Nearing the Edge

by Eagle

Grit Your Teeth and Hold On

April 25th, 2006
1450 Hours
West of Manehatten

“How much longer are they going to keep this shit up?” Private Hugo wondered.

The underground concrete bunker rumbled constantly from a consistent artillery barrage above. At first it had grown to be near maddening, and some soldiers had broken down completely. Now, however, it had become an irritating constant. The safety of the deep subterranean bunker gave Hugo and many others a sanctuary to wait it out.

The Griffons had a fondness to artillery and the seemingly endless bombardment showed this. The men of the 94th Infantry Division facing them were forced to live with hour after hour of artillery fire in varying types. The gradual process of wearing down the American units on the line was proving to be a slow and malicious act.

“Where’d your Sergeant go anyways?” Corporal Keller asked him.

“Jerry? He took Roth to check out some nearby storage post that got blow up. Scattered junk everywhere.”

“Probably wanted to scavenge some stuff for us,” Private Eason added. “He’s a real penny-pincher. He should’ve been in logistics.”

“He’d make a good clerk.”

Without the constant rumble, the inside of the bunker felt almost surreal. There was no longer any display of anxious focus or rushed activity as usually seen before a battle. Most of the men were simply killing time however they could; talking, sleeping, eating, card games, reading. Boredom seemed to have become the dominant feeling amongst them.

An interruption came as two others, a corporal and a medic, neither of whom Todd had seen before, entered the bunker. They carried a third soldier, a private who clutched a dark part of his upper left leg with a wince of pain. Even the carrying of a wounded man did not change the atmosphere, provoking little more than some glances to see what was happening before returning to their tasks. The men continued with their menial activities, save for Keller who starred with an odd fascination as they lay him on a cot.

“Need a hand doc?” one of the lounging troops offered.

“No, nothing deadly. Just caught a couple pieces of shrapnel in the thigh. Didn’t hit anything major,” the medic answered, cutting away the uniform to work on the leg.

“Hey isn’t that Jackie? From second platoon?” Eason asked his friend.

“Huh, sure is. I didn’t notice,” Hugo confirmed. “Hey Jackie, you alright man!?”

“Yeah, just unlucky, same as always!”

“Don’t be careless next time,” the medic advised, oblivious to the tone of the other soldiers around them.

“Man, you think they would’ve run out of shells by now,” Corporal Saturino spoke up while bouncing a rubber ball of the concrete wall. “I swear there’s so much metal in ground now… well someone could open up a mine here and be rich, just digging it all out of the dirt.”

“Maybe you should, it’ll give you something to do after the war,” Eason suggested. “You’ll have to compete with the doc though. He pulls plenty of it out of our guys.”

The medic, Lloyd, gave out a disgusted sigh to the joke, but said nothing as he continued to work on the slightly-wounded soldier. His latest announcement of dissatisfaction did nothing to stop the others. Saturino caught the ball once more, the dark red rubber contrasting his pale skin and the gold band on his finger.

“You know, you heard of what they do with that stuff? All the shrapnel, you wonder where it goes?” he asked, turning in his seat and shaking a finger. “A cannon cocker once told me they collect it all up and recycle the metal for our own shells, kind of like with brass. Even the ones that get pulled out-a the men!”

From outside in the scattered bombardment, Sergeant Jerry Burell ran in, stopping in the middle and shaking his head as if he had ran in from the rain.

“What’s the good word Sergeant?” Hugo asked.

“Crows are moving in. We got armor moving in, a lot of it. This the big one, no doubt.”

“Really? They ain’t trying to bullshit us again?”

“Would I be telling you if it was, Private? No, reports are coming in from all along the line,” Sergeant Willoughby continued. “All of you grab your shit and get outside! Get ready for a fight!”

“Fine with me Sir! I’m tired of them I’m looking forward to shooting them.”

“Private Hugo, this is Lieutenant Silver Feather. He’s our FO, that means he’s calling in some fire support,” Willoughby explained, introducing the lanky, white-winged pegasus. “You see that TOW position up the trench a ways? Right there on that ride? You two are going up there and you’re going to guard both. If any Crow infantry come close you blow them away, got it?”

“Yes Sir!”

“Good, now get going!”

Artillery was still falling amongst the line sporadically, but there was no time to waste. Hugo followed the Equestrian up along the wooden trench, winding and zigzagging in an odd line up to the ramparts on the rise. There an American TOW team was waiting atop the rampart, alongside a .50 caliber machine gun and two other riflemen at the far end. Feather set up on the opposite end closest to them, and Hugo did the same.

“So, you got enough support fire to stop these guys?” Hugo asked.

“Plenty, don’t worry!” Feather assured him.

“Can you call it in right? I don’t want any of that falling on our heads.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s accurate! It’s pre-planned areas so all I have to do is call it in, it’ll be a piece of cake!”

Those few men assigned to forward observation duty cane running back frantically, many without their weapons and gear. Even before anyone on the line saw them, the Griffon ground troops were coming under fire. The allied artillery began to fire on pre-designated areas that the enemy was now moving through. The Griffon infantry and vehicles, even as they overran the unoccupied forward posts, were struck with artillery. High explosive rounds struck the earth around them while some with timed fuzes exploded above their heads, raining shrapnel on top of them.

Todd heard Silver Feather talking in his radio, but did not know what he was calling in. He maintained his focus towards the front. An air battle broke out overhead without real result for either side, and just after one Griffon Fulcrum broke through and released a string of iron bombs on the line. Two American Falcons dove on the advancing Griffons with a synonymous loadout, releasing the payload and adding to the rattling carnage.

Finally the Griffon ground force appeared, moving in over a rather flat, open area as others moved along the hills in a general striking motion. Neither side was in range, and it became a tense stand-off as each side’s artillery continued to pound the other. Hugo watched the mass of armored vehicles move towards them; he only had an M16, which would prove useless against anything other than exposed infantry. His fate was very much in the hands of others, his comrades who could deal with them.

Luckily they fired first, possessing a range advantage with their anti-tank missiles. The TOW team next to Hugo fired their first shot and the rocket, along with many others, screamed towards their targets. Three Griffon T-80 tanks died instantly, followed by two more, then another two. The American ATGM teams reloaded and continued firing as the Griffon tanks continued to close in at a high speed.

The range continued to fall and the American tanks, many hidden in hull-down positions, opened fire. The bangs of their cannons sounded along the line as they added their fire to the mix. The Griffon tanks themselves also opened fire, though their effect was much less than that of their dug-in counterparts. More of their vehicles were struck, and at a greater rate.

Hugo was surprised that they continued on defiantly, closing the gap between them and the main lines. More and more weapons opened fire as they moved in, with the tanks being followed shortly by several Stryker IFVs toting 105mm guns, and eventually the auto cannons of a number of Bradleys. Griffon losses were accumulating at a massive rate, with tank after tank being hit and a number of IFVs being blown to pieces.

Over the chaos, he noticed the sound of a machine gun and saw the .50 position on their rampart firing madly. The crack of machine guns and small arms flared up, though still drowned out by the louder heavy guns. The Private scanned the battlefield, but could not see any Griffon infantry that was not already dead.

The Griffon plan of attack was centered on a massive, fast breakthrough at a weaker point in the line that was ground down by a constant artillery barrage. It was only after reaching the edge of the American fortifications that they realized things had gone terribly wrong. Not only had the artillery failed to wear out the Americans, but they were actually attacking one of the stronger positions in the sector. With their numbers dwindling the survivors began to run, with some going by ground and others flying off.

The Americans did not let up. Having been under a constant barrage of artillery fire from the Griffons for such an extended period, they finally had their chance to battle them face-to-face. The humans not only wanted it, they began to relish in it, powered by the frustration their enemy had cast on them for so long. Even when it seemed like the Griffons had largely retreated, it took a considerable amount of effort to stop the firing along the line, after which the noise of cannons and rifles was replaced by euphoric shouts of victory and insult by the men.

It had been a sharp battle, altogether lasting ten less than an hour. The Griffons left on the field a mass of crippled and burning tanks and IFVs, as well as a number of bodies mutilated in countless ways from the hellish fire. Even the Griffon artillery finally began to let up, not seeing the need to waste their now low stocks of shells on the target. All-in-all the Griffon’s 12th Honor Tank Division had lost a regiment’s worth of troops in the deadly blunder.

With its conclusion, several American troops were sent forward to inspect to battlefield. Moving only just ahead of the line, they checked the field for the corpses of officers or other important Griffon leaders. Hugo and some of the other soldiers found a few, as well as some miscellaneous souvenirs, but it was difficult to find much that was in one piece. Observing the destruction up close gave off a different, somber reality to the men.

Even after the violent battle, things seemed to return to normal at a remarkable pace, at least what passed for normality in such a scenario. As the mess was cleaned, Hugo saw a pheasant land gracefully on a shattered, fallen log to rest. The Great Argus began to sing its call, providing the first natural sounds of the battlefield to replace the thunder of explosions and fires.

The death field stretched for miles, both back and along the length of the line. Hugo observed it with an almost childlike awe. After everything that had happened, all of the waiting and preparing, he had see his first battle end in a powerful, and rather easy, American victory. He did not even have to fire his rifle.

“You know I don’t think I did anything during this whole battle. I didn’t even say anything,” said Hugo to his friend Private Dale Eason. “I just kind of watched it happen, like a play. Towards the end, I didn’t even notice it but, well… I put down my rifle. Just propped it up against the side of the trench and rested my hands and head on the dirt at the top, and I just watched all this happen.”

“Yeah, I did too. It was crazy, like I couldn’t look away from it. I shot two rounds at some Griffon soldier but he was too far away. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

The two men walked among the field with their many comrades, looking over the Griffons lying in the grass. A number of them were wounded in various ways and conditions. Their struggle now was to live, and by virtue of humanity it was that of the doctors to save them.

Hugo broke away, passing one Griffon soldier who had been decapitated from the shoulders. He headed towards the sound of a nearby moan, spying a Griffon writhing slowly on the ground. There was a slight worry that the wounded soldier would resist, pull out a weapon and try to kill him, but from the looks of his state this looked to be an unfounded fear.

Hugo was able to inspect him upon arrival, looking over the poor trooper. He had been shot twice in the torso, and blood now darkened his uniform, covering the green of the camouflage with a deep blackish-red. His upper right arm also seemed to be bleeding; from the looks of it, some artillery shrapnel had struck it in multiple places. It was a painful sight to see for the young American, and if the Griffon had even noticed him, there had been no greeting.

“Medic! I got a wounded one here, real bad!” Hugo yelled out. “I think he’ll need a stretcher, doesn’t look like he can move!”

As the closest free medic ran over, beginning his critical work, the rifleman still only watched and observed the Griffon. Twenty seconds later, two other men arrived with a stretcher, though they waited until the medic completed some of the more important work before starting the process of moving him to an aid station. It was only now that Hugo began to feel some odd form of guilt over his silence.

Though they were foes, Hugo, like all men, held some level of pity and mercy that attributed to his humanity. They would never hesitate to kill each other, to insult and decry, but now that was over and these unique instances took over. Both Hugo and this Griffon had done their duty, as had every other soldier on the field.

The American could bring no lasting hatred or abuse against the wounded Griffon. Crippled and immobile, he writhed slowly on the ground, unable to present a threat of any kind. He could give nothing more than a groan or whine, and at times a slurry, whispered word, as his eyes filled with tears from the pain and fear. There was no feeling of loathing that Hugo could bring against him, a lost and broken soldier so close to death. There was no hate that evolved to masochism; only a deep, overwhelming pity.

“Hey, uh… try not to worry. Our docs are good people, they’ll fix you up,” Hugo tried assure the Griffon on the stretcher, though it was unclear if it had any effect. “We’re not going to shoot you or anything like that.”

The Griffon was carried away on the stretcher, one of many that would be captured that day.

“Making friends with the Crows, Todd?” Eason asked sarcastically.

“Nah, fuck no dude. These guys lost anyways, I don’t feel like rubbing it in.”

“Some of them got pretty fucked up.”

“Some of our guys got fucked up, too,” Hugo added. “I guess this is war then huh? It’s a little different than what I thought.”

“Well I guess war’s fucked up, too.”

---

The Griffons had kept some pressure on the 94th along the line, varying from place to place. The failure of the main thrust required an important rework in the plans, and this would take some time, time they did not wish to give to the Americans. Still, the attacks on the line were largely left to local levels, and the concurrent local commanders did not wish to lose their troops or get into trouble with no more detailed orders. Without knowledge of the, now changing, greater plan, they made few ambitious attempts. Most of their attacks consisted of merely mortaring the line or starting a very long-range firefight with small arms.

The day had passed, and now the Americans began securing their positions as needed, and this included the air. Despite the Bloc gaining the edge in air superiority, battles over the line had been mixed in their results. As the invaders continued focusing on a strategic bombing campaign that led to great losses and results enough to encourage them, they now had to exert significant on directly supporting ground forces as well. The Allied forces, in their beaten state, also had to deal with both. The war for the sky, so endless and open to all within it, had become far harder and bloodier than both sides had hoped prior to the conflict breaking out.

Rainbow Dash had been requested to assist in assuring aerial control over the southern section of the 94th Division’s sector. With the rest of her squadron defending the airbase, her flight of three would rendezvous with another American flight coming from a different base. Together, they would relieve the planes already on patrol and take up their work.

The sun had already set, and the golden hour had passed, but from the sky the sun continued to provide a fading light from below the horizon. Dash tried to relax as they arrived on site and met up with the arriving fighters. It seemed to be a simple job, easy compared to what had been happening over the past few days. There would probably be small-scale incursions by Griffon aircraft, but with a bit of good fortune it would be a quiet, uneventful patrol.

“This is Nickel Four-One, flight of two, arriving in the area now. Rainbow flight do you copy over?”

“We hear you Nickel, over,” Dash answered as the two American Falcons moved in from the north.

“Good, it’s been a pretty smooth flight so far. Did you guys have any trouble? Any contacts on your way over here?”

“Negative, nothing. It’s pretty been calm. I kind of like it.”

“Yeah, same here. Some of the ground radars should let us know if there’s anything coming in, but we didn’t see anything so far. Not a peep.”

“I want it to stay that way. For once I don’t want anything exciting.”

“Let’s contact the patrol flight and take over for them,” Nickel Four-One said. “Siege flight, this is Nickel, do you copy?”

“Siege Three-One here, you guys took your time huh?” The Strike Eagle pilot chastised. “We’re running low on fuel here. Move a little quicker next time!”

“Do you have enough to RTB?”

“Yeah we got enough to make it to Brumbay.”

“Understood, you two can head back now. Any action today?”

“Not when we got here. Plenty during the offensive but they toned it down by the time we arrived. They didn’t try anything. All missiles are on the rails.”

“If that’s the case then-“

A new voice beckoned out over the radio, a clearly urgent one not belonging to any of the pilots.

“This is Blackberry to all allied aircraft, come in come in! Say again Blackberry calling allied birds, respond! Come in!”

“Siege reads you, what’s wrong?” the flight lead asked, listening to the frantic radioman working at the radar site below.

“Radar’s got a number of bandits closing at your six! Closing fast! They just popped up, they’re close! Five of them!”

“What!? Why the Hell didn’t you tell us earlier! Pay attention damn it!”

“They just appeared! Where’d they come from!?”

“Siege flight pull back fast, try and pass us and Rainbow flight and we’ll engage them!” Nickel Four-One suggested.

“Can’t, we have to turn and fight! They’re too close! Shit why’d they skip long range engagement? We’ll try to hold on until you get here!”

“Alright, Rainbow team get moving! Fast as you can!”

“You got it! Fast is what I’m all about!” Rainbow affirmed as the Falcons ran to the rescue.

“Siege Three-Two, I’ve got a tally on the Fulcrums! Five of them, I saw something on them!”the Strike Eagle wingman warmed as they broke past and engaged in close combat. “Yellow paint? Gold, I think it’s gold! I’ve seen this before, what squadron is this?”

Far ahead the of the Falcons, the five Griffon Fulcrums began to engage the two F-15Es. Neither of the American pilots had any hopes of countering or killing their enemies. Both could only put forth their best defense, maneuvering as hard as they could to survive. These MiGs, however, could keep up easily.

“None of you are going to get here in time, you may as well just give up and fly away while you’ve got the chance,” one of the Griffon pilots taunted over a clear channel.

“Who’s that? You’re one of them?” the Nickel flight lead responded. “Typical Crow! Can’t focus on fighting and keep his fucking beak shut!”

“We’ll see how well you fight once you get over here! Your friends won’t be around to see it!”

“Boreal Five, you better not let your dumb fun get in the way of your flying!” the Griffon flight lead interjected.

“It won’t, Boreal One. I’m just trying to mess with them, keep them off balance; they can’t actually fight anyways.”

“They’re a bunch of useless monkey morons, but you better do your share of work shooting them down!”

The angry voice struck Rainbow, as if she had heard it before. In fact, she had heard it before. It had been many years since that voice had rung loudly in her ears, but she could not forget it. She could never forget her old friend’s voice, forever such a defining piece of her.

“Gilda?” she said simply over the radio.

The radio was quiet for a few seconds before a response came.

“Dash… is that you? It’s been a long time.”

“I had… heard rumors about you flying in some important squadron in the Air Force. I didn’t really believe them, just the rumors… I didn’t want to,” the Equestrian recalled shakily, as if she was totally detached from what was happening.

“What the fuck!? You know that Crow girl!?” Nickel Four-Two asked sharply. “Rainbow One what the Hell!? What the fuck is going on!?”

“Yeah I heard the same thing about you. Just rumors but I never believed them. I guess the ones we heard were both true,” Gilda continued as if it were a normal conversation. “What are you doing flying with these losers anyways Dash? They don’t even have wings.”

“Things are… a lot different-“

“I don’t want to fight you, and I’m not going to fight you. Don’t get in my way and I won’t have to,” the Griffon warned. “I’ll give you a chance Dash, just stay out of the way so we don’t have to do anything.”

The first F-15E, the lead aircraft, went down shortly after she finished. He was caught to the side, turning into an oncoming Fulcrum which fired a missile. The ordinance struck the fighter directly on the nose, caving it in and exploding. The front of the aircraft blew apart, killing the pilot and his WSO instantly. The rest of the plane caught fire and fell to earth, burning like a falling meteor.

The wingman did not last much longer, having only enough time to shout out the demise of his wingman before falling himself. Two Fulcrums gained a lock on his aircraft as he was breaking and both fired missiles. The deployed countermeasures were unable to trick either, and both struck the jet as it tried to break away again. The two explosions combined with the force of maneuvering tore the plane apart, leaving little but a collection of scrap and metal pieces to rain to earth.

“This is Blackberry, Siege flight is down!”

“That fast!? How the Hell? What kind of pilots are those?” the second Nickel Falcon asked. “What kind of Fulcrums are those? How’d they do that!?”

“They’re better than normal pilots, they’re better than us,” Rainbow observed.

With the two F-15Es destroyed, the five Griffon fighters returned to formation in preparation for the next engagement, showing little signs of weariness from the short fight.

“Boreal Squadron the first two hostiles are down, pursue and engage the arriving enemy reinforcements,” the leader commanded over the open channel, clearly not giving much care to the pilots listening on the other side.

“Boreal? Shit, shit I know that squadron!” the lead Nickel pilot noticed.

“Why are they talking over an open channel? We can hear them,” his wingman asked.

“Because she wants us to know,” Rainbow observed, turning her attention to her own team. “Rainbow squadron, turn and retreat immediately! We can’t fight them, retreat from the airspace as fast as you can!”

“What the fuck!? You’re running away!?”

“She’s right, two, these guys are better than us. We can’t take them,” Nickel lead replied as Rainbow’s F-16s turned to run. “RTB, and make it fast! Hit the deck and punch the throttle, don’t let them close in!”

“Jesus what the Hell is happening?”

“I heard about those guys from some other Strike Eagle drivers. Said they got in a fight at the start of the war, just couldn’t hit them at all. We need to get out now!”

The two flights separated and began to fly back the way they came, though the pursuing MiGs quickly began to close the distance with them.

“Boreal One, enemy flights have broken up and are retreating. Two heading north and three heading south,” Gene observed on the radar from his Fulcrum. “Should we break up and pursue both?”

“No, all Boreal aircraft go after the northern flight.”

“Are you… affirmative lead, apologies. All Boreal units go after the northern group.”

The five MiGs began to chase after the two Falcons of the Nickel squadron. The two were apart, not supporting each-other, focusing only on flying as fast as their engines could carry them. Neither thought of slowing or moving, as it would only mean certain demise. Slowly, the Griffon jets closed in on the lagging second of the two aircraft.

Having to move and turn and slow at times to avoid the hills, the Falcon now found itself under the eyes of five enemy predators. They watched and followed, trying to lock on with their long-range missiles. Some achieved a lock and fired, but these struck the hills or adjacent features as they closed in. Still the MiGs closed, menacing and focusing on hunting down the American jet.

The Falcon now reached an open stretch of land, pressing the engines to the maximum and jetting along the open field. Two of the Fulcrums launched missiles, easily locking on to the targeted fighter out in the clear. The American pulled up sharply to evade, dropping a long line of chaff and flares as he did so, leaving a trail of bright balls of light in the darkening sky. The three other Fulcrums also locked on easily, each launching a single advanced Alamo missiles from range. The American pilot could not hope to evade all of these, and as they closed in the pilot of Nickel Four-Two pulled his ejection switch.

The canopy blew and the human was ejected away from the craft. The Falcon stalled before being struck by each of the anti-air missiles, being blown apart from the impact and leaving nothing behind. The pilot was thrown about and shook from the shockwave, leaving him disoriented as he floated down. The Nickel flight lead had barely noticed as he made his escape, unable to do much to support him. The Griffons had scored another kill, exerting virtually no effort in doing so beyond having to chase him down.

“That’s a third enemy down,” Boreal Three informed his Captain. “I think that’s the last we’re getting for now. If we keep chasing the last one we’ll run into an enemy AA position. The other three are too far off for us to follow.”

“Good, are there any other contacts on radar?”

“Nothing from the AWACS.”

“Then our job’s done. We have control of the air in this sector for now. Boreal Squadron RTB, let the incoming bombers and their escorts move in.”

“Captain, that other enemy team that escaped. That was Rainbow Dash’s squadron wasn’t it?” Gilda’s wingman asked. “The same Rainbow Dash from all the stories, all those things the elements did years ago. That was her, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it was her.”

“You knew her?”

“A long time ago. Don’t worry about it,” she answered. “I swear she always did make friends with losers. I never got her.”

“Is everything alright, ma’am?”

“It’s fine, return to base and don’t ask about it. She won’t be a problem with me.”

Author's Note: