Chapter 5 - Triumph

This offensive was unlike anything the Imperials had sent before, noted Lager as he reloaded behind a mound. Rain pelted down like shards of glass, clouds weeping with sorrow as men died. Nearby, a soldier yelped as a grenade fell into his position. Hurriedly, he attempted to throw it back, but it detonated mid-throw, tearing off his hand and leaving the rest of the arm mangled. His cries for help went unheard, as across the ridge every man and woman had their own problems to deal with, heroics and camaraderie abandoned for survival.

At first, the Imperials had attacked en masse. Nothing new, it was repulsed easily, and the enemy clambered back down. Then there were the planes. What was their own air force doing? Weren’t the Imps meant to be down? With air support constantly barraging the ridge, a second human wave attack was only just blunted. Lager ducked as a plane strafed his trench line. They weren’t prepared for the next attack.

Armored behemoths slowly but surely grinded their way towards the ridge. Most of his troops had never seen a tank, much less fought one, and here they were, an entire squadron of twelve withstanding machine gun fire, screened by infantry. The manuals had taught them the bare minimums of anti-tank fighting, most of it a garbled mess about flanking a tank, or using mines to immobilise it. Actual anti-tank weaponry was out of the picture, most of it was allocated to the special units or the Royal Guard. Pretentious bastards. A tank ahead fired it’s main gun, striking and knocking out an MG nest. It’s secondary guns chattered away, mowing down any would-be flankers. This was not good at all.

‘Radio!’ Lager called, “Where’s the fucking radio?’

‘Here, Sir!’ Signaller Ian sprinted towards Lager, ducking once as a tank gun fired, ‘Who to, Captain?’

‘Rear HQ, tell them it’s urgent!’

Ian set down the bulky unit on his back, and dialed in some keys, expectedly holding the receiver to his ear.

‘HQ, this is Signaller Ian of the 28th, Captain Lager wants a word, it’s urgent!’

The radioman wound the cord, and handed it to Lager.

‘We’re under attack from both the air and the ground!’ Lager yelled, over the cacophony of sound, ‘Requesting air support of our own, and something to fight off armor!’

‘Sorry repeat, Captain, did you say the enemy had active air units?’

‘Yes, there’s so many of the fuckers, I’m guessing 25 at least!’

‘That can’t be, Captain, we had them shut down!’

‘Well, you guys didn’t do a good job of it!’

‘Alright, alright, scrambling a nearby Spectre squadron!’

What the hell was a Spectre? The Captain dug into his pockets and withdrew a field manual. He skipped over the ever-helpful Anti-Tank guide, and onto the relevant page. Lager whistled.

Vafu, and their operators known as Spectres, are flexible support platforms capable of a wide variety of roles, including but not limited to anti-tank, air superiority, and long range attacks. They are used to further increase the effectiveness of ground, air or naval forces which they are attached to. Only personnel with Mana Rates of Class : Beta are permitted for recruitment into Spectre Programmes, with an 85% dropout rate.

The Vafu’s full designation is the Vertical Assault and Firepower Unit (VAFU), and is composed of a light framework which can be equipped by a standard human with sufficient mana to drastically increase their range of movement and make them capable of temporary flight. It’s actual specifications are naturally highly secretive, but selection for Spectre users are rare and far-fetched, normally adopting Pilots and Mountaineers, who are used to high altitude combat. The Vafu essentially challenges the need for an Air Force, with squadrons of Mages proven to be more effective than conditional Airplanes.

Alongside providing a more agile and flight-capable soldier, the Vafu itself can be linked up to a weapon of choice, ranging from the standard A5 Rifle to even a small artillery piece in order to enhance it’s offensive capabilities. The Vafu can also link itself into the physical and mental abilities of its user, changing both mental and physical capabilities and other elements such as accuracy, awareness and healing. The most skilled of Spectres master this skill, and deploy the Vafu to its full potential.

These Spectres didn’t joke around apparently. The ability to wield magic was one that Lager could only dream of, he had only ever seen it used in factories as a kid. Back to the receiver, he thanked HQ. Except there was only a buzzing noise.

‘Hey Radioman, this stupid thing’s-’

Ian lay still, a piece of shrapnel had cut through both the radio and lodged into his chest. Dead eyes to the sky, the rain continued to pour.

{---}

Scans to the ground had revealed at least a division’s worth of troops assaulting the ridge. This included twelve medium tanks, seventeen supply lorries, eight short-range mortars and thirty two heavy weapons of assorted nature. Silently, he relayed this information to the Squadron commander, who nodded solemnly. At once, the commander relayed orders of his own simultaneously to his squadron of fifteen. Weapons checked, altitudes high, and closing in, the Spectres flew close to each other, maintaining a tight formation.

‘Hey, hey watch yourself, idiot! You almost cut me in half!’ yelled someone from further behind.

‘Use your Vafu, before half the enemy knows we’re here.’ thought the Squadron commander, angrily.

‘Sorry, lead, I wasn’t thinking.’ a thought came back, ‘But seriously, this high? They won’t see us coming.’

‘Don’t count on it.’

As if on cue, a hail of fire came through the cloud cover, narrowly avoiding the squadron.

‘How?’

‘Doesn’t matter, execute the plan, now!’

Lucy boosted herself, plummeting rapidly. She was the leader of one of the finest spectre squadrons Silveria had to offer, each man and woman a veteran or talented individual. Lucy scoped around. The culprit of the shots, a fighter plane neighboured by two others, climbed suicidally, firing in bursts. Another round grazed by Lucy’s cheek, the briefest flash of pain as a streak was left behind. Then she was past, ignoring the other two and headed for her objective. At 10,000 feet, she levelled and fired indiscriminately at any visible targets. One tank erupted into flame, another’s ammo rack caught alight and exploded, the turret flying off and crushing a fuel truck.

The squadron were making quick work of the enemy, grinding the attack to a standstill. There was still the issue of the enemy’s air wings and though most of them had been dispatched, three continued to doggedly pursue her. One more boost left Lucy’s mana reserves wanting, adrenaline driving her as she ducked and dived, weaving from certain death. One fighter’s cockpit turned into a bloody mess as a squadron mate flew by, bayonet ready. Another’s fuselage tore open from stress, and the occupant bailed, parachute gliding him to safety. That left one more. The same pilot who had cut her cheek.

Lucy made a quick turn upwards, and as expected he followed. Rounds kept flying closer and closer to their target, and another scarcely missed her by an inch, cutting through a portion of reddish-brown hair. Keeping her hair in a bun was normal etiquette for operations, but today Lucy felt lucky. The separated strands of hair drifted, and the pilot was momentarily distracted. The sun glimpsed from the grey clouds, brilliant and dazzling. The pilot shaded his eyes, and saw there was no wound on the girl’s cheek, as she floated triumphantly, gun raised. The fighter stalled, but there was no response from the incumbent. The rest of the squadron found her, and they returned to base. The skies were theirs.

{---}

Hooting and excited yelling emerged from inside the barracks. Two hands locked together, arms bulging in strain, faces contorted with effort. Around them, recruits egged the arm-wrestling duo on, a steady beat that rose in crescendo as one arm veered slightly to the left. Then it was the turn of the other to tip right. Ingram was a myriad of sweat, his opponent releasing just as much testosterone. For a while, they held a neutral stance, neither in favour. Slapping the table with vigour, Ingram unleashed a final store of energy, his opponent screaming with effort. It was decided then, and the room broke out into applause. Ingram made a round of the circle, arms weakly raised. Oliver clapped, laughing, and took another swig of whiskey. He had acclimatised himself to the taste, strong stuff that Tumblin' Toby had assured was legally made. Toby was a sketchy fellow, and sharply, Oliver remembered the "pie" Toby had sold him which had left him constipated for days, Oliver closed the cap, and offered it to a more shitfaced fellow.

‘How quaint.’ said Archibald, reading a book on his bunk, ‘I don’t see the entertainment in that.’

‘Oh you don’t?’ nearby, Simon overheard. Nudging Peter, he pointed at their resting buddy. Nodding in unison, they crept up to the bunk, and took a leg and arm. One tug and Archibald was a reluctant participant in an arm wrestle against a macho from Squad 2.

‘Hey, Ollie, how you holdin’ up?’ Yvonne retired from her own bed and sat next to him.

‘Ah, nothing much really.’ he tapped a foot, ‘Instructor’s been making me do more shooting though.’

‘That’s to be expected, really.’ Yvonne spotted the shitfaced guy, who was fast asleep, and scooped up the bottle. Then, without hesitation, she began downing it.

‘Uh, I wouldn’t do that if I were-’

‘Relax, Ollie.’ Yvonne didn’t seem one bit unfazed, ‘I’m from the country, ain’t nothing compared to the hooch my pa made.’

She offered the rest, but he declined.

‘Suit yourself.’ she finished the whiskey, ‘You know Ollie, you’ve changed a lot since camp started.’

‘R-really?’

‘Yeah, ‘part from that stutter o’ yours.’ she slapped her knee as Archibald demanded a rematch, ‘You go gettem, Archie!’

‘Don’t call me that!’

Smiling, Oliver reclined a little he was among friends, no, family. Why so uptight?

‘But I’m confused as to why ye signed up.’ Yvonne asked. Oliver thought for a while before answering.

‘I’ve got a buddy I need to find.’