Israeli-Occupied Sinai, Sixteen klicks from Mitla Pass.

1700 Hours, October 14th, Third Era.

The dead and the dying lie in gore-ridden excess across the somber sands, picked at by brazen desert vultures too hungry to heed the throws of battle. Strings of hastily risen sandbanks adjoined broken pockets of survivors and out of action armored vehicles provided cover for pinned parties beset by gunfire on all sides. Jet fighters danced to the deadly tune of Russian Nudelmans and American Vulcan twenty millimeter cannons, interspersed with the occasional whistle and fragmented crash of a sidewinder finding its target.

Myslitel stooped low, bouncing from foot to foot, Dragunov sniper rifle held in her hand like one would idley carry a baseball bat. The past days of fighting had been a trifling affair, only made worse by reports of attacks elsewhere on the Egyptian line stalling out. She glanced over one shoulder to the rest of Bheka lying against the sandy incline that ascended only a foot above their heads. Meduza gave her a nod and they sprung up to cover her advance. She started fast across the field, sun in her eyes. The bark of North Atlantic small arms came faster, thumping against the sand behind her like the beating paws of a mad dog nipping at her heels. Myslitel hurried behind the smoking hull of a T-55, sliding to safety.

On her back was the battered radio equipment of the last Forward Air Controller. Her attentioned drifted to the Red Bheka squadie’s corpse only thirty five meters from her last position. During their earlier advance he had been clipped by a stationary Browning machine gun emplacement that severed most of his left leg beneath the knee. A five meter length of crimson sand connected the dead Yordle to his lost limb. Now she was the Forward Air Controller, tasked with contacting the Soviet fleet north of the Sinai in the Mediterranean. Myslitel had experience with radio protocol and directing air support, but her tingling nerves gnawed at her cortex, shorting her memory.

She produced her binoculars, awkwardly untangling them from the loop on her belt. Then she laid carefully to one side, using an idle hand to adjust the sand for comfort. Before them stood a wall of Israel infantry backed by armor. The stunning report of their hundred millimeter long cannons sent unconscious palpitations through her racing heart. She spied the Sherman that hoisted the prominent cyan-white flag of Israel on its dome, the tank commander confidently hanging out of the uppermost hatch scanning the battlefield. That was surely the Command Vehicle orchestrating the Israeli counterattack. She adjusted her range finding device to calculate the coordinates, multi-tasking at the same time to set up the relay antenna that would get her in contact with the Fifth Squadron.

Myslitel sat the bulky radio down in the scolding sand, fingers trembling over the dial to tune the frequency. Feedback grumbled through the shoddy speaker back at her until it cleared. She held down on the push-to-speak button with a thumb, pulling slack in the curled wire so she could bring the receiver to her mouth.

“Fifth Squadron, this is Bheka two-five requesting immediate close air support, how copy?”

Suspenseful static groaned from the device as a volley of aberrant gunfire plinked off the side of the smoldering battle tank, causing her to flinch low.

The voice of a middle-aged slavic man filtered through the static, supremely calm in comparison to her uppity tone. “Bheka two-five this is Tower three, reading you loud and clear. We have five times MiG twenty-ones with gun and air-to-surface missiles, and two times eye-ell twenty-eights with air-to-surface missiles on board. We have approximately one hour of hang time, over.”

“Understood, Tower three, standby for Nine Line.” She produced her map and reference sheets, splaying them out in the sand and using piles to weigh the corners. She diligently went through protocol, producing the grid square, coordinates and a description of her target.

“Ready for Nine Line.” Tower reported.

“Grid square sierra-three-eight, eye-pee marked Battle Zone one-seven! Heading, direct south-east from eye-pee, approximately twenty-five hundred meters from eye-pee! Target elevation, approximately eight-hundred feet above sea level! Target is described as a tan em-fifty Sherman battle tank due north of a burning transport vehicle…”

Myslitel paused to flip over her scratch paper, highlighting each number of the latitude and each number of the longitude in a slow and concise manner. The explosions of a stray tank shell sent dust clouding over her shoddy workstation.

“Friendly forces west of target marked with red smoke, approximately one hundred fifty meters from target position! Upon egress, continue south and wrap around west of the Suez! Be advised Tower three there are enemy birds in the immediate air space and other non-priority ground targets in the ay-oh-ee, would appreciate additional gun runs after the target is neutralized, over.” She concluded, awaiting confirmation.

“Roger two-five, confirm grid square sierra-three-eight…” The air traffic controller spat the information back at her, double and triple checking his data.

“Confirmed, Tower three, all information is correct!”

“Wilco, two-five, standby.”

Myslitel grabbed her squad radio, glancing back to her squad that remained pinned under a weight of mass fire. Bullets violently sent sand spiking inches into the air, leaving visible dimples in the earth.

“Bheka two-one, we need red smoke on your position.”

“Copy, wait one.” Meduza replied.

Sparks rose from behind the embankment and a smoke canister was flung forward five meters to crunch into the sand. Crimson gas sputtered out from the top of the army green can, billowing outwards to mark their location and doubly provide them a thin screen to obfuscate them from the enemy. Myslitel’s eyes turned to the sky, worry creeping up her spine and into the meat of her mind. They were on the very boundary of their anti-air umbrella, another kilometer forward and they would be without support. As the advance was made the Israeli Air Force grew in confidence, battling the less experienced Egyptian Air Force while making it difficult for air support to function effectively.

Officially the Russians were only meant to support their allies politically and logistically, and so were the Americans who had massed on the opposite side of the Mediterranean, creating the largest and most intense standoff between rivaling countries since the incident in Cuba. But unofficially both sides were assisting their proxies. The Russian arsenal was made available to their Egyptian ally, making it very difficult for world media to distinguish authentic Russian-piloted craft from the swooping mass of marked Soviet planes.

But Myslitel had no time to be enthralled with the battle above. She checked her magazine, laying flat against the sand to peer below the tank’s underbelly. The corpse of an Egyptian tank commander hung limp from the open floor hatch. On elbows and knees she crawled forward, recognizing the lacerations of shrapnel present across one side of his face. His entire left ear was mulched into an ugly stub of fur and flesh. It was only when she got near that she realized the tanker was alive. She was intending to move him aside so she could hunker beneath the tank, and she still intended to do that.

With a casual disposition she upholstered her Stechkin auto-pistol and put a round through the poor bastard’s head, stuffing him back into the tank where she closed the hatch. Finally a sightline from relative safety. With her eight-times she marked targets for later elimination. There was a stubborn automatic weapons team directly east of her squad and a forward anti-tank duo scouting for the Israeli armor behind them. Once she identified their positions she made a mental note and got to work scooping out a shallow divot in the sand beneath the tank to conceal her firing position.

The radio behind her flared with chatter as a new voice hailed Myslitel. It was a female, her speech muffled by altitude equipment. “Bheka two-five this is Kondor one-five, we are two minutes out from target, standby.”

Myslitel turned, creeping back towards her antenna and kit just in time to see the tertiary wave of Egyptian soldiers massing on the western horizon. They were accompanied by an additional dozen T-55s. What inspired hope in their allied Egyptian combatants did nothing to lift Bheka’s spirits. The thrusts towards the Mitla and Gidi Passes had failed. The Israeli Defense Forces were thoroughly entrenched and the inadequate Egyptian Air Force could do nothing to contend with the IDF without the surface-to-air missile umbrella. The only reason Colonel Khaski hadn’t retreated them is because a maneuver like that would be assisted suicide.

As the reinforcements spread across the uneasy front Skyhawks welcomed them with infrequent strafing runs. The dozen tanks got to work combating the Israeli armor but their confidence was short lived. Myslitel heard it before she saw it. The distant report of a tank cannon some hundred or more meters off. The high-explosive anti-tank shell had a noise profile she’d become begrudgingly familiar with. It cut on the air like a finger whistle, impacting the rounded dome of the nearest fifty-five. Metal clanked on metal with a hollow, twanging impact. Sparks flew and dust plumed around the tank, forcing Myslitel to fold into a ball.

Smoke rose from a neatly bored hole in the tank’s turret, marking the first armored casualty of this particular mechanized assault. The infantry surrounding it went to ground while a team was tasked with checking on the crew. Myslitel watched the three men assigned to the endeavor making their way across open sand, veiled only by the billowing red smoke ahead. Miraculously they survived the sprint, clambering onto the ass-end of the hull to creep towards the commander’s cupola. The first Egyptian banged on the hatch, shouting.

The hatch sprung open and men piled out, flopping into the sand like crab spilling out of a bucket. The rescue party made an effort to help them, gathering the immobile on their shoulders with the intention of hauling them back to safety. In preparation for their return the platoon of soldiers they arrived with readied to cover their retreat. Myslitel was genuinely hopeful they survived this… Until she saw the radiator on the back of the tank begin to steam and then smoke. Another distant boom followed and she hunkered in advance, face to the sand and arms over her skull.

The far explosion heralded the near explosion, raining ablative shrapnel and chunks of sand down around her. She could faintly hear the surviving Egyptians shout obscenities, cursing the enemy for their lack of humanity. Or so she imagined. When she looked up a bonfire replaced the mighty T-55 and the scorched sand around it was wet with viscera. The men who were unlucky enough to cling onto life wailed in somber agony, missing limbs and with shrapnel or new third degree burns stretched across their person. She would’ve put them out of their misery too if the Egyptians weren’t near.

“Bheka two-five this is Kondor one-five, we are in from Battle Zone one-seven, less than thirty from target!” Kondor shouted, no doubt under duress from Israeli air contact.

Myslitel scrambled to the radio. “Roger, Kondor, you’re cleared hot! Cleared hot!” She grabbed her binoculars and scrambled to get a bead on the Israeli command vehicle.

The scream of Jet engines played over her head fast and low as two Mikoyans scorched through, cannons hot and blistering with muzzle flashes. “Guns, guns, guns!” Kondor radioed.

She could see their impacts producing plumes of grainy sand around the marked vehicle. Sparks flew as their weapons came on target, peppering the Sherman with twenty millimeter hate. Next came the missiles, hissing out of their racks to devastate the area surrounding the enemy. The second Kondor, wingman to the first, put missiles into the Sherman, too. Myslitel’s heart beat rapidly with expectation, yearning for the explosion to confirm their kill. The last rocket streaked out of its pod, slamming into the cloud of risen sand that obfuscated the command Sherman. Exactly four breaths passed before a fireball sent the dust scattering outwards.

Myslitel pumped her fist, clutching the receiver. “Fireball! Target destroyed, Kondor!”

“Affirm, two-five! We are are-tee-bee for resupply! Kondor out!” The two twenty-ones pitched south to egress as Myslitel explained and she watched them loop back into Egyptian territory and return northward towards the Russian fleet.

Myslitel let the relief of temporary success wash over her for a minute, looking up at the evening blue sky west of them. When enough tension melted she turned to her long-range radio equipment, packing it back into the black-tan army bag it came from.

“Salvation is not coming! Our reserves are tapped! Listen to me! The eye-dee-eff see’s that we’re weak, they’ll be mustering for a counter-attack! If we don’t retreat, we’ll all be killed!”

Colonel Khaski pressed his palm against the young soldier’s helmet, bringing his head closer so he could shout a little louder into his already ringing ears. The translator had been almost deafened by the explosion of a nearby T-55 so getting him to relay information was difficult. But the real problem was the Egyptian field commander’s lack of tactical awareness. He couldn’t fathom a world in which this assault would not progress as his superiors planned, or at least that’s what the translator was suggesting.

Colonel Khaski pointed to the commander. “Tell him!”

The infantryman, shaken to his core, nodded awkwardly, turning to his commander. He stammered his native language in a botched fashion, having to start twice over before the Commander could digest what he was saying. There was a moment of contemplation before the Commander gave a reply, wrestling with the translator just as much as Khaski to get his point across. After he was finished jawing he spun the soldier around, ordering him to speak.

“Uh--... Commander A-Ahmed... Say if you want leave, you leave, he will stay, fight.”

“God damnit! Listen, c’mere!” Khaski gripped the boy by his collar, bringing him close. “Do you want to live? Huh?!”

“Y-Yes, yes! I want live!” The soldier exclaimed.

“Then you go and you tell every man you can that we are leaving, and that if they want to live they’d better follow us! Understand?!”

“I- Yes! I understand!” He whimpered, his collar so slack around his neck that it fell several inches past his clavicle when the Colonel let him go.

“Repeat it back to me!” Khaski wanted nothing lost in translation.

“You say I tell everyone who want live to come back here and follow you… Yes?” The boom of a nearby Soviet battle tank made the boy flinch. He couldn’t have been much older than twenty, his ears had barely grown past his shoulders.

“Yes! Good! Now you go, go tell them!” Khaski shooed the boy away like an obedient dog. And like an obedient dog he ran and told his allies. Before he could see the boy off properly he was turning to his squad. “Someone find me the Major, please! I need that radio back!” As Command squad his only form of communication was with the radio set, unlike his secondary and tertiary squads that were equipped with personal radios. He took a big gamble sending Myslitel forward to get eyes on the command vehicle, but it paid off, and the returns of that effort became evident. The breaking down of Israeli command structure would be a short-term kink in their plans. Enough time to perform this retreat, he hoped.

After a quick game of rock-paper-scissors between the four killers his third in line reluctantly volunteered with a nod, using the sand embankment they’d hastily created to move south along the uneven frontline in search of Major Meduza.

“And tell her and White to regroup with me, ay-sap!” Khaski slid a fresh magazine into his big RPK, feeling along the curved length of the metal after it was firmly in place. He took his wrist to the side of the weapon to knock off any lingering sand, settling his bipod out in front of him.

“Base of fire, get ready,” He ordered.

His squad to the right of him prepared to retaliate, creeping up along the sandy incline, barrels fanning out in a one hundred and eighty degree arc from their current position. Khaski picked his target, the machine gun team came to the fore of his mind, prompting him to swing left searching for their position. He saw the distinct silhouette of the Fabrique Nationale Belgian belt-fed machine gun, and he also recognized blood on the evening sand. The prows of helmets milled about behind their elevated position on the low ridgeline. The moment he saw a figure rise above their defilade he let loose with a volley. Red Bheka followed in his footsteps, rising to give lead back to the enemy.

It was a gift returned in kind as the coaxial of the nearest British Centurion tank took aim at their position, silencing their temporary reign of fire superiority. Khaski peeled his magazine out to check its contents. Only half dry. Good. His eyes scanned down the front in search of his man, he was halfway along, too. Even better. Finally he focused in the opposite direction, looking for the translator he’d sent. Khaski was alarmed to find the boy injured. He saw him lying about fifty meters down the line, hand pressed against his webbing while a field medic attended to him. He could only hope the message would spread before Ahmed prompted another suicidal advance behind his tanks.

“Alright, let’s get some more smoke down! Put them north-east so the wind takes them!”

“Colonel,” His subordinate returned, clutching his Kalashnikov in one hand and a canister in the other, “We’ve only got four cans left!”

“Drop two, keep two!” Khaski didn’t even acknowledge them with a glance, eyes focused on the Egyptians to gauge their hearts.

He could recognize the signs of quit in a lot of them, sheltered and not returning fire, looking around for guidance. He felt confident if they saw him going the other way they would come, too. The lot of them, anyways. His head turned as he heard the crunch of boots on sand. It was the rest of Bheka, followed by the whipping crack of pursuing gunfire. Khaski got a little closer to the sand, watching Meduza and her second, Drel slide down beside him. Drel handed him the radio equipment.

“Status update,” Khaski demanded, picking the cigarette out of Drel’s mouth to pull off before he handed it back.

“Right flank is holding…” Meduza’s eyes cast north up the front to see it was in much worse shape. “If we’re going to retreat it’s probably going to have to be south-west, Myslitel clocked reinforcements pushing just north-east of us. They’re trying to collapse this flank and cut us off from the Second army.”

“And you’re sure?” He wiped his brow of sweat, glancing north.

“Aye, Colonel. Saw it myself, past the dunes when I was picking targets, they’re maneuvering. Saw some mechanized infantry heading the opposite direction, too. Not as scary as the armored column, though.” Myslitel chimed in, lying flat on her back to stay clear of lead.

“Fine, fine, fine…” Khaski scratched at the back of his head nervously, trying his best to dream up a game plan that wouldn’t get them all killed. “Myslitel, you radio Cass and get another run going, tell them to target any enemy infantry and armored targets due north of our position. That’ll slow them down long enough for us to get going the opposite direction.”

“Roger.” She went about setting up the long-range antenna, her map and her equipment.

“Meduza, Inga…” Khaski turned to address the pair. Inga was the second Major of Bheka beside Meduza and squad lead of White Bheka. Her grizzled appearance belied her rather carefree and optimistic personality. Even as Khaski wore the severity of the situation on his face Inga smiled idly at him. Beyond that first and second layer was the layer Khaski prized her for; Her strategic genius. Inga was one of very few to attend a military academy before being “enrolled” into the Spetsgruppa. When there was an error in Khaski’s logic or a hole in his planning she would be the first to tell him.

“You take your squads and all the anti-tank equipment you can muster, and you deal with that infantry. Understood?”

“Understood,” They echoed in unison.

“Alright, ‘Duza, let’s rock out!” Inga started her way south in search of Anti-tank ordnance.

Organized into evenly spaced columns, White and Black peeled strategically away from the battle zone, working their way wide back west to hook south and come around where they suspected the Mechanized infantry to be. It was a loose approximation but it would have to be correct, because if it wasn’t the destruction of the Third army and Red squad was all but assured. The parched desert heat weighed heavier on them now that they were off-coast. The salty sea breeze was a distant tickle that came every now and again, but not nearly enough. It was fair to say that modern Russian uniforming was woefully unprepared for humid and arid climates. Their gear, while tan to adopt the environment’s hue, was still winter thick - leaving most of Bheka to unbutton their fatigues.

A whole day's worth of fighting addled their minds, leaving them a fraction duller than they would’ve liked, but Nightfall brought with it comfort… In a way. The dimming horizon lights left brilliant oranges and purples to color the atmosphere, but in the desert where everything was orange only the purples really stood out. When the last ray of sunlight fell over the tallest mountain west beyond the Suez both squads shrunk closer together. Krovo came close to Byk at the rear of the formation, hanging an arm around her shoulder as they walked.

“Thirsty?” Krovo asked, rattling her canteen before the Yordle.

Byk gave an amused scoff in reply. “You know I have my own, right?”

“Yeah, I know. But I want you to drink out of mine.” Krovo gave a half embarrassed grin in her direction.

Byk rolled her eyes. She’d pulled this stunt before. “Why? So you can taste my l--”

Krovo cut her off with a swift, “Mmhm!” She didn’t even want to hear Vechyia finish the sentence, she was too red-faced.

“You’re lucky I like you so much...” She knocked the canteen back for a solid three or four seconds, any less and Krovo would air her dissatisfaction. When she was done she handed it back with half a glance. “Happy?”

“Very.” Krovo wasted no time sipping from her canteen. It was a kiss by proxy, the only kind she could get in the field.

On the opposite front of the formation Drel and Meduza were being more productive. The Major carried a launcher of her own to deal with the armored vehicles they were soon to encounter. The extra weight felt foreign on her back but glancing at Drel, who was used to lugging explosives, she hardly seemed slowed down by it. The pair of them scanned for targets, listening ahead in the darkness. The moon had yet to shine over the opposite horizon so the visibility factor was unfavorable at best.

“You know something I miss about Russia, Major?” Drel whispered, taking an extra few steps to the left to be closer to her superior.

“What’s that, Captain?” Meduza didn’t let Drel’s conversation distract her from her diligent scanning.

“The snow. I heard it snows in the desert at night… Sometimes… We’ve gone from hot jungle to hot desert and it’s been such a long time since we got to visit home.”

“Sometimes…” Meduza echoed, looking down at her Kalashnikov. “Winter is almost here, I’m sure you’ll get your wish.”

While Meduza hadn’t entertained the thought of looking at Drel, the Captain couldn’t keep her eyes off the Yordle - glancing ahead and back again. It was an unconscious decision to pedestalize her superior. She had all the charm of a child looking at their superhero. And in Drel’s eyes, Meduza was a superhero. One from those cheesy American comics. An “Action Hero”, a “Super Soldier”. Her infatuation was grandeur at its best, no one could be so great. A part of her knew that, but even that part was content with the fantasy. The fantasy that Meduza was obtainable. The saying; “Never meet your heroes,” was true. You might fall in love.

“Eyes up, Drel.” Meduza ordered, feeling the longing gaze had lingered far too long. Where she expected Drel to look away, the Yordle just kept staring. She craned to challenge the Yordle with eye contact but still it didn’t abate.

“Eyes up.” She said again, assuming the Captain just didn’t hear her.

“No.” Drel replied.

“N-No?” Meduza’s brows furrowed in confusion. “What the fuck do you mean, “No”?”

“You know what I mean.” Drel retorted, her voice ethereal in her throat and her eyes narrowed with accusation. She knew well what challenging Meduza’s authority would come with. But she was about ready to take that chance. For too long she had been kept in the dark. Her advances were hardly advances and still the Major shot them down. She was done being apprehensive. It was time to open this can of worms.

“You’re the subordinate here, you do what I fucking say. Got a problem with that? Talk to Usoro when we get back home.” Meduza’s sternness shone proudly. She had never been one for disobedience. Every soldier would fall in or be killed for insubordination. She made it known through her actions that this was not America, in the Soviet Union cowardice and insubordination would be met with a bullet, not dishonorable discharge.

“No. You can’t order me not to care. Not anymore.” Drel’s next two steps forward brought her two paces closer to Meduza. Up until this point they had been quietly going back and forth, but Drel’s tone raised an octave to convey her seriousness.

“I’m not entertaining this.” Meduza picked up her pace, walking ahead of the Captain.

“You can’t tell me no so you run away?!” Drel matched her pace only to freeze when Meduza rounded on her, finger hovering inches from her nose.

“You wanna’ do this?! You wait until after the fucking mission, I don’t need any teenage angst in the field!” Meduza’s voice rose a step above Drel’s, hammering in that she was about as serious.

“You think you can shut me out? I’m done getting sidelined! Be honest for once and tell me what you really think!” Drel pressed her forehead into that pointing finger, daring Meduza to take it there.

“I think you’d better get back in line before I put you in line!”

Baran was the first to notice their spat, turning in the darkness just left of the voices. “Hey, what the fuck? Keep it down!” His words fell on deaf ears.

“Finally some emotion! You gonna’ get physical? Hit me? Shoot me?” Drel pushed the issue, getting into the Major’s chest without hesitation.

“I’m fucking thinkin’ about it!” Meduza shouted.

“Anything would be better than banging my head against your brick wall! So say it! It’s not like I don’t know you’re curving me!” Drel demanded.

“Shut up!” Meduza growled.

“Say it! Say it!”

“Miyka! Don’t fuck with me!” Meduza’s hand inched towards the Tokarev in her shoulder holster.

“Spineless bitch, some Lieutenant you are, you couldn’t even say it if your life depended on it.” The two were face-to-face, eye-to-eye. The impact of Drel’s words registered more in her quiet, unfeeling tone.

And that was the straw that ultimately broke the camel’s back. Meduza’s fury came forth as she pulled her sidearm, the same sidearm that belonged to her ex-husband. With her free hand she went for the woman’s collar, stuffing the cold barrel right up against the underside of Drel’s chin, ready to push her brain matter up through the top of her skull. But she knew what would hurt more than a bullet. So before she put Miyka down like the rebellious dog she was... She’d say it. Calmly. Silently...

“It’s never going to happen.”

Baran went to grab his torch and shine some light on the situation. Clearly there was an argument, some sort of heated disagreement he wasn’t privy to. The whole unit stopped around their superiors, even White squad held up in confusion. Before Baran could secure his flashlight a full moon rose in the east, shedding white-blue rays across the Sinai. He started his way down the dune towards the two with renewed energy at seeing the gun in play.

“Aye! Aye! What the fuck are you two doing?! Didn’t I say keep it down!”

The echoing report of a gunshot stunned everyone around them. Shouts for three-sixty cover came out, forcing everyone into a circle around the fallen body. White Squad closed to unify two thirds of Bheka… Then silence… Silence reigned for longer than any of them were comfortable with. Drel opened her eyes, fully expecting to see the fiery gates of hell before her. But to her surprise she was greeted with an equally confused Mishel. They turned in unison to see the figure and the unmistakable pump-action shotgun lying in the sand beside it.

Grumbling engines past the crest of the next sand dune came to life and gunfire bristled in their direction. Drel was quick to action, reeling her launcher off her back to couch it on her shoulder. “Clear my fucking backblast!”

Byk and Krovo threw themselves to safety, shouting “Clear!”

She squeezed hard on the trigger, due in part to the intense self-loathing and hot blood that was coursing through her veins. With no vehicles in sight she put the rocket as high on the dune as she could, rocking their attackers just long enough for them to seek safety on the far side of the dune. At the same time Meduza ran for Baran, hoisting the unresponsive Yordle up onto her shoulder. She didn’t miss a beat, peeling from the group to haul Baran to safety. White squad blanketed the opposition with suppressing fire while the rest of black Bheka retreated in a one, then two, then three fashion.

After they were safely behind the dune it was their turn to shoot for White.

“Start peeling your guys back! Start peeling your guys back!” Byk let loose with her RPD, running through the whole of her drum mag.

Two boxy armored personnel carriers came rising over the far hillock, headlights on to give their infantry counterparts a clear picture of the Russian threat. The pintle mounted fifty-caliber machine guns spit wrath in their direction, forcing everyone out of safety to find it sooner rather than later. Inga was the last one to hit the sand, sliding into place behind her subordinates. For the second time today they were pinned and Drel couldn’t help but feel that it was all her fault. Her fingers clutched harshly at the sides of her head, feeling as if she could tear out every single strand of hair. Her frantic breathing manifested in a wail of frustration upon seeing Baran’s fallen form.

“Fuck! FUCK! It’s all my FAULT!!”