-5 Revenant is currently the Navy's leading distributor of such antisocial objects...

[Simon_Jester]

That said, shooting the missiles would at least neutralize the immediate problem- the missiles would not be launched. Having a huge rocket fuel fire and associated massive nerve gas poisoning of the immediate area around Bohner's base would be bad, but much less so than having the entire island of Madagascar carpeted with fusion bombs.

[ChaserGrey]

Valid point. If I were Centurion Ellis- and I'm not, but he does live in my head- I would have something like that as a backup plan in case the bombing run failed.

The difficulty is that this is a pretty narrow and twisty valley, and D Century's going in along the bottom, so by the time they had a chance to hit the missiles with their own weapons they'd be, shall we say, uncomfortably close to the fireworks. Which doesn't mean you don't do it, especially if you're Draka, but you'd rather it wasn't Plan A.

(As to why the valley floor, the hilltops are too heavily wooded and steeply sloped for their vehicles to cover them quickly, so by the time they got to the top and could fire on the canyon they'd have lost surprise and shock. Bohner's many kinds of crazy, but not the dumb kind, and he did pick some very good defensive terrain.)

[Scottish Ninja]

The anti-tank gun McIlheny and Vehrec are going in to put out of action is on the top of a hill - "...and then they had a visit to pay to an antitank gun sited on top of this hill to command the valley below."

Definitely still not Plan A, but McIlheny's probably thinking about it.

[ChaserGrey]

Bingo. The pair of them- and the other Recondo team on the other canyon wall- are what you might call Centurion Ellis' last-ditch insurance policy. Damn-all chance they'll make it out, but if they have to go into action with the gun the whole Century is probably dead already.

[Sidewinder]

May I assume the Revenants look like the F-111B, the Vampires look like A-6 Intruders, and the antitank rifle like the Boys? Or is it something heavier, like Anzio Ironworks' 20mm rifle?

[ChaserGrey]

May I assume the Revenants look like the F-111B

Excellent assumption. The only obvious external difference would be F-14 style twin tails rather than a single tail.

the Vampires look like A-6 Intruders

Mmmm, kinda-sorta. They're light attack planes, so think more like an A-4 Skyhawk with the wing of a Handley-Page Victor

and the antitank rifle like the Boys? Or is it something heavier, like Anzio Ironworks' 20mm rifle?

Heavier than that, actually- think of a carriage-mounted gun like this sucker. 37-40mm, designed for light anti-vehicle and infantry support work. Depending on who you ask, it's a "light anti-tank gun" or "heavy anti-tank rifle".

[Saint_007]

Well, the Americans *did* pull a Vietnam quagmire on the Soviets. Afghanistan anyone? My point is, aside from the events of Breaking Strain, the timeline's too diverged from our own to mirror events closely.

And now that I read the last chapter again, hey, that's me on Defense Suppression! Woohoo!

...If I knew what that actually meant... *dang hardware geeks and their advanced knowledge of military weapons* *pulls out a dictionary*

[Simon_Jester]

You get to go pick a fight with the enemy's air defenses specifically, so that the guys with the actual bombs can get through safely.

[ChaserGrey]

What he said. You get to zip around nice and high, jammers off, to attract the attention of various and sundry devices designed to kill airplanes like you. You then get to out-draw them and destroy them, so the bomb-droppers can do their jobs.

Cheer up. There might be a medal in it for ya.

[ChaserGrey]

0548 Hours
T Minus Twelve Minutes to Sunrise
Aboard Spirit of Rio

According to U.S. Navy press releases, the Ryan A4R-5 Retaliator heavy attack bomber had a top speed of Mach 2. Diving from the stratosphere in afterburner, stripped of everything including the paint, perhaps. At 200 feet off the deck, hauling a full bag of gas and several tons worth of Uncle Sam’s very best high explosives, Julie Rosemont felt lucky to be pushing Mach 0.95. Spirit of Rio cut through the heavy, humid morning air like a finely balanced throwing knife, the shock wave of her passing throwing up a curtain of salt spray in her wake and intermittently covering her nose with ephemeral clouds of condensed water vapor. Rosemont flew on, hands making almost imperceptible adjustments to stick and throttle as his eyes slid from instruments to his navigation display and then back to the predawn horizon.

Spirit of Rio thundered over the beach and over Madagascar, with Warhammer 504 following closely in her wake. Next to Rosemont in the Spirit’s cockpit, Lieutenant Brown checked one of his displays, threw a switch on the radar panel, and keyed his mic.

“Spirit is feet dry and four balls. We have the lead.” Beneath his oxygen mask, Rosemont felt his face stretching into a grin. The Spirit’s internal navigation system had predicted the point where they’d cross from sea to land within a tenth of a mile. Rosemont had spent a year as a production test pilot for the Retaliator, and he knew damn well that you were lucky to get that kind of accuracy on the day the bird rolled off the production line. He owed Chief Hereford a bottle of the good stuff as soon as they all made it to someplace that had liquor.

“Terrain coming up.” The screen in front of him shifted as Brown brought his radar on line, sweeping in a regular arc back and forth in front of the Spirit. The terrain following radar’s output filled the screen, the curves of the next ten miles of earth spilling out in a long strip while a blip danced at the left edge, the peaks sliding towards it but never touching. This was the Retaliator’s real secret weapon, the ability to follow the ground’s contours so precisely that the first warning of its presence would be bombs exploding in the enemy’s laps. In theory, an autopilot mode existed to link the radar and the Retaliator’s brain so the plane would automatically maintain a set clearance from the ground, hugging the earth tighter than any pilot could hope to. In practice, the Retaliator’s radar and computer still managed to pack it in completely on about one flight in four. Squadron lore had quickly labeled the Terrain Engage button the “Suicide Switch”, and even with the best bird he’d ever ridden Rosemont wasn’t touching it. He’d trust his own eyes and reflexes much sooner than he’d trust the plane’s computer.

The two Retaliators swept low over the rolling green hills of Madagascar, the very tops of which were just starting to show the sun’s first light. A low bass tone sounded in Rosemont’s helmet, and he grimaced. It looked like the Cobra site operators were up with the dawn too, and no matter how closely he and Mondo managed to lose themselves in the ground return the Snakes had to notice something sooner or later. Well, in another minute or so it wouldn’t matter.

“Sixty seconds to target.” Brown reached up to start the Spirit’s clock, ticking off in the corner of Rosemont’s vision. He’d sent that one on the radio too, a warning to Ellis’ people that their moment was coming. “Pilot, IP in thirty. Stand by.” Brown’s voice was high-pitched with nerves, but a quick glance at the radar told Rosemont that his cue was right on time. As long as his navigating and bombing were on the money, the kid could sing falsetto for the whole flight as far as Julie Rosemont cared. He counted ten, then slid the Spirit over onto her right wing, letting Mondo in 504 see him signaling the turn. Fifteen seconds. Ten.

“IP!” Brown’s cue came just as Rosemont hauled the stick back, reefing the Spirit over into a tight, low turn that left them pointed straight for the entrance of Bohner’s valley sanctuary. He rolled out, aiming the nose at one of the two bluffs guarding the entrance by feel rather than by the system’s cues, watching the cliffs almost blur as the Spirit shot towards them at nearly the speed of sound. He saw the screen light with a time-to-release cue as Brown slewed the radar around and locked it onto the target, and squeezed the trigger on his stick to give the Retaliator’s brain permission to drop the bombs.

At long last, it was show time.

0550 Hours
T Minus Ten Minutes to Sunrise
Hide Point Dragon Three

For Centurion Pietr Ellis, the battle began with a low, distant rumble in the sky. It grew nearer, closer, like some impossibly long peal of thunder, and then a pair of dagger shapes streaked past the Century’s hide point, impossibly fast as they shot out and over the bluffs Bohner’s people had fortified. A brief flicker of motion from their wings, a suggestion of vanes snapping taut in midair as the shapes accelerated still faster.

Then the bluffs disappeared in a bright orange and yellow flash, fireballs and smoke running up into the dimly lit sky, and the hammering of the explosions mixed with the high crack of the Retaliators’ sonic booms as they shot out over their target. The sheer impact of it stunned him, but he’d at least had time to steel himself. Within a few seconds he slapped his driver on the back of the helmet, bellowing in his ear.

“Go! Go, go, go!” Reflexively the man stomped down on the gas, shaking his head and focusing on the task at hand once the familiar sensations of the Hyena in motion took over his senses. As the ringing in his ears cleared, Ellis could hear the snarls of diesels as the rest of the scout cars followed, then the rest of the Century. Eternal Nothing knew that his men and women were probably all a little shell-shocked by that performance, but years of combat experience stood them in good stead as they instinctively followed their commander’s vehicle.

Third Tetrarchy, the Century’s self-appointed wild men, had their damned speaker system wired to the outside of their Buffalos again. Now as the Century roared across the open plain music started to play, felt in the chest more than heard as it added to the cacophony of a mechanized company on the attack. Tribal drums and steel guitars, music from the new generation of Draka who half-ironically wrote songs in the voices of their former serfs, using words that could just as well apply to the Draka since 1945.

White man came, across the sea
He brought us pain and misery
He killed our tribe, he killed our creed
He took our game for his own need
We fought him hard, we fought him well
Out on the plains, we gave him hell-

Ellis leaned forward to yell in the driver’s ear, then stopped himself as the man automatically slowed to let the Scorpion combat cars take the lead. Good. Better still were the heavy black puffs of shells bursting in front of them, the Century’s SP automortars firing off full clips of smoke rounds boresighted three quarters of the way to the target. More tricks to confuse Bohner’s people, buy the rest of the Century time. The music played on, a message for any of them who cared to hear as the Draka vehicles screamed towards their targets.

Run to the hills
Run for your lives
Run to the hills
Run for your lives

0550 Hours
Outside Ragnarok Project Primary Site
Madagascar

If the Retaliators’ bombing run was impressive from a few kilometers away, it was apocalyptic up close. Gouts of fire, pulverized rock, and twisted metal shot up into the sky, and all Trooper McIlheny could do was hold on as the earth trembled, seemingly trying to shake his prone body off. He’d stood close fire from howitzers before, but nothing like this.

Then it stopped, and McIlheny shook his head, throwing off the hint of glassy shock that had begun to cover his perceptions, and hurled himself to his feet. Just enough time to get himself up to a full sprint, then he was out onto the trail, catching the backs of Bohner’s roving patrol as they stared in horror at the burning emplacements. The first of them had just started to turn when McIlheny and Trooper Vehrec snapped their Holbars carbines up and swept the trail with a quick burst.

The enemy soldiers crumpled to the ground, and then the two Recondos were off again, sprinting towards the pair of emplaced antitank guns on the edge of the canyon wall. They were fairly heavily dug-in, earth-roofed bunkers lined with sandbags. It didn’t matter. McIlheny shrugged off the satchel charge he carried, yanked the friction fuse, and gave it an easy underhand toss at the left-hand bunker before diving for cover. The earth shook again, and McIlheny looked up to see the bunker’s roof caved in. Six inches worth of solid ground was proof against fragments and grenades, but not forty pounds of high explosives. Before the dust settled, Vehrec ran up to the bunker’s firing slit, jammed his Holbars inside, and emptied the magazine. That ought to do it.

There was a pounding of feet from up the trail, and McIlheny whirled to see Pierce and Uller, the other Recondo team assigned to this side of the cavern, throw up their hands. McIlheny let out a breath before carefully easing his finger off the Holbars’ trigger and calling,

“The other two?” Pierce grinned.

“Expended.”

“Right. C’mon.” Vehrec had circled around to the back of the bunker, Holbars at the ready. He peeked inside, then raised both arms over his head.

“All clear.” Pierce and Uller moved upslope, snugging in to provide rear security, while McIlheny joined Vehrec in the bunker. The gun there was a standard Archonate AT piece, a single-barreled 40mm with a breech-block action and iron sights. McIlheny squatted in the gunner’s position, carefully working the aiming levers until he found a missile down in the valley below. Bohner’s people were swarming over it like ants, frantically trying to complete launch preparations, but McIlheny held his fire. Setting off one of those missiles would torch it and a good part of the valley, but the smoke would mean they could forget about putting paid to Bohner’s whole stockpile. Not a good option, unless there wouldn’t be any others.

“HE.” Vehrec slid the shell home, clanked the breech-block closed, and then they both settled in to await what would come.

Ragnarok Project Primary Site
0552 Hours
T Minus Eight Minutes to Sunrise and Counting

D Century slammed into the mouth of the valley like the mailed fist of an angry God. First through were the Scorpions, their turrets already trained on the valley floor positions Ellis had scouted out. One of them, a big 120mm recoilless rifle of Eurasian War vintage, managed to boom out a shot that shattered one of the Scorpions. Mercifully, the wreck was pushed against one valley wall instead of blocking the way for the rest of the Century. Before the 120’s crew could reload, the next combat car in line crashed out a shot from its long 90mm gun, hitting the 120’s ready-use ammunition and sending a bright orange fireball up into the sky.

The Scorpions angled off to the sides, opening a gap in their lines for the Century’s Buffalos to push through. The valley’s second line of defense was at the first major turn, a web of interlocking trenches and spider holes sown with anti-vehicle obstacles. Getting past it would be a real problem for a mechanized force. Fortunately, Ellis had no such plans. The position would give him a good line of sight, and that was all he needed.

The troop carriers charged forward, clouds of steam rising from their stacks as their drivers pushed the engines to the limit and their guns stubbing out short, barking bursts of fire. Ellis followed them into the inferno.

0552 Hours
Aboard Spirit of Rio

Julie Rosemont could see a thick line of smoke rising up from the valley below. It had started at the mouth, where the craters he and 504 had left were still smoking. Now it was reaching further up the valley, towards the bend that would give Ellis his firing position. If things kept going as well as it looked from here, Ellis would only need a couple more minutes to get into position.

Which, all things considered, was just as well.

“Some flak starting.” Brown’s voice was taut and sharp with tension, but with only a hint of a nervous quaver. Black clouds were starting to bloom over the valley, barely distinguishable from the still-dark sky and the smoke from the fighting. A sound broke through Rosemont’s earphones, a menacing high-pitched beeping. “Cobra missile battery acquisition radar coming up. Stand by to evade, pilot.”

“Rog.” The Draka missiles weren’t that big of a worry, unless you were flying straight and level. Which, unfortunately, was pretty much what you had to do to make a good Deadeye drop. Rosemont reefed the Spirit in tightly, snapping into a turn to keep from getting too far from the valley.

It was turning into one hell of an interesting morning.

0553 Hours
Aboard Warhammer 504

“Missile launch! Snake and evade!” Lieutenant (j.g.) Justin “Saint” DeSanto slapped a button on his bombardier’s station, locking one of Warhammer 504’s two Nail antiradiation missiles onto the electronic signature of the Cobra battery’s radar. Seconds later, Lieutenant “Mondo” Sheehan squeezed his strick grip trigger, punching the missile off the rail and igniting its rocked motor before putting his Retaliator into a barrel roll as Saint pumped out chaff from their internal defense pod. A few seconds later, what looked like an oversized firework streaked past the belly of their plane, missing and arcing down towards the rainforest below. Bare seconds after that, there was a distant flash from beneath the tree cover, and the missile battery’s tracking radar blinked off of Saint’s scope. He bared his teeth at the pilot.

“Scratch one.” The spooks in Reprisal’s photo lab had said there only appeared to be one battery in the area. Given that these were the same people who had failed to notice ballistic missiles being assembled under their noses until it was almost too late, Saint was disinclined to trust their word.

Mondo pulled 504 into a turn, making sure they were close enough to cover the Spirit. Sure enough, thirty seconds after the first battery had gone off the air a second signature blossomed on Saint’s scope, the low bass warning tone of the search radar quickly switching to the beeping of tracking and fire control. Saint grimaced and glanced over at his pilot as they turned to attack the second missile battery.

“Mondo, sometimes I hate being right all the time.”

“Don’t worry.” 504 rolled level, and Saint quickly set up his second attack. “After this noise is over we’ll hit the bars in Venta Bellagrium. The girls there can cure what ails you.”

“Of what? My keen insight?” Saint locked the Nail in.

“Nope.” Mondo squeezed the trigger, then sent the plane diving for the deck behind more chaff as their missile once again passed a Draka SAM in midair. “Your ego.”

“Hey. Didn’t I-“ Saint broke off, staring at his scope. “Oh, shit.”

“Oh, shit?” Mondo’s rising tone made it clear that he did not want his bombardier saying those words right now.

“Snakes shut their tracking radar off too quick after they missed us. The Nail went dumb.” Without a radar signature to home in on, the anti-radiation missile was nothing more than a half-million dollar unguided rocket. “The radar’s back up.” And they were fresh out of missiles. And the Snakes probably weren’t. And the Spirit was going to have to make its run soon.

“Gimme a steer.” Mondo’s voice was level, and Saint automatically read off the course to the radar signature. It wasn’t until he saw the pilot reach down and adjust the armament panel that he realized what the plan was.

“Ohhhh shit.” This time it sounded more like a prayer.

A/N: Yes, I am mean enough to cut this action scene off in the middle. I’m a bad, bad man. Deal

[Scottish Ninja]

Still awesome though.

I wonder if that AT gun has line of sight to that second missile battery.

(Okay, yes, I just want to shoot it at something. )

[Sidewinder]

“Gimme a steer.” Mondo’s voice was level, and Saint automatically read off the course to the radar signature. It wasn’t until he saw the pilot reach down and adjust the armament panel that he realized what the plan was.

“Ohhhh shit.” This time it sounded more like a prayer.

Is Warhammer 504 arming cannons and preparing to strafe the radar station? Drop fuel tanks on the station, in hopes a lucky bounce will damage the radar? It doesn't seem like the pilot plans to kamikaze the damn thing- at least, I hope not.

[ChaserGrey]

A/N: And here it is. Last chapter. There will be an epilogue, I think, though perhaps not for a while. This ending took me by surprise and drained me, because it was not the one I planned. But as hard as I tried to fight it, as little as I liked it...it was also the right one. I hope you, who have been with me through this journey, agree.

0553 Hours
Ragnarok Project Primary Site

“No response from the hilltop installations, Merarch!” The commtech’s eyes were wide with fear and excitement as he turned to look at Stonewall Jackson Bohner. “Or the sentry patrols. Shall I keep trying on the secondary channel?”

“No.” Bohner shook his head, eyes bright and narrow as he stared at the dust and smoke coming from just a few hundred meters up the canyon. “No, I think not. In any case, it’s clear where the enemy’s primary effort is bein’ made.” He had no trouble, now, classifying those troops as enemy, for all that they were Draka every one. Any doubts about that had been erased when they used Yankee air support to kill his people. “Nesmith-“

“Little over five minutes, Merarch.” Bohner glared, but the scientist didn’t flinch, spreading his hands. “Fuelin’ mostly completed, and we don’t dare rush what’s left without overrunning the tanks. Gyros take that long to come up to speed anyway, and they cannot be whipped into workin’ faster. I’m goin’ down to do what I can, but we need those five-six minutes.” Bohner nodded, watching Nesmith stride out of the bunker before he turned and grabbed a Holbars off the wall. Looked like he had his marching orders.

“Cohortarch Bekker, take charge here. I’m going forward to the two-line.” The next one back after the one the enemy was about to hit. “Major Ito, yo’ will accompany me.” The Japanese Army man, who had been sitting in a corner and visibly willing everyone else in the command bunker to forget he was alive, looked up with a vacant expression. Bohner thrust a submachine gun into his hands.

“Merarch Bohner, I-“

“No arguments.” Bohner fixed him with a glare, pupils narrowed like a snake about to strike. “You’re not goin’ to get a chance to hedge your bets back here, Ito. Not after the way the rest of yo’ little plan’s turned out. Yo’ stayin’ right where I can keep one eye on yo’ until this is all over.”

0553 Hours
One-Line, Ragnarok Project Primary Site

Tetrarch Douglas Eggleston held up a hand. All the emplacements forward of the one-line had their communications out- at least, he devoutly hoped that’s what it was, and not something else. Still, it was obvious that the enemy was a mechanized force of about four Tetrarchies with some attachments, probably one of the oversized Centuries the Reaction Cohorts up north used to stop cutting expeditions.

Which meant he knew what their solution would be, because this was a situation straight out of the War Academy. You did not charge antitank obstacles and entrenchments. You stopped, deployed infantry, and cleared them before moving past. Eggleston had had his men hold fire, concealing the positions of his few antitank rifles and rocket-guns until they had the best shot. When the troop carriers slowed down to unload, they’d slaughter them.

Or at least, that was the plan. In the excitement of his first time under fire, Tetarch Eggleston had forgotten that the “enemy” had studied at the War Academy too, and knew the school solution just as well as he did. A classic junior officer’s mistake born from a lack of experience. Sadly, it meant that Eggleston would never have a chance to acquire that experience.

D Century’s Buffalos thundered forward, the heavy crunching of their wheels sounding like a herd of their namesakes coming up to a full stampede. Somewhere drums and electric guitars were playing, ratcheting the tension even higher. Ready…steady…almost there…

The Buffalos shot steam from their cab-mounted stacks as they surged forward with a burst of acceleration. Eggleston blinked for a moment, just a moment, before chopping his hand down. It was too late. The antitank gun to his left crashed out a single shell, and one of the front-line Buffalos stopped, troopers in the back jumping for cover as a fireball consumed the driver’s cabin. A few rocket gun shots went wild.

And then the eleven remaining Buffalo halftracks of D Century, First Reaction Cohort slammed into his lines. Three hung up in the antitank ditch, one dissolving into flame as a pair of rocket-gun shots caught it in a crossfire, but the rest kept going into the infantry’s positions before a trench or obstacle brought them to a stop. In the instant after they ground to a halt, just as Bohner’s troops were starting to emerge from their holes to fire weapons and throw grenades, the front-rank Buffalo drivers squeezed together improvised clackers and detonated the Broadsword directional mines daisy-chained to their sides. There were screams, a horrible sound like hail on a tin roof as supersonic ball bearings ricocheted off the sides of the Buffalos, and then the men and women of D Century were leaping down, guns firing and machetes flashing in the firelight.

“BuLaLa! BuLala!” The Draka war cry sounded as they fell on the One Line like a steel-tipped wave. A good number of Bohner’s people had had the sense to stay down after the Buffalos hit, and they were Draka. Ellis’ people were Draka, and Reaction Cohort troopers, graduates of a hard school of fighting to the death against people who despised you. A minute, and there were only scattered shots and screams along the One Line. Another, and there were none.

“Master Warrant!” Ellis’ command car pulled to a stop, and he jumped out even as Jenny started assembling the Yankee COIL device. McWhirter looked up, his wrinkled mouth strangely slack with pleasure, licking his lips as he shook bits of blood and torn flesh off his machete blade. “Get First through Third organized and in the trenches, o’ Bohner’s people goin’ throw us right back out again!” McWhirter shook his head, blinked, and something like sanity came back into his eyes as he started shouting for squad leaders. Ellis spotted Tetrarch Sideman coming up from the rear, one arm streaked with angry red burns. His carrier must have been the one that caught the shell. “Allright, Tom?”

“Yeah.” Sideman looked down at his arm, his voice full of annoyance more than anything else. “Got off before she started really burnin’. Lord knows where my troops are though.”

“Fo’get ‘em.” Sideman blinked, and Ellis waved his hand back. “Want you to go back to the disabled Buffalos. Find as many as yo’ can, get ‘em organized, get ‘em up here. We goin’ need every rifle we’ve got in a minute here, and we do not have the margin for little lost Draka wandering around back there tryin’ figure out which end is up. Do it, go, now.” Sideman nodded and turned, sprinting off for the smoking, disabled carriers in the rear, yelling as he ran.

Ellis ran back to his Hyena, where Jenny had the long black tube of the COIL projector hooked up to its tripod and battery. Ellis clambered up behind it and adjusted the telescopic sight. Men were massing back in Bohner’s reserve line, and behind them he could see the nerve gas depot.

“Listen up, Draka!” Ellis pitched his voice to carry as he carefully zeroed the crosshairs in on the spot he wanted. “They goin’ be all over us in a minute. If we hold ‘em, this whole damn thing goes away. We don’t, everyone dies. There ain’t no in-between on this one, boys and girls, so you hold. Hear me? Yo’ fuckin’ hold!”

“Got the target, Centurion?” Master Warrant McWhirter was holding his Holbars up to his shoulder, carefully lining up shots and squeezing them off. The range was long for the small 5.56mm round, but every other shot or so a man would drop from the next line of fortifications. He didn’t look away from the enemy when he spoke.

“Yeah. Dialed in, long as we can keep it.” McWhirter laughed, a guttural sound with all the humor of a hyena’s bark.

“Then shut up and let us handle this, Sir.” Ellis laughed, much the same sound, and turned his attention to steadying the scope as McWhirter took the rest of the Century’s troops to the forward trenches, as close as possible to Ellis’ men. He found himself thinking- praying, perhaps, although the man he addressed in his thoughts was quite mortal.

Nothing curse you, Rosemont. Don’t you dare let me down now.

0555 Hours
Aboard Spirit of Rio

“Got anything, Mad Dog?” Rosemont fought to keep an edge from his voice. “We are on a bit of a deadline here, you know.” The flak was bursting closer to them now as the Draka gunners got their radars online and their barrage patterns set up. Even if Bohner’s people didn’t have a missile launch ready, the attack was looking worse by the second.


“Fucked if I know, Sir.” Brown most definitely had an edge in his voice, but his hands were still moving smoothly over the bomb system controls. “Between all the smoke down there and flying like we’re the Goddamned Blue Angels the target could be painted bright fuckin’ pink and I wouldn’t know about it. Can you give me some straight and level?”

“Sure I- Chaff!” Rosemont screamed the last word into his mask as the Retaliator’s threat board lit again, craning his neck for a sight of the Cobra coming after them. He caught the distinctive white smoke trail rising up from the jungle and turned into it, cutting down the size of his radar signature just as Brown’s chaff cloud blossomed large on the scope. The Cobra whizzed past, a long finned thing the size of a telephone pole, and Rosemont turned to glare at his bombardier. “I’ll fly straight and level just as soon as you don’t mind getting clocked by one of those. How about it?”

“Well, we’ve gotta do something.”

“I am.” Rosemont keyed his radio. “Warhammer 504, this is Spirit. What is the story on that second Cobra battery?” A pause that stretched on too long without an answer. “504, respond.” Another silence. “Mondo, Saint, this is Rosie. Answer up, Goddammit!”

His only reply was the crackling hiss of static.

0556 Hours
Two Line, Ragnarok Project Primary Site

“Go! Let’s fuckin` go, Draka, let’s move!” Stonewall Jackson Bohner set the example for his men, vaulting out of his trench and darting forward towards the next piece of cover, firing his borrowed Holbars from the hip. Loyal Draka troops swarmed up after him, cutting the air with bursts of autofire and wildly screamed war cries.

The traitors up ahead were ready for them, firing back from cover with their rifles and a couple dismounted heavy machine guns from their wrecked transports, and men of the Race were falling around him. Not enough, though, not nearly enough, and Bohner threw himself into a cluster of rocks, carefully snapping off rounds to cover his men’s advance. Citizen officers were expected to lead from the front, after all, and besides, this was the turning point of history. He knew it. There was nowhere else on Earth he’d rather be right now.

The Draka Race surged forward to victory, and Merarch Bohner cheered as he got up to run with them. Here. His people were on their way back, and by all the Gods and Goddesses, the first blow was being struck here!

0556 Hours
Aboard Warhammer 504
5 km south of Ragnarok Project Primary Site


“Set deflection, 30 mils.”

“30 mils.” Saint reached up and adjusted the gunsight pipper, bringing it down to the correct angle. “Altitude six thousand. Flak’s pickin’ up down there. Let’s do this.”

“Roger.” Mondo casually snapped Warhammer 504 over onto her left wing, craning his neck to pick out the light gray specks of the SAM site’s launchers and radars in the jungle below. He supposed he was going to have to give the photo geeks on Reprisal a bit of a break, because it was pretty obviously a new installation. Among other things, that meant the site hadn’t been covered up with camouflage netting yet, making it relatively easy to pick out from the air. That would make this easier. Well, possible, at any rate. 504 screamed in over the treetops in a shallow dive, wings swinging forward as Mondo popped the airbrakes. As the plane slowed in midair, he pushed the stick forward, raking the pipper’s green “death dot” across the clearing as he held down the trigger.

Just forward of the Retaliator’s bomb bay, a 25mm revolver cannon spooled up to full speed with a sound like a supersonic buzzsaw. It burned through its’ 1100 round ammunition tank in less than twenty seconds, and the earth around the Draka missile site exploded as though from a driving rain as it was peppered with fragments of high-explosive shell. The control and launcher vans were made of heavy sheet steel, and all the men and women inside heard was an insane clattering sound, as though someone had dumped a bucket of rocks on the roof. The site’s radar dishes were made of aluminum and copper wire, and they eroded just as surely as a sandcastle at high tide. When the Draka missile operators looked back up to their scopes, they saw that they were all dead.

Warhammer 504 jolted in midair as she pulled off from the target, and Saint sucked in a breath as lights on his panel flashed bright red. Nothing seemed to be falling off, so he flicked his eyes over to his radar countermeasures panel and keyed the radio with a tight smile.

“Spirit, this is Warhammer 504. Second site is history.” He glanced over at Mondo. “Hey, damn. We pulled it off!”

“That we did.” The pilot pulled his plane into a right turn, heading for the coast. “How much damage did we take?”

Saint glanced down at the panel and grimaced. Nothing that said immediate crash, but- “All we need. Think it’s about time to head back for the barn.” Mondo nodded.

“Roger that.” As they climbed up out of range of the anti-aircraft guns, Saint risked a look over his shoulder and blew out a careful breath.

“We did what we could. Here’s hoping the old man can seal the deal.”

0557 Hours
One-Line, Ragnarok Project Primary Site

Ellis ignored the screaming line of Draka infantry coming out of the bush further up the valley. He ignored the whine of the bullets and the missiles rising up out of the smoke like overgrown green trees, minutes away from launch. He shut out everything except the Yankee COIL projector and the last few connections.

“Battery!” Praise Nothing, that was the last step. Jenny shoved the cables off of the brick-sized battery pack to him, and he shoved them into the side of the projector. He bent to look through the sighting scope, carefully placing the crosshairs over the outline of the nerve gas depot through the smoke. He could see flashes around the edge of the scope, Bohner’s troops coming closer and closer. Ten seconds to hand-to-hand range on his front line, maybe less. One of them would get this far- no way of stopping that, not when he had to be so close to the front line and doing something so obviously important. All the way here, and they probably were going to miss it by that fuckin’ much.

Still had to try, of course. And hope. Ellis stabbed his finger down on the button.

0557 Hours
Aboard Spirit of Rio

“Contact!” Rosemont whipped his head to the side to look at his B/N in astonishment.

“You sure, Mad Dog?” Brown nodded.

“I’ll tell the fuckin’ world, Sir. COIL paint, right where it oughta be.” The kid’s voice was still high, but now it sounded like excitement, not fear. “Hot damn. We’re gonna get ‘em.”

“Yeah. Set it up.” When they’d first leveled out after 504 called the missile site down, Rosemont had thought at first it was too late, that Ellis had failed or the valley was too fouled with smoke and haze for the Retaliator’s systems to pick out the pinprick of coherent light miles below them. He’d never been so thankful to be wrong. Brown bent down over his scope and stabbed at a key, then flipped a switch on the armament board.

“Ten low, pilot. Three miles do- oh, shit.” The Spirit’s nose came around, pointing back down the valley and into a sky strewn with black flak bursts, now thick and close together like blisters on a horrible burn. The guns couldn’t track a high and fast target, but if they put up enough lead and shrapnel it wouldn’t matter. Brown stared straight ahead for a moment, taking in the death-filled sky before them, and Rosemont could almost see his eyes going wide as he took in the same scene. Then Mad Dog shrugged his shoulders and bent down over his scope.

“Let’s get these sons-of-bitches, Rosie.” His voice was perfectly level now, as though he’d been using his commander’s callsign all along. Rosemont nodded, pushing the throttles forward as his other hand guided his mount smoothly onto the bomb run.

The stories, when they began months later in Officers’ Clubs from South Africa to Iceland to the Philippines, would start out relatively modest. The men telling them, clad in green Nomex flight suits that inevitably sported a Retaliator patch, would allow that maybe three or four other guys on the planet could have pulled it off. That guy Yeager, say, was supposed to be pretty hot shit for an air force puke, maybe throw in Dessaix or Muldoon if you wanted to be internationally expansive. A few years later, one or two might even talk about Delapore, who was supposed to be the best of the new breed of Snake pilots. But not a few years after that, as they told the story over Scotch whiskey, sweet rum or sharp rice beer, those same men would swear that no other jet jockey on the planet could have made a bomb run into that valley and lived to drop his payload. And decades later, in Buenos Aires and Kobe, Nova Archona and Candor Chasma, when the story had begun to pass into myth as all tales must- then, they would say that only Rosemont flying a Spirit of Rio could have done it. That somehow, for just a few moments, her control runs had become his sinews, her engines his heart, and the bombs tucked into her belly his booted foot stamping out those who would break the peace.

Most of the listeners, raised to control their ships through neural links and other methods as far beyond Rosemont’s hydraulics and cables as they were beyond leather reins and a whip, would smirk and roll their eyes at the notion that anyone before them could have really known what it was to be one with an aircraft. A few would listen, and believe, and something uniquely human would live on in them.

Spirit of Rio shot through the fire at just under the Mach, thick air streaming off her wingtips and spiraling out into the air. Rosemont could feel her frame shaking and whining as bits of metal tore at her skin, and a veteran’s touch and feel responded where lesser skill must have failed. A warning light as one of his turbofans was torn to pieces by a Draka shell, wasp-high squealing of the fire alert as he automatically shut down the engine and slammed the other into afterburner, using up the last of his energy to put her right-

-there-

Julie Rosemont squeezed the trigger on his stick and felt the thump of his bombs dropping free. Then the shells struck home, and he felt the horrifying sensation of falling as a wing was shot away. A quick grab for his ejection handle, and the world dissolved into noise and light.

0600 Hours
One-Line, Ragnarok Project Primary Site

The blast threw Pietr Ellis off of his combat car when it hit, a hammer of hot air slamming him off the back of it and down onto the dirt, the air whuffing out of his lungs. For a terrifying moment he couldn’t breathe, as fire seemed to wash over his face and his lungs could only draw in sulfur clouds. Then strong hands helped him to his feet, and he saw.

The entire valley behind the line Bohner’s people had rushed from was a firestorm. The fuel-air bombs had struck true, the heat of their ignition ripping open the nerve gas drums and instantly destroying the fragile, deadly organophosphate molecules that would have fastened onto nerve endings with the lethal slickness of black ice. The blast wave from them had torn open the nearly-full missiles nearby, mixing their fuel and oxidizer together and adding to the inferno. That had ignited plants, clothing, camouflage netting, and anything else remotely flammable, further adding to the heat. As Ellis watched, paint on the few remaining structures was beginning to catch fire, and there was a sound eerily like popping corn as ammunition began to cook off. Soon the fires would be hot as a forge, burning metal and charring bone.

Best to be gone by then.

Ellis shook himself and looked at his men and women, clustering around their leader for orders. “Allright, Draka. We got no kinda time for doin’ it wrong, so let’s do it right. I want a sweep for wounded, ours and theirs, as far forward as we can go.. Any of Bohner’s people wanna surrender, take they weapons and they come with us. They don’t wanna surrender, expend ‘em or leave ‘em for the fires. Three minutes max, then we are fuckin’ history. Move it!” They moved, and Ellis turned to grab his radio handset from Jenny. “We need to know how many vehicles can run. Master Warrant-“

“Dead, Sir.” Jenny’s voice was quiet, hoarse, and she pointed to one of the foxholes just forward of their position. McWhirter’s lips were bared in a snarl, his wrinkled skin pocked with half a dozen bullet wounds he’d taken before the one that had torn his throat out. Even in death’s rictus, he still looked closer to peace than Ellis had ever seen him. The Centurion shook his head, then leaned down to close the staring blue eyes.

“Allright, then. Tell his 2IC to find out what runs and what we can get runnin’. Anythin’ else, we leave. Wounded first, then we walk- only a couple klicks to the valley entrance.”

Ellis looked up at the sky, smudgy with smoke and starting to clear. There was a single white parachute floating down towards the Earth.

“And one more thing. Get the Recondos on the horn. Tell ‘em that if the man who just saved the State an’ Race gets his throat sliced by one of Bohner’s people before they get to him, I’ll bust ‘em so low they’ll have to salute a centipede.”

0610 Hours
Ragnarok Project Primary Site

The two parties came in almost simultaneously. Ellis looked back and forth for a moment, then waved his subordinates off. They were clear of the firestorm now, with loyal troops on the way to provide ambulances and medical supplies and enough men to stop any attacks by the truly stupid or desperate. The details could wait. After a moment of looking back and forth, he stepped forward to the first man they’d brought in, the one in a green flight suit.

“Name.” For a moment, the pilot looked at Ellis like he was speaking another language. His hair was shot through with shocking white and his face haggard with fatigue. Ellis prodded, gently. “What’s your name, son?”

“M-“ The Yankee coughed, turned his head to the side, and hacked as his lungs tried to clear out the soot and burning tar in the air. “Melvin Brown. Lieutenant junior grade, U.S. Navy. Service number 665893.” Ellis chuckled softly.

“Well, Lieutenant Melvin Brown, service number 665893, yo’ can be easy. We’re the troops yo’ were supportin’ a while back, so yo’ a guest, not a prisoner. Anythin’ we have is yours, and we’ll get yo’ back to yo’ people just as soon as we can get to Regentropfen.” The young man slumped in relief for a moment, then looked up.

“Centurion-“

“Ellis.”

“Ellis. What about Captain Rosemont?” Ellis bit down on his lip. It hadn’t sunk in until just now that the man whose flying had just saved them all was also the one who had burned his people alive twenty years ago. The name Rosemont was one every Draka born since 1945 knew and had a grudge against. But now all he could say was,

“We looked. But there was only one chute. I’m sorry, son. “ Brown bent his head down between his knees and nodded, then looked back up.

“We were close when the blast hit. Too close. Almost collapsed my chute and-“ He broke off there, and Ellis just nodded. There was nothing more he could say without shaming the man, and right now he didn’t feel like doing that, even to a damn Yankee. One of D Century’s medics led him off to the aid station, and only then did Ellis turn towards his other guest.

“I suppose yo’ pleased with that.” His voice was as flat and cold as metal in the rain. From his position on the ground, burned and with two Reaction Cohort troopers holding rifles on him, Stonewall Jackson Bohner spat.

“Fuckin’ right. Even if I couldn’t fix the rest of yo’ from handin’ everything over to the Yankees and Bushmen again, at least I got that old fucker. I hope he burned.” Part of Ellis couldn’t help but agree, but its voice was dying. Instead there was just anger, a tightness in chest and stomach and an infinite weariness in his voice.

“Mayhap he did, Bohner. If he did, that’s one mo’ death that’s on yo’. I lost twenty-three of my people in there, and barring a miracle from a God I do not believe in that number is goin’ to get higher. Possibly considerable higher, if there are still some of yo’ little fuckheads holdin’ down the road between Camp Forrest and here. We got maybe thirty of yo’ people out- you tell me how many that leaves on your hands. And the fightin’ in Archona. And the boats comin’ for the shore. And yes, maybe one old Yankee too.” He looked down at the Merarch as he lay in the dust, shaking his head. “And for what, Bohner? For what?”

“For the Race.” Bohner’s eyes were bright, narrow as he looked up at the Centurion. “To give us a chance to do somethin’, somethin’ besides dying by bits on this Gods-cursed island. Give us a chance to reclaim-“

“Shut up.” Bohner’s mouth hung open. Apparently it had been a while since he’d been told that. “Even now, still, all yo’ got is slogans? We’re not dyin’, Bohner. We’re livin’. Just not the way yo’ wanted. Well, yo’ gonna get yo’ fill of dyin’ now.”

“Fine.” Bohner spat into the dust. “Shoot me. I’ll welcome it.” Ellis grinned, full and jovial and hideous.

“Shoot yo? Why, Merarch Bohner, shootin out of hand is for banana republics and would-be dictators. Yo’ comin’ with us. We’ll put you on trial for the Yankee cameras to see, and send yo’ off to a Yankee prison afterwards where no friends can free yo’. Where you can watch us make something less and less like what yo’ wanted.” He bent down to the older man, his voice dropping off almost into a whisper. “And when you die, Bohner? Yo’ won’t die a superman and martyr to the Race. Yo’ will die a senile old man with bad teeth, forgotten long before yo’ gone. Yo’ stole years from so many, and now we gonna feed ‘em all to yo’ until yo’ choke on it.” He rose and turned to go, leaving the old man gaping at him on the jungle floor.

“Live long, Bohner. Live a long, long life.”

0830 Hours
Bridge, USS Reprisal

“It’s confirmed, Skipper.” The chief yeoman’s voice was soft, as close to gentle as a twenty-year enlisted man could be with his Captain. “Warhammer 501 went down over the target. Only one chute, and the Snakes picked up Brown. They’re bringing him back to Regentropfen.”

Jaime Guitierrez waved his hand to acknowledge the man, staring off onto the horizon as his ship forged northwards to meet the flotilla of boats from Zanzibar. A good number of them had turned back when it became apparent that the IQEA ships were shooting first and asking questions never, but there were still a lot of them coming. Some would get through, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Not anymore.

And maybe, just maybe, afterwards they could do something to stop this whole crazy fucking thing from going into another cycle. He didn’t know what. Or how. But he owed it to a friend.

USS Reprisal sailed off into the morning sea, her decks already shaking as aircraft leapt from her deck and into the bright blue sky. Her bow sent a fine wash of spray up into the sky, where it caught the light for a moment before falling back into the ocean. Tears, Guitierrez thought, and that was enough for him to let some of his own flow for his friend.

[Sidewinder]

[Salutes in honor of Cmdr Rosemont.] A good ending, although I'm surprised Bohner got a "Live a long, long life," instead of a "You will rot away in a prison, dying in tiny increments each day of your long life, like a cage animal."

By the way, what happened to Major Ito?

[Darmalus]

That's a good point. If he died, Japan might be able to sweep it under the rug a bit, if not, they are gonna have some serious PR problems.

I loved the "All you have is slogans." bit, sounds like a few people I know. Great work, can't wait for the epilogue.

[Simon_Jester]

[Salutes in honor of Cmdr Rosemont.] A good ending, although I'm surprised Bohner got a "Live a long, long life," instead of a "You will rot away in a prison, dying in tiny increments each day of your long life, like a cage animal."

Much classier this way, though.

Ultimately, Draka amor fati, the ability to embrace dying "a martyr to the Race," is one of the things that has to be broken to snap them out of the sickness of their old culture- and that's what Ellis is confronting Bohner with, that the Draka have chosen life over death, and Bohner is stuck with that choice whether he'd like to smash it out of spite or not.

[ChaserGrey]

Yes, exactly. My original ending had Ellis finding Bohner and staking him out as an example, which I thought was delightfully ironic, while everyone rode off into the sunset. The problem is that if Ellis, one of the "new" Draka, can do that- well, then, were the Draka really worth saving? Did any of this have a point?

And I tried to write an epilogue with a retired Rosemont looking back on his life and career and...that didn't work either. Try as I might, I couldn't see him as an old man out of the cockpit dying peacefully at home. The only end that made any sense for his character, in the end, was for him to die with his boots on, throttle and stick in his hand, getting through and, one more time, hitting the damn target like he always did.

[Simon_Jester]

Yeah. It really does work better- and it's not gratitous grimdark, either, which is important; this is a good illustration of how a story can kill off one of its heroes without being overdone.