Summoning America

Author’s Note:
I will be taking a two-week break from Summoning America, now that I’ve reached the 200 chapter mark. I’ve made an announcement on Discord but I’ll post it here as well.

To start, it’s a big thank you to my Patrons.

 

I’ve got a new Tier coming out sometime in September or October, where I’ll be releasing chapters for my new book before the book itself is released on royalroad. Tier 3 patrons and higher will get this benefit integrated. 

 

I’m also planning a free upgrade for Tier 4 Patrons, specifically when it comes to Manifest Fantasy. Starting sometime next month, you’ll be able to read 2 chapters (4 weeks) ahead on MF. I’ll create another announcement when this is ready.

 

– –

 

"Shift your arse, Mercer. Time to scarper, ‘fore his mates start looking." 

 

Ashcroft shoved the handset to Mercer, watching the lad fumble the radio into his pack. Pivoting on his heel, he brought his M4 to bear on the fallen GVE officer. The poor bastard’s eyes stared up, beginning to glass over but still blinking, moving ever so slightly. A dark pool spread beneath him, staining the floor.

 

Ashcroft’s hand went to the combat dagger at his belt. Bugger all, why'd the bastard have to walk in? Could've been in and out, clean as you please. But no, now it's blade work. He knelt beside the body, knee squelching in cooling blood. He grimaced at the feel of it. Never mind that; he needed to focus.

 

Left hand over the mouth - force of habit, that. Knife reversed, angled just so. There's the spot, base of the skull. Quick and quiet, like they'd drilled a hundred times. Slide in. Slight resistance, then nothing. Hold. One, two, three. Out.

 

Job done. He wiped the blade on the dark uniform. The iron stench of blood filled his nostrils. He put the knife away. Right. Time to scarper.

 

The morning air hit him like a slap, crisp and sharp after the stuffy comms room. Ashcroft blinked in the grey light. It was hard to believe that they’d been in that building for no more than a few minutes.

 

He scanned the compound, taking it all in. Skeletal buildings to the left – abandoned construction projects that the Valkies were just now taking over. Risky cover, that. To the right, piles of supplies and equipment scattered about like a giant's toy box. Vehicles dotted the space between. Good cover, those, if he didn't mind the risk of some clever bugger starting one up while he was hiding behind it.

 

A flash lit up the sky to the east, followed by a boom that rattled Ashcroft's teeth. Must be more of Beaumont’s work. Shouts cut through the air, yammering on about losing a Wilder. Ashcroft smiled. He had no clue how the bastard managed to do that, but it was absolutely fucking brilliant. Give Beaumont a few firecrackers and a match, he'd bring down the whole bloody empire – starting with their heavy tanks.

 

More shouts followed, a right cacophony of panic. Boots on gravel, orders being barked. Sounded like what, three squads? Four? How many more of the bastards were out there? They’d counted three squads on patrol earlier, but now it was looking like their estimates were off by a proper margin. Must be at least eight in total, including those that had already gone to investigate the blasts.

 

He waited for them to pass. They'd be converging on Beaumont's distraction now, no doubt. But for how long? Five minutes? Ten, if the gods were feeling generous? Not nearly long enough, that was certain. And when they twigged it was a diversion... well, best not to dwell on that. Enough problems at hand without borrowing more.

 

Finally, the voices and footsteps receded. He tapped Mercer's shoulder twice. Best put some distance between them and that cooling corpse before some clever sod thought to check the comms building.

 

They dashed from the building to an empty shed. Seemed like it’d be smooth sailing from here on out, with most of the Valkies flocking like moths to Beaumont’s flame. Couldn’t let their guard down, though. Shadows stretched long in the early light, perfect hiding spots for a vigilant sentry. Or an ambush.

 

The M4 in his hands was reassuring, at the least. Yanks knew their business when it came to firearms, he'd give them that. This beauty could outshoot any Valkie rifle, and the body armor they'd been issued could stop most of what the enemy was likely to throw at them. Small comfort, that. If they were spotted now though, all the American kit in the world wouldn't save them from being swarmed.

 

Ashcroft gritted his teeth. Stealth was the game now, much as he hated it. One shot, one shout, and the whole bloody op would go tits up. They'd be dead or worse, but at least they’d got the message through.

 

Another explosion rocked the compound. Closer this time. In its brief, hellish light, Ashcroft spotted their goal. The construction site, and beyond it, the fence. Freedom. Or a bullet in the back, if they weren't careful. How many men would the Valkies have on the perimeter? Two? Four? A whole bloody platoon?

 

They reached the half-built structure, the scent of fresh-turned earth and wet concrete filling Ashcroft's nostrils. The fence stood out against the lightening sky, and his eyes found the gap they'd cut earlier. The quiet set his nerves on edge. Looks like the Valkies hadn’t found the breach.

 

Just then, he heard a sharp crack and a whizz as something zipped past his ear. Bollocks, was that a bullet? As if to confirm, the air erupted with the rattling of automatic fire – submachine guns. Bullets peppered the ground around them, kicking up dirt and ricocheting off nearby equipment.

 

"Down!" Ashcroft roared, shoving Mercer towards a half-finished concrete pillar. They dove behind it just as another burst of gunfire chewed up the spot where they'd been standing.

 

Pressed against the rough concrete, heart pounding, Ashcroft risked a glance around the edge. Four Gra Valkan soldiers advancing towards them, weapons blazing. They moved in a staggered formation, two providing covering fire while the others rushed forward. Textbook stuff, that.

 

Ashcroft groaned as he peeked around the corner to lay down some fire. Just his bloody luck. They must've circled back from Beaumont's distraction, probably to sweep the perimeter. Clever bastards.

 

Fuck, the fence gap was right there, but it was too small for a quick exit. They’d be sitting ducks trying to squeeze through. No choice but to engage.

 

Ashcroft's fingers tightened on the M4's grip. The closest Valkie was gawping at him like he'd sprouted a second head. Poor sod probably thought he'd had the drop on them. Ashcroft almost felt bad as he squeezed the trigger. Almost.

 

The M4 juddered, its rapport drowning out the Valkie's startled yelp. He went down in a tangle of limbs, rifle clattering away uselessly. The others reacted quick, diving for whatever cover they could find. But not quick enough. Ashcroft caught another with a lucky shot, the bloke's leg folding under him mid-stride.

 

"Mercer!" Ashcroft bellowed, already moving. "Make those bastards keep their heads down!"

He didn't wait for an acknowledgment. Mercer was a good lad; he'd cotton on quick enough. Sure enough, the air filled with the clatter of Mercer's rifle, interspersed with the cracks of the enemy returning fire.

 

Ashcroft pelted for the fence, boots slipping on the loose gravel. His breath came in ragged gasps, lungs burning. Getting too old for this lark, he thought grimly. The gap in the fence loomed before him, mocking in its inadequacy. He yanked the wire cutters from his belt, hands slick with sweat.

 

The remaining Valkies were pinned down, but Ashcroft knew it wouldn't last. Mercer was good, but it was only a matter of time before more Valkies showed up to the party. Ashcroft's hands shook as he worked the cutters, widening the gap inch by agonizing inch.

 

A bullet pinged off the fence post, showering him with paint chips. "Come on, you sodding thing," Ashcroft growled, muscles straining. Another round whizzed past, close enough to ruffle his hair. Then, a snap. The wire finally gave way, the gap now wide enough for a man to slip through quickly.

 

"Mercer!" Ashcroft bellowed holding the cut section open. "Move!"

 

Mercer didn't need telling twice. He scrambled from his position, half-running, half-crawling towards Ashcroft. Bullets kicked up dirt at his heels, but the lad kept moving.

 

Ashcroft provided covering fire. The two remaining Valkies kept their heads down, but he could hear shouts in the distance. Reinforcements. Brilliant.

 

As Mercer reached him, Ashcroft gave him a rough shove towards the opening. "Through! Now!"

 

Mercer dropped to his belly and squirmed through the gap. Ashcroft followed, the wire catching and tearing at his uniform. He ignored the sting, focusing on the open ground beyond.

 

They were halfway across the clearing when the air erupted with gunfire behind them. Ashcroft risked a glance back. At least a dozen Valkies were pouring out of the compound, weapons blazing.

 

Then, a different sound cut through the racket. Sharp crack, like someone snapping a bloody great tree branch. Ashcroft's eyes found the source quick enough - a Valkie dropping like a sack of spuds, rifle clattering away. Another crack, another Valkie down. Thornton, that beautiful bastard.

 

The Valkies didn't much like that, did they? Whole lot of them scattering like startled pigeons, diving behind whatever cover they could find. Still, their panic was Ashcroft's gain.

 

"Keep moving!" he hissed at Mercer.

 

Covered by the thunderclaps of Thornton’s marksmanship, they plunged into the undergrowth. Safe, for now. As they linked up with Beaumont and Sylvail, a new sound reached Ashcroft’s ears: a deep thumping, a bunch of them grouped together.

 

Weren't field guns, that. Too bloody big. Had to be those long-range bastards. Had to be those Valkie long-range jobs. What'd they call 'em? Didn't matter. Sounded like the kind of thing that could turn a man inside out from miles off.

 

Ashcroft grinned at his demolitions expert. Looks like the outpost commander had his knickers in a right twist, calling in the big guns on Beaumont's little fireworks show. Poor sod probably thought he was under a full-scale assault.

 

Another shell whistled past, then another. The eastern horizon erupted in a series of fireballs, each one painting the sky in shades of orange and red.

 

"Bleedin' 'ell," Mercer gasped. "That's comin' from their side, innit? Looks like they’re blowin’ up their own position!"

 

Ashcroft shook his head, a grim smile on his face. "Nah, lad. They're aiming for Beaumont's little surprise party. Reckon they think they're under proper attack."

 

The irony wasn't lost on him. The Valkies were busy shelling a threat that didn't exist, while the real infiltrators slipped away under their noses.

 

"Come on," Ashcroft said, tugging at Mercer's sleeve. "Let's not stick around to see if they wise up and start looking this way."

 

They pushed deeper into the forest, the sounds of artillery fire gradually fading behind them. The lads were holding up well, all things considered. Even Beaumont, who'd caught a bit of shrapnel in the leg during his distraction, was keeping pace.

 

The forest was getting lighter, the sun making its way up. Made things easier to see, but also easier to be seen. Ashcroft didn't like it one bit. They'd been lucky so far, but luck had a nasty habit of running out at the worst possible moment.

 

After about twenty minutes of hard marching, Ashcroft held up a fist, bringing the team to a halt. Ahead, the dense forest thinned out, giving way to a wide clearing. Bollocks. He'd hoped to avoid open ground, but it seemed the gods weren't feeling particularly generous today.

 

"Right, you lot," he muttered, keeping his voice low. "We've got about 200 meters of bugger all between us and more trees. After that, it's another ten klicks to base.

 

Thornton sidled up next to him, that ridiculous rifle of his cradled like a baby. "Bit dicey, aye, sir? If the Valkies've got any birds up there..."

 

"Aye, we'd be proper fucked," Ashcroft nodded. "But unless you've got a pair of wings hidden under that gear, we don't have much choice."

 

Thornton chuckled. "Hah, if Ah'd had even a smidgen o' the abilities o' those winged bastards doon south, Ah wouldn’t be here on the front lines. Ah’d’ve gone straight for the bastard Marix."

 

He gave the sky a once-over, looking for any sign of Valkie eyes in the sky. The dawn was painting everything in shades of pink and orange. Pretty, if you weren't in the middle of enemy territory with your arse hanging out. That's when he spotted them - dark specks against the lightening sky, moving in a tight group.

 

"Bloody hell," Ashcroft muttered. "Lads, we've got company."

 

The team's heads snapped up, following his gaze. Ashcroft counted quickly. Two dozen at least, maybe more. Big bastards, by the look of it. Probably those Guti Maun jobs the Valkies were so proud of.

 

His gut clenched. If those planes were headed where he thought they were…

 

"Sir," Thornton's voice was low, urgent. "D'ye reckon they're after Chauvert?"

 

He remembered that air support was supposed to arrive in 90 minutes, but he hadn’t kept proper track of time. For all he knew, it could be an hour until the Yanks got here, and that was an hour Chauvert Ridge did not have. Fuck, that meant they’d need to take the northwestern route, past Chauvert until they reached friendly lines – on foot. And if those bombers got through, that meant a big push was coming and they’d have an entire bloody army chasing them through No Man’s Land.

 

Even despite that, they still had more pressing matters. Ashcroft nodded grimly. "Aye, looks that way. And you can bet your last crown they're not up there alone."

 

They melted into the underbrush. Sure enough, a group of escorts flew over – high enough that they likely couldn’t spot his team, but low enough to give cause of concern. 

 

Minutes crawled by. The drone of engines grew louder, then started to fade. Ashcroft dared to hope they might've gotten lucky.

 

Then, something odd happened. The escorts suddenly went mad. Like a bunch of startled pigeons, they scattered every which way, climbing and moving past the bombers like the devil himself was on their tails.

 

"What in the name of-" Mercer started, but Ashcroft held up a hand.

 

"Thornton. Binoculars." He didn't take his eyes off the sky as Thornton passed over his scope.

Three flashes lit up the sky, bright as day, way above where the bombers were lumbering along. The escorts kept climbing, looking for all the world like they were trying to reach the bloody moon.

 

Ashcroft squinted hard, trying to suss out what had the fighters' knickers in a twist. But there was fuck all up there, just empty sky. Still, those escorts were dancing about like they'd stepped on a hornets' nest.

 

"Ach, crivvens, sir," Thornton muttered, "them escorts look fair panicky."

 

"Aye," Ashcroft grunted. "And whatever's got 'em spooked is about to-"

 

He didn't get to finish. Two of the big bastards started tumbling, trailing smoke thick as tar. It was like someone had reached down from the heavens and swatted them right out of the sky.

 

"Sor," Mercer's voice was hesitant – awed, even, from the sounds of it. "You don't think... could it be our lot up there?"

 

Marins were good – the latest variants even better, but not that good. It could only mean one thing. "Yanks," Ashcroft breathed, a disbelieving grin spreading across his face. "Bloody Yanks."

 

Another bomber went down, no rhyme or reason to it. Just there one second, burning the next. The whole Valkie lot was falling apart now, scattering like rats from a sinking ship. Their fancy escorts? Nowhere to be seen. Probably pissed off at the first sign of trouble, the cowardly bastards.

 

"Fuck me sideways," Beaumont sighed in relief, shifting his gammy leg. "Them Yanks don't half know how to crash a party."

 

Ashcroft grunted in agreement. Part of him wanted to stay and watch the show, but the smarter part knew they couldn't afford to linger.

 

"Right, you muppets," he barked, tearing his eyes away from the sky. "While the Valkies are busy shitting themselves up there, we've got a job to finish. On your feet. We're legging it across that clearing now, before some clever sod remembers to look down."

 

As he hauled Beaumont up, Ashcroft felt something he hadn't in a long while: hope. Finally, the Yanks had arrived to turn this shitshow around. But first things first. They had to get their arses home in one piece to spill the beans.

 

"Come on, lads," he growled, leading them towards the open ground. "There’ll be more shows to come."