Red Winter: Operation Crimson Twilight
Disclaimer: This story series contains graphic violence and strong language. Read at your own discretion. Also, I use a few possibly copyrighted names in here, and they belong to their respective owners and I wasn't paid to use them. Go Steelers!
9:00 P.M. EST - Briefing Room at Franklin NC SDF Base Delta 5 The air in the briefing room was frigid, but not quite freezing. The lights had been shut off, and the only illumination came from the overhead projector displaying slides of troop positions and estimated enemy strength. The forty-eight men sitting on two rows of hard metal benches paid close attention, mainly because they couldn't believe that in less than twenty-four hours they would be locked in combat. Jack cricked his neck as Captain O'Hare continued giving his briefing. "Now, we've seen what they've been throwing at Grand Junction, but it gets worse. Satellite surveillance shows that they have at least 100,000 troops at the ready. Most of them appear to be reserve troops though, as only about 25,000 are mobilizing towards Grand Junction." O'Hare paused and pointed to a wolf sergeant with his paw raised. "Sir," the wolf began, "Wouldn't such a large number of reserves indicate they believe they will take high casualties?" O'Hare nodded. "Indeed sergeant. This should tell you grunts that these guys aren't gonna back down till we kill every last one of them. Now, our forces are setting up a perimeter near the small town of Gilsonite, but we've only got half a mechanized infantry division to their full one. Right now, the 3rd Infantry has 20,000 men, but currently only 7,000 are stationed at Grand Junction. The rest are still being brought up from Fort Stewart in Georgia. This means that the only other troops we have near Grand Junction are 5,000 men from the 35th Infantry Division [A National Guard unit FYI] handling civilian evacuations, and a battalion of Marines who got shipped along at the last minute. We've also got about 3,000 men from the 15th and 16th Colorado Militia. However, we've had trouble equipping them properly, and so many militia units lack body armor, anti-tank munitions, and explosives like C-4. "So, here's where we come in. We're the best rated militia unit on the East Coast, and by God we're gonna prove it to those sons a bitches who think Democracy should have died with the Greeks. We're going to mount up and head to Fort Bragg, where we'll board C-130s and be shipped out to Grand Junction. The PRA currently have air superiority, but we hope to change that by the time we arrive. There isn't an airfield capable of handling the volume of C-130s we're sending, so our group will parachute in behind our lines and move up to the front on foot." A fox private raised his paw and asked, "What will be our mission when we're on the ground, sir?" "The PRA are just crossing the border into Colorado, and our forces are waiting there to meet them. By the time we arrive our friends will be in need of relief, and we're gonna provide it. We'll be taking over the task of holding the center front along I-70. Hopefully we can keep the enemy out of Grand Junction altogether, but if not...well...we'll be in for some brutal urban combat. We cannot fail here gentleman, if the enemy pushes through they'll have a clean shot into Denver and the whole Midwest. The C-130's lift off in thirty minutes, so head down to the armory and get loaded out. Hooah?" "HOOAH!" came the unanimous response from the rest of the platoon. Jack stood and followed the rest of the men out the door. Once outside they broke into a jog as they headed off to the armory to get equipped. Upon arrival Jack flashed his military ID card to a gunnery sergeant who led him along with several other soldiers to their special corner of the armory. Jack had volunteered to take an additional training course in anti-tank munitions, and was officially his squad's Anti-Tank Trooper. He smiled as a crate labeled "Anti-Tank Kit" was presented to him. He slid his ID card through the magnetic reader to disable the lock and opened the lid. Inside he found all he needed to give the PRA hell. He mentally checked off the items as he removed them. One M136 AT4 rocket launcher. Check. One M-4A1carbine with eight spare magazines. Check. One Berretta M92 pistol with four spare magazines. Check. Four M67 fragmentation hand grenades. Check. One seven inch combat knife, hooah! Check. After emptying his crate, Jack headed off to his storage locker to retrieve his body armor, tactical vest, helmet, and radio. The last stop was the ammunition storage room, where Jack was issued a pair of quick loaders for his M-4 and M92. He then proceeded to load thirty rounds of 5.56x45mm NATO rounds into his M-4 magazines, and then fifteen 9x19mm Parabellum rounds into his M92's magazines. He then slapped a fresh clip into each of his guns. Locked and loaded, he thought to himself. The wolf sergeant from earlier began shouting orders to the platoon, and Jack began jogging with the rest of his men out into the cold night air where they began to board the trucks and Humvees that would ferry them to the airport. Jack noticed Brian in the crowd of furs and followed him to one of the trucks. The two sat next to each other on the uncomfortable benches that ran along the sides of the truck's cargo bed, brooding on the approaching conflict. Jack felt Brian push something into his paws. Looking down, Jack found a tan colored balaclava, stitched to contour to a lupine's facial structure. Jack looked at Brian with a curious glance. "It's gonna be freezing over there man." "I can take it," Jack replied with an indignant look. After all, he ran in the cold every morning. "No you can't bro," Brian replied with a grin. "You think our winters are bad? Try not living on the coast getting warm air from the ocean. It's like minus 30 degrees over there at times. Your facial fur won't help you in that kind of cold, especially if it starts snowing." Jack nodded and held up his fist for a fist bump, which Brian promptly gave him. Jack stuffed the balaclava in one of his jacket pockets, where he felt a slight bulge on his chest. He noticed that in addition to his dog tags his was wearing another necklace. Tugging it up, he found he was still wearing a silver crucifix. Damn, I forgot to take it off before I left, he thought to himself. Although he didn't believe in God, Jack still wore the crucifix for two reasons. For one thing, he respected it as a symbol of devotion and self-sacrifice. But more importantly, in his mind, it had been given to him by his mother a year before she died from cancer. Now, it was one of the few things he had left of her. He heaved a sigh as his thoughts drifted back to the simpler days of his childhood. And so for the remainder of the journey he wandered the nostalgic confines of his memory. An hour later, Jack disembarked from the truck onto the tarmac at Fort Bragg. He yawned as he realized that normally he'd be in bed at this time. Captain O'Hare began barking orders and soon the whole company formed rank and file into a nice rectangle standing at attention. Jack tried to pay attention to the Captain's voice, but the long, boring trip over had really taken a toll on his consciousness. "Alright men, listen up. I've got good news and bad news. The bad news is that we've only got two dozen C-130s available for transporting us, which means that we're going to have to wait until 0800 hours next morning. The good news is that you all get to rest up and have breakfast before our flight over. Now I've been instructed to lead you to an empty barracks where you all will be bunking for the night." With that, Captain O'Hare had his men follow him to a large gray building labeled 4th Battalion. Jack didn't really care whose bed he'd be borrowing though, he just wanted to go to sleep. And so, upon finding an empty bunk he set his rifle and M136 down next to it and climbed in, still wearing his uniform and armor. Sleep did not take long to arrive.
4:35 P.M. MST - Somewhere over Colorado, 20 miles east of Grand Junction Jack tried to not breath through his nose as he sat in the back of the C-130. Upon waking up at 0700 hours, Jack's platoon had been hurried off to get a quick breakfast of eggs, bacon, French toast, and whatever fruit juice they preferred. A healthy breakfast to be sure, but it was also the only food they would probably have for the next twenty-four hours. Even worse, the whole company had slept in their uniforms, and was then rushed off into the back of a C-130. No one had been able to take a morning shower, and now they were in the stuffy, poorly ventilated back of the massive cargo plane wearing their parachutes and waiting for the signal to get ready to jump. Jack wiped the sweat from his forehead and then took a swig of water from his canteen. He cringed at the taste of plastic mixed with tepid water. He looked around. Everyone was sweating from the heat that filled the plane like a fog. Jack knew there was little that could be done however. This plane had been fitted to transport crates of supplies, not soldiers. This explained why everyone was sitting on the floor trying to only breathe through their mouth. The C-130 pilot's suddenly came over the PA system linked into the back of the plane. "Gentlemen, we have a situation. The PRA have broken our front lines and a retreat has been ordered for all units. We're pulling back from the town of Mesa and setting up a new defensive line along the outer perimeter of Grand Junction's metro area. We will be dropping you east of this location, so head towards the sun and drift west. Your company commanders will have updates for you on the ground. That is all." Great, Jack thought to himself. My first day in combat and we're already getting slaughtered. "Everyone stand up!" shouted the jumpmaster, a thin ferret whose helmet seemed one size too big for him. "Hook your chutes to the jump lines and begin equipment check!" With that, all ninety men inside stood up and hooked their primary parachute's deployment cable to one of three wires that hung from the ceiling and ran to the back of the plane. As they jumped out the back, their chutes would automatically deploy once they were a safe distance away from the aircraft. In the meantime, each soldier patted down the man in front of him to make sure his harness and equipment was properly attached so nothing would come loose while in the air. The men in the very back were patted down by a second jumpmaster, who then started the countdown as he confirmed each soldier's equipment passed inspection. "Row thirty okay!" The next line of soldiers sounded off. "Row twenty-nine okay!" "Twenty-eight okay!" "Twenty-seven a-okay!" A minute later the countdown was complete, with all members passing. Now all that remained was for the jumpmaster to lower the rear gate and give the go-ahead to jump. Jack took a deep breath, his nose no longer bothered by the smell of his squadmates as he felt his heart beat nervously. The sound of the engines droning on lulled him into a state of surreal comfort, were it not for the occasional bounce from turbulence he'd probably have been able to fall asleep. He smiled and closed his eyes, his mind forgetting that in a few minutes he'd probably be dead. But for now he felt peace, repose...and a strong tug on his harness followed by a deafening pain in his right ear. KRASH! Without warning a hole blasted open in the left side of the C-130's hull, sending shrapnel and flaming jet fuel into the cargo bay. Several soldiers were immolated instantly, while others shrieked in pain as they were cut down by massive shards of aviation aluminum. The C-130 was still at an altitude of 5,000 feet, and the newly made hole caused the cargo bay to depressurize rapidly. Jack felt his feet go up from under him as his body was sucked through the hole and into the blazing inferno that now engulfed the left wing's two engines. He clenched his eyes shut and covered his face, but fortunately he passed by so quickly he felt only a quick rush of heat followed by the frigid winter air. And then a strong jerk as his chute deployed without warning. He felt a muscle in his neck twinge in pain, but otherwise he was okay. Looking about, he realized that the C-130 had been ambushed by a lone Q-5 ground attack plane. It was clear now; the Q-5 had been flying low and hadn't been detected by the C-130's escort planes' radar. When the Q-5 spotted a large, vulnerable cargo plane it decided to go in for a strafing run and managed to score a lucky hit. Fortunately it didn't manage to take out any more C-130s, and the F-16 escort fighters tracked and quickly dispatched the Q-5 as it tried to make a getaway. However, Jack's C-130 had suffered intense structural failure and had now broken apart into two pieces. The flaming wreckage crashed into a cluster of buildings, lighting them ablaze and sending a billowing black plume of smoke into the sky. Scanning the sky, Jack saw no other parachutes. Oh my...I'm the only one who survived. By a stroke of pure luck, he'd not been hit by any debris, nor burnt upon exiting the aircraft. A few others had been sucked out before Jack, but the force had snapped their harness cables (and their necks, most likely), and thus their chutes did not deploy. Jack swallowed as he felt his throat grow tight, and he tried to calm himself as he slowly drifted down below. This was no time to panic, he knew, but having just watched his brothers in arms die in an instant still sent his mind racing. Cold fear suffocated his lungs as he wondered how he managed to survive. It was just luck, he told himself, nothing I could've done to save them. Focus. Don't. Feel. Guilty. Jack heaved a sigh as his mind cleared for the moment. Checking his bearings, he realized he'd been dropped far too early, as he was still over central Grand Junction. Below him swarmed hundreds of civilians, their cars stuck in gridlock as artillery shells exploded mere kilometers away. The war was now in their very backyards, and these poor citizens now, quite literally, were running for their lives. Fires burned all across the city, and the flashing blue and red lights of emergency vehicles shone through the haze of smoke of clouds. Military vehicles moved both east and west, obviously replacements heading out the battlefield while wounded returned from the front to rest. As he passed below 1,000 feet, Jack began looking for a safe place to land. Fires burned everywhere, and he knew it would mean certain death to land in one. Carefully he tugged on his chute's guide straps, his arms straining to steer himself into the middle of a nearby road that was vacant of obstacles. He held his breath as he saw the ground quickly come up and watched as his feet touched down. The wind continued to blow his chute, pulling down to the ground with a thud and dragging him a few yards before he managed to catch himself and rein his chute in. As he undid his harness he decided to not worry about refolding up his parachute. He wouldn't need it again, and there wasn't any time to waste in getting to the battle. Heading west towards the fighting, Jack checked himself over to make sure he still had everything. His AT-4 and M-4 carbine had fortunately remained strapped to him during his descent, giving him at least the chance to take a couple of PRA troopers with him before he caught a bullet himself. The ground shook constantly as artillery fire fell in the distance, rattling pebbles and tufts of snow from the street. The sky was grayed over, with a thick belt of dark clouds low on the horizon to the east. Blizzard, Jack thought to himself. He'd seen enough blizzards in North Carolina to recognize the conditions. At least in Grand Junction he wasn't on the side of a mountain where the snow would trap you for a month or two. Behind him Jack noticed the sound of approaching vehicles. Turning about, he saw a convoy of American light armored vehicles heading right for him. The lead vehicle, an LAV-25 with Marine Corps insignia, slowed down and stopped about twenty feet short of Jack. The command hatch on the turret popped open and an officer climbed halfway out to shout at Jack. "Hey! What the hell are you doing out here soldier? Where's the rest of your unit?" "Dead, they got blown out of the sky when our plane took a hit," Jack solemnly replied while walking over to the LAV. "What's your unit?" asked the officer, a German Shepherd dog in his late thirties who bore the insignia of a first lieutenant. "Fifth battalion, A company, 1st North Carolina Militia," Jack replied. "Ah, you're one of those rookies that's getting dumped out here," replied the lieutenant. "What's your name kid?" "Private First Class Jack Campbell, sir." The lieutenant nodded. "Well it looks like you're with us now. I'm Lieutenant Sheppard, 26th Marine Battalion. Climb in the back and say hello to your new squad." "You got it, sir," Jack said as he hurried around to the back of the LAV as it opened its rear doors. Inside sat three other Marines, two wolves, one with gray fur and one with black, along with a white scaled dragon. Both wolves carried the Marine Corps' replacement for the M-16, the LWRC M6A2, while the dragon carried a Mk11 Mod 0 sniper rifle. Jack took a seat next to the dragon and set his M-4 on his lap, barrel pointing to the floor. "Who's this guy?" asked the gray wolf. "This is Private Jack Campbell, he's gonna be joining us this evening," Sheppard shouted into the back from the commander's seat. The black wolf smirked and introduced himself. "Hey Jack, welcome aboard. I'm Lance Corporal Kyle Blackmon, This here's Specialist Jon Wells," he said tapping the gray wolf next to him, "And that's Private Tony Duval," he said pointing to the dragon. "He's our designated marksman, while Jon's our radio guy." "What are you then?" Jack asked. Blackmon shrugged, "I'm an assaultman, so technically I can be anything from a rifleman to a SMAW gunner. Unfortunately we didn't bring any of those with us from Fort Benning." "Fort Benning? What were you doing there?" "Cross training with the Army Rangers. They're getting ready to head up into Canada to protect an airbase we're building near Vancouver. When the PRA hit Grand Junction we were told to load out and get ready for combat. Next thing I know, I'm boarding a C-5 at six in the morning and flying out into this frozen hell with two day old clothes." Jack nodded and asked, "So what exactly is going on? Are we losing or winning?" "Do you think if we were winning we'd be calling up weekend soldiers like you to bolster the line," Blackmon asked. "No offense dude, but you're not combat material if the only training you had was how to fire an AR-15 and bandage a flesh wound." Jack gritted his teeth but said nothing. "The PRA hit us about twenty-four hours ago, but didn't move any large numbers of ground troops till this morning. Our guys pushed back their first wave, but we took some heavy losses to our tanks and had to retreat. Now the second attack is coming and from the last I heard our lines just collapsed and we're in full retreat. We're just moving up to plug the hole long enough for our guys to regroup and find cover." An explosion blasted a mere twenty feet from the LAV, rattling the men inside as shrapnel bounced off the armored sides. There were seven vehicles total in the convoy, including Sheppard's LAV. Following the LAV were two Marine Humvees, along with an M1A3 tank from the 3rd Infantry Division. After the tank were two M3A1 Bradleys from the 3rd Infantry, and a Stryker APC behind them. The Marines hadn't brought many vehicles with them, so many of their infantry had to hitch a ride on Army vehicles. "Alright guys, we're nearing the front!" Sheppard shouted, "Get ready to disembark and head for the trenches. Take cover and whatever you do, HOLD THE LINE!" "Oohrah!" shouted the Marines in their customary war cry, while Jack replied with the Army's classic "Hooah!" The others just stared at him. Jon snickered and Tony just shook his head while chuckling. "Oh screw you guys," Jack said as the rear doors opened and they all piled out. "Don't sweat it Jack, we're all gonna be dead in a few minutes," Blackmon said with a consoling pat on the back as they watched the Bradleys and Stryker unload a platoon consisting of Marines, 3rd Infantry rifleman and even a few 35th Infantry Division soldiers. The situation had gotten so desperate so fast that proper organization was being ignored in favor of getting as many men on the front lines as possible. Jack and the rest of the platoon made their way forward into a large four foot deep trench that had just been excavated twenty minutes earlier. They were currently on the outskirts of the metro area of Grand Junction, leaving a large open field of snow covered grass before them. The lack of cover was an infantryman's worst nightmare, and since the U.S. forces were dug in, they clearly had the advantage. However, the PRA had far many more tanks than the U.S., and currently the PRA had control of the skies while the U.S. Air Force desperately flew in additional aircraft to its primary base in Denver. "Squad on me!" Blackmon yelled as he led the way into the trench. "Campbell, get that AT-4 ready, we're gonna need it." As Jack followed Blackmon down the length of the ditch he noticed about a dozen M1A3s parked behind sandbag barriers sitting behind the trench. The Bradleys and Sheppard's LAV took their places between the tanks and readied themselves for combat. Overhead a flight of AH-64 Apache helicopters rumbled past as they flew over the horizon to meet the enemy. Jon tapped Jack on the shoulder and showed him which radio channel he needed to be on to communicate with the rest of the platoon. A few seconds later a message crackled into Jack's earpiece. "All units hold your fire! We got retreating friendlies coming up. I repeat, hold fire," Sheppard ordered. Jack noticed several other Marines sitting in the trench with Army units, although the Army was clearly in the majority since there were many more men in ACU digital camo rather than Marine Corps woodland MARPAT. "Hey Blackmon, who's your battalion commander?" Jack asked. "Major Patterson, although he's further up the line. Most of our battalion is up that way. We just got sent down here because the Army is having to pull National Guard units off of civilian evacuations to handle the second wave of PRA assaults. Until those guys get here we're all that stands between the PRA and our headquarters over near St. Mary's hospital." "Why'd we put it there?" "Because the original one at the airfield got leveled by bombers and artillery fire," Blackmon callously replied. "Look out!" shouted a fox to Jack's left. "Friendly forces coming up!" Sure enough, a thin line of dusty white tanks and APCs came tearing down I-70 and Highway 50 in a hasty retreat. Some of the vehicles were clearly shot up, and one M1 tank was missing its main gun altogether. Jack was surprised at how few of them there were. As far as he could tell, only six or seven M1s were returning, along with five Bradleys and a couple of Strykers. The thick clouds of black smoke that rose behind them did not bid well, nor did the fact that they were retreating at flank speed. Jack dialed his radio to a few different channels to see if he could pick up anything. After a few tries he managed to get something. "HQ this is Team Yankee, where's our air cover!?!" "Team Yankee, we got a flight of Apaches heading your way, over." "That ain't gonna cut it HQ! We're hot on Team Whiskey's trail and still taking fire from pursuing PRA units! They've got three whole regiments coming right at us and SHIT!" Jack flinched as he heard a crackle of static come over the radio, along with the report of an explosion. "Damn it, we just lost the last one of our Strykers! We're down to four M1s and three Bradleys. All our Humvees and Strykers are burning out in the desert. HQ if we don't get some air support soon we're all goners over here!" Jack switched back to his platoon's channel. No use listening to the inevitable demise of the retreating units. Looking out, he watched as the remnants of Team Whiskey charged past and retreated into the city. In the distance he could see Team Yankee approaching quickly, the flight of Apaches flying over them in a loose formation while watching for advancing enemy units. Suddenly a smoke contrail appeared in the sky, followed by one of the Apaches bursting apart as an air to air missile struck it upon the main rotor. A squadron of low flying J-10s soared overhead, causing the remaining Apaches to break off and lay as low to the ground as they could to mask themselves from the J-10s' radar. A pair of J-11 fighters soon joined the J-10s, these two armed with unguided rockets and under wing gun pods. Jack and the others watched in horror as the J-11s swooped down and strafed Team Yankee, gun and rocket pods flaring as they made a quick pass that cratered the highway and utterly obliterated two Abrams tanks. The remaining vehicles scattered off of the highway and continued their desperate push for friendly lines. Jack heard the roar of a rocket engine and was soon greeted with the sight of four Patriot SAM missiles heading for the PRA aircraft. The J-10s went full afterburner and popped a series of flares, while the J-11s stayed low to the ground and tried to blend in with the earth's natural heat signature. Two of the Patriots locked on to a J-11 and chased it down, detonating behind it and ripping the jet's fragile airframe apart. The remaining Patriots each picked a J-10, with one missile downing its target, and the other leaving its victim severely damaged. The men on the ground silently cheered as they watched the PRA planes retreat before another volley of missiles could be fired at them. However, their feelings of jubilee were short lived as Team Yankee's few survivors rolled past. The rumble of passing tanks was overtaken by the shriek of falling artillery shells, and white contrails appeared from the sky as the hot shells vaporized the airborne humidity before crashing to earth and cratering the ground. Jack and the others hit the deck as the shells landed all around them, some striking buildings while others fell harmlessly into the middle of the field. Jack tried to scream but it felt like nothing came out of his mouth. He turned towards Blackmon and yelled, but again he couldn't hear his own voice. His ears began to painfully ring, forcing him to grip them to try and shut out the constant pounding of artillery fire. Blackmon tapped him on the shoulder and held out his paw with a pair of ear buds resting in his palm. Jack quickly accepted them an put them on, the plugs instantly helping to cease the sonic concussions of the impacting artillery. "Thanks," he mouthed to Blackmon, who nodded in turn. "All the screaming in the world won't make them stop shooting at you, believe me I've tried," he said with a sarcastic grin. Behind them an M1A3 fired its main gun, the blast sending a hail of dust and particulate across the back of Jack's neck and shoulders. He turned to look at the tank just as it was struck by a shell from a Type-96, blowing the turret open and detonating the reserve shells in the magazine in a fiery cacophony that knocked Jack on his butt in the trench. Everyone else in the trench was keeping low, unaware of what was going on in front of them as the withering fire of the enemy rockets and Howitzer cannons decimated the American lines. In the distance, a swarm of enemy vehicles appeared. Jack could only see them peeking over the horizon, black dots that slowly got bigger while trailing white smoke from their generators to mask the approach of three dozen Type 07 and ZBD-97 IFVs following up behind them. The American line of tanks and IFVs had taken several hits during the initial bombardment, but now the PRA were forced to let their guns cool and their crews restock their ammo caches. This window of time would be free from large caliber artillery strikes, although infantry equipped with 84mm mortars could still be set up near the front lines to keep up the fire. The American and PRA tanks began to trade blows, although the Americans had the advantage, as they were firing from a stationary fortified position, while the PRA units were bouncing about over rough terrain while trying to make an accurate 2500 meter shot. The Americans also had M3 Bradley IFVs armed with TOW missile launchers, which helped punch a serious hole in the advancing line of enemy tanks. No fewer than eight Type-96s had fallen victim to the deadly accurate rockets before the Bradleys had to retreat and re-arm. However, without the Bradleys to provide support, the few remaining M1A3s had to fend off an armored hoard of steel beasts charging at flank speed. Jack knew there wasn't much that could be done to halt the PRA advance. The American forces were badly outnumbered and outgunned, with utterly no hope for victory. Still, that didn't mean he wasn't gonna try to at least take a few PRA with him. Peeking out from the trench, Jack saw that the PRA were stalled in their advance. Apparently the loss of so many tanks shattered their confidence, and the remaining Type-96s fell back while the IFVs continued to advance, unable to see their own forces coming at them in the white smoke screen left by the tanks. Several collisions ensued, forcing the Type-96s to pop their smoke grenades to cover them as they tried to reorganize and fall back out of range of the U.S. tanks. Looking to his left, Jack was about to ask the Marine next to him if he had a pair of binoculars, when suddenly the man's skull burst open as a hail of bullets ricocheted struck the trench, kicking up dirt and small rocks upon impact. Just fifty feet away stood a whole squad of PRA troops, all clad in their dark black and grey urban/winter camouflage and sporting red tinted goggles over their helmets. Their leader lowered his rifle, a Chinese made QBZ-95, and signaled for his men to advance, only to lock eyes with Jack before shouldering his rifle again. Jack hit the deck as a burst of fire flew overhead. "HOLY SHIT! Blackmon! We're getting flanked, PRA infantry to our left!" he shouted before popping his M-4 off safety and onto full auto. Hopping up, Jack locked the PRA soldiers in his sights and fired off several quick bursts. Blackmon's rifle joined in, followed by the chattering of a Marine's M-27 IAR as he emptied its 100 round magazine into the crowd of enemy troops. Jack felt the bolt on his weapon lock back, signaling his clip was empty. Quickly he ejected the spent magazine and loaded a fresh one, although by the time he did the entire PRA squad had been wasted. "Damn it, how'd they sneak up on us like that?" Blackmon asked. "LOOK OUT!" Jack screamed as he pushed Blackmon down upon noticing a grenade bounce in front of their trench. BLAM! "Shit, they're behind us!" Jon shouted as he spotted another group of enemies entering an abandoned store. "Tony, wait for us to cover you, then take them out!" Blackmon ordered as he regained his footing. Jack carefully raised his head up and fired a few rounds at the building, only for the PRA troops inside to return fire with gusto. Bullets eviscerated the ground in front of him, but luckily none struck before he could take cover again. While PRA were busy trying to neutralize Jack, Tony managed to lift up his rifle without being immediately noticed and spotted a PRA machinegunner standing behind a broken storefront window, along with a rifleman helping him spot targets. Tony lined up the man's head in his crosshair and fired, scoring a clean headshot and then adjusting to take out the rifleman before he could react. "Two tangos down," Tony reported. "Can't see any more." "I'll fix that in a second," Blackmon replied while getting on his radio. "Lieutenant, where's that LAV? We got a hostile squad of enemy infantry on our flank taking cover in a white stucco building next to the trench." "Roger that, moving up to support," Sheppard replied as he ordered the driver to move into position. Another PRA soldier retrieved his fallen comrade's Type-88 machinegun and began suppressing the Marines in the trench just as Sheppard's LAV pulled into view. The gunner easily identified the PRA trooper and opened fire with the LAV's 25mm Bushmaster chaingun. "Holy hell, that was a close one," Blackmon said with a huff as he let out the breath he'd been holding for the last twenty seconds. "Good job Jack, you saved our tails on that one." "But I only killed two of them, I think." "No, you spotted them coming up on us. If you hadn't we'd probably all be dead," Blackmon corrected. "Speaking of which, how'd they get this close to us?" Jack respectfully pushed the dead Marine's body to the side, while also helping himself to his ammunition. He had a feeling he'd need the six extra clips looted from the Marine's bandolier. Blackmon made his way down the trench and studied one of the PRA bodies, taking a good look at the soldier's insignia and weaponry. "I've seen these guys before. They're conscripts; enlisted civilians like you Jack. They can't fight too well, but when mixed with more experienced units they can get the job done." "How can you tell that's what he is?" Jack asked. "Simple. See that weapon he's carrying? It's a Chinese made gun, and a lower end one at that. The PRA conscripts use all the leftover junk the Chinese Army brought with them when they first invaded. The regular army troops get the American made equipment they captured from our bases and factories. They're having a hard time keeping up with the demand for new weapons though, so until they get their war economy geared up, their conscripts have to use the crap weapons," Blackmon explained. Jack listened intently, but broke eye contact with Blackmon as he saw movement down by the nearby Colorado river. "Huh, I think I just figured out where those guys came from." Turning about, Blackmon noticed a trio of Type-07 IFVs driving out of the river onto the side opposite the trench. "Well I'll be damned, they've got an advance force landed in those neighborhoods across the river." Tony and Jon walked over at that moment, having been keeping an eye out for any additional enemies. Tony spoke up, "Yo, you guys seein' those PRA scouts over there I take it?" "Yeah, although it's hard to make out what they're doing. Tony, use your scope and see if you can see what's up," Blackmon instructed. "You got it, although they're at least 1200 meters away; no chance of me hitting them with just a 7.62 NATO," Tony replied as he deployed his Mk. 11's bipod and zoomed in through his telescopic scope. "Hmm...quite a few guys. Most of the houses look empty, although their guys are clearing them anyway. I see the three Type-07s that came out of the river...looks like those are the only vehicles over there. But man, they got a ton of infantry over there. At least a full company." "How'd they get that many guys over there?" Jack asked. "Helicopter most likely. They've got quite a few captured Sea Knight and Black Hawk transport choppers, that's how they secured the small border towns west of here," Blackmon answered. "Thankfully those guys they landed on this side of the river jumped the gun and tried to clear a trench with only three squads worth of guys. What were they thinking?" Jon asked. "They're not. Look at them, they're all dumb kids fresh out of high school," Blackmon said pointing to a young panther's corpse. Just then Lieutenant Sheppard exited his LAV and hopped into the trench with the other Marines. "Blackmon, what happened? Where'd these guys come from?" Sheppard asked. "The PRA got a scout force of airborne infantry in the cluster of houses across the river," he replied. "They got three Type-07s and about a company of ground pounders holding the area." Sheppard nodded. "Makes sense, I heard we knocked out a couple of their recon UAVs, and their satellite coverage of the area is poor due to the clouds. Well, we better report this to HQ so we can clear them out before they start directing artillery fire onto us. Hell, they're probably packing a few mortars themselves." Sheppard returned to the LAV and got on the radio to the American headquarters. It took two minutes before he was able to reach anyone above the rank of captain, and during that time the PRA fired a few howitzer shells at the American lines, and even sent a couple of Type-96s to probe the line for any weaknesses. A few high velocity sabot rounds from an M-1 Abrams sent them running though, and after that things became eerily quiet, for a brief time at least. Suddenly, Jon's radio began to crackle with a message. "Sir, I've a Colonel Olson on the line for you!" Jon said while waving the Lieutenant over. "Sheppard here, sir, go ahead." "Lieutenant, get your men ready to move out, we're falling back!" Olson shouted in a panic. "Say again sir?" "We're falling back god damn it! A PRA airstrike slipped in from the north and just knocked out our primary radio relay. All communications are reduced to local radio frequencies, we've got no contact with our HQ," Olson replied. "Understood sir, where are we falling back to?" "Just get moving and I'll tell you when to stop," Olson commanded. "I gotta finish rounding up my men here, and then we're pulling back. Over and out!" Sheppard looked around as the other units at this section of the line began packing up retreating. Tanks waited for infantry to pile onboard, and then slowly creeped down the streets past burning and collapsed buildings on Grand Junctions west side. "What kind of retreat is this, who's covering the rear to make sure the PRA don't steamroll us?" Sheppard asked aloud as he watched then entire line fall back in a mad dash for safety. "Shouldn't we be falling back too, sir?" Blackmon asked. "Might as well, no use dying in this hellhole," Sheppard wearily responded. "What unit's Olson with anyway?" Jack asked as he and the other Marines jogged back to Sheppard's LAV. "35th Infantry, I think. A lot of the PRA artillery fire landed north of us. Those National Guard guys must've really taken some hits if they're falling back now." "Didn't they just pull them up to the front to bolster the line thirty minutes ago?" Jack asked. "Yep." "Then who's moving up to replace them?" Blackmon paused as he realized there wasn't anyone left. "We don't have any more fresh troops left do we?" Jack asked solemnly. Blackmon shook his head as he climbed into the LAV. "It ain't over yet Jack, we just need to hang in there till we receive reinforcements from Denver. No offense, but I don't think you North Carolina guys did much to help us." "That's because most of us didn't make it off the damn plane," Jack growled. "Oh...right. I'm sorry man," Blackmon apologized as he remembered Jack's predicament. "We'll make up for that by guttin' us some commie SOBs, hooah?" "Oorah," Jack quipped with a smirk. As the LAV fell in line to retreat with a pair of Humvees, the dashboard radio came to life with a ecstatic cry for help. "Hello? HELLO!? Is anyone out there? Please, someone answer already!" Sheppard grabbed the mic and spoke back. "This is Lieutenant Sheppard, identify yourself." "Sergeant Curt Mathews, 15th Colorado Militia regiment! We just stumbled onto a pack of PRA troops making camp on the south side of the river. We're taking heavy fire, I got six men down and at least ten wounded!" "What's your location soldier, we'll come to you," Sheppard urgently inquired. "I don't know sir, it's a neighborhood near I-70 right next to the river. We got lost while trying to make it back to base and..." The radio suddenly went dead, replacing Mathews' voice with garbled static. "Sir, sounds like they ran into that advance unit Tony spotted across the river," Blackmon said as Sheppard stared at the radio in silence. "We don't know that for sure...but it's a good a guess as any," Sheppard remarked. "Driver, turn us around. We're heading for the river." "Yes sir, right away," the German Shepherd in the driver's seat remarked as he quickly turned the LAV down a side street and out of the convoy of retreating vehicles. "Attention all units, this is Lieutenant Sheppard. I'm diverting my LAV across the river to assist a stranded unit of Colorado militiamen. The rest of you keep going, we'll meet up with at the HQ after we've relieved our guys." Jack looked around at the other Marines in the back with him. In addition to Tony, Jon, and Blackmon, there were an additional two Marines who had piled inside the LAV before it departed. One was a tiger with the rank of staff sergeant, which was further evident due to the weathered look on his face. Clearly this man had seen his fair share of combat. The other Marine was a short gray fox who looked fresh out of basic training. He was only a private first class, and the twitching of his left leg showed his nerves had been thoroughly tested that day. "Soooo, we're taking on an entire company of PRA by ourselves?" Jack asked uneasily. "No, those militia guys will be there to help out too," Blackmon replied. "Bull-CRAP," Tony interrupted, "Have you seen the guys in that outfit? Half of them weren't issued proper gear and are wearing stuff they brought from home." "What about their weapons?" Jack asked. "Also brought from home. Half these guys are using civilian hunting rifles and AR-15s; they don't stand a chance against a modern army with fully automatic weapons and vehicle support." "You'd be surprised," Jon said. "I've heard plenty of traffic from squads of these guys coming back from a sneak attack. They knocked out quite a few tanks with their hunter-killer squads." "Yeah but they're all out of anti-tank rounds now, and no way to resupply," Blackmon countered. "That's why it's important we get these guys out of there and back home safely." At that moment the LAV plunged over the shore and into the water. Jack was startled at first, as he forgot the LAV was amphibious and could float. The LAV gunner, a silverpoint tabby, was already busy scoping out targets for the LAV's 25mm Bushmaster chaingun and coaxially mounted M-240B 7.62mm light machinegun. The Bushmaster was capable of punching through the walls of a house, and more importantly the light armored hulls of the three Type-07 APCs the PRA had brought with them. "Contact, troops dead ahead! Three hundred meters!" the gunner sounded off as he watched the PRA troops spring into action to deal with the lone IFV coming to attack them. "Deploy smoke," Sheppard ordered. With that, the gunner fired a volley of six smoke grenades from the turret's side mounted launchers. In seconds a half dozen white columns of smoke shrouded the LAV from view as it pulled onto the shoreline. Activating his gunsight's thermal imaging, the gunner was able to spot the glowing white heat signatures of PRA infantry as they scrambled for cover in buildings and behind parked cars. "Sir, permission to engage?" "Granted. Don't worry about collateral damage, just clear the area," Sheppard replied. "Driver, hold up for second and let our guys disembark." With that, the LAV stopped and Blackmon opened the rear hatch, jumping out as he did. Jack and the others quickly followed. The tiger took command and led the way to the nearest house as the LAV began opening fire with a salvo of 25mm cannon shells and several long bursts from the M-240. "Everyone on me! Move up!" the tiger yelled over the hail of gunfire. Jack sprinted to the tiger's position. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see over a dozen orange and yellow muzzle flashes as the PRA infantry hiding in various houses returned fire at the LAV. Most of them hadn't noticed Jack and his squad sneak away, as the smoke was still hanging in the air. Almost all of the houses were single story abodes with lawns and two car garages; a typical slice of suburbia. Once the Marines had grouped up behind the house, the tiger began giving orders. "Alright, we're gonna clear these houses one by one. Blackmon, you and Campbell are on point. Wells, and I are rear guards. Duval, when we clear this house get perched on the roof and start picking this bastards off, got it?" "Got it," Tony replied as he readied his Mk.11. Blackmon tapped Jack on the shoulder and asked, "They teach you how to clear houses in basic?" "No, but I've seen enough episodes of Cops to get the idea of how it's done," Jack replied with deadpan seriousness. Blackmon smirked. He liked a guy who wasn't afraid to joke in the middle of a firefight. "Good enough, just make sure you don't shoot one of our guys or a civilian. Remember, we don't know where those militia guys are." "That's right," the tiger said, "Everyone check your targets before engaging. Now let's move, stack up on the rear door!" The group followed the tiger into position and positioned themselves on the sides of the doorway. Checking the door, they found it was unlocked. The tiger nodded to Blackmon, who hastily swung the door open and charged in, with Jack following close behind him. A quick sweep of the house revealed it to be empty, allowing Tony to scale a side gutter and lift himself onto the roof. Using the roof's slope for cover, he lay prone atop the house and set up his rifle as the rest of his squad moved on to the next house. "Yo Lieutenant, I'm setting up camp on top of a house over here, so make sure you don't tag me by mistake," Tony called over his radio. "Understood, we see you," Sheppard replied. Blackmon and the others moved on to the next house, stacking up like last time and preparing to barge in. Jack checked his M-4 and made sure it was set for fully automatic fire, and then looked up to meet Blackmon's eyes. Blackmon nodded and proceeded to kick the door in, followed by Jack who turned the corner and rushed into the house. "CONTACT!" Jack was greeted by the sight of a panicked PRA soldier looking out a window on the opposite side of the house. Before the soldier could turn around and raise his rifle Jack let out a five round burst into the man's center of mass. The window shattered and a spatter of blood smeared the wall as the now dead soldier collapsed in a heap on the floor. To his left Jack heard Blackmon's M6 going off. Whipping his weapon to the left, Jack saw that Blackmon had finished off an additional two enemies who now lay dead on the floor. The tiger and gray fox headed were now inside as well and helped sweep the remaining rooms. "Clear!" the tiger stated. "Let's keep moving, we'll have this area sweeped in no time." As Jack and the Marines pressed on, Sheppard ordered the LAV to move down the street to continue to draw enemy fire. As they slowly moved along, a pack of PRA troops suddenly rounded the corner of a house before promptly turning about and trying to run away. The LAV's gunner immediately opened fire with his coax machinegun, managing to down nearly half of the squad before the leapt inside a house through its glass patio doors. Switching to his 25mm cannon, the gunner laid ten shells into the house, igniting the gas main and blowing up the hot water heater in the process. Smoke and flames poured from the now ruined house as a section of the roof collapsed. "Hey Blackmon, I just cleared a house for yah," the gunner joked over the radio. "Much obliged Taggart, keep up the pressure," Blackmon replied before kicking in yet another door and coming face to face with four PRA soldiers readying a Chinese made Queen Bee 120mm anti-tank rocket launcher. Jack and Blackmon both emptied their magazines in a panicked rush, when suddenly a coyote armed with a QBZ-95 rushed out of the kitchen opened fire. Blackmon caught a round to his chest and fell to the floor, leaving the Marine tiger behind him exposed. Before the tiger could so much as react, the coyote readjusted and placed a round between the big cat's eyes. Jack had been frantically trying to reload, but his mind realized there was no time left. Chucking his M-4 towards the coyote, he managed to throw the man's aim off long enough to rush up and knock his QBZ to the side. Jack threw his head forward and slammed the coyote in the face, knocking him back as they grappled to floor. The coyote threw a left hook and caught Jack in the cheek, but he managed to shrug the blow off and followed up with a jab to the coyote's throat, crushing the man's larynx with a sickening crack that left him gagging in desperation. The coyote threw his paws to his own throat and desperately tried to open his windpipe. Jack quickly drew his knife and jabbed the blade through the coyote's left eye socket, stabbing the man through the occipital lobe of his brain and ending his life in an instant. Taking a breath, Jack looked around to make sure no other enemies were about. There were none. Retrieving his knife, he wiped the blade clean on the coyote's sleeves and sheathed it. Behind him Blackmon was staggering to his feet, his body armor having stopped the round from giving him a sucking chest wound. The tiger behind him wasn't so lucky. Jack picked up his M-4 and finished reloading it before rejoining the other Marines. "Damn it, what now?" asked Jon. "Lieutenant, we just lost the Sarge," Blackmon reported as he stared mournfully at the tiger's body. "Affirmative," he solemnly replied. "I just contacted Major Patterson, he's diverting his retreating units down here but they've only got two LAVs to cross the river with." "It's better than nothing sir," Blackmon said before he heard a shout from outside. "HOLD FIRE! Friendlies at your six!" The Marines looked out the door to find a young ferret dressed mud stained khaki cargo pants and a woodland camo ski jacket. The ferret held a Saiga AK-47 with a black composite stock, and also had a Remington 870 shotgun slung across his back. "Are you the guys Corporal Yeager talked to on the radio?" the ferret asked. "Depends, are you the stranded Colorado militia?" Jon asked. "That's us. Follow me, we've regrouped in the next line of houses one street over." As Jack and the Marines followed the ferret to the remaining militiamen, Jon reported to Sheppard that they had made contact with friendly forces. Sheppard ordered his driver to take the LAV over to the militia camp, when an anti-tank rocket sailed overhead and detonated against a nearby house. "Holy shit!" Sheppard cursed. "Back back, get us out of here!" Another missile flew forth, this one striking the front of the LAV and detonating a portion of its reactive armor, which is designed to explode upon impact and thus cancel out the blast of the incoming rocket. Sheppard's head knocked against the inner hull of the LAV as the blast shook the whole vehicle. "Gunner, shoot those fuckers before they punch another hole in us!" Sheppard shouted over the engine reviving to the top of its reverse gear. The gunner panic fired several cannon shells into a trio of houses, unable to see where the rocket fire was coming from and simply hoping he hit an enemy out of pure luck. He paused a second, scanning the row of houses through his thermal gunsight looking for heat signatures in the windows. And then he saw them, a pair of white glowing figures holding a glowing hot tube standing inside an open garage. Before they could let loose another rocket the gunner fired, sending off three 25mm shells followed by a fifty round burst of 7.62mm rounds. The garage burst into flames as the Ford parked inside ignited along with the stockpile of over a dozen 120mm Queen Bee rockets. "That's one AT squad down," the gunner reported. "Good, now get us over to Blackmon and the militia so we can properly clear the rest of these guys out," Sheppard said, breathing a sigh of relief as they turned onto a side street devoid of enemies.
Four Miles North of Jack and Blackmon's Location Colonel Miguel Olson rarely panicked. During ROTC at his university his instructors praised him for keeping cool under pressure and showing good discipline throughout his four years of training. In the early days of his career he'd led his men through an urban ambush during the NATO intervention in Egypt at the time of its brutal civil war. Olson's adept leadership had gotten him promoted quickly, and after only ten years of service he had attained the rank of Major and was in command of his own infantry battalion. Then, Crimson Friday hit. The day Chinese military forces assisted in the coup de tat that led to the formation of the PRA and the western half of World War III. With nearly twenty percent of the current military dead, defecting, or forced into cooperating with the PRA, the U.S. Army needed to quickly replace the experienced leaders it had lost. Olson was a perfect candidate for such a replacement and was promptly advanced to Colonel. However, despite so many years of calm, disciplined service, Olson was on the verge of a stroke as he rushed his men to finish disassembling their forward operating base and begin the retreat east. "God damn it people, we've got fifteen minutes before the PRA's next wave hits us!" he shouted across his command tent as nearly thirty technicians and staff personnel rushed to finish packing maps, computers, projectors, and tables. "I want this tent empty in the next five minutes, no excuses!" "Colonel," an otter private said as he wandered into the tent, "I've got a message from..." "Who let you in here?! Why aren't you packing this crap up?" Olson fired back. "Sir, I have an urgent message from Major Patterson's unit," the private repeated. "Then what the hell are you waiting to tell me for?" Olson asked as he watched a fox wheel a crate of laptops past him. "They said they've spotted enemy forward observers in a cluster of houses south of us, they want to know if we can provide mortar support while they assault them," the otter explained. "Is he crazy or just a bad listener? I told that moron to retreat east, not waste time attacking enemy scouts. He's gonna get cut off, fuck!" Olson swore. "What's the status on our communications network? We got the radios working yet?" "I...I don't know sir," the otter replied. "That's not my department, I'm just a runner." "Not you idiot! Lieutenant! Damn it solider, I asked you a question, what's the status on our..." Just then an explosion rocked the tent, causing the occupants to erupt in panic and drop whatever they were carrying. "Jesus Christ, that's live artillery fire!" Olson shouted. "Everybody out! Get to the trucks and whatever vehicles we have left, we're getting out of here!" "What about all this leftover intel sir? We can't let the enemy get their hands of this stuff!" a technician cried out. "Grab one of the fuel trucks and burn this whole fuckin' place down, NOW!" Olson roared before heading outside only to be knocked on his chest as all hell broke loose. The primary bombardment had begun, with nearly three shells falling every second. A pair of Humvees were blown to smithereens, while a M1 tank took a shell to its engine block and skidded to a halt before catching fire. Olson felt a paw grip him by the collar of his uniform as he was dragged into a waiting M3 Bradley. "The Colonel's on board! Punch it!" yelled Olson's savior as he closed the rear door and took a seat on the already crowded bench in the passenger compartment. Olson shook his head as he tried to clear the ringing from his vulpine ears. Being a fennec fox, he had fairly large ones, and at the moment both were screaming in pain. "Colonel," the Bradley's commander said through steel grate that separated the crew and passenger compartments, "Where are we headed?" "St. Mary's hospital, we'll hook up with Colonel Vanderbilt's men and use his command post," Olson replied while breathing a sigh of relief as he felt the Bradley accelerate down the road. "Roger that sir. Also, your men want to know where to rally, you never gave a location after your retreat order," the commander said. "Tell them to meet us at St. Mary's, we need all the men we can get ther-" Olson was cut off as a burst of fire poured through the grate and vaporized him, along with everyone else inside the Bradley. Overhead, a lone J-11 fighter reported a kill to a PRA scout perched on a nearby mountainside who watched in amusement as the Bradley bellowed smoke into the evening sky.
NOTE: This is a revised chapter. The chapters beyond this one have yet to be redone, and therefore their plots may not properly coincide with the plot listed here.