Sci-Fi War Story - Working Title: Chicks & Steak

Here's what work I've done on my sci-fi war story! Enjoy!

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Prologue - 2541 AD

The Planet Earth had come to a relative peace by the Twenty-sixth century. Terrorist threats had been eliminated completely, it was thought, through hard efforts from many countries. Trade was plentiful, and every country had what it needed. No one was homeless, for if there was no room on Earth, there was plenty of room on Mars and the space stations circling Jupiter and Saturn. But it all changed just a few years later. The German military had been contacted by an unknown source. The letter in the envelope stated that a terrorist outpost had been spotted in Africa, containing several hundred terrorists whom were heavily armed. The location was enclosed. Germany, intent on being the first to wipe out the terrorist threat before anyone could find out that they had missed one, mounted the assault as quickly as possible. The plan was to avoid any ground combat, and burn the outpost to the ground with incendiary bombs. On October 21, 2541, the German air fighters and heavy bombers were launched, laden with enough bombs and ammunition to set the entire continent ablaze.

The planes arrived in South Africa like a cloud of locusts ready to devour the terrorist outpost as if it were a field of wheat. As soon as they were in range, they riddled the building with energy-encased bullets, a new technology of the time. Surprisingly, there was no return fire, but the pilots leading the assault stated that they were probably taken unawares and could not return fire under the hail of burning lead. The bombers flew over the outpost, dropping all incendiary bombs directly on top of the building. The building was burned down and destroyed within minutes, the burning liquids and intense flames consuming its remains. The Germans left the scene as quickly as possible, thinking themselves victorious.

But when the fighter pilots returned, the Germans had received word from the American government that they had lost contact from one of their embassies...in South Africa. Eyewitnesses to the attack had told them that it was the German air fighters that had destroyed the building. The Germans sent a reply back, saying that they had not done anything in the recent weeks regarding planes. The Americans, heated by the loss of the embassy, blamed the Germans, and declared war. War had not been seen on the surface of the Earth since the Twenty-second century, not including recent efforts to destroy terrorism. Nonetheless, war came swiftly. American warships and aircraft carriers crossed the Atlantic and appeared on the horizon on December 7, and began knocking down walls of the cities on the coast with their heavy artillery. Allies of the Germans were pulled into the war, as were the allies of the Americans, and it became a full blown World War Three.

The colonies on Mars watched the war from space, and had already divided their races into sectors, for example, the American sector, the German sector, etcetera. One day, watching from space, the Earth seemed to explode, the flash of a nuclear weapon effectively wiping Japan from the face of the Earth. The following day, a stockpile of nuclear bombs malfunctioned in Australia, destroying everyone and everything on the continent. Allies of the lost Australians sought revenge, and saboteurs from China were accused. The war was costing the Earth much, for each side had powerful weapons on their sides, and the nuclear weaponry was having negative effects on the atmosphere and ecosystem. Mars and the space stations around Jupiter and Saturn seemed to be the only places of solitude, but it was not so forever. Soon the strife began there as well, since one of the space stations drifted into the asteroid field. Others blamed others for saboteur, and so on.

The war continues still, allies ganging up upon allies, obliterating countries and mountains. A map of the Earth has changed drastically, the polar caps melting quicker due to the nuclear energy, islands disappearing under the water, and other places being obliterated by bombs and bullets. Soon the supply of nuclear bombs ran out, and more needed to be made. Most bomb-making facilities were shut down for fear of being raided or destroyed. Now men rely on the plasma bullets and their own skills, on both sides. The wars rage all over the solar system, even out past Pluto...

thats kickass! You could start a strategy game based on one of the sdtations, where you chose a country and fight for them, building up a gang. Or you could finish the story, both would be good!

Thanks Trickster! I'll finish the story. It'll take awhile though, I've got big plans... 😎

Re-recruited - 3264 AD; 1700 hours

Circling the gas giant of Neptune, among the 26 moons and near the largest, the Orbital Space Station Poseidon floated in space, hundreds of humans living aboard the circular craft. The glow of blue lights would only be seen as a sparkle of light from Earth, even with the most powerful telescope. Guns were set up at intervals, in case the opposing side of the war attacked. The Poseidon was sided with the Allied Forces, though which countries it had consisted of had been long forgotten. The continents were sinking below the water slightly, and most boundaries and border lines had been utterly forgotten, women and children living in bomb shelters while all men deemed old enough to join the army were in the army. The opposing side was the Ares League, who lived in the same style as the Allies, and even used the same weaponry, though slightly altered.

But on this particular day, a message had been sent from Earth to the moon of Neptune known as Triton, the largest rock orbiting the blue marble. A small scouting ship was sent from the hangars to relay the message to whom it was sent. The recipient was a young man named Anthony Flintlock, a young man who had very little experience in combat when war came to Mimas, a moon of Saturn. The battle had been lost by the Allies, and he planned to spend the rest of his life aboard the Poseidon with an average life as a cook.

“Access code,” the control tower crew requested through the communications system of the small ship. The pilot punched a few buttons, giving the required access code to land in the hangar. “Landing request granted. Where are you traveling from?”

“The Triton Communications Outpost,” the pilot replied, using his headset. “I am relaying a message to Anthony Flintlock.”

“Land in Bay Four,” the control tower told him, and the pilot nodded as if they could see him. He halted the one-man ship at the large, metal, sliding door marked with a large number four. The thrusters on the sides of the ship spun to face the door, and sent out a burst of green flame, steadying the ship. The pilot waited patiently while the doors opened with a rusty grind, and flew through the crack. He set the small ship down, a flight control unit directing him to the designated area of the hangar.

“Welcome aboard the OSS Poseidon,” the flight control unit said to the pilot. “Enjoy your stay.” The pilot rolled his eyes, knowing he’d only stay on the station for a few minutes. While the station itself was cold, made out of metal and floating in space, it could not have been colder than the surface of Triton. He walked through the circular hallways until he reached Anthony Flintlock‘s apartment. The door was on the ceiling, the gravity generators beneath the floors enabling him to walk up the wall to get to it. He pushed a button next to the door, a door alarm buzzing inside the room. The door opened to reveal a young man.

“Are you Anthony Flintlock?” the pilot asked.

“That I am, can I help you?” the young man replied.

“Yes, I was looking for you. I am from the Triton Communications Outpost, and I have a message from the military for you.” Anthony looked let down and grudgingly said his thanks as he took the message. The pilot walked back down the wall as the door slid closed with a hiss.

“I was hoping to leave that career behind me...” Anthony thought aloud as he tore open the envelope. Anthony was somewhat small, both in height and in build. His muscles were knotty and stringy, but they were hidden beneath his dark blue woolen sweater, which he wore constantly. Like most people on the space station, he was pale, his skin deprived of sunlight as the sun was 4,504,000,000 kilometers away from Neptune. But he was tanner than the others, though not by much. He had been born in California, on the Earth, which had been mostly untouched by the war until citizens was forced to quarter soldiers. His father had been killed in a small battle on Earth, in what was left of Europe, his jetfighter gunned down by the Powers’ anti-aircraft cannons, and his mother died shortly afterward when a hospital on Mars was knocked down by the raging storm winds. Because the constant warring had cost his parents their lives, he tried to stay out of the conflict, which is what brought him to the OSS Poseidon. He squinted in the dim blue light of his room at the small type, Neptune filling up his room’s view ports.

October 25, 3264
Allied Forces Military Base

Dear Anthony Flintlock,

You are one of 1000 men receiving a letter like this, though you are considerably further away than most of the others. Your efforts at the Attack in the Herschel were appreciated. The amount of men supporting the war effort is decreasing, due to deaths and men like yourself leaving the military. We are requesting that you put those skills to use again. Please reply if you plan on doing so. The Allies need you.

~General Alben Choi, Allied Forces Military

Anthony sighed as he closed the letter. He sat in thought for a moment, his mind tossing about the debating idea of rejoining the military. The Battle of the Herschel on Mimas had been gruesome, and the fact that his platoon had been so easily massacred was not a wonderful picture in his mind. When he had first arrived at the moon, he had been gazing at the golden clouds of Saturn, the massive rings so close he thought he could have touched them. But as he turned his gaze to the icy moon, he marveled at the size of the Herschel, a gargantuan crater on the surface that took up one-third of Mimas. The crater spanned a good 130 kilometers at its widest point, and was five to ten kilometers deep. The central peak made the crater seem as if it were an eye with which the moon could see the galaxy around it. It was at the foot of the central peak that the Allies had set up an outpost, to keep the League's actions around Saturn in check.

The outpost was built partially into the rock, a section of the hallways giving way to caverns. The crust of Mimas consisted of mainly water ice and partial rock, so it was needless to say that the stay in the Herschel outpost would be harsh. His bunk was small, and he needed to bend his legs to be able to fit on the filthy mattress. The cramped quarters were shared with three other soldiers, each equally as cold and hungry as he. Private Flintlock sat crouched on his bunk a majority of the time, reading books and competing in poker matches with his fellow soldiers. He couldn‘t complain about his life there, despite the frigid conditions and the lack of good gravity. Since the outpost had been built quickly, the Allies used a standard gravity generator than provided gravity for the entire base, rather than put gravity generators under every floor panel and give the soldiers gravity boots. The demand simply was not there until too late.

As far as the clocks were concerned, it had been early in the morning on a day in June when the attack came. The soldiers had gathered in the mess hall to get their grub and feed themselves as fast or as slow as they saw fit. The breakfast consisted of runny eggs and grits, which Anthony had somewhat enjoyed, putting a small amount of sugar on the grits and rubbing his toast in the eggs. Suddenly, the gravity generator, which had been faulty to begin with, gave out. The runny eggs began floating, and everyone was laughing as they collided with the soldier sitting across the table from Anthony. But the laughter stopped as abruptly as it had begun, as there was a loud explosion and bullets streamed in through the walls. Men cried out as the bullets passed through their bodies. The outpost’s cook took refuge inside a cupboard, but the thin metal sides did little to save him. The League’s starfighters had found their outpost and had attacked them as quickly as possible. The red energy wrapped around the bullets that were punching through the walls signified that.

“Private Flintlock, get your gun!” one of his roommates hollered, racing for the room as quickly as he could in the low gravity. Anthony bounded after him, almost in slow motion, his strides achieving little distance. Luckily, there was a break in the attack, giving him enough time to get to his room without getting shot. Unfortunately, it was because the bombers had arrived. Anthony kicked open the door and grabbed his Colt .45. He rummaged through his drawers for a few clips of ammunition and the battery packs that would change the bullets into what was called burning lead. He got out of the room, just as bomb crashed through the ceiling and hit the floor very close to him, throwing him a few feet down the hallway and killing his roommates. The wall he hit bent from the force of the impact, and he slumped to the ground. Still conscious, he crawled to one of the doors leading outside. He grabbed a breath mask and stepped out in the cold air of Mimas. On the corner of the walkway, a soldier fired off a light turret, hitting an aircraft’s wing. It collided with the central peak above them, the scorched metal falling downwards and clanking loudly with the walkway. Anthony kept moving, towards the armory, as a missile collided with the turret. The blast knocked him off of the walkway, and he clenched at the guard rail. He began to hoist himself up, but a bullet passed through his arm.

Re-recruited - Continued

His body cracked the thin layer of ice when it hit the ground, a few dozen chunks the size of marbles floating up into the air and dropping back down onto him. He had quickly swiped them off with his good arm, and hoisted himself up a ladder. The ascent seemed to take agonizing hours, bullets hitting the walls next to him, small reddish explosions erupting from the bullet holes, sparks leaping out by the hundreds, as the energy encasing the bullets reacted to the metal walls of the outpost. His left forearm had a neatly singed hole through it, and though it had not been completely useless in pulling himself up the ladder, it had pained him greatly. Eventually, after leaping over bullets and rushing past wounded soldiers, he reached the armory. A few soldiers were already there, grabbing heavy guns and as many clips as they could fit in their pockets. He closed the air lock behind him and grabbed a bulky assault rifle and got in a space suit, while a soldier next to him grabbed two pistols that slightly resembled .50 AE Desert Eagles. Another grabbed a submachine gun and a large amount of packs. A leading officer, a large black man with a clean shaven head and holding two descendents of the HK MP5, called their attention to a door that led out the back way and into the small man-made cavern, created as an escape route.

“Listen up! This is our one way out! Grab some food supplies and as many guns and as much ammo as you can shove in your pockets. I want to see those pockets bursting with bullets!” the officer yelled. “Once we get into the caverns, we are not turning back. We’ll take the branch off to the hangar and take a transport, and get off this frozen rock. It is likely that the Ares soldiers have infiltrated the area already, so guns will be used. Is that clear?”

“Sir, yes sir!” the soldiers yelled in unison, and they went back to grabbing supplies. Private Flintlock remembered looking over the vast amount of guns and thinking ‘What could it hurt to have a ton of guns?’ He grabbed more guns, including another ten Colt .45 clips and a few clips for his assault rifle. Shortly after, the soldiers had walked into the freezing cave, thankful that their pressurized space suits had a slight amount of heating. Anthony was thankful that they did not have the large round helmets as the astronauts of the Twentieth century had. Instead they wore close fitting metal helmets that were attached to the leather that covered their heads. Wide goggles allowed them a wide range of vision, and a breath mask allowed him to breath on Mimas without an atmosphere.

After nearly half an hour of walking through the twisting caves, they reached the door to the hangar. It was oddly quiet, not a sound other than the shuffling of feet on icy rocks.

“Okay, we’re going to head in, get ready to shoot anything that moves to shoot you,” the officer ordered, cocking his gun. “Ready?” He waited a few moments before kicking down the door and yelling for them to charge in. He rushed in, but he did not fire a shot. There was no one to shoot. Everyone stumbled in behind him, their legs becoming numb with cold. The scene that they had beheld would scar their minds and appear in their dreams for the rest of their lives, with a bitter comfort that they had not been there to witness it and join their friends on the floor. Pools of blood were everywhere, freezing solid as the cold reached it. Men had been blown to pieces, lying on the edges of bomb craters, cold dead hands still clutching shattered guns. The only survivor was dying, ripped in half by an incendiary bomb and severely burned. He muttered incoherent curses and fired his pistol at the air, his mind failing to comprehend what had happened to him, stuck in the illusion of battle. He had gone crazy. He was but one of the scorched and bullet-riddled bodies that filled the hangar, though he was the worst, for he was still alive. Quite a few of the men became sick to the stomach, hurling their runny eggs and grits on the floor, adding to the tangled mess of frozen blood and mangled corpses.

“Look!” one of the soldiers called out. They followed his gaze to the last remaining Allied transport that was in one piece, though riddled with bullets. Around it was a ring of men, all cut down before they could reach the hatch. Next to it was a Ares League starfighter, the wings torn off and a violent flame licking at the hull from the inside. One top of the transport stood a man, waving to them, who had obviously armed the turret atop the ship. The soldiers solemnly marched around the deceased men and made their way to the ship. Private Flintlock had barfed numerous times. But, when he was resting his hands on his knees, he opened his eyes briefly. Down in a blast crater, at the bottom, was one of his friends among five others, slumped together. Next to his friend was a bazooka, recently used. The officer leading the group came up behind him.

“They must have taken refuge in the hole,” he noted. “I think it is safe to say that it was the guy with the bazooka that took down that fighter.” At that, Anthony had rushed into the steaming pit. He checked to see if his friend was still alive, though he knew it was in vain. He had taken a bullet to the head. At least death was swift... he thought. Then he noticed a half burned poker card clutched in the man’s hand. He took it and tucked it into his shirt pocket before climbing out and getting in the ship.

When they were all aboard the transport, it took off, heading away from the battle-scarred Herschel. He got one last glimpse of Mimas as the ship sped away at high speeds. When he had first seen it, he had thought of it as an eye watching the galaxy around it. Now the Herschel seemed more like a large bomb crater or bullet hole.

Anthony rubbed his eyes and massaged his temples, as if he was trying to wipe away the memory of the Attack in the Herschel. Only one-eighth of the men stationed at the Herschel had survived the attack, namely the group he had gone with into the caverns. It had not simply been an attack made by the Ares League; it had been a massacre. But his thoughts went back to the men. The men who had died believing that they might have been able to end the war through sheer strength. To his friend, who had shot down the starfighter in a last attempt to fight back those who opposed them.

At this, he came up with a decision.

He’d rejoin the army.

Good work so far!

THIS IS GREAT!

Thanks! 😄

Now that I have 2 weeks off from school, I'll probably proceed with more work, and eventually another battle! There'll be a few before the story is over.

Wow, I haven't updated this? What's wrong with me?!

I've got tons more to post. ✅

The Drafted Ones - 3265 AD; 0700 hours

It was now January, and Anthony had been picked up by a shuttle at the OSS Poseidon’s docking bays and taken further into the Solar System. The stars streaked by as the shuttle traveled to the root of mankind’s existence, Earth. Specifically, they were headed for an island called Hawaii. The chain of islands was mostly untouched by the war, and only one small skirmish had occurred there, involving a spy from the Ares League and a few trigger-happy Allies’ weapons specialists. He was going to be stationed on the military base on the main island. The shuttle flew down through the atmosphere, which had become thinner because of the nuclear bombing, and headed for the biggest island.

“We’ve arrived, Private Flintlock,” the pilot announced. “Prepare to disembark.”

“Thank you, pilot,” he said solemnly, grabbing his duffel bag and suitcase. He made his way down the isle of seats and to the door. He took a large step out of the small doorway and into the dim sunlight. Trees were everywhere, quite different from the rest of the world, which was seared and barren in most places.

A man was there to greet him. He was dressed in a smart, tan brown military uniform, with many patches and medals hanging from his pockets. He had a black leather gun belt on, clips held in place with tiny straps and the holster filled with a polished pistol. His hair was slicked back and graying. A large, bristly mustache protruded from under his large nose, which was slightly scarred.

“I’m General Alben Choi,” the man said, extending his hand. “Welcome to the Hawaii Military Base.”

“Thank you, General...” Anthony replied, taking his hand while still looking around mindlessly. “I’ve never been here before...”

“You should see the postcard collection that General Richard Cook has. The images of good ole Hawaii that you’ll see from the Twentieth to Twenty-Fifth century are extraordinary.” General Choi then nodded in the direction of a small young man that had followed him to the landing pad, a boy no older than sixteen, with a pimply face and brown hair. “Private Ulysses, will you help carry Private Flintlock’s baggage to his quarters? He’ll be bunking in half-barrack two.”

“Yessir!” Private Ulysses saluted the General and, after pushing his round glasses back up to the bridge of the nose, he took up the duffel bag. They began walking past a row of squat barracks, some with metal roofing and some with tarps draped across the gaping holes made by mortars. A few men gave him passing glances but, as Anthony had hoped, nobody snickered at him. They thought the neon blue duffel bag belonged to Private Ulysses.

“Here ya go, Flintlock!” Private Ulysses muttered, tossing the duffel bag on a bunk, having reached a very small barrack that was nearly half the size of the others in length and height. “You get to sleep under me, since it’s the only available bunk.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Private Bryan Ulysses.”

“Nice to make your acquaintance,” Anthony said half-heartedly as he shook the young man’s hand. He looked around the barrack, the only light provided by the blinding light emanating from a few barred windows. The walls seemed to be thicker than the rest of the barracks, and there were no holes. “So...how long have you been stationed here? Seen any action?”

“Nah, there’s nothing going on here,” Bryan replied. “I’ve been here for weeks and nothing’s happened. I just joined the military.”

“Good.” Anthony set down his suitcase and began putting some of his things on the bed stand. He kept his stuff in his bags. “I plan on avoiding combat.”

“Why? It’s gotta be better than sitting on our asses around here!” Private Ulysses called out, astounded. “All we do is play card games and have some target practice and sleep!”

“Would you rather be shot and watch your friends be blown to pieces?” Anthony asked, turning to the boy. “Have you ever heard of the Attack in the Herschel? I was there. It was a massacre. Nearly everyone on our side died.” Private Ulysses said nothing, thinking about it for a moment, letting images of dying friends register in his mind. Without a word, he walked out of the barrack, leaving Anthony to sleep on his bunk.

Anthony sat in thought, and pulled out his diary. Too late to back out now, he wrote. Good thing I have been stationed here on Hawaii, though. I expect little action at all, other than telling my tale about the Herschel to those who ask and the racket caused by target practice. Being close to the legendary Pearl Harbor is a bit...unnerving. Oh well, maybe the locals can teach me the lost art of surfing...

He wrote a few more lines before closing the leather-bound tome and cramming it back in his suitcase. Sleep came easily and quickly, for he had been unable to sleep aboard the frigid shuttle that brought him here, and the air was warm. The bunk was comfortable, and the sands of sleep came to him. The Greek god Morpheus paid no visits, for his mind was blank and dreamless.

“Private Flintlock, wake up. The General wants you to do some target practice and meet the others in our barrack.” Private Ulysses nudged him a few times with the butt of a rifle. This caused an unexpected reaction from Anthony, who pulled a pistol to Bryan’s head with lightning speed. Seeing that it was merely his fellow soldier, Anthony relaxed. He had done some reflex training after the Herschel while he was still in the military, shortly before dropping out. Being caught off guard was something he never wanted to happen again.

“Sorry about that, I’m a bit...um...jumpy at times,” Anthony apologized, putting away his pistol.

“I can tell!” Bryan’s voice was high-pitched and squeaky, the adrenaline rush beginning to wear off.

“So General Choi wants me to meet the others?” Anthony asked, just to get Bryan’s mind back on what he had come to do.

“Right! They’re all on the target range. I’ll take you there.” They left the barracks together, walking some ways away from them to a clearing in the palm trees. Titanium steel flooring had been placed down, since the terrain was rocky and would put holes in the soldiers’ boots.

“Hey, it’s that guy that just rejoined,” called out one of the soldiers. His hair was red and he had a goatee, wearing a tank top like most of the other soldiers. He was resting his weight on a large assault rifle, leaning to the right, one hand extending towards Anthony as the two men walked onto the flooring. “I’m Shamus Abercrombie.” Anthony took his hand, not saying anything. Others began walking his way, also shaking his hand and saying their names. When they had all shook his hand at least once, except for a tall German fellow, they got back to the target practice, firing the rifles at small targets a few dozen yards away. The battery packs had been removed to prevent the bullets from being energized, the wads of lead staying in the targets or hitting the palm trees rather than going through them. Shamus boasted that he had ordered some special energy packs to make the energy bullets green.

“He’s Irish,” Private Ulysses whispered to Anthony before taking aim and firing a burst at one of the larger targets. His glasses slid off his nose as the recoil shook him, and he reached up to push them back on again. “I’m going to get contacts, these glasses are getting on my nerves...” Blam! Blam! Two bullets went soaring and collided with a tree, feet away from the target.

“Here, let me see it,” Anthony said, taking the gun from Bryan. He took aim and squeezed the trigger, emptying the clip. All of the bullets hit bull’s-eye, leaving a large hole in the target. The other soldiers tried to mimic this action, but failed miserably.

“You really do have some experience!” Shamus hollered over to Anthony. “Bryan told us you had been at the Herschel. Gruesome battle that was...” A few men agreed with him between their bursts of fire.

“Thanks,” Anthony replied simply. “It’s just luck...”

“You’ve got to have some experience to do that though!” Shamus told him, pointing to the splintered target. He sat down on a stool near Anthony. “So, what was the Herschel like? I’ve never met a survivor of that battle.”

“That’s because most of them were killed in combat later,” muttered a man nearby. “Private Flintlock here left the army, so he wasn‘t killed.” The man was very grim looking, yet muscular. His clothes were covered in grease, as if he had been working on machinery, and his hair was similarly greasy and black. He was reloading his rifle, his large hands fumbling with the clip. Anthony had yet to meet him, but now he unsure if he wanted to or not.

“Just ignore him. His name’s Adolph Rowley, he’s a private too. He did the exact same thing as you, but he’s pretty nasty about things. He was in a big battle that the Ares League won.”

“Where at?”

“Antarctica. The conditions were nasty.”

The Drafted Ones - Continued

“They were nasty,” Adolph said, barely audible. “We only won because the League retreated. By then I had been shot three times in the right leg, once in the left, and my right hand had frost bite. The doctors couldn’t save it.” The grim German soldier fired two more bullets into a target with his assault rifle, then reloaded. While he reloaded, Anthony’s gaze drifted from the man’s bleak face to his right hand. Rather than the pale flesh that covered the rest of him, there was a black leather gauntlet. A rectangular metal plate was drilled into the back of it, a sure sign that he had replaced his frozen hand with a prosthetic. Prosthetics were expensive, but if you were a soldier, it seemed better to have a mechanical hand rather than a stub.

Adolph said no more, so Anthony tried to become more acquainted with the other soldiers. Most of them were privates and eager to ask about the Herschel, with questions such as “How many were killed?”, “How did you escape?” and “Wasn’t it cold there?”. Those that had already had combat experience steered clear of the topic, for which he was thankful.

Specialist Charles Rayner acted friendly when they first began to talk. Charlie had been fighting in what was left of New York City, fighting off the League’s forces. He specialized in explosives, and proudly stated that he would be leading the explosives practice later.

“If you’d like to attend, you’d be most welcome,” Charlie stated cheerfully with a grin, then drilled his target full of bullets.

The next man to become acquainted with was Private First Class Roger Anderson, a talented sniper. He had put down the assault rifle and grabbed a EBSR3260 Sniper Rifle. Anderson had seen combat among the giant redwoods of California, using sniper roosts to pinpoint ground troops and blow them apart.

“I’m just now getting used to the EBSR, here,” Roger told him, tapping the gun. The barrel was long, and ended a cylinder, which was used to keep the bullet going straight. The sight strapped on top was aided by a computer telling the user how far to the target and how much ammunition was left in the drum round that fed bullets into the EBSR3260. Private First Class Anderson slid his finger over the trigger, then fired a single round into the dead center of the target. The target burst into flames at the impact of the exploding bullets. Anderson let out a whistle of amazement as the obliterated bull's-eye slid into the ground and was replaced with a shiny new one. Anderson repeated this several times until he had used all forty bullets. “The military just now decided to start using it, five years after it was first tested.”

“The EBSR fires a whole lot faster than the Barrett snipers,” Anthony noted.

“Of course! It allows you to place your shots faster,” Roger replied blissfully. Anthony could tell he was enjoying the new merchandise.

“Then again, it isn’t exactly stealthy.” Adolph had come up behind them, still pessimistic and oily. “A few explosions will let everyone know that you are in the area, and they’ll start hunting you down right away if they aren’t on your side.”

Roger was taken aback by the insult to his newfound toy. “You know full well it isn’t built for stealth, Adolph,” he said with a frown. “It’s used for covering fire.”

“We won’t be needing it. Besides, I’ve just talked to General Choi. He’s given us our next mission.” Adolph’s face became even more grim, if that was possible.

“Really now? So soon?” Roger asked.

“Well, if the League is taking over an area, we aren’t exactly expected to sit on our asses.”

“Well, what are they up to then?”

“Dunno, but they’re in Antarctica.”

Anthony could now see why Adolph had become even more grim. No one talked highly of Adolph’s fighting in the Antarctic when he had arrived. In fact, it seemed to be the source of all Adolph’s misery.

“You’re joking! This is some kind of sick joke!” Roger shouted back, obviously thinking as Anthony was. “That place is horrible!”

“Not a sick joke, a sick order.” Adolph stomped off, barking to the others what he had heard from General Choi. Anthony did not think that he would be back on the battlefield this soon, and his mind kept jumping back to the memories of the hundreds killed at the Herschel. In his dreams that night, he was killed several times in excruciatingly painful ways, for he writhed in his sleep. Would he be doing this in combat too?

EDIT - Forgot to switch profiles, BB's my brother...

~REX~

Briefing for Combat - 3265 AD; 0510 hours

After waking up bright and early, the soldiers made their way to the dining hall. Anthony had gotten little sleep, and did not wish to rise that morning, but Shamus and Roger pulled him bodily to the dining hall with them. A few cups of coffee woke him quickly.

“What time is it?” Anthony asked wearily, poking at his breakfast with a spork.

“Well, Private Flintlock...” Roger answered him, pulling out his watch. “It is ten minutes after five in the morning.”

“Great...” Anthony kept picturing himself and his new friends getting blown up by mines or mowed down by enemy machine guns. The images had followed him from his nightmarish sleep to his meal at dawn.

He downed the hash browns, eggs, and bacon rather quickly, then rested his head on the table, seeing that no one was finished with breakfast. When they were, they remained seated. Anthony lazily wondered why and looked around. Noticing suddenly that everyone was gazing at a makeshift stage, he sat up. A man had walked onto it, wearing full body armor and white camouflage, a Browning Automatic Rifle strapped to his back. Anthony deemed the man’s grab a little too warm for the Hawaiian climate, but remembered that Adolph had said something about the Antarctic.

“Gentlemen, may I have your attention please!” the man spoke, his voice resonating through the dining hall. “It is time once again for us to move out and fight face to face with the League. For those of you who have just recently been recruited, I am Captain Ajax Theodoric. I will be in command during our next mission.”

“Where are we going, Captain?” blurted out a soldier two tables away.

“We are headed to the Antarctic, Private Cunningham.” Everyone gave a groan, obviously having heard Adolph’s tale. “It seems that the League would like to retake an arsenal that they left dormant up there after we drove them out ten years ago. I think we have a veteran from that campaign. Private Adolph Rowley, right?”

Adolph gave a nod to the Captain, scowling.

Captain Theodoric continued, unfazed by Adolph‘s horrible emotions. “Our special scouts that have been patrolling the area spotted a convoy headed for the ghost town they left there, known as Red Harbor. It was there headquarters at the start of the war, but they have long since decided that the factory town was too remote and harsh. They left a massive amount of weaponry there, and I am surprised that President Williamson did not look into that sooner. It seems that we forgot about it.”

Captain Theodoric went on for awhile, drawling on and on about the conditions and weapons needed. Roger Anderson gave a small cheer when the captain announced that the EBSR3260 would indeed be used, though the Arctic Warfare sniper rifles would be used more, due to the fact that they were camouflaged and adapted to use in frigid temperatures. Another few soldiers gave a shout of happiness when it was mentioned that they would be taking vehicles with heavy gun emplacements, in case of ambush. Theodoric expected resistance outside of Red Harbor by ground troops and maybe tanks, so the gun emplacements, anti-personnel and anti-tank, were required.

“You shall now be shown your vehicle...” Captain Theodoric turned and made a hand motion to two other leading soldiers near the large door that opened up the mess hall to the dappled daylight of Hawaii. The doors slid open with a loud grinding noise, sand having worked itself into the cogs. A large, rectangular vehicle hovered into the dining hall.

Captain Theodoric walked up to the vehicle. The foremost part of the vehicle was very bulky and truck-like, obviously heavily armored. “This is where the pilot and a gunner will be stationed. The gunner will be supplied with a piston turret...” Theodoric motioned to the man in the gunner’s seat, who powered up the gun and pulled the trigger. Though it had no ammunition, the twin barrels pumped back and forth. Theodoric nodded and the man stopped firing. He began walking the length of the large vehicle. “Inside is where you shall be seated, against the walls. There is also an armory with enough ammunition and weaponry to keep forty soldiers supplied. Anti-tank rifles are set up on the sides, three per side. Miniature warheads that are capable of puncturing good quality tank armor can be fired at moderate speeds from them, but you need to reload them every five shots. They are magnetically attached to their positions, but they can be moved and have fold out bipods. The windows in which they are positioned can be closed with thick metal shutters. On top, we’ve got a triple mini-gun. Lots of bullets are required, but it is the best anti-personnel device we can think of for this vehicle. Also chain-fed.”

“So you expect heavy resistance, Captain?” a soldier asked.

“Yes, First Sergeant Brillis. I doubt the League would let an arsenal fall from their grasp so lightly.”

“What weapons shall each Private be given?” asked Anthony, wondering how they would be armed.

“Privates will all be given a Colt pistol and four fragmentation grenades. Then, they have their choice in any of the available firearms. Carbines, long-range semi-auto rifles, assault rifle, submachine guns, shotguns, and snipers are included. Explosive weaponry, such as grenade or rocket launchers, are available to specialists, since they require a bit more skill to fire.

“I expect the best work out of you. Keep your heads and listen to your Lieutenants and you are more likely to survive the battle ahead. Good luck to you all.”

Into Red Harbor - 3265 AD; 1000 hours

It had been a millennia since the five Little America scientific stations floated off to sea from the Bay of Whales. Now, the entire Ross Ice Shelf had been reduced to barely anything at all. The Shackleton Coast, which had once been inland, was easily accessible now that the ice shelf had disintegrated.

Under the shadows of the Churchill Mountains, Red Harbor lay spread out at the edge of the water. Private Flintlock had caught a glimpse of it as his transportation entered the Ross Sea, before being ushered below deck to be loaded into his designated troop transport. All of the buildings were white like the snow and ice around it. Several had been demolished years ago. Some had been blown up just recently. Puffs of smoke went up from the city occasionally, and then the water around the boat shot up. The battleship Anthony was on was being fired at, as were all the other warships around his.

It was dark below deck, and he shuffled into the troop transport with nearly forty other men. He had barely any room to move, let alone any space to sit. The soldiers were packed shoulder to shoulder, like anchovies in a tin. The man on his left, a burly man who needed a shave, smelled strongly of tobacco. On his right, however, was Specialist Charles Rayner that he had befriended earlier. Being on the edge of his bench, Anthony was sitting next to Rayner, who was positioned at one of the anti-tank rifle slots. Rayner shook his hand and continued setting up the anti-tank rifle, mostly making sure that he had enough ammunition, most of which was draped around his shoulders. Extending the stock, he turned on the powerful magnets that kept the get hovering in place in the slot. With less friction from resting it on something, it allowed Rayner to swivel the gun quickly.

“More than makes up for the time it takes to reload...” Charles muttered, putting five of the miniature warheads into the weapon and cocking it.

Suddenly the doors of the battleship slid open, revealing that they were mere yards away from the beaches of Red Harbor. As the ship plowed ahead, icy water splashed into the area where the troop transports and tanks were. The few mechanics and soldiers standing nearby rushed away from it with loud yelps. Anthony suspected that it felt like a wave of knives to the skin, it was so cold. He found himself thinking that he would prefer to be hit by the crash of frigid foam rather than be cooped up in the stuffy transport.

The battleship began to hit shallow waters and stopped, and the troop transports and tanks began moving forwards, onto the beaches and towards the main entrance to the city.

Red Harbor was built strangely. On the beaches, numerous wharfs and misshapen buildings lined pockmarked streets. Further up the street was a stretch of empty land with trenches on either side. Across the No Man’s Land was a high wall, heavily battered and scorched. The gate to Red Harbor lay in this wall, with two small towers on either side. The gate was open. Two tanks hovered through, followed by hundreds of Ares League soldiers, dressed all in white.

“It is begun...” Adolph said, sitting across from Anthony.

Like Anthony, he had chosen to use a semi-automatic rifle, a descendant of the M1 Garand and Lee-Enfield. With two clips of ten, they had to be cocked every ten shots, reloaded every twenty. They were long-ranged as well.

But Anthony was not thinking about the rifle. There was an explosion just outside the hull of the transport.

“Mortars!” shouted their Second Lieutenant, a man by the name of Gregory Hutchinson. “Don’t panic! They have small chance of hitting us.”

BOOM! A mortar hit the roof, jostling them. BOOM! Another hit on Adolph’s side, throwing some out of their seats. This continued for a long time, as they pulled out of the beaches and passed down the streets of misshapen, white buildings. Looking out the slot for Specialist Rayner’s anti-tank rifle, he saw a building collapse after multiple mortars hit it. A cloud of dust billowed forth.

“Keep going forward, driver!” their Lieutenant hollered to him. The driver was panicking at the bombardment of mortars.

Soon they reached the gates to Red Harbor. Right away, bullets flew at the transport rapidly from the heavy machine guns on the towers next to the gate, from the tanks’ guns, and from the infantry that was pouring out of the city. Grenades and mortars burst around them.

“Sir, we’re going to be hit by mortars until we’re reduced to nothing at this rate!” the driver cried out. “We don’t stand a chance!”

“Keep driving, damn it!” the Lieutenant ordered loudly.

“Sir, get down!”

One of the tank fired a shell into the cab of the transport, and flames billowed forth from the entry door, as well as the screams of the driver and the gunner. The Second Lieutenant fell back, his clothes ablaze. Smoke filled the transport as the vehicle gave a tremendous heave and died. The soldiers started coughing violently. One of the anti-tank riflemen aimed his gun at the roof and fired, blowing a hole through which the smoke could escape. Meanwhile, ranking officers and infantry alike began trying to douse the flames that covered the Lieutenant. First Sergeant Brillis had enough sense to grab one of the fire extinguishers and sprayed it on the Lieutenant. Lieutenant Hutchinson had no serious burning and pushed away the medic.

“Alright men, as you can tell, we’ve stopped moving.” Anthony, in fact, had not noticed. He just now realized that they were sitting immobilized in the middle of a raging battle. Sitting ducks.

“What do we do, Lieutenant Hutchinson?” First Sergeant Brillis asked as a coolant pipe burst in the pulverized cab and began to put out the fire.

“We’ll stay here until we get orders from Captain Theodoric about what we should do,” Lieutenant Hutchinson said. “He’s bound to notice that we’ve been hit from the command center.”

“Sir, we don’t have a radio,” First Sergeant Brillis argued. “It melted with the rest of the cab.”

“Then we stay put anyway! If we get out of this thing before the deployment point, we’ll be...”

Second Lieutenant Hutchinson was cut off by the explosion from a second shell. A section of the right wall, directly next to where Lieutenant Hutchinson was standing, was blown away, along with Lieutenant Hutchinson and two soldiers. They were hurtled against the left wall, burned and mangled. First Sergeant Brillis stared in disbelief, then shook it off and spoke to his men.

“I am now in command of this unit! We will follow Lieutenant Hutchinson’s orders and stay here. We shall hold this position, and move out once our tanks and penetrated the gates and taken out those machine gun towers.”

“Yes Sir!” the soldiers saluted in unison. Anthony cocked his weapon as Specialist Rayner fired his five explosive warheads into a League tank. It exploded, sending burning metal flying against the transport’s hull. One of the anti-tank gunners cried out as some of the white-hot shrapnel dug into his hand.

“Here they come!” another anti-tank gunner shouted, pointing to the newly blasted entrance into the transport. Sure enough, an Ares League soldier bounded into the transport.

The soldier was dressed all in white. His face was obscured by something that looked similar in design to a gas mask, his ears and hair hidden by ear flaps. His bleached helmet fit closely to his head, topped with a small spike, the rim of it coming down to his brow. He wore a greatcoat, which was double-breasted with two rows of seven hoary buttons and long enough to conceal his thick, light gray boots if he crouched in the snow. A belt was buckled around the waist of the greatcoat, with many pouches containing ammunition fastened to it and a few stick grenades, or “potato mashers” as they were so affectionately called, tucked in. The leathery gray gloves clutched an MP-58, a submachine gun. The soldier seemed to be a private.

BLAM! A single blue bullet streaked through the transport and struck the League soldier in the chest, knocking him down with a hole sizzled through him. Anthony looked to the firer. Adolph Rowley was standing with a grim, determined look on his face, his rifle smoking. Another soldier followed his example, his assault rifle taking down two League soldiers that charged in behind the first. Soon every Allied firearm in the transport was trained on that one entrance. Three more League soldiers followed their fellow soldiers, but were gunned down quickly. Then no one entered.

“Specialist Rayner, put your anti-tank rifle on the ground and train it on the gap,” First Sergeant Brillis ordered, not daring to see anything but the space in front of his weapon’s sight. “Use the bipod.”

“Yes Sir,” Rayner replied, turning off the magnets and setting up his new position. He kicked away the bullet casings on the ground and laid down.

“Specialist Freeman, put your line of fire in front of the hole, to deter the League from entering.”

“Yes Sir.”

“The rest of you anti-tank gunners, look out for tanks.”

“Sir, tank coming in on the left. It’s headed straight for us!”

“Shoot it!”

The low blatting noises of the two anti-tank rifles on the left side drowned out all other words. Then more League soldiers tried to gain access, hoping that the men inside the transport were distracted by the tank. More mortars fell on their position. The explosions and bursts and yells and screams and clanking all blurred into a continuous drone.

Anthony could not hear words, but noticed one of the anti-tank riflemen mouthing “The tank armor is too thick, we cannot penetrate...”

BOOM! A mortar finally punched through the roof and took out the two gunners on the left. It was now a blind spot in which tanks could move into leisurely, Anthony thought to himself as he got himself up from the ground, having been knocked over by the force of the blast. He checked himself and found that he was alright. Specialists Rayner and Freeman were also fine, and continued firing the semi-automatic ATRs after getting up.

Adolph Rowley was still standing despite the horrible blast and keeping the hole in the side secure, along with two other soldiers. Blat! Blat! Blat! Ching! Rowley’s gun’s cartridge popped out. Blat! Blat! Blat! Blat! Blat! Ching! The other cartridge ejected, and Rowley ducked down behind one of the benches, pushing in two new cartridges quickly. He stood back up. Blat! Blat! Blat! Blat! Blat! Ching!

The soldier next to Anthony on his right had an assault rifle. Gat-gat-gat-gat. He moved forwards quietly, having just fired four bullets at a soldier who had come through the door. He positioned himself so that he was looking out the hole. Gat-gat-gat-gat-gat-gat-gat-gat-gat-gat-gat-gat-gat-gat-gat-gat-click! He had emptied twenty bullets and reached for a clip. A League soldier entered and he fumbled the clip in his nervousness, ducking down just as the soldier pulled the trigger. Gat-gat-gat-gat-gat! Thwock! The soldier slumped against the wall with a simple hole through his chest, the wall around him sizzling with fresh bullet holes. Private Rowley swiveled his aim, blat! blat!, and the League soldier dropped like the rest.

First Sergeant Brillis had used the rest of the fire extinguisher to put out some of the flames in the cockpit, and was now sitting just within the doorway. “We should pull out!” he shouted. “Our forces are moving up, and the flow of League soldiers is lessening.” Indeed, the soldiers that had been forcing entry were now fleeing back to the city as triple mini-guns from the other transports pattered away at them. Soon, one Lieutenant Jenkins walked in, relieving them.

“We’ve pressed forwards to the gates of Red Harbor,” he told them. “They’ve locked the gates, giving us time to regroup. Our tanks will tear down the gates easily, but for now we’re launching mortars over the walls.” First Lieutenant Jenkins looked around. “Where is Second Lieutenant Hutchinson?”

“Killed in the explosion that made the hole you’re standing in,” Sergeant Brillis reported.

“And casualties in here?”

“Thirteen casualties; Second Lieutenant Hutchinson, Specialists Christof, Cruz, and Billings, driver Chuck Auckland, and Privates Cunningham, Locke, Juno, Mirabal, Adlam, Gadsby, Bigsby, and Clementine.”

Lieutenant Jenkins took down the names sorrowfully and tucked the pen back into his pocket. “Since Lieutenant Hutchinson is dead, I am putting you in command of this crew. Congratulations, Second Lieutenant George Brillis.” Jenkins saluted, and walked out. Brillis stood, not knowing what the think. “Oh, one last thing. I am moving Privates Shamus and Ulysses and First Private Anderson into your crew. They’re valuable men, Brillis, use them.”

Well, that’s convenient, Anthony thought with a spark of hope. His friends had survived.

Lieutenant Brillis filed them out of the demolished transport. Anthony looked back at it. The triple mini-gun had been demolished from the very start, hit by a mortar, and the long many-barreled tubes drooped. The sides and roof of the transport were scorched and battered, and there were holes where the tanks and mortars had punched through. The front of the vehicle was demolished and unrecognizable. Overall, Anthony was surprised they were still alive. He turned and saw another of the transports, or, at least what he thought had been one. It was still burning, and what had been the anti-tank guns were warped.

Anthony looked off towards Red Harbor. Allied soldiers were setting up heavy 201mm mortars that did great damage. Poomf! A mortar was launched over the wall, and a building’s roof was blown in. “War is terrible...” Anthony muttered to himself, hoping silently that no one was in that building.

“Well, we’ve survived the first part of the battle,” Adolph said, approaching him on his left side. “Now it’s time for the second...”