Chapter 1: Bastogne

"Command, this is Sniper Team Sierra. Targets acquired."

I adjusted the magnification of my spotting scope, narrowing in on specific individuals.

Male. Long red hair and beard. Scarring across the right cheek and forehead. Forearm tattoo of a crest framing an intertwined lion and eagle. "Have visual on High Value Targets Griffin – "

Refocus.

Female. Brown hair with blue streaks. Blacked out eyes. Missing left index finger. " – Crow – "

Male. Bald. Mutilated tongue, forked. Green slit eyes. " – Python – "

Female. Obese. Greying blond hair. Eye patch, right eye. Leaves and vines tattooed behind the right ear, stretching down the throat. " – and Badger. Uplinking images now."

"Sierra One November, identity of occult combatants confirmed. Standby."

Occult combatants. Oscar. Also known as witches and wizards. No one knew they existed until the Vanishings ten years ago.

Dundee was the first city. A hundred fifty thousand people, gone over night. The authorities had no idea what was happening. Wild theories abounded, from large-scale corrosive biochemical attacks to alien invasion. The city and surrounding boroughs were quarantined, watched over by government security checkpoints. The Jt CBRN Regiment sent the Noddies of the 1st Royal Tank Regiment to contain the situation.

Then Aberdeen went silent.

And everything went downhill from there.

It was July twelfth, a warm summer morning. Glasgow was just waking up when a quarter million corpses descended upon the city. The men, women, and children of Aberdeen and Dundee. We call them the Reanimated. Oscar calls them "Inferi." Fast. Strong. Immune to conventional firearms.

We didn't stand a chance.

But we fought on regardless. The Armed Forces of the Crown and NATO air support engaged in a desperate delaying action as the undead horde and their Oscar handlers swept south. The Meat Grinder, the papers called it. Everyday brought news of divisions annihilated, kilometres retreated, and cities lost. Edinburgh. Manchester. London.

There were too many unknowns with Oscar. They acted, we reacted. Oscar sent Reanimated, we began using incendiary ammunition. Oscar started using active camo, we started distributing thermographic scopes. We were playing this war by their rules and it was killing us. Yes, we had our moments, learning how Oscar operated, developing strategies around their weaknesses. But for England, it was too little too late.

As the frontline collapsed towards Poole, the last major city held by English forces, it became increasingly apparent that losing the British Isles was inevitable. As Oscar and his Reanimated marched on Poole, the decision was made to evacuate what was left of the English population to the continent. Fourteen thousand survivors, including military personnel.

Four squadrons of the Special Boat Service volunteered to hold the city in an effort to buy time for the evacuation. Any and every flight- and sea-worthy vehicle was press-ganged into service, to pull the survivors out of the conflict zone. Squadrons C, X, M, and Z set up a defensive perimeter around Poole. Outnumbered, out gunned, surrounded with no hope of escape. They were six hundred against six million.

The SBS held the city for a week. When they ran out of ammunition for their primaries, they fought on with their side arms. When they ran out of ammunition for their side arms, they fought hand to hand, room to room, prolonging the enemy's mop-up and clear operations.

Their blood bought the RAF and private citizens of England enough time to evacuate ten thousand survivors.

I was one of the ten thousand lucky ones. My name is Torrance Winters. Yes, that Torrance Winters. Socialite. Celebutante. The shipping heiress turned model that made weekly headlines with her inability to wear knickers and general incompetence at operating expensive motor vehicles. Pictures of me could feed a paparazzo's family for a month. I was a nineteen year old with a drinking problem. I was an idiot.

Two years in the refugee camps and eight years of combat fixed that.

"Command, lock down protocols are in effect."

"Copy that, White Hat."

White Hats. Wizards collaborating with our armed forces. They joined us just after the invasion of France. Apparently, there were two factions within the Wizarding population: the Hawks and the Dovish. There was some sort of internal conflict, a civil war. Ideological differences regarding us "Muggles," they said. Whatever it was, it didn't end well for the Dovish. When the dust settled, most of them had been wiped out and the Hawks decided to launch their war against conventional human beings. Through some combination of survival instinct and moral outrage, the Dovish joined our ranks.

And let me tell you, the White Hats were damn useful, especially regarding information on Oscar's capabilities and the nullification of certain Oscar abilities.

Like sodding teleportation.

Unfortunately, even with their help, we weren't able to reverse engineer Oscar's more useful inventions. Like say, active camo. Invisibility Cloaks, I believe they're called. Those things would have been bloody useful for this assignment. As it was, Jeffrey and I ghosted into Bastogne, behind enemy lines, the old fashioned way: ghillie suits. Thank God the Belgians had a healthy appetite for urban open spaces.

Belgium. A week after England fell, Oscar jumped the Chunnel and invaded continental Europe. They crawled steadily forward, steamrolling through Portugal, Spain, France, and Italy. It took us eight long years of combat to stop their advance, millions of lives paid to halt Oscar just short of the Rhine.

And we decided to push back.

As members of the first generation 22 Regiment DSAS (Displaced Special Air Service) "A" Squadron, my partner and I were attached to the American forces operating in this sector. Even after the destruction of England, the remnants of the British Armed Forces fought on; we were folded into existing NATO/Eastern Bloc forces, providing frontline support across the American, German, Russian, and Chinese battle lines. The DSAS had a reputation for – well, let's put it this way: we're the ones that train everyone else's special operations units. Which was why Jeffrey and I were pulling wet work duty for Iron Storm.

Operation Iron Storm. A simultaneous strike by Russian, Chinese, German, and American forces across the entire Western Front. Our first real act of aggression since the beginning of this damn war. We sunk months, years into this operation, patiently building up manpower and resources to fuel the big push into Oscar territory. And, as luck would have it, we chose the perfect time to stage our assault.

Thirteen days ago, the American's Key Hole satellites located Oscar's forward command post in Bastogne, a single story structure formerly occupied by Fortis Bank. Ten days ago, our White Hat spies informed us that a high-level meeting involving key members of the Oscar military structure would take place at that very location, coinciding with the time frame of our planned counteroffensive. It was too good an opportunity to pass up. Which is why I ended up on the roof of a three-story building in Bastogne, cold and stiff, staring at four HVTs, waiting for the go order.

"Sierra, Shrike Ops, Michelle. I say again, Michelle."

Ah, Michelle. Which would be the go order. I activated the targeting laser mounted on my spotting scope. "Target painted," I transmitted.

"Shrike Ops, execute kill order."

The MQ-1 Predator circling overhead launched its payload. The two AGM-114N Hellfire II missiles locked onto my laser, riding the beam toward Oscar's forward command post. As the thermobaric weapons closed within a klick of the target, high pitched shrieks echoed through the building. Everyone inside turned an eye to the closest window. Some of them saw the Hellfires coming. There wasn't enough time to verbalize incantations or any of that shit. So they tried the next best thing: concentrate and turn in place.

Nothing happened.

Like I said, no sodding teleportation.

The first fuel-air explosive detonated ten metres above the target, blanketing the area in fire, completely obliterating the front wall. The remaining walls channelled the resulting shockwaves through the structure, scouring the building with 3000°C worth of fire and 430 pounds-force per square inch worth of overpressure.

Then the second Hellfire hit.

Thermobaric munitions do unspeakable things to soft targets; Oscar was no exception. Bodies and body parts became hopeless intermixed with the masonry, a sure sign that everyone within was dead or dying.

Except for two. HVTs Crow and Python, defying all known laws of biology and physics, came staggering out of that mess.

"Sierra, you are weapons free."

Which is where Jeff and I come in.

I rattled off range, windage, elevation, all the information a good sniper requires to touch his target. Jeff shifted slightly, eye glued to the Schimdt & Bender 3-12x50 PM II P telescopic sight mounted on his AI AS50 anti-material rifle.

Ladies and gentlemen, introducing Jeffrey Lei, the ticket puncher of our little duo. A heavily tattooed Chinese man with bear-like proportions, Jeff had been a twenty-one year old Private in the 16 Air Assault Brigade when the war started. His unit was deployed in Afghanistan when the Reanimated swept through Edinburgh and assimilated his friends, family, fiancée… everyone he knew. After the Massacre of Edinburgh, Jeff transferred to a frontline unit and volunteered for every major combat action since the fall of London. Ten years of combat experience. Which means Jeff's very good at what he does and what he does isn't nice.

Jeff took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger. The anti-material rifle produced a bass thump that reverberated in my chest. The .50 BMG cartridge traversed 1.5 klicks to the target, dropped into Crow's chest cavity, and blew a football-sized exit wound out her back.

Seconds later, Python took a round in the gut, obliterating half his abdomen. The following round landed just under his left orbital socket.

A quick survey of the scene yielded four dead HVTs mixed in with the other bodies. Two blown to pieces by the Hellfires, two blown to pieces by several .50 calibre rounds. "Command, confirm four kills."

"Copy that, Sierra. All call signs, initiate strike. Sierra, fall ba – "

"INCOMING!" Jeff roared.

An explosion rocked our building. Too small to be one of the flyboys.

"Bugger," I breathed as I spotted the cloud of wizards and Reanimated converging on our position. "Move, move!"

No time to pack things up nicely. Jeff's AS50 and my spotting scope went into a nearby waste bin. A thermite grenade was thrown into the mix. As the thermite torched any useful intel Oscar might obtain from our electronics, we scrambled down three flights and scooted out the back door. We got out just in time to see Oscar raze the building.

"Contact west!" Jeff's Mk 12 Mod 0 SPR whispered twice as Oscar pulled within five hundred metres of our position, planting two rounds into the closest threat. The first ricocheted off an invisible array surrounding the wizard. The second lodged in his brainpan. "Hostile down."

Double taps. One bullet to knock down Oscar's force field, one bullet to kill him. Standard operating procedure.

"Command, our position has been compromised" – I slid behind an abandoned vehicle and took a brief moment to return fire as green flashes lit up our position – "I repeat, our position has been compromised! We're taking heavy fire from multiple contacts! Requesting air support in Sector Eight Charlie!"

"Roger that, Sierra. Fall back to the east, toward extraction point X-ray. Talon One, Tempest Three-Two, push to Kill Box Eight Charlie to provide close air support."

"Lighting beacon." I toggled the little electronic switch clipped to my combat webbing, activating the infrared strobe light.

"Sparkle lit," Jeff transmitted.

"This is Talon One. Confirm friendlies marked with strobes. We're good for one pass. Name your target."

I dropped one of the Reanimated with a single incendiary bullet to the sternum. "Talon One, fire mission, danger close. Hostile Oscar and Reanimated forces three hundred metres west of our location, over."

"Copy that, we're coming in hot."

A pair of RAF Eurofighter Typhoons screamed by overhead, a Paveway III detaching from each aircraft. The laser guided bombs impacted in the midst of the approaching enemy formation, leaving little more than blood and shattered masonry. Even Oscar's magical shields can't stop nine hundred and seven kilograms of high explosives.

That's the one thing we got right in this bloody war: air superiority. Any flying unit they could field, we could blow out of the sky. Dragons, wizards on broomsticks, what have you. We had two advantages over Oscar: speed and weapon range. It's somewhat difficult to engage something that can direct a missile up your arse at a range of sixty-five klicks and run away at Mach 2. Ever try intercepting a missile travelling at Mach 1.3 without computerized targeting? Good luck.

The ground shook as other fighter units initiated Stage Two of Operation Iron Storm: shock and awe. Also known as bombing the hell out of the Oscar's front line.

"Contact north!" I shouted, shifting my silenced SPR. "They're trying to – "

Too late. Enemy personnel swept in around our left flank and dug in east of our position, cutting off our retreat.

Shit. Here they come. First Oscar got a double tap to the chest. The second wizard went down with a single shot; I managed to sneak a bullet in before the bloke's shield came up. Thank God Oscar had no concept of cover; their conviction in the innate superiority of magic over modern weaponry makes things much easier for me.

Not that arrogance was going to help me here; based on the numbers converging on our position, being overrun was a very real possibility. "Tempest Three-Two, target enemy forces four hundred metres east of our location."

"Roger that, standby for air support."

Call sign Tempest Three-Two, an AH-64D Apache Longbow, swooped in and laced the designated area with chain gun fire and rockets, the Hydra 70s and autocannon rounds tearing through Oscar's ranks.

Let me tell you, nothing boosts morale like a friendly attack chopper.

"Hostile group neutralized."

"Roger that, Tempest. Thanks for the – "

The air two hundred metres south of our position distorted, a huge hand pushing out the centre of the anomaly. The rift widened, drawn back like a curtain, and nine metres of plate armour emerged.

Fuck.

" – Goliath on your six! Tempest, get the hell out of here!"

I squeezed off a couple of rounds as the giant cleared the threshold of his invisible tent. The incendiary hollowpoints, designed for soft targets, pinged uselessly off Goliath's steel helmet.

Tempest Three-Two rotated, attempting to bring Goliath under his guns.

Too late.

The giant's hurlbat was already airborne. The throwing axe tumbled end over end, cutting a graceful arc through the cloudless sky.

And sliced cleanly through Tempest's tail rotor.

"I'm hit, I'm hit! Tail rotor's gone! Mayday, mayday, this is Three-Two going down! Three-Two is going in hard!"

The helicopter spiralled lazily out of the sky and impacted against a glass-shrouded building, sliding out of sight. A column of smoke marked the downed Apache's location, a beacon for friendly and enemy forces.

Jesus.

"We have an Apache down, I repeat, we have an Apache down."

"Goliaths confirmed in the city. All chopper units, fall back until further notice."

"Command, this is Shrike Ops. Hostiles converging on the crash site… Hold on, we see movement in the cockpit… Confirm, small arms fire coming from the cockpit."

"Tempest, what's your status?"

A series of wet coughs crackled across the com. "Kovacs' dead! I've got no mobility, both…" – a burst of static – "…got multiple contacts advancing on my location!"

Shit. I glanced at Jeff. He quirked a smile psychotic axe murderers would be proud of. "You think you're up for it?"

Glaring at him, I keyed my throat mic. "Command, this is Sierra. We have a visual on the crash site. Request permission to initiate search and rescue."

"Be advised, Sierra, First Armoured is reporting heavy resistance; it could take quite some time before ground support arrives. Do you understand?"

"Roger that, Command."

There was a pause. "Copy that, permission granted. Secure the crash site until reinforcements arrive. Additional air support is en route."

Jeff and I sprinted toward the pillar of smoke, pausing only to put down a stray Oscar or two that survived the airstrikes. We got maybe half a block when the giant loomed around the corner behind us. He saw Jeff and me, of course; it's hard to miss two people dressed like walking carpets. "Goliath!" I screamed as the giant unleashed an ear-splitting roar and thundered after us. Jeff, for some insane reason, turned and dropped to one knee, drawing a bead on the giant's exposed eyes. "JEFF, LET'S GO!"

A new voice crackled over the intercom. "We have a Goliath in the open."

"Reaper Four, you are clear to engage."

An uncomfortable buzzing permeated the air, reminiscent of a zipper being drawn. A giant, evil fucking zipper. In five seconds, three hundred and twenty 30mm depleted uranium armour-piercing shells slammed into the giant, shredding steel plate and flesh. The giant crumpled into an earth-shaking heap, cratering the worn pavement beneath him.

A pair of 'Hogs pulled out of their dive and circled around, scanning for additional targets. Initially designed to kill tanks and other heavily-armoured vehicles, the A-10 Thunderbolt IIs (or Warthogs, as we prefer to call them) proved to be effective against the larger armoured creatures fielded by Oscar, especially the clumsy, ponderous Goliaths.

"I could've taken him," Jeff grumbled. "Jesus, where's the trust?"

"Thanks for the assist, Reaper." I reached out and gave Jeff a good whack on the shoulder. He grinned.

"De nada, Sierra. We'll clear the path for you."

The A-10s went ahead and did their thing, lighting up the streets ahead. Enemy resistance in our general area evaporated, save for the odd Reanimated; Oscar knew what the 'Hogs were capable of. Jeff and I leapfrogged block by silent block towards the crash site, each covering the other's advance.

We found ourselves in the financial district, just short of the crash site. Smoke from the downed Apache billowed lazily towards the sky, just across the street, behind a wall of buildings. A single structure separated us from the crash site, one of those corporate skyscrapers, all glass and steel. Well, half a skyscraper, shattered glass and bent steel. Air strikes will do that to a city.

I heard the distinctive chatter of gunfire first. Then the smell hit me, a combination of jet fuel, smoke, and burned circuitry.

"Sierra, the crash site is directly on the other side of that building," Shrike Ops informed us.

Almost there. "Tempest, we're approaching your position from the east."

"Affirmative, Sierra! I've got multiple contacts coming from all directions! I could use some help in here!"

"Copy that, Tempest. We're coming in through the building."

Jeff cut in to the conversation. "Two sentries covering the rear entrance."

"I got the one on the right." I brought the SPR to my shoulder, the tango's head tracing lazy circles in my reticule.

"In three… two… one…"

The image in my scope went deathly still as I gently squeezed the trigger. Pink mist haloed my target before he went down. "Tango down."

Jeff's target collapsed, a gaping hole where his left eye used to be. "Hostile neutralized."

A quick visual sweep of the neighbouring offices yielded no further Oscar forces. "Cover me."

With a deep breath, I sprinted across the street, my back itching from the lack of cover every step of the way. No green flash, no explosions. So far, so good. I slid to a halt behind the rusted carcass of a gaudy SUV and made a second, far more thorough sweep of the street. "All clear."

Jeff, deceptively silent despite his mass, swept by my position and ghosted into the building through one of the broken windows. A few moments went by before Jeff's voice whispered over the intercom. "Two hostiles, front lobby."

"Hold on a second." I headed to the dead sentries and sifted through their robes, looking for… ah, there we go. One on each corpse. Carefully wrapping the items with strips of cloth torn from the sentry's cloaks, I followed in Jeff's footsteps.

"Here." I handed Jeff one of the MCDs (Mirror Communication Devices) looted from the bodies. The MCDs were Oscar's analogue to our wireless network, allowing audio and visual data to be transmitted to active nodes, like the ones Jeff and I were holding. As long as we carefully blinded the mirrors with cloth, we could access Oscar's lines of communication without revealing the breach of their system.

I held the MCD to my ear as we crept past the elevators and stopped just outside the front lobby, one corner separating us from Oscar. "Armoured carriages have broken through the third line" – "Where's our reinforcements? We're taking heavy casualties at…" – "Outpost Three, report. Your conversion field has dissipated."

A harried voice accompanied by submachine gun fire drifted around the corner, originating from inside the building. "This is Outpost Three! One of the Muggle's fucking mechanical dragons crashed right on top of us and disrupted the bloody spell! Newell and Trask got caught in the back blast; Hook and I are the only ones left! We cannot sustain the levels required to power the Transfiguration!"

Another voice emerged from the mirror. "Alright, fall back and provide support for the Repositories."

Jeff looked back at me and held up two fingers. I nodded. We stacked up against the corner, Jeff taking point. I reached out and slapped him twice on the shoulder. "Go."

And he slipped around the corner, deathly silent and swift. I was right behind him.

Adrenaline-fuelled clarity surged through my system, a hyperawareness that made colours pop, caused time to dilate, and allowed me to notice three important details.

One, the chopper had crashed into the front of the building, the tail assembly jammed halfway through the lobby's front windows. The rest of the Apache remained outside, the cockpit listing to one side. Two, something impossibly ornate and impossibly broken smouldered between us and the Apache, powder burns and shattered iron imbedded in adjacent surfaces. And three, two hostiles had taken refuge behind the receptionist's desk, facing the helicopter and presenting us an absolutely gorgeous view of their unguarded backs.

They never saw us coming. Jeff placed two rounds in his target's centre of mass, followed by a single round to the back of the head for good measure. I took the more direct approach and placed both my bullets into the target's skull.

"Clear."

"We've got company."

I glanced out the front windows into the exposed square funnelling into the lobby and spotted them, charging en masse directly toward our position. They were massive specimens, three and a half metres of muscle, fat, and leathery skin. Great carnivorous cavemen, essentially.

Well, that's not entirely accurate. Comparing trolls to Neanderthals would be doing the Neanderthal a disservice. What trolls lack in intelligence, they make up for in lack of intelligence. Case in point: charging into the teeth of automatic weapons across completely open territory whilst armed with clubs. This was what Darwin Awards were made for.

Shots rang out from the Apache's cockpit, downing one of the trolls.

I radioed it in. "Reaper Four, Ologs west of our position. Cover us while we extract the pilot."

The 'Hogs made another run; there wasn't much left after the Reapers were done.

Stepping through the lobby's shattered windows and hugging the building's wall, I edged toward the smoking remains of the downed Apache from its starboard side and tapped the metal plating behind the gunner's chair.

The pilot twisted around and found himself staring at the wrong end of my rifle. I held up four fingers.

Captain Hawke responded by throwing up two digits and lowered his MP7. "You guys SAR?"

I gave Jeff the all clear and turned back to the pilot. "More or less. How bad?"

"Crash broke both my legs. I've got no mobility, but otherwise, everything's fine."

"Alright, we're getting you out of here. Jeff, if you could..?"

Jeff, who had crept up next to me sometime during the conversation, muttered something about me and laziness. I raised an eyebrow. He shouldered his rifle.

"Hold on, hold on…" Hawke managed to get out before Jeff hauled him out of the cockpit. The pilot's words disappeared in a hiss of agony as his legs cleared the chopper. Slinging an arm over each of our shoulders, Jeff and I moved Hawke into the lobby. "Command, package secure. He has no mobility and we cannot make it to the extraction point. What's the ETA on ground support?"

"Sit tight. First Armoured's on their way."

I turned to Hawke. "Okay, First Armoured's coming to get us. We're going to set up a perimeter. In the mean time, watch our backs, yeah?"

We set the pilot by the lobby's rear entrance and Jeff swapped out the magazine on the pilot's MP7. "You're locked and loaded. We'd appreciate it if you could kill anything that comes in through those doors."

Hawke gave Jeff an odd look and nodded. "Wilco."

"Sierra, mixed enemy forces approaching from the west – son of a bitch! They've got Stingers – "

"We picked up a missile lock! Three, no, four missile launches detected!"

"Reaper Three, evasive manoeuvres!"

"Dammit, I can't shake it, I can't – "

A massive explosion rocked the building. I looked out the lobby windows just in time to see a single surface-to-air missile swat Reaper Three out of the sky.

Fuck. Despite their intrinsic distrust of technology, Oscar's got Vichies working in direct action roles.

Vichies. Humans who collaborated with Oscar. Traitorous little tosspots, the lot of them. Usually armed with outdated Eastern Bloc weaponry, they provided Oscar with information regarding our military hardware and tactics. For years, Vichies acted as support, relegated to logistics and educational roles; this was the first time we've seen the Vichies fielded in active combat.

"Command, be advised, we have Vichies – "

And then I saw the air around Reaper Four shimmer, an iridescent net coalescing around the fighter.

Sodding hell.

"Reaper Four, bug out! You've got – "

Too late. Multiple streaks of light filled the airspace around 'Hog. Reaper Four tried desperately to avoid the spell, pouring on speed, attempting to corkscrew up and away from the closing lattice. He didn't make it. A thin red line caressed the 'Hog's port wing and blew the fighter in half.

The MCDs lit up as the remnants of Reaper Four slammed into the city. "Enemy aeroplanes eliminated" – "About bloody time. Initiate Eorthe Stormen."

With a jaw-rattling roar, a pillar of light touched the sky, clouds gathering at its apex. As the layers of water vapour thickened, its properties changed. Soft wispy curves became unyielding lines, mist solidified into granite. The newly formed land mass rumbled three klicks above the city, straining against whatever forces held it aloft. Then the whole thing flared up, engulfing the giant slab of rock in flames.

"Eorthe Stormen ready." - "Outpost One, take out the blood traitors."

Oh, God. Blood traitors. That means…

The flaming land mass dropped.

No time to be polite. "White Hat, get the f – "

"Say again, Sierra? You're breaking up."

"YOU'VE GOT A FUCKING METEORITE LOCKED ONTO YOUR LOCATION! GET OUT! GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE, NOW!" I roared.

"Oh, sh – "

And the world disappeared in a roll of thunder, in clouds of dust, in tremors. Somewhere along the way I ended up on my back, staring at the cracked ceiling tiles. As the ringing in my ears faded, a cacophony of voices crashed over my earpiece.

"…White Hat, report!" – "They're gone, I repeat, they're gone" – "Contact! We've got multiple enemy contacts 'porting in" – "Watch your backs, they came from behind…"

White Hat was gone. My mind desperately tried to process that piece of information. If they were gone, then…

The anti-teleportation field was down. Oh, bugger me.

"Blood traitors down. All Death Eaters, Apparate to Eorthe Stormen facilities and prepare for primary launch against targets New York, Moscow, and Shanghai. Hold Eorthe Stormen facilities at all costs," the MCD blared.

Oh, things were just getting better and better.

I staggered to my feet just as a wizard warped in behind me with a deafening crack. Too close to swing the SPR up in time, too far away to stab with my knife. So I took a third option. My left hand dropped to the holster strapped to my thigh (seeing as how a rifle still occupied my right) and pulled the M1911 free. The muzzle blurred from the holster to the wizard's forehead, making contact with skin.

I pulled the trigger. The wizard collapsed, missing a good portion of his skull.

Something buzzed by my ear, producing a slight pop as it passed. I turned just in time to see the witch behind me fall, a bullet lodged in her head. I glared at Jeff's insufferable grin.

Another half dozen wizards appeared out of thin air.

One unlucky bastard teleported within arm's length of Jeff. Before Oscar could pull his wand, Jeff smashed in the poor fellow's face with the butt of his rifle and pounced on the bloodied wizard, unsheathing the knife attached to the small of his back. With a single precise motion, Jeff jammed the blade into the man's throat and dragged it a good four centimetres laterally.

Somewhere in the background, Hawke's MP7 began chattering in earnest.

"Command, we have three meteors targeted at New York, Moscow, and Shanghai – "

"Sierra, this is Shrike Ops. Be advised, there are two Rhinos approaching your position."

Oh, God. There's only three things you need to know about Erumpents, a.k.a. Rhinos. One, they're basically rhinoceroses on steroids. Two, they're immune to small arms fire. And three, they explode on contact.

"Command, we've got an arse load of incoming and two Rhinos locked on our location! What's the ETA on ground support?"

"Hold on, Sierra… deploying ICU Thirteen."

A cool female voice came over the com. "Portkeys activated."

I vaguely registered that last bit; I was a little busy dealing with the sudden influx of Oscar. I triggered two rounds at the nearest tango, only to have my bullets ricochet uselessly off an invisible force field.

Dammit, dammit, dammit. "Jeff, they're – "

I never saw it coming. One minute I'm handing out bullets like candy and the next thing I know, my legs and arms were irreversibly locked together. My balance compromised, I toppled to the floor, coming to a rest on my side, facing the lobby windows.

I watched helplessly as Jeff appeared in my field of vision, firing his M1911 one-handed at the approaching hostiles as he grabbed a fistful of my body armour and began dragging me to cover.

I watched helplessly as two erumpents stormed into the square, packed with enough exploding fluid to level the building. Ninety metres until impact.

Hawke's MP7 went silent.

Eighty metres.

I watched helplessly as Jeff took a spell to the left shoulder, slicing neatly through Kevlar and flesh.

Seventy.

I watched helplessly as Jeff barely dodged a second spell, turning his face at the last second. A shallow cut etched itself across his right cheekbone.

Sixty.

I watched helplessly as Jeff dropped me and the empty M1911, and engaged Oscar with his SPR, splashing rounds uselessly off Oscar's force field. Hey, it's the thought that counts.

Fifty.

"Warpath, firing primary."

"Brawl, missile away."

I watched helplessly as –

As, well, both Erumpents exploded fifty metres away, well shy of their target. That stopped the wizards in their tracks. Oscars One through Five took a horrified moment to gape at the demise of their heavies.

A fatal mistake.

A figure in black warped in silently behind Oscar One, and a blade, one of those Japanese ones, blossomed from the wizard's chest. Oscar Two thrust his wand toward the swordsman – and lost the arm. The second stroke entered Oscar Two's chin and exited his forehead. Oscar Three managed to twist around - just in time for Mr. Goth's sword to blur in the left temple and out the right. As Oscars Four and Five belatedly realized there was a new threat, the silenced USP in Mr. Goth's left hand flashed, inserting a single round into Oscar Four's temple and Oscar Five's left eye.

Ah. An Integrated Combat Unit. One of those White Hat/US Army experimental projects, mixing magic with modern warfare. In this case, an assault team comprised of wizards with DSAS-level training in firearms and tactics. Quite a combination, it seems.

The tension in my arms and legs eased, control returning to my appendages. I hauled myself off the floor –

Jeff and the swordsman rounded on each other, each person's firearm trained at the other.

"Five," the swordsman signed. All I could see were his eyes, cold and calculating behind the ballistic facemask.

"One," Jeff countersigned. He lowered the SPR. "We've – "

An awful, familiar roar interrupted Jeff. A single pillar of light burned toward the sky. "Oh bloody hell… Command, we have one – "

A second pillar emerged. "That's two! There are two – "

And a third. "We have three launches, I repeat, we have three in the air!"

"Roger that, Thirteen. Our satellites are tracking them now. Hold on… based on current trajectory, we have eight minutes until impact."

Another figure in black, this one with long auburn hair flowing out the back of her mask, appeared in the rear lobby entrance, reloading her M4A1. "Eorthe Stormen control hub located. Brawl, Warpath, reset Portkey sequence. We're moving out."

"Wait a second, what about Hawke?"

She placed a hand on my shoulder. "He's gone. Come on, let's go," she said quietly.

Goddammit.

My radio crackled to life. "Sierra, proceed to Oscar control hub with ICU Thirteen and provide fire support. Take down Oscar's super weapon, whatever it takes."

Jeff, the swordsman, the redhead, and I sprinted from the building towards two armoured vehicles, an M1A2 Abrams (call sign Warpath) and an M3A2 Bradley (call sign Brawl).

"Copy that, Command."

The Bradley's loading ramp whined open, revealing a third figure in black, this one female and blond. She waved us in. "Come on, come on!"

My arse had barely touched the seat when Blondie told us, "Hold on to you knickers. Activating Portkey Brawl in three, two, one…"

Something insistent yanked at my stomach, an almighty tug that threatened to dislodge internal organs.

And then the pressure was gone, the infantry fighting vehicle dropping a couple of feet and rumbling over uneven terrain. The redhead cleared her throat and looked at the swordsman. "Arch, if you would?"

And reality faded in a white haze, a three-dimensional map of Bastogne and the surrounding countryside replacing the interior of the Bradley. A vision of some sort, a mental projection favoured by certain wizards.

"Alright, listen up. We have seven minutes to take out Oscar's command post, which is located here."

The hallucination zoomed in on an area not far from the city, a couple of klicks to the east. Oscar had erected the core of their super weapon in the field surrounding the skeletal remains of a primary school, allowing it direct access to the atmosphere.

"Enemy forces in the area are substantial, most likely a mix of wizards, zombies, and trolls. A large portion of them will be concentrated around the Shield generator, a magical artefact that's designed to protect the area against air strikes. That's our target."

A miniature representation of the Shield generator briefly pulsed.

"Missy here's demolitions." A miniature representation of the blonde appeared atop the Shield generator. "She'll wire up the Shield generator. The rest of us will cover her while she places the explosives. Brawl and Warpath will hold our exit vector open. When the Shield generator comes down, the flyboys raze the Repositories, and we all go home."

Oh. Great. Repositories. What the hell's a Repository?

Jeff, who was apparently psychic, asked, "What the hell's a Repository?"

What appeared to be three large fish tanks appeared on the map, each one housing a multitude of swirling lights.

"A Repository's a magical construct, one that pools and focuses the power of several wizards into a single spell, allowing spell casting on a larger scale. In this case, they're gathering energy from several Outposts, each one powering a massive Transfiguration spell called Eorthe Stormen. Water into wine, that kind of thing. You take out the Repository, the energy dissipates, the spell falls apart, rock reverts to air, everyone lives. Well, on our side anyways."

"What's our in?"

The map faded from view, the interior of the Bradley smoothly sliding in to take its place.

"Apparition." She pointed at the swordsman and me. "You guys are a shield pair until I create some cover." She gestured at herself and Jeff. "I'll be taking care of us. Remember, overlap the shields and screen Missy."

Brawl's commander cut in. "Thirteen, Sierra, we're in position. We'll hold this sector as long as we can. Good luck."

"Thanks, Brawl. We'll see you on the way back." The redhead slipped an arm through Jeff's. The swordsman placed a hand on my shoulder.

"This'll feel… a little strange," the redhead said.

Strange. That was an understatement.

An uncomfortable squeezing sensation wrapped around me, like I'd been strapped into a corset five sizes too small. There was a piercing crack… and a half dozen beams of light splashed off of the swordsman's shield array.

I managed to pop off a few rounds at the closing swarm before the redhead screamed "Obstructus!"

Several tons of rock erupted around us, large slabs at least a metre thick and three metres in height. The walls stopped the barrage of spells cold, giving us a moment to breathe. Well, most of us. The blonde held a hand up toward what I presumed was the Shield generator, palm facing the magical construct. It looked like a series of obelisks, seven of them placed in a circle with a ten-metre radius. Each individual column was intricately carved, a series of glowing runes spiralling up each pillar. The whole thing looked… well, somewhat tacky.

The blonde muttered something under her breath and packages emerged from thin air, floating before her in neat rows.

The wall behind me shattered in a storm of dust and shrapnel.

"How much longer?" the redhead roared over her thundering M4A1.

I slid closer to the swordsman, taking refuge behind his shield as his HK416 and my SPR unleashed a storm of bullets into the cloud of Oscar.

"Almost there… delivering packages."

Seven bouquets of wire and duct tape shot towards the Shield generator, one for each obelisk.

"Fire in the hole," the blonde informed us.

The resulting explosion tore through the stone columns, reducing years of hard work to powder.

The redhead keyed her throat mic. "Viper One, shield is down. Three targets, two hundred metres east of our position, arrayed in a triangle, spaced one hundred metres apart."

"Copy that, Thirteen. Making run."

A pair of F-15E Strike Eagles screamed over the horizon, a pair of GBU-27 Paveway IIIs detaching from their wings.

"Obstructus!" The redhead, again.

But this time it was a little different. The stone flowed up around the swordsman and me, completely enveloping us in layers of minerals and sediment.

Then the bombs hit.

A wave of heat and noise washed over me, the stone cocoon taking the brunt of the impact. The insistent ringing in my ears waxed and waned as voices once again crowded the com.

"Targets destroyed."

The barrier sluiced away, allowing me an absolutely gorgeous view of utter annihilation. All that remained of the Repositories was shattered glass and twisted metal. A good day's work, if I do say so myself.

"Meteors dissipating – "

"Negative, negative for impact on Target Three! One meteor is still in the air!"

"Thirteen, Sierra, enemy super weapon still active. Be advised, you have three minutes until impact."

Shit.

I peered through the smoke… and saw the remaining Repository. And the small army of Oscar dug in around the glass structure, at least thirty individuals dedicated to protecting the oversized fish tank. At least half their number had wands in the air, each contributing to the force field shielding the Repository. One that was apparently strong enough to shrug off the blast of two nine hundred kilogram bombs. Bugger.

An uncomfortable thrum blanketed the area. Lockdown protocol. No sodding teleportation. Wonderful. Way to come back and bite us in the arse.

The redhead cut loose with a very impressive four-letter blast. "Arch, shift. You're the initial strike. Kill the wizards maintaining the Shield. We'll be right behind you. Sierra, cover us. Command, are there air assets in our sector?"

I nodded. "Got it."

"Thirteen, this is Hydra. We're five klicks south of your location."

"Welcome aboard, Hydra. Fire on my mark."

"Wilco."

We didn't have time for anything fancy. The swordsman's outline blurred as his body went semi-tangible, a human wisp of smoke. Shifting, White Hat called it. A speed boost of some sort. He blasted towards the Repository, followed closely by the redhead and the blonde, the three of them weaving in and out of enemy fire.

I sighted in on a particularly energetic wizard, settling the crosshair just below his collarbone. I applied steady pressure on the trigger, squeezing just hard enough to fire the weapon. The wizard went down with a single incendiary to the chest.

"Two minutes."

And then ICU Thirteen was among them. Arch's sword flashed. A head rolled. Then the blonde laced the area with some sort of explosive spell and the whole thing devolved into a confused mess, the area lighting up as Oscar engaged our three allies. The three shifted forms crisscrossed among Oscar's ranks, taking down a wizard here, a wizard there. Jeff and I did our part, picking off individual hostile forces as three black streaks tore through Oscar's formation.

It wasn't enough. There were still too many left to fit into our time table.

"Thirteen, Sierra, you have one minute to – "

Another wizard went down, a single incendiary round burning in his skull. Bugger, there wasn't enough time to kill them all –

The redhead's voice crackled over the com. "Hydra, fire on our position. Twelve from the 40, one from the 105."

"Thirteen, be advised, you are not clear of the – "

"Goddammit, fire on our position! We don't have time!"

"Roger that, Thirteen. Firing."

And suddenly, the redhead and her team were streaking towards us, waving Jeff and me back from the Repository. "Incoming strike! Go, go, go! Get out of here!"

I felt a hand on my shoulder and Jeff nearly pulled me off my feet. My feet finally remembered to move on their own accord, and we went tearing away from the impending kill zone.

The AC-130 "Spooky" gunship, call sign Hydra, launched several 40mm shells from its L60 Bofors cannon, chased by a single 105mm shell from its M102 howitzer.

Oscar's shield, severely weakened from the number of casualties we inflicted, collapsed as the first 40mm rounds slammed into it. The rest of the 40s leaked through, decimating Oscar's ranks, ripping apart glass, concrete, and organic matter.

One of them landed too close.

Luckily for me, we were just outside the 40's effective range, escaping the pressure wave. Unluckily for me, a chunk of shrapnel slammed into my right leg, throwing me to my knees.

And heralded my doom; I was still too close to the target and, with my leg out of the picture, there was no way I was getting out before the 105 engulfed the entire area in heat and, well, more shrapnel. I looked up and saw Jeff pulling away. I allowed myself a little smile. Well, at least one of us had a chance.

He glanced over his shoulder.

And came back. "What the hell are you doing, you stupid wanker? Get out of here!" I roared.

"Oh, shut up." He unceremoniously flung me over his shoulder and…

I felt someone warping in behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder and…

We ran smack into something large and metallic, dumping Jeff and me on our arses. Ah, the Abrams. Which I knew was at least four klicks away from the target area. I looked around for a confused moment and spotted Hydra raining high explosives on Oscar operational command. Four klicks away. Apparently, Hydra had managed to target the wizards maintaining the anti-teleportation spell and ICU Thirteen had gotten us the hell out of there. Thank God for small miracles.

The 105mm shell hit with a measure of finality. The explosion blew away the top half of the Repository, releasing the cloud of light within. Each pinprick of light faded like sparks as the whole contraption shut down with an audible hum.

I looked to the sky as Oscar's last pillar of light faltered, fading to black. There was one question on everyone's mind: Oh, God, did we make it?

"Target Three destroyed."

"Command, Oscar super weapon destroyed. What's the status on the meteor?"

There was an unnecessarily long pause before Command reported, "Meteor is dissipating, I repeat, meteor is dissipating two klicks from target. No fallout – "

We never found out how he intended to finish that sentence; static drowned out his words as hundreds of voices erupted from the com. I couldn't make out the individual words; it was a voiceless roar universally recognized as relief and joy. There was a flurry of undignified behaviour among my comrades, and, somehow, I found my arms wrapped tightly around Jeff's neck. It took me a long while to notice an insistent tugging at my arms, trying to loosen my grip. "Uh, Torrie…"

Oh. Yeah. Right. I sheepishly released my hug and he sagged in relief, gingerly poking at the deep laceration gracing his left shoulder. "Come on, let's get out of here."

I tried standing. And failed as my leg collapsed underneath me. Jeff, who had gotten to his feet, held out a hand. I took it.

While Jeff pulled me into an upright position, I took in our new surroundings. Corpses littered the ground, a good cross-section of Oscar's forces represented among them. They were piled around Brawl's burned out hulk, the armoured vehicle reduced to smoke and scrap metal. Poor wankers; they gave as good as they got.

We hitched a ride back to base with Warpath while ICU Thirteen teleported to the Russian sector, where there were reports of high casualties due to the stalled advance. Crazy buggers. Eventually, we made it back into Bastogne and hooked up with First Armoured. For the most part, our part was over; a couple of weeks spent mopping pockets of Oscar resistance and Bastogne would be ours.

The first thing our buddies in First Armoured did was hoist Jeff and me on a couple of combat medics. "We're perfectly fine," we assured them. The medics took one look at us and had us hauled off to a field hospital. Jeff because his wounds were magical in nature and required a Healer to close. Me because the shrapnel got "a little cosy with my femoral artery." Apparently, another millimetre to the left and I'd have been another casualty for the papers.

We got shlepped to a medical facility in Dusseldorf. Upon arrival, I was stuck on a surgical slab. It was tricky but they managed to dig out that little piece of metal without cutting anything important. It took them thirteen hours, but I made it.

And Jeff? Well, due to the dark magic associated with his wounds, he lost a good bit of mobility and strength in his left arm. But he took it in stride; the doctors said time would restore a good deal of its functionality.

We spent a couple of weeks on our backs in Dusseldorf before restlessness took over. Three weeks before we were supposed to be discharged, we went AWOL. Jeff and I hitched a ride with an RAF C-17 back to the frontlines and hooked up with First Armoured in Bertrix, the staging ground for our next operation.

Because Bastogne was just the beginning.