Eight

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The front line of Russian troops held their position as best they could as the Martial Alliance forces relentlessly tried to push past the Russian border. The Americans were coordinated and well-trained, but the Russians were tough, experienced, and great in number. The two sides seemed evenly matched.

The Russians were some of the few penguins remaining who stood a chance against the Alliance. Throughout the Alliance's attack of Europe and Asia, the Russians had stood their ground and fought off any attempts at invasion, but now their country was one of the only free nations remaining, which meant the Alliance was focusing the majority of its manpower and firepower on them.

Thirty Russians were killed by a barrage of rockets. The Alliance soldiers took the opportunity to try to break the line, but the Russians repelled them. At this rate, neither side was getting anywhere fast.

As the Russians continued with all their strength to keep the Americans at bay, a faint roaring sound came closer and closer until a fleet of American jets appeared on the horizon and sent a shower of missiles down on the Russian troops. Fire erupted all around. The air became hot and filled with the smell of burning bodies.

The Martial Alliance soldiers let out a cry of triumph and advanced as the disoriented Russians tried to recuperate from the missile attack and keep fighting. The Russians began to lose. They had lost heart after losing so many soldiers so suddenly. They dreaded the moment when the next airstrike would come.

Still, the Russians fought on. Though weakened and discouraged, they stubbornly fought off any further advance by the Americans. They would not be slain easily, and they did not intend for the deaths of their comrades to be in vain.

But then the distant roaring could be heard again. Nearly all the Russians let out a wail of despair as they awaited their inevitable demise. Another airstrike would cripple their defenses, and the Americans would march freely into their land.

The jets approached. Though barely in sight, the Russians were filled with terror at the sight of them. Still, they held their ground. They were no cowards, and they would die honorably no matter what. The Americans began to laugh and jeer at their doomed enemies, but it made little difference. The Russians would die with pride.

Then, just as the jets were about to fire, a barrage of missiles was launched from the opposite direction and many of the aircraft went up in flames. Explosions filled the sky like fireworks, and the damaged jets that didn't detonate in midair came crashing down on the American ground troops. The remaining aircraft quickly retreated before more damage could be done.

The Russian army let out a joyous cry of relief. But they wondered: Who had saved them? They had not called in any air support, so who was it that had come to their aid? They got their answer when an armada of Antarctican jets and gunships flew overhead and began to engage the American ground troops as the Russians cheered them on. Three thousand Antarctican soldiers parachuted down beside their Russian allies to assist them in engaging the Alliance. After a year and a half of not supporting other countries in their defense against the Americans, Antarctica had finally come to its fellow free country's aid.

The Antarctican soldiers shouted in exhilaration, thrilled at being on the battlefield once again after so long. One thing the Russians and Antarcticans had in common was that they both loved a good fight.

The Martial Alliance gave ground. The combined Russian and Antarctican forces were too many to handle without air support.

"We're overrun!" an American soldier cried over the radio transmitter. "We need help!"

"We will not provide more air support at this time," a radio operator sitting safely in an Alliance military base in Ukraine replied. "We can't afford to waste all our aircraft on a single battle, and the arrival of the Antarcticans was completely unexpected."

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