1210 Hours
USS Gerald R. Ford

"Let's begin." Captain Henderson said as he sat down at the conference table, the commanders of the major combat units assembled before him. "You all by now have seen the video. Thoughts?"

"It's bloody hard to swallow, Captain." A British Major said. "If we weren't where we are now, I would be inclined to believe it to be staged. However, we have multiple sources confirming the existence of an entity known as Discord, and a specific pair of ponies, once shown the tape, confirmed that it was the same entity as you encountered."

"It has given us a fair amount to talk about, certainly." Captain Volkov stated. "But enough on the events of last night. However much we would like to second-guess it, that video happens to be the largest piece of evidence we have. Fleet-wide analysis has determined it likely to be factual, and given that we are talking about a possibly insane deity of chaos in our midst, there is not much that we can do to change that situation.

"Instead, our focus should be on our next actions. This is now officially a war, and we must act like it."

"Have you got your information ready, Volkov?" Captain Henderson asked.

The Russian simply nodded, leaning forward. "Indeed, I do. After consulting with several ground commanders, the easiest way to finish this would be to take the two other cities that are closest to us on this coastline: On the map, they are marked as Manehatten and Baltimare." Several of the officers smirked, but none remarked on the relation to the US cities. "This, of course, necessitates that we weaken the supply lines to these areas. To that effect, I have ordered elements of the 7th Air Group to launch-"

There were five knocks on the door before it suddenly opened, letting a nervous Marine inside.

"Captain Henderson, sir." The Marine said, eyes snapping around the room. "Urgent call for you from the Lake Erie on Channel Juliet-Nine-Nine. And I mean urgent: It's probably a good idea to answer it now."

The door closed as the Marine hastily exited the room. Henderson, quickly touched a series of controls and selected the radio channel specified, putting it on speaker.

"This is the Gerald R. Ford, Captain Henderson speaking. Captain Wright, do you hear me?" Henderson asked.

"Yes, sir!" The voice on the other end said quickly. "We've got company: Multiple high-frequency radio signals, coming from multiple directions. We're trying to lock onto them now, but they're frantic."

"Copy. I'll head to the bridge. Henderson out." He closed the connected. "Damn, we can't go one day without a disaster. Everybody, this meeting is closed. Get back to your commands and be ready for anything."

"What's the situation?" Henderson asked as he stepped onto the bridge of the Gerald R. Ford several minutes later.

"We're in contact with several units: Still trying to tell who is who!" The communications officer yelled over the chaos in the room. "We've got several groups of planes scattered over the ocean, and we're trying to redirect them over here. There's one problem, sir: A group of the Washington Army National Guard, the 161st Infantry Regiment. They're in scattered radio contact, and from the transmissions we are getting, they are also under attack."

"Get information, now!" Henderson barked. "I need names, type, and I also need a damn group of infantry flown out there ten minutes ago!"

"Already spinning up, sir!" The officer at the communications station replied.

1236 Hours

Sokolov increased the power to the rotors, the underbelly of his new Mi-24 Hind only ten meters above the trees as he crested another ridgeline. Around him, three other Mi-24s, six MH-60 Blackhawks, and two AH-64 Apaches likewise were flying low, headed towards the source of the radio transmissions. Already he could heard some of the chatter.

"This is 2-1! We're getting hammered down here! Where our air support?" One voice demanded over the radio.

"ETA one minute and thirty seconds." Another voice replied, the sound of gunfire and something else echoing in the background.

"They'd better hurry their asses up! These things are getting too close for comfort, and we can't fight them well in these woods!" The voice said, a long burst of gunfire sounding close by at the end of his statement.

"National Guard soldiers, this is Raven Actual, United States Army." Colonel Foyer, the leader of the strike force, said from his helicopter, the Blackhawk in the front. "What's the situation?"

"We woke up in the forest here at 1158 Hours, and some of the lead formations were attacked by some kind of animals. We don't know what the hell they are." One voice said over the radio. "Since then, we've been under attack by some sort of quadrupeds. I can't get a good look." A small pause passed before he replied. "Some of my men are saying unicorns or something like them, and after what we were ambushed by several minutes ago, I'm inclined to believe them."

"Have you got a LZ?" Colonel Foyer asked.

"A mile and a half in diameter. We found our vehicles and heavy equipment at one side. Sir, if you don't mind, what the hell is going on?"

"You'll be briefed when we repel the hostiles. Currently, you're a good fifty kilometers to the east of our firebase, deep inside what we consider hostile territory. Send the word out to sync your 'Net' units to Delta-Three."

"Copy that. We've secure a strip of land around the field two hundred yards deep into the forest. You shouldn't encounter much ground fire when you come in. We don't know how, but these things can launch some type of... Energy. With a lucky hit, it'll dissipate on your ballistic vest and knock you on your ass. With an unlucky hit... We're down several Humvees now."

"Copy. Mark the LZ with smoke. Foyer out."

Sokolov banked the helicopter towards the left along with the rest of the group, moving towards several large plumes of white smoke rising from the ground two miles away. It was in the center of a large field, where the sides were teeming with moving shapes. As they approached the field, Sokolov slowed his helicopter down, raising the nose.

"Be sure to land us properly this time, Sokolov!" Lieutenant Vasilyev said over the radio from the back.

"Yes, sir!" Sokolov said with mock enthusiasm.

The Hind descended onto the field, touching down on the uneven grass with a small bounce. The sides doors open and twenty Russian infantrymen, mixed with the MVD team, jumped out onto the field. Sokolov quickly lifted off and aimed the nose towards the treeline, scanning for targets.

A notification quickly popped up on his net display, marking an area with plenty of friendlies clustered around it.

"Hit the forest one hundred meters north of our position with everything you have!" A frantic voice pleaded over the radio. "They've got us pinned down in the dry creek bed!"

"Copy last, American unit." Sokolov said over the radio. "We're moving to assist."

The Russian pilot pushed the stick forward, tilting the Hind forward and moving it above the marked position. As he looked below at the small clearing where the 'creek bed' was, he could see dozens of individual markers on his HUD indicating where the individual soldiers were. He could also see movement in the trees ahead, from which dozens of brightly colored bolts shot from.

"Unicorns in the treeline. Launch a Shtrum*." Sokolov ordered his Co-Pilot and gunner.

"Copy. Firing." Came the response a moment later, followed by a bright streak launching from the left pylon. The wire-guided AT-6 missile shot forward, diving through the trees and impacting on the ground. The five-kilogram High Explosive warhead, designed in this case to destroy light tanks and armored vehicles, blew several trees down and killed four of the unicorns firing on the line.

Sokolov, of course, could not see the results through the trees and the small cloud of dirt kicked up. He felt the Mi-24 shudder beneath him as the 23mm GSh-23L thundered, sending out hundreds of rounds into the forest, chewing through trees and shredding through armor as if it didn't exist.

After several minutes of sweeping the cannon back and forth, firing occasional bursts into the trees, the unit finally came on over the radio.

"Thank god you were here! Thanks for the assist, we have it from here." The man said with obvious relief in his voice.

"Burya-1, this is Raven Actual." Another voice cut in a moment later. "RTB for refuel and rearming."

"Copy, Colonel." The Russian replied. Although he was officially not obliged to obey the American, the Colonel was in charge of the strike force itself, and the advice made sense. Within seconds, he had banked to the west, and was headed back at full speed towards the firebase...

... Vasilyev jumped down into the dry creek bed, multiple orbs of light flashing overhead a moment later. He raised himself out of his makeshift cover at the other edge of it, firing a burst of 5.56 NATO from his AUG A3 before ducking down again. The Russian lieutenant didn't know how it had gone to this, but he did know one thing.

It had all gone to hell.

The moment his group had jumped out of the helicopter, they had rapidly been separated by the needs of the ongoing battle. He didn't even want to try and find them: Doing so would mean running through the thick of the battle towards their tags, one by one. Radioing them was another option, but one that was unadvisable due to the pressing need to stay alive.

A single one of the higher-powered orbs of light - magic, as the ponies called it - impacted the ground in front of his position, indenting a small crater and showering him with dirt. Vasilyev rose again, taking aim for the exposed unicorn who had done so. A flash of gold in the scattered remains of the bushes ahead of him prompted him to fire, emptying half the magazine into the area. He heard a small scream of pain before one of the shields that they could make popped into place, deflecting the rest of his rounds.

Vasilyev ducked down again, several more lights flashing overhead, many of them on the trees behind his position, turning the outsides to splinters. Vasilyev quickly took the chance to switch out the magazine on his rifle, putting the nearly empty one in a pouch on his vest. He pulled the bolt back, loading the first round in the magazine.

Vasilyev was stopped in the middle of going up again by the loud noise of a helicopter. He looked up and watched as a single Mi-24 rained destruction on the treeline with several dozen Hydra rockets, followed by an extensive burst from the chaingun. Vasilyev looked over the edge of the creek bed just in time to see the burst of rockets hit, blowing apart and igniting the trees in the area as they impacted. Several loud screams came from the area that had been hit, a testament to its effectiveness.

Vasilyev ducked by reflex as he saw another bolt coming at him, from a direction that had not been hit. He raised himself again, firing at the source. Clearly, the battle was nowhere near over, and Vasilyev had the feeling he would be here for a while.

1326 hours

"Redirect all aircraft you contact to the Firebase Airport." Henderson ordered the communications officer. "The field's up and running, and although it has a lack of hangers or supporting infrastructure, it's the only concrete landing strip on this entire planet."

"Yes sir!" The officer chimed, moving back to his station.

"Sir, Captain Volkov wants you to know that he recommends that we pull the unit we are supporting back to the Firebase!" Another officer just arriving on the deck said. "There's a road half a kilometer to the north that can accommodate them!"

"Pull back to the north end of the field, and concentrate rotor wing assets in clearing a path." Henderson ordered, moving around in a large circle around the room. "Get some aircraft up there and find out where their reinforcements are coming from!"

"Sir!" An Ensign said, rushing up with a data tablet. "The answer came in a few minutes ago! Several minutes after the group appears to have arrived, they encountered multiple hostiles in the forests. They either ran into a formation flanking us, or the ponies knew in advance where they were going to appear."

'That's an unsettling notion.' Henderson thought.

"Carry on." The Captain of the Gerald R. Ford said, absorbing himself back into the sheer chaos of the control room, directing where things were to go. Twenty minutes into his self-appointed task, however, an Ensign came up to him holding a red phone.

"It's the emergency line, Captain." The Ensign stated with an apologetic shrug as the Captain took the phone.

"Yes?" Captain Henderson said, pausing to listen to the Russian-accented voice on the other end. "No, I will NOT give you control over the nuclear weapons aboard our ships, Colonel Degtyarev... Yes, I understand we're at war, but we're not going to irradiate the landscape for the sake of a pyrrhic victory! If you come to me one more time asking for indecent measures like this, I'll endeavor to 'miss' your later calls... Good day."

Captain Henderson clutched the phone and gently placed it back in its cradle, hiding the annoyance that was becoming common when dealing with the Russian commander.

"Cheer up, skipper." The Ensign said. "It can't get much worse than this."

Henderson sighed, before looking up at the sailor. "I can only wish that to be true..."

Author's Note

60K words!

As a side note to that, I'd like to note that I am sorry for only updating once a week. School has popped back up, and I'm too busy being a C student to do writing.

* The 9K114 missile, also known by the NATO name AT-6 'Spiral', is an air-launched, anti-tank, wire-guided missile. The name 'Storm' is an English translation of 'Shtrum', its' official name.

And no, the Mi-24 that Vasilyev saw was NOT Sokolov's.

-=-=-=-=-

A series of errors caused the late update. First, I forwarded the wrong link to my editor. And then the situation reversed itself. Derp. Don't worry: I should be updating more soon.