Categories > Games > Halo > Fate Twister Redux
Act1 Ch03: “Waiting For The Sky To Change”
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SGTLEGENDKILLEЯ
Fate Twister (Redux Edition)
Act 1
“Transmissions”
Chapter III
“Waiting For The Sky To Change”
Date: Unknown [Days? Weeks (?) After Anomaly]
It had been several days since Don and Mike had arrived wherever they had been dragged into. It was hard to keep track of time between the lack of clocks and the almost dreamless spans of sleep. Even then, it was obvious that the ONI Agents were sampling a spread of things on both of them. Drugs, stimulants… things. Neither had any idea, but they felt things, ups and downs, anger and sadness, all the while being forced to sleep for unknown stretches. It was daunting; mentally exhausting; Unending. Weaver only seemed to stoke the embers as much as he could; clearly prodding them with the same rotation of questions hoping for some sort of discrepancy.
That night, or whatever sort of time frame it might have been, Don was finally getting a solid sense of rest. Over all this time he had only had brief nightmares and null darkness while unconscious. The endless questions Weaver asked him haunted his sleep constantly, but for now, he had achieved an actual restful state… That night he found himself vividly reliving some time years before, while in the Marine Corps.
~~
Don looked down at the rifle propped between his sandy combat boots, having been shaken back to focus by the jostle of the Humvee. He glanced out the window real quick and pushed up his sunglasses as his eyes adjusted for the light. His convoy was trekking a regular route somewhere south of Herat, Afghanistan; just general “plowin’ out and about keepin’ the peace” as Mike always called it. He took his helmet off and wiped the sweat off his forehead; it was pretty hot out that day, and the windows being propped open were hardly doing anything, just moving around the heat.
“Ya doin’ alright back there, Caster?” The driver, Terrance, asked back to him.
“Oh, I'm doin,’ T.” Caster nodded.
“Yeah, he is.” Another Marine next to him, Jason, almost shouted as he smacked Don’s shoulder. “The only thing he ain’t doin’ is participatin’ in our conversation!”
Don shook his head and looked back down at his gun as the Humvee filled with the talk of whatever celebrity one or the other had seen in a movie. Typical Marine chatter.
“Megan Fox in that classic Micheal Bay outfit.” Jason spat out.
“On a Tuesday?” Terrance quipped; a long-running joke that ladies were hotter on those days specifically for whatever reason.
“On a Tuesday.” Jason confirmed.
“I mean… I wouldn’t say nooo.”
Dunham, the passenger in front of Don, howled. “Y’all virgins keep talking about ‘Oh maybe this,’ ‘oh maybe that.’ Get your dicks wet first, boys.”
“Oh, fuck you!” Jason protested.
“Get out of the kiddy pool first, Jack-Wagon.” Dunham laughed. “That’s where it's at! Ain’t that right, Caster?”
Don gave an affirming nod. “God damn right.”
Jason held his palm to Don. “Listen: I ain’t takin’ no shit from the only married motherfucker here. No sir!”
“You’re just pissy cause you’re stuck raiding your dad’s nightstand for your private time.” Don laughed.
Jason threw up another hand and shook his head; being the youngest of the bunch, he usually took the brunt of the jokes. They almost didn’t hear the truck’s radio crackle before their laughter died. Terrance put his hand up to the side of his helmet as if it would make him hear better.
“What’s goin’ on?” Don asked, watching Terrance stiffen, shifting in his seat as the Humvee picked up some speed.
“Our favorite little village up ahead is smokin’ somethin fierce.” Terrance said.
“The ‘Tradin’ Post?!’” Jason questioned.
Neither of them knew what the name of the village actually was, but it was a spot they frequented on their patrol rounds. The convoy would take breaks in the village and trade cigarettes and food for trinkets and other goodies. They were good folk. Not the type to start trouble.
The convoy of half a dozen humvees rolled up the trail for the village. Don’s vehicle was second in line, and even as they came to a stop near the main north path, it was obvious something was up. The usual father and son that always sat near the north wall in the shade were frantically waving for the convoy; the father was wielding an old russian SVT40 rifle with shaky hands. Don checked his rifle as the truck ahead figured out what was going on.
A few moments later, the lead truck spoke up.
"Alright Hacksaw. The old man is sayin' some assholes with an 'Armored Tractor's has been harassing the village. Says there are a dozen or so all together an' they've carried out raids and hurt folk ‘round here the last few days or so… They are scared an' asking for our assistance."
"... Received… Well boys… Seems like we need to hunt down a Killdozer. Break off in pairs and let's do a quick sweep to see what we are dealing with." The convoy’s NCO spoke up. “One and Three, Two and Four head up. Five to Seven will stay back to support both. Village ain’t that big.”
“I swear to God if this is just another pickup with steel plates and a gun I'm gonna be pissed!” Jason checked his M16A4 as the group split up and got rolling.
“This war is just a big PR campaign for Toyota.” Dunham shared his frustration, checking his M1014 as he adjusted his seat.
The groups split up to head down the two sort of open strips of the village. The way the place had been built over the generations was to give the folk all decent space. A few staggered lines of permanent huts while the center was a large courtyard with the communal well and packed down soil for recreation. It was a quaint and efficient setup. These people had lived here for hundreds of years; the village only growing and building to suit their own little isolated economy and trade from whoever passed through. Don actually loved the aura of the place.
The Humvees lurched around the small rocks as they split into the town. Even now they could feel the vibe of the place was just off. There were not any of the elderly tending to their crafts or chores, no kids running along the Humvee waving to the American Marines, no smoke and smell of food being made. All the guys could see was the occasional haunting look of the worried people taking shelter in their homes. Whatever was going on had them spooked.
“This is such bullshit.” Terrance grumbled.
“Mitch. Just keep steady. We’ll do the lookin’.” Dunham said quickly, trying to keep everyone focused.
The two pairs of Humvees kept pace with each other as they split the village for the center. Continuing the trend of vacant areas, the center of the village was bare of life. It was eerie given the context of the situation. Even worse was the suspense of not seeing any hostile forces of any kind as they entered the courtyard at least Don didn’t see anything.
Without warning, some sort of shell struck the Humvee in front of theirs. The vehicle was hit just in front of the driver door from the left. The projectile struck the transmission of the truck and exploded, shooting fire and debris as the inside of the Humvee was blown apart.
“Where the fuck did it come from!?” Another Humvee yelled over the radio.
Jason fumbled with his headset. “Left side!” He yelled, he had seen the shot. “10:30!!”
“What is it!?” Another demanded.
“Metal Shed!” Jason panicked! “Fuckin’ Killdozer with a gun!”
Far to the left, on the other side of the courtyard, was a strange tall and angular shape. Whatever it was was surrounded by lingering smoke from firing the shell that took out the Humvee. The Metal Lunch Box had several barrels sticking from it, the largest of which was pointed towards the group. At about the point the Marines saw it, the largest barrel fired again, throwing another shell in the direction of Don’s Humvee.
The shell seemed rather lucky for both parties. For Killdozer, it would land as a hit. For Don’s group, the shell simply pierced the rear slanted quarter-panel of the Humvee and punched all the way through, exploding in the building on the other side. While it scared the shit out of the guys, the round only loudly zipped through the non armored part of the Humvee. Terrance floored it for a second to use the disabled Humvee ahead as cover.
“Jason! Get the Pig out of the hatch and fuckin hit it with the .30!” Dunham yelled, trying to get them to just do something.
While Jason quickly snagged the M249 from the back of the vehicle, Dunham threw his door open to bail out. Don was right behind him. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a big target if he didn’t have too. The other pair of Humvees sped up, trying to keep momentum to be harder targets. Their guys opened the hatches to counter the ambush. Dunham rushed to the disabled Humvee to check if anyone survived the shell. Another blast from the Rolling Box’s gun fired; the shell visibly sailed through the air just above one of the other Humvees.
Jason finally propped up his M249 on the roof of the Humvee and began to lay down some suppressive fire at the ambushing vehicle. The 7.62mm from the machine guns seemed to not do much against the thing, but at least it was some sort of counter offensive against whatever it was. Terrance was pressed to move at a moment's notice. All the while Don rushed around the Humvee to join Dunham
“They’re fuckin toast, Caster!” Dunham said after a quick look in.
“One thing at a time, god damn it!” Don yelled back, trying to keep everyone moving forward with the situation.
The machine gun of their Humvee stopped for a brief moment. “Thing’s movin! Lookout!” Jason yelled down at them before continuing to bounce rounds off the armored box.
Dunham and Don quickly peeked around the wrecked Humvee to get a better look at the damned thing. Rolling from its cover, the trapezoid shaped vehicle was chugging out into the open to keep its front gun lined up on the other Humvees. The thing rolled slowly, but with ease on the sand with barely visible tank treads. Whatever sort of crack Killdozer the operators made had built something fairly complicated, at least compared to the typical Hilux with a gun mount bolted to the bed. Dunham seemed less than enthused.
“The fuck?!” He shouted and pointed at the rolling box. “Ol’ German Cross!?” He yelled.
With a view of the thing’s side, the Marines could in fact see decals painted on the side of the vehicle. The most obvious of which was, as Dunham had pointed out, was the black symbol of the Iron Cross. Such an obviously misplaced marking for anything in the region, much less anything of the last hundred years. The two didn't have too much time to really inspect it much, as both of the cleverly built-in side guns turned at them to fire a spray of machine gun rounds at their spot. Everyone scrambled for cover behind the side of the disabled truck. Luckily whatever caliber it was wasn’t powerful enough to go through their metal cover.
“Son of a bitch!” Don yelled in a frenzy as he tried to stay in one piece.
“We need support! Killdozer’s Armored!!” Dunham yelled onto his radio.
As he moved to the rear side of the cover vehicle, Don reached behind his back and plucked a 40mm HE shell from the small grenade bandolier he kept on the side of his pack. If 5.56 and 7.62 wasn't enough for this thing, he’d give them something right quick. He loaded the shell into the under-mounted M203 Grenade Launcher on his rifle and quickly snapped the barrel back. Counting on the other Marines to keep pressure on the damned thing, he leaned out just slightly around the rear of the Humvee and arched the barrel of his rifle, quickly trying to judge his aim for the thing’s distance and speed. Hoping for the best, he fired the under-barrel thumper, sending the 40mm Grenade through the air for the Armored Box.
A plume of sand was thrown up in the air, blinding their view of the primitive tank partially for a moment. When the sand settled, they found the grenade had failed to score a direct hit, but landed close enough that it seemed to mess up the vehicle’s tracks. The Chugging Box came to a hefty stop, temporarily halted in place.
“Good shit, Caster! Hit it again!” Jason shouted from the top of their Humvee.
Don opened the M203 tube and fumbled for another HE shell. He thought he was decent at hitting moving targets, but he knew that he was way more practiced in striking stationary targets. Frantically he slapped the next round in. Several rounds zipped just over Don's corner before he could fire again. All for naught, the three other Humvees joined the exchange; the thumping of .50 cal rattled off from one of the freshly arriving trucks.
The large-caliber machine gun quickly proved much more effective against the armored vehicle. Even as they watched the continuing fight, they could see a spattering of bullet holes of piercing rounds zipping through the strange hull. Several volleys later, the thing was not trying to move anymore, but several of the directional guns were still operational; some occupants were still fighting for survival against the Marines. After a few moments of exchange and perforating the hull of the vehicle with little effect, someone yelled over the radio for people to ‘watch their heads.’ The ear-splitting shriek of a rocket from an M136 AT4 Launcher ripped through the air toward the hostile vehicle. The explosive warhead struck the hull and detonated inward, causing several vents and panels of the vehicle to pop outward with the concussive force. Smoke billowed out of the hatches and the new hole shredded into the hull.
An awkward pause took over the field, the Marines wondering if the fight was over. The haunting screams of a dying man were heard as a pair of occupants of the hostile vehicle tried to climb out of the smoke and flame. One of them managed to barely roll out, while the other seemed to just get stuck halfway through the hatch to grow quiet, succumbing to the flames. The surviving one was covered in harsh burns, his clothes almost melted into his raw charred skin. In a total mind of grotesque desperation, the man tried to right himself before falling off the top of the burning wreck; his body would land silent with a heavy thud in the sand.
The skirmish was far from over, as several men shouted from the direction of where the Tank had been waiting for them. Shots zipped over the heads of the Marines, causing another dip for cover. The .50 Cal Humvee swiveled its attention in that direction now, firing some thumping volleys into the building where the ambush started. Don’s group could just have barely seen a few muzzle flashes from the windows and roof of that building. There was an occupying force for sure. Automatic bullets rained down from above, striking the nearby group. The Marine manning the .50 was hit, slumping over in the protected ring of his truck. Jason slipped back into theirs just as several hit theirs. There was opposition in the building next to them. Clever bastards. Don and Dunham snapped their guns up towards the building and threw some rounds around to just keep whoever was attacking them down.
“Our Gunner is down! Get in there and burn em’ out!” The NCO shouted over the radio.
All four of them scrambled from the Humvee for the nearby building. Occasionally shots from their other Humvees would shoot up at the building they were charging, trying to keep their move to it safer. Caster, more concerned for taking out whoever was killing his fellow Marines than anything else, was the first to the door. He drove his shoulder and weight against the door, crashing through the thin wooden entrance. Jason had been right behind him, followed by Dunham and then Terrance.
“Stairs!” Jason yelled as he swung his M249 up and unleashed full auto fire up the stairwell of the building. There had been the shape of someone rushing up away from the Marines that had slipped around the corner just in time.
Don regained his footing quickly as he swung his rifle around the lower level of the building. No signs of life down there; everything would be upstairs. “Clear!”
Dunham yelled out. “T! Clear the right door! Everyone up!” He yelled, pulling a flashbang from his pack’s side.
The three moved quickly together towards the stairs, keeping close and professional as they had all trained and drilled to do. They could hear at least two people up stairs, hopefully not many more. Dunham would yank the pin on his flashbang before throwing it up the stairs, bouncing it around the corner to the floor above. The trio braced against the wall with each other and waited.
“Achtung!” A voice upstairs shouted. German?
While this would confuse the three Marines, any reservations they had would slip away as the thrown ordinance popped loudly on the second floor. The confused yell of three men could be heard; it was time to stomp these guys out. The Marines would rush upstairs with their weapons raised to find two Caucasian men with older looking gear in a panic, barely able to see. One would charge Don wielding a shovel while the other fumbled with a bolt action rifle. Without time to process, Donald fired his rifle twice at the guy, hitting him in the lower chest and side before the crazy bastard got to him.
With crazed determination, the man kept his fight; swinging the shovel at some wonky swing thanks to the new wounds. Don ducked just enough to have the shovel glance off his helmet. Jason snapped up and dumped some rounds into the other in the small second floor room, the man falling against the wall behind him from the volley.
The man attacking Don gripped the Marine’s rifle and shoved the barrel away as he went to swing the bladed shovel again. Don let go of his M4 and was able to catch the guy’s swinging wrist. Drawing his pistol quickly, Caster would stuff the barrel at the guy’s chest and fire three rapid rounds into the man. This was effective enough to send the attacker crumpling back to the floor.
Dunham smacked Don’s shoulder. “Good!?”
“Yeah!” He answered quickly, watching Jason push forward into the next room. “Go get ‘em!” He said, trying to prepare himself again.
Dunham nodded and got his shotgun up to hurry after Jason.
Jason moved to poke his barrel through the canvas drape that served as a curtain between rooms. A series of several rapid shots struck his chest and sent him stumbling back off his feet! An audible metallic click would be heard from the other room, followed by continuous German panic; the guy’s gun had malfunctioned. Not wasting a moment, Dunham swung his M1014 around the doorway and aimed at the man. He pumped four quick shells of buckshot into the struggling man, sending him back into a bed on the floor. Dunham checked the rest of the corners of the room; the building had been cleared.
"West building clear, sir!" Dunham said loudly on the radio as he turned back to his downed soldier. “Jason!” He rushed over to his SAW gunner.
Jason seemed to be fairly grounded; his weapon and carrier plate took all of the shots from the guy. Luckily whatever the rounds had been were not enough to punch through his steel plate. He would be fine, save for some bruising. For now, Dunham was pulling Jason’s gear off to be sure.
“Caster! Don’t just stand there, man.” Dunham said, busy. “Check these fuckers and see whats up. Why are these German boys slingin’ shit at us?”
“Got it.”
Don had barely gotten over the fact he had been attacked by someone with a trench shovel. All combat he had seen at this point had been a gunfight; never anything shorter than a few meters. Sure, he had helped clean hot houses before, but this was putting mortality into perspective right quick for him. Pushing his personal crisis down into his stomach, he quickly went into the room of the one Dunham wasted. Looking quickly at the dead man as he knelt already had a shifty vibe to it in context of all that was going on in his head. He tried to focus on checking things with controlled breaths.
The man wore pants, a tank top, and some calf high leather boots along with some kit around his waist; none of which Don really recognized other than it just being ‘gear.’ He took a second to check the guy’s pant pockets for any sort of identification. Luckily the guy had a thin, leatherbound wallet which only had a few things in it. A black and white picture of some family in front of a farmhouse, some papers with large numbers on them that might be money, and an ID card. All of which were in German, which made his job of figuring anything from the wallet fuck all for help. Don sighed and checked the dead man’s pants for more pockets. He paused once more as he felt the pants. They were thick wool; something no sane person would wear in the middle of the desert.
He looked up briefly at the man’s face, something he had tried actively to avoid doing with all of the dead bodies he had come across. The face was very classic Aryan; strong brow, blonde hair, and steely blue eyes. It checked out with the ID for sure, but it didn’t fit at all with the region. Don’s gaze stayed unbroken with the man’s face for a good moment. Frozen with the last moments of life, the man eerily seemed not overly pained. It had been quick, but the guy held this awkward sort of exhausted and worn look; the man’s eyes and tear ducts were still wet with emotion, his sand scorched skin was cracked, red, and buffed harshly, obviously unprepared for the elements here. Yet… The man looked almost as if he had made peace with his life.
This shook Don a little bit to think about it. “C’mon man. Give me somethin’ here.” He said to the deceased, and more so to his own nerves.
Caster coughed the awkwardness away and checked the guy for a set of dog tags. Avoiding eye contact, he found some and quickly yanked them from the man’s neck. They weren’t any style he was familiar with, and so they went onto the floor near the man’s wallet. Neither of those things proved fruitful at the moment as Don couldn’t read a lick of German. He looked over to the fallen man’s weapon, a strange wooden stocked submachine gun.
Don leaned over and took it from the ground to look it over. The thing just looked ‘Old-World.’ He wasn’t much of a historian, but he had seen plenty of old World War guns like some Russian PPSh, and even the occasional French service rifle that had ended up in the Middle East due to surplus trade or the like. He had knowledge of some video game guns and that was about it, and he did not recognize this one. Its rear grip and body was wooden without a fore grip save for a sideways, left facing magazine well that seemed to double as a grip. It reminded him of a British Sten but the magazine and its entry angle was slanted back towards the user side of the thing; the magazine was a thin drum shape.
As he turned the thing over, he noticed that a casing was stuck sideways in the half closed bolt of the weapon; stovepiped and jammed closed. He gave the bolt handle a wiggle and found that the casing had actually folded around the bolt lug and seriously locked the thing close. Whatever this thing was, it had failed spectacularly. Don read “MP 18i” etched into the top of the thing and that was about it. He set it down and fumbled with the dead man’s sidearm holster on his hip.
Pulling the leather flap of the holster up, he removed the pistol to find it was an honest-to-god Luger; something he very much recognized. He had never thought he would ever see one outside of a museum, and yet this one was in very good condition save for a scuff or two on its side. It was almost pristine… It was pristine. The metal finish had no pitting nor the wood old and rough from time. It was new. Don looked past the pistol in his hand at some of the kit on the man’s belt, specifically at a pair of sticks with metal cylinders at the top ends of them. German “Potato Masher” stick grenades. Each was new enough that the paint of the lettering hadn’t begun to chip or fade around the edges. With crazy nerves, Don carefully put the pistol down next to the man and stood from the floor.
“Dunham,” he called out. “Did we crash some fuckin’ reenactor site??”
“I don’t fucking know! Why?” Dunham asked, grunting as he helped Jason to his feet in the other room.
“These guys are carrying around museum pieces, man.” Don said, backing out of the room. “Too mint to be as old as they are.”
Dunham wiped the sweat off his brow. “I ain’t know anything ‘bout that shit… But we got Gunny talkin’ all sort of weird, now.”
Don hadn’t heard anything but figured the shovel smack on his helmet had something to do with it. “Like what?”
“Somethin’ bout ‘Kickin’ the hornet’s nest’ and shit.” Dunham shrugged.
“He’s talkin’ about Spooks!” Jason grunted. “What else? C’mon, you know Gunny.”
“Oh god, damn it!” Dunham threw a hand up. This meant government agency and special forces; red tape and black marker files and ‘hush hush’ bullshit.
“I… can’t. I need some air.” Don said, hiking his gun back up and groaned as he headed out the building.
Caster walked out into the sand and shielded his eyes in time to see a trio of UH-60 Blackhawks rolling in fast for the courtyard. As Jason had said: Spooks; Helicopters with Special Forces men and CIA Agents. They were likely here to clean up the site of the strange vehicle and the men with it.
~~
This was right up Agent Weaver’s alley; this was what he was talking about with his realm theories. Don was a little more familiar than he had remembered, even as little as reliving this memory would help him. The recollection was suddenly coming to an end as the Blackhawks lowered to the ground between the Marines and the Killdozer. The turbines of the helicopters seemed to build a ringing in his ears. The sound would build until, like an explosion of sound, everything snapped into silence as he woke.
“Donald.” The voice of Weaver spoke.
Don blinked several times, clearing his eyes of sleep.
“Your vitals were showing you were having quite the vivid dream…” Weaver smirked almost all-knowingly. “Anything you’d like to share?”
With a soft sigh, Don looked down at his alien legs. He wished that this all had been a dream… But for now, he figured he might try to entertain this man with what he remembered.
Fate Twister (Redux Edition)
Act 1
“Transmissions”
Chapter III
“Waiting For The Sky To Change”
Date: Unknown [Days? Weeks (?) After Anomaly]
It had been several days since Don and Mike had arrived wherever they had been dragged into. It was hard to keep track of time between the lack of clocks and the almost dreamless spans of sleep. Even then, it was obvious that the ONI Agents were sampling a spread of things on both of them. Drugs, stimulants… things. Neither had any idea, but they felt things, ups and downs, anger and sadness, all the while being forced to sleep for unknown stretches. It was daunting; mentally exhausting; Unending. Weaver only seemed to stoke the embers as much as he could; clearly prodding them with the same rotation of questions hoping for some sort of discrepancy.
That night, or whatever sort of time frame it might have been, Don was finally getting a solid sense of rest. Over all this time he had only had brief nightmares and null darkness while unconscious. The endless questions Weaver asked him haunted his sleep constantly, but for now, he had achieved an actual restful state… That night he found himself vividly reliving some time years before, while in the Marine Corps.
~~
Don looked down at the rifle propped between his sandy combat boots, having been shaken back to focus by the jostle of the Humvee. He glanced out the window real quick and pushed up his sunglasses as his eyes adjusted for the light. His convoy was trekking a regular route somewhere south of Herat, Afghanistan; just general “plowin’ out and about keepin’ the peace” as Mike always called it. He took his helmet off and wiped the sweat off his forehead; it was pretty hot out that day, and the windows being propped open were hardly doing anything, just moving around the heat.
“Ya doin’ alright back there, Caster?” The driver, Terrance, asked back to him.
“Oh, I'm doin,’ T.” Caster nodded.
“Yeah, he is.” Another Marine next to him, Jason, almost shouted as he smacked Don’s shoulder. “The only thing he ain’t doin’ is participatin’ in our conversation!”
Don shook his head and looked back down at his gun as the Humvee filled with the talk of whatever celebrity one or the other had seen in a movie. Typical Marine chatter.
“Megan Fox in that classic Micheal Bay outfit.” Jason spat out.
“On a Tuesday?” Terrance quipped; a long-running joke that ladies were hotter on those days specifically for whatever reason.
“On a Tuesday.” Jason confirmed.
“I mean… I wouldn’t say nooo.”
Dunham, the passenger in front of Don, howled. “Y’all virgins keep talking about ‘Oh maybe this,’ ‘oh maybe that.’ Get your dicks wet first, boys.”
“Oh, fuck you!” Jason protested.
“Get out of the kiddy pool first, Jack-Wagon.” Dunham laughed. “That’s where it's at! Ain’t that right, Caster?”
Don gave an affirming nod. “God damn right.”
Jason held his palm to Don. “Listen: I ain’t takin’ no shit from the only married motherfucker here. No sir!”
“You’re just pissy cause you’re stuck raiding your dad’s nightstand for your private time.” Don laughed.
Jason threw up another hand and shook his head; being the youngest of the bunch, he usually took the brunt of the jokes. They almost didn’t hear the truck’s radio crackle before their laughter died. Terrance put his hand up to the side of his helmet as if it would make him hear better.
“What’s goin’ on?” Don asked, watching Terrance stiffen, shifting in his seat as the Humvee picked up some speed.
“Our favorite little village up ahead is smokin’ somethin fierce.” Terrance said.
“The ‘Tradin’ Post?!’” Jason questioned.
Neither of them knew what the name of the village actually was, but it was a spot they frequented on their patrol rounds. The convoy would take breaks in the village and trade cigarettes and food for trinkets and other goodies. They were good folk. Not the type to start trouble.
The convoy of half a dozen humvees rolled up the trail for the village. Don’s vehicle was second in line, and even as they came to a stop near the main north path, it was obvious something was up. The usual father and son that always sat near the north wall in the shade were frantically waving for the convoy; the father was wielding an old russian SVT40 rifle with shaky hands. Don checked his rifle as the truck ahead figured out what was going on.
A few moments later, the lead truck spoke up.
"Alright Hacksaw. The old man is sayin' some assholes with an 'Armored Tractor's has been harassing the village. Says there are a dozen or so all together an' they've carried out raids and hurt folk ‘round here the last few days or so… They are scared an' asking for our assistance."
"... Received… Well boys… Seems like we need to hunt down a Killdozer. Break off in pairs and let's do a quick sweep to see what we are dealing with." The convoy’s NCO spoke up. “One and Three, Two and Four head up. Five to Seven will stay back to support both. Village ain’t that big.”
“I swear to God if this is just another pickup with steel plates and a gun I'm gonna be pissed!” Jason checked his M16A4 as the group split up and got rolling.
“This war is just a big PR campaign for Toyota.” Dunham shared his frustration, checking his M1014 as he adjusted his seat.
The groups split up to head down the two sort of open strips of the village. The way the place had been built over the generations was to give the folk all decent space. A few staggered lines of permanent huts while the center was a large courtyard with the communal well and packed down soil for recreation. It was a quaint and efficient setup. These people had lived here for hundreds of years; the village only growing and building to suit their own little isolated economy and trade from whoever passed through. Don actually loved the aura of the place.
The Humvees lurched around the small rocks as they split into the town. Even now they could feel the vibe of the place was just off. There were not any of the elderly tending to their crafts or chores, no kids running along the Humvee waving to the American Marines, no smoke and smell of food being made. All the guys could see was the occasional haunting look of the worried people taking shelter in their homes. Whatever was going on had them spooked.
“This is such bullshit.” Terrance grumbled.
“Mitch. Just keep steady. We’ll do the lookin’.” Dunham said quickly, trying to keep everyone focused.
The two pairs of Humvees kept pace with each other as they split the village for the center. Continuing the trend of vacant areas, the center of the village was bare of life. It was eerie given the context of the situation. Even worse was the suspense of not seeing any hostile forces of any kind as they entered the courtyard at least Don didn’t see anything.
Without warning, some sort of shell struck the Humvee in front of theirs. The vehicle was hit just in front of the driver door from the left. The projectile struck the transmission of the truck and exploded, shooting fire and debris as the inside of the Humvee was blown apart.
“Where the fuck did it come from!?” Another Humvee yelled over the radio.
Jason fumbled with his headset. “Left side!” He yelled, he had seen the shot. “10:30!!”
“What is it!?” Another demanded.
“Metal Shed!” Jason panicked! “Fuckin’ Killdozer with a gun!”
Far to the left, on the other side of the courtyard, was a strange tall and angular shape. Whatever it was was surrounded by lingering smoke from firing the shell that took out the Humvee. The Metal Lunch Box had several barrels sticking from it, the largest of which was pointed towards the group. At about the point the Marines saw it, the largest barrel fired again, throwing another shell in the direction of Don’s Humvee.
The shell seemed rather lucky for both parties. For Killdozer, it would land as a hit. For Don’s group, the shell simply pierced the rear slanted quarter-panel of the Humvee and punched all the way through, exploding in the building on the other side. While it scared the shit out of the guys, the round only loudly zipped through the non armored part of the Humvee. Terrance floored it for a second to use the disabled Humvee ahead as cover.
“Jason! Get the Pig out of the hatch and fuckin hit it with the .30!” Dunham yelled, trying to get them to just do something.
While Jason quickly snagged the M249 from the back of the vehicle, Dunham threw his door open to bail out. Don was right behind him. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a big target if he didn’t have too. The other pair of Humvees sped up, trying to keep momentum to be harder targets. Their guys opened the hatches to counter the ambush. Dunham rushed to the disabled Humvee to check if anyone survived the shell. Another blast from the Rolling Box’s gun fired; the shell visibly sailed through the air just above one of the other Humvees.
Jason finally propped up his M249 on the roof of the Humvee and began to lay down some suppressive fire at the ambushing vehicle. The 7.62mm from the machine guns seemed to not do much against the thing, but at least it was some sort of counter offensive against whatever it was. Terrance was pressed to move at a moment's notice. All the while Don rushed around the Humvee to join Dunham
“They’re fuckin toast, Caster!” Dunham said after a quick look in.
“One thing at a time, god damn it!” Don yelled back, trying to keep everyone moving forward with the situation.
The machine gun of their Humvee stopped for a brief moment. “Thing’s movin! Lookout!” Jason yelled down at them before continuing to bounce rounds off the armored box.
Dunham and Don quickly peeked around the wrecked Humvee to get a better look at the damned thing. Rolling from its cover, the trapezoid shaped vehicle was chugging out into the open to keep its front gun lined up on the other Humvees. The thing rolled slowly, but with ease on the sand with barely visible tank treads. Whatever sort of crack Killdozer the operators made had built something fairly complicated, at least compared to the typical Hilux with a gun mount bolted to the bed. Dunham seemed less than enthused.
“The fuck?!” He shouted and pointed at the rolling box. “Ol’ German Cross!?” He yelled.
With a view of the thing’s side, the Marines could in fact see decals painted on the side of the vehicle. The most obvious of which was, as Dunham had pointed out, was the black symbol of the Iron Cross. Such an obviously misplaced marking for anything in the region, much less anything of the last hundred years. The two didn't have too much time to really inspect it much, as both of the cleverly built-in side guns turned at them to fire a spray of machine gun rounds at their spot. Everyone scrambled for cover behind the side of the disabled truck. Luckily whatever caliber it was wasn’t powerful enough to go through their metal cover.
“Son of a bitch!” Don yelled in a frenzy as he tried to stay in one piece.
“We need support! Killdozer’s Armored!!” Dunham yelled onto his radio.
As he moved to the rear side of the cover vehicle, Don reached behind his back and plucked a 40mm HE shell from the small grenade bandolier he kept on the side of his pack. If 5.56 and 7.62 wasn't enough for this thing, he’d give them something right quick. He loaded the shell into the under-mounted M203 Grenade Launcher on his rifle and quickly snapped the barrel back. Counting on the other Marines to keep pressure on the damned thing, he leaned out just slightly around the rear of the Humvee and arched the barrel of his rifle, quickly trying to judge his aim for the thing’s distance and speed. Hoping for the best, he fired the under-barrel thumper, sending the 40mm Grenade through the air for the Armored Box.
A plume of sand was thrown up in the air, blinding their view of the primitive tank partially for a moment. When the sand settled, they found the grenade had failed to score a direct hit, but landed close enough that it seemed to mess up the vehicle’s tracks. The Chugging Box came to a hefty stop, temporarily halted in place.
“Good shit, Caster! Hit it again!” Jason shouted from the top of their Humvee.
Don opened the M203 tube and fumbled for another HE shell. He thought he was decent at hitting moving targets, but he knew that he was way more practiced in striking stationary targets. Frantically he slapped the next round in. Several rounds zipped just over Don's corner before he could fire again. All for naught, the three other Humvees joined the exchange; the thumping of .50 cal rattled off from one of the freshly arriving trucks.
The large-caliber machine gun quickly proved much more effective against the armored vehicle. Even as they watched the continuing fight, they could see a spattering of bullet holes of piercing rounds zipping through the strange hull. Several volleys later, the thing was not trying to move anymore, but several of the directional guns were still operational; some occupants were still fighting for survival against the Marines. After a few moments of exchange and perforating the hull of the vehicle with little effect, someone yelled over the radio for people to ‘watch their heads.’ The ear-splitting shriek of a rocket from an M136 AT4 Launcher ripped through the air toward the hostile vehicle. The explosive warhead struck the hull and detonated inward, causing several vents and panels of the vehicle to pop outward with the concussive force. Smoke billowed out of the hatches and the new hole shredded into the hull.
An awkward pause took over the field, the Marines wondering if the fight was over. The haunting screams of a dying man were heard as a pair of occupants of the hostile vehicle tried to climb out of the smoke and flame. One of them managed to barely roll out, while the other seemed to just get stuck halfway through the hatch to grow quiet, succumbing to the flames. The surviving one was covered in harsh burns, his clothes almost melted into his raw charred skin. In a total mind of grotesque desperation, the man tried to right himself before falling off the top of the burning wreck; his body would land silent with a heavy thud in the sand.
The skirmish was far from over, as several men shouted from the direction of where the Tank had been waiting for them. Shots zipped over the heads of the Marines, causing another dip for cover. The .50 Cal Humvee swiveled its attention in that direction now, firing some thumping volleys into the building where the ambush started. Don’s group could just have barely seen a few muzzle flashes from the windows and roof of that building. There was an occupying force for sure. Automatic bullets rained down from above, striking the nearby group. The Marine manning the .50 was hit, slumping over in the protected ring of his truck. Jason slipped back into theirs just as several hit theirs. There was opposition in the building next to them. Clever bastards. Don and Dunham snapped their guns up towards the building and threw some rounds around to just keep whoever was attacking them down.
“Our Gunner is down! Get in there and burn em’ out!” The NCO shouted over the radio.
All four of them scrambled from the Humvee for the nearby building. Occasionally shots from their other Humvees would shoot up at the building they were charging, trying to keep their move to it safer. Caster, more concerned for taking out whoever was killing his fellow Marines than anything else, was the first to the door. He drove his shoulder and weight against the door, crashing through the thin wooden entrance. Jason had been right behind him, followed by Dunham and then Terrance.
“Stairs!” Jason yelled as he swung his M249 up and unleashed full auto fire up the stairwell of the building. There had been the shape of someone rushing up away from the Marines that had slipped around the corner just in time.
Don regained his footing quickly as he swung his rifle around the lower level of the building. No signs of life down there; everything would be upstairs. “Clear!”
Dunham yelled out. “T! Clear the right door! Everyone up!” He yelled, pulling a flashbang from his pack’s side.
The three moved quickly together towards the stairs, keeping close and professional as they had all trained and drilled to do. They could hear at least two people up stairs, hopefully not many more. Dunham would yank the pin on his flashbang before throwing it up the stairs, bouncing it around the corner to the floor above. The trio braced against the wall with each other and waited.
“Achtung!” A voice upstairs shouted. German?
While this would confuse the three Marines, any reservations they had would slip away as the thrown ordinance popped loudly on the second floor. The confused yell of three men could be heard; it was time to stomp these guys out. The Marines would rush upstairs with their weapons raised to find two Caucasian men with older looking gear in a panic, barely able to see. One would charge Don wielding a shovel while the other fumbled with a bolt action rifle. Without time to process, Donald fired his rifle twice at the guy, hitting him in the lower chest and side before the crazy bastard got to him.
With crazed determination, the man kept his fight; swinging the shovel at some wonky swing thanks to the new wounds. Don ducked just enough to have the shovel glance off his helmet. Jason snapped up and dumped some rounds into the other in the small second floor room, the man falling against the wall behind him from the volley.
The man attacking Don gripped the Marine’s rifle and shoved the barrel away as he went to swing the bladed shovel again. Don let go of his M4 and was able to catch the guy’s swinging wrist. Drawing his pistol quickly, Caster would stuff the barrel at the guy’s chest and fire three rapid rounds into the man. This was effective enough to send the attacker crumpling back to the floor.
Dunham smacked Don’s shoulder. “Good!?”
“Yeah!” He answered quickly, watching Jason push forward into the next room. “Go get ‘em!” He said, trying to prepare himself again.
Dunham nodded and got his shotgun up to hurry after Jason.
Jason moved to poke his barrel through the canvas drape that served as a curtain between rooms. A series of several rapid shots struck his chest and sent him stumbling back off his feet! An audible metallic click would be heard from the other room, followed by continuous German panic; the guy’s gun had malfunctioned. Not wasting a moment, Dunham swung his M1014 around the doorway and aimed at the man. He pumped four quick shells of buckshot into the struggling man, sending him back into a bed on the floor. Dunham checked the rest of the corners of the room; the building had been cleared.
"West building clear, sir!" Dunham said loudly on the radio as he turned back to his downed soldier. “Jason!” He rushed over to his SAW gunner.
Jason seemed to be fairly grounded; his weapon and carrier plate took all of the shots from the guy. Luckily whatever the rounds had been were not enough to punch through his steel plate. He would be fine, save for some bruising. For now, Dunham was pulling Jason’s gear off to be sure.
“Caster! Don’t just stand there, man.” Dunham said, busy. “Check these fuckers and see whats up. Why are these German boys slingin’ shit at us?”
“Got it.”
Don had barely gotten over the fact he had been attacked by someone with a trench shovel. All combat he had seen at this point had been a gunfight; never anything shorter than a few meters. Sure, he had helped clean hot houses before, but this was putting mortality into perspective right quick for him. Pushing his personal crisis down into his stomach, he quickly went into the room of the one Dunham wasted. Looking quickly at the dead man as he knelt already had a shifty vibe to it in context of all that was going on in his head. He tried to focus on checking things with controlled breaths.
The man wore pants, a tank top, and some calf high leather boots along with some kit around his waist; none of which Don really recognized other than it just being ‘gear.’ He took a second to check the guy’s pant pockets for any sort of identification. Luckily the guy had a thin, leatherbound wallet which only had a few things in it. A black and white picture of some family in front of a farmhouse, some papers with large numbers on them that might be money, and an ID card. All of which were in German, which made his job of figuring anything from the wallet fuck all for help. Don sighed and checked the dead man’s pants for more pockets. He paused once more as he felt the pants. They were thick wool; something no sane person would wear in the middle of the desert.
He looked up briefly at the man’s face, something he had tried actively to avoid doing with all of the dead bodies he had come across. The face was very classic Aryan; strong brow, blonde hair, and steely blue eyes. It checked out with the ID for sure, but it didn’t fit at all with the region. Don’s gaze stayed unbroken with the man’s face for a good moment. Frozen with the last moments of life, the man eerily seemed not overly pained. It had been quick, but the guy held this awkward sort of exhausted and worn look; the man’s eyes and tear ducts were still wet with emotion, his sand scorched skin was cracked, red, and buffed harshly, obviously unprepared for the elements here. Yet… The man looked almost as if he had made peace with his life.
This shook Don a little bit to think about it. “C’mon man. Give me somethin’ here.” He said to the deceased, and more so to his own nerves.
Caster coughed the awkwardness away and checked the guy for a set of dog tags. Avoiding eye contact, he found some and quickly yanked them from the man’s neck. They weren’t any style he was familiar with, and so they went onto the floor near the man’s wallet. Neither of those things proved fruitful at the moment as Don couldn’t read a lick of German. He looked over to the fallen man’s weapon, a strange wooden stocked submachine gun.
Don leaned over and took it from the ground to look it over. The thing just looked ‘Old-World.’ He wasn’t much of a historian, but he had seen plenty of old World War guns like some Russian PPSh, and even the occasional French service rifle that had ended up in the Middle East due to surplus trade or the like. He had knowledge of some video game guns and that was about it, and he did not recognize this one. Its rear grip and body was wooden without a fore grip save for a sideways, left facing magazine well that seemed to double as a grip. It reminded him of a British Sten but the magazine and its entry angle was slanted back towards the user side of the thing; the magazine was a thin drum shape.
As he turned the thing over, he noticed that a casing was stuck sideways in the half closed bolt of the weapon; stovepiped and jammed closed. He gave the bolt handle a wiggle and found that the casing had actually folded around the bolt lug and seriously locked the thing close. Whatever this thing was, it had failed spectacularly. Don read “MP 18i” etched into the top of the thing and that was about it. He set it down and fumbled with the dead man’s sidearm holster on his hip.
Pulling the leather flap of the holster up, he removed the pistol to find it was an honest-to-god Luger; something he very much recognized. He had never thought he would ever see one outside of a museum, and yet this one was in very good condition save for a scuff or two on its side. It was almost pristine… It was pristine. The metal finish had no pitting nor the wood old and rough from time. It was new. Don looked past the pistol in his hand at some of the kit on the man’s belt, specifically at a pair of sticks with metal cylinders at the top ends of them. German “Potato Masher” stick grenades. Each was new enough that the paint of the lettering hadn’t begun to chip or fade around the edges. With crazy nerves, Don carefully put the pistol down next to the man and stood from the floor.
“Dunham,” he called out. “Did we crash some fuckin’ reenactor site??”
“I don’t fucking know! Why?” Dunham asked, grunting as he helped Jason to his feet in the other room.
“These guys are carrying around museum pieces, man.” Don said, backing out of the room. “Too mint to be as old as they are.”
Dunham wiped the sweat off his brow. “I ain’t know anything ‘bout that shit… But we got Gunny talkin’ all sort of weird, now.”
Don hadn’t heard anything but figured the shovel smack on his helmet had something to do with it. “Like what?”
“Somethin’ bout ‘Kickin’ the hornet’s nest’ and shit.” Dunham shrugged.
“He’s talkin’ about Spooks!” Jason grunted. “What else? C’mon, you know Gunny.”
“Oh god, damn it!” Dunham threw a hand up. This meant government agency and special forces; red tape and black marker files and ‘hush hush’ bullshit.
“I… can’t. I need some air.” Don said, hiking his gun back up and groaned as he headed out the building.
Caster walked out into the sand and shielded his eyes in time to see a trio of UH-60 Blackhawks rolling in fast for the courtyard. As Jason had said: Spooks; Helicopters with Special Forces men and CIA Agents. They were likely here to clean up the site of the strange vehicle and the men with it.
~~
This was right up Agent Weaver’s alley; this was what he was talking about with his realm theories. Don was a little more familiar than he had remembered, even as little as reliving this memory would help him. The recollection was suddenly coming to an end as the Blackhawks lowered to the ground between the Marines and the Killdozer. The turbines of the helicopters seemed to build a ringing in his ears. The sound would build until, like an explosion of sound, everything snapped into silence as he woke.
“Donald.” The voice of Weaver spoke.
Don blinked several times, clearing his eyes of sleep.
“Your vitals were showing you were having quite the vivid dream…” Weaver smirked almost all-knowingly. “Anything you’d like to share?”
With a soft sigh, Don looked down at his alien legs. He wished that this all had been a dream… But for now, he figured he might try to entertain this man with what he remembered.
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