“I don’t know what to say, Miss Sparkle. You might be at war with the Changeling Empire, but the United States is not at this point ready for another war,” Ambassador Stevens explained, his elbows resting on his desk. Canterlot had been a scene of commotion in the past few weeks, with the Ambassadors from the US, Russia, China, and most NATO nations (with the notable exception of Canada) setting up their offices in the city.
Still, however, the US was the closest thing to a human ally Equestria had. And if the talks with the rest of NATO went well, it might soon become official. However, with the war in Syria, along with the situations in Mali and Zimbabwe getting worse by the hour, no one in NATO had the men or materiel to expand war into entirely new territories.
Twilight was pacing around his office. “They’ve been killing our civilians, Mr. Stevens! Y-you have to do something! You have the Marines on the base near Ponyville! Can’t they go do something?”
“Unfortunately, they’re busy dealing with the Vanhoover Province incident,” Stevens said. “However,” he mused, getting an idea, “We can do something. The operation will be covered in black ink, but it’s possible.”
10/31/20, 0550 Hours
-24.4371, -149.6118, South Pacific Ocean
[REDACTED]
The ten helicopters raced over the forest, their rotors beating down the branches of the trees blow. The helicopters, seven MH-60M/S Stealth Blackhawk Transport Helicopters, and three MH-60M/S DAP Stealth Gunships, were specifically chosen by the 160th SOAR to perform what was perhaps the first mission of the “war”.
Around a scant 25 meters from the ground, the helicopters transported Alpha Platoon, Company B, Battalion 2, 75th Ranger Regiment. In the lead helicopter, Lieutenant Jason Kaczynski reviewed the mission brief. It was supposedly a simple job- in and out, just like the first missions of the last war. He knew how well those missions had gone for some of the Blackhawks thanks to Strela-10M’s, though. Of course, this wasn’t a war, just a raid, like the shit they’d done in Pakistan back in ‘18.
He checked his watch. Ten minutes until insertion. He glanced around the helicopter. The men in the passenger bay—his men, he reminded himself—were ready as could be. Equipment check,” he instructed, however. Even the most innocuous overlook or mistake could ruin a mission. As for encouragement, they didn’t need it. They were Rangers, they were roaring for blood at this point.
He checked his own gear. Fast-roping equipment? Check. Plate Carrier? Loaded with SAPI plates and ammo. Charges? Check. He did a once over of his own weapon, a Mark 17/S. He checked the magazine, worked the bolt, and set the weapon on safety. Ready to go.
He looked at his watch. Five minutes until insertion. The DAP’s moved to the front of the formation as the helicopters all moved from over the forest to over the desert, where he could vaguely see lights in the distance. The DAP’s kept flying forward for a moment, before opening fire. Six AGM-169 JCM “Brimstone” missiles streaked forward, seeking the lights by their heat.
Kaczynski kept looking at the lights, watching the missiles streak towards them. Five seconds later, they found their targets, the small lights growing into luminous explosions. Several seconds later, the helicopters shook as the sound of the explosions hit them. They were now two kilometers from the target, and almost exactly 30 seconds behind schedule.
The building came into view through his green-tinted, night vision-enhanced sight. Or, rather, what the enemy considered to be a building. The thing was made of packed earth, and looked like a giant beehive sticking out of the ground. Maybe that was because that’s what it technically was. The things that made it, Foreign Universe Unit 12, commonly referred to as Changelings by the locals, were equine-shaped bugs, or something equally silly. He personally didn’t care what they were called or what they took the form of. He was here to kill them.
By the time it was within easy visual range, the structure was covered in smoke, and missing around half of the upper floors. Fires raged throughout the whole thing, setting the spit the Changelings used to seal together their building alight. Shapes were visible in the fog, but the DAP’s opened fire with their six 30mm cannons, making sure to hit anything that was showing up on their IR.
The Blackhawks began to slow to a stop, around a hundred meters from the structure. A member of the 160th SOAR got out of the cockpit, walking over to man the M134A1 Minigun. Kaczynski nodded, getting up himself. The helos had stopped, and it was time. The men of Alpha Platoon hooked up to the fast rope system, before sliding down.
Kaczynski felt the tension of the ropes for a few seconds before he hit the ground. He immediately raised his rifle with one hand, undoing the fast rope with the other. He got down on one knee, gripping the rifle properly. The rest of the men disembarked, and the 39 (several men were on leave or sick, but more than enough to remain mission-effective) men of Alpha Platoon began to move forward.
Their mission was the spawning pool at the bottom of the compound. Nearly a half klick down into the ground, the thing couldn’t even be hit by 1000kg bombs, forcing the Rangers to be sent in. Of course, none of this was on Kaczynski’s mind as he ran towards the complex. They did have the M134A1’s and the DAP’s covering them, but if any Changelings could open fire, the field would become drenched in blood in no time.
They made it to the structure. The only problem is that there were no doors. Of course, Kaczynski thought, that wasn’t a problem. If RASP taught you anything, it was how to make a bloody door. He motioned to Staff Sergeant Stacker, who affixed the PETN Detcord to the wall in a six foot half-oval.
Everyone backed up a few meters from the wall as four of these were attached to the walls. Kaczynski nodded to Stacker, who depressed the trigger of the detonator. The wall exploded inwards, filling the air with even more smoke. Corporal. Fillmore took point as they moved into the building, rifles raised.
A few gunshots rang out as targets appeared in the target area. Kaczynski moved into the building, his own gun raised. He did a quick sweep of the room, seeing one of the things dazed in the corner of the room, coughing. It looked exactly like it did on the briefing. He fired three rounds into the thing before scanning the rest of the room.
Seeing the room was clear, the men began to move deeper into the compound. They only had construction patterns from older hives excavated by ponies, so the data was not very accurate. When they came across a stairway, it was a miracle. They began to move down, Corporal Fillmore once again taking point. A few Changelings tried to fight, but a few rounds of 7.62x51mm NATO ammunition put a stop to them before they got within two meters of the Rangers.
They moved down the stairs and past the area of support from their helos. As the further descended, the tunnels started to be lit by some kind of unearthly glow. “Optics off, now.” Kaczynski said, lifting the night vision monocular from his face. The rest of the men did the same, continuing to move forward. Then came the smell.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Stacker said, covering his nose. As much as Kaczynski hated to admit it, the smell was fucking terrible. It was like eggs gone bad mixed with horseradish. Of course, it boded something far, far more sinister.
“Stacker, shut up. Everyone, masks now,” The platoon threw on their M50 gas masks, the rest of their MOPP attire already on. The ponies had never hit a Changeling nest before, so they had no idea what was down here. Bad smells, Kaczynski noted, could very easily mean chemical agents.
They moved down into the compound, and things got weirder. The floor began to be covered in a thick goop. It glowed, Kaczynski noted. This shit was what was illuminating the entire lower compound. He internally bet twenty bucks it was bug shit or something.
They hit the bottom level, a huge, open area, and it took every fiber of Kaczynski’s mental strength not to vomit. The things on the ground weren’t so much eggs as they were amorphous sacks of goop, translucent, with clearly visible, exoskeleton-less Changelings inside. At the center of the room was a pool, from which the green goop flowed almost like a river.
Kaczynski gave the order, and the weapon specialists unslung M25 20mm grenade launchers from their backs. Kaczynski and the rest of the men began to take the C4 they’d brought along with them, ready to target the supports of this place. The M25’s opened up, blowing the Changeling larvae to hell with airburst rounds.
When the explosions subsided, the men moved into the final level, sweeping the area with their rifles. Around every other man, including Kaczynski, began to find the structural supports of the room.
These things must have one hell of a life cycle, Kaczynski noted. Most of these things must be female drones, like with bees, with males being somewhere in this twisted hive, servicing the Queen. Unless all the drones were males, and the Queen was the only female. But then where was the Queen?
Kaczynski turned, the charge having been planted. Stacker seemed to be having trouble with his, flipping it over a few times. “Stacker, need help with that?” he said. Kaczynski grew suspicious. Stacker had been the one to teach him how to use one these things.
Stacker looked around, confused for a minute, before laughing. “I got this.” he said, holding the charge in one hand. In the other, he grabbed the rifle by the pistol grip, his finger on the trigger. Kaczynski remembered the briefing: Changelings could make themselves resemble anything they wanted to.
“Stacker, how’s the wife?” Kaczynski asked, grabbing his own rifle. He checked the magazine and the chamber, making sure it was loaded. He looked across the chamber for more threats, and to hide his intentions from Stacker.
“Odd question, isn’t it?” Stacker asked, giving him a queer look.
Kaczynski shrugged. “Something to distract from the smell, I guess. Just curious.”
“She’s doing fine,” Stacker answered.
Kaczynski raised his rifle at Stacker. “Hey, Stacker, forget you were gay?” he screamed, rifle trained on the man’s upper chest.
“Wait, what?” came a call from the other end of the room. Kaczynski smiled, firing on the thing in front of him. Green goop spilled from the wounds, the first round catching the Changeling in the neck. The rest sped cleanly through the skull, quickly ending the life of the imposter.
“So that’s where the shit comes from,” Kaczynski guessed. “Ignore it, boys. Finish up, and we’re out of here.” Kaczynski motioned to his men. The rest continued their work, a little bit more edgy.
The platoon at last began to move back up the stairs, this time the former rear taking point. They began to hustle up the stairs, knowing that even with the detonators in their hands, C-4 could be unreliable. The sooner they detonated it, the better they’d feel.
PFC Jepordon, taking point, opened fire on the Changeling when it appeared. Then the next one, and then the next one. “We’ve got reinforcements!” he screamed, falling back to reload. Cpl. Henderson and Sgt. Carpenter moved up to cover him, engaging the Changelings with their rifles. Kaczynski moved up to the front, supporting them as they pushed up, and Jepordon followed with a newly ready rifle in position.
The group fought their way to the top of the stairs, the men taking turns to get to the front of the line, the ones in the rear reloading and recuperating. As they made it out of the cramped corridors of the structure and into the open ground, the line disintegrated and reformed into a more staggered formation, each Ranger maintaining an overlapping arc of fire in front of him.
The men began to make a break for the helos. The helos thankfully realized what was happening and began to engage the Changelings, which were now taking cover and opening fire on the Rangers with magic projectiles of some kind.
Kaczynski ran forward as the DAP’s opened fire with the M134A1’s, 30mm Bushmaster Autocannons, and 70mm rocket pods, reducing any Changeling not inside the building to shreds. He’d forgotten to put his monocular back on, but the night was almost completely illuminated by the gunfire and the rockets from the helos.
He took his seat in the helo while his men followed into their designated helicopters, which had since landed. Soon, everyone was onboard the helos, and they began to take off. Kaczynski opened up his radio network, ordering Sergeants to take a tally of wounded. The results came back when they were fully in the air: no casualties.
Kaczynski checked his watch. 0633 Hours. He took out the detonator for his charges, and gave the warning. The structure’s base exploded in on itself, sending the entire structure spiralling downward in a plume of smoke, goop, and fire.
10/31/20, 0945 Hours
-22.2891, -148.0847, South Pacific Ocean
[REDACTED]
“Then, at 0635 Hours, the demolition of Site Zero-Alpha-Charlie was finished, and we exited the area,” Kaczynski recounted to the gathered men of Alpha Company. “What have we learned from this?” he asked. The briefing room was filled with the overly tired men from the night before’s raid, all slouched over in their seats. They’d obviously not slept since at least the day before.
“Flip off the ponies and go back home?” someone said, laughing. Kaczynski stared at him, before continuing. It was to be expected, but these men better sort themselves out fast.
“Is there anyone here who wants to give a non-retarded answer? Going once...going twice…”
“Sir, we need some way to work out some way to distinguish our regular forces from the transformed versions of FUU-12 from our regular men. Perhaps we need some unique inter-unit calls, or clackers, like they gave paratroopers in World War 2?” one private suggested, raising his hand.
“Good idea, Private.” Kaczynski said, his face softening somewhat. “We can work out the specifics at a later point, but now, we have a special guest. Please welcome one Colonel Crimson Shield, commander of the 31st Pony Legion of the Equestrian Infantry,” he introduced, stepping to the side.
The men immediately stood up and saluted the podium, behind which a bright red pony in flashy, ceremonial armor walked. Typical, Kaczynski thought. They can’t show respect to the guy who fought with them a day before, but they manage to stand upright when a full bird enters the room.
“Gentleponies, or gentlemen I should say, good work earlier. This may be the first time the Crown asks for your aid, or it might be the last. Good luck,” the colonel said, before stepping down. Typical, Kaczynski thought. We get a colonel in here and he just gives generic praise. How typical.
Kaczynski stepped back up the podium, taking a look around the room. Everyone had gone back down to their sitting position, obviously tired. He continued the debriefing a little more silently. They deserved the rest.
When it was all finally over, he reached for the radio to keep him company as he organized the after-action reports from the operation. “Good morning, gentlemen. The temperature is 110 degrees…”
The M1A3IG tank sped across the field, the turret rotating to the front. Corporal Alvarez looked at the sensor on top, switching between infrared and standard vision modes every few seconds. It was hard to locate targets normally in this thing, and going sixty-five miles per hour didn’t help.
Then, he caught sight of it. “Pony town, to our twelve. This is it, load high explosive, prep canister round,” he said, turning to the gunner. Private Wilson nodded, slamming a red-colored 130mm round into the tank gun’s chamber. “Round up!”
“Copy!” Alvarez looked back into the tank’s sights, noticing the tank had joined with its brothers in a v-shaped formation, heading towards the tow. Only six tanks, all M1A3IG’s, sped towards the town. The town approached, now two and a half kilometers away.
The radio crackled to life, Lieutenant Fine’s voice filling the tank. “Pick targets and open fire!”
“You heard the man, open fire,” Alvarez said, staring back into his viewport. The tank shook as the 130mm gun went off, propelling five metal sabots at the buildings like a giant shotgun. Three seconds after firing, the shots hit the buildings, blowing in the walls.
One and a half kilometers away. Alvarez reached over for the joystick to the remote-mounted M2 Heavy Machine Gun on the turret. He started to fire. The noise didn’t make it through the noise of the engine, or the armor of the tank, but the tracers coming from it certainly did make an impression.
A green bolt of energy flew past the tank, hitting the ground thirty meters behind it. “Contacts, contacts, someone locate where that round came from,” Alvarez said, peering through the white and gray picture coming from the screen.
“Got him, thirteen degrees to our left.” Alvarez nodded to Specialist Jacobson, the tank’s loader, before turning the CROWS mounted M2. He fired off a burst of five rounds, watching the rounds kick up dust, before hitting a blob of heat-colored picture.
A buzzer sounded in his earpiece.
The voice of Lieutenant Fine signalled the ceasing of all combat operations.
The shot pony got back up, obviously angry, as he began to walk back towards the paint-covered buildings which had served as the “town.”
Alvarez opened up the cupola of the turret, and stuck his head out. The air of the tank was recycled and overly hot, but he sure as hell couldn’t get fresh air when the shrapnel was flying around.
“As you can see, the M1A3 ‘Improved Gunnery’ is the peak of human tank technology,” the loudspeaker boomed. “Armed with a Rheinmetall M255 130 millimeter wide cannon, ceramic-steel composite armor known as Chobaum II, and a top speed with regulator of seventy miles per hour, it is the king of the battlefield.”
Alvarez turned, looking at the grandstands. The ponies on it, a mixture of military brass and aristocrats looked at the tank, awe crossing their faces. Of course it would, that was some of the Equestrian Infantry’s best, the 9th Hussars. And they’d just gotten squashed.
Alvarez waved to them, before getting back inside the tank. “Ceska, take us home,” he said, collapsing into his seat. It wasn’t often they got to take Blackjack out, but when they did, it was something special.
“Stay the fuck awake,” Alvarez said, elbowing Private Wilson. “You may have done decently in a combat exercise, that doesn’t mean you’re graduated from being a fucking boot.” He continued to glare at the Private until the kid guiltily sat up in his chair.
“Good Afternoon, Gentlemen and Gentleponies, and good job,” Lieutenant Fine said, tapping the microphone at the podium. “You’ve all gone over the information about the encounter given by my counterpart, Lieutenant Pauldon. However, let me summarize a few points about the encounter.”
“Here we go.” Sergeant Vasquez said, a grin breaking out on his face. Alvarez also let a smile sneak on to his face, crossing his legs. The Lieutenant didn’t often give praise to the Platoon, but he only put on that face when he was ready to chew someone out, and he was staring straight at the ponies in the audience.
“It is clear at this point that the Equestrian Infantry is woefully under-equipped, under-trained, and if I may dare say so, under-qualified. Let me put this into simple terms: the 11th Cavalry came away with no casualties. The 9th Hussars were eliminated almost to the man. Not a single Abrams was destroyed, and if I’m getting this right, all US equipment was unharmed,” Fine said, obviously disgusted with the incompetence he was forced to deal with.
“This was without the larger arms of the 11th Cavalry and her detachments coming into play, especially air support and artillery fire, which would have destroyed the houses of the training area even further. Fine looked around the room, glancing now over everyone. “I want explanations, and I want solutions. Preferably ones that make sense.”
Alvarez grinned at the smackdown, but he still pitied the poor ponies in the room. Still, the LT had a right to be angry. As strange as it seemed, he’d get in a shitload of trouble for this, since certain factions of upper brass, including his CO, wanted this to show what valuable allies the ponies could make.
A pony raised its hoof. “Our briefings didn’t include half of the capabilities of your equipment, and when they did, it was underestimated to the point of utter absurdity,” he said, defiantly. Fine nodded, calming down a little.
“Noted. Any tactical ideas on the matter? Any suggestions for the future?” he asked, glaring now at the infantrymen in the audience.
Another pony raised its hoof, this one with wings. “We need better integration between the Pegasi Corps and the Unicorn Corps. Our aerial recon didn’t do jack when we had to request authorization to tell the unicorns to open fire on your vehicles. Or, in general, a pegasi or earthy squad can’t do anything at range because we don’t have unicorns right next to us.” Fine nodded, jotting down notes.
“Anyone else? Anyone?” He glanced over the audience, desperate for something to write down. “You, you’ve got your hoof up,” he said, pointing to a unicorn in the back.
“W-well, um, our equipment isn’t worth anything,” he said, obviously more timid than his pegasi or earth pony counterparts. “We fired our most powerful anti-creature spell at your vehicle, and it only seemed to scratch it. Our earth ponies can’t do anything if humans can hit them from down the road!”
“Duly noted,” Fine said, obviously appeased. “Good work, all of you. It’s around dinnertime now, grab something from mess, then report to the airfield for further exercises. Dismissed.”
“So there I was, the chaingun firing behind me, fifty ponies to my front-”
“Fucking bullshit, there weren’t fifty of them there, you smug asshole,” Alvarez said, hitting Specialist Jacobson in the shoulder. “Even if there were fifty of the things in front of you, you took out what, one or two? The gunners did all of the work!”
“Just because you got stuck on bitch duty doesn’t mean you need to shit all over my story, Al.” Jacobson shoveled some more of the mess hall slop, today disguising itself as pasta, into his mouth. “And besides, you’re the one who pissed his pants the first time when those cannons went off,” he said through a mouth of food.
“I lose my cool one time when there’s a giant explosion going off, one fucking time-”
“Cardigans, at your six,” Vasquez said, before innocently sipping his drink. Cardigan was what everyone was calling the ponies. Like all military nicknames, the original was complicated and stuck up its own ass. Apparently some officer had said they were as incompetent as Lord Cardigan leading the Light Brigade, and the name stuck. Even if a few people didn’t know what exactly the Light Brigade was.
The five ponies were an assortment of colors, but they all wore the dull-metal armor that was typical of the Equestrian Infantry. They were unarmed, but they still kept their armor on, unlike every single other pony in the mess hall.
“You here to own up to your ass-kicking?” Wilson grinned, looking around to the approaching ponies.
“You hay-fuckers only got jack shit done because of your fancy toys. You hadn’t had them? We’d have kicked your ass from here to Canterlot,” the lead pony, a stout unicorn who looked like the pony version of a trailer park baby, exclaimed.
“Bull-shiet,” Jacobson said, laughing. “We’d have kicked your ass sideways if we’d been wearing lorica segmentata and yelling about profligate equines running amok again.”
“You donkey-fuckers wanna go?”
“You faggots have any insults besides what we may or may not stick our dicks in?”
The infantrymen got up, putting their food aside for a moment. The mess hall suddenly got extremely quiet, everyone focusing on the brewing fight. Jacobson cracked his knuckles, both sides mentally preparing.
“Break it up!” Lieutenant Fine yelled, Lieutenant Pauldron next to him. “Calm the fuck down.”
Alvarez sighed. As much as he wanted to go, Fine was right. He couldn’t risk fracturing the already-strained relations between the two forces. Still, they would only have to put up with this for a little while, then they were back in the sandbox.
“Three months, three fucking months until the Marines get the 3rd up and running,” Fine said, walking over to them. “Just keep calm until then.” he said, sympathetic.
Alvarez nodded, calming down.
“Solid copy.”
