“Vertical envelopment troopers. Death from above. There are some in the Army who think you will amount to nothing more than a failed experiment in a new kind of combat. Why use parachutes when wings have worked just fine for millennia? But they don’t know you like I do! We know that landing safely is only half the battle, and it takes a unique kind of warrior to land and fight behind enemy lines! I know you are those warriors, and I’m convinced that the end of tyranny, when it comes, will be delivered by the claws of the Airborne! Don’t disappoint me.”

-General Nimbus Cloudstriker, during the first graduation of Royal Parachute Infantry from the 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment, August 29th, 1008

November 13th, 1011
36 km southeast of Metztunalia, Howling Mountains Province, Arisian-Occupied Chiropterra
Flounder Company, 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 11th Airborne Division
Operation Sucker Punch

The sky blue Downwind C-47 Skytrain rattled and rumbled as it soared through the pre-dawn sky, its fellows on the wings holding formation as they were heading towards their target. Their escorts, a flight of four P-40 Warhawk fighters, held formation around them, wings tilting as they peered towards the ground, watching out for any sign of hidden anti-air emplacements or movement to indicate spotters fleeing the area. This late in the fight, the Legionary diehards and guerillas still possessed enough hardware to cause problems for the occupiers. Today, however, there appeared to be no such firepower to be found nearby. So far.

This transport aircraft wasn’t the only one up in the sky. Not far away, five more Skytrains flew in a loose diamond, each one escorted by their own flight of Warhawks. This aerial armada had taken off from the strip at New Ayacachtli with exactly one objective in mind; find the Pathfinders that had taken off an hour before hand, land on their designated DZs and move into the forests to find one single thestral. While the parachute infantry had been informed that ridding these hills of the diehards taking shelter with him would be a great boon in stabilizing the occupying forces, this one thestral in particular was the main focus of their entire mission. According to Captain Summers, he had to be brought in, at all cost.

Sergeant Stratus Deeptide sat with thirteen other paratroopers, all of them trying their best not to be airsick. They were all hippogriffs, of course, but the slamming and shaking turbulence of the C-47 was unlike the weather conditions most of their kind were used to experiencing. It was too cramped to commence anymore inspections of their kit, and too loud to talk to one another, so all they had was staring at the plane’s floor and each other, attempting to burn away the anxiety. For Stratus, he had tried to prepare by reading his scriptures, having used what little free time he’d had to flip through his Book of An. That same book (the condensed military version at least) was tucked into his breast pocket, and every now and then he reached a claw up to poke at it and make sure it was still there. It always was. His mother had raised him the best she could, and one of those ways was to make sure he grew up religious, reading the word of the gods with proper deference.

”Miss you ma,” he thought to himself.

Abruptly, the interior of the plane was swamped with red light. The jumpmaster at the door hollered out “Get ready!”

After a pause to make sure he had their undivided attention and that nothing had gone wrong, he raised his claw, palm up. The physical sign was for those too far from him, who couldn’t hear over the drone of the engines and to reinforce the message to those who could.

“Stand up!”

The cramped and tight confines of the craft became even more so as all the hippogriffs stood up in single file on their rear legs, packed tail to beak, wings held tight under packs, parachutes and rigging. The average hippogriff was physically larger than a pony or griffon, so the C-47 did not give much elbow room to fourteen griffs. But they had trained for this, gotten accustomed to it. After some shifting and reorientation, they were lined up in just a moment.

“Hook up!” shouted the jumpmaster, making a hook with a talon. In sync, with practiced movements, they attached their tag lines to the cable running the length of the plane. Connected to their packs, it ensured the chutes would open upon flying out the door, no matter what.

“Equipment check!” The jumpmaster swiftly patted his shoulders for the assembled troopers. Without hesitation, every soldier immediately began a swift inspection of the soldier in front of them. Straps, buckles, rigging, weapons. Before they had boarded the plane, each soldier had jumped up and down in their gear, and if it rattled or made noise it was strapped down on the ground. Now was the final check before they threw themselves out into the unknown.

“Sound off for equipment check!”

And it went down the line, from the rear of the line to the front. Each trooper reached forward, slapping the shoulder of the griff in front of them and confirming they were clear. It came down to Stratus’ turn.

“Five okay!” he hollered, smacking the shoulder of Corporal Charybdis, who carried the call on forward.

“One okay!” the jumpmaster finally called back, finishing the process down the line. Abruptly, the plane jerked hard as something with the strength of a giant rocked it hard under one wing, an almighty explosion ringing out nearby from somewhere outside in the pre-dawn light.

”Son of a-hang on back there, fucking Bats finally woke up!” shouted the voice of the pilot over the intercom, and the plane seemed to twist around on a gimbal, more explosions ringing out. The previously dark sky outside was suddenly full of flashes of light as the anti-air batteries of the enemy reached out to try and smack them out of the sky. The diehards didn’t make a habit of shooting every Arisian plane out of the sky, mostly to avoid being detected and wiped out from nearby bomber squadrons or have a platoon of Rangers come root them out. Give their course, they should have merely looked like a flight heading northeast into friendly Warzena, hardly a threat. But some Bat on the ground must have had a sixth sense, for why else would they shoot at fighters and transports? Unless there was an intel leak…

No time for that now, thought Stratus. The Skytrain finally leveled out, the glowing red light switching out for a green one.

“Go go go!” called the jumpmaster, planting his claws on either side of the door frame and, after only a moment, leaping out into the dark, pre-dawn sky. Three more griffs leapt out before it was Stratus’ turn, and he didn’t even think twice before he too took that wingless jump into the great beyond, feeling the wind rippling at his body as he plummeted like a stone. For several heartstopping seconds, he tumbled. The wind ripped at his uniform, at his rigging, the equipment and weapons he wore. It tried to tear the helmet from his head, blasted the feathers and fur not covered in all directions. Again and again, he suppressed the urge to open his wings, to take natural flight like he had always done on his own. But at this speed, with all this rigging, opening his wings would only make things worse, and possibly kill him as he spun out of control.

Then, with a lurch and the deafening sound of silk snapping open, his downward trajectory was arrested and he jerked in the harness. The parachute had engaged properly. Stratus let out a sigh of relief. Everything was working as it should be.

The sky was a deep violet with an edge of pink on the horizon, as the sun they had been flying towards had finally begun to shine across the eastern expanse. Good. They’d catch the night watch exhausted and the day shift in the middle of their sleep. Overhead, the C-47s and P-40s roared away, even as more flak bursts popped around them, malformed black clouds across the sky. Some of the Warhawks abruptly descended, strafing targets on the ground before pulling back up again. Stratus couldn’t tell if it did any good.

The fall seemed to take much longer than either the training flights from Jump School or the few preparatory jumps they had practiced before this operation had begun. The NIA brief had told them time was of the absolute essence, before the target moved again, and they’d have to go and acquire the necessary intel all over again. That hadn’t left the Airborne with much time to get a force put together and ready. In the end, they’d chosen Flounder Company to go, and here Stratus was descending on the landscape below. In the dawn gloom, he could just make out the rocky mountain crags under him, sporadically decorated with the jungle foliage that crept up from Warzena to the southeast. There, just a ways to the north, was a coil of red smoke, obviously designating the rally point where the Pathfinders had cleared out for them. He was a ways off course, but it was nothing he couldn’t fix once he was on the ground.

Finally, Stratus approached his landing. He knew what to do at this part, raising his rear legs as high as he could as he prepared for the shock. When he finally came down, it was on all fours, allowing him to absorb the punishing impact and roll to dispel the energy. Having achieved this, he immediately yanked at his rigging, discarding the straps and hurriedly rolling the silk up in a bundle. The less the enemy had to discover, the better.

Abruptly, Stratus heard a shout nearby, followed by a pair of shots. He immediately went into a crouch, drawing the Buckstar M982 from his holster. While the Thundersplash submachine gun was a far mightier weapon, he was tangled up in the silken cords he’d been rolling, and at the moment couldn’t get to it. Another shot echoed, and he realized it came from his east, through a glade of trees. It had to be pretty close. The foliage wasn’t so thick as to disguise shots like that.

After another moment, and Stratus knew he had to go investigate. Disengaging from the parachute, he holstered the pistol to finally get the Thundersplash clear, moving into the thin brush at a half crouch. His olive drab uniform and indigo feathers and coat helped him blend into the dark forest hillside, weapon up and ready as he crept towards the disturbance.

It didn’t take him long before he heard voices. One in anger, another in pain. He pressed into the underbrush, practically a shadow as his jump boots slipped through with nary a sound.

“One more time, pissant!” snarled an accented voice. Though it was speaking Arisian, the voice was clearly Chiropterran. “How many of you are there out here?”

“Highbreeze, Private First Class. One-five-one-two-five-nine-three-four.”

“Ah bollocks. Just shoot the bugger already, would you? No point keeping ‘er round, she en’t gonna tell us anything useful, innit.”

A third voice. At least two enemies and one friendly, then. Stratus moved closer, pushing silently past the low-hanging vines and leaves strung between two trees. There, in the clearing beyond, he spotted what he was looking for, a small clearing bare save for a campfire, a few bedrolls and a dead Airborne paratrooper hanging from his silk, strung up by the trees. Whether killed on the way down or shot after coming down in an unfortunate and unlikely place, it was clear this trooper hadn’t gotten off lightly. Laying on the ground nearby was another trooper, her rigging all around her, helmet askew and Cloudfall rifle several yards away. In the clearing, as it happened, was not two enemy soldiers but three. One was rummaging through a fallen Airborne pouch, inspecting the contents with a critical eye. A second one was leaning over the wounded paratrooper, a hoof raised in menace while the third one stood nearby, looking bored but clearly not about to intervene. Two were thestrals, while the one rummaging through the pack was a unicorn, using her magic to inspect the goods she was looting. They wore dark green fatigues and forage caps, purple moon patches decorating their shoulders. All three were armed with BA-12 rifles, bolt action weapons that were likely all they had left in their dwindling stores. Though only the one standing was up on two legs, weapon held in his hooves, he didn’t seem concerned with watching his surroundings. Stratus had the jump on them all.

He checked the safety on his Thundersplash. Twenty rounds of .45 Auto, ready to go. He lifted the weapon to his shoulder, then hesitated. He had to time it just right, or he’d risk endangering himself or the other paratrooper. Had to make sure he could get all three in a short burst.

A whistle cut the air. Two notes. The Chiropterran diehard on watch glanced around, but didn’t seem alarmed. The hippogriff paratrooper, however, recognized the tone just as Stratus had, and threw herself flat. In a moment, the clearing was full of gunfire, rattling blasts from Thundersplash SMGs, cracks from Cloudfall rifles, snaps from Buckstar pistols. Stratus had, without thinking, joined in and blew away the thestral threatening the downed para. In what could only have been about ten seconds, the three Legionnaires were scoured away, blood and viscera spattered across the clearing from the multiple directions they had been blasted. The swiftly lightening air was clogged with gunsmoke and agonized, racking coughs. One of the Chiropterrans was still alive.

“Flash!” called out a voice.

“Thunder!” Stratus replied, heart jammed up in his throat. It didn’t matter how many times he went into combat, that first moment the bullets started flying his heart shot up and his balls tried to follow.

“Welcome!” returned the voice, and at that all participants moved into the clearing, converging on the wounded paratrooper. One of them was Corporal Charybdis, who nodded across to Stratus.

“Sergeant Deeptide, good to see you,” she said. “You see the dropzone?”

Stratus nodded in return, thumbing back over his shoulder.

“We’re not far off. Give it an hour to the north. We’ll be in place before Barracuda Company launches their assault.”

A shot rang out, prompting all the paratroopers to glance over, only to spy one of the Privates had put the wounded Chiropterran out of their misery with his Cloudfall rifle. The hippogriff glared back, defiant and daring anygriff to object. No one did. They had no time or ability to take prisoners anyway, and none of them felt any kind of pity for murderous, slave-taking torturers. After a moment, Stratus turned back to their wounded companion.

“How bad is it, Highbreeze?”

“Could be worse, Sarge,” PFC Highbreeze grunted as she was hefted up by Private Blackfin, who had already grabbed the wounded trooper’s rifle. “Don’t think it’s broken. I can baby it until we get to the DZ.”

“Don’t dragass, Private,” Stratus shot back. “You fall behind, we leave you behind.”

That, of course, was a bold faced lie. Unless in a life or death situation, Airborne never left their wounded behind in enemy territory. Stratus glanced up at the dead paratrooper, shaking his head.

“Okay. Scrounge what you can. We’re out in five. Be ready, Airborne. This is just getting started.”

Indeed it was. Operation Sucker Punch was after a single thestral. Two whole companies of elite parachute infantry, dropped over the mountainside away from friendly elements, supply or extraction. The only support they were getting would be from the air, once they got the radios working. And just who was it the United Kingdom of Aris had sent some of their best warriors to come haul in?

None other than Ocean Spray, the fugitive Commander of the Legionary Medical Research Department. His involvement in several of the LMRD’s crimes against sentient creatures was undeniable, and while they had already hauled in his superior Lady Commander Emerald Light, there were several remaining elements of the Department at large in the Chiropterran wilds. Most saw fit to keep their heads down, quietly hiding among the resistance cells that tried to fight back against the Arisian occupation (tried being the operative word, of course). But Ocean Spray was different. He was still out there, possessing chemical weapons and ‘testing’ them on towns and villages that didn’t resist the UK Army forces in country, as well as military targets themselves. He had kept on the move, managing to stay one step ahead of Arisian intelligence.

No longer. The NIA had finally caught wind of his location. For his crimes, past and present, the Airborne were here to finally tighten the noose and drag him back to answer for what he’d done. All they needed to do was swing the two halves of the trap shut around his hiding place. In this hostile terrain, with mountains to the northwest and jungles to the east, it was easier said than done.

But they were Airborne. They did the impossible every godsdamned day.

Author's Note

'Medal of Honor: Airborne' is one of my favorite WW2 games I have ever played, hands down. On top of that, the stories of the 82nd and 101st Airborne during the conflict are damn near inspiring. If you haven't seen it yet, go watch 'Band of Brothers' on HBO. Or read the book by the same name. It's life changing.

If you can believe it, I got this all typed up in 24 hours. Yeah, I'm still amazed too.