Red scales, golden eyes, and a various appetite.

I thought they killed them all. Captain Oliver Thompson had gone beyond what he thought was fantasy. His unit had gone beyond the reaches of the Frontier, and truly had entered a world of fantasy when they crossed the Golden coast. Currently, flying above them at rapid speeds was an enormous brown beast. The flap of the wings caused shockwaves that shook the tree canopy, and the shining scales reflected the sunlight down upon them.

A dragon of all things. Or a wyvern?

Either way, it was impossible for 6.5 ARC to kill such a monster.

“Fucking halt!”

The shout of a nearby Federation Army trooper brought the Ranger officer away from his thoughts. Less than forty hours ago Oliver’s unit had run paths with an advancing army armored collum. They were bringing the fight to the kingdom, and their mission to cut through the Frontier had gone without a single incident. Not a single bullet was fired. At least, not towards enemy targets. The army had issued more ammunition than any unit could’ve expected, so they spent at least a third blasting away at random hostile fauna and demolishing suspected weapons caches along their route.

That is how it went until his unit merged with theirs. Then the first point of contact was made.

And it was a bloodbath for the kingdom’s forces.

Only a reconnaissance unit from Yondel was able to disable three armored vehicles and kill fifteen army troopers.

“Sergeant!” An officer called out, “Get them out of the way!”

“On it, boss!” The NCO responded.

MSF Blue Team were the first unit to find Oliver. Formally they were acting as an army liaison, however everyone knew that they were owned by President Harding and his inner circle. Those very same people watched as one of the crew of an armored vehicle took 24 POWs and placed them all to the side of the dirt road. Behind their covered faces, the men looked like bloodthirsty killers. And the weapons that were either in their hands or slung around their chests were of the newest line of automatic rifles. They had the tools, the know-how, and the determination to kill a nation.

“Sergeant! Line them up!” The leader of Blue Team boomed.

Oliver, Lieutenant Andrew, Technical Sergeant Baker, and Sergeant Malkovich grew silent.

“Prepped and ready!” The voice of the sergeant called out. Following his words, the drums of charging handles being pulled, and fresh bullets being loaded into chambers echoed around the edge of the forest. The cries and shouts of the unarmed and bounded kingdom soldiers made the Reclaimers freeze.

“Commander?” As the leading officer looked at the nearest armored vehicle, the company commander peeked his head from the hatch, the large 20mm cannon slowly turned towards the exposed soldiers and knights.

“Fire! Fire!”

Smoke rose from the barrels. Splintered holes appeared in the soldiers and bloodied bodies fell to the snow below painting a deep crimson in the soft surface. Two thunderous roars emerged from the 20mm cannon, three unlucky souls were ripped in half, body matter and bone being sent beyond the trees behind them. Those that were still alive, were peppered with an unsurmountable number of bullets fired from over ten riflemen; their bodies recoiled from each impact and tears in their clothing were mirrored to the damage done to their bodies.

“Cease fire!”

Five seconds. That was all it took to kill 24 men.

“Captain, did you record it?” Technical Sergeant Baker coughed into his right hand.

Oliver looked at the top left of his glasses. The elapsed time was 3:38. Raising his left hand, the officer clicked the recording off. “I did. You know that the Federation has no standing rules of war, do you?”

Baker shook his head. I know, he told himself. The air force CCT had always felt out of place. Trying to do what he could from the background. And even now he found himself useless in the face of 24 lives being extinguished in the blink of an eye. Everything was obvious, his lack of communication, his dead CCT tablet and radio. He was useless to the Rangers. His inability to join any of the OMFS strike teams, his inexperience in the politics of war, and his willingness to stand up to the adage beliefs, he was the odd one out even amongst his fellow service members in the new world.

Only by miracle did President Harding request his expertise in reconnaissance. Oliver made the recommendation for the mission, but the president ultimately accepted him and even a position in the MSF.

Yet the feeling of dread, hopelessness was presented to him through death.

This wasn’t a war crime. It wasn’t even revenge.

It was just business.

From the ground a man cried into the mud. A single knight had survived, and he was convulsing from his wounds. He would die in a matter of hours, but it was more than enough time for someone to find him and bring him to safety. “Sir!” A young soldier called out, drawing attention to the man who was wiggling where he laid.

“We’ve got enough bullets. Feed em’ one.” The junior officer said making finger guns.

“Yes, lieutenant!”

Lifting his bolt-action rifle, the young soldier instantly shot a round through the knight’s leg making him scream. Instantly moving the bolt, the boy loaded another round. “Just die already.” He whispered pulling the trigger and letting a bullet pass clean through the man’s head. Lowering his rifle, the young soldier looked over at the junior officer. The lieutenant let out a heavy sigh as he raised his left hand above his head, and with a single finger made a small circle. The riflemen all began to return to their designated vehicles without incident.

“Captain?” Baker looked at the Ranger. He took note of his rigid body, emotionless expression, and cold eyes.

Oliver knew that the attacks on the Federation had drained all morale and had been harsh on responding forces. Battle damage assessments indicated that most deaths throughout the nation were of civilian nature, and with the destruction of the Promgrave power plant, an untold number of the nation’s people suffered throughout the harsh winter storms that scourged the lands. Estimations put well over two thousand dead. Neary every military asset had been deployed or was in the process of mobilization. Zivaland had yet to give in, and if the brewing political war at home was of any indication of a possible withdrawal, all military forces had the authorization to go dark and conduct guerrilla warfare against the Kingdom of Yondel.

“Turn the kingdom red.” Was all Oliver had to say.

Starting more than a day ago, the army was keeping that promise. Special airborne units were deployed before the ground invasion and countless reconnaissance forces were reinstated from the Federation Marines legitimizing the need for a separate naval infantry branch. Split between the 3rd Fleets operational command, and the newly minted officer corps from the Federation Naval Academy, Marine intelligence pointed to over 300 confirmed kills within the last 24 hours. Most of them being related to the neutralization of defended infrastructure throughout the border and within the Frontier.

“Thompson.” Malkovich felt his jaw tighten.

“I’m fine. We need to mount up and branch off before the convoy makes it across the border. Our MSF contact should be waiting for us there in less than five miles.” Letting out a short cough, the officer pulled out a beefy brown cigar from his plate carrier. He pulled out a small, golden lighter and used the metal edge to cut off the end of the cigar. With the flick of his thumb, an orange flame burst into life.

“You need to lay of the smokes, sir.” The CCT behind him hummed.

“Well, we aren’t on a boomer or anything. There are no restrictions, are there?” Oliver ignored the technical sergeant. The airman shook his head at the jab towards the navy of all branches.

“I suppose not, captain.” Baker shrugged.

Turning around from the pasty red forest, Oliver led his men away from the graveyard and towards a small four-by-four truck parked to the edge of the dirt road. Each rifleman climbed aboard. Oliver at the front passenger, Malkovich driving, and Baker in the back sitting alongside Andrew and two more shooters from the OMFS. Under their eyes laid heavy bags. They stalked in pure dark for the last two nights. Hunting, waiting. Their targets were not in the area of operations. They had moved beyond, going further than the kingdom’s border and heading into the heart of Yondel.

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Pulling off the main road, Malkovich guided the vehicle behind a small collum of army calvary soldiers cutting through the thicker brush and trees heading directly towards the capital, bypassing Stragea. Though it wasn’t the main objective, breaching, trashing, and taking the capital of the kingdom was something important enough for the soldiers on the ground to blitz through any opposition. Pulling his thoughts back to the mentioning of a Navy Boomer, Oliver tightened his right hand. As the gentle wind blew through his uncovered head, the captain could only think of his grandfather who was a former TM1. What would he think of the world the officer was in? What of his decisions?

“All stations, this is Major Harper. Telemetry guidance for AB-3 has been confirmed. Standby for further updates on the assault on Bishmark.”

From the corner of his eye, Oliver could see the growing concern on Malkovich’s face. It was as if his primal sensor went off, and that he could feel the danger that was creeping around them. The will to live was all the NCO had left. Brotherhood, his Rangers. He had lost enough already and been separated from the remainders of Task Force Spare.

“Keep that lead foot,” Oliver said shifting and grabbing his rifle.

“Convoy picked up speed!” One of the OMFS riflemen, Agent Strummer, shouted. “Said they got some kind of contact less than a mile ahead!”

His yells were drowned out by the howling wind and the snapping of gunshots far in front of them. Oliver remained busy as he stared directly at the heavy weaponry being shot high into the sky and over the passing hill. In the following moments, more and more gunfire erupted upwards as the soldiers began to engage an unseen threat.

“What the fuck are they shooting at?” Was all Lieutenant Andrew had to say as he strapped his helmet tight.

“Barra!” The second rifleman, Agent Ferdinand Taha cried. He latched onto the metal frame, a heavy blue shadow overtaking his arm.

“Is that a missile?” Baker shouted as he pointed high into the deep blue above.

“What! Where is-”

Oliver’s words were cut short by a blinding light. Following the heavenly rays, a harsh searing heat followed by an immense pressure wave tore through the forest tearing the leaves off trees and sending debris high into the sky. Taking in a shaky breath, the captain hugged his body as his exposed skin burned for a millisecond, the searing pain flashed over his body and disappeared in an instant. Burning wood, skin, and metal tingled his nose. And a cool sensation flooded the tuck, preventing any more pain from reaching the operatives.

In five seconds, the remaining shockwaves slammed into the vehicles ahead. Those caught in the immediate radius were either thrown or shifted from the force. Over the screams that followed the immense ringing in his ears, Oliver pressed both of his hands over his ears. Just seconds ago, he felt as if he lost all bodily functions. He felt that he had died. Just over his left eye, a warm trail of blood fell as gravity pulled it from the top of his head. Reassessing the situation, the captain could only presume that he was hit by a small rock causing a minor laceration.

Any adrenaline still in his body disappeared. “Captain!” He didn’t have the strength to turn his head. Yet, he knew that he wasn’t alone. A solidary hand placed upon his plate carrier, followed by the strength of his men pulling him out of the truck did more than put his mind at ease. He wanted to fall unconscious, however his mind and soul tore for life, yearning to stay alive to lead his men through this unexpected and agonizing development on the march into the kingdom.

“Captain’s out, LT you have command.” He could recognize the voice of Sergeant Malkovich.

“Roger. Baker, what the hell just happened?” The junior officer took charge and asked the question that was burning on everyone’s minds.

Grabbing the tablet dangling from his war belt, the technical sergeant loaded his CCT program and stared into the screen with cold, anxious eyes. “No excess radiation!”

“What?”

Lieutenant Andrew could still feel the impacts of the explosion. His body shuddered. Was he going to die? He didn’t know, and at last he did not want to die. The junior officer could only wonder if his brothers felt the same. His fists clenched as adrenaline ran through his blood. “Holy shit,” was all he could quietly say as his head fell into his hands.

Keeping his rifle close, the lieutenant peered around the front of the truck. He needn’t look for combat. Tucked away under his arm, the cold steel rested against his forearms as he spotted members of MSF Blue Team walking through the heavy smoke and dust. They all moved synchronized. Their olive-drab uniforms making them disappear between shadows and the scattered dust clouds that fell from the covered skies above. Like guardians they marched through hell. And like angles, they were all untouched by the attack.

“Hey! Where’s your commanding officer?” From the dust, the leader of blue team called out to them. A solidary wave made them identifiable as friendly.

“Lieutenant Andrew Devlin, acting CO of Rifle Squadron 325.”

“325? You’re the Rangers?”

“All day, sir.”

“Well, isn’t it just peachy that we speak now rather than when we first met.”

“Just doing our job. Can’t let anyone get ahead of us.”

With his men spreading out around the wounded Reclaimers the captain let out a soft chuckle, “Then you’re no different from the Princess and the Staff Sergeant.” He said recalling two days prior in the deep snow. “President Harding sends his regards. It’s a shame we have to meet during this.”

“Glad to hear the old man is still kicking. We heard that his plane was shot down a while ago.”

“That’s old news. He’s taking back the capital.”

There were rumors that President Harding had more ties to criminal organizations than the contacts he had gained from his prior time as a Marine Officer. There were organizations in the Federation of Zivaland, ones that often could overpower local governments and jurisdictions that lived in the shadow of day-to-day life. They thrived off the working man, and within their professional crimes take back a nation at the request of their President.

Harding was no mafia don. He was the premier that oversaw the most powerful nation on the planet.

Quiet, sharp eyes, even a reflective gave. Lieutenant Andrew saw the similarities in the men that Harding had personally trusted to be his rifles. Even Captain Oliver Thompson held such knowledge and know-how to cut through the red tape when needed.

“So, what’s the call? We just lost half of the armored division, no?”

As much as it pained the lieutenant to admit, Andew knew that this would set back the Federation’s mission by days, perhaps even a week. He couldn’t rely on brute force to punch a hole to the objective that had slipped passed them in the dark zone, and to rely on the MSF was something that he was hesitant of. Staff Sergeant Randall had made mention of unknown shooters engaging them within Ignis, and he was willing to bet that one of the teams under the MSF were responsible.

“First, we would eliminate the magician that did this. Second, get to the capital. Third, complete our separate missions.”

“And your mission?”

“Eliminate the royal family of Yondel.”

“Sure, put a bullet into all their heads!” Captain Oliver groaned from the ground.

The Rangers looked amongst themselves, unsure of how to process what the leader of Blue Team had just revealed. Princess Leccamaradel was only recently revealed to be the sole survivor of her family. Yet, with Mike being alongside her, each of them had doubts of whether they would try to interfere with the operation to invade Yondel. Mike had voiced his opinion openly to find an end to this conflict. Lecca was the key. One that everyone wanted to hold under their thumb.

“You green, captain?” Baker asked.

“Yeah-help me up.”

Reaching out his hand, Andrew helped his CO back on his feet. The officers exchange a silent nod before slowly and painfully joining the patrol formation that Blue Team had already established. Brushing his right hand over his left shoulder, Oliver found that he could barely move the arm. Letting out a sigh, the captain retrieved the pistol sitting in his low-ride holster. Just managing to raise his left arm with great effort, the Ranger racked the slide ensuring a bullet sat neatly in the chamber.

“Ready, sir?”

Letting a small smile form on his lips, Oliver turned his head to Sergeant Malkovich, “Always ready, sergeant.”

Just managing to limp ahead, Oliver looked towards the orange and black fog covering the battlefield. As soot covered his face, the squealing of burning iron and steel captured his attention. Two of the riflemen from Blue Team inspected the noise coming from a demolished armored personnel carrier. They posted on either side standing guard as their CO looked over the charred bodies with narrowed eyes and clenched fists.

He saw their corpses. They ‘sat’ along the burning interior. Many of their limbs locked into the positions they died in. Some hugging, some crying, some accepting the silence of the explosion. Lacerations, punctures, torn skin were all visible.

The radioman of Blue Team shook his head before securing a pair of bulky headphones around his ears. The long wire connected to a radio in the mans satchel and he dialed the frequency to a secure and encrypted channel that the Rangers had yet to crack. It was a game developed by Technical Sergeant Baker. However, they didn’t want to play this time. They just wanted to know everything that was said into the microphone and learn everything that was said through the earmuffs.

Continuing through the smog, there was no exact way to measure the passage of time. The haze was too great, unnatural. The captain had seen the videos from the September 11th attacks on the World Trade Center towers. The cross hanging on the inside of his shirt felt slowly warmer. He held his pistol closer.

Trailing along slower than the rest, Oliver had managed to wiggle two pain pills into his mouth. The drugs would take time to enter his system, and for the time, the officer was occupied with keeping pace against the searing pain all throughout his left torso and his legs. They all passed by more and more corpses. Many of which had their lives drained and emptied from their faces. Flies circled the bodies. And soon maggots would spawn to eliminate the death that surrounded them.

Lieutenant Andrew was just able to walk past the ranks of death.

He had yet to release his rifle. There was a thought nagging at the back of his mind, something that made the attack they had just survived useless to the enemy.

Where is the enemy?

Turning his foot and slamming back on his heel, the junior officer walked backwards for a short distance staring into the smog.

There was a real possibility that they were being tracked. No gunfire, so an engagement was out of the question. Force Reconnaissance knew this method; “hit and watch” as the Marines always said.

Besides, the possibility for the knights of the kingdom to ambush a convoy from the federation was unlikely beyond mass destruction. If played correctly MAD could be avoided in any engagement with well-timed spells and assassination of lead commanders and unit officers. Was it a trap?

He continued to contemplate. Each three meters he crossed, the lieutenant kept track on the growing number of bodies and the pairs of footprints that had been imprinted into the mud. From basic estimations there were army troopers that survived being near ground zero — indicating that at least a third of the forward force had been able to disembark and reach safety.

Would they trace the footprints?

No.

They already had run out of time. The enemy had only attacked them to delay their approach.

Publicly Available Information: Weapon of Mass Destruction:

AB-3. (Alpha-Bravo-Three.) (Aimless Bulldozer Three.) A weapon developed by the Federation of Zivaland as a counter to naval vessels such as aircraft carriers and battleships, the guided projectile can be launched via aircraft or specially made ground-based launchers. With a range of over 300 nautical miles, it puts the weapon as a defensive deterrent, one that in times of crisis can be used with devastating effect.