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Chapter 1: At What Cost?

April 7, 2004

Fallujah, Iraq

18:37 Local Time.

The sandy rattle of distant gunfire was a constant companion to Sergeant Brian Lancing. The young soldier and the men he led was surrounded by it, a constant reminder of the war they were fighting and the danger they were in. Even so, it was pretty much business as usual for the squad of experienced and battle-hardened Marines.

"Bastards just won't let up, will they?" Corporal Rico Morales, his second in command, huffed. All of them weren't in the best of moods. With temperatures still hovering in the '90s, the eight men were hot and tired. Their combat gear and armor weighed them down, and a day spent running around and the occasional battle just made the armed men slightly disagreeable. He hefted his M240G machine gun.

A departure from the standard M249 SAW, Brian saw fit to arm them with heavier weapons in the city. He had personally picked up an M14, slapping a scope on the weapon to provide a makeshift designated marksman rifle. Both the M240 and M14 fired the 7.62x51mm round, a heavy, older cartridge that still provided a nasty punch. Most of the other members of his squad used a mixed bag of M4 Carbines and M16 rifles that fired the standard 5.56x45mm round... a far better choice for close-quarter fighting.

"That's why we're here, Morales. Maybe we can get these guys out of here before they can kill fellow Marines, not to mention locals." Brian offered a disgusted expression to his SiC. They had seen many screwed up events in their two and a half years in the Marines. War truly was Hell, no matter how you sliced it. His uncle Nathan had done two tours in Vietnam, and he had strived to follow in his footsteps. It was a dirty business, but he had the lives of his squadmates to protect... not to mention the fact he was fighting for his country. Brian had dropped out of college for this, and he was going to make sure he did something that mattered.

"Might as well carpet bomb the whole God-damned place." Jack Graines, the section leader for the other fireteam, spoke up. He was a bit hotheaded, but he kept his cool under fire. "Yeah, yeah, gotta protect the civvies, but when half of them are insurgents anyway..."

"Stow it, Graines." Brian commanded. "It's dangerous, dirty work, but you knew what you were in for when you signed your contract." The sergeant glanced to his assembled comrades. "We're running a little short on time, so we're going to make one more run. We're holding the line three blocks west of here..." he paused as a not-so-distant explosion rattled the windows of nearby buildings. He noted with a bit of pride that none of his command flinched. "As I was saying, we've got an established line three blocks west of here. We're going out for one more incursion before we pack it in... maybe we can rout them from that bank building they've been hiding in."

The insurgents weren't making it easy, and they had quite some time to prepare for the Marines' combined assault. One stronghold in particular had been a bank at one point... now firmly reinforced by enemy snipers and RPG launchers. Due to its proximity to a residential district, the brass had been very reluctant to call in an airstrike... Brian understood their reasons, but the bank had been a thorn in their side for the past three days. Still, his squad would be willing to follow him to Hell and back if they needed to. Brian would be willing to do the same. "So, let's pack it up and move on in. Everyone keep on full alert; this ain't Easy Street."

"Let's get the pressure off our brothers' backs, man!" The voice called out. Ken Richards, one of the rookies. Well-trained like all Marines but a complete greenhorn, Richards was one of the grenadiers. Equipped with an M16 with an M203 grenade launcher, even a few skirmishes in Fallujah hadn't tempered his need to be in the fight... unlike the more experienced Marines.

"Well, if you're ready, let's get to it." Brian motioned his men forward, holding his M14 in a low ready position. While tired and heavily laden with combat gear, at least his command was in good spirits.

*------------------------*

"Fuck!" Morales cursed as he ducked behind a crumbling brick wall, the crackling report of automatic weapons fire chasing his position. Bullets intended to tear through unprotected flesh slammed into the unyielding wall and the building that lay behind it, punching new holes into a mural faded by years of sun. The big machine-gunner lifted his M240 over the wall and fired back blindly in response, attempting to drive his attackers back. "This ain't just a damn bank, mano! They've got it locked up better than Fort Knox!"

Brian was backed up against the wall several meters to his SiC's right. The muffled crump of grenades went off; the insurgents held up in the bank were doing their damnedest to turn the attacking Marines into grease spots. He gripped his M14 in hands encased with Nomex gloves... the heat of the waning day all but ignored as his men went into pitched battle. His nightvision equipment was tucked in the large combat pack he wore... and he had no time to take it out if the battle extended into the dark. "You're telling me, man!" he called out over the sounds of fighting. The rest of his squad was busy holding the line, firing all they had into the building. "Something about this ain't right!"

"Something? More like everything, if you ask me!" Morales shot back before lifting his heavy machine gun over the wall, laying down another burst of suppressive fire. "Get your ass to the end of the wall, Sarge! I'll draw their attention. Having a damn sniper out there will do us some good!"

Lancing nodded... Morales had a point. Giving his friend a salute, he ran forward... Morales doing his part and blazing through ammo to keep the enemy's heads down. He soon reached the end of the wall and fell to his belly; the Dragon Skin body armor he had purchased softening the blow just a little. His parents had helped him out with the purchase, and the stuff had saved his life once... a damn good investment. Most of his squad had bought some of their own, and he had loaned out a paycheck or two to help. His armor, however, was the furthest thing on his mind as he shouldered his M14.

Brian got his first good look at the bank since it had become such a problem to his fellow Marines. Three stories tall and constructed of the same stucco-like material that was common all throughout the Middle East, the place was a veritable fortress to begin with. He hoped to God that Morales got all of their attention, because he was about to make some serious noise.

The Marine peered through the M14's scope, seeing a muzzle flash go off from behind a window on the second floor. 'Gotcha.' Brian thought as he put the scope's crosshairs just above the flash. He pulled the trigger, the rifle thundering in his ear and its recoil bringing him off target. He wasn't sure if he had hit the insurgent, but that was another matter as he tried for another target.

Another man was ducked behind a pile of sandbags, firing an RPK machine gun at the second squad's position. The man was unaware of his presence, and it was an easy shot. He pulled the trigger again... the M14 cracked once more, and the man fell as if he were a puppet with its strings cut.

He tried to line up a third target but his luck just about ran out. A muzzle flash on the third floor winked at him, and bullets started chewing at the rubble-filled ground in front of him. With a yelp he pulled back before a few bullets could core his body. "One confirmed, another possible! They didn't like that, now did they?"

"Ooh-rah!" Morales gave the traditional Marine battle cry. "We'll whittle them down if we have to!" He threw Brian a thumb's up as he scrambled back into position. "Belt's getting a little light though, dude!"

"Dammit." Brian spat. "How much do you have?" While he was the designated marksman, he carried a little more ammo than usual. Ten magazines, or two hundred rounds, was his usual loadout. While it was the same 7.62mm as Morales' M240, the machine gun used disintegrating belts. His ammunition wouldn't work without being preloaded, and that posed a problem.

"Got one more belt, so a little over a hundred rounds." Morales grit his teeth. That wasn't much considering he had a machine gun. Still, a few soldiers carried an extra belt. Brian was about to grab one from one of them, when he received the news. "Jacobson and Sawyer already gave 'em to me, Sarge."

"Shit." Brian cursed. "Listen. I'll make a run back to the checkpoint, grab a couple boxes. Hold out for fifteen minutes, tops. If I'm held up..." The soldier lifted his radio. "...I'll buzz you. Chill with that?"

"I'm chill, Sarge. I'll owe you a beer before all this is done." He responded with a grin, clapping a massive hand on his commander's shoulder.

"Rico, you already owe me a case." Brian shot him a silly grin. "Now, cover my ass so I can get outta here."

"With pleasure, sir." The big Marine lifted his machine gun once more... letting more high-velocity lead slam into the building... and hopefully some of the insurgents. Brian took the chance and slipped through a nearby alleyway, making sure to move under cover and not get noticed.

Even though the real battle was being fought at the bank, there was still danger lurking around every corner... especially for a solitary Marine. He was breaking more than a couple of rules running off on his own, but he needed his entire command at the front. Insurgents moved freely among the population, and it wasn't uncommon to have support amongst the civilians. Masquerading as Uncle Joe during the day, and then coming out with an AK at night. He let the M14 drop on his tactical sling and then pulled out his sidearm... a much more maneuverable weapon to use among the closely-packed buildings.

The pistol used to be his grandfather's. He had also been a sergeant in the Army during World War II, and had made it a point to purchase it after he got out of the service. The old Colt M1911A1 had sat in a desk drawer of his home, awaiting the day that it might be used against a burglar. That day never came, and he had passed the handgun off to Brian as a 'good luck' piece just before he went to Afghanistan. The sixty year-old weapon still served him well, even though it didn't have the fancy toys that other soldiers had grafted onto their pistols.

Brian couldn't take his time clearing the alleys that he popped into, but he made haste towards the checkpoint. He stopped for anything suspicious, and made sure he didn't walk into a possible IED or ambush. Several minutes later he found himself at the checkpoint... a mere eight blocks away.

He had holstered his 1911 before walking up to the blocked-off road. Two Humvees and a myriad of sandbag walls littered the area... making it a decently defensible location. It would have been suicide to try to make a full-on attack... but in a world where suicide attacks were the norm you came to expect anything. The two men that glanced at him didn't bother to salute... to do so was to call attention to a possible sniper.

"Where the hell is your squad, Lancing?" one of them remarked. He manned a Browning M2 .50-caliber machine gun mounted on one of the Humvees. "We're still hearing them giving them hell, but damn... you shouldn't be back here without 'em!"

"Sorry, man." Brian responded. "Morales is running his pig almost dry, and I need to get some more ammo to him." He shrugged apologetically, even though he outranked everyone else there. There was more to being a leader than giving orders... you had to earn the respect of your men.

"You must be wearing them down bad, sir." Another Marine replied, already digging into a crate. "Seven-six-two, right?" As Brian nodded he extracted two heavy bags. "Hundred rounds each. All I've got... tell him to use it wisely because the supply truck won't come 'till the morning."

"Gotcha." Brian replied, pausing as he heard another vehicle approach... the unmistakable diesel rumble of another Humvee. He glanced up at the last moment as the lightly armored transport crunched to a halt in front of him. The doors opened and two men jumped out. The driver looked to be a corporal, but the passenger wore the blacked-out insignia of a full-bird Colonel. The man was his regimental commander, Lyle Hammond.

Hammond was a pure Marine, even at the age of sixty. Having served in Vietnam gave the old man a grizzled nature, but he also proved his worth. He also commanded respect by forgoing most of the 'bureaucratic bullshit', in his own words. Hammond also was tough as nails; often visiting the front lines to better direct the forces under his command.

Brian snapped to attention, almost giving the man a salute... though everyone there full well understood the danger of an insurgent sniper. "Sir!" he called out, giving his commanding officer a respectful nod.

Hammond wasted no time, pointing down the road. "Sergeant Lancing, Bravo Squad leader, right?" the colonel asked. At Brian's nod, he turned to the younger Marine. "Why the Hell aren't you with your squad, Sergeant? If you don't give me a good answer, I swear to God I'll have your stripes after you spend the rest of your tour doing latrine duty!" Hammond didn't take any flak, nor was he ever given any.

Brian stiffened at the reprimand. "Sir, the squad machine gunner was running out of ammunition. I was the only one available to run back and grab some. I went alone, and was just about to go back to load him up, sir!" It was the best he could say at such a short notice.

The officer nodded at his subordinate, cracking a slight smile as he heard the explanation. "Well, Sergeant, I'm glad to see a Marine personally making sure his squadmates' shit is in order. Next time, make sure to take someone with you... we don't need you getting your ass shot off out there!" Before Brian could respond, Hammond continued. "Someone fucked up down the chain, Marine. Your squad is not supposed to be out there. Get their asses back here, and pronto, son. You're about to witness a new chapter in the history of warfare, and you now have a front-row seat."

"Sir?" Brian asked. Something was going to happen, but he had no idea what. He could hear the distant rattle of small arms fire intensify, and then the radio on his waist crackled. "Echo Bravo Two, calling Echo Bravo One. We're getting into some deep shit, Sarge! I've ran dry, and a couple of us are running mighty low... they're turning up the heat! Get back here and load us up!" Morales' voice had a sense of urgency... his friends were on the verge of getting shot up.

Hammond swore under his breath. "Take that Humvee, son." He pointed to the one he had pulled up in; one of the nicer, armored variants equipped with an M2 machine gun on top of a lightly armored turret. "Get your ass down there. You have... four minutes before the Skystrike project makes its debut, Marine."

"Skystrike, sir?" Brian asked as the occupants of the aforementioned Humvee piled out. They knew full well not to disobey even an indirect order... plus they understood the power of the weapon they were about to deploy.

"Not much time to talk about that, son." Hammond shook his head. "You didn't hear it from me, but it is a first strike orbital weapons system... an ion cannon, from what they said. Rumor has it it came from Dreamland, and the Chair Force boys have been itching to use it." The colonel expressed his disdain for the Air Force, who seemed to sit in their cushioned chairs and let their laser-guided bombs do all the hard work. Dreamland was another name for the famous facility called Area 51... and Skystrike sounded exotic and alien enough to have actually come from there. "So, get over there and pull your boys out. Those insurgents won't know what hit them until they start getting poked in the ass by the Devil."

"Sir, yes sir!" Brian called out, rushing towards the Humvee immediately. He scrambled up into the vehicle, looking inside as he did so. Someone had left their M16 in the back seat, but he had no time to hand the weapon back to the man, instead opting to unsling and set his M14 right beside it. His pack followed... there would be time to get Morales his ammo later. Shutting the heavy armored door, he noticed that the Humvee was still idling, and that the Marines had cleared the way for him. Giving them a wave, he pushed the accelerator and the lumbering four-wheeler pulled out onto the main road.

Brian only had a few minutes to get them to safety, and he wondered how to do that. It sounded like they were pinned down by the insurgents, and he had to make sure to cover their retreat. Sighing, he picked up the radio. "Echo Bravo One to Echo Bravo Two... Morales, I'm coming in hot. The Colonel wants your asses out of the fire immediately. I've got a Humvee with a Ma Deuce on it. I'm going to lay down fire support. We've got three minutes until we catch a fireworks show, so you need to hurry!"

"Sarge, we're damn glad to hear from you! We need that fire support, man... we're getting our asses handed to us! Nobody's been hit yet, but it's a matter of time. They finally calling in an airstrike to take these bastards out?" Morales sounded angry... but getting pinned down by a lot of gunfire would make anyone angry.

"Long story, man. Once you're safe I'm going to bug out, too. Get your butts back to the checkpoint. I'm going to collect on those beers you owe me, dude." Brian laughed as he rolled up near the walls his men were pinned down behind.

The appearance of an armored, well-armed vehicle attracted enough attention. Most of the insurgents started firing at it, the chatter of AKs intensifying as they poured their small arms fire into the Humvee. The vehicle was hit with a hail of lead, but the armor was designed to hold up; 7.62 and 5.45mm slugs bouncing and ricocheting off its armor plating. Brian hoped fervently that it would hold up to a Dragunov sniper round... and that the insurgents had fired off all their RPGs.

Sliding out of the bucket seat, Brian pushed himself partially up into the gunner's position. He didn't want to expose himself to enemy fire, so he blindly reached out and grasped the M2's firing handle. His thumbs fell upon the weapon's butterfly trigger and pressed down.

The M2 fired the powerful .50 BMG cartridge, a round originally designed to punch through the armor plating of early tanks. In use since the early 1920s, the weapon had seen various roles, including the main armament on fighter planes during WW2. It was even used as a sniper weapon during Vietnam, recording kills at well over a mile. In the right hands the M2 was an extremely lethal weapon, and it was once again demonstrated as Brian fired at the insurgent building.

The Marine didn't bother aiming and kept the trigger pegged down. The machine gun chugged death at five hundred rounds per minute, although this sort of firing wasn't recommended... the barrel heated up easily and had a tendency to become damaged if fired as rapidly as he was doing. The insurgents ducked out of the way as Brian continued to spray the building, simply trying to suppress their fire.

The tactic seemed to be working. Morales gathered up the rest of the squad, directing them through nearby alleyways and away from the fighting. The clock was ticking, and Brian had to make damn sure that his men were out of danger before pulling out. Taking a split second to slide onto the suspended sling that the gunner would normally sit on, he manned the weapon properly. This would increase his accuracy and hopefully pick off anyone that tried to take a potshot at his retreating comrades.

The Marine fired a few more bursts at the windows, not even stopping to check if he had hit anyone. A flash of movement at the roof of the building caught his eye, and he moved to deal with the threat.

Brian was too late by a split second. The insurgent on the roof was armed with a Dragunov sniper rifle... a firearm that was marginally more powerful than the M14 he normally carried. The man fired at him, its high-velocity round almost clearing a gap in the turret's light shielding. The off-balance bullet punched into Brian's helmet at just over a thousand feet per second... causing his head to slam back against the armor.

It felt like a mule had kicked him in the face... into a concrete wall. Even wearing a Kevlar helmet it hurt like Hell. Blood streamed down the side of his face, letting him know he had been nailed with a fragment. Yet, the Marine didn't have the ability to do anything about it. He fought just to maintain consciousness. The clock was ticking, and he had to get out before Skystrike hit.

The clatter and chaos of the insurgents' weapons returned, and Brian struggled to get a grip on the M2 once more. Haphazardly, the dazed soldier sprayed their positions once more. Some of them took cover, but others fought back harder. One of the Humvee's windows cracked under the assault, yet held.

The Marine's inner voice screamed at him to get back in the driver's seat and bug the hell out of there, but he simply slumped forward, the last of his mind fading away. Maybe the vehicle's armor would protect from the...

He didn't have the time to finish the thought. At an altitude of seventy miles directly above, a specially-designed satellite had entered the fray. Precision controls directed the weapon's firing solution. The amount of work that went into designing the weapon had been ludicrous, and from orbit a miscalculation by millimeters would spell disaster. Unfortunately, it did.

Nobody knew what an orbital ion cannon could do. Airstrike had only been test-fired once before, at an abandoned building at the Area 51 testing center. the bright white beam slammed into the building and left nothing except a shallow crater fifty yards in diameter. The weapon had been deemed a success, and the order was given to test it in combat conditions... an order that would come to end several lengthy military careers.

The first test-firing had actually jarred a gear loose in one of the servos meant for aiming the weapon. Fortunately, it held enough to keep the point of aim within one millimeter of its intended target. Had the gear actually fallen out, the ion cannon would have deviated wildly off target. Subsequent investigations noted that if that had happened the weapon would have fired at the southern tip of Italy before destroying itself in a nearly billion-dollar explosion.

Unfortunately, the margin of error that millimeter would make proved disastrous. The cannon's focal point didn't fall on the bank building, opting instead to center itself twenty feet from the hood of Brian's commandeered Humvee.

The Marine didn't even have time to realize the mistake he had made by not escaping sooner. A bright white glow surrounded him, accompanied by a soft hum. Both the glow and the hum intensified, becoming a crash of white noise and bright enough to make him feel like he was falling into the sun. There was an intense flash of heat, and then everything went black.