Project Gaia : The arrival of humanity

Chapter 34 : Mobilization

"The truth is that you always know the right thing to do. The tough part is doing it."

- Norman Schwarzkopf

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Fort Bliss, Texas. July 20th, 2038. 0600 hours.

The sun hung low in the sky, bathing the sprawling Fort Bliss in golden light. The arid Texas air buzzed with the relentless hum of machinery and the sharp bark of orders echoing across the base. Thousands of soldiers, engineers, and support staff moved like clockwork, each cog in a well-oiled machine preparing for war. Massive M1A2 SEPv4 Abrams tanks sat lined in formation, their angular hulls painted in desert camouflage, glistening under the rising sun. Combat vehicles of every variety-Bradley IFVs, Strykers, MRAPs, M113s-stretched in long rows, their crews performing final inspections.

The vast motor pools were alive with activity. Engineers crouched beneath hulking vehicles, wrenches clinking against steel as they checked suspension systems and engine seals. Armament specialists hauled crates of shells, loading them methodically into the tanks' ammunition racks. Quartermasters barked instructions while overseeing the distribution of gear-rifles, sidearms, NVGs, and protective equipment.

Above it all, the sound of heavy transport helicopters cut across the sky, ferrying personnel and equipment to the staging areas.

The 1st Armored Division, "Old Ironsides," was preparing to cross into an alien world.

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Lieutenant First Class Joe Cooper adjusted his uniform as he strode across the tarmac, his boots striking a confident rhythm against the pavement. Behind him, the din of organized chaos filled the air. He had just come from an intense briefing with the battalion commander, where maps of the colony of New Washington and its surrounding area had been spread across digital displays, and strategies had been etched into every officer's mind.

Ahead, his M1A2 SEPv4 Abrams stood proud, its massive 120mm smoothbore cannon aimed skyward like an unyielding finger of defiance. Perched atop the turret was Staff Sergeant Adam Hampton, the tank's gunner, his arms crossed over his chest.

"About damn time, sir!" Hampton called out, a wry grin on his stubbled face. "Thought you were negotiating peace talks back there or something."

Cooper smirked. "You know me, Hampton. Always trying to save the world one cup of coffee at a time."

They exchanged a brief laugh as Cooper reached the tank, resting a gloved hand on its cold steel plating.

"How's she holding up?" he asked, looking around the crew.

From the side of the hull, Senior Sergeant Marcus Humphrey, the tank's driver, emerged from a crouch. His grease-streaked face broke into a grin. "Engine's purring like a kitten, Lieutenant. Suspension's checked, and the tracks are good to go."

Suddenly, a head popped up from the tank's hatch. Private First Class Caleb Johnston, the loader, had a smear of dust across his forehead and a goofy grin plastered on his face. "All racks are full, sir! You could knock down a castle with what we've got in here."

Cooper chuckled and gave the young private a thumbs-up. "Good work, Johnston. I expect every round to count when the time comes."

With that, Cooper climbed onto the hull and descended into the commander's seat inside the tank. The compartment smelled of oil and metal, and the faint hum of electronic systems filled the air. His hands moved expertly over the controls, checking the CITV (Commander's Independent Thermal Viewer) and the periscope. Screens blinked to life, displaying diagnostics, targeting systems, and fuel levels.