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Captain Leon McManus once again looked over the troops lined up in front of him. Recruits, destined to become Cold Force soldiers, in the service of President Wychin's brutal and oppressive regime. Most people didn't have a choice - but Leon was going to give these people a choice. He turned on his heel sharply, and faced them.
"Today, troops, I'm going to give you a choice. You can continue to serve the United Secure States of America as you have before. Or, you can join me. I can't say that my way is the easy way, nor can I say that we'll make any difference. I can't even say that it's the right way. But, I can no longer follow the current regime - because it no longer stands for what I have fought and bled for over the last thirty years." McManus paused for a second. The troopers remained at attention - no grumbling, or puzzled looks. Looks like I did a good job training them. McManus grinned inwardly. "Those that do not wish to join me, will take three days' leave. Once you return, the rest of us will be long gone. Without divulging too much, I'll say that we won't be on this continent any longer. So... " Leon eyeballed the assembled rows. "Anyone want out?"
A few troops shifted, but nobody said anything, and nobody moved.
"Well then." Leon looked surprised. "I think we can move into the briefing room."
With a salute, he began walking in a formal fashion towards the 'briefing room' - what used to be small warehouse. Immediately behind him, the 'drill sargeants' set to work. It almost seemed like a parade, with several ranks marching in an orderly fashion. Soon, everyone was settled down, onto fold-up chairs. Leon wondered for a second exactly how many times he'd seen this before - before taking the rookies out on a training op, they would all sit in here, listening to his lecture on proper infiltration techniques. He cut his own thought train short - this was no time to space out.
"All right, troops, here's the deal. We are scheduled for a live-fire excercise in the Florida wetlands - and two Air Rangers will arrive tonight to transport us and all necessary equipment there. Personally though, I swamps." McManus grinned. "I also hate Alaska, but that's another story." A few controlled chuckles. "I could actually stand a couple of days off in Europe." He looked around, seeing a few grins. "So that's where we're going to take an extended leave to. Once our planes are sufficiently far away from any air coverage, we'll change course and head east. We should hit European City-State Alliance territory about ten hours after we reach Florida - so it'll be a long flight." McManus grinned again. "Which means take a piss before boarding the planes." A few chuckles, quickly silenced by the wave of a hand. "Any questions?"
"Yes sir." A trooper stood up. "What's the European City-State Alliance, and why are we going there?"
"Oh yeah." McManus smirked. "You guys aren't supposed to know about them. To tell you the truth, I don't know much about them either, except that they're Europeans, and the President hasn't exactly been happy with them. So I figured if we're going to split, we may as well split to some place where they won't just turn us back over to this side of the Atlantic." McManus noticed a puzzled look on the trooper's face. "Oh, don't worry, Private. They've got plenty of aliens to shoot over in Europe, too."
The private nodded and sat down.
Another raised his hand. "How are we going to prevent our RADAR guys from noticing that we've gone AWOL, sir?"
"I've created a mission directive for the transports to take a run to a deep atlantic base. That'll get us at least part of the way out." McManus nodded to the trooper.
"Oh, and one more thing, troops. If we run into any of our troops on this side of the border, do not shoot until fired upon." Leon emphasized the last part. "The leadership of this country may be corrupt, but for most people, political ideology means squat. Those boys are just doing what they're told to do - it's not their fault that what they're told to do is wrong."
"Boys? What about the girls?" A female trooper near the front asked with a smirk.
McManus chuckled. "Give me a little credit here, Private. Women weren't always allowed in the military... and anyway, I'm a harmless old man, set in his ways." Suddenly, he turned completely serious. "All right, that's enough of that. Any more questions?" Complete quiet followed. "No? Good. You have about... " McManus looked at his watch. "Nineteen minutes to get your gear packed. I want full deep-incursion kit on every trooper. Now get moving!"
A loud "Sir Yes Sir!" rang out, and the warehouse emptied in moments as troopers scampered off to their barracks, under the ever-watchful eyes and mouths of their drill sargeants. Those guys already had their stuff packed, McManus thought with a chuckle. As did he. McManus slowly walked towards his own quarters, where he had packed about seventy pounds of equipment - mostly in a gigantic backpack, but also weapons, a belt stuffed with ammunition, the infamous Electro-Magnetic Combat Vest - everything a grown boy needed to survive a two-week-long trip behind enemy lines. He smiled a little as he slid two plasma pistols into their holsters - one on each side. As far as he could remember, those things had been with him since before the great war. He'd grown rather fond of this place... and though he hated to admit it, a bit guilty at betraying a country he helped build. In the end though, he still considered this just another job. But, he kept track of what was going on with ex-Cold Force members - there was rash of deaths, disappearances, and supposed betrayals of humanity plaguing a bunch of retired men in their fifties living in the middle of the USSA. He knew those guys - and most of them would rather blow their own brains out before dealing with the aliens. Since he was in the Cold Force for the better part of thirty years, it would stand to reason that he would soon be one of the ones who had betrayed the nation to the aliens, or had died of a heart attack, in a training excercise, or a lab explosion. So, McManus' survival instinct told him to get out of the country - which is exactly what he was doing.
Soon enough, the planes landed in the middle of the base, and the Cold Force trainees filed on board, heavy backpacks and all. The planes then lifted off and headed towards Florida - the pilots unaware of what was about to happen.
Three hours later, aircraft flying low over the sea, McManus decided it was time for action. Walking over to the cockpit, he calmly ordered the pilot to change course, bearing east - keeping his hand on his sidearm just in case. The pilot obeyed - and the other plane followed suit.
It was then that the comlink crackled. "This is Delta Wing to Cold Force craft. You are deviating from your flight path. What's your status, over?"
McManus hit the comlink's send button. "This is C-Four-One, we're peachy over here. No need to worry about us."
"Peachy, eh? Never heard you use that expression before, Leon." A familiar voice came over the comlink.
"Yes sir, I figured it was time to start expanding my vocabulary."
"Really. Well, why don't you resume your training excercise like a good Captain, and maybe I'll forget about those little extra orders you cooked up for the planes."
"I can't do that sir." McManus let go of the send button. "Turn south. Now." He ordered the pilot. The pilot, puzzled, did so.
"You know, Leon, if you wanted a vacation, I'd have given you one. There's some kickass skiing in the Rockies this time of year."
"I was never really into skiing, Sam."
"I suppose not. Well, the Alps aren't too bad, either. Too bad you need a visa to go there nowadays..." Sam Wychin noted.
"... and an airplane." McManus added with a chuckle.
Wychin chuckled on the other end of the line. "So where are you going now that your Europe flight's been canceled?"
"Where the wind takes us."
"Any chance for you to change your mind so me and Delta Wing don't have to turn your ass into chunky barbecue?"
"Not a snowball's chance in hell, Sam."
"Well then, it's been nice knowing you, Leon." Wychin chuckled. "Who knows, we may meet again."
"Count on it, Sam." McManus looked at the RADAR. A wing of F-23 Black Widows closing from the northeast - and USSA anti-air defenses on the west. Then, another set of blips caught his eye. A group of alien ships, from the south. He caught the pilot's arm as he reached for his sidearm. "Uh-uh." Was all he said as he, in one fluid motion, unbuckled the pilot and threw the man backwards into the cabin, divesting him of his pistol. In the cabin, an attentive trooper clubbed the pilot over the head, hauling the unconscious body to an extra seat and strapping him in. McManus then quickly strapped himself into the pilot's seat and took the controls, trying to recall exactly how to fly the plane...
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President Sam Wychin shifted in the cockpit of his F-23. Time to target: Six minutes read a little display on his dashboard. Ground control had just informed him of a flight group of small-sized alien ships heading north. As he watched the RADAR display, he noticed that McManus' flight group was heading towards the aliens. No matter. We'll kill all of them. Sam thought to himself. He grinned - it had been a while since he'd been in actual combat. Sure, this wasn't the up close and personal ground combat he was used to, but he jumped at every chance he got. The role of a desk jockey never really seemed to fit the man who was once captain of his own Delta Force unit.
"I won't send one of my troops to do something I'm not willing to do myself." He echoed almost silently. It was something he had said many decades ago. Back when things were simpler, when he wasn't responsible for the lives of hundreds of millions of people. And over the years, he'd stuck to it. Maybe I'm getting paranoid in my old age. He thought to himself. He'd never really thought about what would happen after his time of leadership came to an end. And now, certainly, was not the time, he scolded himself as he noticed that the timer now read two minutes to target.
"All right, Delta, drop your socks and grab your throttle. Primary targets are the dropships, but don't ignore the aliens. If they get in your way, take them out." Wychin flipped the switches which armed his long-range missiles and warmed up his craft's vulcan cannon. "Sound off, Delta wing."
"Delta two, weapons armed, sir."
"Delta three, weapons armed and ready to rock, sir."
"Delta four, ready to kick ass and take names, sir."
"Delta five, locked and loaded, sir."
"Delta six, we're good to go, sir."
"Right. Pick your targets and engage. Go, go, go!" Sam locked a long-range missile onto one of the transports and fired. As expected, the transport swerved to the side and released countermeasures, causing the missile to explode harmlessly. However, this gave Sam time to close in to cannon range using his afterburner and open fire. The transport twisted this way and that, and only caught a few rounds in the fuselage, not enough to do any real damage. Sam cursed as he flew by, and prepared to turn around to make another attack run. It was at this point that the combat became a mess, as the alien ships entered within range and began firing their plasma weapons indiscriminately at the human vehicles. Sam's craft buckled as a shot brushed the top of a wing. Pulling up sharply, he took stock of the situation. Two of his fighters had teamed up on one of the aliens, one dodging plasma shots, the other scoring multiple hits on the alien, causing the saucer to go into an uncontrolled spin, much like a centrifuge. A second saucer was on his tail, and two more engaged the rest of Delta wing.
"This is Delta leader, I need a little help up here!" Sam spoke into the comlink, dodging another plasma shot.
"This is Delta Four, roger that, Delta leader. Turn bearing 1-4-2, I'm coming right at you."
"Affirmative." Sam turned towards the appropriate bearing, and then immediately dove to avoid an incoming rocket salvo. Behind him, there was an explosion, and the familiar sound of an alien anti-gravity drive malfunctioning. Pulling up a scant hundred feet above the ocean surface, Sam quickly targeted another saucer, firing several short-range missiles, which impacted. The UFO turned its plasma cannon on him with a flurry of neon green, but he quickly banked to the side, and delivered a strafing run to the saucer's flank, grinning in satisfaction as nearly a quarter of the alien ship broke off and fell towards the Atlantic.
"This is Delta six, I've got more aliens than I can shake a stick at, over here! I need backup now!"
Sam turned his craft around, and saw the pair of UFO's pursuing a desperately dodging fighter in the distance. Locking on long-range missiles, he fired off two. At the last minute, the alien ship changed direction, causing the missiles to fly past it, and start turning in an attempt to reacquire their target. Sam turned his vulcan cannon on the craft, peppering it with high-caliber ammunition. The armor held for a second or two, but then something exploded inside, sending shrapnel flying everywhere, forcing Sam to bank aside to avoid being shredded. Quickly, he looked on as the last UFO was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of missiles - dodging one or two but then being pummeled by another three, and exploding in midair. Sam checked his RADAR. There were only five blips.
"Delta wing, get in formation and report." Sam called out.
"Delta two, a little low on ammo."
"Delta three, A-OK."
"Delta four, minor damage."
"Delta five, no damage, almost out of ammo."
"Delta six, a little banged up, but I'll make it."
"Sir, should we head south? We could probably find those dropships if we did."
"Nah." Wychin sighed. "Let them go. We're done for the day, guys. Time to head back to base for some R&R."
"Roger that, sir. Heading back to base."
Wychin looked south once again as he slowly turned his craft towards the coast. A UFO slowly spiraled towards the water's surface in the distance, and a thick smoke trail indicated the passage of at least one of the transport ships to the south. He sighed again. Good luck, Leon. Perhaps we'll run into each other again. He thought to himself. Giving a quick salute in a general southerly direction, he turned forward, and headed towards the coast.
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Leon shook his head as he looked at the fuel gauge on the transport's dashboard. One of those fighters got a good hit off on the plane, puncturing a fuel tank. Still, he was lucky to be alive. He looked out of the window - the other transport was still there, trailing smoke as well. They had been flying due south for several hours now, first, hoping to reach land before their fuel ran out, and now flying forward, hoping to find a landing zone somewhere in this jungle. There was no way they'd have enough fuel now to make it to Europe - so Leon decided to head to the closest other continent instead - South America. Unfortunately, the jungle had expanded over the last thirty years - whether due simply to the lack of human industry to cut down the forest and dry up the wetlands, or due to some alien environmental project, Leon didn't know. Perhaps it was a factor of both. Perhaps it didn't matter, he thought. His thoughts were interrupted by a loud bang from the back of the aircraft, and a sense of freefall, as the plane suddenly careened towards the ground. Holding on for dear life, Leon watched with fascination as the plane got closer and closer to the canopy, even as he desperately tried to level out. Then, the plane hit, sending everything unsecured tumbling. Leon felt the safety belt holding him in place strain - his eyes widened as he heard something in the fuselage being torn away, along with a quickly fading scream. Then, the movement stopped. Leon let out a breath. Quickly unstrapping himself, he scrambled towards a new opening in the side of the plane Looking outside, he chuckled slightly as the magnitude of the mess he was in struck him. Hearing the sounds of belts unbuckling and groans from behind him, he quickly went back for his pack and weapons. Soon, he was outside, breathing in the moist air of the jungle. He looked back at the crashed plane, watching troopers slowly climb out of it. It was time to get to work, once again.