CHAPTER 18: BLOOD AND BULLETS.
PREPARATION FOR THE SLAUGHTER.
The three fortunate Imperial soldiers who escaped the Lucianan assault finally reached their command center, carrying with them the dire news of what had happened on the front.
The Imperial Army occupying Symarria was under the command of Coronel António de Silva Faustino. Around him stood officers, signalmen, and tactical staff, all gathered beneath the dim amber glow of hanging field lamps. Dust clung to their uniforms. Maps lay pinned across the command table, their edges.
"Three men," Faustino muttered. "That's all that returned?"
Strategist Martinho Federico, the head military planner of the Imperial Army, looked like the happiest man in the room.
Everything he had predicted was unfolding precisely as he had envisioned. Every movement, every delay, every calculated decision by the Lucianan forces seemed to be falling into place.
The genius was practically over the moon, and the wide smile stretching across his face said more than words ever could.
"Coronel, permission to speak," Martinho said, coming to a halt beside his commander. "Now is the best time to show those ejército de guiris exactly who they are dealing with."
Colonel Faustino glanced at him from the corner of his eye.
"I can tell you are the happiest man in this room right now, Martinho. This plan of yours had better work out."
Martinho burst into a dry, dubious laugh. "When was the last time I disappointed you, sir?"
The colonel studied him for another moment; he let out a brief, gruff sigh before giving the final nodding.
"Carry on, soldado." He gave the order with a hardened voice. "Show those Hijos de la Gran Puta what we are made of."
Martinho gave a gentleman's bow before retreating.
"As you command, Coronel."
He left the command center and headed toward his designated section. Standing by the corner, however, was a man waiting for him.
Martinho stopped.
"Looks like we gonna be having a domino effect ultimately," he said, turning toward the man standing in the shadows.
"The colonel has approved; you should be on your way now," he added.
The shadowy figure raised one hand in acknowledgment. Then he disappeared into the darkness.
THE THIRD LINE: UNCERTAINTY.
Miles out across the sun-scorched earth, the Lucianan vanguard pushed relentlessly forward into enemy-held territory, crossing into dangerous proximity.
They had already pushed deep into enemy territory, moving closer than ever to the Imperial Army's main defensive zone. Their boots pressed into the dry savanna soil as armored vehicles rumbled behind the infantry columns.
At the front of the formation, Luciana's forward observer suddenly raised his fist, signaling the entire advancing company to halt.
Ahead of them stretched a defensive field unlike anything they had encountered since entering Symarria.
Dozens of jagged iron Czech hedgehogs and rows of reinforced concrete dragon's teeth crisscrossed the field, forming a brutal anti-tank screen.
Beyond them stood low-profile concrete pits—Tobruks—well-built and operational. Trenches and pillboxes stretched as far as the eye could see.
Positioned at key tactical angles were six heavily fortified artillery casemates, designed specifically to sweep the open savanna with devastating interlocking fields of fire.
It was a fortress.
Yet none of those defenses was the main problem.
What caught the observer's attention was the countless number of dead Imperial soldiers lying throughout the defensive line.
Bodies were everywhere.
The observer slowly scanned the field through his optics. Every corpse appeared to belong to an Imperial soldier, and yet there was no sign of an opposing army.
Why this massive carnage? the observer thought, his knuckles tightening around his binoculars. Where are the foreign troops? Where are the Symarrian rebels or resistance fighters?
His mind began searching for an explanation. Was the situation some sort of a coup d'état?
The thought forced its way into his head, but it made no sense. If it was a mutiny, why aren't there any blast marks on the bunkers or artillery? Just dead soldiers…
He lifted his radio and connected directly to the major's private channel.
Hissss!
"This is Eyes," he reported. "We have a situation here."
"Speak," Major Adams' deep voice cut through the static, giving him the floor.
Eyes began explaining the full enemy defense and the strange, lifeless bodies littering the field. While the report continued, Baker opened his own line and radioed Captain Balogun of Team Ember. Baker had not yet returned to his unit; as a member of the team, he shared every detail of the front line with his captain.
The information did not sit well with Balogun.
Known throughout the ranks for his razor-sharp instincts, analytical mind, and uncanny perspicacity, Balogun did not see a victory—he saw a tactical anomaly. His mind immediately went to work, processing the variables, assessing the geography, and running cold calculations on the data Baker had relayed. In a matter of seconds, his brain arrived at a singular, terrifying conclusion.
He keyed his radio at once.
"It is a trap," he said immediately. "Tell the observer not to make any further advancement. Do not worry about the major—I will contact him myself. Stay put, boys."
The observer froze, his hand hovering over his gear. He had no intention of arguing. This was Captain Balogun Flagman speaking—a legend in his own right. Who am I to disobey orders from a Flagman? He thought silently, backing slowly down the rise.
THE WARNING THAT WAS IGNORED.
Meanwhile, Major Adams and his loyal war strategists were still gathered around the command table.
They continued discussing, analyzing, and attempting to find a rational explanation for the unbelievable scene Eyes had reported.
Then a female soldier suddenly ran towards the command table carrying the major's second line. She looked like a carrier bearing the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Panting heavily, she finally reached the table.
"Major Adams, sir… I have an emergency call from the Flagman of Team Ember."
"Flagman?" Adams raised an eyebrow. He hadn't expected Captain Balogun, who was held back with the rear guard, to initiate a direct override.
Adams plucked the heavy black receiver from her hand while she held the base unit steady.
"Flagman, whatever this is, make it quick and make it important," Adams barked with absolute gravity. "We are in no position to waste time."
"It's the exact reason for my call, Major. I would appreciate your ear," Balogun's calm, steady voice echoed through the earpiece.
"Go on," said the major.
"It is a trap, sir," Balogun stated clearly. "They already know we are coming."
One of the major's strategists let out a mild laugh. "Trap?"
He leant back slightly. "On what ground did you establish such an assessment?"
His partner chimed in.
"I believe you aren't a member of the Reconn and Survey Corps." He joined his colleague in the mild mocking.
"Don't let the songs of praise among the soldiers about you get into your head, Flagman," the first strategist added. "Reputation is not reconnaissance."
"Enough, boys," Major Adams interrupted them.
"I didn't put the phone on speakerphone for you all to engage in a battle of the Nerd Squad."
The strategists fell silent.
"Every idea is welcome so long as it keeps my men alive." He returned his attention to the telephone. "So, what's your take on this situation, Flagman?"
BAKER'S DEDUCTION.
Back at the front line, the observer lowered his field glasses and turned to Baker, unable to suppress his curiosity.
"Pardon me for asking, but why do you and your captain think we're walking into an ambush?"
Baker squeezed the bridge of his nose, running a hand through his hair. Engaging in casual conversation with anyone outside his immediate squad was an absolute social drain, but he forced a polite nod.
"Firstly," Baker said, "the enemy camp ahead makes no sense for a third line of defense."
"Meaning?" the observer asked immediately.
Baker's expression tightened.
Will you allow me to finish, buddy? he thought.
He forced a polite smile. "Please," Baker said, "do me the honor of continuing. Will you?"
He gestured for the curious man to exercise some patience.
"Sorry for the interruption," the observer apologized.
"Apologies accepted, my good countryman." Baker gestured towards him.
"As I was saying before the interruption, the camp shows no sign of an insider attack." He pointed towards the abandoned-looking defensive line.
"This is the third line of defense. We've successfully taken down the first and second lines of defense without raising a form of alarm."
The observer listened calmly, like an attentive student.
"Look at the terrain. The impassable marshland and quicksand to the north-east make an infantry assault from that flank impossible. The only ground route to their main fort is right through this funnel—which is precisely why they fortified it so heavily."
"Heavy vehicles would sink. Infantry would be trapped." He added.
The observer remained silent. What is he getting at? he wondered.
He pointed towards the surrounding terrain.
"The natural terrain acts as a defense on its own—unless you are willing to waste resources on an air raid and hope you do not get shot down by anti-aircraft artillery."
Baker paused.
"Now ask yourself this: if no attacking force could realistically approach from the north-east, and we are the first Lucianan unit to reach this area, then how did all these Imperial soldiers end up dead?"
The observer's face tightened.
"Are you saying that, aside from us, some external force came here before us?" he asked. "Or that these soldiers were already—"
Baker didn't allow him to finish.
"Yes," Baker cut in. "It looks like you are finally taking the words out of my mouth."
He glanced towards the bodies again.
"I am sure my captain would have seen through this façade of theirs."
I hope you're right, Mr Baker, the observer thought, cold sweat prickling his neck. The alternative was too grim to entertain.
THE TRAP THAT'S SPRINGING FORTH.
Inside the mobile command station, Major Adams finally reached a difficult conclusion.
"I cannot bring myself to discard your misgivings," he told Balogun.
The strategists glanced at one another.
He rubbed his chin, weighing Balogun's warning against his staff's operational timeline.
"I can't bring myself to completely discard your misgivings, Flagman," Adams said into the receiver. "Two truths can exist at once."
He paused.
"However, I am going to proceed with the primary advance. Your assessment will serve as our official contingency plan."
He turned to his strategist and ended the call with Balogun. "Relate the new development to the men. And I need some kind of confirmation as we advance."
The strategist looked uncertain. "What do you mean by 'confirmation', sir?"
Major Adams placed his hat firmly on his head.
"Shoot the so-called dead soldiers with suppressed rifles as you advance," he said. "You cannot be too sure."
The command went out.
Lucianan troops were ordered to march forward into the enemy's territory and fire at any fallen Imperial soldiers they encountered.
The company moved onward, entering the field of Czech hedgehogs and dragon's teeth. At last they stood inside the enemy's defensive line, expecting a sudden attack—yet nothing came.
For a brief moment, it appeared the staff strategists were right—that Balogun had simply been overly paranoid.
The infantrymen continued shooting at every dead Imperial soldier they encountered just to double-check if they were truly dead.
Seeing no signs of life, Major Adams issued a follow-up directive: breach a section of the dragon's teeth to allow the heavy armor and FV433 Abbot self-propelled artillery units to roll through. Combat engineers moved up, clearing paths and sweeping for landmines. Soon, heavy military vehicles were crawling into the enemy's third defensive ring, occupying the trenches as the main force prepared to push towards the final objective—the main fortress of the Imperial Army of Rey Santana.
Luck and fortune appeared to be on Luciana's side. Then the inevitable happened, and it came without warning.
The lifeless third line of defense suddenly came to life. Sandbag bunkers erupted with gunfire.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Imperial soldiers disguised among the dead suddenly rose from the ground and opened fire on the Lucianan soldiers.
The ambush had begun.
In perfect coordination, live rounds rained down on them as Imperial soldiers unleashed their forward-stationed assault.
Others emerged from concealed fighting positions hidden behind earthworks and fallen bodies of their comrades. Rifles fired through narrow gaps between fortifications. Machine guns mounted inside Tobruk's swept across the open ground.
Heavy weapons inside reinforced casemates joined the barrage.
The truth became undeniable. Luciana had walked into an ambush.
"GET BACK! GET BACK!" officers screamed over the deafening roar of gunfire.
Dozens of soldiers turned to flee back towards the breach—
THUUUU-BOOOOOOOM!
The earth directly behind the Lucianan force exploded. A massive, chained series of charges detonated along the exact entry route they had cleared minutes earlier, tearing across the landscape like a terrifying line of pyrotechnics.
The ground buckled and collapsed inward under the force of the high explosives, swallowing vehicles and men alike. What had been navigable ground seconds ago was transformed into a massive, jagged trench cutting off any possibility of retreat.
The ditch was far too deep and wide to cross over, a fissure along the earth's surface. Its edges were still crumbling as soldiers searched desperately for another way around. Those unlucky enough to fall into the deep ditch died there.
The explosions were so intense that they created a gap that is referred to as a man-made ravine behind the Lucianan formation, cutting them off from retreat.
Then, as panic spread across the men in Lucianan uniforms, one soldier unknowingly stepped on a mine.
CLACK—BOOM!
The blasts cut them off from retreat. Panic spread through the ranks in Lucianan uniforms. One soldier stepped on a mine; the explosion split him in half. Without warning, more men were tossed into the sky like rag dolls as the minefield detonated.
Armor-piercing heavy machine-gun rounds tore through body armor, shredding flesh and shattering bone. Lucianan soldiers fell like dry wheat before a scythe.
Back at the command post, the staff strategist who had mocked Balogun turned deathly pale, looking as though he were going to vomit.
His arrogant advice had dragged an entire company into a meat grinder. He nearly lost his mind as he watched his genius advice unfold before him.
"TAKE COVER! TAKE COVER!" Major Adams screamed at the top of his lungs, thrown to his knees by a nearby impact.
Balogun's instincts had been one hundred per cent correct.
The savanna had become an absolute slaughterhouse. What should have been a triumphant breach was now a bloodbath, masterfully orchestrated by Martinho Federico.
The ochre-gold sky vanished beneath a thick haze of cordite, burning diesel, dust, and the metallic tang of atomized blood.
Shells from the hidden casemates began falling with a methodical, horrifying rhythm.
WHU-BOOM!
A massive heavy artillery shell from one of the concealed casemates detonated nearby, the shockwave violently rattling the teeth in Adams' skull.
The explosion was so deafening that it felt as though hell itself was beating the drums of Armageddon.
SURVIVAL IN THE KILL ZONE.
While the massacre continued. In the midst of the chaos, Baker acted instantly; he grabbed the observer and several nearby soldiers.
He activated his spatial ability, dragging them into his void just as a heavy machine-gun sweep chewed through the dirt where they had been standing.
The world around them distorted, and then they vanished.
For an instant, there was nothing but darkness, pressure, and the sensation of being dragged through a collapsing void.
They reappeared behind a shallow ridge some distance away. They had survived, but the sudden escape from death left fear gripping every one of them.
The observer hit the earth hard, his hands shaking uncontrollably, his jaw locked in a violent, involuntary tremor from the sheer terror of his near-death experience. He looked up at Baker, who was leaning against the dirt wall, chest heaving—not from fear, but from the brutal physical strain of the spatial jump.
"I told you…" Baker struggled to control his breathing. "...my captain is almost... never wrong... in situations involving... life and death."
The Imperial forces showed no mercy, relentless in their saturation bombardment. Mortars, rocket launchers, and casemate artillery pounded the Lucianan pockets without pause. Bodies stacked upon bodies. Shrieks for mothers, tearful prayers, and the wet sound of tearing flesh filled the air.
Organs were ripped from bodies by explosions.
One soldier staggered through the battlefield searching desperately for the arm that had been torn from him by a machine-gun burst.
Another was pinned down by the medical team. The medics fought to stitch his wounds while applying pressure to prevent excessive bleeding. Nearby, another soldier lay with his internal organs exposed.
He screamed toward the heavens. "Our Father! Host of Heaven! Please come save me!"
Inside their concrete bunkers, the Imperial soldiers fired with terrifying, cold efficiency. For them, this was not a battle; it was target practice, delivered on a silver platter by Martinho Federico.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
They fired with terrifying coordination. Shells screamed overhead before plunging into the Lucianan formation.
Each impact threw dirt, fragments of metal, and bodies into the air.
The first instinct of the surviving soldiers was to run. But that instinct was not going to help them; it would only make them more exposed.
"STAY DOWN!" Major Adams roared, pressing himself flat into the dirt as another mortar round impacted meters away.
KABOOOM!
The blast lifted two men off their feet, throwing them violently against the jagged edge of a concrete hedgehog. One died instantly on impact; the other remained alive, but his screams were almost completely swallowed by the continuous roar of gunfire.
Major Adams pressed himself flat against the earth. He could barely see beyond the smoke. He began crawling toward a nearby concrete structure for cover.
A hundred yards to his left, an entire squad was lifted off its feet by another mortar strike. Bodies plummeted back into the dry dirt like ragdolls—limbs were missing, and rifles shattered.
After a rapid assessment Adams knew his men were sitting ducks if they remained low on the open ground. With the full force of a battle cry, he yelled again—
"GET OFF THE OPEN GROUND! MOVE UP TO THE DRAGON'S TEETH! GET UP TO THE OBSTACLES!"
His face was coated in black soot and fresh blood from a shrapnel graze along his jaw. He grabbed a paralyzed young private by his tactical vest, hauling him bodily behind the concrete block. The boy's helmet was gone, his eyes wide and vacant as machine-gun fire clipped the air inches above his head.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Surviving soldiers threw themselves behind whatever protection they could find—remaining dragon's teeth, Czech hedgehogs, overturned equipment, and damaged vehicles. But the obstacles offered little real shelter from the Imperial positions ahead. The illusion of an abandoned defensive line had vanished completely.
Armor-piercing rounds chewed through the dust, striking the dirt with sickening thwips and slamming into the concrete hedgehogs in showers of sparks and pulverized stone.
Nearby, a corpsman dropped to both knees beside an infantryman whose legs had been severed at the thighs by an artillery fragment.
"APPLY PRESSURE! STOP THE BLEEDING!" the medic roared, his rubber gloves slick and shining crimson as he fought to cinch a tourniquet. "I NEED A CLINCH! SOMEONE GIVE ME A HAND!"
"MY LEG! OH GOD, I CAN'T FEEL MY LEGS!" the wounded soldier shrieked, clawing helplessly at the cracked savanna earth.
Pfft-Pfft-CRACK!
A burst of heavy machine-gun fire caught the medic square in the upper back.
His body jerked.
Then he collapsed forward onto his patient. His dying breath escaped as a wet gurgle of blood against the private's chest.
"MEDIC!" Someone bellowed from fifty yards away. "WE NEED A MEDIC OVER HERE!"
The cry was almost completely lost beneath the deafening roar of the bombardment.
The Lucianan advance had collapsed into pure survival.
Soldiers crawled on their bellies through dry grass, pressing their faces into the dirt as machine-gun fire clipped the vegetation down to its roots.
The heat of the afternoon sun was nothing compared to the blistering heat radiating from burning FV433 Abbotts. Their hulls glowed beneath the flames as ammunition inside their storage compartments began cooking off.
POP! POP! POP! BOOM!
The sergeant screamed into a field-radio handset. His free hand was jammed against his ear in an attempt to block out the noise.
"EYES! THIS IS DOG-ONE! WE ARE TAKING HEAVY CASUALTIES! THEY HAVE US ENFILADED FROM THE CASEMATES! WE CANNOT MOVE!"
Static and scream-filled cross-talk were all that answered him.
A young private, looking no older than eighteen, sat curled in a tight ball against a concrete dragon's tooth, hyperventilating violently with his hands clamped over his ears. "Mama... Mama… please, God, please…" he whimpered, his teeth chattering uncontrollably.
A Lucianan lieutenant slid through the dirt and slammed against the concrete block beside him with a heavy thud. He grabbed the boy by his body armor and hauled him upward by the collar.
Then he slapped the boy's helmet hard enough to force his attention back. "Look at me, son! Look at my eyes!"
The lieutenant stared directly into the boy's terrified pupils. "If you stay here, you die! You hear me? We have to clear a line through these obstacles! Pick up your weapon and follow me on three!"
"I can't!" the private cried. "I can't!"
"ONE!"
The lieutenant tightened his grip.
"TWO!"
The lieutenant rose to sprint toward the next pocket of cover—and was instantly caught by a heavy burst from a pillbox. His torso jerked violently twice in mid-air before he dropped limp into the dust, three feet from where the private sat. The boy let out a bloodcurdling shriek, burying his face deeper into his knees as the lieutenant's blood sprayed across his boots.
DUTY CALLS: MAJOR ADAMS' DECISION.
Despite everything around him, the gallant Major Adams held his composure. He finished his assessment one more time. A grim, dark smile touched his lips as a thought settled in his mind.
I'm glad my heart made me listen to that genius asshole's tactical advice, Adams thought, pulling his radio up. That's one heck of a great-nephew you've got, sir. May your gentle soul rest in Grace.
Hissss! "Hey, Sparky," Major Adams said. His voice carried the weight of regret, though his pride would not allow him to admit it openly. "Looks like we are going with your plan."
"Ready the second wave," he continued. "And I am going to need an Earth Gifter out here immediately. We are taking excessive hits from their heavy positions."
"Copy that, sir," Balogun answered, calm as ever.
"One more thing—when you get there, set up a perimeter. The enemy blew a freaking chain of holes behind us. He gave a bitter laugh. They were boxed in like rats in a trap.
"Make sure you stay within range to avoid getting hit. I don't intend to gamble my trump card. I'll contact Eyes; you two stay in touch. You're going to need coordination and bearings from him."
"Understood, sir," Balogun answered cleanly. "I await your signal."
"Prepare your team for the side mission and put someone in charge when you leave." The major delivered his final order.
Adams cut the line and immediately dialed Eyes' frequency. At the same time, Balogun signaled the remaining half of the company to advance. They were moving up as reinforcement for the battered first wave.
Thank God I didn't ship my Gifters to the front line like I usually do, Adams thought, his jaw tightening. I hate losing my foot soldiers... but I'll take this as my punishment for lacking insight.
With this level of success, I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I'd lost my trump cards.
Before the assault, Major Adams had divided the company into two equal halves in case Balogun's apprehension proved correct.
Now that precaution was the only reason Luciana still had a chance.
THE LUCIANA COUNTERATTACK BEGINS.
A hundred yards back, Baker and the forward observer crouched in the shadow of a shallow ridge.
The spatial Gifter leaned against the dirt wall, gasping for air, his lungs burned like fire from the strain of his abilities.
His hands trembled as he shoved a fresh magazine into his sidearm.
"They set the whole damn zone up like a funnel," the observer whispered. His eyes remained wide as he watched the massacre through his dust-streaked field glasses.
"Every inch of this earth was pre-targeted by their artillery officers. Rey Santana didn't just ambush us…"
He swallowed.
"...they built a slaughterbox."
"We have to break the line," Baker wheezed, wiping blood and sweat from his forehead. "If Major Adams can't organize a base of fire on those casemates, nobody is leaving this ridge alive."
As if summoned, their radio came alive with static. The major's voice cut through.
Hiss! "Eyes, come in, Eyes. Are you there?" Major Adams' voice barked.
The observer grabbed his receiver. "Yes, sir! Alive and breathing, sir!"
"Good," Major Adams said. "Guess it is time to put those eyes of yours to work. Time to act like your nickname, soldier."
"Roger that, sir."
Hiss! "Lastly—I know you can hear me over the radio, Baker from Team Ember."
"Loud and clear, sir." Baker immediately straightened.
Hiss! "You're gonna be joining your captain once he arrives at the designated location."
The major continued. "I believe he's gonna be needing you."
Baker nodded despite knowing Adams could not see him.
"And Eyes, I'm gonna be sending someone to assist you once he leaves. Is that clear?"
Adams's voice remained calm and direct despite the chaos surrounding him.
"Yes, sir."
Hiss! "That will be all for now." The major signed off.
Out in the open, Major Adams crawled through the dirt, pulling himself forward with grass roots and discarded rifle slings. He reached a squad of heavy machine gunners pinned behind an overturned transport vehicle.
"Listen to me!" Adams roared over the concussive boom of a nearby shell impact.
"We are stuck in the kill zone! The only way out of this hell is forward!" He pointed toward the Imperial defensive line.
"Machine gunners, put suppressive fire on that center Tobruk!"
Then he pointed toward the casemates. "Snipers, target the vision slits on those casemates!" He slammed his hand against the side of the wrecked vehicle.
"MOVE!"
"Guns up!" a corporal shouted. "GET THOSE BASE PLATES SET!"
The soldiers dragged a heavy machine-gun tripod through the dirt. Their hands shook as they fed the ammunition belt into the tray.
"LOAD!"
The bolt snapped forward.
"FIRE!"
The gun roared to life, spitting a stream of lead toward the concrete embrasure.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Sparks flew off the lip of the bunker as the Imperial gunners inside were momentarily forced to duck.
"ADVANCE! UP THE RIDGE! GO, GO, GO!" Adams shouted, waving his arm forward.
Lucianan infantry surged out from behind the concrete teeth—crawling, sprinting, and firing from the hip. Men dropped every few feet, yet the line held. With blood in their mouths, dust in their lungs, and terror pounding through their veins.
They gritted their teeth and clawed their way through dust and iron toward the Imperial fortifications.
The battle for Symarria was no longer a covert infiltration. It had become a desperate, bloody fight for every single inch of earth.
THE COMPANY OF SECOND CHANCE.
The second wave advanced under the command of Major Adams, though it was led in the field by the more seasoned and reputable Captain Balogun Flagman.
Deep within himself, Balogun was displeased. The major had dismissed his assessment too quickly—perhaps too confidently—and now the consequences of that decision were unfolding before them.
But what could a subordinate do when the final judgment belonged to those above him?
Superiors carried the authority to decide even the most complicated matters. The chain of command existed for a reason, and when those above you made a decision, you were often left with no choice but to bear the consequences of their decrees.
All a soldier could do was offer another perspective, try to make them see the larger picture, and hope wisdom prevailed before it was too late.
The deed was done. The order had been given. Onward they marched.
Marko could no longer contain the frustration boiling inside him. He moved closer to his captain as the column pressed through the savanna, his jaw clenched and his eyes dark with anger.
He was deeply unhappy with Major Adams, whose rank and position, in Marko's eyes, had allowed the chain of command and the weight of superiority to cloud his judgment.
Now, the entire army was paying the price for what Marko considered an egotistical commander's decision.
Captain Balogun glanced sideways at him.
"What's with that face of yours, Mak?" the captain asked, noticing the irritation and frustration written plainly across his subordinate's face.
Marko stiffened. "Permission to speak, sir?"
Balogun offered a faint, dry smile. "Since when did you start asking for permission to speak your mind?"
Marko exhaled sharply through his nose, struggling to keep his voice even.
"I hate it when these high-ranking officers tend to ignore your input, sir," Marko said, finally giving voice to what had been eating at him.
"You've carved out a legendary name for yourself on the front lines, but they still can't stop attributing everything you do to your great-uncle and your family's bloody legacy."
The column continued its advance around them. Boots crushed dry grass. Engines growled in the distance. Above the savanna, the sky hung pale and smoky, as though it too had been wounded by the war.
"The legend has been dead for years! Yet they act as though you can't rise above the ashes without riding the coattails of a Flagman."
"But I am a Flagman, Marko. Aren't I?" Balogun casually asked. He sounded neither offended nor defensive.
Marko fell silent.
Balogun looked ahead again, his expression calm despite the artillery thunder rolling somewhere beyond the horizon.
"I am nowhere near my grandfather," he continued, "nor am I near the level of his brother—my great-uncle."
"I understand what it means to bear the noble lineage of the Flagman name," Marko insisted, striving to drive his point home through the thundering footsteps of the company. "All I'm saying is that you deserve far more respect than the pittance you're currently being given."
Balogun's gaze softened, though his voice remained firm.
"Do not burden your mind with things that yield no progress," he said. "Raise your head high and journey with me as we chase destiny, comrade."
Marko studied him with a mixture of disbelief and admiration.
"You are far too simple for a noble, sir," he said quietly. "I do not know whether to call it humility… or chivalry."
Balogun let out a genuine laugh and struck Marko lightly on the back.
"Good. I'm glad you see it that way. At least no one can ever accuse me of fighting for selfish gain—only for the sake of true nobility and chivalry."
"I fight because some things are worth more than a man's comfort—or even his life." He added.
NO WAY BACK.
Around them, the armored column mobilized with terrifying precision. Reserved FV433 Abbot self-propelled guns and light utility vehicles ground forward through the dust, their engines roaring in a disciplined chorus. Above them, the sky over the vast savanna seemed to scream with the impending roar of a battle cry and the iron scent of blood. It was man versus machine, an uncompromising war of attrition.
As the column drew nearer the kill zone, the earth itself vibrated beneath the rhythmic, disciplined march of the Lucianan second wave.
Captain Balogun Flagman moved at the head of the rear column, his tall frame cutting through the haze with unnerving calm.
Meanwhile, back in the central kill zone, the battlefield had degenerated into a nightmare of blood, sweat, and screaming metal. Major Adams' first company—having walked straight into an unseen tactical funnel—was fighting furiously for every inch of dirt as they desperately awaited the arrival of Balogun's reserves.
Though fully aware that he was trapped in a slaughterbox, Adams refused to let panic break his spirit. He stood crouched over the concrete lip of a Tobruk pillbox, barking orders and firing his sidearm into the oncoming smoke when the ground beneath his boots violently shuddered.
THOOM!
He spun, expecting another chain of explosions—only to see a solid wooden ramp rising out of the fiery chasm behind them.
Over the ridge came a combat Gifter.
Adams stared in disbelief.
He had not expected any Gifters to be present with the first wave. Every available Gifter, as far as he knew, had been assigned to Balogun's second wave. It had to have been a mistake in deployment—but in that moment, it was a mistake that could save lives.
The soldiers were pressed flat against the base of a small dirt-and-rock ridge, using the uneven terrain as their only protection from the relentless machine-gun fire sweeping across the field.
As Adams silently thanked the heavens, combat engineers emerged through the smoke.
They moved low and fast, crouched beneath the whine of incoming rounds as they carried heavy metal cylinders: Bangalore torpedoes.
Their objective was clear.
Blow open the enemy's four-foot razor-wire entanglements, anti-personnel mines, and the reinforced iron Czech hedgehogs blocking the advance.
"COVER THEM!" Adams bellowed, his vocal cords raw and burning from acrid cordite smoke. "SNIPERS, SUPPRESS THOSE EMBRASURES!"
Up on the eastern ridge, a Lucianan sniper team slid into position behind a thick patch of tall savanna grass. The marksman steadied his breathing and adjusted his scope.
Three hundred yards away stood the central Imperial pillbox. Its narrow iron vision slits were barely visible through the haze.
The sniper exhaled slowly, his finger tightened.
THWIP-CRACK!
The heavy round tore across the battlefield. It punched straight through the narrow iron vision slit of the pillbox.
Inside, the Imperial machine gunner gasped as the bullet shattered his optic sight and struck him, taking him out of the fight. The heavy gun went abruptly silent.
The silence lasted barely a heartbeat.
"GO! GO! CLEAR THE OBSTACLES!" the engineer sergeant roared.
This was no longer simply a matter of strategy. It was a matter of time, life, and death.
Two combat engineers burst from cover and sprinted through the hail of stray fire. They dragged three threaded sections of Bangalore torpedoes toward the dense, seemingly impassable barrier of razor wire, mine-laced iron, and Czech hedgehogs that sealed off the Imperial trenches.
Rifle fire cracked from nearby Tobruk.
Rounds struck the soil around their boots, kicking up bursts of dirt and stone.
One engineer suddenly jerked backward as a bullet struck his shoulder.
He collapsed with a strangled grunt, but his partner did not stop.
The remaining engineer seized the metal pipe, dragged it through the mud, and shoved the full length of the explosive tube beneath the tangled wire. With shaking but determined hands, he armed the friction fuse.
The engineer threw himself backward into a shallow ditch just as the fuse sparked.
For one terrible instant, nothing happened.
Then—BOOOOOM-CRACK!
A blinding, linear sheet of white-hot fire erupted along the treeline. The explosive shockwave pulverized the iron Czech hedgehogs into jagged, flying shrapnel; detonated the antipersonnel mines in a rapid chain-reaction pop; and vaporized the razor wire into a drift of glowing embers. In an instant, a clean, fifty-foot lane through the lethal obstacle belt was blown wide open.
Forging such massive progress under concentrated enemy fire was no task for the faint of heart.
"THE LANE IS CLEAR! CHARGE THE TRENCHES!" Adams screamed, leaping over his barricade with his rifle raised high. "DON'T GIVE THEM TIME TO RE-ARM!"
His surviving soldiers surged forward. They had lost too many men already, but they were not done fighting.
Men who had marched into battle in formation now fought in scattered pockets. Some were pinned behind broken concrete. Others dragged wounded comrades through the mud. Others still held their rifles with trembling hands, firing at shadows, pillboxes, and fortified trenches that seemed to spit death without mercy.
The second wave finally reached the assigned location and began establishing a perimeter. The arriving soldiers looked out upon their countrymen fighting for their lives; the first company had been reduced to an eye-opening and unimaginable number.
Beside Balogun stepped an Earth Gifter—a rugged corporal whose eyes glowed with a faint, strained intensity.
Behind him came a squad of heavily equipped combat engineers. Long metal tubes were strapped across their rucksacks.
Segmented Bangalore torpedoes.
Each one was loaded with enough high explosive to tear through the obstacles standing between them and the Imperial trenches.
Balogun raised his hand.
The column halted at the crest of a low rise overlooking the burning slaughterbox below.
Across the ravine, the first wave was pinned down like insects beneath a heavy boot. The massive hole created by Martinho Federico's trap yawned across the main access route, a jagged chasm filled with loose soil, burning debris, broken timber, and the wreckage of men and machinery.
Balogun lifted his radio and snapped his comms unit open, dialing straight into Major Adams' direct line.
Hiss! "Come in, Major. We have reached the designated location."
"GOOD JOB, FLAGMAN!" Adams barked back over the line, his voice punctuated by the sharp crack of enemy rifles striking his cover. "NOW DO SOMETHING ABOUT THESE DAMN CRATERS! AND GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE!"
Hiss! "Loud and clear, sir," Balogun replied coolly, cutting the link. He turned to face his men. "Alright, boys! You heard the major—get to work!"
Switching channels, Balogun spoke into the squad radio, his gaze fixed on the smoking horizon. "Baker, this is Flagman. I'm at the edge of the perimeter. Where is Eyes?"
Hiss! "Cap! Eyes is with me, two hundred yards east of the main trench line, tucked behind a dirt embankment," Baker's voice cracked over the speaker, heavy with exhaustion.
"The casemates are keeping Major Adams pinned behind the dragon's teeth. Every time someone raises a helmet, they chew the dirt to dust!
"Understood. Sit tight," Balogun replied. He turned to the Earth Gifters available in the company.
He turned to the Earth Gifters within the company. "Enforcers!" he called.
The Gifters stepped forward.
"There is a massive ravine fissure separating us from the first wave. The major needs support." Balogun pointed toward the yawning chasm. "I need a bridge—and I needed it five seconds ago. Don't waste time filling the damn thing—lock the walls together and give us a crossing!"
Two Earth Gifters exchanged a single, identical hand signal.
Then they stepped forward and slammed their bare palms into the cracked ground.
THUMP!
A deep rumble vibrated through the boots of every soldier in the second wave—Rrrrrrrrummmble!
Chunks of broken earth lifted from the rift floor. Dirt compressed and fused together under immense subterranean pressure.
Stone pushed against stone; the ravine walls groaned.
Then, slowly, a reinforced land bridge began to rise from the earth. Solid stone and densely packed soil locked together, forming a broad passage across the trench.
Within moments, the natural chasm had been transformed into a usable crossing, linking the rear guard directly with Adams' trapped vanguard.
The Gifters moved several yards to the left. Once more, they placed their palms against the earth.
THUMP!
The ground answered them. Another bridge rose from the earth.
This second crossing widened the route and allowed the troops to move faster.
Balogun drew his sidearm.
"Engineers, forward!" he ordered. "Take your positions and get ready to blow a lane through their wire!"
The soldiers moved at once.
Infantry crossed first, rifles raised and eyes fixed on the enemy positions. Engineers followed with their explosive equipment. Utility vehicles and armored assets rumbled across the newly formed bridges. Even the heavy artillery units began crossing over, their weight causing the packed earth to groan but not collapse.
Balogun keyed his radio once more to report the successful crossing. "Coming in, sir. This is Flagman—Phase One is complete."
Hiss! "Nice job, soldier! Now send me some goddamn Enforcers! My soldiers are dropping like flies over here!" Adams demanded, his voice desperate over the gunfire. "Contact Eyes, get the enemy's coordinates, AND BLOW THEIR FUCKING ARTILLERY TO PIECES!"
"Yes, sir," Balogun replied.
Hiss! "One more thing—make sure those Enforcers are Gifters capable of high-mobility maneuvers," Adams added sharply. "Just because you've got superpowers doesn't mean a bullet gives a shit. Are we clear?"
"Affirmative," Balogun responded without hesitation.
Hiss! "Adams out."
The line went dead, leaving only the roar of battle ahead.
