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President Sam Wychin looked outside the window of the small helicopter he was flying. The terrain of southwest Texas wasn't all that different from back before the war - it was still divided into square blocks, with the occasional building sticking out of the ground. He mentally reviewed the reports received from San Antonio. City under control... enemy exterminated. Minimum casualties... one from the C4, a 'John Milner'.
"Sir, you may want to buckle up." The pilot talked through the comlink. "We're going in for the landing."
"I am buckled up, pilot..." Wychin replied tersely.
The helicopter slowly descended towards the helipad, next to a dropship. Almost immediately, Wychin slid open the door, clicked his seat belt open, and stepped out, giving the pilot a quick salute.
"Welcome to Nowhere, sir." an officer of some sort saluted.
---The briefing room wasn't much to look at - it wasn't equipped with one of those fancy new holographic displays, so Wychin had to make do with a 2d map of Texas mounted on a wall.
"All right people. I'm sure you've all heard by now that the Snakeheads in San Antonio are all gone. Well, it's not over yet. And I doubt it'll be over in any of our lifetimes. Currently, intel has been tracking UFO's popping in and out, snooping on our combat units. I've directed a squadron of F-23 Black Widow fighters on standby... if they see any aliens, they'll blast 'em out of the sky. After they do, we go in, we find out who's flying those pieces of alien shit, and we find out where they're coming from. We don't really need prisoners to do that - we could just take a peek at their nav systems." Wychin paused and grinned. "But prisoners are always more fun. Any questions?"
Nobody moved. "Good. You people are carrying on a proud tradition here... the C4 has been active since the Great War - so the pressure cooker's on, and the heat's been turned up."
"One more thing. I've been hearing things about people not following the drill..." Wychin gave Private Jorgenson a meaningful look. "The drill is everything. You don't follow it, you'll die, one way or the other." Wychin paused for a second. "I'll be coming along with you guys on this one. See how all you guys work. Also, I'll be reinforcing this unit's strength in a short while. Dismissed!"
---Alpha flight. Four F-23 Black Widow air superiority fighters.
"This is alpha three to alpha leader... I've got a bogey on radar, closing
in at sixty clicks, vector one-four-niner. You readin' anything?"
"Roger that, three. Alpha flight, close in to weapons range and fire at
will."
"Icy, my man. Icy."
"Range, fifty-two clicks. Forty-nine."
"Alpha two and four, drop your socks and afterburn to twenty clicks. Now."
Afterburners engaged, the fighters steak forward.
"Roger that, Leader."
"Affirmative. Time to bag me some alien freaks."
"Range, twenty two. Whoa, watch it Alpha flight, we got ourselves a frisky
little alien... firing plasma bolts."
Plasma bolts shoot by, missing the aircraft.
"Hahahah! This bastard couldn't hit the broad side of an aircraft carrier!"
"Fire!"
The 'Widows fire a salvo of missiles and lasers.
"Whoo! Eat that, you alien motherfucker! You like that, huh? Want some more?
How about some of this?!?"
The alien ship buckles under the impact, its shots going astray.
"Aww yeah! Sit the fuck down, bitch!"
The alien ship goes down, trailing smoke and flames.
"This is alpha leader to Nowhere, we just bagged ourselves an alien ship...
look like an x-shape, didn't hit us at all. Shot 'im down in grid nine-four-one."
"This is Nowhere, acknowledged. Scrambling dropship. Stay on station, Alpha
flight, I read you still got an hour's fuel left. Beta will be on station in
approximately twenty minutes. Nowhere out."
The 'Widows continue to circle around.
Written on May 11th, 2000 by Andrew Pokrovski AKA President Sam Wychin