March 10th, 2025. Dimension 24, Outside The Republic's Capital. Plateau M-23.
High above the fortified plateau, elements of naval taskforce Smith cruise through the heavy cloud layer forming over the Capital city. Drones, laden with explosives, are thrown over the sides of the destroyers and plummet towards the ground. They extend their wings upon breaking through the cloud cover. Directing themselves toward a field located a few miles from M-23. They fly low enough to start grazing the trees around the field until smashing into their targets, turning one side of the field into an inferno. After the strike, Taskforce Smith receive a confirmation from an out of breath radio man.
PARROT: Affective hits on targets. Enemies still Oscar Tango moving up to AP Foxtrot Golf. Bring em closer.
Another wave of drones strike very close to their position, engulfing the hapless Republican scouts in a liquefied fire. The radio operator receives a firm slap to his helmet.
WYTE: Target the outer perimeter, you bring those in any closer, you'll fry us!
Parrot relays the commander's orders, while Wyte breaks from the tall grass toward another foxhole. Almost immediately getting peppered by small arms fire. He continues to limp his way toward the eastern holes, until he collapses into his intended destination. A frantic machine gun crew jolt at their commander falling limp into their position. Wyte shakily props himself up against the foxhole's wall, and un-holsters his sidearm.
WYTE: Is the gun out!
He shouts toward the crew as a Republic Gatling gun opens up to suppress their positions. A soldier repeatedly pulls back the charging handle on his M240, and responds to the commander in a panic.
GUNNER: I-It's Jammed sir! Rounds won't feed!
The charging handle then gets stuck in the rearward position, causing the crew to begin beating the handle forward. Wyte breathes a haggard sigh and shoots himself. He then materializes near the gun and rips it from the gunners hand. Only to discover that the cover won't come off. He scans the gun, finding it was an old model converted to fire 7.62x57. A feeling of realization falls upon his shoulders. He fumbles over the cover again until find a small button which pops open the cover, revealing the belt feed system was out of place.
WYTE: Did you fucking drop this?!
The gunner meekly nods his head. The commander begins to swear up a storm in response as he draws his revolver and beats the system back into place with it's grip. He holsters the colt, slamming the cover close, and chambering a round. Then throwing it into the hands of the gunner. Wyte then jolts from the hole back to the radioman, on his way back grabbing the rifle he dropped. Sliding back in, he rips the radio from the operator.
WYTE: Mac! Give me a fucking update!
He ducks down and begins firing at a new Republican charge.
MAC: 20 mikes!
Wyte ducks further in the hole when the Gatling gun kicks up dirt around them.
WYTE: You have 5!
He thrusts the radio back to the operator.
WYTE: Tell M23, near breaking, HE required.
PARROT: What of Smith, Sir?!
WYTE: Enemy's too close for cruise missiles. Carry out the order dammit.
Parrot calls in the strike mission upon the ever closing contingent of foe. A recognizing howl from incoming rounds sound out over them. Until plumes of dirt and shrapnel pound down in front of them. A faint layer of smoke begins to encompass the line, due to the amount of shells landing on the field. Wyte suddenly gets a chill from behind.
YOU ARE READING
Hells Bells
Ficção CientíficaHey you, Yes you! Do like traveling, adventure, getting 50% discounts at Applebee's, and possible fighting in horrific conflicts that will break your mental fortitude and make you possibly witness horrors mankind has created that are well beyond you...
