“The intel Bheka has retrieved from Saigon does indeed suggest that the Fascists are involved in American conflicts. We’re still investigating these implications further but there is no doubt Nazi agents are also operating within United States territories. How should we approach this going forward?”

The War Room quieted as Generals, Strategists and Committee Directors ruminated on the weight of this information now come to light. Mak Molotok found it all too curious, herself. The Fascists had been quiet during the majority of the Gelid, even after they had prodded the sleeping bear with their operation into the heart of Germany. Tresa swept that breach in security under the rug, not a single news report made its way onto the radio waves. The field reports from Bheka suggested something else was amiss. The mysterious MM-335 had gone without leads since its discovery. Germany had always been a treacherous foe, developing the latest in technological warfare to surprise their enemies. Russia had been beaten time and time again in the global arms race, the weight of their numbers during the second World War had been instrumental in producing the Gelid. It was no secret that the break in conflict brought the Soviet Union back from the brink of destruction.

Mak unintentionally let her worry be known, broadcasting her feelings with furrowed brows. The room’s attention was drawn to her visage like moths to light. A single glance across the long table dispelled their curiosity, though. She cleared her throat, supremely calm as always: “What is the status of Operation Upbringing?”

Aleksandr Panyushkin recoiled at the mentioning of Operation Upbringing. Likewise his colleagues from the Committee were taken aback. “That… Operation is still in the early planning stages, it did not occur to me that you were even aware of it, Madam.” His mouth dried at the thought of the reprimands he’d receive for not informing her earlier.

“Nothing goes unnoticed in my purview, Director,” Mak said. “Accelerate your plans and ready the Spetsgruppa.” Her stern countenance told them she wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Aleksandr’s eyes widened at the order. “Madam,” He protested, “Operation Upbringing is entirely theoretical, a worst case scenario, I would advise against making it a reality.”

“And why is that, Director?” Mak returned.

“It’s far too ambitious, the Spetsgruppa would need half a decade's worth of training to assume their roles effectively!” Aleksandr sat up in his chair, airing out his grievances without fear.

“If I recall correctly the files on Operation Upbringing mentioned that our Sleeper Agents weren’t experienced enough in unconventional warfare to undertake such a mission.”

“Yes, Madam, they’re spies - But--” Aleksandr was swiftly cut off as Mak stole the floor once again.

“The Spetsgruppa have been molded into the perfect soldiers. A soldier without imperfection can be whatever you want it to be. Even an unassuming civilian. Our Spetsgruppa come from many military backgrounds, they are trained in all predominant languages across the globe, they have special forces experience and a lifetime's worth of veterancy. You underestimate them. Espionage and infiltration tactics are but child's play in their capable hands.” Mak’s confidence was almost frightening.

Aleksandr vehemently disagreed, but reluctantly surrendered his argument. He knew better than to debate the Premier. “How soon should we begin the relearning process?”

“Immediately. Our enemies are taking the initiative the same as us. If the Gelid has taught us nothing else, it’s that we must compete, or be doomed to destruction,” Mak declared, ashing her cigarette in the ceramic tray as the smoke filtered from her nose.

“Kaskad, Zenyth and Bheka are out on assignment in Sinai. There’s no guarantee we’ll be able to reach them in the conflict zone,” Aleksandr replied.

Mak looked up with a raised brow. “You’ve committed them to the war in Egypt?”

“Yes, Madam. We believe Israel is vulnerable, the stratagem drafted by Commander Ahmad is solid. Taking back the Senai before the United Nations can properly intervene would allow us to push on Israel in future, giving us complete control of the Suez and its surrounding territories.” The Director explained.

“And have you convinced Egypt to accept our influence?” Her skepticism showed blatantly in her tone. Mak wasn’t completely convinced that Egypt would allow itself to be subverted into the Warsaw Pact.

“Our diplomats are currently negotiating with President El-Sadat and Minister Tlass. Providing Syria and Egypt with additional aid in the form of elite personnel would go a long way in currying favor for an eventual agreement.”

“While I agree, your careless mishandling of our most valuable assets has become very apparent. The Spetsgruppa are not pawns to be bartered with, Director. After you’ve retrieved them from Sinai your command will be limited.”

“M-Madam?” Aleksandr scoffed.

“The units with the highest combat success ratings are now under my personal command. They receive orders directly from me.” Her chin sunk as she plucked another cigarette from her pack.

“Madam Molotok, with all due respect, those units are vital to our global operations! Without them--” The Premier silenced him with the metallic clink of her zippo lighter.

“Soldiers are not in short supply here, Director. Raise new units.” She drew on her cigarette with a careless glare, exhaling. “That’ll be all. The Committee is dismissed.”

Aleksandr withheld his frustration, standing alongside his associates. He adjusted his tie, collected his documents and departed through the tall wooden double doors, leaving Mak alone with Generals and command staff. As he strode down the busy halls of the Government building his serene demeanor began to deteriorate, lip notched in visible anger, ears pinned back and fur bristled around the nape.

Back in the War Room Mak sighed, eternally weary from politics and the tribulations of leadership. The cigarette offered some relief but not enough. Her command staff sat quietly awaiting her verdict. Boris, who lounged a few chairs down, recognized her stress - venturing to the side table nearby to pour her a mug of coffee.

“Operation Badr… When does it begin?” Mak inquired.

“It’s already begun If I’m not mistaken, Madam...”

Suez Canal, Egypt-Israeli Border.

1400 Hours, October 6th, Third Era.

The lead-up to the Fourth Arab-Israeli conflict was like any other. A dispute over land. Territory. The Arabs believed they had a rightful claim to the Sinai peninsula. Many wars have been fought in recent history over the land. It held significant strategic value, but more so for historical reasons the Egyptians wanted it back. On the north-eastern side of Israel, Syria fought for control of the Golan Heights, mostly for the same reasons their allies did. In truth this dispute was another proxy war, fought by two sides who had history with the major superpowers of the modern world. Israel’s American influence was contrasted by the Arab alliance and their Russian backing. The theater held shades of the Vietnam War playing out on the opposite side of the globe, though both superpowers were less hands-on with their approach in this conflict.

The Suez canal was a major trade hub for the civilized world, and while Egypt and Israel were less concerned with its strategic importance, their big brothers were. American and Russian force multipliers had discreetly been dedicated to their respective sides of the war. Bheka was one such force multiplier, integrated into the Egyptian Third Army on the south end of the Suez. Kaskad and Zenyth fought on the northern front, assisting the Syrian assault down into Golan. The eastern side of the Suez controlled by the Israeli Defense Force had been shored with a strip of fortifications the Egyptians dubbed the Bar Lev Line. Bunkers, razor wire, gun-emplacements and surface-to-air missiles awaited them. But before they could encounter that opposition they first had to establish a bridgehead. A task made all the more difficult by the steep sandbank amassed on the eastern side of the canal.

All of Bheka listened as the devastating report of twenty-thousand howitzers and artillery guns showered their opposition in explosive downpour. At the same time Mikoyans screamed overhead, streaking through the cloudless blue sky three at a time to unleash their payload on the unsuspecting Irsaeli soldiers. All at once the Egyptian ordnance was spared to pummel their enemy into temporary submission. Krovo glanced back to the long line of Arab soldiers with assault rafts held above their heads, oars at the ready. Six souls for each boat crossing. Her eyes refocused around herself to her allies, dressed in Russian arid attire. Their dessert-black uniforms made them stand out from the chaff around them. Or at least that’s how Krovo thought of them. The whole of Bheka was here in Sinai, all three squads.

The heat was oppressive but thankfully measured by the proximity of the Suez and the adjacent Red Sea. The salted wind brought in from the water burned at her nose, throwing her focus. Just ahead was a shallow sandbank masking the presence of their forces. The days prior to their Operation had been spent screening their armies into position with unassuming behavior. She had observed their defenses from afar, and admittedly she didn’t like what she saw. Her confidence in their strategy left her uncertain, but all that was made secondary by the imminent arrival of combat. More than anyone she craved it. The nickname Bloodletter was unflatteringly accurate in her superior’s eyes. But she got the job done, and that was all that mattered.

Drel stood adjacent to Krovo and immediately ahead of Meduza who was sandwiched safely in the middle. Rank was to be protected at all costs. Drel had her reasons for taking point up at the front with Krovo. Reasons she’d rather not admit, reasons that were probably stupid in the grand scheme of things. The likelihood that Krovo and Drel were going to take a bullet on the crossing wasn’t worth thinking about. Drel only hoped it would be for a good cause, the ultimate cause. The idea of being lost to the Suez was a nightmare she didn’t want to realize. Perhaps that was her biggest fear. Being lost. Forgotten. Just a nameless corpse on a battlefield.

Ironically the lack of explosions is what knocked them all from their entranced state. The nerves that built at the onset of battle fell from them like weighty shackles. An old school whistle prompted them forward, reminiscent of World War one troops going over the top. Black Bheka hustled up, storming ahead in unison. They had rehearsed this several times over about an hour from the frontline. The moment they crested the embankment they flipped the raft around and let it slide down the slope, the foremost members of their squad remained guns up while the other four prepped their paddles. The assault raft cascaded into the water at the bottom of the decline and they piled in as quickly as possible.

While the artillery didn’t boom anymore the Mikoyans and Sukhois did, making regular passes to keep their enemies entrenched and unable to respond. Meduza, Myslitel, Baran and Byk rowed while Krovo and Drel kept their muzzles trained on the tops of the ridges ahead of them. Other boats joined them, rowing across the canal in a similar fashion. They packed with them pressure tanks, water hoses and bridge building equipment. But not Bheka, they would be defending the Engineers. A job none of them looked forward to.

They weren’t even halfway before a missile streaked up into the air from beyond the sandbank, intercepting one of their fighters. The explosion was devastating to its light-weight frame with enough force to shear its wings from its side. It continued overhead as a burning carcass, dropping shrapnel and debris down into the canal around them before it crashed somewhere east of the Suez. The next jet fighters to pass were met with resistance as several squadrons of Israeli Skyhawks were scrambled to counter their Egyptian air support. Their eyes couldn’t help but wander to the blossoming dogfight above, watching as air-to-air missiles cut white trails between craft. More debris rained on them whilst airborne casualties mounted all the while.

Krovo was looking up when the crack of a rifle round stole her attention. Egyptians shouted and called out as a Yordle three rafts down collapsed into the water. She traced their fingers up and north along the sandbank to spy a silhouette some one hundred meters out. The Egyptians returned fire but she was scanning for targets closer. Sure enough more of them showed just ahead, Galil’s sweeping for targets to acquire. Drel and Krovo didn’t hesitate to send a volley their way, pushing them back from the crest of the embankment with concentrated gunfire. More bullets from further north kicked up saltwater around them, claiming several more Egyptian lives before they touched down on the opposite side of the Suez.

The Engineers worked quickly to unravel their hoses and hook them up to the pressure tanks, sourcing their water from the canal itself. Their ingenious plan was put to action as they began spraying the twenty-five meter high sandbank with hot water. The Israeli’s reckoned it would’ve taken the better part of a day for the Egyptians to blow through their sandbank, but they hadn’t accounted for melting it into mud. Meduza led them up the slope, promoting spacing with a wave of her hand. They crept to the horizon, peeking over, weapons ready.

Beyond was the Bar Lev Line, and past that was the Sinai desert, a stretch of nothing but sand and rock hemmed in by ridges east of the Israeli defenses. Immediately in front of them was a trench network supported by bunkers and elevated firing positions. Sheet metal, barbed-wire and sandbags rolled with the topography, providing a bulwark of well prepared fortifications for them to bypass. Thankfully sections of it had been devastated from the earlier bombardment, leaving smoking craters where shells and bombs struck. The Israeli defenders they encountered just a moment ago were sprinting back to the safety of their trenches, covered by a heavy machine gun emplacement that opened up the moment their heads rose beyond the sands. Violent muzzle flashes lit up the dark interior of the sandstone bunker, forcing them beyond the embankment’s lip.

Soon more of Bheka were joining them at the edge, lying on the incline in preparation for the continuation of their assault. On the opposite side of the Suez, bridge sectioning was being unfolded and dropped into the water. The Engineers continued to bore away gaps in the sandbank with their hoses while others promoted collapse with their spades, but the process was slow, much slower than anticipated.

Baran glanced over to the engineers as they worked, sliding along the line towards Myslitel. “You think we’d ever come up with that?”

She followed his eyes to the Egyptians. “Probably not. You know Russians.”

“Oh, I can picture it now. The whole canal littered with Russian bodies, enough to walk on.” He smiled beneath his shemagh.

“That’s not what I meant,” Myslitel droned. “You know shit like that only happened like three times during the war, right?”

“Of course I know! I’m just thinking like a foreigner.”

Myslitel dismissed the comment with a cool, “Whatever.”

Drel moved along the stretch of bodies on the edge of the incline, launcher resting on her shoulder. The sand beneath her feet made working across the slope difficult, but she managed - getting into position. Her gaze was cast to Byk who was ready on the opposite end. Byk shot a glance over the bank to draw the emplacement’s fire. At exactly the same time Drel exposed herself, whipping an RPG at the pillbox. The rocket streaked low over the sand, leaving a trail of dust in its wake before it slammed into the bunker’s facade, blowing away chunks of weathered stone. The explosion produced more dust that billowed up from the point of impact.

Engineers with metal-detectors and minesweepers began to plot a course through the sands, supported by an imposing firing line of Russian and Egyptian Soviet small arms. After a path was charted the advance began with half of Bheka bounding forward while the other half remained to cover their approach. They were joined by eager Egyptian soldiers. To the surprise of some the Bar Lev was lightly defended, to others this was merely proof that their plan was successful. The trenchline was emptied and the initial defenders were overcome in only a few short minutes. Egyptian squads began working their way north while Bheka gathered south as the plan demanded. There were more bunkers that needed to be cleared. Predictably the network of fortifications was tight quarters up until they reached the next stronpoint of the Bar Lev Line. Immediately behind the bunkers and trenches sat a small quarry from which the stone for their earthworks was sourced. Israeli defenders were already displaced from the preliminary bombardment, leaving them in a state of disarray.

Byk was the first to dig in, using the malleable sand as a cushion for her RPD, sorting through the Jewish defenders with an unamused disposition. Her heavy gun made short work of the enemies present, indiscriminately slaughtering soldiers and civilian miners alike. The sand ran crimson with Jewish blood as the rest of Bheka made their way down the precarious stone terraces. Before Byk could claim them all the remainder scampered away into their subterranean cubbies covered in mortared rock and loose sand. Byk smacked her lips as if only slightly inconvenienced by their escape, pushing to a stand.

Meduza gestured for Baran and Krovo to hold the entrance to the tunnel network while she regrouped with Colonel Khaski, squad leader of Red Bheka and commanding officer of Bheka as a whole. His white fur and tall ears suggest he was out of his element. Meduza barely knew the Yordle beyond a surface level. She knew he hailed from Siberia, hence the alias Khaski (Husky), and she knew he was well versed in intelligence gathering. His amber eyes were cast in her direction before she could open her mouth to speak. The scar beneath his left eye ran deep, exposing the ragged red skin beyond. His furrowed brows and closed mouth gave him the impression of a hardened criminal more so than a commanding officer.

“Colonel.”

“Major.” His voice was unusually young in comparison to his aged countenance. “Send some of your specialists in to handle the problem, I’ll have White squad continue south while we hold here.”

“Understood, Colonel.” It was unusual taking orders directly from a superior in the field. Usually they operated as an independent element with their own prerogative. A part of her felt Bheka wasn’t meant for proxy wars and border disputes anymore. But another part of her appreciated the reprieve from black ops and false-flag operations. Their involvement in this war was partly punishment for their earlier failings in Vietnam.

The Committee and Usoro believed if one cog in the machine failed, the whole machine should be rebooted. Hence why they were separated from Zenyth and Kaskad on the hotter, more dangerous side of the conflict. Still, the Committee knew better than to play fast and loose with their trump cards. The whole operation was estimated at a ninety percent success rating. Egypt and Syria were stronger than Israel for the first time in recent history thanks to Soviet supplies and military support.

She stepped back and waved her squad close. “Drel, Krovo, Baran. You clear the tunnels, the rest of us will hold with Red squad.” A simple enough plan.

Drel stripped herself of her RPG and rocket pack, handing it off to Myslitel who was waiting to receive it. There was no reason to protest Meduza’s decision. As the Major’s second she was fated to be apart from the woman whenever a split occurred. If anything it was a lesson in acceptance.

Krovo went into her bag and produced a strange looking submachine gun, holding it out to Drel. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“A Kiparis, brand new submachine gun from the kay-bee-pee. It has a flashlight on it.” Krovo explained, fishing extra magazines out of her bag to hand them off.

The importance of mobility in tight quarters wasn’t lost on Drel, she was more so curious as to how Krovo came about acquiring something so factory-new. She hit the mag-release to examine its contents. A nine by eighteen twenty-round long magazine, a foldable stock which Krovo seemed to have an affinity for and a detachable flashlight. She slammed the magazine back into the weapon with a satisfying click, pulling against the charging handle to slot a round into the chamber.

The Israeli defenders were intelligent enough to kill the lights beforehand, leaving a deep and dark concrete corridor beyond the initial opening. It looked to be more of a subterranean bunker than a simple rathole with passageways about two Yordles wide. Colored paint on the walls with Hebrew text directed soldiers deeper into the shelter. Unfortunately this wasn’t one of the languages Bheka was familiar with. Drel shined her lone flashlight down the hall, illuminating a vertical half-wall with a murder hole bored through its center. Upon seeing this she shrank away from the entrypoint, narrowly avoiding a volley of tracer rounds.

Baran and Krovo prepped grenades, flinging them in at the same time to bank off either wall. Shouts echoed their way back to the Spetsgruppa and boots sprinted for safety. Both explosions sent more dust shaking off the sands above, returning the bunker to a state of silence. Baran took point with his shotgun and Drel joined him, stacking on his shoulder with her Kiparis extended to one side of him. Krovo pushed up to the half-wall, using the illumination from Drel’s flashlight to spy further into the bunker where she recognized a four-way intersection. The blue paint continued forward, the red paint broke left and the yellow paint went right. Color coded wings, no doubt.

The first Yordle to show himself was riddled with seven-point-six-two, sparing Baran the shotgun shells required to dispatch him. Krovo closed in on the duo ahead, stacking behind Drel to cover the last of three angles. Baran motioned right and they turned the corner with Krovo covering the rear.

Byk was brought up to the half-wall to hold the intersection just in case the Israelis attempted a flanking maneuver. Each wing of the bunker was preceded by an antechamber and partitioned by a bulkhead. The Antechamber was empty, serving as a washroom for sandy soldiers returning from sentry duty. Drel looked up at the showerheads and dirty clothes left to hang on hooks. It was then she noticed these bunkers had air-conditioning, only just now recognizing the cool breeze from the vents at ankle height.

Baran gripped onto the bulkhead’s latch mechanism, pushing it up and pulling it open with a vile creak of rusted metal. Drel’s flashlight shone into the next room, revealing a Mess Hall. Several tables were flipped onto their sides. The moment the door was about halfway open Israeli defenders sprung up, rifles trained on the entryway. Drel killed her flashlight and pushed the door back closed. Bullets pinged off the opposite side of the bulkhead, some of them grazing her leg just as it slammed shut again.

“Fuck…” She exclaimed, gripping at her thigh.

“What’s the issue?” Krovo said over one shoulder.

“Too many. We’ll get cut to pieces if we go that way.”

“Let’s smoke them out.” Baran suggested.

Drel shook her head. “This bunker has recycled air-conditioning, that would turn this whole place into a smokehouse.” The light-bulb in Drel’s skull lit up seconds after that statement left her mouth. “Wait one…”

She produced her radio, speaking into it: “Black Actual this is Black-two, can you have Byk make some noise? Over.”

Static met her before the radio beeped and Meduza replied. “What kind of noise, Black-two?”

“Have her fire down the hall.”

“Understood, standby, Black-two.”

A few seconds passed before the blazing report of Byk’s RPD exploded into the corridor. Gunfire cut across the hallway they’d just entered through in brilliant streaks of orange-white light. It was murder on their ears but that was the point. Drel peeled away the air-conditioning grate and got onto her belly. “Be ready with the door.”

Baran nodded, gripping the latch. Drel delved into the duct, crawling on forearms and feet to slug her way through the vents. To her surprise it was very well-kept. Soldiers were always regimented and clean no matter their ethnicity, it seemed. The ventilation system was rudimentary in its design, circulating air to each individual wing. A guaranteed access point in future. With her flashlight off she hooked around to the Mess Hall. Her hand rested on the grate, ready to punch it out. She took a deep breath in, levelling her weapon forward. With a free fist she struck the grate, knocking it off its fixings. Her flashlight illuminated her targets, six in total. The ones immediately in front of her towards the back of the eatery were killed in short order.

Metal clanked and ground as the bulkhead door was pulled open. Krovo’s Kalashnikov announced her presence as she fought through the hall, felling another two Israeli soldiers. Baran pumped his shotgun, dispatching the last two men in a single spray of buckshot that tore straight through their ragged fatigues.

“Problem solved, Black-Actual.”

Byk’s rumbling ceased and they stepped past to the adjacent red wing. Another bulkhead awaited them, slightly ajar this time. Drel unhooked a grenade from her rigging, rolling it underhand into the next room after pulling the pin. Before the frag could blow several miners closed in from either flank of the door, piling against the bulkhead to force it open. The three Russians were thrown back as the ambush took them by complete surprise. Drel attempted to point-blank the first miner who jumped them but her weapon was knocked to one side just as the remainder of her magazine was expended, forcing her volley harmlessly into the floor. The yordle who was several inches taller than Drel gripped her by the gun-hand and the collar, forcing her into the wall, weapon pinned against the concrete.

She reached down to draw her sidearm but the miner was keenly aware, tossing her into the opposite wall whilst stripping her of her weapon. Drel hit the stone and slid to her ass, winded from the impact. The miner lined the sights of the Kiparis with her skull, pulling the trigger… Click…

His eyes widened with surprise. Before he could discard the submachine gun his extended forearm was mulched by buckshot from Baran’s shotgun. He screeched in blood curdling agony, gripping the ribbons of flesh and fragmented bone that was once his arm. In the moment it took to rescue Drel, Baran’s cheek was clubbed with the blunt side of a pickaxe, dazing him. The miner came for his head next, using the pick on the second swing in attempts to impale the operator. He had enough sense to duck it, swinging his shotgun around. His forward hand ripped on the pump but before he could complete the action the miner was on him, sandwiching the weapon between themselves to neutralize Baran’s maneuverability.

The miner held the shaft of the pickaxe to Baran’s neck, pushing hard to stifle his oxygen supply. Baran grit his teeth, struggling against his opponent. Relief came in the form of a knife. Not his knife, but Drel’s knife. She stuck the miner twice in the ribs, twisting the blade to wrench at his lungs. He spun on her, swinging wildly. Drel slipped the pick, following up with her bayonet in an uppercut to neatly slot it into his skull, straight through the jaw - killing him instantly. Baran immediately turned on the wounded miner, finishing him with a shell to the midsection that swept him off his feet.

Drel turned to spy the last two miners squaring with Krovo a few meters further down the corridor. She flipped her knife around, gripping the bloody blade between three fingers. With superb finesse she flung it, connecting with the back of the Israeli miner’s knee. The Yordle crumpled with a yelp, allowing Krovo an opening to thrust towards the other miner with her own bayonet. She swung twice and missed twice, opening herself up for a counter-attack. The miner saw his opportunity and lunged only for his pickaxe to be caught mid-swing. Krovo turned and used her leverage on his dominant hand to arm throw him, looping the miner over her back and into the stone with a sickening crack. Krovo wrenched on his limb and pushed her knee into the side of his head, exposing his neck for her bayonet to target. Krovo ran across it with her blade, spilling his precious life force onto the concrete a pint at a time.

The last miner found her legs again after prying the knife from her delicate flesh, standing to contest Krovo and avenge her fallen. She charged the operative recklessly, pickaxe high above her head with the intention of driving the pointed metal through Krovo’s skull. With all the patience of a martial artist Krovo awaited her, halting her swing with a knife to the gut. Her bayonet was retracted with a flourish only for the miner to be kicked backward into Drel who had just retrieved her knife. The Captain’s blade cut inches up her spine before she sent the woman stumbling forward like some demented game of kick-ball. Krovo looped the miner around and flung her into the open intersection where Byk was waiting with her RPD down the hall. As expected Byk closed the curtains on their brawl with an explosive finale.

Baran stood jaw dropped behind the two operators. “There’s something wrong with you fuckers.”

The pair turned in unison, bloody uniforms and all. “You think so?” Krovo smiled.

They looked something like Wolves after a fresh kill, or at least that’s how Baran imagined them. He shrugged involuntarily as a lingering cold crept up his spine.

“Byk! We’re coming out! Don’t shoot.” Drel shouted.

“Copy that.” Byk returned.

The final door awaited them. Baran approached the bulkhead, lifting the latch. The room was accessed and where Bheka expected to meet resistance they instead met… Surrender? The last of the Israeli soldiers knelt with their hands up, declaring their submission in a language misunderstood. The three of them looked between each other with an air of confusion.

Drel reached for her radio, weapon haphazardly trained on the cowering opposition. She noticed their guns had been piled in the far corner. There were no less than eight souls hunkered in the barracks of the troop shelter here.“Uhm- Black-two to Black Actual, we have eye-dee-eff attempting to surrender, what’s your verdict? Over.”

“Standby, Black-two…”

“Colonel Khaski says we have no time for prisoners… Execute them… How copy? Over.”

“What?” Baran protested. “Can’t we just send them back to the Egyptians?”

“Apparently not.” Krovo slipped a new magazine into her rifle.

Drel glanced over her shoulder to the light from the opening on the other end of the shelter, pulling her radio close to her lips once again. “Is sending them back to the Egyptians not an option?”

A pause…

“Negative.” Meduza replied.

Baran, who’s moral compass was the most intact out of his allies, made his stance known by turning his back on the Israelis. They looked up to the Russian operatives with some dregs of hope still left in their eyes. To watch the face of a Yordle as you took their life was one thing. But to know that they were unarmed and had no intentions of fighting any longer was another. Krovo displayed no remorse, placing a palm on Drel’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, Captain,” She said. “This is what I was designed to do. It’s okay.”

“No.” The Captain snapped. “No… An order is an order.”

Meduza hailed them again. “Black Actual to Black-two, do you copy?”

“Black-two to Black Actual… Understood…”