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The coffee was a forbidden treat. Forbidden because it sat in a cupholder just out of easy reach. If the Great Dane driving the truck had taken one of his hands off the steering wheel, even for a second, he risked losing control of the truck, not to mention its specially-built trailer, which carried a precious cargo: the barrel of a 10-inch (254 mm) coast defense gun, which weighed just over 20 tons.

The Dane, a Balfor Army Private first class (Pfc), felt like the Grey Fox who was sitting on the other side of the cab had been teasing him by getting coffee that he needed, but couldn't reach.

The Fox was a Major, and had been tasked with delivering four old guns, their mountings, and 1200 rounds of ammunition from the navy storage depots on the coast, to Fort Ilium, a large, concrete-walled fortress. Fort Ilium - named for the previous commander of the Balfor Confederate army - was being built in secret, right in the center of the Altama plateau, and it was hoped that it would cement the authority of the Confederacy over the volatile region.

Most officers of the Balfor army were kept in the dark about it. In fact, the Altaman rebels knew more about the fortress than most of the Army did. For obvious reasons, they keenly studied the construction, which was nearing completion.

For the few officers informed of the construction plans, Fort Ilium was known as the "Buzzard's nest."

The Fox didn't think the plan was worth the trouble, and he wasn't alone. In his mind, he ranted about the wastefulness of the plan: The guns were meant to shoot at battleships, not to bombard concealed, unarmoured enemies. Not only that, their firepower could be equalled by a simple battery of self-propelled 6-inch howitzers - much more practical. And he firmly believed that the Altama could be tamed by more modern, conventional means.

But still, they were intimidating weapons, and Field Marshal Irving wanted them to arm his "Pillow fort" - the term that subversive officers used for Fort Ilium - and nobody except the president questioned the Marshal's orders.

The Fox Major, along with 12 supply truck drivers and two dozen guards, had begun their long road trip from the coast two days prior. The Major was seeking a promotion, and had hoped that a speedy delivery of the guns would facilitate his acquiring of it. This was done at the cost of the nerves of his drivers, who had been randomly selected from the Army logistics corps. In the past two days, the top-secret convoy, using the cryptic callsign "white mace", had made only three half-hour stops. The rest of the past 60-odd hours had been spent on the Route 7 highway, travelling at 80 miles per hour. Most of the drivers hadn't eaten or drank anything except for "7-hour energy" canisters and coffee.

The convoy totalled 13 vehicles: In front, A pilot truck lead the trucks by a quarter-mile, scouting the road ahead. The bulk of the convoy was 10 unmarked, black semi-trucks, four of which carried one of the gun barrels. Two of them contained two gun mounts each, and the last two trucks had 600 10-inch shells in each. Lastly, there were two tanker trucks, which allowed the convoy to refuel even when the nearest gas station was miles away.

As the convoy barreled down the road, The Major's thoughts drifted to his attempt at contacting the Pilaco garrison earlier. The Wolf in charge of the place had said there was some kind of unrest. For this reason, the Major had loaded his pistol earlier, and had one hand on the holster even as he sat looking out the window. He saw that the sun was hovering above the horizon, the bottom just beginning to touch the peaks of the moutains.

It's only 1600 hours. He thought, but then remembered that September was on the way out, and Autumn would be upon the land soon. As he stared sleepily out the side window at the landscapes rushing by, they changed. The evergreen forest stopped abruptly, and was replaced by a vineyard. The major sat up straight and looked out the front. On the horizon, he could see the very tops of buildings, with smoke rising from the midst of them.

"Shit..." He whispered. He picked up the CB radio microphone and turned to the convoy's private channel. "All convoy vehicles, decrease speed to forty-five miles per hour!"

The thought didn't occur to him to attempt a second contact with the Pilaco garrison commander.

The Dane driving the lead semi-truck breathed out a sigh of relief, and eased his foot back from the gas pedal. The needle of the speedometer slowly dropped to 45, and there was a few jolts as the automatic transmission downshifted. Now at a much safer speed, he unglued one of his hands from the wheel and reached to take the paper coffee cup. Taking a sip, he found that the muddy liquid was cold, but he took two big chugs anyway, knowing that staying awake would be a bit easier now.

The Major probably would've preferred that the Dane not do this, but he didn't notice because he had his greyish head out of the passenger side window, trying to better see the town, and the source of the smoke column.

He pulled his head back inside the cab and was about to pick up the microphone for the radio when the spotter in the lead pickup, now out of view due to a rise in the terrain, sent a transmission.

"All convoy vehicles, prepare to stop!" The radio said. "The road is blocked! I repeat, there are barricades on the roadway!"

Soon enough, the Major was able to see for himself. At the point where the highway became the main street of Pilaco, there were several barricades erected, reinforced by a burned-out van. There was an M90 armored personnel carrier pulled up behind them. The spotter's pickup had pulled to a halt in front of the barricades, and the larger trucks of the convoy soon stopped.

The Major opened the truck's door and leapt deftly to the pavement. He marched angrily past the pilot truck, and stared down the wolf standing in the M90's hatch.

"I demand to speak to your commanding officer!" Yelled the major. "The road was supposed to be cleared two hours ago!"

The lupine soldier grinned, but said nothing. The soldier seemed smaller than normal, and his fur was a light grayish tone, but the Major found it hard to tell, as he wore an oversized helmet, and the light was fading. Then, the soldier reached down into the APC and produced a revolver, which he aimed at the Major.

"Stand and deliver." Sneered the Wolf, chuckling.

* * *

When Darren returned to the Pilaco Town hall just after he recieved his orders from Lars, he found a confusing situation.

A small mob of local Coyotes were gathered in a circle, leaning in to examine something, as if a meteor had fallen in the courtyard. Darren pushed himself to the center of the group, and found that the object under scrutiny was a cut, bruised, and very dusty Coyote.

The Coyote studied the crowd groggily, and didn't seem to acknowledge their questions and proddings. That was, until he saw the bare-chested, tatooed badger.

"Darren!" The dusty coyote shouted. He tried to stand up, but fell back down on his behind. Darren rushed up to him and grabbed him with a well-muscled arm, pulling him up.

Darren squinted as he looked into the worn Coyote's face. "Garth?" Darren asked finally. "Is that you?"

"If it ain't, you better call mah lawyer!" Garth said, before falling over again, this time in a fit of laughter. Darren chuckled uneasily.

"You were in the town hall all this time?" Asked Darren, pulling Garth back to his feet again.

"Damn straight I was." Garth said. "What in hell did ya'll guys do, throw a... a..."

"Thermobaric round." Darren said, finishing Garth's sentence.

"Therma-what?"

"Nevermind that. You seem okay, are you?"

"Sure I am."

"We found Jas, he's up on the roadblock, dressed as a bruiser Wolf." Darren had to catch Garth, who nearly fell over laughing again.

"Betcha' Johnny nevah thought we'd see that!" Said Garth, once he had recovered from his laughing fit. "Where's he at? I gotta see 'im like that!"

Darren pointed Garth in the direction of the roadblock, and sent him off with a slap on the shoulder. That 'yote's sure got some spirit. Darren thought, shaking his head in admiration.

Garth had probably been on the roof when the building collapsed, so he probably fell in onto the rubble. It could've been a lot worse, but Darren was still amazed that Garth was in such good humor afterwards.

Darren then remembered he still had to acquire a rifle, so he set to it, searching for his squadmates. Since none of the sharpshooters could spare their weapons, he was forced to take the weapon of Jay Tomo. Tomo had been in Lars's group during the assault, and had been shot somehow, right in the neck. His body had been left in the back of a pickup truck, along with that of Sam Harley, the other casualty in Lars's squad.

Darren had known Jay, as he had lived on the Altama before the Balfor annexation. Tomo had left the Balfor Confederacy for some reason that he'd never talked about, ostensibly because it was traumatic, embarassing, or both. Jay Tomo had a reddish tinge to his fur as well, making him stand out among the other Coyotes. Tomo was always quiet and reserved as well, which made Darren speculate. Darren often thought that Tomo was a mutt 'yote, maybe with some red fox in him. That would explain the red tinge to his fur, and if the mixed ancestry had caused him to be isolated as a youth, it would explain his former outcast status, and quiet nature as well.

Since he never really knew, Darren assumed this was the case, and as Darren had a purportedly similar youth, he found a kindred spirit in Tomo. They had met long before the Balfor annexation, and prior to joining the Black Hammer gang, Tomo and Darren had been partners in crime.

With all that said, it gave Darren great pain to see his old friend lying in blood-soaked clothes with his brown eyes glazed over. Darren breathed fitfully for a moment, before a few tears rolled out from his eyes, which he cupped in his paws.

Darren swallowed a lump in his throat, and composed himself after a silent minute. Tomo's weapon of choice, a Human-made 13 mm anti-materiel rifle, smuggled from the Karlov republic, lay across his chest. Darren took this, and closed his fallen comrade's eyes.

"I'll come back for you, Jay." Darren whispered, before turning and jogging back to the roadblock. Thoughts of revenge slowly stirred in his mind, not only for Tomo, but for his family. Darren began to imagine he would blow the heads off every Balfor soldier in the convoy. These violent desires gave him resolve as he reported to Lars, and climbed the fire escape of the building Lars had assigned him.

There, the thoughts simmered and boiled in his head, until they were complemented by an anxious sensation that he felt through his whole body - triggered by the sight of headlights in the distance, on the road.

Darren bent low, concealing himself behind a ventilation unit. He heard the big trucks' engines, then the air brakes as they stopped at the barricade. There was a tumult of yelling, then the distinct report of a .44 magnum.

Darren popped up almost instantly, set the rifle's bipod firmly on top of the ventilator, and searched for targets. There was a sudden explosion as the pilot truck exploded, presumably Lars having more fun with his RPG launcher. Darren's building was a ways to the right of the road, meaning he could look down the row of trucks and see the cabs of most of them. Darren saw a guard lying prone on top of the first truck, and leveled the scope's crosshairs on him. He pulled the trigger, and the rifle buckled with its strong recoil. But Darren, adrenaline now pumping through him, was easily able to hold it steady.

The guard jolted and then fell still. Darren saw another target, the driver of the second truck in line, a big dog with cropped ears and a harlequin coat. Darren fired, and missed narrowly. He fired again while the driver was still gathering his wits, blowing the unfortunate canine's brains onto the back of the truck cab. Darren then ducked back behind the ventilator. Only then did he realize that he had taken no spare ammunition for the rifle. Darren smacked himself on the forehead, and tried to remember how many rounds the clip held. Having no memory of it, he pushed the magazine catch, and pulled the clip out. He quickly figured that the anti-materiel rifle's clip only held six rounds - 3 shots left.

More shots rang out around him. He knew the other sharpshooters would be able to take care of the remaining soldiers. But that wasn't enough for Darren. He popped back up, and saw the last driver in line was trying to turn his truck around and flee. But that wouldn't happen on Darren's watch. The truck swung outwards, and Darren blew out one of the tires, then fired the last two rounds indiscriminately into the cab, though he couldn't make out the driver because of glare on the window. The truck moved no more. With his magazine spent, Darren slung the weapon over his shoulder, and climbed down the fire escape of the building.

"Cease fire!" He heard Lars say. Darren walked right past the roadblock, and he rushed into the convoy's remains, not heeding the other Badger, now yelling to him.

The passenger's side door of the third truck shattered as an assault rifle's butt was shoved through it. The wielder of the weapon leaned out the window, and pointed the gun at Darren. Darren dove for the ground, and managed to duck below the big tractor. Nevertheless, there was a burst of fire from the automatic weapon. The burst was cut short by a sudden, metallic click, and a muffled curse.

Darren stood up instantly and tore open the truck's door. He grabbed his terrified assailant by the shirt, and threw him onto the road. Darren set upon him instantly, first with his fists (Darren had never been fond of his claws), bashing his victim's face over and over. Then, while the canine scrabbled at the Badger, a feeble counterattack, Darren drew his knife and drove it between his prey's ribs.

The hapless soldier went rigid as the blood spurted from the wound, and his eyes glazed over. Darren didn't notice, though, as he was already searching for his next kill.

He pryed the knife from the corpse, stood, and stalked slowly down the line, barely noticing shapes blur around him, which he somehow distinguished to be friendly, and didn't attack. Then, his eyes fixed upon the next recipient of his wrath; A guard who popped out from behind one of the trailers. The guard fired, causing a dark shape to fall, and retreated back behind the trailer. Darren turned around, and sprinted around the front of the nearest semi, now on the other side of the guard. Darren rushed towards where the guard was, and burst around the corner.

The guard, a lanky Wolfhound, didn't see what hit him. Disregarding his knife, Darren charged straight at him and leaped onto the guard, sinking his teeth into the Dog's neck. He didn't even cry out as he fell - Darren's teeth had demolished his throat and vocal chords. Darren and the hound's interlocked bodies crashed into the back of the semi-truck, and Darren was knocked insensible when his head collided with the metal.

Meanwhile, Lars and the sharpshooters, who had concealed themselves in the roablock, had been prompted to follow Darren's charge. As they mopped up the last of the resistance, Lars, with an RPG tube in one hand and a crowbar in the other, found Darren, crumpled up against a dead Canine with a wiry coat of fur.

Lars stared at Darren's work condescendingly. "Makin' the rest of us look soft, Darry." He thought aloud.

Darren was quite a sight; he still had no shirt on, revealing his tatooed fur, which was matted with blood in a few places. Lars also noticed Darren's knife lying on the road, covered in blood up to the hilt. And of course, Darren's teeth were still partially embedded in the hound.

Lars pulled his comrade up, and noticed that there was not one, but two wounds on Darren's head. One of them looked like it had been bleeding earlier, but had since clotted up.

He'll be fine for now. Lars thought, before turning his attention to the nearest truck. He shoved the Wolfhound's corpse out of the way and took his crowbar to the door of the trailer. With some effort, he pried the door open, and confirmed that what he was looking for was inside - a cannon big enough to sink a ship. He laughed loudly, realizing that today, victory was his.