by Lars Teeney
“I am not alone, Monsignor, Friar Pius is here and I have a swarm of drones, remember?” Friar Anastasias corrected her.
“Very well, don’t disappoint me, Friar. We cannot afford failure in this campaign.” With that, the communication was terminated. A flurry of sub-neural-network activity indicated to Friar Anastasias that the Monsignor was redeploying her forces to the Airline Highway Bridge. Friar Anastasias sent out commands to her drones. They hummed to life outside the Martyr tank and assumed a ‘chevron’ formation while waiting for further instruction. The drone formation gained altitude and then sped off toward the prepared defenses on the Baton Rouge side of the bridge. A serious of bunkers, trenches and tank emplacements created an interconnected kill zone for anyone assaulting across the bridge from the opposite bank. The defenses were not, however, deployed to deal with assaults from the rear. The sleep-deprived infantry defending in the trenches were not expecting the swarm of drones approaching from the rear, which appeared overhead and dislodged their cargo, that of numerous spherical objects that peppered the trenches and surrounding area. One studious soldier realized the payload dropped upon them were plasma grenades just before the detonation, which sent white-hot domes of energy expanding outward, gasifying soldier’s bodies within the blast radiuses, and severely burning those further away. The plasma ignited sandbags into flame around bunkers and tank emplacements and churned up a morass of smoke and fumes. The resulting smoke made it difficult for the tank crews, who turned the turrets of their Martyr to the rear, to acquire any targets. Confusion ruled over the defenders. Friar Anastasuas and Friar Pius urged their commandeered Martyr tank forward. Friar Anastasias called out a target within her sights. Friar Pius loaded the tank’s main gun and fired, and the shell screamed through the air, piercing through the static tank to the right of the trenches.
Above the carnage, several more of Friar Anastasias’ drones opened fire on surviving ‘Remant Regime’ soldiers with accurate mini-gun fire, which being small caliber rounds did little damage singularly, but delivered en masse, were more than deadly. Countless defenders fell in this manner. The Friars’ Martyr tank surged forward, traversing the network of trenches and aimed its turret at another enemy tank, which struggled to line its own turret up to take a shot. Before it could deliver a round the Friars’ own tank reduced it to a heap of flaming wreckage. Thier Martyr tank fired repeatedly at the last target standing: the fortified, concrete bunker which faced the bridge. There was no way for the defenders to return fire with their fixed batteries, instead the soldiers rushed out of the bunker, brandishing anti-tank weapons. However, it was too little, too late. Another well-placed shot combined with the withering fire of the drones from above reduced their bodies to a pile of meat and fractured bone.
“Monsignor Francis! Attack the north bridge!” Friar Anastasias instructed.
“Affirmative, the operation is underway!” the Monsignor confirmed. The two Friars opened the top hatch of the Martyr and hopped to the ground, bringing their weapons to bear, on the lookout for remaining enemy soldiers to mop up. Moving slowly and methodically, and using the drones to cover their backsides, the two Friars went about their grim work.
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At the North end of town, the Order of the Pentagram forces, under the command of Monsignor Francis, charged across the Airline Highway Bridge. The lead tank of the armored column put down smoke rounds amid the lines of the defenders, to obscure the Order’s advance. Despite the smoke-screen, Martyr tank fire from the opposite bank of the river converged on the bridge where the Order forces progressed. A line of infantry was struck by a wild round that had been randomly aimed, reducing the mean to a red mist. Another shell fired from the river bank struck the Orders’ lead tank, which glanced off its angled turret. The Orders’ column pushed onward, through the smoke, the lead tank emerged out of the cloud like a demon from brimstone. Its fire bit into the ‘Remnant Regime’ trenches, carving up helpless infantry. The following tanks fanned out from the rear of the lead tank and formed a firing line, which lobbed shells at enemy tank emplacements. Order soldiers emerged from between the gaps of the line of Order tanks and poured into the trenches to ferret out concealed ‘Remnant Regime’ troops. Many were cowering in fear at the merciless attack launched by the Order of the Pentagram. Most were shot or bayoneted where they cowered. The Order methodically overran the remaining defenders and surged into Baton Rouge proper.
From the south, Friar Pius and Friar Anastasias navigated their tank through the streets, supported by Friar Anastasias’s drones, which gunned down the occasional fighter. The Friars made rapid progress, pushing north through many neighborhoods to link-up with the main Order of the Pentagram troop body. The drones landed upon the Martyr tank to conserve energy and Friar Anastasias broadcast their identity to surrounding forces to prevent friendly fire incidences. Order soldiers began raiding and clearing houses, engaging in sporadic conflicts that cascaded from neighborhood to neighborhood. The fighting reverted to a ‘cat and mouse’ game. Soon the armored spearhead had reached the center of town and lines of prisoners that had been taken were marched by gunpoint to Baton Rouge’s ancient City Hall building. Order soldiers breached the building that was harboring ‘Remnant Regime’ soldiers. After hard fighting and taking many casualties, the Order soldiers herded out of the City Hall building the ragged defenders and officers who finally surrendered. They were ordered to gather and kneel in the plaza directly in front of City Hall. A Martyr tank approached the mass of prisoner’s and got so close before stopping that many of the prisoners panicked and fell backward upon one another in an attempt to escape the path of the tank, but the impending disaster did not come to fruition. The hatch of the tank swung open and out from the bowels, emerged the hooded, cloaked and veiled figure of Monsignor Francis, and her identically-clothed servant, Friar Fabian. The Monsignor stood for a moment, savoring the sight of the hundreds of cowering, and whimpering ‘Remnant Regime’ soldiers gathered, at her mercy, awaiting their fates. She paced back and forth, gazing at each man’s face in the front row from behind her veil.
“Hear me, infidel fighters. Your old religion is gone, crushed by the One True God’s wrath. The Lord’s will has delivered all of you to me—for me to pass His judgment and sentences unto you. I offer you a choice, a simple one, you repent for your sins as infidels and embrace the True Faith or you choose to die for your false faith and receive the Wounds of Christ! Either path will lead to glory because if you stand up for your infidel faith I will allow you to die like Christ on the Cross, therefore purifying your souls—now is the time to choose,” Monsignor Francis proclaimed, as she commanded her militia to line the prisoners up and send them forward one by one, for each to plea. The prisoners shuffled forward reluctantly, for many of them, attempting to make the hardest choice of their lives, for some the easiest. As the minutes past it was clear that the vast majority of the prisoners choice conversion over crucifixion, after all, one could practice their true religion in private later on. There was, however, a small group who stubbornly stood up for the Church of New Megiddo, and these individuals were separated from the rest, slated for execution.
The last of the prisoners stepped forward to receive judgment. A dour, pale-faced man stepped forward, with eyes averted.
“Shall you repent and convert to the True Faith or shall you receive the Wounds of Christ?” the Monsignor posed the question. The man, visibly shaken, looked up at the Monsignor and stuttered. The Monsignor gestured to speed up his speech. The man finally spoke, with his eyes rolling up into the back of his head, he babbled incoherently in tongues. The Monsignor Francis placed her hand on the hilt of the cavalry saber that hung from her belt.
“The Reverend and the Messiah shall return to claim this land from the infidel invaders! Death to infidels!” the man cried out, having gone from a timid mouse to a roaring lion within the space of a moment, and lunged at the Monsignor before her militia could respond. With one smooth motion, she drew h
er calvary saber and swung it as the man advanced, slicing through his collar bone and jugular, checking his charge. She side-stepped and allowed the man to fall to the ground to bleed out.
“Remarkable! The courage in that one to stand up for his false faith is admirable. Not like these other turncloaks, who would turn their backs at the most opportune moment. The Order cannot use any of these infidels. Crucify them all!” she declared and turned away as her militia moved in to seize all of the prisoners. Friar Fabian looked on with shock in her eyes, behind her veil. She turned to the Monsignor and had the urged to speak up, but said nothing. Even Friar Anastasias was shocked and puzzled. She stepped forward, like she had the urge to intervene, but stopped herself. And so, the hundreds prisoners were corraled and force marched to the east approaches of the city. Order soldiers scoured the city for lumber, felled trees, and gathered nails for the mass crucifixion that was to take place.
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WITH YOUR SHIELD OR UPON IT
He woke to shooting pains in both legs. The bullet wounds had only bruised the femurs of each leg, fortunately glancing off his bones, but he was still unable to walk. And, even if he wanted to, the Chinese orderlies had restrained him to his bed. He had lost track of how much time he had spent in this Chinese military field hospital, as his neural implant was being jammed through the use of E.M.P. fields. He did not even know the date, time or whether it was day or night. The only light Craig a Briuis had seen in ages was the L.E.D. fixtures installed in the sanitary, white ceiling of the room. The orderlies had left him reading material: anti-New Megiddo propaganda printed in English. He had picked one up from the side of his bed, and held it awkwardly, out of curiosity to see what the materials had to say. Among some of the illustrations were old, tired depictions of communist utopias. There were pictures of prosperous and happy looking peasant farmers working the fields of a collectivized ‘mega-farms’ under the shadow of a sleek, modern skyline, which dominated the background. Another illustration depicted the ‘Evil’ from the West, a cartoonish giant, clad in a white suit, cowboy hat, loomed over the Pacific Ocean, threatening the East with raised claw-like hands, and a hateful, goatee-clad, red face. The giant caricature of the Reverend Wilhelm Wainwright cast a dark shadow over China that formed a Christian cross.
He read an article that made the claim that New Megiddo and the Empire of Russia were engaged in a new Crusade against secular powers in an attempt to usher in a global theocracy. Craig had to admit that the article was not far off the mark. After all, this is what they had told him in L.O.V.E. Ranger training. Craig did not enlist for the glory of the Lord, that is not what motivated him, some archaic concept of approval from the Supreme Being. Indeed, his purpose was partially motivated by monetary gain, the compensation for a L.O.V.E.: S.O.R.E. operative was lucrative, but his purpose was almost entirely ideological in nature. Craig had known how the Globe had once existed. European and American Empires once encompassed almost the entire World. He reveled in the old stories of the Renaissance and the Colonial period in history. This fascination with European ascendancy fueled his desire to rediscover and rekindle the lost arts of European martial prowess. For too long, he thought that the emphasis had been placed on Eastern martial arts, that in his judgment, were purely for demonstration. And, so at a young age he had thrown himself into mastering the fighting techniques of his Scottish forebears. With countless hours practicing Claymore and ‘targe’ shield techniques, he soon mastered these forms. Later, he turned his attention to German and Italian treatises on Medieval fencing, and arms techniques. In his younger, naive days, he was determined to single-handedly reestablish European dominance over the World, at the point of his Claymore.
As time marched on, and Craig grew older and wiser, he realized that one man alone would make little impact. So, Craig sought out the strongest and most ideologically pure Western power he could, New Megiddo. To him, New Megiddo did not mince words and they did not bother with diplomacy and subtlety. Craig respected this in the theocratic power that was once, America. Craig made his way to New Megiddo and pledged his allegiance to President John W. Schrubb and the Reverend Wilhelm Wainwright, and he enlisted with the New Megiddo Holy Army. After receiving quite a few decorations he decided that he needed more of a challenge, and so he tried out for the L.O.V.E.R.s and aced their recruiting trials with ‘flying colors’. Craig found himself advancing through the ranks of L.O.V.E. rapidly, and not long after the ‘Holy War’ was declared against the major secular powers of the World, which was why he was deployed to Alaska. His unit had been soundly defeated, and he found himself the only survivor of the battle. Craig had no illusions of ever seeing New Megiddo again, but, as he lay in the hospital bed, he vowed that as long as he breathed his war would not be over. He hoped that the Chinese would execute him swiftly so his vow would be fulfilled.
“Qiútú! Bùyào dòng! (Prisoner! Do not move!)” a Chinese military policeman barked. Craig did not understand so he just stared blankly as two more policemen poured into his room with guns drawn.
“What? No understand, mate!” Craig shouted from his bed.
“No move! We take you for talk!” the Policeman switched to broken English.
“I can’t move, you dolt! I’m strapped to the bed!” Craig growled.ThePolicemanmoved closer.
“We unlock you—put shackles on—no tricks!” the Policeman snapped, with a bayonet held to Craig’s nose.
“Sure, sure, let’s go!” he hissed.ThePolicemanunlocked his restraints as the two other guards kept their weapons trained on Craig. He was stood on his feet and the Policeman slipped shackles on his wrists and ankles that were connected by a chain. They shuffled him out of the room and down a utilitarian corridor, with dim light emanating out of dirty fixtures. Various instructional signs were displayed in Chinese characters that Craig could not read, but, he could infer their meanings from awkward graphic illustrations that accompanied the text. Finally, he was ushered through a creaky, steel door, and sat down in a rusty metal chair, in a nondescript room with no windows. The Policeman looped his shackles through a metal ring in the floor, and then they all left him in the room, with only a hint of dim light. He remained there so long that he found himself nodding off. He had expected torture and execution, but it appeared that his captors planned to bore him to death. When he dozed off a second time he was jarred awake by the rusty, metal door oepning. Into the room walked the Chinese officer who had shot him, in what seemed like ages ago. The Officer sat upon a chair in front of Craig that had been placed there by his aide.
“Greetings, Sergeant Craig a Briuis! Call sign: L.O.V.E.: S.O.R.E. One, unofficially known as Herpes One—congratulations on that monicker!” the Chinese Officer mocked him, looking through a file that seemed to contain information about Craig.
“Do you plan to joke me to death?” Craig growled. The Chinese Officer leaned back in his chair.
“Lighten up, American—I can call you American, yes? Or do you prefer New Megiddan? Oh, it matters little. I am just trying to provide some levity during our conversation,” The Officer said facetiously.
“Shove your levity up your arse!” Craig exclaimed through clenched teeth.
“So much anger! And not very polite! Maybe I should have introduced myself so that we can be properly acquainted. I am Colonel Cheng He, of the Republic of China Army. Pleased to meet you!” Colonel He offered with false enthusiasm.
“Why don’t you just go ahead and kill me already? Because I can promise you I will tell you nothing, whether you torture me or flatter me!” Craig resolved, with balled fists.
“Why would I want to do that?” Colonel He asked with a puzzled look on his face, “Cigarette?” he asked Craig, and Craig could not refuse. He slipped a cigarette into Craig’s lips and presented a flame. Craig exhaled smoke through his nose.
“Why? Because we are enemies, that’s why! My unit slaughtered an entire regiment of yours!” Craig repli
ed with hostility.
“Yes we are, but I just wanted to get know my worthy foe. Did you know that during your unit’s last stand you nearly broke my force’s advance? A division of China’s finest soldiers nearly routed by five Rangers. I must salute the fight you put up. I am sorry for your losses,” Colonel He offered sincerely.Craigjust sat silently, puzzled by the Colonel’s civility toward him. Craig was at his mercy, and they were at war.
“I really don’t understand, Colonel. If you don’t plan to kill me or interrogate me—then what? I mean I am consuming your food and medical resources in a time of war,” Craig stated in confusion.
“Oh, but that is where you are wrong,” Colonel He announced. Craig furled his brow and took a drag of his cigarette.
“I don’t follow—” Craig was cut off.
“You’re wrong. The war is over. Your country fought valiantly, but in the end we prevailed,” Colonel He stated matter-of-factly.
“Bullshit!” Craig blurted out.
“No bullshit. An armistice has already been signed, three days ago. I kept you here for a little extra time to make sure that you did not return to the fray until it had ended,” the Colonel informed Craig, with a smirk. Craig had turned red in the face. Internally, he refused to believe the news.
“No way, I am not going to lap up your disinformation!” Craig yelled defiantly.
“Look, Sergeant a Briuis, you shouldn’t waste your energy or strength. You have a long a journey home, and we shall ensure that you make the trip,” Colonel He said vaguely.
“What are you talking about? What trip?” Craig asked nervously.
“Why, the trip back to New Megiddo, your home!” The Colonel now toyed with Craig, who visibly shook with fury.