The Past is Prologue*

* This thread will recount events that happened during the week before game start. There is no requirement to reply to the Past is Prologue thread, but you may, if you wish. Later posts by me will begin to introduce the characters. Enjoy.

21FEB99
Shortly after midnight.

The Night the Sky Changed

The night changed. Not everyone felt it, but for those who did, it was a feeling they had forgotten what it was like to feel. The cold night air brought an echo, or that’s kind of how you reckoned it. A forgotten echo from the past. A deep, low rumble began to find its way to your ears, a sound you’d yearned to hear again but were afraid of as well. The best ears knew and remembered the sound.

Then the night really began, a glow no one could explain. A faint smear of light on the northern horizon, too steady for lightning, too restless for dawn. Someone said it was artillery. Someone else said it wasn’t. The air felt wrong — charged, expectant — like the moment before a storm breaks, except the clouds were high and the wind was dead still.

Then the glow fractured. Thin, bright lances of fire clawed upward into the dark, one after another, until the whole horizon flickered like a dying neon sign. A few seconds later the sound arrived: a rolling, uneven thunder that didn’t match the light. Not shells. Not bombs. Something else. Something bigger. The kind of sound that makes your ribs vibrate and your instincts tighten.

Shapes emerged from the clouds — huge, lumbering silhouettes moving far too fast and far too low. Transport aircraft, big ones. The kind that moves entire armies. The last ones you thought you’d ever see had been on news footage or distant runways. But these were suddenly roaring overhead like wounded animals. Some trailed smoke. Some shed sparks. One came in so low you could see the landing lights flicker as it fought to stay level. Sirens wailed across the airfield. Ground crews sprinted. Officers shouted orders no one could hear over the engines and the distant crack of impacts.

A few aircraft managed to land — hard, ugly, desperate arrivals that skidded or bounced or simply collapsed onto the runway. Others didn’t make it. One fireball lit the horizon like a false sunrise, followed by a shockwave that rattled windows and sent birds screaming into the night. Another aircraft dumped cargo early, pallets drifting down under half‑burned parachutes like strange, glowing embers. No matter where you were in Romania, the scene was the same.

By the time the sky finally went dark again, no one was talking. No one had answers. Whatever was happening out there was bigger than rumors, bigger than orders, bigger than anything any of you had been prepared for. All you knew was this: the world had shifted in the span of a single night, and whatever came next would be nothing like the day before.

(More to follow. Welcome to the war.)

00:07 — North Perimeter

SSG Simmons feels the cold before he hears the sound. The wind has been dead all night, but suddenly the air shifts — a pressure change, subtle but wrong. He’s mid‑sentence on the radio when the horizon flickers. A thin, bright lance of fire claws upward into the clouds. Then another. Then five more.
He lowers the handset.
"Aw, hell…"
The sky blooms like a furnace door opening.

---

00:08 — Motorpool

Elvis is elbow‑deep in a gutted HMMWV when the world flashes white. The wrench slips from his hand and clatters across the concrete. He ducks instinctively, heart hammering, then crawls out from under the chassis.
A transport roars overhead — low, too low — engines screaming like they’re tearing themselves apart. Sparks trail from the port side.
Elvis whispers, "That ain’t right…"
Then the horizon erupts in a fireball big enough to silhouette the entire motorpool.

---

00:09 — East Treeline

Caleb Wolfe is already awake, notebook open on his knee, when the first concussion rolls through the ground. He steps out of the tent and watches the sky twist with tracer arcs.
A second aircraft punches through the clouds, banking hard, chased by missile trails that glow like white-hot brushstrokes.
Wolfe doesn’t wait for orders. He slings his rifle, taps his team awake with a sharp whisper, and starts moving toward the airfield.
Something massive is happening, and he intends to see it with his own eyes.

---

00:10 — Southern Approach Road

Jason Black is in the middle of an argument over a map grid when the sky lights up like a broken aurora. The other soldier stops talking.
Black steps outside the tent flap and watches a C‑17 lumber across the sky, its silhouette framed by swirling fire.
Then a "star" detonates against a second aircraft — a direct hit. The explosion blooms like a sunburst, debris scattering in a slow, terrible arc.
Black mutters, "That’s not a raid… that’s a slaughter."
He’s already moving before anyone calls for Charlie Company to stand to.

---

00:11 — Replacement Barracks

Justin, Dr. Cristea, and Clank are jolted awake by a deep, rolling thunder that rattles the bunk frames.
Justin is at the window first.
"Holy—"
The sky is alive. Tracers arc upward in glowing orange spirals. Missile trails twist like white serpents. A transport limps overhead, one engine coughing flame.
Clank is already pulling on boots.
Doc is frozen, staring at the horizon as another explosion lights the clouds from below.
Outside, the airfield sirens begin to wail.

---

00:12 — West of Bucharest

Rooster McCain hears the sky before he sees it. The partisans around him stop walking, heads tilted. The distant horizon pulses with orange light, reflected off low clouds.
One of the Romanians crosses himself.
Rooster doesn’t.
He just watches the flickering glow and feels the vibration through the earth.
Whatever’s happening out there… it’s big enough to shake the night.

---

00:13 — North of Sibiu

Anastasia Kharchenko’s convoy brakes hard on a mountain road as the sky flashes like distant artillery. The escorts spill out, scanning the horizon.
She steps out into the cold air and watches the distant glow ripple across the clouds.
The men whisper about omens.
Ana says nothing.
She simply watches the sky burn and knows — with a quiet, cold certainty — that she is heading toward the center of something catastrophic.

---

00:14 — Airfield Proper

The first transport hits the runway hard, skidding sideways, sparks showering across the tarmac. Ground crews scatter.
Simmons sees it from the perimeter.
Elvis sees it from the motorpool.
Wolfe sees it as he breaks from the treeline.
Black sees it as he sprints toward the southern fence.
Justin, Doc, and Clank see it from the barracks steps.
Rooster sees the glow from miles away.
Ana sees the reflection in the clouds.

The night is no longer quiet.
The sky is no longer safe.
And every one of them feels the same thing in their gut:
This moment changes everything.

Charlie Company Forward Operating Base
21FEB99
0004 hrs

The map table vibrates before anyone hears the sound. A low, subsonic tremor rolls through the plywood floor, rattling coffee cups and making the lanterns sway. CPT Lee Adams looks up first, brow tightening. "That wasn’t artillery," he says, voice low. He’s been in-country long enough to know the difference between something exploding nearby and something exploding big.

1LT Kestra Thrace is already moving toward the flap, hand resting on the edge of the map as if steadying herself against a shift in gravity. She pushes it aside and steps into the cold. The sky to the north flickers — once, twice — then splits open with a rising column of fire. "Sir…" she calls back, not taking her eyes off the horizon. "You need to see this."

SFC McBride joins her, chewing dead gum like it’s keeping him alive. He squints upward as a distant silhouette claws through the clouds — a heavy transport, engines screaming, banking too hard to be controlled. "That bird’s hit," he mutters. "Bad." Another flash lights the underbelly of the clouds, followed by a rolling thunder that makes the tent poles shiver.

Adams steps out beside them, jaw set. "What the hell is going on up there?"

He doesn’t get an answer — not from the sky, anyway.

The radio on the table crackles, spits static, then resolves into a broken, panicked transmission:
"—multiple inbound— taking fire— God, they’re everywhere— flares aren’t—"
A burst of static swallows the rest.

Thrace’s eyes track a second aircraft as it punches through the cloud deck, chased by spiraling tracer fire that looks almost beautiful against the swirling night. "That’s not random," she says quietly. "They’re walking the fire onto the flight path."

McBride exhales through his nose. "Means they knew the route."

Inside the TOC, 1SG Marshall Adams (no relation) steps closer to the map, listening to the sky like it’s speaking a language only old soldiers understand. "Sir… if those are ours, they’re coming in hot and blind. We’re gonna have wounded. Maybe worse."

Another explosion blooms overhead — a starburst of orange and white that momentarily turns the entire valley into daylight. A transport silhouette tumbles through it, trailing fire like a comet.

Thrace flinches, but only slightly. "That one’s not making it."

Adams doesn’t argue. He just nods once, sharply, and turns back into the TOC. "Get Charlie Company ready to move. We’re still stepping off for the ridge at first light — unless the world ends before then."

McBride gives Thrace a look — not fear, not doubt, just the grim acknowledgment between two people who know the night has changed shape around them.

Outside, the sky continues to burn.
Inside, the TOC comes alive with orders, boots, and the cold certainty that whatever they planned an hour ago no longer fits the world they’re standing in.

THE MORNING AFTER — 21 FEB 1999

Replacement Company — 0640 Hours

Dawn comes late and gray, the kind of light that doesn’t so much rise as seep into the world. The Replacement Company forms up outside the barracks, boots crunching on frost‑stiff gravel. No one slept well. The night sky still feels burned into their retinas — the tracer spirals, the falling silhouettes, the fireball that turned the horizon into a false sunrise.

Justin keeps glancing north, toward the thin column of smoke still rising beyond the ridge. Dr. Cristea stands beside him, silent, hands shoved deep into his pockets as if trying to keep the cold from getting inside his bones. Clank is the only one moving with purpose, checking straps, adjusting gear, trying to keep his mind on the practical because the alternative is thinking about the sound that woke them — that deep, rolling thunder that didn’t belong to any storm.

A sergeant from HQ briefs them quickly: a transport went down in the hills, beyond the ridge Charlie Company is moving to secure. The Replacement Company isn’t going up there — not yet — but they’re now part of the support chain. Casualty handling. Perimeter reinforcement. Eyes open for follow‑on activity. The Soviets will have seen the same fireball everyone else did.

Someone mutters, "They’ll come looking."
No one disagrees.

As they shoulder their gear and move out toward their assigned sectors, the smoke on the horizon curls upward like a signal none of them know how to read.

---

3rd Platoon — 0655 Hours

Charlie Company stepped off in a staggered line a hour ago, breath fogging in the cold morning air. Their briefing had changed overnight. 3rd Platoon, tasked with direct protection of the downed aircraft, climbed the ridge with the quiet focus of people who already know what they’re walking toward. The ground is still churned from the night’s shockwaves — loose dirt, broken branches, a faint chemical tang drifting on the wind.

LT Kestra Thrace leads from the front, eyes scanning the treeline, mind already mapping angles of approach and likely observation points. She doesn’t say much. She doesn’t need to. The ridge feels wrong — not hostile yet, but watched.

SSG McBride walks just behind her, jaw tight, boots finding the quietest path by instinct. He’s been in enough fights to recognize the signs: the silence that isn’t natural, the birds that haven’t returned, the way the air seems to hold its breath. "They’ll probe us," he says quietly. Thrace nods once. They both know it’s coming.

When they crest the ridge, the reason for their mission becomes impossible to miss.

Below them, half‑hidden by trees and a shallow fold in the terrain, lies the wreckage of the downed transport. Smoke still rises from the torn fuselage, drifting in thin, ghostly ribbons. The impact scar cuts through the forest like a wound. Debris glints in the morning light — metal, fabric, something that might once have been a wing. "This is why we’re here," McBride says, voice low. "We hold this ground. We keep the Soviets off it. Whatever’s in that aircraft stays in our hands."

Thrace studies the terrain. The ridge is a natural shield — high ground, good sightlines, defensible. But it’s also a beacon. Anyone with half a brain and a map would know the Americans would move to protect the crash site.

McBride voices it first. "They’ll come for it. Not a question of if."

Thrace exhales slowly. "Then we make sure we’re ready."

3rd Platoon fans out, establishing positions, digging in, setting fields of fire. The morning is cold, but the air hums with tension — the kind that settles in just before the first test of a new line.

Below them, the wreckage smolders.
Above them, the sky is quiet for now.
And somewhere beyond the treeline, unseen eyes are already watching.

21FEB99
0705HRS

THE PROBE

3rd Platoon reached the ridge just after 0705, breath steaming in the cold morning air as they relieved 1st Platoon. The handoff was quick — tired faces, soot‑stained sleeves, a few muttered warnings about dead ground near the wreckage. The downed transport lay below them like a torn metal carcass, smoke drifting upward in thin, uncertain ribbons. As 1st Platoon pulled back, 3rd Platoon settled into the fighting positions and immediately began improving them — tightening sandbags, adjusting sectors, scraping deeper into the frozen soil.

By 0708, Thrace had already sent three soldiers to the OP to relieve the scouts who’d been watching the slope since the crash. The rest of the platoon checked gear, confirmed ammo, and walked their fields of fire. The ridge felt exposed, but it was the only ground that made sense — the only place to guard what lay broken below.

A few minutes later, around 0715, McBride moved along the line, checking range cards with the quiet intensity of a man who’d seen too many fights start with sloppy math. Thrace radioed TOC, reporting the platoon in position. The air was still, the forest below unnervingly quiet.

That quiet broke at 0727, when the OP reported movement downslope — distant shapes, too far to identify. Thrace relayed the report and told the OP to hold eyes on. The ridge tightened, every soldier instinctively lowering their profile, listening to the wind for anything that didn’t belong.

By 0733, the OP had eyes on multiple groups moving tactically toward the crash site. Two thousand meters. Coordinated. Intentional. Thrace passed the update to TOC, and McBride moved to the SAW teams, murmuring reminders about discipline and fire control.

Five minutes later, at 0738, the first shots cracked across the valley. The OP was taking fire — controlled bursts, not harassment. Four groups confirmed, closing fast. Tentative ID: Soviet Naval Infantry. AKs, OT‑14s, RPKs. Thrace fired off a SALUTE report while McBride crouched beside the SAW gunners, ready to give the order.

But the OP opened up first — short, sharp bursts of return fire. McBride didn’t hesitate. "Send it!" The SAWs roared to life, stitching suppression across the slope. The Soviets kept coming, undeterred.

By 0750, they were within 350 meters of the wreckage. McBride signaled the designated marksmen, who began picking targets with cold precision. 1st Squad shifted around the ridge, moving low and fast to cover the blind spot created by the torn fuselage.

Two minutes later, the first Soviet casualties fell — three men dropping almost simultaneously under the combined fire of the DMs and SAWs. But the enemy didn’t break. They tightened their formation and pushed forward.

At 0755, 1st Squad radioed they were in position. Thrace gave the nod, and seconds later the ridge erupted in enfilade fire — rifles, SAWs, and the heavy thump of two M203s, each sending two HE rounds arcing into the advancing elements. The explosions staggered the Soviets, finally forcing them to slow, then falter.

What happened next froze the ridge for a heartbeat. Around 0758, one of the Soviet leaders stepped to three wounded men and put rounds into each of them — quick, efficient, merciless. Then he signaled the retreat.

By 0800, the last of the Soviets had slipped back into the treeline, dragging most of their dead and wounded with them. Thrace reported contact broken. The ridge exhaled as one.

Ten minutes later, 1st Squad returned to their original positions. The morning felt heavier now — the kind of weight that settles in after you realize the first fight was only a test.

At 0815, Thrace and McBride met with the squad leaders behind a low rise. No one agreed on the exact number of enemy casualties. No one on the line had been hit. The OP hadn’t been so lucky — two soldiers bleeding but stable, a third unconscious with a dented helmet and a concussion that would need real medical attention.

Then, at 0817, the OP reported possible movement on both flanks — faint shapes, uncertain numbers. Thrace immediately radioed TOC, requesting permission to recover the wounded.

The answer came back cold and final:
"Negative. Hold positions. No immediate action."

Thrace lowered the handset slowly, eyes fixed on the treeline.

The morning wasn’t done with them yet.

21FEB99
0727-0800

Charlie Company Tactical Operations Center, Cluj Airfield

The TOC had been humming with the low‑grade tension of a unit running on too little sleep and too much uncertainty when the first report came in from the ridge. SP4 Sinclair, hunched over the radios with a pencil behind his ear, stiffened as the static sharpened into a voice.

"Movement downslope… two‑five hundred meters… no ID."

He looked up. "Sir—OP’s got eyes on something."

CPT Ikerson stepped closer to the table, one hand braced on the map, the other hovering near the handset. His expression didn’t change, but the room shifted around him — the subtle tightening of posture that meant everyone else felt it too.

1LT Conaway leaned over Sinclair’s shoulder, listening. "Could be civilians," she offered, but her tone said she didn’t believe it.

CPT Lee Adams, the battalion S2, didn’t even look up from the map he was annotating. "Not at that distance. Not moving tactically."

1SG Adams crossed his arms, jaw tightening. "They’re sniffing the wreck."

Ikerson didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Minutes later, Sinclair’s radio flared again — sharper this time, breathless.

"Multiple groups… two thousand meters… movement is tactical."

Conaway exhaled slowly. "There it is."

S2 Adams circled a contour line with his grease pencil. "They’re coming straight up the valley. They know exactly where that bird went down."

SFC Ike Gill, the SF recon scout waiting on SSG Red White’s return, stepped closer to the map. "Naval Infantry doctrine says they’ll probe first. Small elements. Test the line. Then push harder."

Franks, the supply sergeant, muttered, "Hell of a morning for it."

Wyler, the armorer, didn’t speak — she just watched the radio like it might bite.

Then the OP’s voice cracked through the net — louder, strained, gunfire audible behind the words.

"Taking fire! Four groups—fifteen hundred meters—tentative ID Soviet Naval Infantry—AKs, OT‑14s—RPKs—"

The transmission dissolved into static and shouted commands.

The TOC froze.

Ikerson didn’t. "Sinclair — get me Thrace. Now."

Sinclair switched frequencies with practiced speed. Thrace’s voice came through immediately, calm despite the chaos behind her. "Enemy closing. Returning fire. Ridge holding."

Conaway leaned in. "Ask her if the OP can break contact."

Before Sinclair could transmit, another burst of gunfire bled through the net — closer, harsher. Someone at the OP screamed for a medic. The sound cut short.

1SG Adams swore under his breath. "They’re getting hammered."

S2 Adams tapped the map again. "They’re not trying to flank. They’re driving straight for the wreckage."

Gill nodded. "They want whatever’s in that fuselage."

Ikerson’s jaw tightened. "And they’re not getting it."

The next transmission was Thrace again — clipped, controlled. "Enemy within three‑five‑zero meters of the wreck. Engaging with DMs and 1st Squad repositioning."

Conaway looked at Ikerson. "Sir… if they push any harder—"

"They won’t," Ikerson said, but the words were more hope than certainty.

Then came the report that made the room go silent.

"Enemy leader executing their wounded… pulling back… contact breaking."

Wyler whispered, "What the hell…"

Gill didn’t blink. "They’re clearing their trail. They’ll be back."

Ikerson straightened. "Sinclair — get me casualty numbers."

The reply came in pieces — two wounded at the OP, bleeding controlled for now; a third unconscious, helmet dented by a glancing round. No casualties on the line.

Conaway’s voice softened. "We need to get those kids out of there."

Ikerson nodded once. "Request recovery."

Sinclair transmitted. The reply from battalion came back cold and immediate:

"Negative. Hold positions. No movement until further notice."

1SG Adams stared at the radio like he wanted to break it. "They’ll die out there if we wait too long."

Ikerson didn’t disagree. He just looked at the map — at the ridge, the wreck, the valley below — and felt the weight of the decision he wasn’t allowed to make.

Then the OP called again — faint, strained, barely audible.

"…possible movement… both flanks…"

Gill stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "They’re setting up the next push."

Ikerson exhaled slowly, the air in the TOC turning colder.

"Everyone stand by," he said. "This isn’t over."

And outside, beyond the canvas walls, the ridge waited for the next blow.

21FEB99
0800 to 1030 HOURS

THE LULL

Ridge Overlooking the Crash Site, 3rd Platoon

When the last Soviet shapes vanished into the treeline and the gunfire tapered off, the ridge didn’t relax — it just went quiet in a different way. The kind of quiet that feels like a held breath.

The smoke from the wreck drifted lazily upward, thinning as the morning warmed. The frost began to melt in patches, turning the dirt into cold mud beneath elbows and knees. The platoon stayed low, weapons trained outward, eyes burning from the strain of staring at the same treeline for too long.

McBride moved the line like a ghost, checking ammo, checking eyes, checking hands. He didn’t say much — just a nod here, a tap on a shoulder there. The kind of leadership that keeps people from thinking too hard about what almost happened.

Thrace stayed near the center, radio close, scanning the valley with binoculars. Every shift of shadow, every flicker of movement in the brush made her muscles tighten. She knew the Soviets weren’t done. The first push had been too coordinated, too disciplined. They’d be back — and next time, they’d come smarter.

The wounded at the OP were the weight everyone felt but no one talked about. Their voices came through the radio in short, strained bursts — pain, shallow breathing, the medic doing what he could with what he had. Thrace requested recovery twice. Both times, TOC denied it. "Hold positions. No movement."

The platoon hated it. They obeyed anyway.

By 0900, the adrenaline had burned off, leaving a cold, metallic fatigue in its place. Soldiers rotated positions, sipped water, checked magazines again and again. The designated marksmen glassed the valley in slow, methodical sweeps. The SAW gunners cleaned their feed trays with shaking hands.

The forest stayed still.

By 0930, the sun had climbed high enough to cast long shadows across the slope. The crash site below looked almost peaceful from a distance — a torn, smoking scar in the earth, surrounded by trees that hadn’t yet realized the world had changed.

But the ridge knew.

Every soldier felt it — that sense of being watched. Not by one pair of eyes, but by many. The Soviets were out there, repositioning, regrouping, waiting for the moment when the Americans blinked.

Thrace didn’t blink.

She kept the platoon tight, kept the sectors covered, kept the radio close. She checked on the OP again — the medic reported the unconscious man still breathing, the other two stable but weakening. She requested recovery again. TOC denied it again.

McBride muttered, "They’re gonna hit us before we can move those kids."

Thrace didn’t disagree.

By 1000, the ridge had settled into a tense rhythm — watch, breathe, listen, wait. The kind of waiting that grinds at nerves and makes every twig snap sound like a rifle bolt.

The wind shifted around 1015, carrying the faintest scent of cordite from somewhere far downslope. Thrace caught it first. McBride caught it a second later. Neither said anything at first.

Then the OP whispered over the radio — barely audible, voice thin with pain and fear:

"…hearing movement… both sides… can’t see them…"

Thrace keyed her mic, voice steady. "OP, hold position. Stay low. We’ve got you."

She turned to McBride. "They’re setting up."

He nodded once. "Yeah. And they’re close."

By 1030, the ridge was silent again — but it wasn’t the quiet of safety.

It was the quiet of a second wave gathering in the trees.

The kind of quiet that comes right before the world explodes.

This is the Ambush that was posted in the Games Tavern in my Recruitment thread and that LT Thrace wrote about to CPT Lee Adams in the original Interest Thread, just from a different perspective.

21FEB99
1030 hrs onward

Ridge Overlooking the Crash Site — Late Morning

The ridge had settled into a brittle stillness by mid‑morning. The smoke from the wreck drifted in thin, wavering lines. The OP’s wounded were still alive — barely — their voices thin and strained over the radio. Thrace had requested recovery three times. TOC had denied it three times.

By 1030, the tension was a living thing.

McBride crouched beside Thrace behind a low rise. "They’re not done," he murmured. "They’re waiting for us to move."

Thrace didn’t disagree. She kept her binoculars on the treeline, watching for the slightest shift of shadow.

At 1040, the OP medic came over the net — voice tight, breath ragged.
"…one’s fading… need evac soon…"

That did it.

Thrace keyed her mic. "TOC, 3rd Platoon. Request permission for 1st and 2nd Squads to move down and recover OP casualties."

A long pause. Then:
"Approved. Move fast. Keep the ridge covered."

McBride didn’t waste a second. He signaled 1st and 2nd Squads forward. "Light and fast. No bunching. Watch your spacing. They’ll be waiting."

The squads moved off the ridge in a staggered file, slipping down the slope toward the OP — a shallow scrape halfway down the hillside, barely visible through the brush. The forest was quiet. Too quiet.

Thrace watched them go, a knot tightening in her chest. "They’re exposed," she said softly.

McBride nodded. "That’s the point."

Halfway down the slope, the world snapped.

A single rifle crack — precise, close — tore through the stillness. Then another. Then a third. Controlled. Coordinated.

"Contact front!" someone shouted.

The treeline erupted.

Automatic fire poured out in a sudden, violent sheet — not probing, not testing, but a full, deliberate ambush. Muzzles flashed from multiple angles, low and fast, sweeping the slope where 1st and 2nd Squads were moving.

Thrace’s voice cut through the chaos. "Break contact! Break contact! Get to cover!"

But the Soviets had planned this well.

They’d waited until the squads were off the ridge, halfway down, with no hard cover and no good angles. Fire came from both flanks — tight, disciplined bursts, the kind fired by men who’d rehearsed this exact moment.

McBride grabbed the radio. "3rd Squad — suppressing fire! Now!"

The ridge lit up as 3rd Squad opened up — rifles, SAWs, M203s — pouring fire into the treeline to cover the trapped squads below.

But the Soviets weren’t aiming at the ridge.

They were aiming at the men on the slope.

Rounds snapped through branches, kicked up dirt, tore through brush inches from helmets. The Americans dove behind whatever cover they could find — fallen logs, shallow depressions, anything.

"Where the hell are they?!" someone shouted.

"Everywhere!" another voice yelled back.

Thrace scanned the treeline, heart hammering. The enemy was close — too close — moving in small, disciplined teams, bounding forward under covering fire. They weren’t trying to wipe out the squads.

They were trying to reach the OP.

To take prisoners.

McBride saw it too. "They’re pushing for the OP! They want those wounded alive!"

Thrace keyed her mic. "All elements — shift fire to the east flank! Do not let them reach that OP!"

The ridge roared again, fire pouring into the treeline. The Soviets faltered — just for a moment — then pushed harder, firing as they moved, grenades arcing out in tight, practiced throws.

Down the slope, 1st Squad’s leader shouted, "We’re pinned! Need more suppression!"

McBride didn’t hesitate. "3rd Squad — danger close! Send it!"

The SAWs barked, stitching fire dangerously near friendly positions but forcing the Soviets to drop and scatter.

For a moment — just a moment — the pressure eased.

Then the OP came over the net — a whisper, barely audible.

"…they’re… right on top of us…"

Thrace felt the bottom drop out of her stomach.

McBride’s voice was a low growl. "They’re gonna overrun the OP."

Thrace keyed her mic, voice sharp and steady. "All squads — push forward! Do not let them take that OP!"

The ridge exploded into motion.

Americans surged down the slope under covering fire, Soviets pushing up from below, the two forces colliding in a chaotic, brutal fight for the wounded men lying in the dirt.

The ambush had begun.

And the ridge was about to become a killing ground.

————-

The moment 1st and 2nd Squads stepped off the ridge, the forest seemed to tighten around them. The air felt heavier. The wind died. Even the birds went silent. Thrace watched them descend the slope, a knot forming in her stomach. McBride felt it too — that instinctive sense that the enemy was out there, waiting.

Halfway down, the first shot cracked through the stillness — sharp, precise, close.

"Contact front!" someone shouted.

Then the treeline erupted.

Automatic fire poured out in a sudden, coordinated burst, sweeping the slope where the squads were moving. The Soviets had waited for this exact moment — the Americans off the ridge, exposed, committed to the rescue.

Thrace keyed her mic instantly. "Break contact! Get to cover!"

But the Soviets were already shifting, bounding between trees, firing in controlled bursts. They weren’t trying to pin the squads down — they were trying to reach the OP.

McBride saw it immediately. "They’re pushing for the wounded! They want them alive!"

The OP medic’s voice came over the net — strained, breathless.
"…they’re close… can hear them moving…"

1st Squad dove behind whatever cover they could find — fallen logs, shallow depressions, anything. 2nd Squad spread out, returning fire in short, disciplined bursts. But the enemy was close, moving with practiced coordination.

Thrace raised her voice over the radio. "3rd Squad — suppressing fire! Now!"

The ridge lit up. SAWs barked, rifles cracked, and M203s thumped as 3rd Squad poured fire into the treeline to cover the trapped squads below. Dirt and bark flew as rounds struck the slope, forcing the Soviets to drop and scatter.

For a moment, the pressure eased.

Then the OP came over the net again — a whisper, barely audible.

"…they’re… right on top of us…"

Thrace felt her pulse spike. "All squads — shift fire east! Do not let them reach that OP!"

The Americans surged forward under covering fire, pushing down the slope. The Soviets pressed upward, trying to close the last distance to the wounded. The two forces collided in a chaotic, desperate fight for control of the hillside.

1st Squad’s leader shouted, "We’re moving! Cover us!"

2nd Squad shifted fire, creating a narrow corridor of relative safety. The squad leaders coordinated by instinct — short, sharp commands, hand signals, the kind of communication that comes from training and fear in equal measure.

The Soviets pushed again, trying to flank, but McBride was already there, redirecting fire, adjusting angles, keeping the platoon knitted together under pressure.

"Keep them off that OP!" he barked.

The Americans pushed harder.

The Soviets faltered.

Then, finally, the pressure broke. The enemy fire tapered off, then stopped entirely. Shapes slipped back into the treeline, moving fast, carrying their wounded with them. The forest swallowed them whole.

The ridge held.

The OP was still in American hands.

Thrace exhaled, lowering the radio. "TOC, contact broken. OP secure for now."

But she didn’t relax.
Neither did McBride.
Neither did anyone on the ridge.

Because the Soviets had pulled back too cleanly.
Too deliberately.

This wasn’t the end.
It was just the first round.

Thrace quickly surveyed the scene. The enemy had pulled back. A fog had begun moving in and somehow, neither squad had taken any additional casualties. She quickly motivated the squads to get to their assigned tasks.

First Squad settles into a rough half‑circle around the OP. They’re breathing hard from the short rush up the slope, but they’ve done this a hundred times in training and more than a few times in the field. Knees in the dirt, rifles out, eyes scanning the low ground where the Soviets disappeared.

Second Squad clusters around the wounded. Anderson is elbow‑deep in bandages and pressure dressings, working fast but steady. Thrace crouches behind a jut of rock, radio handset pressed to her ear, trying to raise the platoon sergeant McBride. The stretcher bearers hover behind the rocks, close, tense, waiting for the medic’s signal.

The wind dies down for a moment, becoming eerily quiet. The fog begins to concentrate and thicken without the breeze blowing it around. But the relief is temporary as the wind picks back up and shifts, suddenly blowing up the hill and lifting the fog just a bit.

And that’s when it happens.

The first sound is a crack — not a rifle shot, but the sharp, hollow cough of an RPG‑7. It echoes off the rocks before anyone can react.

The round slams into the brush just downslope from the cluster around the wounded. The blast is a concussive hammer, a rolling wave of dust, rock chips, and shredded vegetation. The outcropping shields Anderson and Thrace, but the stretcher bearers are thrown flat, ears ringing, vision swimming.

Before the dust even settles, the rest of the Soviet line opens up.

Soviet rounds rip a long, punishing burst across First Squad’s half‑circle. The gunner is disciplined — he walks the fire, stitching the line from left to right, forcing heads down, kicking up stone splinters and dirt in violent sprays. Webb tries to return fire, but the first burst slams into the rocks inches from his face and he ducks instinctively, SAW forgotten for the moment.

The RPK gunners join in, their fire tighter, more controlled. They rake the gaps between the rocks, probing for movement. One burst finds it — a sharp cry from the right flank, then silence.

Within seconds, the half‑circle collapses into a series of isolated men pinned behind inadequate cover.

Thrace shouts orders, but the gunfire drowns her out. She tries again, louder, and this time Hayes hears him. The squad leader drags himself to a better position, firing short, controlled bursts downslope, trying to give First Squad some breathing room.
It’s not enough.

Hawkins tries to rally his men, shouting for them to shift fire left, but every attempt to reposition draws another punishing burst. Evans, the grenadier, manages to get his M203 up. The explosion is distant, muffled — too far. He tries to load another, but a burst of AK fire forces him flat again.

Webb finally gets the SAW up and firing. Immediately, a brutal, hammering burst that tears through the brush around him. He drops back behind cover, shaken, weapon silent. The squad is pinned, fragmented, overwhelmed.

This is not a probing attack, not a half-assed ambush.This is a deliberate, well‑executed ambush meant to break the American forward element before they can react.

Nobody notices the wind shift again, but slowly, the fog begins to drop. A whistle sounds clearly from down the hill. Someone hears something shouted in Russian and as sudden as it started, it seemed to be over. The battlefield is a mess of torn brush, scattered gear, the sharp, metallic smell of spent propellant and blood. It becomes ghostly quiet.

Anderson doesn’t wait for orders, sliding from one casualty to the next with the same calm, practiced urgency he had before the ambush.

The OP’s original wounded — the reason they came here — are still alive. Hayes and Powell pull the stretcher bearers back into some semblance of order. "They’re ready to move." The lieutenant doesn’t hesitate, "Second Squad, prepare to exfil the wounded."

While the stretcher bearers start moving the wounded back up the hill to the ridgeline, Anderson, Hayes and Thrace begin moving through the field, patching up the wounded when they come across them. They run across the dead, too. Carefully, they move the wounded behind the OP where the rocks will give them cover. They respectfully move the dead they come across nearby, including the three Soviets that were mercilesslly killed by their own commanding officer.

The stretcher bearers begin to relay the wounded, then the dead back up the hill where McBride set up a casualty collection point. It was as they were doing this that everyone caught the sounds of more aircraft flying by, this time much lower than the previous day. Several miles away, they heard a loud explosion. The sound was recognizable. Another aircraft had gone down.
McBride looked up from the dead he was tending to, the man's dog tags in his hand. "Damn," he muttered. Another one." He continued his grim task of dealing with each dead body. He searched the bodies of the three executed Soviets and collected a few documents and wallets, which he then put in plastic bags. Around 1130hrs, he reported to LT Thrace. "We've got one KIA, eight incapacitated, one lightly wounded. Webb's SAW is a write-off. And we have 2 men missing; Fisher and Michaels. Hawkins was hit bad. I suggest we fold the remainder of 1st squad into 2nd squad."

Thrace reports all this back to the TOC and asks for permission to begin searching for the two missing men. "Not right now," comes the reply. The position is too critical. "We will get you guys out to seach after you get relieved off the ridgeline." When Kestra Thrace asks when relief will arrive, the answer is "unknown, probably after dark." About that time, the reason begins to become apparent. Another aircraft flies over head.

(more to come tomorrow. It is taking me a bit longer to string this stuff together. Blame my poor typing skills...)

Thrace remains unusually quiet after contact with the TOC. No announcement has been made, as to the missing men or their names. Soon enough, Dustoff comes and takes the platoon's dead and wounded, plus the three Soviets. But over the next hour, deductions are quietly made. And then the whispers begin. "Someone is missing." "No, it's more." "Who is missing?" "I counted nine of ours getting on the chopper." "No, it was 12." "No, nine. Plus the three Soviets." "Damn, that's a whole squad right there!"

Someone does a quick head count and roll call in his head. "Guys, I think it's Fisher and Michaels." "Really, Fisher and Michaels?" "Were they captured?" "I couldn't see them from where I was." "I think I saw Michaels dragging Fisher." "We can't leave them down there."

During lunch, whispers grow more desprite. There's talk of forming an ad hoc rescue party even without orders. The hill has been quiet since everyone else was brought back to the ridge. "Maybe the Soviets have gone." "No way, they want what's left of the plane." "Still, we can't just leave them down there. Even if they are dead. Y'all remember what happened in Somalia several years ago."

The whispers get back to SGT Hayes, the 2nd Squad Leader. He sits on it for a little while. He has been thinking the same thing. He starts putting together who he might take. He settles on Rickers, Wallace and Moore. Quietly, he moves between them and tells them about his plan. That movement draws McBride's eye. He moves quietly within earshot as Hayes lays out his plan. McBride let's him lay it all out; sometimes people have a need to get it all out before they will listen to you.

"Dead bodies draw more dead bodies," he says in a quiet voice that somehow booms and rings in the ears of the conspirators. "Maybe they are down there unconscious. Maybe they've been captured. The result will be the same. You saw what happened when we went to get the wounded out of the OP. That's why we must wait until dark. We will find out. And we will recover our own. But right now, I need everyone's eyes watching for signs of Soviet return."

------

The day carries on and eventually, the fog is finally gone. Every 45 minutes to an hour, the air fills with the increasingly familiar sounds of cargo aircraft flying in and distant Soviet attempts to stop in. No sign of followup enemy activity is detected, although everyone is on edge. Every time a twig snaps, two or three soldiers snap their weapons in that direction.

They say the sun sets quickly in the mountains. But what they don't tell you is that in the Carpathians... in the shadow of the history of Vlad the Impaler, night doesn't just come quickly. It slams down like a mechanic's garage on Christmas Eve! It doesn't help the restlessness in the platoon. But soon enough, Thrace gets with McBride and tells him to round up some volunteers to go out and find their men.

McBride passes this instruction down to Hayes, who quickly collects the other three conspirators and the five of them set off down the hill to search first squad's positions during the ambush. It's not until 1925hrs that they come across both men. Michaels, his hands still clutching Fisher's plate carrier was clearly shot in the head. McBride verifies his status. KIA. Fisher, also KIA, has multiple fragments and bullet holes. The men separate the bodies and begin to carry them back up the slope to the rest of the platoon.

Time seems to slow down and yet passes quickly once they get back up to the rest of the platoon. Some time after 2300hrs, everyone is surprised by nearby antiaircraft guns firing and the familiar sound of C-130 engines. Someone asks if we are shooting at our own aircraft now. "No, that's Soviet Ack-Ack. How the hell did they manage to get this close!" Of course, the entire day might well point to that, but about that time, there is an explosion in the sky. Suddenly, the C-130's Allison engines start sounding wrong. Someone spots flames in the sky, painting the airframe. "It's still under control... They might make the airfield!" McBride has seen this before. "Nope. They are losing too much altitude and they didn't have much of that to begin with."

A few moments later, McBride's prophecy is played out as they witness the aircraft disappear behind some trees and the distinct sounds of a large aircraft tearing itself apart can be heard. But no explosion. Instead, the sky slowly lightens up as the cargo aircraft begins to burn. Thrace's radio crackles. "CHAOS 1-6, CHAOS 6. Continue Oscar Mike to relieve CHAOS 3-6. BREAK. CHAOS 3-6, Priority tasking. Once relieved, move directly to the crash site to your northwest. Upon arrival, search for survivors and secure the site until Outlaw 2-6 arrives. How Copy? Over." "CHAOS 6, CHAOS 1-6, wilco. ETA 20 mike. Over." Thrace keys her mic, "CHAOS 6, CHAOS 3-6. Copy all. Wilco. Over."

She looks at McBride. Exhaustion shows in her eyes briefly, then steel. No words need pass between them, McBride just nods and turns to get everyone ready to move. Just after midnight, having been relieved by 1st platoon, the remains of 3rd platoon finally step off the line. Half an hour later, and they see the broken C-130 in flames through the woods. The midsection, where the wings were, is on fire. The tail section is smoldering and one of the crew comes staggering out of it. The distinctive front section is upright with a few sparks shooting from some wires still connected to the batteries.

3rd platoon doesn't need to be told what to do. Anderson instantly heads toward the staggering crewman. Weapons squad along with 3rd squad begin setting up a perimeter. Hayes and second squad head toward the other pieces of the plane. By the time they get there, the center section is blazing and so hot that the aluminum skin is beginning to melt. Hayes heads into the cockpit. The pilot is slumped over the control column with a hole through the left side of his helmet. The crew chief is unresponsive and sprawled across the lower engine panels. The copilot is conscious and gibbering something about "checklists". The navigator is slumped over his desk at the rear of the cockpit, but is beginning to regain consciousness.

Hayes calls out "Medic!" then he gets on the radio and calls to Thrace, reporting that he has 4 crew in the cockpit. The copilot and navigator are groggy but awake. The pilot and flight engineer are unresponsive. A moment later, Anderson, having already triaged the first crewman they saw, comes up the steps to the cockpit. He checks for a pulse on the pilot, then on the flight engineer. Both are dead. When he pulls the flight engineer back off the panel, the cause is immediately obvious... a large piece of plexiglass from one of the many windscreens pierced through his chest. As more help arrives, Anderson helps get the Navigator out, then the copilot. Then as he leaves the cockpit to treat the wounded, Hayes is surprised by another voice, a young Senior Airman who mutters, "I tried to get Diesel out. I really did. But it was too late."

Hayes (after his heart rate recovers) says kindly, "It's ok. We will get him out for you. Just go on down and see our doc." As the kid is heading out, McBride comes in and surveys the situation. With his help, Hayes is able to get the engineer and then the pilot out and away from the aircraft. They set them both down respectfully.

Its not until almost 0200 that they begin to hear the sound of diesel engines. A few minutes later, two 5-ton trucks and two HMMWVs appear at the edge of the field with a platoon from Alpha Company jumping out and hustling over to take over the security positions 3rd platoon had hastily set up. By 0230, with positions fully swapped out and 3rd platoon properly relieved and the platoon, their dead and the survivors and recovered dead of what they now know as Boxer 02 are all loaded and the trucks begin the half hour trek back to the Company FOB.

Over the next several days, Charlie Company learns the fate of those who were medivac'd from the ridge.
The first report is the hardest and comes as they are returning from the crash site.

Evans.
Evans never made it to the field hospital. He was gone before the Blackhawk even touched down. The medics say it was quick. The platoon doesn’t find comfort in that, but they nod anyway, because they don’t know what else to do.

Webb
The next update comes mid‑morning.
Despite everything the PJs and combat doctors did — despite the blood transfusions, the pressure dressings, the frantic work in the back of the helicopter — Webb’s system couldn’t recover from the blood loss. He passed away shortly after arrival. The news hits the SAW gunners hardest. Rose sits alone for a long time, staring at the floor, hands clenched so tightly they shake.

Sgt. Hawkins
Hawkins is alive.
He lost a significant amount of lung tissue, but the surgeons are confident he’ll pull through. He’s stable, breathing on his own, and expected to survive.
But he’s out of the fight.
Everyone knows it.
Hawkins knows it too.

Grant
Grant wasn’t evacuated initially — he woke up groggy but coherent, insisting he was fine. But Anderson wasn’t convinced. The medic checked him again, saw the nausea, the uneven pupils, the delayed responses. Within minutes, Grant was on a stretcher headed for the field hospital for observation. The platoon trusts Anderson implicitly. If he says someone needs evac, they go.
Grant is the only one who returns a few days later.

DeStefano
DeStefano is stable, but he has a collapsed lung and a shattered scapula. He has insisted in staying in-theater and wants to do his part, but the doctors have overruled him, sending him back to Germany and later to England for full recovery and physical therapy.

Much of the same ends up for the OP team of Palmer, Quillen and Sims. The likelihood of their return is slim and won't happen any time soon.
_______

News of a more cheerful sort, the aircraft keep coming. From the survivors of Boxer 02, the platoon and soon the whole company learns that the airlift is a massive effort to supply forward troops with fresh gear and the ability to replenish and refurbish called "Operation: LIFELINE". The massive airlift is providing both the Romanian and the Polish fronts, but will use up the last available aviation fuel for the foreseeable future. Soldiers all receive mail, but the window for return mail is narrow. LIFELINE is only expected to be able to be maintained for 5-7 days and many of the airframes will be left pretty much where they land, with those crews either flying back on later flights or having to infiltrate all the way back to the Atlantic Coast to hopefully be picked up there to return home.

--------
ORDERS:
Subject: Long‑Range Reconnaissance Patrol (LRRP) for Forward Outpost Site Selection
1. SITUATION
Enemy forces remain active in the high ground east of AO VULTURE. ISR indicates increased movement along ridge lines and suspected infiltration routes. Weather conditions continue to degrade mobility and visibility. Existing LP/OP coverage is insufficient for early warning.
2. MISSION
C Co, 2‑503rd PIR will assign a 20‑man Long‑Range Reconnaissance Patrol (LRRP) to infiltrate 45–60 km into mountainous terrain N/E of AO VULTURE to identify, assess, and report on suitable terrain for establishment of FOB‑LIMA and associated LP/OP sites.
3. EXECUTION
a. Commander’s Intent
Establish a forward presence deep in contested terrain to disrupt enemy infiltration and provide early warning. Patrol must remain undetected, self‑sustaining, and capable of independent action for AT LEAST 96 hours.
3rd Platoon remains combat‑effective but degraded following recent contact. Replacement personnel are arriving irregularly from multinational and irregular sources.

Higher HQ requires establishment of a forward outpost (FOB‑LIMA) to support persistent observation and interdiction.
3rd Platoon, Charlie Company will reconstitute combat power and prepare a 20‑man element for long‑range reconnaissance and site selection for a forward outpost (FOB‑LP/OP).

3rd Platoon authorized to pick up replacements ASAP.
Replacements authorized regardless of billeting.
Take best replacements regardless of rank.
These replacements are priority to fill slots on mission.
Assign a 20‑man detail for long‑range patrol.
Objective: locate a suitable position for a forward outpost from which to set multiple LP/OP positions.
Coordinates to follow.



Herein Ends the Prologue. Up Next, Session 0: The Replacement Company