Summoning America

Blackwood's eyes watered as another gust of smoke-laden wind hit him. Damn Gra Valkans and their punctuality. He blinked hard, refocusing on the horizon. Where were they?

 

There. Dark specks growing larger by the second. His stomach clenched. At least two dozen of the bastards this time.

 

"Corporal!" he snapped, not taking his eyes off the approaching bombers. "Sound the alarm."

 

Footsteps pounded away. Blackwood forced himself to take a deep breath. Third run today. At this rate, they'd be defending a bloody crater by nightfall.

 

The siren's wail set his teeth on edge. Time to get below. He turned towards the command bunker, legs heavy with each step. The urge to run clawed at him, but he quashed it. His men needed to see him calm. In control.

 

The first explosion nearly knocked him off his feet. He grabbed the bunker's doorframe, steadying himself. Hells, they were getting closer. One last glance over his shoulder. Flames blossomed across the ridge, spreading like a damned infection.

 

"Persistent buggers," he muttered, ducking into the bunker.

 

The relative quiet inside was almost worse than the chaos above. Stale air thick with tension. Lt. Marceau's face was ghostly in the dim emergency lighting.

 

"Status report," Blackwood barked, striding to the map table. Its surface was a mess of markers, half of them useless now. That last hit had taken out their fancy American radar. Blind as newborn kittens, they were.

 

"Sir," Marceau started, voice steady despite the shadows under his eyes. "Eastern sector's down to 30% strength. We've lost most of our anti-aircraft guns there."

 

Blackwood grunted. No surprise there. "Western sector?"

 

"Holding, sir, but—"

 

The bunker shook violently. Dust rained down, coating everything in a fine, chalky layer. Someone swore loudly.

 

"But not for long," Marceau finished grimly.

 

Blackwood nodded, mind racing. They needed more men, more guns, more of everything. And soon. He'd told command they could hold out for a week. Looking at the map now, that assessment felt like a bad joke.

Another explosion rocked the bunker. Blackwood barely noticed, his ears long since numbed to the constant barrage. The tremor felt weaker than the last. Either the Gra Valkans were running low on heavy ordnance, or they were conserving it. Neither boded well.

 

He leaned over the map, squinting at the markers that wouldn't stay still. His head pounded in rhythm with the distant booms. Some pencil-pusher at HQ had christened this place Chauvert Ridge. Felt more like a damned anvil, with his men caught between hammer and steel.

 

"Colonel?" Lieutenant Marceau's voice cut through the dull roar. The lad looked like he'd been dragged through a coal mine. "Eastern sector lost another two Archer emplacements."

 

Blackwood suppressed a grimace. Those Archer emplacements, while outdated, were still their best defense against low-flying aircraft. Without them, they'd be even more vulnerable to dive bombers and strafing runs. The handful of American-supplied MANPADs gave them some edge against lower-flying threats, but against the high-altitude bombers, they were damn near helpless. Their own 3-inch and 75mm AA guns couldn't reach that high, and even the MANPADs fell short. The GVE could now attack with impunity from above, while their dive bombers picked off any remaining defenses. Holding the ridge just went from tough to nearly impossible.

 

"Sir?" Marceau's voice pulled Blackwood from his grim calculations. The lieutenant's face was ashen, likely reaching the same conclusions.

 

"I know, Marceau," Blackwood said. "We're in a tight spot."

 

That was putting it mildly. With the Archers gone, they were sitting ducks for anything that flew below 10,000 feet. And above that? Might as well be sending up prayers instead of flak.

 

The secure line crackled, cutting through his thoughts. Blackwood snatched up the receiver, pressing it tight against his ear.

 

"Chauvert Ridge Command, Blackwood here."

 

"Colonel." General Renault's voice was taut. "Priority transmission. New intel critical to your defense. Are you able to receive?"

 

New intel? Now? This had better be good. "Send it, sir."

 

"Word from the U.S. Fifth Fleet. American reinforcements are making landfall within—"

 

The world erupted. Blackwood found himself airborne for a sickening moment before crashing into the map table. Pain lanced through his side as the line went dead.

 

"General? General Renault?" Static mocked him. He slammed the receiver down. American reinforcements? Where? When? And what good were they if his men couldn't hold out against an enemy they couldn't even reach?

 

He looked up to see Marceau staring at him, eyes wide. Poor lad probably thought the colonel had finally lost his wits.

 

"Comms center's gone," Blackwood grunted, hauling himself upright. His ribs protested, but he ignored them. "Marceau, the second these bastards let up, I want a full assessment. Every gun, every trench, every poor devil still standing. And get Corville in here with the R-28."

 

"The R-28, sir? But that's—"

 

"Older than your grandmother and twice as cantankerous, I know. It's also our only hope for long-range communication now. And right now, that might be the only thing standing between us and annihilation."

 

As Marceau hurried off, Blackwood turned back to the map. All that GVE-held territory between them and friendly lines looked a damned sight more daunting now. Somehow, they had to get a message through. Somehow, they had to survive this bombardment long enough for those American reinforcements to arrive. Every minute they held out was another minute closer to potential salvation - or at least a fighting chance.

 

The bunker shuddered again. These Gra Valkan boys were persistent, he'd give them that. And now they knew they had the upper hand.

 

Corporal Lefebvre burst in, looking like he'd run a gauntlet. "Colonel! Another wave of bombers approaching from the west. They're not letting up!"

 

Blackwood felt his gut tighten. Of course they weren't. Why risk infantry when you could pound your enemy into dust from above? "Any sign of ground movement?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

 

Lefebvre shook his head. "No, sir. They seem content to let their birds do the work."

 

Blackwood nodded grimly. It was the smart play. With no air defense to speak of, the GVE could take their time, methodically destroying Muan positions from a safe distance. They'd reduce Chauvert Ridge to rubble before a single GVE infantryman set foot on it. They’d wipe them out before they even got a chance to play with the AT4s and explosives the Americans gave them.

 

"Right," Blackwood said, feeling his face contort. The proud nation of Mu, a superpower, reduced to mere survival? It was almost unthinkable, yet it was undeniable and bloody immediate – right in front of his face. "Get me a count of our remaining shelter capacity. And have Engineering report on any reinforcement we can do to our existing bunkers. We need to focus on surviving this bombardment."

 

As Lefebvre hurried off, Blackwood turned back to the map. The situation was grim, but he'd be damned if he'd just sit here and wait to be bombed into oblivion. Somehow, they had to weather this storm. Somehow, they had to hold out long enough for those American reinforcements to arrive.

 

He cast one last glance at the dead comm unit. Whatever Renault had been trying to tell him, it would have to wait. Right now, his priority was clear: keep as many of his men alive as possible and hold out long enough to get word of their situation to high command.

 

It didn’t take long for the report from Engineering to arrive. Why was their report so fast? He almost didn’t want to think about it, but the words of his men forced him to face the awful reality: 

 

"Sir, there's... there's not much left to reinforce."

 

Blackwood felt his jaw clench. Of course. What had he expected? That they'd suddenly discover a cache of American wonder-weapons buried under the ridge?

 

"Right," he managed, his voice sounding hollow even to his own ears. "What about shelter capacity?"

 

Lefebvre swallowed hard before answering. "We can fit about sixty percent of our remaining forces in the deep bunkers, sir. The rest..."

 

The rest would be left to the mercy of Gra Valkan bombs. Blackwood nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He turned back to the map, his eyes tracing the familiar contours of Chauvert Ridge. How many times had he studied this map, planning defenses, imagining glorious stands against the enemy? Now it all seemed like a child's game.

 

The bunker shook again, a fresh rain of dust and concrete chips pattering down. Blackwood found himself wondering how many more hits the command center could take. Not that it mattered much now.

 

"Sir?" Marceau's voice cut through his grim musings. "What are your orders?"

 

Orders. As if he had any real control over the situation. Well, now was a good a time as ever to put that advice to use. If the situation was as bloody unsalvageable as this, just nod your head and state the obvious.

 

"Get our remaining forces into those deep bunkers," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "Priority to skilled personnel – gunners, communications experts, medics. We'll need them if—when we weather this storm."

 

Marceau nodded, already turning to relay the orders. Blackwood stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

 

"And Marceau? See if you can round up any runners with experience in stealth ops. Preferably men who are also familiar with American equipment."

 

The lieutenant's eyes widened slightly, but he nodded without question. As he hurried off, Blackwood turned his attention to the ancient R-28 radio set up in the corner. Its dials and knobs might as well have been hieroglyphics for all the good they'd do most of his men.

 

Sergeant Corville sat at the radio, his attention fixed on the dials. He adjusted the frequency knob a hair's breadth, then paused, listening intently. After a moment, he shook his head and tried again.

 

Blackwood watched, noting the methodical approach. Whatever else had gone to hell, at least Corville knew his job.

 

"Sergeant?" Blackwood asked, approaching the workstation.

 

Corville didn't look up, his focus entirely on the task at hand. "Not good, sir. I've cycled through our frequencies twice now. Nothing but static and the occasional garbled word. Could be interference from the bombing, could be our transmitter's shot to hell. Hard to say."

 

Another explosion rocked the bunker, and Blackwood watched as a fresh layer of concrete dust settled over the radio's exposed inner workings. Corville muttered a curse, trying to shield the delicate components.

 

"That's not helping matters," Corville added, pointing to one of the vacuum tubes. Even to Blackwood's untrained eye, the hairline crack in the glass was obvious. "Every blast is making it worse. I'd give it another hour, tops, before it gives out completely."

 

"Can you repair it?" he asked, already suspecting the answer.

 

Corville shook his head. "No sir. We've no replacement tubes, and this dust..." He gestured at the radio's exposed innards. "Even if we had the parts, I doubt I could keep it clean enough to function."

 

No radio, no contact with HQ. No updates on American reinforcements. No chance of calling in support if – when – the Gra Valkans launched their ground assault.

 

Unless they could get their hands on a working radio.

 

The abandoned outpost. Miles behind enemy lines now, but if it had survived the Gra Valkan advance relatively intact... Its elevated position might just give them the reach they needed. Assuming, of course, any of its equipment was still functional.

 

A fool's errand, perhaps. But what choice did they have?

 

The bunker door creaked open. Marceau entered, followed by a group of soldiers. Five men, as he'd requested. He recognized Lieutenant Ashcroft from the signals corps, and Sergeant Thornton from recon. The others were unfamiliar - likely pulled from what remained of their scout units.

 

"Sir," Marceau announced. "I've gathered the men you requested."

 

Blackwood nodded, studying the group before him. Five volunteers for what was basically a suicide mission. The others introduced themselves: Corporal Lucien Mercer, a communications specialist; Corporal Etian Beaumont, a combat engineer, and Magus Endrus Sylvail, a battlemage from the Holy Mirishial Empire.

 

"Gentlemen," he began, "our situation is critical. All communications with HQ are severed."

 

He unrolled a map across the table. "Our objective is here, at grid 274591. Abandoned forward outpost, likely still has long-range radio capabilities."

 

Ashcroft leaned in. "That's deep in Gra Valkan territory, sir. What's our latest intel on their positions?"

 

"Limited," Blackwood said, jaw tight. "Last recon was three days ago." He marked several points on the map. "Strong presence here, here, and here." Ashcroft's eyes narrowed, taking it in. Always sharp, that one.

 

"Sir," Thornton spoke up. "How are we supposed to get through those lines?"

Blackwood nodded to Sylvail. "Magical concealment. It won't mask your thermal signatures or physical traces, but it's the best we've got."

 

"Your insertion point is the northwest tunnel exit at 268580," Blackwood continued, tracing the route. "First waypoint is here, at 270584. Dried riverbed. Good cover, but watch for loose stones. Estimate four hours to reach it."

 

"If we encounter hostiles?" Ashcroft asked.

 

"Divert east to this forest at 271585," Blackwood tapped the map. "Dense undergrowth, should provide adequate concealment."

 

They continued through each stage of the journey. Blackwood's head throbbed, but they couldn't rush this.

 

"Second waypoint," he said, "abandoned farm at 272587. Expect to reach it within six hours from the first. Beware of open ground approaching it."

 

"And if it's compromised?" Thornton asked.

 

"Use this ravine at 272588 for cover," Blackwood replied. "It'll slow you down, but it's better than exposing yourselves."

 

Ashcroft nodded. "Third waypoint?"

 

"Hilltop at 273590. Four hours from the farm. Good vantage point, but you'll be exposed. Minimal time there."

 

"Finally, the outpost itself at 274591. Two hours from the hilltop, if all goes well."

 

Ashcroft studied the route. "That's sixteen hours one-way, sir. Tight schedule."

 

“Sixteen hours,” Blackwood agreed, “Not including any obstacles you may come across.”

 

"We'll move in a modified diamond formation," Ashcroft explained to his team. "Thornton on point, Mercer and Beaumont on the flanks, Sylvail in the center. I'll take rear security."

 

Blackwood watched silently. The best of Mu, all of them. And he was sending them straight into the lion's den.

 

"Communications," he said, pushing the thought aside. "Mercer?"

 

"We'll maintain radio silence until we reach the objective, sir," Mercer replied. "Once there, we'll attempt to establish contact on these frequencies: 3720, 5100, and 6800 kilohertz. If we can't raise HQ on those channels, we'll switch to the emergency frequency, 4600 kilohertz."

 

"Use the one-time pad cipher," Blackwood said. "Authentication code is 'Echo-Tango-Seven-Nine-Three'. That'll let HQ know you're speaking with my authority. For the message itself, start with 'Blackbird' to indicate it's priority intel from Chauvert Ridge."

 

"Rules of engagement," Blackwood continued. "This is strictly recon and comms. Avoid enemy contact at all costs. If engaged, break contact immediately and proceed to the nearest rally point."

 

He indicated spots on the map. "Rally points are here, here, and here. Defensible positions with multiple escape routes."

 

"What about extraction, sir?" Beaumont asked.

 

"I hate to admit this, but we’ve nothing to offer. You’re on your own. Primary plan is to retrace your insertion route," Blackwood replied. "Alternate 1 is to move to extraction point at 275580 to link up with the eastern sector if the southeastern route is clear. Long way to circle around, but should be safe. Alternate 2, if all else fails, exfiltrate northwest to friendly lines."

 

"Time frame?" Ashcroft asked.

 

"Forty-eight hours," Blackwood said, meeting Ashcroft's eyes. "That's how long we can hold. You've got 36 to send that signal." He paused. "Questions?"

 

The men shook their heads.

 

"Gear up. You move out at 0230."

 

As the team dispersed, Blackwood pulled Ashcroft aside. "Lieutenant. There's critical information for HQ. Before we lost contact, we got a partial transmission about American reinforcements making landfall. We don't know where or when, but it could be decisive."

 

Ashcroft nodded. "Understood, sir. We'll get it through."

 

Blackwood sighed. "Good man." He hesitated. "Get your team ready."

 

Blackwood's watch read 0228 when he arrived at the tunnel entrance. Two minutes. In two minutes, he'd be sending these men into No Man's Land. Into hell. Was there even a difference?

 

"Good luck," Blackwood said gruffly. "Chauvert Ridge is counting on you."

 

Ashcroft nodded sharply. "We won't let you down, sir."

 

With a hand signal, he led his team into the tunnel. Blackwood watched until the darkness swallowed them. Then he turned back to the bunker, the vibrations of falling bombs rattling his bones. Thirty-six hours. Now all he could do was wait.