NationStates Jolt Archive

Title inspired by Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, 1941: “You cannot invade the mainland United States. There would be a rifle behind each blade of grass.”

This thread is the third in the series of the Federation Confederacy Conflict. The first is Operation: Vengeance Cloud. The second is Counter Operations.

Central Command, Under Purple Mountain, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

Captain Renia Jothosi looked at the close up holographic plot of the Southern Atlantic, focused in on the Federation Coast, and the area of the Lost Americans Surface Fleet. A line was drawn across the plot, glimmering red gold against the blue water, showing the engagement range of the national defense grid. Another minute, maybe two. Then the entire Confederate Fleet would be inside that line.

Then the full force of every battery that would be able to range on them during their approach to the shoreline would have the range. Perhaps a thousand weapons, perhaps ten thousand, Jothosi was not clear on the real numbers. But of course, the Achilles heel of any fixed defensive position was just that. It could not dodge like its targets could.

As it was, the Confederate Fleet might even have the powerful defenses outgunned. But once the crossed the horizon into Federation waters, it was no might have beens that would decide the victor, but firepower and ferocity.

Here they came. Captain Jothosi opened her mouth, and smiled. “FIRE!” Her voice cracked like a whip in the still room, and a tech at the front of the room flicked a red control on his holographic panel.

Off Xegame Beach, Commonwealth of Pietha, FSP

Naval Defense Platform Alpha 1789 had been waiting for release, as the pressure had been building steadily as TacNet reported the ever closing position of the Confederate Fleet. It had pressed at its restraints, but it was subordinate to higher command.

It did not engage, and merely tracked. And as the first vessels came over its engagement horizon, it locked onto the leading battlecruisers with its own sensors, no longer needing the orbital feed.

Then the command came, flashing instantly over the TacNet to the waiting platform. NDP-A1789 exploded with violence. Missile launchers flashed with the brilliance of hyper velocity launch, missiles tearing outward, their damage caused by impact. Heavier missiles blossomed from weapons pods, their partial kiloton range warheads of conventional explosives and slower speed allowing them to track targets.

Blue lightning flared as the particle cannon turrets spoke, charged particles rushing out towards the enemy at high speed, just short of lightspeed. Torpedos dropped into the water, spearing outward on churning tracks of bubbles.

The shape of NDP-A1789 vanished as it fired, hidden in the backflash, announcing its presence to all in a massive EM signature as decoys and other countermeasures were spawned with the power funneled up from the reactor far below, wrapped still in its protective cocoon.

The Fleet continued to advance, feeling the sensors reaching out to them from shore, and its ECM blazed to life, hoping to confused the sensors tracking in. But the problem with visual range was that it was harder to confused in.

The Fleet felt the explosion of electro-magnetic radiation as the shore defenses opened fire. The hydrorapier drives burned brighter, lifting the heavy combat ships from the water, and sending them speeding ahead, towards the coast. Long range missiles flickered out from the battlecruisers, and energy weapons sent burning streams of plasma and high energy particles towards the defenders.

The Enemy’s platforms had managed to lock onto the forward most pair of battlecruisers the best, and they vanished in a hail of particle cannon fire, well before the slower missiles reached them. Instead the missiles shot through the formation into the transports, tearing more of them apart.

But even that was minor damage to the massive Fleet, and fire blazed out of them, back tracks of energy and HV missile fire locating the Enemy platforms far to specifically to fool the heavy duty targeting computers, though missiles losing telemetry links would be another story.

But a firestorm awoke, burning in both directions across the water along the northern coast of the Enemy’s Land Which Must Be Defended.

Central Command, Under Purple Mountain, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

Captain Jothosi grimaced as she watched the damage reports flowing in from the defensive platforms. As was expected, they did not appear to be causing as much damage as would be wished for, in a perfect world.

But, on the other hand, in a perfect world, Captain Jothosi knew her profession would not be needed.

Her eyes rested on the plot, staring, watching as the ships of the Confederate fleet slowly crossed into her land defensive positions’ engagement range.

And….

“Prepare to engage with secondary defensive ring.”

“Aye aye, ma’am. Ready.”

…now.

“Open fire.”

Off Xegame Beach, Commonwealth of Peitha, FSP

NDP-A1789 shivered at the first incoming impacts, plowing into the minimal armor, and blowing through it. A particle cannon turret shattered under the incoming firepower, but for the most part, the sub sentient AI noticed no decrease in available combat firepower.

The engagement continued, weapons flashing from the neighbor platforms, and from NDP-A1789. They simply targeted one vessel after another, seeking to blow them apart.

But there would hardly be enough time to destroy them all. A minute, perhaps more, for each vessel, as the defense platforms were chewed apart by return fire, their immobility their damning feature.

Weapons continued to blaze across the shrinking gap, for the defenses had no concept of giving up. And even if they had, it was doubtful the other side would have accepted it.

Spiny Mountains, Commonwealth of Peitha, FSP

Defensive Emplacement Alpha 796 had whirred to life, power flowing through disused systems, long before. It had been tracking, linked into TacNet as well, following the engagement that remained over a hundred kilometers away from it. But now…

Now an order came, flashing through the ethereal TacNet, and gaping maws spun open, revealing launch bays to the open air. Missiles, heavy with explosive warheads and tracking equipment, spewed forth from the mountain side, shredding the very air itself as they flickered towards their doom, screaming out their own electronic countermeasures in self defense.

The Lost Americans’ Fleet was where they would meet their doom, in self immolation, or stopped short of their suicidal goal. But one way or another, they would die in pockets of flame...

The Fleet was dying quickly, but even with the new missiles, it was moving steadily closer to the shore of the Enemy's Land Which Must Be Defended. More firepower lashed out as the transports joined in the battle, their mounted weapons for clearing beaches working equally well agains the stationary platforms.

There was unfortunately no way to engage the long range missiles except defensively, for nothing the Fleet had possessed enough range to engage. But it was only minutes until the Fleet was beyond the engagement range of all but a few platforms and the inner ring, too close to the coast to be engaged.

Then they would kill the last platforms and the invasion would begin. Vengeance would be had at last.

Central Command, Under Purple Mountain, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

Jothosi watched the plot and frowned as she realized their mistake. The defenses had engaged the Lost American warships, and not the freighters carrying the troops and equipment for the invasion.

On the other hand, had they not engaged the warships, the platforms would have died faster. It was certainly an unfair trade off. Then she smiled broadly as a new group of signals blinked to life. The First, Second, and Third Army Groups were in position to repluse the invasion. More importantly, their artillery and tanks were ready and targeting the oncoming fleet. And they knew to immediately set into motion once they had fired, for a stationary position only invited bombardment. "First AG, prepare to fire. Second AG, prepare to fire. Third AG, prepare to fire." The green lights of the naval defense platforms began to wink out. Quicker and quicker. Within moments, every platform in front of the Lost Americans fleet was broken and destroyed, though they had served their purpose.

"Fire."

Near Xegame Beach, Commonwealth of Peitha, FSP

Lance Corporal Natalie Roberts kept her hand lightly wrapped around the triggering key, the joystick controling the Marauder Light tank's main gun. The linear accelerator weapon was targeted on a Lost Americans ship of some kind, but she was not sure what, only that it would big. "Nick, the instant I fire, get us into motion."

Private Nicolas Portman nodded. "Will do."

Natalie watched as particle beams came in from the target vessel pounding the beach a kilometer away, and she settled her target on the large structure adorning the ship, which looked like a command tower of some kind.

"Fire." The command came in, and she heard the bark of the heavy artillery, the Bonhomme units engaging with their dual tubes and heavy warheads. The whooshing sound of rockets was next, springing free of the Unforgiven Multiple Rocket Launch System. Her target exploded in flames, and she adjusted her aim point slightly down, aiming lower on the hull.

She pulled the trigger, and shouted, even as the hypervelocity round left the barrel of the main gun, "Get us moving." But Nick knew what he was doing, and the light hover tank had already surged into motion, sliding backwards and to the left. The cannon reloaded automatically, and Natalie sent another round screaming towards her target vessel after a brief moment. Then a third, and a fourth, walking them along the lower hull, though they were much too far away to see if she was causing any damage.

Tagoo for interesting read...

Burning death had taken a large portion of the Fleet’s van, but nothing stood in the Fleet’s way before the coast line of the Enemy’s Land Which Must Be Defended. The remaining warships, despite burning heavily, many of them, split apart, revealing the expansive fleet of transports carrying the Ground Force. Hulls retracted, the keels flattening as the water grew shallower. The Transports bows cracked open, revealing, unleashing Hell. Vengeance would be had, even if it took every bit of the Ground Force, which uncoiled like a striking serpent from within the cavernous holds. They came out firing as the weapons of their carriers continued to pound the shoreline. Fire lashed the innocent beach, and turned sand and rock to glass as weapons continue to seek those savaging the Fleet.

Near Xegame Beach, Commonwealth of Peitha, FSP

Natalie smiled as through her range finder she watched the artillery fire without orders switch to the beach itself ignoring the ships which no longer had the angle to range on them. Missiles continued to strike at the enemy warships further off shore, striking from the security of their mountain homes.

Then the orders came. “Engage the enemy more closely.” Not needing instructions, Nick sent the hovertank forward, the platoon moving with them, visible on sensors. Explosive ordinance was spit forth from the main cannon now, targeted wherever there was clear line of sight to the beach. A wave of armor was descending upon the beach, across the numerous kilometers of frontage, along which the Lost Americans were attempting to deploy a third of their entire army. Natalie smiled as she settled her sights on an emerging vehicle and quickly switched to HVAT rounds again, firing.

Central Command, Under Purple Mountain, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

Field Marshal Tenai smiled as he stepped up beside Captain Jothosi. “Good job, Captain, but now that they’re on the beach, I think it’s my turn.”

Jothosi turned a tight smile on the commander of the Federation Ground Forces. “Of course, sir. I request relief.”

“Permission granted, Captain. You are relieved.”

“I stand relieved, sir.” Jothosi smiled and moved away from the command station, as the Field Marshal took over. Adrian felt his neural feeds being greeted by the command computers. He wheeled the end of his line, which was slightly off center from the Lost Americans invasion line, and curled it around, driving it up the beach. At the same time, the other end of his line bent backwards, sensing that the Lost Americans would take the opportunity to try and flank him as well.

But that was just his hidden infantry in their fighting vehicles and on foot, much as the Lost Americans were, reinforced by about half of their armor. As sensor jammers came online to deny the Lost Americans accurate battle data, the other half of his armor raced towards the center of his line, which was falling back.

The Ground Force was finding resistance to be heavy, charging into prepared positions on the beach, but the Enemy was collapsing in its center. If their line fell, it would be from there. Death would stalk the Enemy, for before FleetNet's tactical sensors had lost their resolution to the white noise which blocked them, they had estimated the numbers. FleetNet knew that it had enough force to grind the Enemy under the bodies of its own dead.

And so it would. The Ground Forced advanced into the collapsing center, while curling around the flanks of the enemy lines. Hard thrusts of troop concentrations battered the Enemy line, seeking an opening, or forcing one. It mattered not to FleetNet. When the line broke, the Enemy would die. And if it cost all the lives of the Ground Force to clear this beachhead, then so be it. There was more Ground Force where this came from.

Near Xegame Beach, Commonwealth of Peitha, FSP

Nick spun the tank around in a circle, taking the blast from the near miss of a particle cannon as well as the light tank could handle, though the armor on the right side was nearly gone. The combat was becoming more intense, with missiles, energy blasts and ballastic ammunition flying back at forth at significant fractions of the speed of light.

As nighttime approached, the air was taking on an unearthly glow, from the gaping wounds the beach had suffered, combined with the blasts of a nearly inconceivable amount of firepower, constantly streaking back and forth over ranges as short as a kilometer. The armor and the troops were pounding the landing sites into glass, but the jungle and brush in which they were hiding was merely an inferno in return.

Hell itself had erupted on the beaches on the northern Federation, a burning flame that could only be quenched with enough blood.

Central Command, Under Purple Mountain, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

Marshal Tenai watched as his sensor reports slowly became more and more generalized, with the infrared being useless due to the flames and visual observation being worthless due to the smoke and the coming darkness.

His only advantage was the unbreakable and unjammable ansible communications system that linked TacNet together, but even that was becoming more and more general, giving him only the positions of the personnel on the ground.

It was all up to his close combat commanders now, and he watched as the trap he had set up was sprung, the armor divisions unloading massive firepower against the enemy's penetration of his center.

The Ground Force was struggling to gain its toehold on the beach head, while the Surface Fleet pounded the shore. But the Ground Force was far larger than the force that was opposing it, and it would use this ruthlessly.

Lives mattered not, only Vengeance, only Victory. Troops grinding forward behind column after column of tanks, blazing fire at their highest rate of fire, as more of the Ground Force poured out of the holds of the freighters which brought the death to the Enemy's Land Which Must Be Defended.

And they gained ground. Certain orders were passed through FleetNet, and the air peeled back across the ocean, living red tongues sweeping southward.

Central Command, Under Purple Mountain, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

Marshal Tenai sighed as he watched the American force grinding forward onto his shoreline, smashing his defenders with superior numbers, overrunning his smaller, better trained, better equipped set of troops.

They were dying too quickly now that as much of the American force was ashore was. He had lost the shore battle, but he would win the war. And the American losses had to be far higher than his own.

But that was small consideration, even if terms like favorable rate of exchange could be ignored. And they couldn't. The order went out. Disengage.

They began to pull back.

The Ground Force still slogged on, after these many months since the landing. Grinding forward into the ever stiffening Federation resistance had not been easy, but the price of Vengeance was never low.

And for every death, the Ground Force advanced, taking away the control of the Land Which Must Be Defended from the Enemy. Two hundred kilometers or more, as many as three, in some places, the front stretched inward from the shores upon which so much blood had been shed.

More blood ran over the ground, and those thousands of square kilometers were nothing but burnt and dead forest now, a testament to the utter ruthlessness of the Need.

Nothing was uncalled for in the Need, and the heaviest weapons to fly had ranged nearly one hundred kilotons. But a full third of the Ground Force deployed to the Enemy's Land Which Must Be Defended was gone now, though FleetNet had learned from that most costly mistake. Three sections still remained, each opposed by an Enemy force half their size when the conflict started, and surely smaller now.

Unfortunately, the Enemy has designed their Land Which Must Be Defended well. To hurt them, the cities must be taken. But to take the cities required far too much firepower than could be brought to bear in a single location to land.

So the landings had been far away, and now, slowly, steadily, pushed towards the cities.

Except they did not. The advance was stopped for now, and the closest of the Enemy's cities was safe.

For now.

Central Command, Under Purple Mountain, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

Marshal Tenai glared at the two colored schematic of the Federation, specifically at the red portion that represented the portion controlled by the invading Americans. Fifteen hundred square kilometers of controlled territory after months of invasion.

The grinding match had continued, though recently there had been a break for the Federation when Empress Rialla had arrived, letting the advance towards Cornith get wiped out. But it had been a hard conflict so far.

His mind drifted back, with the crystal clarity provided by his implants, over some of the events, the happenings of the last few months. Two incidents stuck out particularly in his mind, of course.

First had been the Surrender of Bravo Company. They had been surrounded, trapped, fighting, running low on ammunition and food, their medical and power supplied becoming exhausted, and Tenai had given the order. They had surrendered to the American forces.

Tenai could still hear their screams, their curses of God, their curses of him. Especially at night. They had been cut down, executed one at a time by being boiled alive in their armor. That had been the first clue.

Second, the Lincoln Township. They had refused to evacuate when the warnings came through, and when the Ground Force had fallen back through, they had had to leave them there, as they still refused to leave their homes.

Ground Force had retaken the town of ten thousand a week later. There had been no survivors, but plenty of bodies, plenty of evidence of the crimes committed. Houses drenched in the blood of their owners, murdered in their beds, burned alive in divine services. Of course, that had not been until they had been tortured, raped, and looted.

See, Ground Force had not retaken a town. They had retaken a pile of rubble and rotting flesh that had once been a town.

Tenai shuddered, pushing the memories out of the forefront of his mind. He had a war to win.

Office of the Imperial President, Imperial House, Griffin, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

“Damn it, Mister President, I don’t know how much longer our troops can hold out. The size of the Lost Americans army is just too big. Their smaller space presence and long term commitment to invading us gives them way more to work with on the ground.”

“You’ve gotten them down to basically one and quarter million, Field Marshal. We have nearly twice that many troops in the Federation. Use them.” D’ron knew better, but as ever, he was extremely reluctant to give in to what it was the Field Marshal wanted him to authorize. A habit from his days in command, after all, when he had saved the Federation in a similar situation by refusing to allow his political superiors to do exactly what Tenai was proposing. He should have known better. He, in fact, did know better. But some habits are too hard to break. “If we deploy the new squadrons now, and it isn’t enough, we give the Confeds time to work out countermeasures. Surprise only happens once.”

“Yes, Mister President, I am aware of that.” The older man smiled grimly. “But if we don’t do something, now, our lines will break in ten days, because we cannot fit more personnel into the area to reinforce it. Two days later, the Confeds will hit Cornith. Unless you let me use the new squadrons, I cannot stop that.”

“Field Marshal, hold for one week. If the situation is unchanged then, you may commit the new squadrons.”

Central Command, Under Purple Mountain, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

Eight days passed, and now, Marshal Tenai once more stood in Central Command, ready to give the order that could either break the Lost Americans advance or at least hopefully stall it.

But his hopes rested on only two new squadrons, a pitifully thin shield against the more than one million Confederate soldiers, outnumbering his own by more than two to one.

He sent the order committing the men, women, and other sentients under his command to battle. He could only hope they came out alive.

Combat Front Number Two, Commonwealth of Peitha, FSP

The camp strangely fell silent as the newly promoted Corporal Natalie Roberts scampered up the side of her Marauder, pausing as she reached the hatch as she realized there was no sound anywhere, just the wind whistling in the burned grass.

After months of combat, there were no trees. The silence in a camp of thousands was far more unnerving than the scrubland which had once been a rainforest, though.

The sun vanished, and a chill ran down her spine as a black triangular shadow crept over the grey skin of her tank. Nick looked up at her as she paused with her feet hanging in the hatchway.

Unable to actually see his face through his armor, Natalie had been with her crew long enough to know it paled by the way his body reacted, and craned her neck back. The reason for the darkness was readily apparent in the needle sharp black form that blotted out the sun, hovering only a couple hundred meters above the camp. Of course, it was only one of twelve of the things, which were the largest things she had ever seen in atmosphere.

She had heard of the operation when the destroyers came down, and that the ICEL flagship had overflown Cornith, both types of which she understood were probably bigger than what she was seeing now.

But that was only understood in her mind, not in her heart, nor in her eyes. The massive black arrowhead awoke a primitive fear deep in the recesses of her mind, though her training and discipline crushed it away.

Just holding there like some giant black helicopters seemed unnatural for so large a craft, especially as there was no visible method of support. “What are they?” Nick asked softly.

Before she could reply, Natalie heard John scraping around inside the tank, and his head appeared, silently looking up at the sight which had enthralled the tank commander and the driver.

“Nick, I have no idea,” the corporal heard herself say. “But if they weren’t on our side, someone would be shooting by now.” She dropped her other armored leg down the hatch, felt more than saw John move, and dropped in, the hatch sealing automatically behind her.

A quick check of her status board showed her section to be ready to go, and she keyed in to report to the Platoon Sergeant.

Bridge, S.P.A.C.V. Cougar, Combat Front Number Two, Commonwealth of Pietha, FSP

The ever present hum of what the engineer had dubbed the ‘bumblebee’ drive, because of its sound, beat firmly at Captain Linda Zerfoss’ ears. Shaking her head slightly, pony tail protruding from her beret dancing with the movement, she pushed it from her mind with effort and muttered a mild oath at her distraction.

Commanding the twelve brand new units of the Second Air Combat Squadron from the bridge of the Cougar, the third Tiger class assault air combat vehicle, she had no time to let little things bother her right now.

The Captain opened her mouth to speak a question that would reveal her nervousness to her entire crew, when a holographic form shimmered into existence. She would never get used to the animal forms these new ships took, and she shivered as the big cat grinned at her, invoking the origin of the term ‘predator’s grin’. The chill intensified as the ‘animal’ spoke. “The operation will commence in one minute, Captain.”

Zerfoss’ question died stillborn on her lips as the Electronic Intelligence preempted it. “Thank you, Cougar.” Turning her head to the right, facing one of her officers, she ordered, “Signal the squadron. Commence Jack-in-the-Box in five minutes.” That maneuver would send the twelve air combat vehicles popping up out of the valley among the foothills of the Spiny Mountains which hid them from the Confederate scanners.

South Slope, Spiny Mountains, Dominion of Vanderhill, FSP

Captain Sarah McKinley closed her eyes, letting the wash of signals flow over her. Many many signals, but no radio, no emissions. Two bases worth of Longswords hovered south of the Spiny Mountains, hidden from the battle areas by the megatons of rock. Their Broadswords rested just to the south of them, even lower down so their more powerful signatures were hidden even better.

Only the smallest bit of energy showed as the fighters hovered, awaiting the go command. They all had their orders, and TacNet would transmit the go command when she gave it. Thirty seconds to full power, up and over the mountains to explode into the American formation behind a tidal wave anti-fighter missiles.

They waited for the order, and McKinley felt the countdown in her mind, spiraling towards zero.

Number Seven Port Launch Tube, Hanger Deck, S.P.S. Raselgethi, Sixth Task Force, Second Battle Fleet, Low Earth Orbit over FSP

His name was Greg Ryan, and he had only graduated flight school a month before to be assigned to Second Fleet. And now he sat in his fighter cockpit, his neural link humming in the back of his mind as the Raselgethi updated his tactical information constantly, feeding it to him through his fighter’s AI. A holographic timer blazed before his eyes, counting down to two times, his launch time, and the time of operation commencement. They were separated by exactly forty seconds.

Three… two… one…

LAUNCH

Acceleration slammed Ryan back in his pilot’s couch as the electromagnetic launch tube fired, flinging him into space. He felt the slight buzz as his Longsword knifed through its mothership’s drive field and then grinned as his own drive locked on. He joined his wingman, then his squadron in orbit of their Capella-class mothership and counted down the remaining seconds.

Ten… nine… eight…

The squadron heeled over, pointing their noses towards the surface three hundred miles straight down. Scanners picked up slight disturbances of weapons fire far below. The enemy fighters were already engaging and being engaged by the advancing Federation Ground Forces that the pilots knew were heading into combat.

They strained for release… three… two… one….

Now. Space warping drives rippled to high power and slammed into the upper atmosphere, driving hard, ionized air peeling out of their way, creating a rippling wake. The atmospheric drive was functioning perfectly. Behind them, a second brood of fighters exploded into space, immediately going into power dives.

The drives sang, the atmosphere boiled, and the completely obvious attack wave dove downward towards its only real threat, ready to pull up and draw the enemy in the second its actions showed they were detected. Their mission had nothing to do with engaging the fighters below them, for they only carried two anti-fighter missiles instead of the normal eight.

The rest of their payload was taken up by gauss cannons, premier weapons for high altitude strafing.

FleetNet reacted near instantaneously as the actions of the Enemy’s fighter craft made their intent obvious. The airborne threats were far more dangerous to both the Strike Wings and the Ground Force than the Enemy’s beleaguered and outnumbered army. At the silent direction of the computers, the Strike Wings arced upwards to engage.

FleetNet continued its thoughts and commands, though. It knew its forces could hold against a ground assault, but by air, they were vulnerable. So some of the Strike Wings remained covering the Ground Force. Unfortunately, the Enemy had a tendency to use its local numerical advantage and shorter supply lines and better intelligence capabilities to achieve surprise.

FleetNet had no intention of being surprised again.

Combat Front Number Two, Commonwealth of Peitha, FSP

Natalie snarled as the light tank bucked across the surface, its drive whining as it attempted to stay upright. That was the major disadvantage of the hovering tank, the fact that sufficient energy release could indeed flip them. Nick knew exactly what he was doing, though, and curved into the explosion, letting the armor take the burn, and not flip the sixty ton light battle tank.

That missile had been far too close. A single thought brought the automatic turret atop the Marauder online, a whirring buzz snarled as ammunition sprayed out at a couple hundred rounds in stutterfire a minute. She had no time for monitoring the weapon system as another high explosive round rumbled down range from her barrel. She kept firing as at the same time she shouted orders. “John, keep those damn missiles off of us!”

“Sorry, Nat,” he called back. “Those Confeds just popped outta the fucking grass. They oughta’ve been wearing fucking black pajamas.”

Glancing through her monitors, or perhaps merging with the sensors, as there was not much of a difference with the neural feeds, Natalie winced as a nearby Marauder from her section blew apart as it was hit by at least for separate missiles, including at least two air launched ones.

It was not supposed to happen. In theory, it could not happen. But then, in the moments of greatest stress, humans invariably find a way. Her mind slipped into the general communications network of TacNet. “Where are the fucking zoomies?!”

South Slope, Spiny Mountains, Dominion of Vanderhill, FSP

Everyone heard the call, including every single one of ‘the fucking zoomies’. McKinley cursed an oath as the power of the cry for help ripped into her mind and knocked her concentration out of the countdown.

Another oath as she forced her concentration back into the timing. The timing was everything… without it the plan would not work. Could she move up the timing? Could she move a few seconds early?

There was still another minute left in the countdown.

Letting her mind wander in the network, McKinley could feel the dying, the winking out of continuous locator signals in the Ground Force semi-powered armor and of the armored vehicles, the tanks and fighting vehicles being torn apart by enemy fire. They were being overwhelmed too fast.

Far too fast. Her voice snapped as she made the decision without making it. “Power up!”

Two bases worth of fighters responded instantly as their training required and drive fields blazed into an upward spiral of power and emissions. There was no need to hide any longer.

Fifteen seconds early, nearly five hundred fighters erupted from cover behind a solid wall of anti-fighter missiles, targeted on the Lost American aerospace craft still in supporting range of their troops.

Upper Atmosphere, Combat Front Number Two, Commonwealth of Peitha, FSP

Flight Officer. That was what they called him, and what all his paper work said he was. But at this precise moment, Greg Ryan was doing exactly zero flying. Nor was his Longsword flying, in any conventional sense of the term.

Instead, it was, for lack of a better term, dancing. But this was a lethal ballet, and the slightest misstep, fatal. Missiles and gunfire streaked upwards towards the gathered strike force of Federation fighters and fighter-bombers, here and there claiming another victim to add to the flaming debris plunging ten miles to the battlefield below.

But Greg, combined with his fighter’s AI, ignored all that, concentrating on just one thing, and one thing alone. The Lost American Heavy Artillery. Anti-air. Multiple Rocket Launch Systems. Surface to Air systems. Anything which could put a heavy warhead more than 500 meters in the air.

He rested, and every time his scanners lit up with the signatures he was seeking, a series of six rounds would lash out from his guns, plunging earthward at some horrible velocity, indefinable to human senses until the backflash of the impact seared itself onto their retinas.

Those cannons, designed for strafing against energy shielded capital ships, did things which were not natural to the relatively small metal targets they would find at the end of their short, suicidal flights.

It was ordained. Greg would continue firing until he could find no targets in his sector or he ran out of ammunition, whichever came first. And looking at the size of the Lost Americans army spread out like a plague front edging the barren wasteland in their wake, he had a bad feeling his ammunition would be gone well before he had cleared his sector.

He squeezed shut his eyes, and ignored the flame and death, and the rising threat of the Lost American Diablo interceptors. Remember your training, and you will come back alive. So he did.

FleetNet managed to not be surprised at the appearance of the Enemy's fightercraft, but it was surprised by their strength and their head on engagement tactics.

Up and over the mountains was scarely normal for them. They much preferred screaming down like monsters from outer space, and it had confidently predicted more of the same.

So its scanners, and those of its strike craft, were oriented in completely the wrong direction. Fortunately, there was enough time to save some.

But not all. By far, not all.

Of course, the Enemy's change in tactics even in the fighters coming from the expected direction was disturbing, or would have been, if FleetNet retained its emotion.

It did not, and so sent the most logical order.

The Ground Force could be replaced, and even without its artillery, could still bury the Enemy under its own bodies. The Strike craft could not be replaced so easily, and so, they converged on the Enemy formation which tore into their midst.

Combat Front Number Two, Commonwealth of Peitha, FSP

Corporal Roberts hissed angrily as yet another one of the tanks in her platoon blew apart. She was second in command now, which might have excited her under other circumstances. But the Second Section’s Sergeant that was in charge, as that many other members of the chain of command had been knocked out in the last three minutes, either dead or without communications.

But Natalie had started the day as the most junior non-commissioned officer in the platoon. Now she was the tactical executive officer. It was not a promotion she had craved, or, at least, not in this manner.

Only four of the fifteen tanks the platoon had started with were still in action as well, which helped to explain her rapid promotion. Two of the heavy Patriots still ground forward, the two Marauders clinging to their flanks like limpets, knowing that perhaps they could keep the main battle tanks alive a second longer by their own deaths as they went forth into the inferno of combat, a seeking a goal which only would result in an eternity of torment, as the seconds grew infinitely long…

There was no time, but yet, they had all the time in the world. The four tanks formed a battered spearhead before a number of infantry fighting vehicles and lighter craft, and Natalie wondered why they were being spent so stupidly in this foolish, headlong assault into the enemy lines.

But she was soldier, and soldiers follow orders. And so, she assumed that she would find out in time, and that the people in Central Command knew what they were doing.

Central Command, Under Purple Mountain, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

Marshal Tenai knew exactly what he was doing. He was killing them. No, not the enemy, but the people, the men, women, and other sentients who had trusted him to get it right. And he had not.

That was what his heart screamed at him. Pull back, disengage. Its not worth it. But his head told him otherwise. It was working. The Lost American forces were completely engaged, and as much of their heavy artillery seemed to be destroyed as was going to be.

And the bloodbath was intensifying even as he watched the massive holographic screen which covered one wall of the main chamber. Even as vast as that display was, of course, it could not display his individual units, but it could display squadrons and platoons. And far too many of the green icons had winked out in the four minutes since the operation had begun.

But his head also told him it was going to be bad. Murphy, apparently given form in the Lost Americans FleetNet, had taken control of Tenai’s careful plan just as surely as he had in every other. Silent commands drifted out of Central Command, immortalization of Tenai’s thoughts in communications. The hovering and strafing fighters from the space force were given orders to pursue the newly diving enemy craft. They had to keep the fighter odds in their favor, and simply put, when it came to killing other fighters, the Lost Americans Diablo was simply a better ship.

Tenai watched as the Space Navy’s fighters dived after their enemies, and sighed in relief as they began to fire. Twenty more seconds, and we’ll find out if this worked. If it was worth it.

Tenai readied both orders in his mind, ready to give either the order to pull back or the order to advance on both Combat Fronts.

Combat Front Number Two, Commonwealth of Peitha, FSP

Cursing, Captain McKinley yanked her fighter around in a hard spiral to port as her wingman vanished in a ball of flame and she felt in the back of her mind the small rounds of her rear point defense turret blazing away in a desperate attempt to blow apart all the missiles on her tail. The dogfight was enormous, nearly two thousand aircraft swirling about in the atmosphere, and that was just here. Over Combat Front Number One, the Captain knew, the same scene was being replayed.

But it was required. The enemy fighters could not be given a chance to engage the surprise which was in store for them. Missiles and gunfire tore up the sky until it gleamed a yellow and orange between the pales of black smoke which were beginning to fill the atmosphere like a thunderstorm.

Which, unfortunately, was precisely what was happening. That many drive fields created so much ionized atmosphere that lightning was going to soon become a serious distraction.

McKinley snapped off a shot from her forward cannons, and smiled tightly as the fire tore through an American drive field and shredded the fighter that was generating.

Descending over Combat Front Number Two, Commonwealth of Peitha, FSP

Flight Officer Ryan pushed his fighter harder, feeling the drive field straining as it bulled the atmosphere out of the way, He lined up slowly on the escaping fighter, and pulled the trigger. Half his missile armament ripped away, soaring downward at an unbelievable velocity.

It was then that the first flash filled the sky, and in horror as his vision cleared, Ryan thought that the Lost Americans had used another nuke in the combat, but as the light faded, he saw he was wrong. The computer answered his silent question.

Lightning, caused by the massive ionization of the atmosphere from all the fighters, interceptors, and fighter-bombers flitting back and forth. It was a truly disturbing phenomenon, as just then, the sky shattered with a role of thunder greater than Gregory had ever heard, much less conceived of.

The American Diablo he had fired at exploded and Flight Officer Gregory Ryan continued his predatory swoop in search of fresh prey.

Bridge, S.P.A.C.V. Cougar, Combat Front Number Two, Commonwealth of Peitha, FSP

Linda Zerfoss, Commanding Officer, S.P.A.C.V. Cougar, and Commanding Officer, Second Air Combat Squadron, watched the ticking timer as she shuddered with each change in the tactical repeater plot.

She could hear the combat chatter, could hear the voices cut off in mid speech, dying in bursts of static which echoed their burst of flame, shooting through the sky. She swallowed slightly and bit her lip to keep from going early. “Squadron Orders,” she spoke clearly after ten more seconds, “First salvo is to be targeted on enemy fighters. Second salvo is to target any heavy artillery or air defenses the American ground forces still possess. Then the main ground formations can be engaged freely. Make sure to keep those salvos tight.

The timer kept ticking, of course, steadily downwards. She spoke once more. “Jack-in-the-Box in five… four… three… two… one… NOW!”

The hum of the bumblebee drive turned into the scream of a mountain lion as it went to full emergency power, and the twelve vessels rose from their hiding places, scanners already seeking their second set of targets. The first was well locked in already through TacNet.

It took half a second for the engagement horizon to clear once the drives went to full power, and another third of a second for weapons to lock on. For the last half second before firing, the air combat vehicles were detectable to the Lost American forces, but, by then, it was already too late.

For the first salvo, the formation was built around the six Dragon-class defense ACVs the squadron possessed, which unleashed a torrent of missiles into the air, the air-to-air missiles roaring outward. In ten seconds, the hundred and five meter craft could put fifteen hundred missiles in the air. Six of them could pump out nine thousand. Of course, this rate of fire would drain them too fast to be effective in the coming lengthy engagement.

But in that single salvo, from all twelve ships, twelve hundred anti-fighter weapons blazed into existence, seeking to wipe the enemy from the sky in a single assault.

Then it was the Tiger’s turn. There were only two of them in the squadron, but they were the largest, heaviest ACVs. And linear acceleration weapons spoke repeatedly, their rounds smashing into the ground less than a kilometer below, far heavier and more powerful than the more numerous light strafing weapons the fighters had used earlier.

Then the next second on the chronometer ticked by, and the Dragon’s completed their role, bringing their main batteries to bear on a new target. More missiles shattered the tormented sky as weapons far more powerful than could be mounted on a ground vehicle began tearing up the lands which had once been such fertile rain forest.

That was when FleetNet was surprised. Completely. The existence of the new ships (was that even the right term? were they gravships? what were they?) was a complete unknown. There were no countermeasures, no ideas.

And so, FleetNet felt itself dying, as unit after unit was blown apart by the coordinated salvos of both the attacking squadrons. FleetNet had further problems, of course, besides poor tactics and unswerving command over all units.

It lacked Creativity. Vengeance was all it could know, did know. And so it engaged, suddenly the enemy’s tactics making perfect sense. But the battle was lost. Possibly the war.

But FleetNet knew when to disengage for tactical advantage, or even strategic advantage. And so it did, sending an order to pull back across the entire front. Perhaps the Ground Force could retreat fast enough to escape the new horrors.

There was no longer any air cover to worry about it making it. FleetNet, and so, the Lost Americans Military Forces, ran like a beaten dog.

Bridge, S.P.A.C.V. Cougar, Combat Front Number Two, Commonwealth of Peitha, FSP

Linda Zerfoss smiled as she saw the Lost Americans forces pulling back on her combat display and the echoes of the firepower which had creased the land through her ship’s sensors, flitting about in her head over her implant links. “Take the squadron to ten kilometers altitude, and continue the bombardment at two salvos per minute. Just enough to make them think we’re still after them.”

The Air Combat Squadrons were too valuable to risk with continued close engagement, but they needed to have the enemy continue to withdraw for the plan to work. They had to, if nothing else, get more breathing room for the Peithan Capital of Cornith.

Central Command, Under Purple Mountain, FSP

Field Marshal Tenai sighed as it worked, and felt satisfaction at success, and keyed in his microphone, letting him give his orders, which would be translated directly into the proper orders needed for the individual units which were engaging the enemy.

“Cease close combat. All Ground Units are to reform and initiate Battle Plan Harried Pursuit to the best of their ability. Fighter wings are to withdraw in stages to rearm. Four squadrons are to remain on station as escorts for each of the Air Combat Squadrons. And get me the Imperial President on the comm.”

Watching in silence, Tenai watched as the gleaming green icons of his own units began to pull back, before a hologram appeared nearby. “You have a report, Field Marshal?”

“Yes, Mister President. I beg to report that the operation has been a success, though our losses in ground forces are higher than expected, appearing to approach twenty-five percent.”

D’ron’s face paled. “And in other units?”

“Not abnormal losses, though the operation is not officially completed yet. Estimates of Lost American losses range at approximately thirty-five percent.” That meant that the Confederacy has lost nearly three times as many troops as the Federation had. “Sir, I request permission to initiate Battle Plan Neptune Rising.”

D’ron smiled wanly. “No wonder you wanted to talk to me. Prediction of loss?”

Tenai smiled. “Ninety to total. But I can’t imagine they’re going to surrender, or that my people would feel particularly inclined to accept it.”

D’ron nodded. “Very well, Neptune Rising authorized. One other question. What is the status of Wargame Foxtrot-Cain-Romeo?”

“We would need at least three years to reach the required troop strength in the Ground Force, assuming we began redirecting away from the Space Navy.”

“I was afraid of that. Very well, Adian. Carry on.” The hologram winked out.

“All Unit Orders. Authorization Code Alpha Tango Foxtrot Foxtrot One Five Three Zero. Initiate Battle Plan Neptune Rising, progression north.”

It was done. The invasion would end now, though Tenai hated to do this. It would be years before the land had a chance to recover, and the glassed over rainforest would never ever be the same again.

The Fleet was finished, the Ground Force was ruined. FleetNet knew this from the moment the second wave of missiles shattered the ground before the Ground Force. The Enemy had finally decided that it was worth whatever loss it expunge the Ground Force from its Land Which Must Be Defended, and was now paying that price.

When the Enemy had pulled his new units up and away, when his ground units had slowed their pursuit, FleetNet had known these to be good things, but instead, it appeared to have been, not giving up, but preparation for a far worse strike to come. Never in its history had the Enemy committed to a full scale strategic strike on territory it wished to control.

The missiles continued to stream down, the scythe of Death reaching out in a rain of iron, tearing up the land and shattering stone, turning impact craters into glass carved bowls. And the Ground Force, whose tactical retreat had slowed with the pursuit, burst into motion at FleetNet’s orders once more. But it was too little, too late. The storm front caught them, passed over them, swallowed them hole and spit their finely sifted remains out on a boiling wind. The earth quaked at the repeated, steady impacts, and then as Death reached ever northward, the seas began to boil.

The Ground Force, that bit of it not claimed instantly by the rain of heavenly fire, was caught in the upheavals of the land which it had come to destroy, and the Fleet, was caught in waves of destruction, turning the seabed beneath grey with steel.

Death walked freely, and Vengeance was a lost dream. For now.