Program V3, Prelude 1

#1

Colonel Michael Vane was in charge of what he had a sinking feeling was about to turn into the most severe military defeat the USA had suffered in over five years.

Paraguay hadn't been hot for some time. The most that Vane's men had needed to deal with, aside from one ill-fated incursion across the border, was the occasional sabotage from Argentinian-backed insurgents. The locals were resentful, of course, but that was both expected and prepared for; they'd been doing this long enough to have contingencies in place for pacification of occupied regions. The South American countries had fallen in line, one by one.

Two weeks ago, Vane's immediate superiors had even been discussing the possibility of establishing Paraguay's first civilian migrant town. There were always citizens back in the US who were willing to brave the newest American frontier, and financial and military service incentives only sweetened the deal.

For his part, Vane had just been looking forward to getting off the pacification detail. He disliked having to keep the peace; the enemy wasn't one that you could see, and having to make an example of the locals left a sour taste in the mouth. Unilateral punishment to flush out the dissenters was effective, but it didn't stop him feeling like shit for ordering it. He missed military—actual military operations. Not sabotage and hidden arms caches and improvised explosives.

Turned out, the South Americans were bringing the war to them.

It started thirteen days ago.

Reports and radio messages suddenly started to pour in from Argentina. A major offensive had just been launched; simultaneous, coordinated strikes on just about every outpost and base in the entire country. The manpower involved was overwhelming, on a scale that even their most generous estimates didn't credit the opposition with; either their intelligence was badly wrong, or the Argentinians' ability to keep secrets was worryingly good.

To Vane's understanding, Major General Lawrence had been getting a handle on the situation from the main command centre, one of the few bases not hit in the attack. He'd in fact been right in the middle of rallying a defense and organising a counter-offensive when the command centre was wiped off the map by an explosion from inside the building.

The front had crumpled like it was made of tinfoil.

There were, of course, contingencies in place for this; it didn't matter how vanishingly unlikely the scenario was, you prepared for the worst.

Vane's superiors, Generals Tyron and Wakemoor, had executed upon those contingencies immediately. The Paraguayan force had additional troops and transports for just such an eventuality. Colonel McNell had led the relief force which if need be would double as the evacuation force.

McNell's armoured car had been annihilated by a rocket before the convoy made it across the border.

Wakemoor had realised immediately what was coming and reacted quickly. If attacks were happening this side of the border, then the offensive wasn't limited to Argentina.

They'd had just about enough time to go on full alert before the airwaves were flooded by news of more attacks.

That was a week ago.

Wakemoor was dead now. She'd been ambushed en route to a rallying point and her escort wiped out to a man. HQ had reported in with a panicked message, and then the line had cut out. Tyron was evacuated yesterday; another unexplained explosion in the very midst of one of their camps.

And that left Vane as ranking officer and de facto leader.

Everything was coming apart at the seams. Argentina was gone and they hadn't received a status update from the other fronts in almost a day. Vane was trying to put out a dozen fires at once with a rapidly dwindling supply of resources. He may as well have been using a water pistol to douse the inferno.

Intelligence conflicted. Some were saying it was hostile action from a foreign power. Others were claiming secret funding, or insurgency. The enemy was well armed and well organised, far more than any resistance had been over the past years. To Vane, it didn't matter. They were being bled to death from innumerable wounds; they could work out who was wielding the knives after they staunched the bleeding.

An hour ago, the team which had retaken and held Pilar had gone dark.

"Try them again," Vane was leaning over a camp table, upon which lay a map he'd long since ceased attempting to track the engagement on. He was glad at least of this command tent; it was good his men hadn't forgotten their hustle.

Crowther, his radio man, adjusted a dial on the device in front of him. After a moment he shook his head. "Nothing but static, sir," another adjustment, and a voice emerged from the speaker.

"Encarnacíon has gone quiet. Standing by."

A tiny sliver of good news. Encarnacíon was vital. Vane picked up the radio handset.

"Good work, Kryzanski. Keep us informed."

"Sir."

Crowther twisted in his chair. "Nothing new from Marks, sir. Unit's still engaged."

"All right. ETA on those reinforcements?"

"Thirty seconds ago, sir," a new voice came from the tent opening, closely followed by an imposingly tall man with dark skin and a shaven head. He stood to attention.

Vane tried extremely hard not to sigh with relief. Some more good news. "Major Groves. Welcome to the shitshow."

Groves inclined his head. His expression didn't change. Vane had only known Groves for a short while—a new assignment—but he suspected that he could have known him for ten years without ever seeing the man smile. "Ready and able, sir."

"Good. Our immediate priorities are the southern districts. They're being hit hard. You've brought the full battalion?" Groves' immediate superior was Lieutenant Colonel Caldwell, but the man had been AWOL for nearly three weeks and Groves had stepped into his shoes in the meantime.

"Almost two, sir. We've been picking up stragglers along the way and we located what was left of Atherman's battalion en route."

Unexpected. Atherman hadn't reported for several days; Vane had written them off. "They've been totally off the grid. What the hell happened?"

"Their radio vehicle drove over a mine, caused a pile up."

"And Atherman didn't think to send a runner? Send the men ahead on foot? Their last report was four days ago!"

"Atherman's dead, sir."

Vane closed his eyes, exhaled, and then opened them again. Incompetence was not what he needed right now.

"Uh... sir?" Crowther sounded concerned.

"What is it, Crowther?"

"We just went dead."

Vane turned. "What do you mean?"

"We're cut off. Completely. Radio silence," Crowther adjusted another dial, flicked a few switches, and then started to frantically push buttons. His eyes were wide, his face pale and sweating.

"Get it back up. Now."

"I'm trying, sir! Nothing's respond—"

Crowther was interrupted quite abruptly by a bullet through the temple.

The air erupted with the sound of shouting and gunfire.

"What the—" Vane twisted back to the tent entrance.

Gunshot.

Vane couldn't breathe. A great pressure seemed to settle on his chest.

Groves was looking at him impassively, a pistol in his hand.

Vane blinked. His hand drifted to his chest. It came away wet and warm. A dark crimson stain began to spread across his uniform.

Groves fired again. Another hammerlike blow to the sternum.

Vane pitched over backwards. His mouth worked. He couldn't breathe.

Groves holstered the gun and took off his uniform jacket. He stepped out of the tent.

Blue. The shirt underneath was the brightest blue Vane had ever seen.