SG Vol. 1 pt. 1 (Patreon)

“We’re fucked! Can’t see shit, can barely breathe, and—”

“Get ahold of yourself! Do you want to give our damn position away? Fuck, shut up and stay alert.”

The men’s voices are muffled from their respirators, and with how dense and warm the smog is, their thermal goggles are barely effective. “Can’t fucking see shit, fuck!” one of the men shouts, pushing his goggles up.

“The hell do you think you’re doing? You know those bastards are going to glow even in these conditions,” the other man asks, constantly swiveling around with his M249 to scan his surroundings. Between hearing his only surviving squad member shouting and swearing, and the sound of gunfire and explosions coming from nearly all directions, he can hardly even hear himself talk.

Seeing is just as difficult as hearing. The reddish smog and burnt trees make it look like they are standing in an alien environment, or even Hell, rather than Northern California.

“Fucking burning up in this! Where the fuck is our extraction?”

“Should be this way. Let’s keep moving.”

“Should be? You mean to fucking tell me you aren’t even fucking sure?!”

“You want to take the lead? You try finding out where the fuck we’re supposed to go. All we have are our compasses.”

A single, stray bullet hits a nearby tree, causing both men to duck and look around.

Fueled by adrenaline, the two survivors continue toward where they hope escape is once they have cleared their surroundings.

The sounds of fighting slowly die out.

The two survivors know what that means. Though, in this case, they feign ignorance.

“Hear that?” the man taking point asks.

“Fuck yeah I do,” the other man answers. The sounds of combat may be all but gone, but now they hear the sounds of helicopters getting ready to take off.

They double their pace and rush toward the helicopters.

“Gotta be pulling out. No way they’d be prepping to leave already,” the lead says.

“No fucking shit. This mission is FUBAR. Brass are fucked in the head to send us here!”

They hear men shouting orders and requesting assistance over radios as soon as they make it through the burnt trees to a clearing where a dozen helicopters are moments from taking off.

A man standing by one of the helicopters beckons the two survivors over when he spots them. Pushing each other out of relieved excitement, the men run over to the helicopter as the first one takes off into the air.

The surrounding area is lit up in bright, red light as a beam of plasma tears through the helicopter as soon as it gets above the trees.

Those aboard the helicopter either have quick deaths as the helicopter explodes almost instantly, or they lose consciousness as a result of going into shock from having their bodies flash-seared. Bodies of the soldiers who wished to escape on the helicopter fall to the ground. The air already had a sulfuric scent, but now the scent of burning corpses reaches anybody nearby. The soldiers’ bodies are covered in third-degree burns to the point where their skin looks like it is melting off of them, their gear is either scorched or on fire, and anything plastic or metal that was in contact with their skin has been fused with them.

Even if a couple of them are still alive, they will not be taken home. There is no medicine that can save them.

“Fuck! Fucking – nobody fucking told us there were Cutter-class here!”

Another helicopter foolishly tries to ascend above the treetops, hoping for a different fate, but two beams of plasma converge on it which destroys it and all of the bodies within it.

“Fuck!”

The man who took the lead reaching the helicopters pushes his fellow survivor out of the way just in time to prevent one of the destroyed helicopter’s blades from impaling him.

Instead, the blade pierces the ground, and they feel an intense heat just from standing near the melting blade.

“Th…thanks,” the saved man tells his partner.

“I’m not going to let you die some idiotic death. If we die here, we die here fighting,” the leader says.

“Fuck, man. You were right. I should have apologized to her before coming out here.”

“Nothing you can do about it now. Try to be less of a fuckup in the next life, alright? I’m tired of always carrying you on my back.”

“Fuck you, bastard.”

“Sorry, bro, but I still don’t roll that way.”

The two try to relax with their usual humor, but all they manage are nervous, frightened smiles and half-hearted chuckles.

“Cover! Incoming!” one of the men near the radios shouts.

The two survivors ready their weapons and use the hot wreckage of a helicopter as cover. It has cooled off enough that they can press against it without burning themselves.

Then they hear the sound that nobody ever wants to hear. It sounds like a horde of elephants is charging toward them just from how loud the invaders are in their movements. The ground shakes, trees are pushed over with ease, and the men’s thermal goggles light up with a line of approaching enemies half as tall as the trees are. There are so many of them and they are so close together that their individual bodies can’t even be made out. It just looks like a wave of intense red is charging toward them.

Even with how hot the environment is, with burning bodies and metal now scattered around, the heat signatures of the enemy are far stronger than their surroundings.

“I’m scared, man.”

“Me too. That’s why we’re going to take as many of these fuckers out as we can.”

The heat signatures grow larger the closer the enemy gets.

With fingers ready on their triggers, they say their final prayers and—

The ground itself explodes from right to left along the line of enemies.

Blood, dirt, wooden splinters, and chunks of flesh get splattered all over the area. One of the enemy’s heads, disfigured from the explosive force of the 30mm round that tore through its head, lands nearby.

A whole two seconds after the enemy line was decimated, the loud, buzzing sound of the bullets’ source reaches their ears.

The sound of jet engines getting closer is almost drowned out by all of the men cheering for their savior.

It’s hard to see exactly what it is that saved them, but when three beams of plasma all shoot at their savior and are masterfully evaded, the sky is lit up just long enough for them to see it.

The A-10C Versatile Strike Unit.

Swift maneuvering keeps the A-10C VSU safe from suffering a direct hit from the beams of plasma, but one of them scores a glancing hit on the machine’s leg.

The GAU-8 Avengers built into the machine’s arms point at the source of the plasma beams, start spinning, and unleash destruction against the faraway targets.

Those men on the ground can only watch on in awe and excitement as they know that their hated enemy is currently getting torn to shreds.

Two more A-10C VSUs arrive and assist the first one in decimating its targets.

Several more beams shoot toward them which prompts a break of formation as the three machines spread out and advance to hunt down their enemies.

“Fuck yeah! Brrtt brrtt motherfuckers!” one man shouts, but the celebrating gets cut short.

“Hostiles! Finish them off!” another man shouts.

While the original strafing run destroyed most of the enemy forces that were approaching the clearing, some are still alive and approaching even with half of their bodies destroyed.

But, rather than face frightened men who knew they were going to die, now the enemy faces inspired humans not wanting to be outdone by their saviors in the sky.

If it is possible for humanity’s enemy to be afraid, now is the time for them to feel fear.

…

“Fourteen Cutter-class left!”

“Distress calls coming in from every – aagh! Damn! Fucker got my left arm!”

I look to the right and see the left arm from one of my wingmen falling to the ground.

This isn’t good. Intel didn’t report any Cutter-class in the region.

There just always has to be something wrong.

“Hog 3, handle those distress calls. Hog 2, on me. We’re taking out the rest of those Cutter-class,” I order.

Hog 3, with his one remaining arm, heads out to help our ground forces while Hog 2 and I have a dance with the fuckers trying to shoot us down.

I feel bad for the poor bastards who had to try and take these fuckers down in planes.

“Five Flak-class spotted!” Hog 2 shouts into her headset.

Fuck.

First Cutter-class, now Flak-class?

“Skim the trees and don’t stop moving,” I order.

There’s no time for her to respond to my order as dozens of plasma beams explode above us, blasting our VSUs downward and almost crashing us into the trees.

“Ammo check?” I ask.

“Twenty-three percent!” Hog 2 shouts. She sounds like she’s struggling.

“Get ready for CQC.”

We reach our targets.

There’re no escorts, so they must be emergency reinforcements.

Easy targets.

I raise my VSU’s right hand to grab the handle of the blade currently folded inside of the VSU’s right shoulder.

Pulling the handle out, the blade unfolds into a sword twelve meters in length designed specifically for cutting through the ugly bastards in front of me. There’s no need to use the autocannons when up close like this. These bastards are too afraid of hurting themselves and each other.

“Enjoy this, Hog 2. You don’t get opportunities like this too often,” I tell her, using my VSU’s jets to propel me toward the first enemy to slash my sword through.

I can only see their grotesque outlines on the screens in front of me since I’m relying on thermal imaging, but that’s all I need to cut these bastards down.

“Quick cuts. You don’t want your sword getting overheated,” I remind her.

Now this is fun.

How do you like this, you bastards? You stay in the back and kill our men like pathetic, cowardly little bitches, and now you’re getting sliced to shreds!

You should all be thankful that there are others still in need of our help. If there weren’t, I’d be sure to take my time and enjoy carving you up.

Fucking bastards.

Hot blood sprays onto my unit’s head which obstructs the cameras.

The temptation to take my time finishing off the last of these monsters is growing.

“First Lieutenant!” Hog 2 screams.

I turn to the left and see the only Flak-class left aiming at me.

With all of its little friends here dead, it can shoot at me without worrying about hurting them.

Five spots on its body glow bright on my screen as it readies to fire.

I point my left arm at it and fire the autocannon built into it.

My gun is faster.

Those five spots start cooling down as the bastard falls to the ground, hundreds of holes torn through its body.

“That’s all of them. Let’s go,” I say.

“Cop—higyaaaaaaa!”

I spin around and see a beam of plasma cutting right through her chest – through her cockpit.

“It – it burns! Pl-please! Save me! Fir-First Lieutenant! Agghhh! It burns! Please! I don’t want to – I don’t want to—” she screams.

I shoot the core of her unit.

There was no saving her, and it’s better to die quickly than to burn alive.

Her screams are cut off and her unit falls to its knees.

Next to her is the bastard that she thought she killed, looking up at me and recharging to try and kill me as well. The cut into its neck is too shallow to have killed it.

You fucking dumbass. How many fucking times was it drilled into your head to confirm every kill? I can’t fucking watch your every move. This should have been easy.

I walk up to the bastard and bring the foot of my unit crushing down onto its head, pulverizing it.

“The Cutter-class and Flak-class here are dead. Status, Hog 3?” I ask.

No answer.

“Hog 3?” I repeat. We need to hurry up and pull back. More reinforcements are on the way and we won’t be able to handle them.

“Sorry! I’m – I’m here,” Hog 3 says after a few moments of radio silence. “Just… just a bit shaken up after hearing her—”

“Shaken up? The fuck do you think this is? Get over yourself and answer me when I ask you a question,” I scold him. I was on my way to his last position, but since he’s fine, I’ll go back to covering our ground forces’ escape now that they won’t get sniped out of the sky.

“Copy.”

There’s no room in this war for people who get shaken up.

Idiocy like Hog 2’s and getting shaken up is how you die. This is why new pilots don’t belong on the front lines.

I return to where those helicopters I did the strafing run for were.

“Hog 1 to Owl 5. You alright over there? Over,” I ask over the comms.

I don’t get a response, but I don’t need one. I’m already where I left them.

Every last one of them is dead.

The helicopters are having any and all metals eaten by Forager-class, and the bastards who aren’t breaking down the helicopters are eating the corpses of the soldiers.

I zoom in on the dead.

That one guy who I saw cheering louder than any others is hanging from the left side of his body inside of the mouth of a Forager-class.

This mission is already over. The primary objective was a failure, intel fucked us, and now all that is left to do is return to base.

It doesn’t matter if I use the rest of my ammo on killing these bastards.

“We’re the last ones to leave,” Hog 3 says over the comm link, stopping next to me as my autocannons finish spinning.

All of the Forager-class here are dead.

I look up at Hog 3 and see bites marks all over his unit’s legs.

Both of our units are covered in the blood of our enemies at this point.

“You know if anybody made it out of here?” I ask him.

“Only a couple helicopters made it out, sir. This operation was fucked,” Hog 3 answers.

Yeah. Fucked. That’s one way of describing losing thousands of good men that we can’t afford to lose for nothing.

“Let’s get back to Bragg,” I order.

“Copy.”