Character list: https://pastebin.com/jWUxGR4Q The C-130 touched down at the end of the dirt runway, kicking up a large plume of topsoil. The Hercules came to a stop after taxing across the airstrip, the only aircraft in sight. The rear cargo door opened, and I took my first step in the Kamran province, Khurvestan. -Chapter One- I gazed over the line of surplus russian armor, all refurbished and polished. 5 T-72 MBTs, a trio of BMP-2s, three D-20 152mm artillery pieces, and a ZSU-23-4 SPAAG, along with rows upon rows of combloc weaponry. DShKM HMGs, 60mm and 82mm mortars, RPG-7s and SA-7 IGLA launchers; their munitions laying next to them in crates. Wooden crates full of M91/30 Mosin-Nagant rifles, AK variants, and PKM machineguns lay strewn about, offered with 2 or 3 crates of their ammunition. This was the black market, the arms trade deep in the mountains of Pakistan. You could buy anything you wanted here, no questions asked. All you needed was money. >“How much for this?” I asked, pointing to his PKM. The interpreter quickly translated to the seller. >“1000 rupees. Comes with a crate of ammunition.” >“How much for all of it?” I ask. >“100,000 rupees.” >“Are you a [merchant]? Why are you asking for 100,000? This is at most 50,000!” I accuse the vendor. >“How dare you! I am no [merchant]! I sell these wares at reasonable price! I cannot sell at 50,000! I no make profit!” The translator struggled to keep up with the rapid pace of the vendor’s words, most likely filtering the amount of swearing the vendor was spitting at me. I grinned. >“Fine. 70,000 rupees. I’ll even throw in an extra 5,000 for the optical sights.” I bargain. Seemingly satisfied, the vendor accepts my payment, and calls over some of his men to carry the supplies for me. >“Tell him that won’t be necessary.” I tell the translator. “I’ll handle the heavy stuff.” With that, I walk away with a smug smile on my face, and continue perusing the weapons market. -Chapter Two- Having finished my shopping trip, I return to the airstrip where the rest of the group awaited. The earth-colored C-130 was being loaded up with numerous wooden crates, all containing weapons or ammunition. The Pakistanis worked away while a group of 12 stood in a ring, chatting amongst themselves, occasionally glancing over at the Pakis. We exchanged greetings as I entered the ring. >“So, Anon, we really pulling this off?” Yetzi asked. >“Whadda mean, ‘are we pulling this off’? Could you get any more cliche than that, Yetzi? Of fucking course we’re doing this, we already have everything loaded on the plane!” Kyle berated Yetzi. >“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Yetzi apologised. >“Anyways,” I said, changing the topic, “We all ready to go? Everyone packed and ready?” I asked. >“Yeah. Always wanted to be a warlord anyways,” John joked, “Let’s get going.” ---Inside the C-130--- >“Where are we landing again, Anon?” Vigg asked, “We have a airstrip, right? We’re not landing in the middle of a field are we?” >“No, we’re parachuting to the ground.” I sarcastically reply, “Yeah, there’s an airstrip. Bought it from some dirt farmer over there. It ain’t paved though.” >“At least we got somewhere to land!” Ethan said over the radio, interrupting our conversation from the cockpit. --- The C-130 touches down on the airstrip, landing neatly. >“Bit bumpy there, huh, Ethan?” Ollie jabs. >“Shut up! If not for me, y’all wouldn’t have been here in the first place!” Ethan retorts back. >“A’ight guys, chill. Hurry up and help us set up the tents.” Chris orders. The group of friends hurriedly unload the cargo aircraft and set up a miniature camp nearby the Hercules. They sit around a campfire, and shoot the shit. >“So, it’s really happening. Didn’t actually think we’d get this far.” Igor thinks aloud. >“All thanks to Anon,” Jerome muses, “Him and his bigass lottery jackpot.” >“Just think of it as an extended camping trip. Extended meaning forever.” Michael says, trying to lighten the mood. >“Michael, you barely go outside, you NEET. What would you know about camping?” Tyler jabs, “Tell you what, you and me can go on a run tomorrow. A lap around the airstrip.” >“What the hell? No way!” Michael shouts amid laughter from the others. Everyone pressures him into running with the fitness instructor in jest. >“Fine! Fine! I’ll do it!” Michael concedes defeat. Much more drunken chatter went on long into the night, as the group awaited the deliveries. --- John awoke to a bunk above his head. Head throbbing slightly, he found his bearings inside the C-130. His watch’s alarm began to beep, demanding his attention. 0430 hours. The former Green Beret stood, and began his daily routine. >“Yo, relax. It’s vacation time. You’re gonna wake everyone else up.” Kyle said from his bunk. >“Good. Everyone should be awake by now. Training’s important.” John replied, continuing his set. >“Speak for yourself. I want to sleep in for as long as Michael. Dude can sleep a whole day away.” Kyle mumbled, before tucking back under his covers. --- Anon and John were up in the cockpit discussing their grand strategy, while Ethan and Ollie ran around the Hercules, meticulously inspecting every inch of the aircraft. -In the cockpit- >“We’re going to scout out that village. If it’s a soft target, we’ll go and declare we rule them. If they resist, we’ll threaten them.” I say. >“What if it’s already under a warlord’s protection?” John asked. >“Then we’ll have to take it from them. We’ll wipe em out.” I reply. >“What if they’re stronger than us?” John pointed out. “What do we do then?” >“Then we wait for the cavalry to arrive.” -Outside- >“How do you even keep this thing flying? I don’t even think this bird is flight-safe!” Ollie says, inspecting the Hercules’ flaps. >“Nah, some elbow grease in that joint there will fix it right up! Trust me, I’m a certified pilot.” Ethan says. >“The chances of the FAA ever letting you near an airplane are the same as my wife letting me near my kids.” Ollie retorts cynically, “I’m no flight engineer, but something tells me these bolts should be tightened and not this loose.” >“C’mon man! Live a little bit! Ain’t no fun if you don’t have a little risk!” The mechanic scoffs at the pilot’s remark, and begins to tighten the bolts in the wing. Meanwhile, Vigg, Igor, and Chris sit in the cargo bay, cleaning rifles and loading magazines, as Jerome and Satou spar on the cargo door. -Inside the cargo bay- >“Hey Ivan, you ever use one of these in field before?” Vigg asks the former Army Ranger. >“No. We’re not supposed to pick up AK’s unless it’s an emergency. Our SCARs were better anyways.” Igor replies. >“What about you, Chris? You ever use an AK innasandbox?” Vigg asks. >“Never touched one, ‘cept for when my M4 ran dry. Bit ironic, dying from your own weapon, y’know? Hadji was trying to get away, too. Either way, I prefer the 5.56.” Chris spoke. >“You were Army Infantry, right? Did you actually see the ones you killed?” Vigg asked. >“Nah. Most of the time we just walked Mark 19s in on them.” Chris stated, mindlessly loading more 7.62x39 into the banana magazine. >“Oh.” -On the cargo door- Satou intercepted a jab from Jerome; he shouted as he began his counter. >“KI-YAAAAAAAAHHH!!” The former Force Recon Marine ducked under Satou’s flurry of strikes, instead opting for a powerful kick to his midsection. Narrowly avoiding a boot to his stomach, Satou jumped back into the fray unleashing his own kicks, shouts accompanying each one. Jerome’s arms began to become sore after repeated strikes from Satou’s powerful legs. Knowing this was unsustainable, Jerome rushed forward and charged Satou, sending him to the ground. >“Heh. That was good, Nano. Good kicks.” Jerome said, extending a hand. Grasping it firmly, Satou bounced up to his feet. >“Next time, let’s do bayonets. MCMAP covers that, right?” Satou asks, curiously. >“Yeah, I’ll teach you some techniques.” Jerome says. Just a few feet away, Yetzi and Kyle stood with binoculars watching Michael and Tyler run around the airstrip. >“Bet Michael’s going to pass out before he gets back.” Yetzi jests. >“Knowing you, I’d rather not lose my money.” Kyle replies. The two go back to watching Michael suffer. --- With all 13 of the group gathered in the cargo bay of the C-130, Anon spoke. >“As warlords, what are we going to call ourselves? Throw out some suggestions.” >“Deathtoll.” >“The Kings of Udeen.” >“The Thirteen Stars of Kuban.” >“The Shahs of Daitan.” -Chapter Three- >“Everyone in agreement? Henceforth, we are known as the Thirteen Stars of Kuban.” Anon proclaims. >“We ride to Zhekorgah, and we shall annex it for Kuban!” Anon shouted amongst cheers from his fellow Stars. --- The two buggies roared through the waist-high wheat fields. Fitting 13 people into buggies designed for three was a difficult task; it was extremely cramped, with some having to ride on the roof or hang onto the sides. Nonetheless, they were making good progress. By midday, the group had dismounted onto a hill overlooking the settlement. >“There it is, boss. How d’ya want to play this?” John asked. >“Me, you, Chris, and Michael are going to go down there. We’ll demand tribute and a pledge of loyalty. Maybe kill anyone who resists. The rest are going to stay on overwatch on the hill, in case something goes south.” Anon replies. >“Everyone got the plan?” >“Loud and clear.” >“Understood.” >“Ready when you are.” >“Let’s kick this off then.” Anon says. --- The four warlords walk into the town, bristling with weapons. They were silent, but their plate carriers and AKMs spoke loudly enough for the villagers to understand why they were here. The village was deathly silent, most of the inhabitants having retreated indoors, when just minutes ago the village was bustling with activity. Shop vendors left their stalls unattended, grocery baskets left in the middle of the road, a child’s stuffed bunny thrown to the wayside. They obviously knew how to deal with warlords; drop everything and retreat inside your homes. The quartet made their way deeper inside the quaint village. An old man of slavic descent, wearing his Red Army fatigues, stood in the center of the town square. He stood at attention in front of the town’s water well, numerous medals dangling from his chest. He was obviously the elder of the village. As they approached, the elder spoke in broken english, snapping a salute. >“Sirs. I comrade Boris! What want in village?” The elder said, respect and venom simultaneously injected into his words. Turning to Michael, Anon whispers something into his ear. >In fluent russian, Michael responds, “We demand tribute. Bring your 5 most valuable items to the hill by dusk,” pointing towards the hill where the rest of the warlords awaited, “Or face the consequences.” >“Tribute? We don’t have any money. We are a simple agricultural village. Only have wheat and bread.” The elder says, oddly calm. >“Bring men and women then.” Michael says with no remorse. The elder is momentarily stunned, but quickly regains his composure. >“V-Very well. It shall be done.” He says, snapping another salute before turning and walking away. >“Good. Let’s head back to the others.” Anon says, “They’re going to try to ambush us.” The four warlords retreat to the hill at a brisk pace. --- The setting sun behind the pair, Jerome and Kyle lay underneath their sniper veils, blending in perfectly with the rock outcrop. Jerome was intently focused in his PSO-1 on his SVD, while Kyle scanned the massive green and gold fields for movement with his binoculars, his PKM resting inches away from him. >“It’s nearly sundown. They’re either going to deliver the tribute, attempt an ambush, or try to evacuate.” Kyle thought out loud. >“Either way, we’re going to get what we want. Doesn’t matter to me how we do it.” Jerome replied. He fidgeted with his rifle rest, the SVD held by an unused veil tied hammock-style. >“Got movement on the road. 4 foot-mobiles, each carrying a basket.” Kyle informed Jerome. >“Got it.” Jerome aligns the PSO-1 reticle over one of the villagers; a male struggling with the weight of the wire backpack he was carrying. He tracks him until Kyle called out another group of foot-mobiles. >“Wait! Left! 30 meters, got movement in the grass!” Kyle whispered loudly, “2 of them. They’re armed.” >“I see ‘em. I see ‘em.” Jerome calmly replies, shifting targets. Through the PSO-1, Jerome studies the faces of the armed villagers. Hard, determined. They weren’t giving up without a fight. >‘What a waste. They could’ve fought for us with that determination.’ Jerome thought, still tracking the armed duo. >“Guy on the left has a Mosin. I don’t see a chest rig on him, maybe he only has 5 shots?” Kyle whispered, “Right has a PPSH. Again, no spare. These guys have no clue what they’re doing.” >“Don’t underestimate ‘em, Kyle.” Jerome said. Jerome continued to track the armed duo as they split away from the quartet of tribute-bearers, to their ambush position. --- Anon and Michael stood in front of the buggy, while John sat on top with the PKT machine gun. They watched as the group of tribute bearers struggled up the incline. As they dropped the wire baskets, Anon stepped forward to inspect the goods. >“DIE, SCUM!” One of the tribute-bearers shouted, drawing a TT-33 from his waistband. Halfway through the process of drawing his pistol, the villager was cut down by a burst from John’s PKT, the 7.62x54R rounds ripping into his flesh. With this display of force, the other three tribute bearers kneel and raise their hands above their heads, shouting and crying that they had nothing to do with the ambush plot. Anon steps forward as a rifle report rings out, a scream of pain ~70 yards away following it. The other villager, armed with a PPSH-41, stood from the grass field and screamed a war cry before emptying the magazine in the general direction of Anon. John’s PKT chattered once more, green tracers ventilating the offending villager. John turned the gun back onto the cowering tribute-bearers, on their knees with their face in the ground, hands over their heads. Mumbling incoherently, they cry and pray to whatever god they worship. Anon looked around once more, when his radio crackled. >“Kube 1, this is Kube 5, all hostiles neutralized, over.” >Grabbing his radio, Anon replied, “Kube 5, this is Kube Actual. Acknowledged, thanks for the assist. Stay on overwatch, over.” >“You got it, boss. Over and out.” Putting his radio back, Anon inspected the tribute. Baskets of dried fish, loaves of bread, some sort of crystals, and some unrecognizable herbs. >“Tell them to get up, and run back to their village. If they try to resist again, we’ll raze their village.” Michael barked my order, and the three tribute-bearers took off at a dead sprint back to Zhekorgah. >“How many men does it take to deliver a message?” Anon ponders aloud. >“Understood.” John says, letting the PKT loose, spitting green tracers into the twilight. -Chapter Four- The sun breaks over the horizon, turning the endless fields of wheat a vibrant gold in the early morning light. Two red flags adorned with 13 stars each whip in the wind on the hill overlooking a village. Eight figures stand around a flag, arms clasped behind their backs. With a single flick of the hand, the group marches into the village, flag-bearer in tow. The town elder kneels before the conglomerate of warlords, begging for their forgiveness. The old soviet veteran lets a single tear fall from his face. One of the warlords steps forward, rifle in hand. The townspeople watch in a terrified stupor. The execution of their elder, and the beginning of a warlord regime. They had all consigned themselves to their fate. >The sound of a AK being charged filled the silent air, followed by a single gunshot. The warlord spoke a single phrase. >“Rise.” Tears flowing freely from his face, the elderly soldier rises to his feet. The warlord speaks once more, his voice thunderous enough to shake the foundations of one’s soul. >“Stand, and fight. Fight for me. For I have forgiven you. I bear no grudge towards you or your people. For I am forgiving. Serve under me. Serve us. SERVE THE STARS OF KUBAN!” The warlord thrusts the rifle into the elder’s hands. Through instinct and muscle memory, the elder snaps into a salute. >“We shall serve under you, sir! We will not waste this opportunity!” He cries in Russian, tears still streaming down his face. -The Flag of Kuban rises over the village square- The red banner of the Kuban Warlords flies proudly in the wind. The townspeople chant the motto relentlessly. >“Pax per Bellum! Fides per Bellum!” >“Pax per Bellum! Fides per Bellum!” >“Pax per Bellum! Fides per Bellum!” -Chapter Five- Less than a week later, the population of Zhekorgah was only 40% of its original population. Those who remained were entirely women and elderly. The rest were brought to the Kuban airfield. -Blade’s End Airfield- >“HYAAH!” >“HYAAH!” >“HYAAH!” Uniform shouting filled the otherwise serene silence of the empty airfield. >“AGAIN!” John shouted. A flurry of shouts followed his command. >“HYAAH!” A formation of thirty men thrust their bayonets forward in unison. >“HYAAH!” Thirty bayonets slashed downwards in unison. >“HYAAH!” Thirty bayonets stabbed upwards in unison. >“Very good! Very good!” John applauded, “Now, run to Sensei Nano! Move! Double time!” The men collected their rifles and formed a teepee before dashing across the runway to their next instructor without a single complaint. The next group of thirty arrived before the [former] Green Beret, and kneeled in respect before picking up their rifles. -Nano’s training- >“Remember the basics of CQC!” Satou instructed, demonstrating a series of strikes on his partner. The class watched intently, following every movement of Nano’s hands. >“Good! Good!” He said, inspecting each recruit’s form. >“Strike! Strike like you mean it! Yes! Good!” >“Footwork is important. Without a steady base, everything will fall. Lower your center. Good. Continue.” Satou, satisfied with their level of competency, demonstrated new takedowns. >“First, control the wrist. Then, move in with your foot. Right leg behind [their] right leg. Pull the wrist towards you, and use your other arm to assist in throwing him. Good. You try.” >“To counter this, simply step back with the foot he’s not attacking, and counter.” >“Good. Next, we learn Uchi Mata.” Satou went on to demonstrate and teach several different techniques, before releasing them to learn from Jerome. -Jerome’s Training- >“...Loop the string back, and knot it. From there, you can add foliage to better conceal yourself.” Jerome demonstrated. Picking up his makeshift netting, Jerome walked into the grassy field and disappeared from the trainees’ eyes. Seemingly from out of nowhere, Jerome appeared from behind the class. >“See? That’s how it’s done.” He proclaims, “Let’s see you do it now.” The trainees begin frantically building their own personal netting, some already experienced in bushcraft from long hunting trips. ---Inside the Command Tent--- Beneath the Kuban banner, Anon stood hunched over a map of the Kamran Province, pencil in hand. He mumbled to himself plans of conquest and territorial control, whilst swearing and cursing Pakistani shipping. >“Another delay. Always another delay.” Papers were scattered all over the table; lists of supplies, resources, money, and manpower scribbled haplessly on each one. He furiously scribbled some near-illegible writing down on a blank paper, a list of rival warlords. >“We’re nobodies right now. We need to advance our timetable. One village is only a drop in the bucket compared to those other guys.” Anon mumbles to himself, “But we can’t get any ground without vehicles.” Picking up the satellite phone next to him, Anon dials in a number. While it rings, Anon begins to plot his strategy. Arrows crisscross the map, village to village, valley to valley. Checkpoints on major highways, suitable firebases, QRF outposts. The satellite phone beeps, and Kyle’s voice is heard over the line. >“Yo boss, what’s up?” >“Where are you?” Anon asks. >“Crossing into Kazakh airspace now, just came over the border,” came the reply. >“Good. What’s the cargo?” asks Anon. >“Uh, one M113A2, and a D-74 122mm cannon. Couple of mortars too. Were we supposed to get something else, boss?” Kyle said hesitantly. >“No. That’s good enough. Head on back, I got a new assignment for you when you return.” said Anon. Anon hangs up, his eyes fixed on a town with several circle marks around it, roughly 30 km from Zhekorgah. Izhnehk, a small town under the influence of a rival warlord; he went by the name of ‘The Dukesh Shah’. Taking this city would provoke conflict with him; exactly what Anon wanted. If all went to plan, Anon would be able to cripple the Shah with a single strike. In a month, his preparations would be complete. His offensive should’ve started next week, but delays upon delays impeded his progress. No longer would the Pakistanis delay his plans. No longer would he be denied his prizes. Anon smiled in anticipation. -Chapter Six- Anon began the inspection of his army. Although still green, they had the beginnings of a professional army; they were no longer the ragtag militia they used to be 3 weeks ago. They would crumble under a professional military, but for crushing other militias, they were unmatched in the area. >They’d trained on all manner of combloc weaponry; AKMs, PKMs, SVDs, GP-25s, RPG-7s. >They’d been trained on infantry support weapons; 60 and 82 millimeter mortars. >They’d trained in small unit tactics. >They’d trained in leadership. But they had not been in combat; that would change today. --- John leaned on the DShK in gunner’s seat of the M113A2. Adorned with the moniker ‘Steel Lance’, the APC lead the convoy of Toyota technicals and GAZ-66 transport trucks over the dirt road. >‘Another day, another village.’ John thought. A glint on the road drew John back to reality. He gazes through his binoculars, finding an armed checkpoint. One of the Shah’s. Rusty AKMs, M91/30 Mosins, and a PKM facing the road. Amateurs. Raising his fist, John orders the the convoy to a halt. He decides that he’d use this as a live training exercise. He would command from the APC, relinquishing tactical command to the squad leaders. Over the radio, he orders the convoy to dismount and spread out into a line. >‘Time to test the waters.’ thought John. >“Remember your training. Do not disappoint me.” He broadcast over the net. >“Yes, sir.” came the unanimous reply. --- Kahzik clutched his AKM tightly as he laid in the grass. His TL was peered through his binoculars at the enemy checkpoint, occasionally speaking through his radio. >“Yes, we have good line of sight. Yes, we will set up here. Team 4 and we will cover you as you advance, just like training.” Kahzik’s TL transmitted over the radio. >“Kahzik! Come here, and bring the machine gun ammo!” the TL orders. Sprinting to his TL, Kahzik lugs 4 belts of 7.62x54R over to the machinegunner. He practically dives to the right of the gunner, ready to load another belt into the PKM. Kahzik taps the gunner on his shoulder, signalling he’s ready to load. The TL requests a firemission from M113 over the radio. >“Target is the roadblock, bearing 299 from your position! 400 meters. Requesting 4 rounds!” >“Target confirmed. Ranging round, away!” The mortar team radioes back, a loud POONK accompanying their transmission. The HE 120mm round lands 4 feet from the sandbagged PKM, leaving a smoking crater 2 feet wide. The sandbags are raked with shrapnel, and the poor sap that was manning the PKM was shredded. >“Short! 5 feet, good trajectory, 3 rounds, rapid fire!” the TL orders, before switching radio nets. >“Go now! We’ll suppress now!” the TL shouts into the radio. >“Open fire!” He shouts, firing off a VOG-25 downrange. The PKM spits green fire, unleashing enormous fireballs before Kahzik’s eyes. As soon as he finished his burst, the second PKM began to fire, the two machine guns ‘chatting’ back and forth, a continuous volley of deadly green tracers. Three of them were cut down from the initial burst of PKM fire, now zig-zagging across the entire checkpoint. The checkpoint was caught in a massive crossfire between 4 teams, GP-25s and 120mm HE exploding all around them; one eviscerated from a direct hit. 2 PKMs laying continuous fire inches over their heads as 2 other teams moved in on them. >A textbook attack, just as John trained them. Kahzik hurriedly opens the feed tray, yanking out the empty belt and dragging a fresh belt in. He racks the charging handle before tapping the gunner on the shoulder, indicating he’s ready to fire once more. The enemy begins to find their bearings, returning fire from the PKM. Small, disorganized groups of two to three begin to peel out, opening fire on Kahzik’s comrades. The TL orders fire adjustments. >“Mozke, adjust fire left, 20 meters!” He shouts. >“Affirmative, adjusting!” Mozke, the gunner, confirms. >“Boy! Run and bring more belts!” the TL orders. >“Yes sir!” Kahzik shouts over the roar of the PKM. Kahzik begins his sprint to back to the Toyota pickup truck to fetch more boxes of ammunition. --In the M113A2-- John sat inside, monitoring the radio communications. His squad leaders were handling combat well for their first times. Team 2 was a bit slow advancing, and Team 4 needed more fire discipline, but 1 and 3 performed admirably. >‘I’ll need to reward them later.’ John thinks. >“Command, this is Team 4, we have a runner fetching more ammunition! Hold fire!” Team Four’s SL radioes. >“Affirmative, Yemosk. Well done for calling that out.” John praises, poking his head out from the gunner’s hatch. A small boy, no older than 14 years, comes sprinting down the ridge, AKM in hand. He vaults a rock with one hand, and climbs into the bed of the Toyota, grabbing 4 boxes of x54R belts. >“Good job, kid! Keep it up!” John shouts from the M113. The boy shoots John a small smile before rushing back up the hill with the ammunition. The moment the boy exits John’s line of sight, a radio call demands his attention. It’s from Mehko, Team One’s SL. >“Command, there’s an enemy vehicle!!! Requesting fire mission!” Mehko radioes. >“Request denied. You’re too close. Use your AT.” John calmly replies. >“We have no AT! We left it in the trucks!” Mehko shouts over the gunfire. >“What?!? Driver, get us over that ridge!” John shouts, grabbing onto the pintle-mounted DShKM, charging it. --- Kahzik’s AKM barked thrice, clicking empty. He reached into his chest rig, pulling another banana magazine out, inserting it into rifle, and racking the bolt. He took aim at the enemy technical, breathing heavily, his rifle sights swaying like the wind. The truck’s gunner turned towards him before he could take a shot, and pelted the rock he was hiding behind with .50 caliber M1 Ball. The rounds snapped and cracked over his head, bits of rock being thrown by rounds that had stuck his cover. Kahzik began to panic; rounds began impacting the dirt inches from his foot. >Then he saw John come riding over the hill in the ‘Steel Lance’, guns blazing. John’s DShKM spat massive, deafening fireballs, a mix of yellow and green tracers flying through the air. They raked the technical from bumper to bumper, throwing sparks and leaving scorch marks all along the vehicle chassis. The gunner was cut in half from John’s opening burst, the M2 Browning coated in his grey matter. At the sight of the APC, the enemy combatants dropped their weapons and began to run. >“Kill them all! None survive this encounter! Do not let them escape!” John cried, loud enough for the whole battlefield to hear. A chorus of cheers met this, the Kuban soldiers rushing forwards. The fleeing militiamen caught 7.62 and 12.7mm rounds in their backs as they fled. The APC-mounted 120mm mortar barked, launching High-Explosive Airburst munitions into the air. They detonated mid-flight, a hail of shrapnel shredding the fleeing men into pieces. The enemy militia was completely broken. John’s men cheered, firing rounds into the air in celebration. John pulled out a cigar, and lit it. >“Well done, but there’s more! We must go to the next village! Onwards!” John shouted. Another cheer filled the air as John’s men piled into their trucks. They sped off towards the enemy-held village. -Chapter Seven- John’s convoy left behind a plume of dust in its wake, easily spotted in the wide-open plains surrounding the Kuban Airfield. John stared at the airfield; the plateau slightly raised above the massive plains. The skeletons of houses rose into the sky, while hesco barriers and gun emplacements formed a protective ring. He radioed to airbase. >“Knife-blade, Knife-blade, this is Unending Resolve. We’re approaching from the Northeast. Cargo in tow. Repeat, Unending Resolve approaching from Northeast with cargo in tow, over.” John spoke, the radio clicking in response. >“This is Knife-blade, reading you loud and clear. Pull to the rear entrance, Hercules is coming in for a landing, over.” >“Affirmative, Resolve out.” John said as he watched the earth-brown C-130 approach for a landing. --- Anon steps out from the command tent, squinting and shielding his eyes from the bright midday sun. He watched as the C-130 touched down on the dirt runway, it’s four propellers spinning down. A crew of ten or so rush forwards as the massive aircraft slows, placing landing chocks in front of the wheels. The rear cargo door opens, and out rolls 2 ZU-23 AA guns along with massive crates containing, what Anon presumed, munitions for said AA cannons. Anon walks up to the cargo aircraft, spotting Ethan chugging a gallon of Gatorade, Kyle next to him. >“Kyle! Ethan! You guys get my cargo I ordered?” Anon asks. >Ethan finishes his swig, wiping at his mouth before replying, “Yeah, but I dunno what the hell you wanted with all those steel bars.” >“Boss, we making some slat armor for the M113?” Kyle asks. >“Yes and no. Catch a few hours of sleep. I got a job for you guys later.” Anon says before briskly walking away. >“‘Kay, sure thing boss.” Ethan says in-between chugs. >“Wonder what Anon has in mind.” Kyle says to Ethan, “Hopefully it’s not as batshit insane as your ideas.” --- Anon stands at attention as John’s convoy rolls to a stop. John hops out from gunner’s position, as the rest of the men disembark their vehicles. >“John, what’s this cargo you speak of?” Anon asks, looking over the convoy. >“It’s in the GAZ. The village resisted, just as you predicted.” John said, walking alongside Anon, congratulating his men. >“And the men? How did they perform?” Anon questioned. >“They… surpassed expectations.” >“Very good. And the cargo?” Anon asked, turning to the covered GAZ-66 transport. John opened the flap, beckoning the ‘cargo’ inside to come out. >The spoils of conquest step out one by one, all tied together by their hands, 20 in total. Anon inspected each one from head to toe as they stepped out. They all kept their faces down, and stared at the ground. >Turning to John, Anon spoke, “Well done. Gather the other Stars, ask them if they want one. Divide the rest amongst yourself and your men. Reward the ones that performed well.” Turning on his heel, Anon walked away, silently dismissing John. John allowed himself a small smile as he ordered the girls into a line, ‘inspecting’ each one thoroughly. Most were tight. Good. John would enjoy himself tonight. -Three hours later- Anon climbed into the cockpit of the C-130, shaking Ethan awake. >“Whaa~ Oh. ‘Sup, Boss. Whatchu need?” Ethan asks groggily. >“Got your next assignment in the cargo bay.” Anon deadpanned. >“ ‘Kay. I’ll be down innasecond.” -Inside the Cargo bay- >“Got a new project for you guys.” Anon addresses the 4 men. >“We need a structural remake of Herc’ here. Enough for 3 G’s worth of force. Think you can handle that?” Anon asks. >“Sure, but it’ll be awhile before we can fly Herc’.” Ollie says, twirling a wrench in his hand. >“Whadda we gonna do to my baby?” Ethan asks. >“Is this what all those bars were for?” Kyle asks. >“Whatever you say, man.” Michael says. >“Something insane, something no one has ever done before. We’re gonna set a new world record, boys.” Anon says, “Alright, I’ll leave you boys to it. I need to go plan our next incursion.” He snaps a quick salute to the four, who return the gesture. Anon exits via the cargo door as they begin to plan out the refit of the C-130. He watches Tyler leading a formation of soldiers in a run around the base as the sun falls behind a bank of pure-white clouds, casting god-rays throughout the plains. >“It’s time to begin the offensive.” Anon says to himself. He begins his walk from the runway hanger to the command tent, mindlessly stroking weapons crates on the way back. He pauses at a black hard-case that caught his eye. Labeled ‘BGM-71’ on the top, Anon unlocks it, and runs his hands over the slick olive-green tube. >“Oh, yes. The offensive will start tomorrow. No doubt about it.” Anon says. Closing the case, Anon returns to his tent, to find one of the spoils of war tied to his bed, blindfolded. >“Hm? Ah. I’ll have to thank John later for this present.” Anon mentally reminds himself. -Chapter Eight- The early dawn light filtered in through the tent flaps; rays of light fell upon the sleeping forms of Anon and the girl. Kicking off the blanket, he quickly donned his plate carrier and left the tent. Kuban soldiers drilled in the dawn’s light, moving in near-perfect synchronization; new instructors and leaders emerging within themselves. Gazing over the airfield, Anon thumbed his radio, sending a message to the rest of the Stars. >“Emergency meeting in 30 minutes. Report to the Hercules in 30 minutes.” --- John stumbled out of his tent, packing magazines into his plate carrier whilst sprinting to the C-130 sitting on the tarmac. He reached the ramp, where the other 12 Stars of Kuban awaited his arrival. Turning to address the group, Anon began his briefing. >“Now that everyone’s here, lets begin. The Shah is pissed that we ransacked his precious village and checkpoint. He’s been sending threats over every channel, demanding a meeting. We’re going to the meeting. He’s going to try a show of force. He’s going to bring out the big guns. Thanks to Ivan,” Anon nodded to Igor before continuing, >”We know what he’s got. It’s confirmed that he has three BMP-1s, one BMP-2, and one T-72. We know he has access to technicals; you should expect those. Ivan’s buddies says that the Shah owns a civilian Bell 412 helo. We don’t know if he’s put any armaments on it, but I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s quite accustomed to riding around in it; it’s his personal taxi. I’ll leave the next part to Yetzi.” Anon finished. Yetzi stood, and began his part of the briefing. >“Right, I took a look into his financials; the Shah runs all of his money into swiss banks. I have a relative who works there; I asked him to look into his accounts. The Shah is loaded with cash! If we can coerce him into giving us his accounts, I can siphon his funds.” John raised his hand once Yetzi finished speaking. >“Money is all good, but where’s the meeting taking place? What’s our plan to knock out his armor when they show up?” Anon addressed John calmly, choosing his words carefully. >“We’re going to meet with the Shah in 16 hours from now, in the Mekshan Plains. There’s not going to be much cover, so we can’t hide AT in the hills; don’t worry, I have a plan. It’s going to take some effort, so I need everyone’s assistance. Gather your men here in 20 minutes.” ---Mekshan Plains, 1900 hours--- Anon sat in the passenger’s seat of the Toyota truck as they bounced down the uneven dirt track. In the distance sat a large ivory-white tent surrounded by tiki torches, a Bell 412 parked just outside. Pickup truck technicals encircled the tent, in addition to a BMP-1 ready to fire at a moment’s notice. The truck struck a particularly large pothole, Anon’s AKM jumping high enough to strike him in the face. Hamid, Anon’s driver, profusely apologised for hitting the pothole. >“Relax, relax. I’ll be fine.” Anon said, trying to alleviate his worries, “We got bigger things to worry about.” Speaking into the radio, Anon went over the plan again. >“Remember, the Shah is trying to intimidate us. Don’t let him know he’s the one that’s outmatched. John, I want you on my left. Ivan, my right. Chris, stay in the backseat of one of the trucks; if shit goes south, bust into the tent guns blazing, and extract us. I want Starlight on-station for fire support as soon as we get out; level the whole place if you have to. Spectres, you know your job. Kube Actual, out.” --- Khoran leaned against the technical, bored. One of the Shah’s trusted bodyguards, he usually sat in the Shah’s tent, where the Shah’s women tended to him. He looked down at his AK74, playing with the fire-selector in boredom. The gunner in the technical began to hum a tuneless song; something that could barely be heard over the sounds of the crickets. Khoran turned to the stars, looking to find solace in his boredom. The crescent moon was surrounded by stars in amazing clarity; some blinking out occasionally. Almost in a pattern. Khoran began to gaze intently at the stars, straining to see the object blotting out the stars. Black on black, only able to be seen when the stars behind it disappeared. The object crossed over the moon, and Khoran could see the outline clearly. He’d seen one before in Afghanistan. The harbinger of death. A demon of the skies, who rained death on his late comrades. Khoran panickedly reached for his radio, only getting halfway there before a wooden stick wrapped around his throat; strong arms wrestling him to the ground. He saw his gunner being strangled with a garrote in a similar fashion. Men in black, their faces covered. Could they be the mysterious men of Kuban? Khoran began to struggle against his captor. He gasped for air; his windpipe being crushed by the wooden stick. He began to flail desperately. Drawing his bootknife, he stabs his would-be assassin in the thigh, who gives a small yelp of pain. Taking advantage, Khoran shoves the Kuban soldier off, and takes off at a sprint. Khoran had to warn the Shah! The 9x39mm PAB-9 round that entered his spine had other ideas. --- Anon stepped inside the tent entrance, held open by the Shah’s men. After him came Igor and John, their rifles slung over their shoulders. The Shah sat in a luxurious recliner; jewels and gold jewellery adorning it. But what drew the most attention was the metal chains attached to the many women surrounding the recliner. No less than eighteen slaves surrounded the Shah, tending to his every whim. In near-perfect English, the Shah welcomed the Kuban trio. >“Welcome to my humble abode. I hope you three did not find the trip difficult?” He said, one of his slaves handing him a cup of bourbon. >“Now, let us discuss the matter at hand. Your punishment.” He continued; taking a sip of bourbon to punctuate his statement. Both Igor and John tensed ever so slightly; with a flick of his hand, Anon ordered them to relax. The Shah laughed aloud at this display. >“Can you not control your men? Reverting to senseless primal violence already?” the Shah laughed. >“My men are none of your business.” Anon stated, venom dripping from his words. The Shah laughed once more. >“They will be soon! Hand them over, and I may let you live!” He demanded. >“No.” >“You dare…?” The Shah says before laughing again. “Kill them.” Igor and John instantly bring up their rifles, each blowing the head of the nearest Shah guard. The duo mechanically snap to new targets as soon as they fire; many of the Shah’s men fall before they can even unsling their weapons. Anon casually walks towards the Shah, who is dumbfounded at the speed of the two former Operators. The Shah yells for reinforcements; Anon laughs at this. >“Bastard!” The Shah shouts, drawing a gold-plated 1911. He empties the magazine into Anon’s chest, before it stovepipes on the 6th round. He’s tackled by Igor, who begins to beat him into a pulp as John rushes over to Anon. The Shah’s slaves whimper in fear as blows land on their master. John pulls his radio, and shouts thrice. >“Starfall!” >“Starfall!” >“Starfall!” - The old Toyota truck plows through the tent, with Chris at the wheel. >“Get in! Get in!” He shouts. >“Ivan! Get that sonabitch in the bed, now!” John shouts, lifting the bleeding Anon into the bed of the truck. Igor drags the unconscious Shah to the truck, John helping lift him in. John looks towards the Shah’s slaves, who are too frightened to move. >“C’mon, get in if you want to live!” John shouts. Most recoil at his tone, but a few comply and hop into the bed of the truck. Most stand still and exchange glances, debating whether to leave or stay. A hail of 12.7mm round decides for them, Chris gunning the engine. They speed out of the tent, the enemy technical in hot pursuit. More .50 caliber tracers snap past the truck; a deadly laser-like light show. John begins to shout into his radio once more. >“Starlight, Starlight, this is Resolve Actual! Light of Kuban is hit, I repeat, Light of Kuban is hit. We got a technical on our ass, Priority Red! Priority Red!” Another burst of 12.7mm echoes his cry for help. A line of red tracers suddenly rake across the pursuing technical during a burst. One round instantly kills the driver, and the truck flips, crushing the gunner. >“Good shot, Good shot! You scared him off! Wha-” John was cut off by a bright yellow streak passing overhead, followed by a loud ‘WHUMP'. Green tracer fire accompanied the shot, raking the uparmored cabin of the truck, shattering windows. Chris swore loudly, and began to swerve. In mere seconds, another yellow streak flew inches above the truck cabin, a clap of thunder not far behind it. >“Taking fire! Left side! I think it’s the fucking BMP!” John swore, “Starlight, Starlight, the BMP is engaging us! Take it out!” >“Affirmative, routing now.” The BMP launched it’s 9M111 ‘Fagot' ATGM, the rocket motor burning brightly in the darkness. The missile streaked through the air, intent on plowing into the truck. The BMP gunner grinned; they weren’t going to escape from this one. His grin was the last expression he would make, as a 105mm HEAT round entered the the troop compartment, annihilating the IFV. The Kuban Spectre ejects the spent casing from the breech of the recoilless rifle, and loads another in. His radio crackles. >“Starlight to Spectre 4, target destroyed! Rendezvous with Spectre 7, 200m to the East.” Chris whoops in joy; John gives a sigh of relief. They were sure they had escaped certain death. >Until they heard the sound of the helicopter. The truck was bathed in the blinding light of the helicopter’s searchlight, a burst of machinegun fire following soon after. Tracers penetrated the hood of the truck; the engine began to sputter out. Chris began swearing once more; John and Ivan began returning fire with their AKs. The trick sputtered to a stop, the engine dead. Chris desperately tried to restart it, to no avail. Another burst of machinegun fire riddled the engine block; Chris jumped out of the driver’s seat, and began to rummage through the backseat, just in time to avoid yet another burst of fire, this time directed at the cabin windshield. Cresting the hill was the Shah’s personal T-72. >“Starlight Rain! Starlight Rain! Starlight Rain!” John shouted into the radio. Deep in the purple-black abyss known as the sky, an enormous fireball erupted from what seemed like thin air. The 122mm slug screamed through the air; it took the shape of a meteor, a white streak falling from the heavens. It slammed into the dirt a foot away from the T-72, white-hot shrapnel peppering the armor plate of the MBT. For a moment, the battlefield was blanketed in silence. Only the helicopter dared to disturb the quiet; the stalemate between the Kuban and Shah forces. They couldn’t destroy the truck, risking the life of the Shah, but the Kubans had no way to eliminate the Shah armor, or so they thought. A hail of bright green tracers fell from the sky, and 23mm HE-I exploded all around. The stalemate broke in an instant, the helicopter maneuvering side-to-side to avoid the hailstorm of High Explosive, the T-72 moving to crush the truck. John and Igor begin their desperate last stand, firing away whilst Anon tries to slow the bleeding. Chris returns from the backseat of the truck with an RPG-7, launching the rocket at the T-72. Machine gun fire rakes the ground dangerously close to the truck, the Shah’s soldiers unwilling to shoot the truck. The PG-7V round strikes the sloped turret of the T-72, skipping off it, exploding a few meters away. The MBT closes in on the truck. >“FUCK YOU!” Chris shouts, sprinting towards the tank. Under a hail of gunfire from the helicopter, Chris boards the tank. Half a second later, the Bell 412’s rear rotor and tail suffer a explosive remodeling, courtesy of a 23mm HE-T round. Chris tears open the unsecured commander's hatch, revealing a surprised Shah tanker. 2 rounds of .45 ACP enter his skull. The crew are surprised, grey matter splattering everywhere inside the tank turret. Each member of the crew are gifted 2 .45ACP rounds, free of charge, from Chris’s HK Mk23, as an AP slug from the D-74 splashes a yard from the MBT. >“Starlight, Starlight, cease fire! Cease fire! Friendly on the MBT! I repeat, cease fire!” John orders, shouting frantically. The only response is static from his radio. >“Shit! Shit! Chris, fall back! Fall back!” John shouts, jumping down from the bed of the truck. He rip open the passenger door, scrounging for a road flare as another 122mm AP round slams into the dirt, Chris running for his life back towards the truck. >“Fuck! Where is it?” John says irritably, rummaging through spent casings and shards of glass. Having found a green flare, he twists off the cap, igniting it. The flare fizzles to life, a neon green. He begins to wave it over his head, and tosses it in the direction of the T-72. Both John and Chris simultaneously give a sigh of relief as ‘Starlight’ waves off, and 4 captured enemy technicals come roaring down the hill. To be Continued...