Before Equestria is destroyed, Celestia sends the Elements of Harmony on a quest to find a suitable planet, and open a portal to teleport the nation though. Problem is, it's already inhabitated, and the natives are very restless.
A great cataclysmic event is upon Equestria. Soon, all of the planet will be consumed in fire and death. Ponykind's only hope is to send Celestia's dearest student and her friends to an entirely new world and use the Elements of harmony to establish a link and help Equestria escape. But even with a formidable Royal Guard escort and the power of the Elements of Harmony, the chances of success are slim to none. But even the slimmest chance of survival is always preferable to certain death.
On Earth, Lance Corporal David Beckett of the USMC, a devoted husband and expectant father, just wants to survive his tour of duty in the Israeli/Syrian War and get home. Unfortunately, it won't be that simple.
“To send six mares to their possible death, one of whom is practically my own daughter?” Celestia snapped, before sighing and hanging her head in sorrow. “And a number of guards too, who all have families and loved ones of their own? No, Luna, I am not. But we have run out of choices.”
Luna crept close to her older sister, placing a hoof across her withers.
Celestia visibly relaxed at the touch, and moved to nuzzle Luna. “They could end up anywhere in the universe, Luna.”
“There is nothing more that can be done, Tia. We have this new world and the spell. We have used the most advanced-
Celestia jerked her sister, breaking her embrace. “Luna, nothing like this has been tested before.”
“It all adds up...”
“We are not mathematical statements,” Celestia replied. “Magic cannot be quantified. You, of all ponies, should know this.”
“Tia, it’s the best we can do. It’s our only choice.”
“I know, but...” she trailed off, hanging her head in worry.
“Even if the worst comes to pass, it would have happened either way. This is actually their best chance for survival. A slim chance is better than none at all.”
Celestia sighed, bracing herself for what she was about to do. “Very well. Let’s just get this over with.”
* * * * *
“Twilight, realize that you will be on your own once this spell is cast,” Celestia informed her student.
The unicorn nodded, a confident expression forming on her face. “I understand Princess.”
“No, you don’t,” she scolded, perhaps a little harsher than she meant. “Not even I do. Whatever you may encounter out there is something entirely beyond my control. I have done everything in my power to ensure your safety, but I am not a god. I can’t guarantee that nothing will go wrong.”
“You got it, Princess,” Rainbow Dash encouraged.
“I agree,” Rarity added. “I think you’re being hard on yourself.”
Celestia slowly shook her head in sadness. They were fools, really. She didn’t mean to insult them, and perhaps their ignorance wasn’t their fault, but Celestia never took blind optimism well.
However, those six young mares were right. They had never failed Celestia before. If they could not succeed, then all hope would truly be lost. She only hoped their lucky streak could hold.
“Bearers, please form a circle around the gem...”
“-a Cadillac! Number one with a bullet, I'm a power p-”
“For fuck’s sake, shut the fuck up, Ronnie!” the driver of the Humvee yelled at his squadmate. “You’re the last person who should be singing anything!”
“Just having some fun, Dave. Calm down.”
“Ronnie, you have the shittiest singing voice.”
A third voice, owned by a Marine manning the M2 machine gun, came in. “Yeah, Beckett-”
“Shut up, Boot,” Beckett, Ronnie, and another Marine in the back seat, Mason, interrupted without hesitation.
“Gentlemen, please,” a fourth man interjected, turning from the forward passenger seat to face the two sitting behind and next to him. “We’re in the middle of fuck-knows-where in the ass-end of Syria. There are buildings all around this road where any number of Syrian troops can be waiting with an RPG. Can you please pay attention for one Goddamn second!?”
“Yes, Sergeant Myers,” Ronnie responded as though he was scolded by a teacher. Myers ignored him and turned his eyes back to the road.
The ride continued for several more silent but tense minutes as they tailed the Marine-driven Maxxpro in front of him down the narrow street, while three Humvees followed in a column. David nervously eyed the numerous windows around his vehicle, each hiding a potential sniper or RPG-wielding soldier behind their curtains or the dark depths of the room.
Thankfully, nothing had happened so far. He was, however, morbidly curious as to why his patrol hadn’t been ambushed yet. Something else seemed to be holding the enemy’s attention for now.
Cloudhammer of the Royal Guard woke up with a headache. He rubbed a forehoof on his head, trying to ease the pain, but overall he was happy that he was hurting. It meant he was alive. The spell had apparently worked; they should be in an utterly new world.
He took a cautious glance around him. He was in a dark room with only a single window providing illumination. The walls were made of a dark sand-colored brick, and the room was sparsely occupied by wooden furniture. He could see the rest of his compatriots were in sight and uninjured, so at least he didn’t have to worry about finding them.
There was no one else in the room except some strange biped holding some wood and metal construction. From the way the creature was holding it, he assumed it was a weapon. He tried to get a closer look, but it was covered head-to-hoof in a green and black patterned cloth. It seemed to get uncomfortable when it noticed Hammer was looking at him, so the Guardspony looked away.
Suddenly a door opened to his side and another one of the bipeds trotted in with two more in tow. But this time, none had the weird head-wrappings. Instead the two in the back wore some type of (what he presumed was) helmet, revealing an odd monkey-shaped face. Only with these creatures’ faces were much less wrinkly and angular, with a protruding nose and a short-cropped beard around the mouth on one of them. They, like the one already in the room, had the same type of weird weapon.
The biped in front wore a small, black, and unbilled cap on the head. He did not carry one of the weapons and carried himself with a much more confident stride.
He faced the leading creature fully and opened his mouth to speak. “Greetings.”
The creature stopped dead in his tracks and his compatriots snapped towards him, pointing their weapons at him, muttering something in a language he couldn’t understand. Eventually, the leader turned to the others and motioned with his arms and said something in his tongue that soothed them, although they still fingered their weapons nervously.
“I am sorry for my compatriots, friend,” the leader said, giving a slight bow. “We are simply in a rather... stressful situation.”
“I can imagine.”
David Beckett kept watch over the sparse Syrian street. There were still no enemy combatants in view, but that did little to calm him down. If anything, this was worse; when there were a bunch of assholes shooting at him, he knew where to drive and Boot (he hoped) knew where to shoot. But on patrol like he was, all he was doing was waiting to get ambushed.
There were few civilians to be seen through the grimy windshield of his vehicle, but most looked malignant. Most were milling about, either talking to friends or perusing the various shops lined up along the street. When the procession of Humvees passed through, most barely glanced in his direction. Perhaps they just wanted the damn war over already and just wanted their old lives back.
He felt the same way, honestly. He had no idea why he reenlisted in the first place. He had already done his part. He was married and had a kid on the way. He had a family farm to help with. How the hell was the military supposed to help with any of that? It wasn’t that he regretted his action, but perhaps he could have tried to transfer to somewhere safer.
Suddenly, the radio emitted a loud static. It persisted for several seconds before he smacked the front of the box and it cleared up.
“Buzzard One, this is Buzzard Actual,” a voice blared over the radio, and from the passenger seat Myers brought the microphone to his mouth.
“Buzzard Actual, this is Buzzard One.”
“Return to base. We have recently confirmed reports that the Syrians have found something. They are directing resources to guard it until proper transportation can arrive. We need to assault their position before they leave.”
“Affirmative, returning now,” Myers replied. He picked up a different radio and held it up to his head. “This is Sergeant Myers to Fireteam Bravo and Charlie. We are returning to the FOB. How copy?”
After a series of affirmative responses, he replaced the radio’s microphone and turned to the driver. “David, lead the other vehicles back to base.”
Myers shook his head in disbelief. “What am I looking at, sir?”
“A photograph of what one of our snipers saw when scoping the Syrians," Second Lieutenant Clarkson, commander of Second Platoon, answered.
Myers picked up the photograph, which was the size of a large folder, and examined it closer. He still couldn’t believe his eyes. It looked like a very poor photoshop, and yet...
“An orange horse wearing a cowboy hat,” he muttered. “Any hajis?”
“Yes. They found the horse and brought it back to their main encampment. We’ve intercepted radio calls about pickup. We don’t want that to happen.”
“So we’re assaulting them?”
“Had to do it sooner or later,” the second lieutenant remarked. He took a sip from a nearby cup of coffee and continued, “Our platoon will be storming the building itself. First Platoon will hit the barracks, and Third has the main compound. Weapons distributed where needed, but will be mostly off-site mortar support.”
Myers scratched his chin in thought. “This seems like a big deal.”
“You leave in one hour.”
Ronnie looked around the meager forward base the Marines had set up. He hadn’t had much time to look around as his platoon had mostly been assigned to numerous guard posts for the last few days, but now that his squad had been called back that was likely to change.
Something big was happening. He wasn’t sure what exactly, but the way Sergeant Myers composed himself let on that he was hiding something. And honestly, Ronnie couldn’t care less. If something was supposed to be hidden, it was supposed to be hidden. He’d find out when he needed to.
He took a sip from his canteen and peered around the encampment, trying to distract himself from the insane heat that contrasted greatly from his native Colorado. He tried to ration himself, as he couldn’t constantly refill his—
Just then, he spotted a group of water dogs fiddling with a huge tank of water. He gulped down the rest, walked over to refill his canteen, and traded an MRE pack with another Marine for a different type. With that issue dealt with, he returned to surveying the area. His eyes drifted towards the motor pool where Beckett parked the Humvee, and spotted the week-old addition to the squad.
He crept up to the unsuspecting man, although not deliberately. With the engineers working on numerous disabled vehicles and the Abrams revving up for some reason, and the constant clunking and screeching barely let Ronnie think. After a fair bit of walking and avoiding engineers he pissed off by simply existing, he made it to his destination.
“Boot, this is your first foray into combat, so I just thought I’d give you some pointers,” he announced, taking a seat next to and startling the young Marine. “I know you’ve been told this, but chances are you’re a fucking moron just like everyone else here. One, cover is your best friend. The best way to get killed is to pop your dumb ass out long enough to get shot. They’ve told you that in camp, right?”
Ronnie received a nod in reply.
“Good. Two: don’t go automatic unless someone who knows what he’s doing tells you. You won’t hit anything. And if you try to suppress someone for longer than two minutes, you’ll run dry. That’s why we have big guy over there,” he continued, motioning towards Mason, “with the SAW.”
Another nod.
“And three: this war isn’t as clear cut as you’d think it is. Some towel-wearing asshat comes at you screaming ‘ALOHA SNACKBAR’ just shoot him. That’s something most civvies don’t do.”
“I’ll, uh, keep that in mind,” Boot replied. He got started to get up from his seat before Ronnie tapped him in the arm for more attention.
“You better. Ain’t a fun place out there,” Ronnie warned. “And not everyone who might be shooting at us really cares about UN uniform rules.”
David sighed from a few feet away. “Ronnie, we ain’t getting insurgents, and I think the legit Syrian troops are a little less... fucked in the head.”
“I know that, Beckett. But it’s not like Achmed really cares who kills us as long as we’re dead. They’d be perfectly happy to let Towelie take a shot.”
“Fuck, how many names do you have?” David muttered to himself.
“What was that?”
“I said ‘Not like we really differ in that.’”
“Except the ‘throw kids with bomb vests’ part,” Ronnie countered.
David rubbed his forehead in annoyance. “You know what I mean.”
“Gentlemen!” boomed Myer’s voice from across the makeshift motor pool. The nearby squadmembers turned to listen to him. “Load up. We’re gone in a half hour for the Syrians. They found something and we don’t want it getting to the Syrian capital.”
He glanced around the room he had followed the creature into. It was sparsely populated by any furnishings; it looked as though it had been hastily cleared out a short time ago. There were no windows, but there was a ventilation opening near the ceiling by the door. Other than himself and the leader of the strange beings, there was a single guard with another of those strange weapons.
After a second, his eyes settled across the shoddy wooden table to the creature across the surface. “Captain Cloudhammer of the Royal Guard,” he offered, reaching out a hoof in greeting.
The creature tentatively reached out, but confidently shook after a second of hesitation. He gave a small smile at the shared form of greeting. “Captain Sabbagh of the Syrian Arab Army.”
“I’m surprised we both speak the same language.”
“Not natively. I only happen to speak English. My men have no idea what we are saying.”
“Interesting,” Cloudhammer responded. The creature didn’t reply immediately, and several seconds of awkwardness reigned. “You know, I’m not good at these things. Let’s just spill the facts.”
“Ah, that could work,” the creature replied with a relieved smile.
“My species is called ‘pony’. We have three pony subspecies, and several members of other species live within our borders. I am a Royal Guard, and on a mission to guard the six mares who don’t have armor on while they do an extremely important task.”
“When you say ‘subspecies’ do you mean... ethnicity?”
“No, I literally mean an almost separate species. If you’ll notice, I have wings,” he informed, spreading his feathered limbs into sight. “Two of my Guards have horns, and two of the VIPs have neither.”
“I see. And species?”
“Griffins, minotaurs, zebras, and several more,” he answered.
The creature leaned back and scratched at his beard as if to express skepticism, but sighed in apparent acceptance. “And this important mission those six are doing?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you as of right now.”
“Of course. I understand,” conceded the creature. He leaned forward on the table, folding his hands under his face. “Well, I suppose it is my turn. I am a ‘human’ of the nation of Syria, and you appeared in the middle of a desert city in the middle of a war.”
That surprised Cloudhammer, but after a second of thought, the shock went away. After all, it should have been quite obvious, with all the weapons and soldiers around him. “With who?”
“Mainly, an invasive parasite of a nation called Israel. They were formed decades ago by a conglomerate of nations led by one called the United States of America. They kicked the native people out into the desert and fortified their conquered territory. Even now, they further persecute, occupying their new home.”
“I can see a reason for fighting, then,” Cloudhammer replied, nodding his head slightly. “But to the topic at hand, what is next?”
“I have called for transport to a higher authority a few dozen kilometers away from here,” answered the human. “They will be here in anytime from twelve hours to two days. We are currently on the front lines of this war. We must simply hope they make it before the Americans make a move.”
Yousef strolled lazily across the street, taking in the sights and sounds of the town’s main street. He was picking at his AKS-74, a variation of the standard rifle of the Syrian army since the revolution of 2014. He pulled a small twig from the bolt. How long had that been there?
“Stop that,” a voice commanded from his side.
“Or what, Aali? The Americans will come and get me?”
“You’ll shoot yourself in the foot.”
Yousef gawked at his patrol partner. “You think I’m that stupid?”
“Yes,” came the curt reply.
“You know w-”
-CRACK-
“What was that?” Aali yelled, bringing his rifle to his shoulder, scanning for threats among the crowd and buildings as he ran off the road and crouched by a nearby dumpster. “Americans?”
Yousef followed suit. “Sounded more like an explosion. But just a single mortar isn’t usual for them.”
“Sniper?” Aali suggested.
“Since when do snipers actually shoot?”
“Whatever,” Aali conceded. “But we still need to check it out.”
Yousef searched in the direction from which he heard the explosion and spotted an alley between two stores. “Down there.”
Aali nodded and raised his rifle. He crept up to the edge of the wall, careful to not make a sound. He quickly turned the corner, his rifle up and scanning for any threats, as Yousef followed from behind. Fortunately, he found none.
“Nothing’s here.”
Yousef shook his head in disbelief. “I could have sworn I heard-”
“Wait,” Aali interrupted. He pointed towards the corner of the alley. “I see something. Is that a...”
Yousef nodded. “Yes. Yes it is.”
* * * * *
Yousef strolled lazily alongside a small group of hurrying soldiers carrying stretchers, which were recently stored in a covered lorry. As they passed, several of the men gave him looks that would melt ice. Yousef didn’t mind, however. As reward for taking initiative and finding the horses in the first place, Captain Sabbagh had given him and Aali guard overwatch while other lazy bastards who fulfilled the role of warm bodies perfectly were put to work ferrying the cargo from the truck to a more secure location inside the compound’s main building. Oh no, he thought. They have to do something for once. Poor them.
As his patrol route returned, he came in the vicinity of the captain himself.
“What do you make of this, Lieutenant?” Yousef heard Sabbagh ask a third man as he watched the truck back into the compound, writing something on a clipboard.
The lieutenant shrugged. “I’m not sure. But I have a feeling we should be careful in trusting them.”
“Why would you think that?” Sabbagh asked, turning to address his subordinate.
“They are so... unhuman, sir. They came out of nowhere with a bang. That should be impossible. They-”
“What, you think they are the works of the devil?” he interrupted, but received no response. “The world runs as God wills. Unless you mean to imply...”
“No, I would never,” the lieutenant quickly added before the thought could be fully expressed. “I’m just nervous.”
“Very well then. You see, I believe that these creatures are a gift, with untold potential for our cause. We must simply take advantage of our opportunity.”
Yousef continued his route as the lieutenant left to concern over his own personal job, while the captain stayed to make sure the cargo was secured to his liking. He eventually caught up with Aali, who had a lit cigarette between his lips and was blowing out the occasional puff of smoke through the other side of his mouth.
“How’s the patrol, Aali?”
Aali shrugged. “Well, no Americans attacked. So I guess we’re fine.” He took another drag from his cigarette. “Thoughts on the whole matter?”
“I’m not sure,” Yousef admitted. “I am not going to make up any theories. There are twelve horses of different colors, six of which are in armor, and that’s all I care to know right now. I will not delve into how this affects our understanding of the universe.”
“Yeah, that’s for the Imam to decide. We’re just soldiers.”
Yousef nodded. “Oh, we’ve also been assigned as part of their protective detail. Maybe we can talk to them. Lessen the boredom.”
“Wow,” Twilight remarked in amazement. “Your people are very eloquent in storytelling.”
“Yes, I guess we are,” Aali agreed. “A tradition as old as humankind itself.”
“Oh, I can’t wait to report all of this to the Princess.”
“Princess?” Aali questioned.
“The leader of all of Equestria,” Twilight explained, if a little too eagerly to Yousef. “She has been my mentor my entire life! When I was a little filly she accepted me into her school as her personal student! She’s almost my second mom!”
Yousef nodded in understanding. “I can see how important this person must be to y-”
A large thud shook the building, causing dust to fall from the ceiling. “What was that!?” Twilight cried.
“Americans!” he yelled, panicking. How close were they? How long have they been there? How long have they been waiting? These questions and many more raced through his mind as he tried to think of a way to protect the hor-ponies. “Get under that rug,” he commanded. He wasn’t sure what good that would do, but getting her as far away from the Americans’ sight as possible wouldn’t hurt.
He faced a couple of soldiers who were also in the room. “Guard her. I will check on the others.”
The grim-faced soldiers nodded in obedience and turned their attention towards one of the doors, which led to the outside. One took a directed explosive and tied a string to it and put it across the door frame, creating a trip-wire. The booby-trap complete, he stepped back and took position behind an overturned couch the other was already behind, his weapon aimed the door.
The Americans may defeat them, but not without a few scrapes and bruises first.
Minutes before
David drove the Humvee through the narrow Syrian streets, following the convoy of trucks and Armored Personnel Carriers hounding towards the objective.
He turned to Meyers and asked, “Weapons Platoon in place?”
“Yes,” the sergeant answered, “mortars will be ready as soon as we’re there, and machine gun emplacements are already firing.”
“Well, things don’t seem to be going catastrophically wrong yet.”
David stopped the truck by a pair of blown-out and smoking buildings and pushed the door open. He brought his M16 up to his shoulder and kept it pointed down the street in case Syrian soldiers appeared, but none did. He could hear the Weapons Platoon’s guns firing nearby, and there appeared to be little, if any, fire back. The rest of the fireteam came up behind him.
A second later, the second and third Humvees arrived with the other two fireteams. They disembarked similarly and came up to Meyers.
“Bravo and Charlie here, sir,” Alex Jameson, Bravo’s fireteam leader, announced.
Meyers nodded. “I see you, Corporal.”
Meyers jogged up to a nearby apartment complex where a Weapons squad was emplaced with the squad in tow. He pushed open the remains of a door and stepped into the room. As he walked through the room, he could hear the machine guns clearly enough for his care, chattering away at Syrian units throughout the nearby compound.
He passed several Weapons Marines carrying ammunition to the upper stairs, as well as a radio operator setting up a communications line. The squad passed through into the street out front, which was littered with craters from mortar strikes.
They deftly crossed through blown-out buildings and the smoking husks of vehicles under the lethal arcs of suppressive machine gun fire which had kept the heads of the Syrians down and allowed them to cross unimpeded. But now that they were at the edge of the apartment complexes, there was a clear field between the squad and their objective, a rather large two storey building, with machine gun nests and heavily reinforced foxholes scattered around.
The other two squads came in by the same route. Second Squad continued going along one side under cover, while Third Squad entered the building next to them and began setting up a forward suppression position. Soon after, a second platoon came, and began spreading throughout the residential complex surrounding the objective building, and took up supporting positions overlooking the field.
Meyers took out a small notebook and scribbled down some numbers. He turned to Boot and said, “Radio these coordinates to the Weapons platoon for a the mortars. Two rounds of fire. Fragmentation then smoke.“
Boot did so, and soon after shells rained down on Syrian foxholes, which erupted with cooked off ammunition and body parts. They continued falling until all of the coordinates had been fulfilled, and soon after another round of shells came. However, rather than exploding into deadly fragments, they let out a thick blanket of smoke across the field and around all sides of the building.
Meyers stepped out from cover and ran towards the smoke, squad in tow. He looked around himself for threats through the smoke, taking note of every dark shape that appeared at the extent of his vision. Behind him he heard David curse. Meyers glanced back and saw him grasped by a Syrian, body shredded like cheese, presumably from cooked off ammunition. The Syrian was pleading for help, and David was looking to him for guidance.
Meyers shouldered his rifle and fired.
“What the hell was that!” David yelled.
“Half his liver’s a yard over there,” Meyers answered, pointing along the trail of blood the Syrian had left. “Wouldn’t have made it even if we called in for an evac right now.”
He turned around and continued through the smoke, stepping over debris and other terrain until he reached the wall of the objective.
Alpha Team lined up next to the corner of the building while Bravo and Charlie teams took up positions at other entry points. Meyers stood a dozen yards back with a SMAW aimed at the corner from an angle, ready to make a new entry point rather than use the enemy’s. As soon as he launched the rocket, FAST teams, inserted from above by helicopter, would breach the upper levels a second later and secure the creature.
He squeezed the trigger.
The rocket left the tube and impacted on the end of the wall, blasting through and creating a large hole. The explosive force continued, opening another hole on the adjoined wall. Ronnie, because of the size of the small mouse-hole opening, crouched down and turned into the room, with a series of quick trigger squeezes along chest-height downing several of the occupants. With his call of “Clear!” David burst through similarly, but only half of the room, opposite side from where Ronnie had ended. He yelled “Clear!” and Boot came in, sweeping his corner and on his “Clear!” Mason came in, opposite side of Boot. “Clear!”
Meyers jogged up to the mouse-hole and came through as Boot took position near the door, guarding against any Syrian soldiers who may have wished to make an untimely entrance. He took a look at the Syrian bodies on the floor. Two were on the ground, dead.
“Sarge,” David called. Meyers looked at him. He was crouched over something covered in a rug. Meyers walked over and gave the rug a pull.
“The Hell?” Meyers stared in wonder. The creature they were looking for was there. It was the size of a huge dog, it was purple, and its legs ended in stumps. Meyers studied the creature for a few more seconds before reaching into a pocket on his vest. “Something’s off.”
In his hand he held a colored photograph taken a kilometer away that peered into one of the windows on the upper floor. In the center of the photo was a small orange creature, head up to the chest of the man next to it, and it was wearing what looked to Meyers like a cowboy hat.
“Aw, shit,” he muttered. He reached to his chest and keyed his personal radio. “Jameson, Lewis.”
“Yes, sir?” they responded simultaneously.
“This is a bit more complicated than we thought,” he informed. “One, the creature was down here. Two, it looks nothing like the picture.”
The light blinded here when the rug was torn off, but soon the pain in her eyes subsided and she cracked them open to be greeted by the site of more of these ‘humans’. However, these had significantly lighter skin and sand-colored uniforms with a bulk of pouches and pockets over their torsos.
They tried talking to her, but their voices were garbled and unintelligible. “What?” she asked, but when they responded they were still as hard to understand.
One tried to pick her up, but she kicked at him and yelled, knocking the wind out of him and sending him to the ground. Two others grabbed her by the legs and picked her up and she tried to continue her fight, but she was a librarian, not a soldier. She stopped, deciding to conserve her strength. She could have tried to attack them with her magic, but escaping and running off confused in the middle of a war zone was probably not the best idea she had come up with.
As she was lifted, her body was turned, angling her head towards the bodies of the two Syrian soldiers. She screamed.
“God dammit!” Ronnie yelled, tightening his grip on the purple horse thing. “Stronger than you’d think, for how adorable they are.”
David sighed. An action, he found, to be quite common when Ronnie was around. “Just help me carry the fucking thing.”
“This way,” Meyers said, leading them out the building. “The Maxxpro can’t fit in the tight streets. We need to hoof it.”
Ronnie chuckled. “Hoof it.”
Meyers said nothing, either because he didn’t hear the remark over the sound of distant and close firefights, or was simply as tired of the corporal’s sense of humor as David was.
“Shouldn’t we give the horse thing to the FAST teams?” Boot asked.
Meyers answered, “I radioed them. The found a lot more of the things above, and so did our other two fireteams.”
The five caught up with Bravo and Charlie teams, who were carrying mini-horses of their own. Two with armor, and one with rainbow-colored hair. The thirteen Marines backtraced through the myriad of building complexes until they made it back to the line of Humvees they had rode in with.
“Fucking unreal,” David muttered. He turned towards Meyers. “Where’s the Pro?”
“It has to come here from the FAST teams’ rendezvous. They have more and they’ll dump ours in while we ride back in these.”
David nodded in understanding and leaned against the Humvee, pulling back his sleeve to check his watch. “Hey, why do we call them ‘FAST teams’? The ‘T’ in FAST means team. Kind of redundant.”
“Because ‘fast’ is an adjective,” Ronnie answered. “Using it as a noun sounds awkward as all fuck.”
“Bu-” Before David could finish his thought, a squad of Syrian soldiers appeared at the other side of the street. They appeared equally as surprised, as the Marines and Syrians locked eyes with each other for several tense seconds, both groups too shocked to move.
Ronnie suddenly raised his rifle and fired, hitting one of them in the chest, causing the man to fall to the ground as a puppet cut from its strings. “Fucking shoot them!” he yelled, and moved behind the wheel of his Humvee. The squad followed suit, pouring lead at the enemy soldiers and moving towards cover themselves.
The Syrians retreated back into a building and took positions at the windows. Some climbed up stairs and appeared in the second floor windows.
“Get in the Humvees!” Ronnie yelled to the squad. The Marines followed his command. One by one, under cover of their fellows, they climbed into the side of the trucks that were safe from enemy fire and activated the engines.
David climbed in from the front passenger seat, managing to squeeze himself across and into the driver’s seat. Luckily the metal and treated glass of the Humvee afforded ample protection against the 5.45 millimeter rounds, and he started the engine. To his side he heard a Weapons squad sending fire at the Syrians from occupied buildings, and David urged Meyers into the passenger seat, wanting to get out before the mortars started hitting.
He hated urban warfare.
“We’ve got to get the fuck outta here,” Ronnie warned. “Those guys came out of nowhere. Gotta be reinforcements.”
David pressed the gas pedal, sending the armored vehicle screaming down the street and away from danger, the two other fire-teams following him closely. “Can’t be. They wouldn’t’ve been surprised if they were looking for trouble.”
“Maybe they just thought they’d catch our backs or we were in an odd position.”
David gave him a queer look. “They couldn’t be that stupid.”
“Rookies I guess,” Ronnie countered. “We’ve killed most of their experienced guys from that ‘13-’14 revolution, and this is a pretty backwater place. Wouldn’t send their brightest guys.”
“Makes sense. I guess,” David conceded, focusing his attention on driving through the relatively narrow streets. Down the corridor of buildings, a hundred yards or so, there was a huge grey blob blocking the road. His eyes widened in realization. “Is that-”
“T-80!” Ronnie yelled. “T-80! Turn the fucking car!”
As safely as he could, David turned the Humvee into an alley just as the turret of the tank turned in their direction. Contrary to his fears, the other fire-teams were also able to turn in time, and made it to momentary safety just as the massive cannon blew a hole into nearby masonry.
David sighed again. “This’ll be fun.”
“I’ve done some calculations. We have more time than we originally thought, but not much.”
“Thank you, Luna,” Celestia said. “That is certainly a relief.”
Luna nodded. “How is the evacuation going?”
“I’ve sent for runes to be placed just outside our borders. I’ve received reports that they are being successfully enchanted in place, and I’m receiving more on an hourly basis. The Crystal Empire and Badlands will be saved.”
Luna raised an eyebrow. “Even the Changelings?”
“Yes, Luna,” Celestia said, an edge clearly present in her voice. “Even the Changelings. What a small number of them had done in no way deserves extinction.”
“Of course.”
“What of the sun? How exactly long does it have?”
Luna reached into her saddlebag and pulled out a hoofull of papers. “The details are on here. If we conserve its movement and slow it down, that will give us an extra week at least.”
“Slow it down?” Celestia questioned. “Wouldn’t that lengthen the day?”
“Yes, it would. But better than dying, I presume,” Luna said. “Oh yes, what of the other continents?”
Celestia’s head dropped slightly. “They will be gone. Griffons, zebras, everyone outside the runes will be left here as the sun tears itself apart.”
“And I presume there is no way to save them as well?”
“No. If I extend the runes too far, the spell will become too complicated and taxing for us and no one will be saved. Those griffons, minotaurs, and all other species inside our borders will be the last of their races.”
“What of the Zebras? I heard they can reproduce with ponies.”
Celestia nodded in confirmation. “Oh, yes, they are practically earth ponies,” she explained. “You know that. But their children won’t be zebra after a generation or two.”
“And luckily the Great Dragon Migration is in its local stage.”
“The dragons are very lucky. They are a week off from the extended doomsday.” Before Celestia could talk further, a small yawn escaped her lips, followed by a stretch of her wings and forelegs. “I need to get to bed. Only a few hours until I need to raise the sun again.”
“I will have you woken up later,” Luna said. “We need to start conserving the sun now. Get some sleep.”
Celestia nodded and cantered to her bed, plopping down onto the majestically soft sheets in a particularly un-ladylike manner.
Joseph Williams, gunner of Bravo Team, tried again from behind the driver seat. “You know you’re not a prisoner, right?”
The cargo, a small red horse-like thing with bird wings and bright golden armor sat slumped in the rear passenger seat, bound with rope. It gave a struggle during the raid, and the fireteam leader, Corporal Alex Jameson, deemed it necessary to tie it down to simplify future interactions.
The creature turned an eye towards Joe, its glare staring straight through the young Marine. “Could have fooled me.”
“Right...” Joe said, “So are you going to drop the attitude or what? It’s a long ride back to the main force.”
“Excuse me. But if I am not a prisoner, then what am I?”
“An alien creature caught in the middle of a mess of a situation, making it even more complicated, who is being brought back so he, and his compatriots, can meet proper representatives of our country.”
The creature remained silent.
“What, you think we’re some evil conquerors taking over some peaceful place for the hell of it?” he asked.
The creature turned to him with an icy glare. “I was told all about America,” it spat. “I know what you’re up to.”
“What we’re up to?” Joe asked, suppressing a chuckle. “Who told you that? Your Syrian friends? Let me guess: Israel is this great satan that has infiltrated the entire western hemisphere and is using America, the biggest kid on the block, as its pawn to take over the world?”
“More or less.”
Holy shit, I was right. “They probably forgot to mention a little thing called the Holocaust, where six to seven million Jews, a.k.a. Israelis, were rounded up into labor camps and killed, or just killed, and then that the creation of the state of Israel is a reaction to that and an assurance it won’t happen again, and that all the other countries around them have tried to kick their asses for the last sixty years? Didn’t mention that, did they?”
The creature shrugged. At least, what Joe assumed was a shrug.
“Of course they didn’t.” Joe sighed and adjusted his IAR, checking the mounting on the Humvee’s window. “Now, I’m not saying Israel’s hands are spotless in this whole mess, but they’re hardly the bad guys in the big picture.”
The creature had by then returned to staring out the window to the horizon, and remained silent. Joe gave up. There wasn’t really any need to get the cargo ideologically aligned. At the very least he showed to the horse that there was a different perspective.
The radio clicked. Up front, Jameson grabbed the receiver from his place in the passenger seat and brought it to his ear.
“Roger, Vulture Actual. This is Vulture One-One. Reading you clear, over.”
Williams heard a muffled Sergeant Meyers from the phone, but he couldn't make out exactly what was said.
“Copy. Proceeding to location now. Out,” Jameson finished before turning to the Humvee’s driver. “Change of plans, Lopez. Lead’s truck got ambushed and their tire’s fucked. I’ll show you where to go once I get the coordinates in this computer.”
As Lopez confirmed with a “Yes, sir.” Williams turned back towards the creature.
“I know you don’t have any reason to believe me over the other guys. I don’t really care if you do. You’re seeing my command in a bit and that’s all I care about.”
“We were ambushed,” Beckett explained.
“I can see that,” said Lewis, whose gaze was directed at a trio of dead Syrian soldiers lying in the street. Their equipment had been stripped, placed in a pile with other captured munitions and weapons that was to later be burned to deny the enemy resources.
“We’ve got the spare wheel ready to go,” Beckett continued. “We just need you guys to be a look-out for any Syrians while we replace the damaged one. Especially for that tank.”
“Where the fuck did they find an ‘80 anyway? I thought it was all ‘72s,” Jameson commented.
Lewis scratched his chin in thought. “They have a shit-ton of ‘55s and ‘62s too. Like fifteen-hundred of each tank?”
“Probably a lot less now, right?” Jameson ventured with a small chuckle.
“Fuck, man. You’ve got me worrying,” Ronnie suddenly burst out. “The only local user is Egypt, and they’ve got like twenty. Russia’s got like, what, a few thousand of them gathering dust? Probably two thousand active by now?”
“I thought they were were caught up with us in Afghanistan?”
“The fuck you think why I’m shitting my pants right now?”
* * * * *
Twilight watched the human soldiers as they fiddled with their motorized carriage, which were apparently called ‘Humvees’.
She was scared of them. However, as an intellectual, she was fascinated by them. Unlike how her Royal Guard compatriots acted, she didn’t immediately come to hate these soldiers just from the word of the Syrians. She wasn’t taken in by the underdog routine. She simply studied the Syrian humans, and she was simply studying the Americans. The way they talked to each other, the way they acted around the ponies, she was taking it all in.
Once she calmed down and got her wits about her, it was no different with the Americans. Unlike her previous captors, they seemed driven. While the Syrians were confused and unsure of what to do with them, the Americans took a proactive role and in general had an idea of what they were doing.
The ponies were being kept away from each other; the other two ponies were being kept in the Humvees. The one she was riding in was being fixed, so she had been sitting down next to a large concrete structure while one of the American soldiers was watching over her, making sure she didn’t try to escape.
Of course, she easily could get away with her teleportation. However, even if she knew how to navigate the area and where to go, that would do nothing to advance her mission. Seeing how advanced their technology was, she was sure it would be a great benefit to Equestria if she could get them on her side.
* * * * *
Second Lieutenant Alex Clarkson raised the radio’s microphone up to his mouth for the third time in the past minute. “Vulture One, this is Vulture Actual. Requesting sitrep, over.”
Garbled yet understandable words blurted through the receiver in response.
Clarkson reached into his pocket for his pen and a notepad. “Understood. Say location again, over.”
As the grid coordinates came through, he wrote them down on the paper. He handed them to the nearby Gunnery Sergeant and asked him to plot it on a map, before turning his attention back to the radio.
“Interrogative. Do you require assistance, over?”
A negative response came back.
“Roger. Inform when oscar mike. Out.”
He leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh. Fuck, he thought to himself. They were close. The unit was so close and then one of the vehicles had to get hit. Thankfully, none of his Marines or his cargo were taken out, and if they could get moving again, mission accomplished.
“Gunny!” he called. The Sergeant came jogging back to him. “First Squad’s having some trouble. I need you to talk to Skipper and see if he can get a bird over their position for eyes. We need them back in one piece.”
“You don’t want to send Vulture Two or Three for support?”
Clarkson shook his head. “I don’t want to get the area bogged up. I’ve looked at their troop placements. The area’s pretty empty and I don’t want to make the Syrians start paying attention if I don’t need to.”
“Understood, sir.”
He wasn’t sure exactly was going on, but it was big; big enough to take anyone who even knows about the creatures and relocate and isolate them entirely.
* * * * *
“Um, excuse me?”
Boot looked down from his post on the Humvee’s M2 down below him on the street next to the truck, where the creature, whose name he learned was Twilight Sparkle, was standing. She, unlike her apparently unruly pony friends, was allowed out during the break to stretch her legs on the condition that she was watched by one of the Marines. A few yards away stood Mason, watching both her and the road.
“So,” she began, “you’re… Boot, right?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Just my nickname. Real name’s Eric.”
“Oh. Well, why aren’t you called that then?”
Boot shrugged. “‘Boot’ is the term for new guys who haven’t deployed. They lost a guy in another country a year back. I was their replacement and, since it was my first time outside a home base, that’s what they called me.”
Twilight cocked her head to the side, an action Boot found quite cute, in the same way a puppy just discovered another dog on a TV. “Still?”
He shrugged again. “Name stuck.”
“Why are you here? In the military?” she asked.
“Uh,” he stammered, trying to come up with a simple answer. “Family business, I guess.”
“Huh?”
“A few family were in the infantry like me. They were Army though.”
“So you joined the military just because your family did?” Twilight stepped closer to the vehicle to get a better look at him. “Even though this is happening?”
“That’s kind of what war is, just so you know. People kill each other.”
“So you’re just conquerors then? Like I was told?”
Boot sighed. “No. We’re actually helping more than harming, if you want to believe that,” he returned. “We didn’t start this damn war. We’re making sure it ends faster. That does a lot more to help.”
“But how does this help?” she questioned, waving her hoof around the street, towards the bodies, towards the weapons, towards the smoke in the skyline.
“What are we supposed to do? They’re invading other countries. They have to be stopped somehow.”
“But I’m sure you could aid them somehow? So that they don’t need to in the first place.”
“What are we supposed to do?” Boot asked. “These dictators starve their own people. I don’t think they can be reasoned with.”
“Well, I’m sure you could at least send in extra money or food,” she suggested.
“You can’t just give them more money,” he explained. “They’ll just spend it on their military. You can’t give them checks for food either, they’ll just use money they would have spent on food and use it instead for their military. And not actual food, medical supplies, or whatever. Same problem. The only thing you can give dictators like this are a bullet to the head.”
“That’s brutal!” she burst out, stepping back a few steps.
Boot shrugged. “So is what they do to everyone around them.”
“But does that give you the right to interfere with other sovereign nations?”
“If you saw your neighbor beating his wife, what would you do?”
“Get the police, the people who should be dealing with an issue like that,” Twilight responded in a matter-of-fact tone.
“And if there aren’t any police?”
He didn’t receive a response from her.
“Vigilantism isn’t pretty, I know, but it’s not like the UN’s doing anything about this. Someone has to step up.”
“Vanhoover Province is acting up again, Your Majesty.”
Celestia watched the visitor as he stepped into her outer chambers, where she often worked during the day. The large, determined pony clad in exquisite Royal Guard armor placed a finely-made scroll on her desk before stepping back. “Thank you, Captain,” she replied. “I’ll look at the reports when I’m done with another issue. I trust you can handle the matters yourself in my absence?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” came the curt reply.
He’s certainly different than Shining, she thought to herself. While she was certainly confident in Stormbreaker, the new Captain of the Royal Guard, she occasionally missed Shining’s amiable demeanor. She would need to write again some time soon. She waved him off. “You are dismissed, Captain.”
Her thoughts turned sourly towards the Vanhoover province. Over a thousand Equestrian Infantry lives had been lost only a few years before in their attempted secession, and hundreds during the subsequent pacification period. Since then, there had been several border skirmishes that had taken a few dozen of her ponies. In each engagement more secessionists had died, but they remained determined and dangerous.
But then they began playing dirty.
Fertilizer bombs on roads hit troops when they weren’t expecting it. Night raids killed them in their sleep and destroyed their food. Ungathered corpses would be left near the pass as a warning. When she had gotten reports the day before about possible secessionist movements in other towns, her stomach had turned cold. She didn’t need this, especially not now.
This problem would need to be finished soon.
“Infantry spotted,” Walker announced. He trained his IAR on the patrolling squad as they carefully moved down the street. From his vantage point in the upper floor of an old street corner apartment, he could see a football field and a half in either direction. “IFV-supported.”
Griffin nodded. “Acknowledged.” He then activated his radio and announced the enemy positions to Meyers, who was at Alpha team’s location half a klick to the north.
From the other side of the room peering out of the south-west windows, Lopez had similar findings. “I’ve got one BMP squad seventy out.” He took his eyes away from his binoculars and said, “They’re heading west.”
“Must be looking for us,” Walker guessed. “That or setting up a FOB. Either way, we don’t wanna stick around.”
* * * * *
“This is Mobius One to Vulture Actual, over.”
Clarkson hurriedly grappled the receiver and brought it to his ear. “This is Vulture Actual. Sitrep, over.”
“Reporting a large Syrian formation to Vulture One’s south. Advise, over.”
“Maintain distance,” Clarkson ordered. He had gotten the information earlier from Vulture One’s own eyes, of course, but a second, bigger-picture view never hurt. “Interrogative. What is the approximate distance, over?”
“I’d say, uh, 45 to 140 meters. Over.”
“Understood,” Clarkson answered. “Unless directly ordered, or Vulture One is under fire, do not engage. Maintain current mission, over.”
“Roger. Out.” The aircraft’s radio clicked silent.
* * * * *
Griffin rubbed his eyes and adjusted the focus on his binoculars. “Guys, I don’t think those are Syrians.”
“Or Ukrainian. Something,” Ronnie answered. He adjusted the focus of his binoculars. “That’s cyrillic on their unit patches.”
“Get the radio up,” Meyers ordered.
Ronnie leaned over towards Beckett. Beckett promptly lifted the portable radio box, handling it gently to the sergeant. Meyers nodded in thanks.
“Mobius One, this is Vulture. Over.”
The radio sputtered and Beckett lightly slapped the top of the machine. The static cleared up. “-obius One, over.”
“Reading you, Mobius One. Interrogative. Are the enemy tanks heading towards our position from the south? Over.”
“Affirmative, over.”
“Roger. Have the infantry maintained their course? Over.”
“Affirmative, over.”
Meyers sighed. He reached into his pocket and produced a notepad. He flipped a few pages over. “I will need support soon. We will ambush their infantry and make a break for it. I will need Mobius to prioritize heavy armor. Over.”
“Roger that, Vulture. Out.”
With that, Meyers turned back to the radio box. He switched to the unit frequency. “Vulture Actual, this is Vulture One, over.”
* * * * *
Clarkson, upon hearing the voice coming from the radio speaker, picked up the transmitter. “This is Vulture Actual, over.”
“Requesting relief. Russian forces heading to our position. No chance of evasion. Over.”
“Affirmative, One,” he answered. He took a look at his marked up map. The town they were in wasn’t too far off. If he sent a small, simple force, they could be in-and-out while the fixed-wings ran disruption. Too large a force, and too much coordination and footprint. “Interrogative. What is the enemy disposition? Over.”
“Motorized infantry. Four APCs and one tank spotted. One squad for each APC. Over.”
“I am sending Vulture Two, Vulture Three, and a Weapons element. You will proceed north one klick and meet with your reinforcements. They will bring you back. Over.”
“Wilco. Out.”
* * * * *
High above the town, Mobius One reoriented his jet and skirted the town by a large margin. Mobius Two and Three did similar, the three of them tracking a large circle around Vulture One’s position, well out of sight of the enemy forces. On One-One’s call, they were to swoop in and strike the enemy armor, while Vulture took out what infantry they could. Mobius was to then strike targets of opportunity while Vulture navigated their way through the town to friendly forces coming in from the north.
That was the plan, anyway.
One of the APCs had an air defense system installed. Mobius Two and three destroyed their targets, but One was forced off course at the last second by a laser lock warning. Its Air-to-Ground missile, intended for the lumbering T-80 below, had crashed into a building as the line of sight between the jet and the tank changed.
Mobius Three took a fast, wide turn back over the city and destroyed the offending APC. By the time Mobius One had reentered the battlespace and fired his Vulcan rotary cannon, there was already a large plume of dust and a partially destroyed building near Vulture One’s position.
* * * * *
Ronnie fired his rifle from the back of a second floor room, striking a Russian soldier square in the chest. The man fell to the ground as Ronnie’s fireteam continued to fire. Another soldier was hit in the head and a plume of misty blood shot out through the back of his skill. The rest of the Russians found their way to cover and returned fire. One particularly brave soldier dashed out of cover and grabbed a wounded squadmate among the gunfire and dragged him to safety, while the first soldier hit stood up in wonder, feeling around his chest and finding no blood. He was soon yanked into cover by another.
One of the Russians brought a machine gun to bear. Cursing under his breath, Ronnie jumped to the ground as dozens of holes began to appear around the windows.
“Down! Down!” he commanded, and his three Marines followed. “Back to the alley!”
Gun fire flying inches above his head, he crawled to the doorway and out of the room. He began descending the stairs, quickly re-clearing the bottom floor while his teammates followed him down. Rounds began flying into the room around his head and he ducked outside the backdoor, letting his teammates through.
“Mason! Range!” he yelled over the din of the firefight. He opened up his M203 and loaded a M713 Ground Marker into it before snapping it shut. It was technically a signal smoke, but the smoke would obscure the tight alleyway effectively enough. Furthermore, it was a good indicator for the above fighters where enemy infantry was.
Mason snapped his head around the doorframe for a second before popping back into safety. “Eighty yards!”
Ronnie dialed his sight for seventy five meters. A yard was slightly less than a meter, so he eyeballed an accurate conversion and fired towards the nearest Russian rifleman’s cover. It was a bit long and went just past the target. However, it was a good enough shot and successfully clouded the view of most of the enemy infantry.
Boot slapped him on the shoulder, signalling for him to get moving. He turned and began running down the alleyway, behind the other four Marines. Meyers was up front, Mason right behind covering the right flank, and Beckett third and covering the left. Suddenly Meyers dug his boots into the ground, startling the two behind him, and began to run to the side behind a building, grabbing Mason along the way.
A quarter second later, he saw why: the large treads of a large tank rolling in front of the team. Beckett followed suit, but Ronnie and Boot were not near an open passageway. Acting on instinct, they ran towards the tank, ears covered and mouth open. If the machine gun fired they were screwed no matter what they did, but if the cannon was used they were better off far away from the point of impact, likely the building behind them.
The last thing Ronnie and Boot saw was a blinding white flash. They heard nothing.
“You talk to any of them yet?”
Second Lieutenant James Werner shook his head. “No, Captain.”
“I want to see them before we hand them off to the S2 shop,” the captain said. He leaned back in his folding chair and looked around the bivouac. His company of Marines had set up a few large tents to hide from the sun in, while those on sentry were either wandering the perimeter or posted in a Humvee turret. One particular tent, with two riflemen in front of each entrance, housed the eleven ‘guests’ they had picked up in a nearby town. “Any ideas on them? Personality? Disposition?”
“Guys in armor, five of ‘em, won’t talk it looks like. Few riflemen tried chit-chatting but just got stares. The other five are a bit more,” he explained. He handed a worn notepad to the captain. “Yellow hides behind the others and won’t say shit. Cowgirl’s annoyed with us. Rainbow looks like she’s trying-”
“She?”
“They speak English, sir.”
“I see,” the captain said. “Continue.”
“She looks like she’s barely holding in the urge to hit someone. White keeps staring at our cammies. And pink…”
“Yes?”
“She goes on and on about the most inconsequential bullshit that would give Ronnie from Vulture One-One a headache. Reminds me of my mother.”
The captain began flipping through the notebook, which contained notes casually gathered by the guards. They were called “ponies” (specifically noted in the margin not to call them “horses”), for one. Second, they had some type of monarchy, as the pink one mentioned a princess before being shut up by one of the armored fellows. A few lines down was a few observations of the white one’s “magic”, which was essentially just restrained to basic telekinesis. He would have to make sure any Marines around her were careful.
“Names?”
“Pink’s literally named ‘Pink’ something, for one. Guards shut her up real quick every time she started getting to something revealing. Of course, something gets out before they catch on.”
The captain nodded. “They asking about their number six and twelve?”
Werner nodded. “We’re just telling them that they're on their way. No details.”
“Good.” The captain closed the notebook and gave it back to the lieutenant. There was no large amount of important information on it. You could only gather so much just listening to idle conversation when the talkers know you’re listening. “Status on Vulture One, by the way?”
“Contact with the Russians, sir. Mobius is providing CAS, and Vulture Two and Three are moving in for extract. We should get them back in one piece soon.”
He nodded. “Alright, let’s get the the damn ‘ponies’ now.”
Beckett coughed. “Jesus fuck!” he yelled. Or, at least, he intended to yell. He wasn’t sure what he said. He crawled across the ground to a wall to start helping himself up. He didn’t hear anything but a faint ringing. Anywhere else and he would have been fine. But the alleyway really fucked his hearing, rebounding the sound from the cannon all around him. A second later he heard another dull thud, and a series of quick taps coming from where the tank was. Suddenly Meyers appeared, picking him up to his feet.
As he stepped out into the alleyway he saw the burning husk of the Russian tank and a squad of burnt husks gathered around it. The sound of the additional cannon ammunition was probably what did his hearing in more than the actual weapon use. Machine gun rounds were still cooking, compelling him to crouch back to the ground underneath the level of the top of the hull. The turret was blown clean off as though cut by a knife and lay a few yards away upside down. In the sky above, one of the jets flew by, firing another air-to-ground missile at something.
A hand on his shoulder brought his attention away from the fire. “You alright?” he half-heard. His hearing must be getting better, he thought. He could have sworn he had ear- He did. His cheap, but effective electronic ear mufflers were firmly attached to his head. They were designed to block all sound and only transmit at the safe threshold of human hearing, but that apparently didn’t work with thirty plus tank rounds going off ten yards from you in a tightly packed, hard-walled alleyway.
“You alright, Beckett?”
Better. He quickly nodded, and turned back to the back of the alleyway. The building they were just in was utterly demolished. A high explosive round from the tank had thoroughly assured that. He then saw Mason rushing towards the rubble. He began digging through it, then suddenly reached in and pulled out the limp form of one of the Marines.
“Fuck!”
He started scrambling towards them, making sure to keep his head low for fear of the cooking rounds behind him. Mason then drug him out of the rubble pile, and grabbed the other unconscious form with this other hand, and started bringing them back with no visible exertion.
“Jesus, Mason, go deadlift a car.”
He then heard voices behind him. They were muffled and barely audible, but intelligible. He turned to find Charlie Team. “We heard the boom,” Lewis said. “Hey, they alright?”
Meyers shrugged. “They got fucked hard. We need to get them to the extract. Find something to carry them with.”
“Roger,” Lewis said before running back into the street.
“My name is Captain Ronald Forge,” he said to the pony across from his desk. The armored pony looked identical to the other four. Perhaps the armor itself had some kind of “magic” working in it, making them look similar. That, or there was just some freak coincidence. “Now, let me help you. I can’t do anything without knowing what’s going on. Obviously you came here for a specific reason, however you did that. It seems odd to have a guard detachment for a group of civilians in a different situation. Why are you here?”
“I will only speak to a representative of your government,” the pony simply said.
Forge sighed through his nose in annoyance at the damn thing’s stubbornness. Although, he wouldn’t expect his Marines to open up about everything when questioned, either. “I am the highest ranking officer in this area. I am the commander of Kilo Company of Third Battalion, Third Marine Regiment. The next highest ranked person allowed to know of your existence is in another continent, eight and a half thousand miles away. Almost a third of the world away. I am the closest thing you have to what you want.”
The pony looked around, as if searching for his words. Then he looked back at Forge. “I am not at liberty to say very much. My commanding officer is not present, so you will not get a lot of information.”
Forge leaned forward, interested. “So what can you say?”
“Only that it is a mission of cooperation and friendly relations. It is very important that we establish peaceful and mutually beneficial partnership between our nations.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“So, about our two missing…”
“They’re close,” Forge informed. “The team handling them is on their way back now.”
“Gently, now,” Meyers said. “Don’t hit his head.”
“Oh Celestia, what happened!?” a voice from the interior of the Humvee yelled.
“Make room, Twilight,” commanded Meyers.
Beckett ran to the driver seat of the Humvee and started the engine. “It’s related to the huge boom you heard earlier. Just shut up and let them get loaded.” He turned back to the Marines. “Mason, get the turret!”
Becket swiveled his neck to watch the other Humvees get loaded. As Ronnie was being loaded into his vehicle, Boot was loaded into the third Humvee which was not occupied by a pony passenger. Meyers hopped into the passenger seat once Ronnie was secure and smacked on the dashboard, signalling for Beckett to go. He pulled out of the back-end parking lot the trucks were hidden in and onto the main road. So far, no Russians.
He gradually picked up speed, making sure to give obstacles a wide berth and not to make any sudden jerks in an effort to safeguard the unconscious passenger.
“Two klicks to extract,” Meyers informed, before grabbing the radio and contacting the lieutenant.
Beckett sighed. He almost wished Ronnie was awake, shittily singing some old rock song or whatever.
Almost.
* * * * *
“I see them, sir.”
“Alright. Fan out and cover them. Hey, isn’t that Stafher guy usually in the turret?”
