Summoning America

September 30, 1640

Gra-Valkan Occupied Alue, Mu

General Flats marveled at the stocked refrigerator inside a Muan mansion within the suburbs, impressed with the sophistication of the appliances at the abandoned home. He spotted several other American-made devices, from air conditioning units to pressure cookers, all hooked to an external generator outside. It came as a surprise that American influence had extended this much, this far. It wasn’t just military goods that changed the landscape of the far-flung Second Civilized Region, it was consumer discretionaries as well.

“Hmph,” a dissatisfied grunt came from behind him. “A shame we’ve damaged our relations with the Americans too badly to conduct business with them. I would have enjoyed these goods.”

Recognizing the voice as General Kinley’s, Flats immediately stood at attention. “Indeed, sir!”

Kinley placed his hand up, as if signaling ‘there’s no need for that’. “At ease, General. If anything, I should be the one in your position. I made a mistake. I rushed you, and it cost us hundreds of casualties, dozens of ruined tanks, and a drastic loss of infrastructure which we could have captured instead. I’m placing more trust in your abilities from now on, General Flats.”

“Thank you, sir,” Flats said, inwardly appreciating his superior’s praise and modesty.

“Come, now,” Kinley said, grabbing orange juice from the fridge and pouring it into a glass. “The meeting starts in 10 minutes.”

“At once, sir.”

—-

A dozen officers gathered in the spacious living room of a Muan mansion, which had been converted into a command post for the Gra Valkan invasion force. Among them were Generals Flats and Kinley, the respective leaders of the Fourth Armored Division and the Eighth Army. Together, they prepared their strategies for the Malmund Front.

Seeing that everyone was present, Kinley began, “Our base of operations in Alue has finally been secured thanks to your hard work. Now that we have accomplished our objective here, it is time to bring our attention to our next target: the city of Kielseki and the associated Dawson Base, which are located 125 miles to the northeast of our current position. Captain Harwisk, if you will,” Kinley said, gesturing for the man to take over the presentation.

“Sir,” A brown-haired man said, exuding a powerful aura of determination. He cleared his throat, then outlined crucial information about their upcoming attack. “Scouts have confirmed a large build-up of defenses at Dawson Base, including anti-tank gun and artillery emplacements. Unfortunately, a combination of camouflage netting and possible decoys have made it difficult to accurately discern the defensive capacity of Dawson Base. Although we are unsure of the enemy’s composition at this time, we will act on this limited information with prudence and assume that it is likely that the defenses here are enough to inflict heavy casualties to – perhaps even completely rout – our mechanized units. 

On the other hand, their air defense network is severely lacking; the airfield in Dawson Base holds a maximum of 4 fighter squadrons. Therefore, the first phase of our operation begins with the Fifteenth Air Wing’s bombing run of Dawson Base, which will be followed up by a clean-up operation from the Sixteenth Air Wing. As we have learned from the Eleventh Air Wing’s defeat, there is a high possibility of American mercenary aircraft intercepting our bomber fleets with long-range anti-air missiles. As such, fighters from the Fourteenth Air Wing will establish air superiority within a 50-mile radius of Kielseki. They will serve as a screen for our bombers.

In the meantime, select forward assault groups will secure any villages or outposts along the way and work with mine-clearing units to clear a path for our main forces. Routes for each of your units will be distributed once the mine-clearing operations are complete. Be sure not to deviate from these designated routes.

The second phase of our operation will see ground forces from the Fourth Armored Division and the Eighth Army march to Kielseki to capture the city. After Dawson Base is annihilated, we expect there to be minimal resistance, far less than what we experienced when the Fourth Armored Division engaged guerilla fighters in the city of Alue. Once the city and base are secure, we will begin establishing the facilities necessary to clear out the Malmund Mountains from enemy forces.” Harwisk concluded his briefing on the operation, nodding toward General Flats to hand the rest over to him.

General Flats then provided detailed instructions to the invading forces, “The bombing runs are scheduled for Wednesday, October 5, so you have three days to ready your men. We set out on the morning of Tuesday, October 4, and will make camp outside the range of Muan defenses so that we may quickly follow up the bombing runs with an assault on Kielseki on Wednesday. All units should expect guerilla combat from Muan forces, so adjust your loadouts and formations with an anti-infantry focus in mind. Any questions?”

The officers remained silent, with some of them shaking their heads.

“Good. You are dismissed.”

—-

October 5, 1640

40 miles from Dawson Base

Lieutenant Spetz smirked as he listened to an update from the Fourteenth Air Wing, detailing the lack of enemy activity. 

“The Muans attempted to intercept, but couldn’t get any higher than ten thousand feet so they simply went back to their runway!” Someone said over the radio.

Hearty chatter and laughter filled his squadron’s communication network. Rumors about the Eleventh Air Wing’s demise had spread throughout the military, striking fear into many pilots. However, it seemed that the words of their commanding officers were indeed true; it was simply a rumor after all, and the Muans certainly did not have anything to challenge Gra Valkan air superiority. 

With their fears eased, Lieutenant Spetz’s squadron continued their escort mission with their air wing’s bombers.They were only a few minutes out from their target, and the skies still remained clear. Even if the enemy was employing American mercenaries, as the rumors suggested, they wouldn’t be able to make it in time. Their victory was – in Spetz’s eyes – set in stone.

He let his guard down slightly, seeing no activity in his peripheral vision and no reaction from his comrades. It was then that multiple objects flashed on the ground below, their glares easily catching his attention. The flashes looked like small explosions, but they came from inconspicuous spots of unassuming desert. Spetz felt like something was amiss, and he was right. 

The flashes and smoke that he had mistaken for explosions were actually signatures of missile launches, firing one after another. Taking initiative, he relayed the information to his squadron and dove right for the enemies below. This close to the enemy, there wasn’t an option of retreating. If he was going to fight the enemy equivalent of anti-air flak with no way of escape, he might as well get close and deal as much damage as possible before dying. 

Spetz angled his plane downward, narrowly evading the missile that slammed into the bomber he was supposed to protect. The resulting explosion ignited the bomber’s stored munitions, setting off a chain reaction that vaporized the crew within and propelled shards of the airframe outward. Shrapnel from the devastated bomber impacted Spetz’s plane, filling his cockpit with the sounds of scraping metal. 

Sparing no time gawking at the anticlimactic death of the bomber, Spetz continued his descent. Spetz’s plane emitted a shrill cry as he plunged into a steep dive, his actions soon followed by the cries of a dozen other fighters as they readied themselves for a strafing run against the targets below. Standard anti-aircraft fire soon filled the skies, disappearing behind them amidst a backdrop of exploding bombers. Tracer rounds flew toward the descending Antares like upward rain, growing in volume as the fighters got closer to their targets. 

Rectangular boxes soon came into view. They were angled toward the sky, and it was clear that the missiles were launched from these truck-mounted platforms. He adjusted his plane and lined up his sights with the platforms below, ready to riddle these boxes with bullet holes. It was then that he noticed another flash to the right of his target, hiding by some desert foliage.

There was no truck by the dense grouping of rocks and cacti; rather, there was a single man holding something on his shoulder. Spetz realized that it was some sort of weapon similar to a bazooka and smirked. They must be getting desperate, he thought, unconcerned about the possibility of a slow anti-tank weapon striking his nimble Antares. 

However, as the projectile got closer, his confidence waned. The projectile arced in the air, as if tracking his plane. With widening eyes, he gasped, “There’s no fucking way!” 

It was smaller than the missiles used against the bombers, on account of it being from a shoulder-fired launcher. Thus, he reasoned that the missile probably didn’t have a lot of range. Thinking quickly, he jerked his fighter up and to the left, breaking away from his strafing run. Spetz felt his body being forced into his seat as he desperately attempted to gain altitude. He looked back, seeing the missile inch closer and closer.

Other fighters around him were already being swatted out of the sky, corralled into kill zones by the missiles or being blown up by the missiles themselves. With his death all but guaranteed, he closed his eyes and uttered a prayer. Finally, an explosion erupted from behind his plane’s tail.

Much to Spetz’s surprise, his body felt no different. He opened his eyes, seeing that his plane was still ascending toward the clouds, with no change in velocity. He turned around and looked back, seeing a black cloud shrinking behind him and the burning wreckage of another Antares tumbling to the ground. In an incredible stroke of luck – and a terrible curse of misfortune for the other man – the missile failed to reach its intended target, striking another Antares that had gotten in between Spetz’s plane and the missile itself.

Uttering a quick thanks to the heavens above, Spetz reviewed the situation behind him as he continued to climb. The anti-air fire from the Muans dwindled, suggesting the annihilation of his comrades. With visibility more or less clear, he confirmed his worst fears: he was the only survivor of the Fifteenth Air Wing. 

Throwing himself at the enemy now would be a needless death. After receiving such a close call, he wasn’t inclined to fight the enemy further. Spetz leveled his plane, once more thanking the heavens for saving him and flew back toward friendly lines to provide a much-needed report on the massacre that just occurred.

—-

80 miles from Dawson Base

General Flats lowered his head, his face flushed with heat from sheer panic. He shook his legs nervously, wondering how the unthinkable had happened again. The Fifteenth Air Wing was completely annihilated, save for a lone survivor.

He and General Kinley had painstakingly set up multiple contingencies and layers of safety in anticipation of American mercenary jets. “Truck-mounted and shoulder-fired anti-air missiles… How are we supposed to expect weapons like this?!” Flats yelled in anguish, startling the officers riding in his command vehicle.

They remained silent, unsure of what to say. Then, the radio flared. “General Flats,” Kinley’s voice came through, his tone clearly urgent, “I’ve just received word of the Fifteenth Air Wing’s defeat. What’s going on there?”

Flats cleared his throat, “Sir, I’ve halted our advance for now. We’re currently waiting for intel from scouts that we sent ahead.”

“Alright,” Kinley sighed. “Have your forces wait for my army’s artillery units. Have your men defend my artillery from any Muan offensives while we lay siege to Dawson Base. Use your scouts to identify the locations of enemy air defenses; once we take those out with artillery, the Sixteenth Air Wing will move in to destroy the base.”

Flats nodded, uncertainty flooding into his mind more than ever before. “Understood, sir.”