Vietnam, two klicks outside Bến Cát.

0500 Hours, January 31st, Third Era.

Distant gunfire crackled like New Years fireworks on the horizon, rolling over the verdant hills of Vietnam’s southern territories. The sound of small arms fire was a strange phenomenon that eerily telegraphed itself off the surrounding topography to create warping echoes of its original profile. These distorted echoes made measuring distance difficult. Explosions were even worse, lost in translation as barely booming noises scattered to the humid winds. Only when they closed on the combat could they begin to piece together the theater of sound. Automatic machine gun fire and american ordnance.

Distant explosions heralded more just ahead. Mortar fire. The jungle broke apart, splintering trees into shards of lumber that impaled less fortunate Viet Cong soldiers. Bullets cracked past as the impression of a trenchline concealed muzzle flashes, illuminating the darkness. Hidden amongst the forestry was a base, layered with wooden pillboxes reinforced with sandbag walls, watch towers and breastwork. The exterior trench network bristled with emplacements all bearing their guns in a north-western direction towards the advancing Viet Cong. English voices barked orders, summoning soldiers forward and retreating others.

The hastily built fortress, only meant as a forward operating base towards the Cambodian border, was fast falling to the waves of Vietnamese assaulting their bastion. But not without inflicting significant losses on the enemy. Engines flared to life as transport trucks wheeled around to the south end of the base. The wounded and the weary were being loaded first, one by one ferried into the safety of the transport trucks. The haggard American soldiers directing the convoy towards the road frantically waved their hands.

“Faster,’ They screamed, “Faster! Load em’ up!”

Drel settled onto one knee, hefting the length of her weapon onto her shoulder. A hand braced against the top half of her launcher while the other found the grip, nestling her index finger into the trigger guard. One cheek leaned into the shaft of it, eyes squinting to perceive her target through the optic. Meduza reeled the rocket out of Drel’s backpack, sinking it into the receptacle at the front of the tube. It slid through with a hiss and fixed with a clink of metal. She steadied her breathing, compensating for distance by lifting the nose of her launcher slightly above her target. One eye closed and her index finger caressed the trigger.

“Clear back blast.” Drel said calmly.

“Back blast clear!” Baran replied…

Like breath breaking through gritted teeth the RPG spat out the warhead at blistering speeds. And like a frustrated exhale and whistle it passed over their heads, zipping across the blackened battlefield in a matter of finite seconds. Drel saw the driver’s head turn, watching the rocket soar into the engine block, causing it to both explode and implode outwards in an ugly fireball. Smoke plumed and shrapnel sprung from the vehicle. The soldiers who weren’t immediately thrown from the explosion sought cover. Drel smiled, her demented obsession satiated… For now. With the column stopped and the escape rendered nearly impossible the Americans turned their guns towards them. All according to plan.

Myslitel, strategically offset to one flank of her team, saw them swarm and direct their fire at her squad. Her Dragunov pressed hard into the tree she hid against, silhouetting herself behind it. With her scope magnified in the four times she could see the unsettled expressions of each American highlighted by their own muzzle flashes. Their bursts were just long enough for her to acquire a target and coat the trenches with their gray matter. The Dragunov sniper rifle was a bestial thing with a pinging bang every time a round was expelled from the chamber. Myslitel handled its recoil well, firing once every handful of seconds to minimize her presence.

The Viet Cong breached the defenses of the base, wiping into the trenches to sow chaos among the American ranks. Meduza ordered her squad forward with Krovo as the spear’s tip. Byk threw herself to the jungle floor, twenty steps behind Krovo. A hand whipped out, knocking the bipod kickstand forward so she could leverage her RPD against the dirt. She took a second to adjust the belt feed of ammunition before she spanned the trench to either side of Krovo with a blanket of fire for her to advance alongside. It was enough to keep their opposition docile and unaware.

The gritty war veteran, left with an insatiable thirst for carnage, was unleashed on their enemies. Krovo rushed the trenchline, ripping a grenade from her person as she was about to reach it. She bit down on the pull ring, ripping it free before releasing the lever to pitch it underhand with a little bit of float.

“Grenade! Get fucking clear!” One officious voice yelped as the grenade rattled into the trench beside him.

Another explosion erupted, flameless and smokeless, save for the dirt and dust. The pop was enough to sew panic, even if it didn’t devastate their numbers. The ringing in their ears was still fresh when Krovo descended into the trench. Her Kalashnikov, complete with a folding stock for maneuverability, easily out performed their American standard issues in close quarters. She hit the far wall, pressing up against the wooden retainer on the opposite side then she drew on the first Yordle she saw, cutting into her chest with an abundance of rounds that sent her stumbling into the mud. Before she could even register the overkill she was turning, training her sights on the next target. She painted a line of crimson along the next Yordle’s abdomen, aiming further along the trench to shoot the next one down, and the one after that - clearing this section of networking in a matter of heartbeats.

Baran leapt over the channel after Krovo had slaughtered her way along it, gripping his wire cutters to separate a hole through the exterior barbed wire that sought to stifle their advance. It came undone with ease and he made his way to the sandbag wall that prevented a view deeper into the base. The moment he crested the facade he was pumping the action on his shotgun. He rounded a corner, stepping down into a dugout occupied by a radio operator sat at his station.

“This is Outpost Lima-Three to Saigon, we are unable to retreat at this time! Requesting reinforcements to our position, how copy?!” He twisted the dial frantically, attempting to clear the static.

“I repeat--” The barrel of Baran’s shotgun braced against his spine, giving him a few brief seconds to realize and contemplate before his lungs were scattered across the equipment he worked with. A jagged hole bore through his chest where his heart used to beat, his corpse creaking against the wooden chair as he collapsed forward onto the desk. Baran pumped the action a second time, showering the radio in buckshot.

Baran turned to see Meduza pick off three soldiers. She slid to cover behind a sandbag just before a volley came back in her direction, plugging a new magazine into her Kalashnikov. She stood and strafed, weapon pointed and tightly pressed against her shoulder. A burst of rounds killed another defiant American hunkered in his mortar pit. She continued around, flanking fast to down another exposed Yordle. Then she was pressing her advantage, pistol drawn for the last of the trio defending the emplacement. A male rose just as she got to the edge of the pit, his own Colt swinging up to contest Meduza. The golden oak leaf on his uniform marked him out as a Major, how ironic. She threw herself to one side, landing on her back. The maneuver gave her just enough time to aim and shoot before the American Major could, punching three rounds into his clavicle with Duuga’s pistol. Today he was her sword, not her shield.

The American remnants, fortunate enough to have survived the assault, fled into the jungle, leaving the Viet Cong victorious. But celebrations were delayed, this was one objective before the last. Preparations were swift and reserves were brought forward. The bulk of their forces, composed of North Vietnamese and Viet Cong, were joined by North Korean pilots.

Myslitel watched them boom overhead in Mikoyan model twenty-ones. Soviet jets capable of supersonic speeds gifted to the Koreans by their Russian benefactors. The Koreans flew them well. She briefly imagined herself in that seat, behind the scopes, radars and control surfaces - hand gripping the stick and finger hovering over the trigger. Myslitel had always been a fanatic for aircraft. Even as a child she found them fascinating. The biplanes of the first World War and the Props of the second felt ancient in comparison to their mighty jet powered MiGs.

She squinted past the canopy, looking between the breaks in the leaves to see a full squadron of them climb and break. She followed the furthest duo along as they inverted, belly up and dove, releasing their payloads. Anti-aircraft missiles emerged from the horizon but their countermeasures were deployed just in time to see them go wide. The red gleam of their flares burned brightly in the moonlit sky only to be scattered by titanic explosions that sent a dying wave of energy sweeping through the jungle, powerful enough to disturb the loose leaves on the ground. Myslitel awed at the devastation they wrought, feeling the afterhand of it as the earth shook beneath her feet.

“Myslitel.” A husky voice called out to her. Her fascination broke away, eyes adjusting to the dark around her to spot Byk. “Regroup.” Myslitel jogged to join the woman, half glancing at the looming fire in the south.

They arrived to see Meduza and the rest of Black Bheka knelt around a map with a lamplight shone over it. It was a map, not of topography but of an urban complex. A city. The worn parchment was dotted and exed with marker. Objectives had been written along the edges, slashed through with lines as each was completed. Meduza drew a line through the second to last that read, “Capture Ben Cat, establish forward operating base.” Then she circled the next objective, “Infiltrate American Embassy in Saigon, retrieve intel, extract.”

“Listen closely. The American Embassy is one of several strongpoints in Saigon, there will be heavy resistance. Viet Cong insurgents in the city have likely already broken the ice. We infiltrate the compound with the aid of our two en-vee-ay battalions, we secure the Chancery Building and grab any intel we can get our hands on - then we hit the villa and capture the Coordinator if possible. After that we extract via the night gate on the east side of the compound. Any questions?”

“You said ‘likely’,” Krovo began, “We have no confirmation on if they’ve breached the Embassy or not?”

“Well…” Meduza said…

Earlier That Night in Saigon

“Buu Li Tran?” He read the name aloud, eyeing the false identification with some uncertainty. It was passable, but something about it read awkwardly.

The man who would be Bao thrust the card against his chest with a smile. “Your new identity.” Bao tucked the card into his shirt pocket, patting it into place.

“Why the fake surname?” He asked, leaning back against the hood of the car.

“Just in case we have to speak to the authorities.” Bao gathered his equipment, stepping into the backroom of the auto repair shop.

Buu digressed, looking about the repair floor to the other nineteen Sappers. This place belonged to a cousin of Bao’s, only five blocks down from their target, it was inconspicuous and the perfect staging ground for something like this. Like all the moments before an operation Buu’s stomach churned with butterflies. The same feeling he’d had when confronting his first crush in primary school. He looked down to the rifle in his hand, a Russian SKS from the second World War. His ears pinned back against his head as he felt along the warped wood of the derelict rifle. It was enough to calm his nerves for the moment.

Buu was a part of the C-10 Sapper Battalion, an elite group of Viet Cong engineers operating in the southern reaches of Vietnam. And this was his Sapper corps. Or, to be specific, it was Bao’s Sapper corps. He liked to imagine he was a close second to Bao, a successor should his superior ever fall in battle. He spoke briefly to Bao about why they were undertaking such a mission. And he was surprised to learn the initiative didn’t source from their own command staff. A group of Russian specialists from the Soviet Union commissioned them to open a way into the Embassy on the first night of the Tet Offensive.

They had been honored to receive such an order. Not all of Viet Cong was aligned with the communist agenda, but Buu and their Battalion prided themselves on their devotion to communist ideals. To know that their skill set as demolitionists was so renowned that the Mother Land’s very own fighters picked them to spearhead this operation was nothing short of amazing. Bao mentioned meeting these specialists in person if their mission were successful. Even more incentive for them to complete their objective.

Bao returned a moment later with his Type-56 in hand, a Chinese modified Kalashnikov from the red world over. His presence was enough to mobilize the Sappers, organizing themselves into their vehicles. Buu took the wheel of the Peugeot, turning the key over to start the engine. Bao lifted the garage door and he eased on the gas, starting the two-car convoy out of the repair shop. Bao closed it down again and leapt into the passenger seat. Buu checked his rear view, spying the yellow Taxi roller immediately behind them.

“All set?” Bao asked.

Buu took a deep breath in. “All set.”

“Let’s go.”

Buu killed the headlights and drove on down the road. Normally Saigon after midnight was a lively city. American garrison troops did their rounds at the local bars, prostitutes kept them company and nightlife businesses made their money. But not tonight. The far off sounds of battle kept everyone on edge. The swingers were hunkered in their townhomes and the soldiers, both American and South Vietnamese, stood vigilant on the periphery of the capital. The butterflies still quaked in his stomach. Buu was a young man, not at all afraid to lay down his life for his country. But he couldn’t help but feel insignificant with the Offensive raging on the border.

They came around the intersection, turning onto Thong Nhut Boulevard, one of the primary circuits of Saigon’s city infrastructure. It was a wide street and a long street, running across most of Saigon. Any establishment on its borders was guaranteed more business and attention than anywhere else in the city. The tall, white concrete building, walled off by an eight foot tall stone bulwark, gleamed like a beacon of modern and oppressive American architecture in the middle of Saigon. Along its exterior was a lattice of small slit windows, akin to murder holes on the outside of a castle fortress. It was shaped something like a suitcase, longer than it was wide and with an outcropping on the roof that supported a helicopter pad.

Police posts hugged the Embassy compound wall, but were strangely unmanned. As Buu made his way along Thong Nhut he spied an armed military policeman doing his rounds. Normally a pair of vehicles without headlights would be cause for alarm, but whether by choice or ignorance, he didn’t stop them. A sigh of relief left the Yordle as he continued past. The metal gate, covered by an awning that ran over a walkway to the front of the Embassy, was locked and guarded by four more Vietnamese policemen. Every Sapper prepared for a confrontation, letting their weapons hang out of the open windows.

Buu kept a steady foot on the gas, near defenseless with his hands on the wheel. The four guardsmen didn’t bother posturing at all when they saw them. They owed no allegiance to the United States or their embassy and they were clearly outgunned. Bao and Buu gawked as they fled. It was a wise but cowardly move. They pulled across the sidewalk beside the south-eastern corner of the Embassy compound wall. This was almost too easy. While the satchel charges were prepped Buu stepped out of the vehicle, rifle in hand to scan the area.

His eyes magnetized to the British Embassy building directly across from their target objective. It was much taller and foreboding than its democratic cousin with the look of an apartment complex and an office tower combined. Then he glanced toward the French Embassy adjacent to the American one. He figured the military policemen were patrolling the entire block, then. He turned to see Bao lifting his rifle, a look of concern washing over his features. Buu looked along the length of wall on the eastern side of the Embassy to see two figures standing outside the night gate. Before he could identify them a bullet cracked past his head. Not but a second later and something dampened his face, forcing a flinching reaction toward the wall. He hugged it, returning fire. Before he could come online with his marksman rifle the pair of figures retreated into the safety of their compound and closed the gate behind them.

He gathered himself and finally spun, wiping the ichor from his furred visage. A corpse lie in the darkness, splayed out on the concrete in a puddle of its own blood. He didn’t dare look further, craning away just in time to see the satchel charge had been primed.

“Get clear!” They screamed, and Buu got clear, racing along the compound wall to distance himself from the explosion.

He hunkered and another Sapper followed, placing a hand on his shoulder once they had exceeded the blast radius. “Are you hit?” Bao shouted.

Buu blinked, his surprise only suspended due to the intensity of the situation. “N-No… I’m fine.” He stammered, tightening the plaid scarf turned bandanna around his forehead.

The detonation of their satchel charge made him flinch again. Bao leapt up with an invigorated aura about him, Kalashnikov in hand. The breach was low to the ground and only about two feet tall. Enough to squeeze through on their belly. Buu would have questioned the placement of the charge if he’d seen it go down. Bao was among the first to reach it, kneeling and then laying down to crawl through the gap. He heard American voices call out before a hail of gunfire pelted the opposite side of the wall.

“Shit! Bao! Bao!” He screamed, stooping to wedge his rifle into the gap.

Two military policemen, the same men he’d failed to kill, slaughtered Bao and two other Sappers. Buu aimed his rifle, firing center mass. The first American collapsed. Another Sapper, Duc from the looks of it, followed up with a volley that felled the other policeman. The rest of the Sappers expended their ammunition on the Chancery, blowing apart windows with RPGs and automatic gunfire. An ultimately pointless endeavour given the reinforced mixture of concrete they’d used in its construction.

Before Buu could even realize they were without an officer a pair of headlights shone on them from behind. A jeep responding to a distress call carried more policemen to the scene. Without hesitation the Sappers turned their guns on them, shattering the windshield to drench both the driver and passenger in hot lead. Buu could hardly contain his nerves.He delayed his fight or flight instincts as the mantle of leadership was thrust upon him so suddenly. He knew he’d have to lead, they expected it of him. The Sappers- his Sappers, looked to him for guidance amidst the chaos. He recognized their uncertain glares as they kept themselves busy firing on the Chancery building.

His lack of experience had never been more apparent, but to save face he gave an order. An order he wouldn’t live to regret. “Move into the garden and hold your positions!”

Vietnam, Saigon.

0900 Hours, January 31st, Third Era.

Thunk! Krovo watched them scatter like household pests to a can of bugspray as their hole was hammered by mortar fire. She was eager to proceed but knew that softening up their prey made the kill that much easier. She liked it difficult sometimes, she liked a challenge. But other times she liked it easy and indiscriminate. Like a predator delights at seeing a defenseless animal. Their North Vietnamese counterparts were well trained in the art of guerrilla warfare, putting their stolen mortar from earlier this morning to good use against their enemies. GIs, that’s what they referred to the Americans as. A fitting name considering they fought with all the plastic charm of toy soldiers.

She saw them clearly now thanks to the sun’s timely arrival. Their opposition strategically held buildings along Thong Nhut Boulevard in a futile attempt to cordon off the Embassy district. Their first obstacle was a stubborn machine gun nest dug into a cafe turned road checkpoint. The glass storefront, now shattered, was lined with sandbags. The ‘T’ intersection it purveyed had been fortified with tank traps to prevent traffic in this area of Saigon. As such an influx of civilian vehicles were left abandoned in the wake of the invasion. Smoking carcasses abound as rubble from devastated buildings leaked out onto the boulevard, leaving mounds of broken stone as cover for their advance. Shell holes and cracks in the pavement from strategic bombing and artillery harassment provided secondary and tertiary options as well.

Meduza brushed past Krovo, stealing the binoculars from her hands. “How many?” She asked.

“Not enough.” Krovo grinned.

Her magnified view of the Boulevard gave her perspective. Further along were other entrenched positions, soldiers and even a Sheridan supporting the rear. With two battalions worth of NVA at their backs Krovo’s statement was more than truthful. She looked along the Embassies, scanning across the American Chancery and then the British consulate. A sudden glinting in one of the windows caught her attention, and just in time, too. With hardly a blink she stepped to one side, pushing Krovo onto the ground. A distant pop followed by a whipping crack cut past her right ear.

“Litel!” Meduza hollered.

“I see em’.” Myslitel called back, pulling her rifle from its sling as she worked her way into the blown out office building just beside them.

Her feet crunched against glass and broken stone that echoed through the vacant lobby. Scattered papers that read earnings reports for the company were abandoned on the stairway that led up into the office floors. She slid a new magazine into her Dragunov adjusting the scope’s magnification for long distance counter sniping. The Sheridan tank at the end of the street, now confident in its zeroing, sent a shell in their direction. Simply a prelude to the inevitable assault that was to come. The mortar still rained on their defensive positions, adjusting and readjusting for new targets as American infantry continued falling back.

Myslitel found a nice office desk to rest her rifle somewhere on the eighth floor, stretching her backpack across it for further cushioning. She made sure to disguise her silhouette, getting low against the table. She spied the window where their shooter had first made his presence known. The darkened interior of the building he hid within made it difficult, but she quickly realized he had moved. A smart sniper. She scanned along the western face of the Consulate, one window at a time.

“Mnn…” She hummed with uncertainty, gripping her radio. “Byk, make some noise for me, this guy’s playing chicken.”

Two floors down Byk had set up with her heavy machine gun, bipod and all with a similar song and dance to her ally above. One hand rested on the length of her stock while the other gripped around the trigger. She scanned the streets, looking toward a squad of South Vietnamese officers in particular. They were tucked safely behind the corner of a building. Byk waited for a half second before she let off a prolonged volley of gunfire in their direction, clipping one just before they managed to retreat. Without hesitation she packed up and started towards the stairway.

Myslitel watched the Sheridan on street level pause, adjust and fire, sending a shell into the building below her where Byk would’ve been. That concerned her little. What drew her attention was movement on the fifth floor of the British Consulate building. The sniper made himself an easy target, settling against the window instead of deeper into the room. He had armed himself with an American M14, likely converted for marksman specifications given its eight times mounted scope. She inhaled, dialed in her own magnification and compensated for bullet drop.

“Two hundred meters…” She whispered to herself.

The shot was of little consequence at this range. And her confidence wasn’t misplaced. Her finger eased on the trigger, following up after that with a pair of shots in quick succession. The first bullet sunk into his stomach, the second lodged itself in the base of his neck and the third was a clean headshot. Red mist filled the window frame as each high powered round pushed the marksman further into the room until he collapsed against the far wall.

“Black Actual, sniper is taken care of. We’re clear to proceed. Over.” Myslitel radioed.

Meduza didn’t hesitate to give the order, summoning their Vietnamese allies forward. Bheka regrouped at the base of the office building, still protected by the berm of rubble that had built on one half of the street in front of them. The Sheridan opened up with its pintle and coaxial, cutting down the first wave of infantry that so boldly swarmed the Boulevard. Meduza felt no alarm at sacrificing their lives for this maneuver.

“Baran, you’re on point! Drel, be ready with the launcher.” Meduza declared, sprinting across the road and into an alley that took them a block over.

Baran, shotgun at the ready, turned the next bend - heading back east parallel with the main assault. Meduza’s plan was simple but effective. Use the alleys and backstreets to flank the Sheridan and neutralize it. The early morning light had trouble shedding its ray into the crevices of Saigon’s arteries, leaving them shrouded in shadow. So much so that it became a few degrees cooler when they bypassed the main line of American defenses. Their pace slowed as Baran proceeded cautiously ahead, taking measured steps with an ear around every corner.

The moment he took the next corner he was met with gunfire. Rounds went licking off the stone beside him, sending him spinning to safety. “I swear this only happens when I take point.” He sighed.

Krovo strafed past, Kalashnikov blazing until she met the opposite corner in this fourway alley intersection. Three American Joes used dumpsters and crates as cover. Krovo peeked, tapping through the wooden crate to silence one soldier behind it before they could retaliate. Byk followed up with a hail of automatic fire that kept them complacent long enough for Baran to rush the pinned down American fighters. He rounded the dumpster and point-blanked the poor Yordle, spreading viscera across the wall behind her like abstract artistry. Then his bayonet was coming off the hip as he circled on the last soldier, batting his gun aside to sink his blade deep into the Yordle’s clavicle. His ears wilted and the life faded from his eyes.

Drel stomped her way toward the mouth of the alley, rocket already hilted into the tube. Krovo followed at her flank, covering her vulnerable advance after slamming a new magazine into her weapon. The exposed and unaware side of the Sheridan tank was now available to them. Drel was giddy with excitement at finally getting to blow something else up. She wasted precious little seconds squeezing the trigger. Her target: The ammo rack. A mere second of travel time passed before the connecting clang of her armor-piercing high-explosive rocket rang their ears. A molten red hole was left in the wake of her missile but the lack of any explosion made Drel tilt her head.

The turret began to turn at them. Then it stopped. The hatch at the top of the tank swung open and the crew inside spilled out like living intestines only to be gunned by Krovo. Drel was about to voice her frustration when smoke led to fire and fire led to another titanic explosion, infecting her with joy. “There it is!”

With the Sheridan reduced to flaming slag their victory over the Boulevard was all but assured. The NVA were sweeping across Thong Nhut with brutal efficiency, throwing the weight of their numbers at a superior enemy with little regard for their own losses. The skirmish continued along the Boulevard as Bheka bounced between vehicles, working their way towards the Chancery.

“So much for your Sappers.” Byk shouted, seeing the single hole in the eight foot compound wall.

“Doesn’t matter! We keep pushing!” Meduza replied between bursts of gunfire.

Bheka swarmed under the protection of their mortar team, moving their Vietnamese battalions ahead to secure the surrounding block. The team regrouped at the hole still littered with the corpses of those brave but foolish Viet Cong Sappers. “Drel, you take Baran and Myslitel, secure the Chancery. Krovo and Byk will hit the Villa with me.”

“A-Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I come with you, Major?” Drel said with an acute upwards inflection. “Krovo would probably be better suited for close quarters in the Chancery, anyway.”

“That was an order, Drel.” Meduza snapped back.

Before Drel could follow up Meduza was tearing a smoke grenade from her belt. She lobbed it over the wall and into the courtyard surrounding the Chancery, following that with another a little further back. “Grenades.”

And their grenades were readied. They’d trained for scenarios just like this in the Rebirth Center. An even spread of fragmentation grenades when breaching blind disoriented the enemy, pushing them from their entrenched positions for long enough that they could enter and disperse almost uncontested. Each member of the squad hucked their grenades over, some further, some closer. Once the final frag went off that was their queue to move. Krovo was the first to get belly down and slither through the hole.

She ran hard like an athlete to get across the garden and into safety, sliding into cover behind a large stone planter to cover her squad’s impetus into the Embassy compound. The few figures she could see meandering in the hot smoke were shot down. Byk came immediately after Krovo, taking her previous position so her stormtrooper counterpart could continue bounding past the Chancery building and toward the parking lot behind it. Once they had all cleared the breach the squad broke in two directions with Drel helming the assault on the Chancery while Meduza pushed towards the lavish Villa at the rear of the compound.

Drel, Baran and Myslitel stacked on the door into the Chancery, a look of mild disdain still plaguing the Captain’s visage.

“Maybe next time, Miyka.” Myslitel whispered, tapping her on the shoulder. Drel shook the thought from her head and motioned for Baran to enter, thrusting them into the dark and officious intestines of the Chancery building in search of their intel.

Meanwhile...

Meduza slammed into the side of a vacant military jeep, grimacing as the glass of each window was shattered by incoming volleys of automatic gunfire just above her head. She crept along the vehicle’s side, getting behind the forward wheel to retaliate with a burst of her own. The bass thump of something far off heralded a sharp whistle in her direction. She scattered just as the jeep was knocked onto its side by a grenade launched from an M79. Ash and dirt caked her face, the fortified front of the opulent villa still raining gunfire in her direction, forcing her into cover behind the next car in line.

Byk, just a minute late to the party, made her presence known - slamming her RPD onto the hood of a car before blanketing the tall windows and sandbag rings with a constant hail of fire. Another pop from the thumper proceeded an explosion not but a few feet from her. It was enough to brush aside her shoulder length hair, revealing the intense ferocity in her emerald eyes.

Under the protective coverage of Byk’s gun Meduza and Krovo advanced, breaking across the parking lot to put themselves several tiers closer to the Villa. Krovo threw herself over the hood of a car and between another set of vehicles only to have the first of the three explode from a thumper to the engine block. Meduza primed the last of her smoke grenades after seeing this, whipping it across to shroud their advance a second time. Byk claimed several lives as the overzealous Americans attempted to capitalize on the opportunity her allies presented, picking them off the moment they swung out of cover.

Shouting inside the Villa suggested panic. A sound that made Krovo smile. Meduza remained stationary, calling Byk forward so they could finally bypass their external defenses and violate the Villa’s fragile innards. Once they were ready to proceed as a collective Krovo led them up the tiled steps, introducing Bheka with a cooked grenade into the antechamber that scattered any hardstuck defenders. She heard them scream and she heard them die, pressing open the double doors with a sweeping volley to surprise any that remained.

Meduza was in just a second after, scanning through the smoke. That same bass thump greeted her when a figure in the nextroom made themself known. “Get clear!” Like rodents they diffused into the adjacent hallways just barely able to avoid the explosion that raped the Villa’s doorstep with shrapnel and fire. Bullets broke through the sheetrock and brick, separating this half of Bheka. Krovo was forced to one side and Meduza and Byk were forced to the other.

The Major sighed, slotting a new magazine into her Kalashnikov. Stress wore on her tired features but she persisted, stepping over the corpses of fallen Americans who lost their lives defending the Villa from the front facing windows. She turned the corner, quick on the draw with her weapon up and irons centered down the next hallway. Nothing. A hand motion ordered Byk to one side of her. She knelt and watched ahead while Meduza checked each room along the length of the hall. The first door revealed a guest room, empty. She crept to the next and forced it open. A storage closet, empty. An opening into a living room followed the storage closet before the doors continued. Byk came forward, still holding the angle down the hall.

Meduza glared beyond the living room to the kitchen behind it, only seeing a fraction of its compass due to her awkward point of view. The silence abruptly ended when Byk fired down the hall, felling another curious American. With their position compromised a soldier leapt up from behind the couch, Thumper in hand. But Meduza was faster this time, pumping his chest with rounds. He fell back, ripping on the trigger of his launcher to send a grenade into the ceiling a few feet away. Insulation, wood, stone and shingles went collapsing into the living room, allowing more sunlight to flood into the summertime Villa.

More gunfire drew Meduza's attention to the Kitchen as Krovo entered from an adjacent door into the expensive gallery, taking cover behind an island square. To one side of her a bank of windows ran over the kitchen sink and counter, revealing a backyard complete with a pool, shed and gazebo. The beauty of the room was short-lived. Shards of glass clattered to the kitchen tile around her as more guns from the backyard focused their fury toward Krovo’s last known position. The American who shared the gallery with her pressed his advantage while she was pinned down.

Meduza and Byk got around to the rear of the Villa to contest the soldiers in the back, drawing their fire away just long enough for Krovo to meet the Yordle in close quarters. She swung his gun away from him just as it crested the corner of the island, receiving a fist to the face for her efforts after securing it. Krovo growled and gripped the handle of the fridge beside her, swinging it open and throwing it into the younger soldier. Then she kicked it, pushing it fully open and pushing the soldier fully back onto his ass. He went to draw his sidearm but Krovo was already on him, bayonet plunging towards his heart. The GI caught the blade with his free hand, reinforcing his efforts with the other.

Krovo laughed, nearly frothing at the mouth as she bore her weight against the hilt of the knife. “Die American, die!” Krovo spat in English. “Die, American!” The pressure abated for a half second before Krovo hammered her fist into the pommel of the bayonet, sinking it the rest of the way past his army green fatigues and into his heart. Her chest heaved from the effort of so casually having taken a life, wiping her blade off on her pants leg. She paused, seeing his Colt hanging out of his holster. A nice keepsake for her efforts.

The firefight raged in the backyard as Krovo joined her gun to the cacophony, picking off several Americans due to her surprising reappearance. The last defender went tumbling into the pool, now half crimson from the bodies floating on its surface. A single gunshot from the shed perked their ears. Meduza went running toward it. She reached the door and kicked it open, pistol drawn only to find the corpse of the Coordinator with a bullet through the brain. “Fuck…”

“This is Black Actual to Black Bheka, ach-vee-tee is dead, regroup at the night gate and prepare for exfil once all intel is secure. Over...”