05-12-2014, 01:45 PM
"Men. I must ask something of you."
250 Legion Premiere members, gathered at the Casablanca airport paused in their tasks. Some dug out their Landwarrior goggles and put them on at the beckoning of their brothers in arms, and were met by the grim face of their CEO. They had been busy loading gear and supplies onto a Legion cargo plane, readying for the move to their new Jerusalem barracks in just a few hours.
"Dominance V is aflame with insurection. I dare not fathom how many are already dead, nor how many more will be before this chaos is over."
Word had already begun to spread even as far as Morocco of the horrors that were being commited there, a topic that was in the forefront of the Legionnaires' mind, along-side similar stories coming out of Sierra Leone, where they already had boots on the ground.
"I have been approached by the CCD government with a desperate request. King Abdulaziz airport, west of Mecca. Hundreds of CCD civilians are trapped there, protected by a thin line of CCD soldiers. The Hun is at the gates, as Mr Kipling once wrote, and they won't hold out much longer. We all know what religious fervor can do to a man's heart, what dark acts man will commit when given a 'righteous' excuse."
They had seen it countless times throughout Africa. Religion was so often just an easy excuse to fulfill the dark desires that existed in some men's hearts.
"They have requested I send my men, you men, to save all we can. I have accepted."
The men gathered at the Casablanca airport knew what was coming. For some, a similar battle they had learned about in the Legion came to mind. The Battle of Kolwezi, Zaire, 1978. 500 Legionnaires had paradroped into a city held by thousands of rebel soldiers, holding thousands of Europeans hostage. They had secured the city by morning, with five of their forefathers lain to the earth in the battle. Few had any delusions this battle would fare so well.
"I have contacted our friends in the Moroccan military. Trucks should arrive within the hour. Parachutes, ammunition, medical supplies. Our operation will focus on three primary objectives, three phases to each..."
-----
Five hours later...
A huge swath of the city below was dark, save for raging fires and the flashes of weapons. High above, those were of little consequence to the Legionnaires as they checked each other over one last time. They had all jumped before, but hadn't the extensive training proper paratroopers would.
The men worked in eery silence, although little could be heard over the scream of the engines and the roar of wind through the open cargo-hatch, through which they could view the city below. The plane banked wide and rose into the air, and then the light next to the ramp changed red to green.
Over the roar, barely heard but understood by all, "For all we have and are, for all our children's fate, stand up and take the war. The Hun is at the gate!"
Jacques could see the transport plane as it moved in on the dark airport, knew his men were bracing themselves for a jump, nearly blind, into land they knew nothing of. And he loved them for their loyalty, and hated himself for accepting the job. How many more letters would he be writing by sun's rise?
It was a selfish mentality, one that he chastised himself for even as it welled up within him. How many lives were going to be spared for their sacrifice? Now and in the future? The money they earned here would be used to help rebuild the Legion to it's former glory. The reputation they earned here would secure them future contracts, and would ice the hearts of any who thought to strike where their flag flew.
Legionnaires carrying compact packs strapped to their chests, with assault rifles, mortars, and machineguns strapped or bagged to them, gave each other one last pat on the shoulder before they began their slow advance to the ramp. None hesitated; there was no more time for that now. A few had accepted the chance to stay behind in Casablanca, but others had arrived at the airport to replace those that had balked at the mission tasked them.
Each man tumbled with some familiarity from the open ramp of the cargo plane, their Landwarriors displaying important location markers on the ground far below. A wide field a few hundred meters west of the main terminal was their primary landing zone, far enough away to hopefully go unseen by the rebels seiging the building. Others, fifty in total, were aimed towards the tarmac and dozens of waiting passenger jets; these would be the means of evacuation for the civilians and their CCD defenders, and would form the fire base for the Legion's mortar crews and medics.
The view of the now dark city was a terrifying one, made greater now that they were no longer sheltered from the full horror of it from within their plane; fires raged unchecked, thick columns of smoke choking the sky above Jeddah and the not so distant great city of Mecca. The CCD may have been caught unprepared, but they were going down swinging. It would give the rebels a false sense of accomplishment, and blind them to the horrors that were sure to be turned their way when the might of the CCD was turned towards them. Armed mobs were as nothing to a trained army. They would see their small victories, but in the end, thousands were going to die.
Two hundred Legionnaires drifted to the earth below with varying levels of skill and confidence, but through some miracle they all landed in the target zone. At twenty meters, cords were pulled and heavy packs of gear were dropped from their chests to the ground below. Handles were pulled tight at the last possible moment, so the Legionnaires hit the earth hard but quiet. Some harder then others, as one man swallowed a pain-filled scream before he could give way their arrival, both his legs snapped clean through. One of his brothers in arms reached him in time to watch him die, sharing a moment of understanding and comradery that was rarely seen elsewhere in a man's life.
Parachutes were quickly spooled up and stuffed part-way into their sacks to prevent them from fluttering too blatantly in the night's wind, to avoid unwanted attention. Landwarriors were complemented with NVGs, enough for one in ten men. Weapons were readied, packs full of ammunition and explosives loaded onto their backs. The fallen Legionnaire's tags were collected, his ammo distributed, and then they were ready to move.
Bayonets were drawn from scabbards and fixed to their rifles, a series of metallic clicks and rattles that promised violence. Magazines were eased into their housings, and the actions were cocked and racked, loading rounds into the chambers. Their Landwarriors sprang to life, marking a series of waypoints and points of interest. Doors and entry points on the distant terminal were highlighted. Lowground and points of possible cover on their approach marked.
It was all Jacques could do for his men without access to the CCD satelite feeds. Those were promised him once his feet were on the ground, with one of their Vegas looking over his shoulder. His private jet circled wide high above, waiting for the all-clear from the 50 man team tasked to secure the runways and jets. It irked him to no end to have so many of his men deployed below and not be on the same soil with them.
Moving in eight-man strong sections, they approached the airport at a jog. Gunfire and yells could be heard even from outside, and a crowd of armed men were gathered in the wide paved parking lot just outside the doors to the terminal, preparing to assault the beleagured CCD defenders from another direction, or perhaps to box them in and prevent an attempted break-out.
Without the floodlights of the airport, the men were blind to what was behind them. Their hated of the CCD, and their belief in their God, blinded them to the danger of their actions, blinded them to the prospect that they could loose. Blinded them to 199 Legionnaires, armed to the teeth and with an enemy between themselves and defensless civilians.
Elsewhere, north of the terminal along the tarmac of waiting, abandoned passenger planes, fifty more Legionnaires dropped to the earth. Heavy weapons and crates of ammo coasted in with them, landing scattered around their designated zone, and Legionnaires scrambled to set a perimeter, to gather the ammo crates, to set up their mortars and .50 machineguns, surveying the planes for what they would need, and one section ran the length of a runway, striking and dropping flares to mark the lane for their CEO's plane.
At the terminal, the rebels chanted to their God, calling his name as holy justification for the acts they would commit. Violence filled their hearts, spurred on by their charismatic leader who stood somewhere safe and away from the violence, orchestrating things through force of presence for whatever unimaginable, blasphemous goals he saw as his justification. Fires raged in Holy Mecca, and blood stained the streets, all cast by the hand of those who claimed to be of the one great religion. They sought to purge the holy land of the infidel, by commiting base acts violence in God's name.
Those hearts that so dreamt of the violence they would soon commit were given their fill and more.
Out of the darkness came fellow Muslims, wearing foreign uniforms and carrying gear years behind that of the average CCD soldier. African, American, European, even some hailing from Dominance V, unified in mind and allegiance to the Legion and to their God. The men Jacques had chosen for the contracts in DV were almost universally Muslim, and none looked fondly upon Hasan and his perverted view of their God's will.
The men of the Legion fired a unified barrage into the gathered crowd of armed men, then were amongst them before the survivors could react. Leaping over the dead and wounded, the operators of Légion Première closed into the already scattering mob. Shock and awe were the way of the day; an undisciplined mob of civilians, no matter how well armed and motivated, rarely kept their wits in the midst of true warfare. And when faced by the bayonets and violence of the Legionnaires, their divine fervor was quickly replaced by memories of wives and children and the desire to keep their own lives.
The soldiers of the CCD had died so easily in the beginning because they had been caught unaware, fueling the delusion that the uprising was backed by Divine Intervention. That God, Allah, smiled upon them and desired their actions. The Legionnaires shattered that delusion in seconds. Their rifles batting aside crudely wielded Kalishnikovs with ease, their bayonets opened warm flesh with terrifying efficiency, piercing skin through-and-through, the dying rebels kicked free of the long knives or callously shot again at point blank to clear the Legionnaire's weapons.
Those that sought to flee were laid waste. None could be spared, else they would spread word that help had arrived. Within moments a crowd of hundreds of rebels lay dead and dying. The Legionnaires quickly fell back into place, groups moving north and south to hold the corners of the terminal while others approached the main building, eager to get inside and begin the extraction of those trapped within.
Still, without a Vega to watch over their leader's shoulder, the men moved blind. Without the much needed communication channels, without the satellites and drones. They knew next to nothing of the building beyond those doors, of the situation of the defenders. And the defenders knew nothing of the arrival of the Legionnaires. It was a dangerous situation, rife with opportunity for mistakes.
250 Legion Premiere members, gathered at the Casablanca airport paused in their tasks. Some dug out their Landwarrior goggles and put them on at the beckoning of their brothers in arms, and were met by the grim face of their CEO. They had been busy loading gear and supplies onto a Legion cargo plane, readying for the move to their new Jerusalem barracks in just a few hours.
"Dominance V is aflame with insurection. I dare not fathom how many are already dead, nor how many more will be before this chaos is over."
Word had already begun to spread even as far as Morocco of the horrors that were being commited there, a topic that was in the forefront of the Legionnaires' mind, along-side similar stories coming out of Sierra Leone, where they already had boots on the ground.
"I have been approached by the CCD government with a desperate request. King Abdulaziz airport, west of Mecca. Hundreds of CCD civilians are trapped there, protected by a thin line of CCD soldiers. The Hun is at the gates, as Mr Kipling once wrote, and they won't hold out much longer. We all know what religious fervor can do to a man's heart, what dark acts man will commit when given a 'righteous' excuse."
They had seen it countless times throughout Africa. Religion was so often just an easy excuse to fulfill the dark desires that existed in some men's hearts.
"They have requested I send my men, you men, to save all we can. I have accepted."
The men gathered at the Casablanca airport knew what was coming. For some, a similar battle they had learned about in the Legion came to mind. The Battle of Kolwezi, Zaire, 1978. 500 Legionnaires had paradroped into a city held by thousands of rebel soldiers, holding thousands of Europeans hostage. They had secured the city by morning, with five of their forefathers lain to the earth in the battle. Few had any delusions this battle would fare so well.
"I have contacted our friends in the Moroccan military. Trucks should arrive within the hour. Parachutes, ammunition, medical supplies. Our operation will focus on three primary objectives, three phases to each..."
-----
Five hours later...
A huge swath of the city below was dark, save for raging fires and the flashes of weapons. High above, those were of little consequence to the Legionnaires as they checked each other over one last time. They had all jumped before, but hadn't the extensive training proper paratroopers would.
The men worked in eery silence, although little could be heard over the scream of the engines and the roar of wind through the open cargo-hatch, through which they could view the city below. The plane banked wide and rose into the air, and then the light next to the ramp changed red to green.
Over the roar, barely heard but understood by all, "For all we have and are, for all our children's fate, stand up and take the war. The Hun is at the gate!"
Jacques could see the transport plane as it moved in on the dark airport, knew his men were bracing themselves for a jump, nearly blind, into land they knew nothing of. And he loved them for their loyalty, and hated himself for accepting the job. How many more letters would he be writing by sun's rise?
It was a selfish mentality, one that he chastised himself for even as it welled up within him. How many lives were going to be spared for their sacrifice? Now and in the future? The money they earned here would be used to help rebuild the Legion to it's former glory. The reputation they earned here would secure them future contracts, and would ice the hearts of any who thought to strike where their flag flew.
Legionnaires carrying compact packs strapped to their chests, with assault rifles, mortars, and machineguns strapped or bagged to them, gave each other one last pat on the shoulder before they began their slow advance to the ramp. None hesitated; there was no more time for that now. A few had accepted the chance to stay behind in Casablanca, but others had arrived at the airport to replace those that had balked at the mission tasked them.
Each man tumbled with some familiarity from the open ramp of the cargo plane, their Landwarriors displaying important location markers on the ground far below. A wide field a few hundred meters west of the main terminal was their primary landing zone, far enough away to hopefully go unseen by the rebels seiging the building. Others, fifty in total, were aimed towards the tarmac and dozens of waiting passenger jets; these would be the means of evacuation for the civilians and their CCD defenders, and would form the fire base for the Legion's mortar crews and medics.
The view of the now dark city was a terrifying one, made greater now that they were no longer sheltered from the full horror of it from within their plane; fires raged unchecked, thick columns of smoke choking the sky above Jeddah and the not so distant great city of Mecca. The CCD may have been caught unprepared, but they were going down swinging. It would give the rebels a false sense of accomplishment, and blind them to the horrors that were sure to be turned their way when the might of the CCD was turned towards them. Armed mobs were as nothing to a trained army. They would see their small victories, but in the end, thousands were going to die.
Two hundred Legionnaires drifted to the earth below with varying levels of skill and confidence, but through some miracle they all landed in the target zone. At twenty meters, cords were pulled and heavy packs of gear were dropped from their chests to the ground below. Handles were pulled tight at the last possible moment, so the Legionnaires hit the earth hard but quiet. Some harder then others, as one man swallowed a pain-filled scream before he could give way their arrival, both his legs snapped clean through. One of his brothers in arms reached him in time to watch him die, sharing a moment of understanding and comradery that was rarely seen elsewhere in a man's life.
Parachutes were quickly spooled up and stuffed part-way into their sacks to prevent them from fluttering too blatantly in the night's wind, to avoid unwanted attention. Landwarriors were complemented with NVGs, enough for one in ten men. Weapons were readied, packs full of ammunition and explosives loaded onto their backs. The fallen Legionnaire's tags were collected, his ammo distributed, and then they were ready to move.
Bayonets were drawn from scabbards and fixed to their rifles, a series of metallic clicks and rattles that promised violence. Magazines were eased into their housings, and the actions were cocked and racked, loading rounds into the chambers. Their Landwarriors sprang to life, marking a series of waypoints and points of interest. Doors and entry points on the distant terminal were highlighted. Lowground and points of possible cover on their approach marked.
It was all Jacques could do for his men without access to the CCD satelite feeds. Those were promised him once his feet were on the ground, with one of their Vegas looking over his shoulder. His private jet circled wide high above, waiting for the all-clear from the 50 man team tasked to secure the runways and jets. It irked him to no end to have so many of his men deployed below and not be on the same soil with them.
Moving in eight-man strong sections, they approached the airport at a jog. Gunfire and yells could be heard even from outside, and a crowd of armed men were gathered in the wide paved parking lot just outside the doors to the terminal, preparing to assault the beleagured CCD defenders from another direction, or perhaps to box them in and prevent an attempted break-out.
Without the floodlights of the airport, the men were blind to what was behind them. Their hated of the CCD, and their belief in their God, blinded them to the danger of their actions, blinded them to the prospect that they could loose. Blinded them to 199 Legionnaires, armed to the teeth and with an enemy between themselves and defensless civilians.
Elsewhere, north of the terminal along the tarmac of waiting, abandoned passenger planes, fifty more Legionnaires dropped to the earth. Heavy weapons and crates of ammo coasted in with them, landing scattered around their designated zone, and Legionnaires scrambled to set a perimeter, to gather the ammo crates, to set up their mortars and .50 machineguns, surveying the planes for what they would need, and one section ran the length of a runway, striking and dropping flares to mark the lane for their CEO's plane.
At the terminal, the rebels chanted to their God, calling his name as holy justification for the acts they would commit. Violence filled their hearts, spurred on by their charismatic leader who stood somewhere safe and away from the violence, orchestrating things through force of presence for whatever unimaginable, blasphemous goals he saw as his justification. Fires raged in Holy Mecca, and blood stained the streets, all cast by the hand of those who claimed to be of the one great religion. They sought to purge the holy land of the infidel, by commiting base acts violence in God's name.
Those hearts that so dreamt of the violence they would soon commit were given their fill and more.
Out of the darkness came fellow Muslims, wearing foreign uniforms and carrying gear years behind that of the average CCD soldier. African, American, European, even some hailing from Dominance V, unified in mind and allegiance to the Legion and to their God. The men Jacques had chosen for the contracts in DV were almost universally Muslim, and none looked fondly upon Hasan and his perverted view of their God's will.
The men of the Legion fired a unified barrage into the gathered crowd of armed men, then were amongst them before the survivors could react. Leaping over the dead and wounded, the operators of Légion Première closed into the already scattering mob. Shock and awe were the way of the day; an undisciplined mob of civilians, no matter how well armed and motivated, rarely kept their wits in the midst of true warfare. And when faced by the bayonets and violence of the Legionnaires, their divine fervor was quickly replaced by memories of wives and children and the desire to keep their own lives.
The soldiers of the CCD had died so easily in the beginning because they had been caught unaware, fueling the delusion that the uprising was backed by Divine Intervention. That God, Allah, smiled upon them and desired their actions. The Legionnaires shattered that delusion in seconds. Their rifles batting aside crudely wielded Kalishnikovs with ease, their bayonets opened warm flesh with terrifying efficiency, piercing skin through-and-through, the dying rebels kicked free of the long knives or callously shot again at point blank to clear the Legionnaire's weapons.
Those that sought to flee were laid waste. None could be spared, else they would spread word that help had arrived. Within moments a crowd of hundreds of rebels lay dead and dying. The Legionnaires quickly fell back into place, groups moving north and south to hold the corners of the terminal while others approached the main building, eager to get inside and begin the extraction of those trapped within.
Still, without a Vega to watch over their leader's shoulder, the men moved blind. Without the much needed communication channels, without the satellites and drones. They knew next to nothing of the building beyond those doors, of the situation of the defenders. And the defenders knew nothing of the arrival of the Legionnaires. It was a dangerous situation, rife with opportunity for mistakes.