Hellfire Burns' March To The Sea
The core conception was simple: 37 OWE seemed farcical, but had some upsides.
This, however, was an idea. Gathering the greatest soldiers America had left, combined with all the equipment they could muster, in one last, desperate push.
16 OWE. 16 OWS.
Day Zero
800 miles of North American soil. 1280 kilometers, if you're one of the Europeans biting their nails at the footage. Vaguely approving, if you're the Chinese agents piggybacking off the European's intel agencies.
It would take the old US Army maybe a week to move the entire Big Red One there.
It will take Hellfire Burns much longer, assuming he makes it at all.
He knows that the moment he goes hot, Russian fighter jets and military assets will be striking at his forces every step of the way.
But with three Victorian divisions leaving the Chicagoan rallying point a bloody wreck, and the agreed-upon time at hand, there is no more room for delay.
Day One
High above earth, a Russian scientific satellite emits a burst of binary, pinging off the land radar. Nominally, it is a civilian satellite, equipped with hyperfine cameras and radar arrays to take detailed images of the ocean floor. By another's official records, it is one of the Okhrana's best intelligence-gathering tools. Anything that can spot a solitary millimeter of difference on the ocean floor can be repurposed to many other purposes, after all.
But according to a third faction, it is a signal.
Because satellites have very specific orbital periods. This one has maintained a certain set of signal codes - terribly sloppy for military standards, but this was technically a civilian affair only supplementing the Okhrana's SIGINT.
To the Big Red One, it is the agreed-upon signal to begin the Foxtrot.
Day Five, 12:30 PM EST
The ambush for the Victorian's three divisions is set for ten miles west of Fort Wayne. The Big Red One has been shadowing the three divisions from just outside the Victorian's pithy scouting radius, waiting for cloud cover to hide from the Russian satellites - and when the opportunity comes, the scattered commanders all individually wheel about like the cavalry of yore.
For his part, Hellfire Burns idly notes the dilapidated sign of Warsaw, Ohio, as he rolls in with his armored complement. For a moment cannot help but feel a sense of schadenfreude at the thought of fighting a tank battle between American and Russian tanks in the city of Warsaw - he remembers that there used to be all sorts of strategic planning for this scenario, contemplating how far a war could be prosecuted if NATO successfully held the Fulda Gap.
But that was long in the distant past, and now here his job was to prosecute this war.
They'd start with the complete destruction of the Victorian element, within the seven hours the cloud cover and nightfall would provide.
The odds are three-to-one - more than that, actually, since the Big Red One was slightly understrength and the Victorian divisions stuffed full of fighting men.
Burns smirks.
They'll be done inside of three hours.
Day Five, 5:28 EST
"Corporal Tran, you sure this will work?" Schultz radioed. "Seems a little skimpy to be trusting zebra stripes to protect us from satellite footage," he said.
"Positive, Major, sir," the corporal radios back. "Worked for us in breaking up recognition during the Rainbow Uprising, and we don't think the Russians are that much further ahead than the Japanese. Besides, it's tradition. Hear there's a clown posse that was supposed to do this kind of thing."
"Juggalos, Corporal, the word you're looking for is Juggalos," Captain Holt cuts in.
"I copy, Captain Holt, I copy."
"Pipe down, soldiers, we're still on a clock here," Burns radioed, closing the hatch behind him.
"Sir yes sir," the tinny voice responds, and Burns is already starting to sweat.
Day Six
"Sir, we have a situation on the ground," a hapless agent reports. "It's, uh, about the Victorians."
The Tsar raises his eyebrow from atop his throne. "And what do I care for them?"
"Three of their divisions just got destroyed, armored contingent and all, sir."
"So? I seem to recall
an incident in Pennsylvania, and that never amounted to anything at all," he archly says.
"W-well, sir, we're not entirely certain of - "
"I am a tolerant man, Agent Grishov. I understand that your work is uncertain. What I want is actionable intelligence," the Tsar commands.
"Y-yes sir. Sir, we think an American armored force destroyed them. The tracks in the mud suggested multiple heavy vehicles weighing over 50 tons, sir, and the damage to the T-34s seems to indicate HE tank shells."
"Hm. Do you have any satellite imagery of this armored force?"
"N-no sir. We think they're using the concealment tactics from the Rainbow Uprising, sir. It seems highly likely that any American force would have veteran observers from that conflict, and would explain how they're hiding so well, sir," Grishov explained.
"Hm. I had thought we had dealt with that vulnerability. Very well. Thank you for your report, Agent Grishov. You have done a great duty for this country. Dismissed," the Tsar spoke.
"Y-yes sir!" the overly excitable agent Grishov said. The Tsar dismissed the window with a wave.
"Contact the Caracas Air Force Base. Deploy our rapid-response squadrons into the Pease Air Force Base. We may have another American bug to squash," he orders, and a world away, the Su-34s and drone fleet that make up his airborne COIN fleet carries out his will.
Day Eleven
After a while, the sound of distant missiles and jets started sounding like a lullaby, regularly pounding the earth - but always just at a distance.
Private Singh hated to admit it, especially since Master Sargeant Reyes had made a point of it that if you ever changed your mind you had to say it out loud - but on the other hand, the monotony of the drone strikes hitting another decoy balloon was getting to him. The APC shook with the jolt of a nearby explosion, skewing the miniature American flag Singh had tucked behind his ear - he'd need to adjust it again, he frustratedly thought, and it never wanted to cooperate with him.
"Sir, I have a confession to make," Singh dejectedly said, as another earthshattering explosion from a Russian anti-armored formation missile missed its mark.
"Yes, private?" Reyes asked, knowing exactly what Singh was about to say.
"You were right, sir. You
do get used to the drone strikes."
"Told you so," Reyes smirked, and Singh knows Reyes is smirking despite the helmet and the darkness inside the vehicle.
Of course, another missile hit - and the APC actually jolted up a little bit from the proximity.
"Say, when do you think they'll actually start hitting their shots?" Private Clemens asked.
"Is that a question you ask, Private?" Reyes asked, tone sharp and demanding.
"No, sir," Clemens diffidently responded, wiping away his oily hands after what must've been his eighteenth inspection of his rifle in this hour alone - and Singh was certain that Clemens had inspected his rifle eighteen times, because it wasn't like there was anything else to do while cooped up in the infantry vehicles.
Day Fourteen
The Arctic Conservationate Broadcasting Service has been reporting nonstop on the Russian actions to counteract what the Tsar describes as a credible nuclear threat to the Free City of New York - they've been trying to ensure that the terrorist forces that had gathered west of the Appalachians does not reach the city. It is a developing news story, but astute watchers note that the program is very short indeed - so short, in fact, that it can only get out the Tsar's message, footage of the drone strikes from the view of the drone cameras, and then cut away.
Of course, there are few astute watchers of the Arctic Conservationate Broadcasting Services.
Far more important to be outraged at the latest Qorsk protests, as well as the Russian security forces' response. Both sides have a point, but extremism is never the answer, you see.
Day Twenty One, 8:37 PM EST
Burns purses his lips, even as he breathes the sweet, sweet mountain air after being locked in a metal coffin for eight days straight. Behind him is four hundred miles of flat land. In front of him is four hundred miles of mountainous terrain, and a battered but still intact armored division that needed to cross it. The Russian attacks have been relentless - Su-34s by day, drone strikes by night. They were almost out of chaff and decoy balloons, at this point - and while he's not sure how fast news travels he suspects that he's going to start seeing the Victorian's anti-flash white F-16Vs take over the daytime bombardment duties - just as the mountain terrain guarantees that there's going to be almost no place to hide.
He looks into the mountains, at the rough point where there was - ah, there the laser was. Couldn't let the Russians see it from space, so the Captain Merkatz had to resort to shining a laser into a cup of water inside the armored vehicle in Morse Code - and just as hoped, the stockpiles are still there. Seemed like the Russians hadn't managed to get to it. Hellfire Burns waits for the second signal, the question on whether he can shoot straight across the mountains or whether he'll have to take a detour.
Captain Merkatz flashes back:
Y
Burns smiled a vicious smile, and he's certain that his fellow soldiers are smiling that smile too. The bridges were dynamited, naturally, but he had Captain Merkatz and his team scout way ahead and pre-engineer replacements for exactly this scenario. They'd need to refuel anyway, so taking that advantage to field-repair the infrastructure was absolutely vital - and it would let them make the shot across the mountains.
Motorized vehicles maximum rate of travel, after all, was mostly limited by their fuel - and there would be absolutely no time to stop once he started.
Burns breathed in the sweltering air of the evening, the stench of caked sweat rising from the armored car, and gave a nod.
His forces were rested, fueled, and on a strictly ticking clock to whenever the Tsar decided to wield the full force of the Russian military against them.
The engines roar to life, ash-black coal soot striped across the fuselage, headlights blazing into the darkening night. Time was now of the essence, and Hellfire Burns was done hiding.
Day Twenty-Two, 1:37 AM Moscow Time
The Tsar has been waiting for this moment for what must be weeks now. The inevitable point when the Americans would have to reveal their true capacity, and he could finally commit the majority of his airborne assets to crushing them in their entirety.
Wiping his brow from his nightly calisthenics, he nods, and the order is given.
He shortly leaves for his shower, before turning into bed at 2AM.
Day Twenty-Two, 3:24 Moscow Time
"This is Moscow Command, we are reading 56 fighters over California. San Diego AFB, please advise."
"Got nothing on our scopes, Moscow Command. You sure your equipment is alright?"
"Understood. Caracas Air Command, we are reading 84 fighters on a one-three-five vector in to Venezuela, please advise."
"Negatory, Moscow Command. I don't know what to say. Could it be a solar flare or something?"
"Understood. CONUS Command, we may have an equipment failure. Are you seeing anything?"
"They're everywhere!"
"CONUS Command, say again!"
"I'm lookin' at fighter jets crawling all over the Eastern Seaboard! Where the hell did they come from?!"
"Come in, CONUS Command! What model, and what affiliation?!"
"Stolen F-35Ns, affiliation code -
USAF?! How the hell - oh shit, they've noticed - "
Static echoed in Moscow Command.
The silence breaks to a great flood of noise.
"Mobilize all available air assets from the San Diego AFB - " "Get the Admiral of the Atlantic Fleet on the line- " "Someone wake up the Tsar! - " "Jesus Christ they're alive?! - " "Wake up the Directors - "
Day Twenty-Two, 12:54 AM EST
Burns smiles a knife-smile, as he watches the sky burst open with the flames of another Su-34. He had set the pieces in motion months ago but with distances and radio silence as it was, he couldn't be sure if the gamble would pay off.
The explosions in the sky lighting up the Big Red One's relentless drive east answered his prayers.
Day Twenty-Two, 5:34 AM EST
Mayor Mesbah of FCNY is wide awake when the call from an irate Tsar comes in. It is a politely worded demand to know whether the F-35Ns spotted landing in the O'Hare International Airport after shooting down Russian Su-34s constituted a declaration of war.
Mayor Mesbah smoothly lies, just as she's always done.
The Tsar promises this isn't over.
The Mayor simply asks him to contact her when it is.
Day Twenty-Two, 2:37 Moscow Time
The Tsar is furious, and hangs up without another word spoken. He has no more time for the FCNY's shenanigans, and needs to bring the full force of the Russian military down upon the American battlegroup that now looked far, far, far too close to the Free City of New York. His next call is to the Caribbean Fleet - they need to scramble their entire force up the continent. The experimental Radiant-class battleship, too - the Americans needed to be destroyed utterly before they could reach the Free City, damn the cost.
Day Twenty-Two, 7:42 EST.
The skies are clear, as Burns brings his forces to the prearranged fueling spot.
"Tch. The Russians will love this, Captain," Master Sargeant Alex complains. "They'll have a picture-clear image of exactly where all of our forces are during this leg of the run, and there's no way to hide them in these valleys. We'll be sitting ducks for their air-to-ground munitions."
Captain Holt can't disagree.
Day Twenty-Two, 7:53 EST.
"Tch," Saber-3 grouses to his RIO. "The Americans will love this, Bruschev. The skies are clear, and we have to fly right into their killbox since we've run out of the mountain-use bunker busters. We'll be sitting ducks, especially for their goddamned ghosts," he said.
Lieutenant Bruschev can't disagree.
Day Twenty-Two, 9:40 EST.
The refueling is complete, and the Russian COIN forces have been sufficiently cowed by the tone of SAM launchers acquiring lockon pings from pop-up radar stands. The rearguard radios that they've finished refueling, and the command goes out:
Full speed out of the mountains.
Don't stop until we've reached New York.
Day Twenty-Three
Burns curses under his breath. Damn, but those Russians were crafty. Instead of flying against his forces within the SAM bubble, they had chosen to airstrike the roads and bridges his engineering teams had just put up - while his forces could still move, it was a major slow-down waiting for Captain Merkatz and his teams to put the bridges back up, and Burns knew better than most that if he waited too long an overwhelming Russian force would be waiting for him on the other side of the Appalachians.
But there was nothing to do about it. He could only watch his forces slowly move across the hastily erected bridge, slowly, one by one.
Day Twenty-Seven, 5:42 EST.
Burns is finally out of the mountains. Only the last fifty miles remains between him and the Manhattan Line. Between him is the Victorian Army drawn up to full muster, the remaining nine divisions, the field CMC divisions, and groups of Russian soldiers dispatched as "support". An encrypted transmission warns him that he needs to cross the line today - the Russian Caribbean Fleet has been spotted moving up the coast, and it may already be in range.
Burns quietly nods.
It's really just as he expected.
Under the cover of morning blackness, his forces reorient themselves for the final sprint.
When the grey predawn begins to rise, he gives a quiet order on the radio.
The roar of his mechanized division answers him.
Day Twenty-Seven, 6:12 EST.
Off the Eastern Seaboard, the Russian Caribbean Fleet has their targeting data updated by Russian satellites. The fire order from the Tsar comes, and the captain of the Radiant-class battleship salutes in understanding.
The order to fire is given, and a blinding blue beam erupts forth from the battleship.
Day Twenty-Seven, 6:17 EST.
Burns scowls, green screen washing out in another flare of brightness. The coal dust was supposed to protect against exactly this sort of long-range laser attack, and to its credit the soot appeared to actually hold them off for a few seconds.
But tanks cannot maneuver faster than the traversal speed of a laser turret. His SAM batteries cannot maneuver faster than the traversal speed of a laser turret. Fortunately, his countermeasures against satellite observation are mostly working - the Russians are only hitting about every one in four laser shots.
His list of commanders is getting thin, though, and the Russians are getting more accurate.
Another flash, and Burns checks the armored vehicles left.
Damn. There went Corporal Tran's fireteam.
Day Twenty-Seven, 7:12 EST.
The Victorians are hungry for this fight. They've heard about the stunning loss of three divisions out west, and from the Russians they hear that this appears to be a real force ripped straight from the Old America. This is their chance to prove once and for all their supremacy over the Cultural Marxists that had rotted the United States of old.
The Big Red One is hungry for this fight. For too long, the Victorians have terrorized America, and they have lived in constant fear of the Russian armed forces for almost their entire adult lives. This is an opportunity to strike back, even as the bright blue beams taper away to nothing on their final approach.
The Russians are hungry for this fight. Finally, they'll be able to wipe out what appears to be the last remnants of the great American war machine not under their control, and finally rest easy knowing that America was dealt with forever.
Even the Free City of New York, trembling in fear of the twelve divisions the Victorians have drawn up outside their city, are hungry for this fight. It represents one last great American hope - while many dare not voice it aloud, beyond everything they are desperately hopeful that the Big Red One takes on the Victorians and Russians - and
wins.
It is a battlefield of hopes and expectations.
It is the new America's truly decisive battle.
Day Twenty-Seven, 8:24 EST
The Battle of the Manhattan Line is every bit as great and terrible as promised. The roar of Abrams and the thumps of the Strykers and the chatter of the M4s contrasted against the shattering explosions of the Russian rocket artillery and the two-round stutter of the Russian AK-28s. Blue light from the Russian Radiant shines in against particularly trenchant eastward flanks, the Victorians left to charge the titans clashing like suicidal moths towards the flames with nothing but their rifles, their mortars, and their elan.
The air buzzes with smoke and chaff and decoys and drones, all the last tricks of the past fifty years unleashed upon a single battlefield. Infantry-portable drones scout the battlefield, marking targets for Strykers and Abrams to hit - not that there's much difficulty, considering how the Big Red One is surrounded by a tide of enemies in all directions. Russian COIN drones sortie against the last SAM batteries that the America's Last Army can muster, Su-34s staying well out of range until the battlefield clears up. The Victorian T-34s are an afterthought, annihilated with every round the American Abrams can fire that isn't used to fight against the tanks the Tsar has airlifted in. Russian rocket artillery is met with the last rockets that the Big Red One was able to bring with it, the streaks of missiles whizzing through the air.
Private Singh, momentarily dazed, draws the connection to the anthem. In the haze of the fog and the smoke, bright red streaks followed rockets through the air, as airburst flak cannons tried to shoot down low-hanging drones. Long instinct makes his body snap his rifle over to the latest Victorian charge, and burst fire at the charging Victorians, shooting three shots when every shot seemed to kill another Victorian. With one ear open even as the other is shut from hearing damage, he turns away from the danger-close rocket artillery, and bursts into a run back to the Stryker at Sargeant Foley's orders, now.
Day Twenty-Seven: 8:52 EST
The Manhattan Line is right there. The Big Red One has almost reached it, having crushed the Victorians underfoot and slowly overcoming the Russians through sheer overwhelming numbers and force. The final commitment of an all-divisional CMC charge, only to shatter against the combined might of the Big Red One breaks the Victorian fighting will entirely, and the radio frequencies fill with the panic of a routed enemy that has never learned the meaning of defeat and has only learned that victory means atrocities against the enemy.
Without Victorian bodies in the way, the fielded Russian forces begin to beat their own retreat, and Burns decides to take this opportunity to regroup his forces for one final push.
It is the last mistake he will ever make.
Day Twenty-Seven: 8:53 EST
The Radiant's blue light finally struck Hellfire Burns tank. Evidently, with the Victorians routing and the Russians in a hasty retreat, the Radiant battleship considered weapons-free to be an acceptable policy.
The squadron of F-35Ns taking off from the FCNY's runways intended to put paid to that.
The Radiant defiantly lifts its laser against the sky, and the F-35Ns begins scattering everywhere.
One pilot aims straight for the deck.
All of the pilots accelerate.
CIWS and SAM fire begins to lock on to the Lightning IIs, already launched too close to the navy in order to properly evade. Flares go out - and then a beam of blinding brightness catches one F-35N by surprise, before melting it away.
Suddenly, a warning is called out - that one F-35N skimming the surface of the water would be in range too close to intercept soon - their next target
had to be that one fighter.
The problem is, this fighter is skimming the water. One false nudge, and the intake would stop being sea spray and start being sea. The Radiant cannot depress its own aperture that far, and none of the CIWS and SAM systems can traverse fast enough.
The anti-ship payload is delivered near the minimum necessary range to even activate.
The Radiant battleship's laser aperture evaporates in a ball of fire and fury.
Day Twenty-Seven: 9:32 EST
The Russians finally fully disengage from the field, turning their armored vehicles around and fleeing.
Just as well, Commander Schultz thought.
It wasn't like the Big Red One could take any more punishment, at this rate - crossing the Manhattan Line would be almost the limit of his own forces.
But that was all he had to do.
Day Twenty-Seven: 10:07 EST
Photojournalist Charity al-Sheik knows she has the picture of the century.
It is the lone hand of a brown-skinned soldier, sticking out of an armored vehicle. An American flag is clutched with the ring finger, the pinky finger, and the thumb. The index and middle fingers hold up a V.
V for victory.
She will later find out that Private Singh's victory pose was completely against orders - but that doesn't matter so much as the image, played across every news media site for the next month straight.
American has returned.
Victorious.
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