Chapter 6
“Into the breach, you dogs!” the New African Dominion officer yelled. “Into the breach!”
Abasiama gripped his AK-12 tightly and jumped through the smoke of the burning hole that was once an Equestrian gun emplacement. A dozen men followed through, and many more of other groups climbed through similar openings throughout the fortified line of the enemy. The tanks hundreds of meters behind him, acting as makeshift artillery, fired again and various pony war machines were blown apart by the tank shells.
He was immediately met by the sight of a hundred bronze-armored ponies aiming their spears, crossbows, daggers, and whatever else they had at them. He stopped for a second, taking the sight in. There was an elaborate trench system a hundred meters back, lined with sharp spears and dotted with primitive machine gun emplacements. After a moment’s hesitation, the Equestrians opened fire on him. He ran towards a nearby crater and another soldier followed, while most others tried to get behind large pieces of debris.
Many didn’t. Equestrian machine guns, rather slow firing multi-barreled machines that reminded the soldier of Gatling guns, tore apart the human soldiers as they breached the initial defensive emplacements. Meanwhile, whatever Equestrian soldiers were around stayed behind their carefully prepared fortifications. Abasiama was reminded of a quote from an old war book, which stated the required ratio to successfully siege an enemy. Three-to-one at least, if he remembered correctly.
Another round of fire from the Equestrian gun emplacements came, tearing apart the dirt, rock, and human soldiers unlucky enough to be caught in the open. Abasiama wiggled and squirmed his way further into the dirt of his crater. Rounds from the emplacements turned the pressure-hardened clay near his feet into a form with the consistency of a mound of feathers. Whoever was manning that gun eventually gave up on him and focused elsewhere. The other soldier with him, a short man who looked rather old in comparison with the rest of the Dominion’s foot soldiers, peeked over the top for a scant second before plopping back into the dirt.
“Do you have any grenades on you?” the man asked. “I must have dropped mine.”
Abasiama nodded his head. He reached into a pouch on his belt and produced the small explosive. “Here.”
The soldier nodded his thanks and peeked over the ridge of the crater. He ducked back down under cover.
“Grenade!”
He threw the explosive over the top towards one of the emplacements. After several seconds, Abasiama heard an explosions and the sound of several ponies screaming that sent a chill down his back despite the hot air around him.
“The machine guns reload!” someone behind him yelled. “Forward!”
Without thought, Abasiama took the opportunity and climbed out of his crater and took off on a dead sprint towards the next piece of cover before the machine guns started up again. A wave of spearponies surged towards the human soldiers, but were quickly cut down. Abasiama saw one get through long enough to gore another human, and he slowed his run for long enough to empty half of a magazine into the pony. He hit his target twice.
The Equestrian machine guns spewed lead once more and tore into the advancing infantry. Abasiama jumped behind the burning carcass of an Equestrian tank, which was more like a rolling box with machine guns than the human variant, and thanked whatever god or gods were out there that a good portion of his fellow troops made it to safety.
He looked back at the unlucky ones who didn’t make it, but immediately regretted it. He suppressed a gag and turned around towards the burning hulk, taking quick peeks through holes in the wreckage. Body parts behind littered the compound, soaked in a mixture of their blood and that of fallen ponies. Those torn up by the machine guns tended to die relatively quickly, losing consciousness from a severe lack of blood or, in the case of the lucky ones, being so torn up that the body immediately ceased functioning.
The less fortunate men, taken by the spearponies’ weapons, crawled on the ground in agony. Some still had wooden shafts sticking out of them, while many bore horrific gashes where the spear didn’t quite go through. Others had wounds from crossbow bolts throughout their bodies from entrenched ponies. The medics were unable to tend to the stranded due to the machine gun fire which indiscriminately cut down anyone caught in no-man’s-land. Most of the wounded, who were otherwise easily treatable, would die by nightfall and most others would die by the end of the campaign.
The report of the Equestrian machine guns, which at that point were so constant Abasiama unconsciously filtered them out, finally ceased once more.
“Reload!” the officer bellowed a second time. “Cha-”
The ground exploded around Abasiama, leaving him dazed and temporarily deaf. The smoke and dust receded, but his vision was still hazy. And purple. He froze in fear. He intellectually knew what the sight meant. He knew what he should do. He knew what would happen to him if he didn’t. But he couldn’t; his fingers were frozen in a death-like grip around his rifle and his eyes fixed directly ahead.
His shoulder was violently shook, and he snapped out of it. He turned his head to find the face of the soldier from the crater, partially hidden behind an opaque air filter and transparent goggles. “Soldier! Gas mask!”
Abasiama came to his senses and held his breath as the thick purple mist closed on him. He fumbled with straps on his belt and produced his gear. As practised during basic training, he expertly slipped it on and secured the straps. After a quick but thorough check for leaks he picked his rifle back up and looked back towards the other soldier.
“When the captain warned us about this...” the man muttered under his breath. He looked back towards Abasiama. “I just found it hard to believe that would actually happen.”
“Stop firing! Stop firing!” the radio screeched, and the tank crew quickly obeyed. Jeremy Stevens, an imported tanker from Israel who emigrated there from the States as a toddler, opened the hatch to the old Abrams bought from the formerly crumbling United States and pulled his binoculars off from around his neck. He brought them to his eyes and studied the cause of the break of fire. A large purple-pink cloud encompassed the battlefield in front of him, and halftracks ferrying troops across the lush savannah stopped short of their destination.
“Tarib!” he called to the gunner. “Is that fuckin’ pony juice?”
“Looks like it, sir,” came the reply from near Jeremy’s feet. “I thought the Crown didn’t like the PER.”
Jeremy slammed his fist into the turret’s hull in a flash of anger. “They like ‘em enough to use their weapons!” He brought his binoculars back up to his face and looked at the cloud again. A flash of reflected sunlight suddenly caught his eye. He steadied his elbows on the turret and zoomed in on the anomaly. “Bloody Hell.”
“Sir?” the driver asked.
“Bloody pegasi carrying bloody bombs. MOVE!” he ordered. He ducked back down into the safety of the tank, securing the hatch, and grabbed the radio. “All units, this is Captain Stevens! Equestrian fliers above the cloud, carrying bombs! Repeat, Equestrian fliers above the cloud, carrying bombs!”
“Roger, Captain,” came a reply a second later, with others following in suit.
Jeremy leaned over in the cramped interior of the tank and tuned the radio to the general command frequency. “General Attah?”
“What is going on down there, Captain?”
“Bloody horses got smart on us! I need any anti-air you have. Our fifties won’t hold them off for very long.”
“The wind storm they cooked up is still there. Our helicopters can’t enter without being in danger of their machine guns and unicorns. The helicopters can’t raise out of their effective range, so they’re useless on the offensive.”
Jeremy sighed. “You did bring them, right?”
“Of course. How long until the enemy fliers reach your tanks?”
“Minutes at best. I need anything you have to bugger them until the choppers are ready. Anything will help.”
“Got that. The helicopters will take ten minutes. I will have all half tracks and fast attack vehicles go to your location for additional support,” the general informed.
“Try to keep a supply of infantry for the scrum in the cloud. The boys down there need what help you can give. My tanks can take a hit if they need to.”
“Understood. Good luck, Captain.”
“Same to you, General,” Jeremy finished. He opened the top hatch and grabbed the handle of the mounted M2 .50 cal. He aimed it towards the ranks of fliers before him and opened the radio to his tanks.
“Open up on my command. The sooner we take these buggers out the sooner we can get back to our job. The general is sending reinforcements and air support. We hold out for ten minutes and we all survive this. Good luck.”
“And here we are,” informed Lead as the carriages stopped their movement. “We need to find that artillery. The satellite photos had it to the west side of the camp. Drop now.”
The three other Green Berets let go of the underside supports and slowly dropped, making sure not to make a sound.
“Cloak up.”
Archer complied, opening a patch on his harness. He pulled out a large, rather thin cloth-like material laced with carbon nanotube fibers, which had various buckles around the edges. It wasn’t quite square as it was designed to fit around him and his combat harness and leave as little uncovered as possible. He fitted it around himself, buckling and snapping it at his extremities and major joints. He pressed a small button on the side of his helmet and was rendered nearly invisible.
It wasn’t perfect invisibility, of course, but the process the cloth and his coilrifle’s finish used to refract the light through itself was very effective. The only visible sign of his presence was a slight shimmer in the air that would only be visible to a casual observer were he to move quickly in the line of sight. He pulled the cloak’s hood over his helmet and secured it. He looked back at his teammates and saw that they did similar. The only obvious indication they were there was a faint green outline superimposed onto his goggles by the helmet’s computer.
“Where are we headed?” he asked.
“East corner of their base where the artillery cannons are,” Lead answered.
“Oh, shit,” Rambo remarked. “I can see the barrels of those things from here.”
Archer turned to look at the carriages they rode in under. “They’re unloading the cargo. Looks like shells for the cannons.”
“Wait, some have symbols on them. It’s an arrow with a circle around it.” Lead observed. “Let’s get a move on. Rambo with me. Conan and Archer, go towards the cannons. I’d prefer if the guards aren’t touched. Archer and I will find a spot to cover you.”
Conan nodded. “On it, boss.”
He ran through the purple air. He wasn’t sure where he was going. He wasn’t sure where he was supposed to go. He had long since gotten lost. When the purple mist had first hit he panicked. He didn’t think the Equestrians would actually do that. He thought that the Equestrian crown had condemned forced conversion. He thought that the general’s order to bring gas masks was just paranoia. But all around him, fellow human soldiers who weren’t fast enough choked themselves unconscious from breathing in the mist. Those injured by pony spearmen who seemed to appear out of nowhere sometimes had their masks ripped right off.
He gulped nervously. The silence amplified every noise, driving him to paranoia over the smallest things because they could easily be a pony sneaking up on him, or possibly a crazed human who was shooting everything he saw. It was much quieter than before the ponifying mist hit. The occasional report of an AK-12 was heard, or the cry of pain from soldiers of both species as they were mortally wounded. But the worst sound was the coughing. He knew what it meant. He had briefly considered shooting some of the unconscious, maskless men on the ground, but he decided against it. They were gone already. Shooting them would only be murdering an innocent pony.
He was alone. He had lost all contact with his squadmates and could only assume they were dead or being converted. He wished for heat vision goggles. He couldn’t see more than ten meters in front of him. The only thing to do was wander aimlessly and shoot any smoky forms that didn’t look human. Luckily the heavy and dense mist quickly coagulated the blood, so it couldn’t get into his bloodstream if he was injured. It had to be inhaled, or ingested in its liquid form.
There was a crunch of wood behind him. He turned around quickly with his rifle raised. The sight of three misty silhouettes of ponies greeted him. He didn’t hesitate this time. He learned his lesson, and so had his enemy.
“Hold up. Technical. Let it pass.”
Archer listened to Lead’s advice from the earpiece and hid behind a stack of crates. He knew that he shouldn’t be surprised at how slow the work was, but he was getting impatient. He was within a football field of his objective but he had to stop and wait for what seemed like every ten feet for a pony to walk past, finish his piss break, turn his head a degree to the left, or finish whatever it was that would have otherwise compromised his position.
He peeked over the edge and watched as column of what passed as tanks to the Equestrians, a behemoth metal box on wheels with various gatling-type machine guns sticking out of the side, slowly slid across a worn-in dirt path. Along the sides were several squads of infantry, proud-looking ponies sporting bronze armor and spears about two meters long.
The ponies passed and Archer took his chance, silently sprinting across the path and behind another stack of crates. He poked his head above and, upon seeing that he was clear, got back out and came up to an artificial depression in the ground that contained his target. It was littered with empty cannon-sized shell casings that had that strange symbol on them. At the cannons themselves the loading ponies toiled endlessly, firing and reloading, firing and reloading.
He squatted down a good twenty yards from the ponies, his and Conan’s coilrifles focused on the artilleryponies. “Lead, should I take them out?”
“There’s a guard watching. I can take him out.”
“Hold off on that,” Archer responded. “There’s four cannons total, correct? I can’t see much from my position.”
“Affirmative.”
“Alright. Proceed with the plan.” Archer turned towards Conan, who was a meter behind him. “I got the close left.”
He aimed a weapon at the pony and presses a button near the trigger, making a thin green line appear on his HUD from the tip of his wepaon’s barrel to where it was pointing and sent a signal to his teammates’ HUDs to also show his weapon’s trajectory. After a split second, it settled on the head of the pony picking a cannon shell from the crate. Three more suddenly appeared, Lead’s and Rambo’s with a downward curve to show the bullet’s projected path when the pull of gravity and bullet’s speed were taken into account.
“On your go,” Lead informed. His teammates’ three coilrifles, now linked to his, would automatically fire when they received the signal that his trigger was pulled. He squeezed his finger and the two closest two ponies immediately fell, followed by the other two a split second later.
Archer turned towards Conan. “Get the charges set.”
As Conan went towards the cannon, Archer opened the link to Lead. “Horsey notice the gun stopped firing?”
“Negative. But they will soon. You’ll need to get away as soon as you hit number four and most likely be going loud. I’ll cover you until then.”
Archer looked towards his next target in anticipation. “Affirmative.”
The pony’s wounds had long since coagulated, but Abasiama continued his assault regardless. His hands fared no better. His bloody rifle had long since been kicked away by the pony after he wounded it. The edges of the pony’s helmet cut sharply into his hands as he repeatedly slammed them into its head. Blood dripped along the sides of his face, falling onto the broken form of the pony below him. He wasn’t sure what blood was his and what wasn’t anymore. The only important task was ending the threat underneath him. It hadn’t moved in several minutes, but he kept up his assault. Earth ponies were tricky like that. They could take a beating and then spring back up like nothing ever happened. He raised his fist and-
“Soldier!”
He turned around to see the sergeant running towards him out of the pink smoke.
“He’s dead, he’s dead! The battle’s over!”
He paid him no mind. He continued his assault, earning another tear in his flesh as he scraped an edge of the pony’s armor. Before he could strike again, his arm was grabbed by the other man, and more came to subdue him.
“Calm down, we need to get this out of you!” came a shout from a voice he didn’t recognize. He struggled for a few seconds, kicking his feet wildly in the dirt and pony, but relented once he came into a right state of mind. Then he looked down. The voice repeated, “We need to get that spear out of you!”
He studied the wooden construction that was stuck a meter through his torso. He was laid on his side and another human, a medic going by his armband, put one end of the spear on his bent knee. “We need to shorten it to take it out,” he explained. “This may hurt.”
The medic took a saw, about as long as his forearm, and began to cut away one side of the spear. It did hurt, but luckily the adrenaline hadn’t worn off completely. The vibrations the saw made on the wooden shaft were remarkably calm, and it was easy for Abasiama to ignore it for a few seconds. The end was soon sawn off and the medic moved to the other side of him.
“This part will hurt a little more.”
He grabbed the remaining shaft and slowly pulled, causing Abasiama to clutch and scratch at the dirt, grit his teeth, and tense his muscles in pain. It was out in seconds and the medic immediately doused the wound in several medicines, one of which thankfully was an anesthetic. Abasiama slowed his breathing, relaxed, and got his first real sleep in weeks.
It was evening by the time Abasiama was released from the medical tent. The battle had started early in the morning when the sun was in the enemy’s eyes and lasted only a few hours. After being tended to by the battalion’s medics he laid in the infirmary most of the day and had just been released. Despite being stabbed through the torso, his wound was actually relatively benign as the spear hadn’t torn anything important, and he could walk all right albeit with a limp. He gave up his cot for another wounded man’ he didn’t need it. He just needed some fresh air.
Well, that’s what he told the medic, anyway. He needed to see something, and had been scouring the former battlefield for at least an hour before he finally found it among the dead bodies. The Dominion Army had cleared out the structures of the compound and reestablished it as their forward base, which contained the medical tent and infirmary. He watched the nearby armed patrols and wondered if he should wait until they were further away so he didn’t appear to be looting, but decided that neither he nor they would really have cared after the day’s events. Everyone was too exhausted, both physically and emotionally.
He fell to his knees in front of the body. It was the one he had beat senselessly before he was pulled away. He needed to see what it looked like without the bloody haze he had from combat. He needed to see what he was fighting.
And the sight wasn’t pretty. The flies and maggots had already gotten to it, digging away at the soft flesh of the eyes and mouth, and birds had already picked away at the vulnerable eyes and nether regions. The hot, humid African air greatly accelerated the decomposition process, leaving a horrid smell and a skeletal corpse that resembled a zombie despite being less than twelve hours old.
He had done that to the pony. He had done that to another sentient being. He resisted the urge to look away. He had to know and understand the consequences of his actions. He did not regret what he did and understood their necessity, but he did not want to lose sight of the reality of his reactions. If there were eyes perhaps he would have closed them.
Then he noticed something. It was a small spot of white in the brown and bloodied cloth that held the bronze-colored plates together. He reached into what was apparently a pocket and grabbed the folded-up slip of paper. He opened it and saw that it was a letter. Curiously, half of it was in English, and the second half in the native Equestrian writing. Although his first language was Swahili, his relatives worked with American charity organizations and had taught him the language. The writing, despite being covered in a large splotch of blood, was not impossible to read.
Dear Lyra,
Figured I would practise my human writing considering we’ll all be seeing it around for Celestia knows how long. Anyway, we just set up the base a fair bit from the human town Parakou in a country called Benin. The protests are getting very intense here. Fortunately nopony no one has actually been seriously injured, pony or human. But I don’t know how long that will last. The New African Dominion is getting very testy. I heard they’re moving troops near us, but maybe they won’t do anything and are just a show of force in case we want to go anywhere else.
It’s unneeded, but understandable. We have been given no orders that indicate or suggest anything beyond keeping the peace. All we’re doing is setting up a safe area for local pony residents. But I can see that it looks more than that considering all the hardware and troops we have. I would be freaking out too, maybe.
I guess Celestia just wants to make sure her ponies are safe.
I hope to see you soon. My unit is going to be replaced in a month and I should be home by Hearth’s Warming Eve. It’s the end of my term and I don’t plan on reenlisting. Tell Tongs that he’ll get to see Daddy soon.
Love, Hammer Strike
Abasiama folded the letter back up and put it in his pocket. This “Lyra” may not see her husband again, but she would at least see his last words.
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Man, and I'm watching the Pacific while reading this. Thanks boored. You made my eyes hurt. In a good way. That meant tears. If it wasn't obvious.
Change this to "The battle's over! Stop beating a dead horse!" and I will sacrifice an alpaca in your name.
1869717
denver.mylittlefacewhen.com/media/f/img/mlfw8026-MrPoniator_-_Just_As_Planned.png
1869799
How about no, you crazy Dutch bastard.
1871424
You just made me want to punch my screen... somehow.
(
did I get the reaction right?)
1871424
You know you want to!
4.bp.blogspot.com/-0TviUKHHPtU/T7M0DaD6ClI/AAAAAAAAAIw/rd2rs5-dXu0/s1600/Cowboy+in+Snow.jpg
The alpaca awaits that moment of truth.
Also Dutch?
1872484
1872676
Thanks. If you see any other inaccuracies please point them out.
1894509
Well, considering the EU's all but collapsed at this point, the US is in another isolationist phase, and the NAD is essentially a glorified Caeser's Legion with hardware bought from the US in exchange for exclusive access to raw resources...
I think the Geneva Convention's pretty void at this point. Especially since even if people cared about it, no one could really enforce it.
Your radio procedure is incorrect. "Rodger" and "wilco" are redundant.
Oh man that part about Lyra and hammer strike made me feel bad.
Don't get me wrong the ponies are messed up in their benign ideology of being a better race, but as the goes on there are those who actually wanted true peace with the humans as per example the Amish.
It sucks that he died but that's how life is dealt with when in the military fighting for what you believe in for the ones you love.
The one thing that TCB can do well is show good drama on both sides of the spectrum.
So do the ponies think there tanks are advanced? Do they not know how advanced our vehicles are?
What does formely crumbling mean? Was declining but isn't anymore?
Send infantry to deal with trenches while tanks provide artillery fire best military strategist ever
Damn, that letter at the end got to me.
Any chance of an update?