The Saddle Arabia Diaries

by BaroqueNexus

Rating: teen
Tags: Adventure, Alternate Universe
Length: 9106

A retrospective account of the War for Saddle Arabia, told from five different viewpoints.

Five very different ponies. Five tales of bravery, leadership, and valor. These are the accounts collected in the wake of the War for Saddle Arabia, the three-year-long conflict between the arid country and Equestria. From the waters of the Northern Sea to the Al-Sakkaran Valley, from the Siege of Zakirabad to the Fall of Naghdad, this diaries encompasses all the major battles, tactics, and stories of one of the longest, bloodiest wars in Equestrian history. From Captain Shining Armor, PFC Big Macintosh, Major Rainbow Dash, Lance Corporal Jonathan Hawk, and Naghdad resident Agara Sul-Mulawi, these are the Saddle Arabia Diaries.

Image source: http://totallynotabronyfim.deviantart.com/art/The-Saddle-Arabia-Diaries-348512115

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-04-17 00:50:34 UTC

Foreword

This is an alternate universe fic. In this story, the ponies of Equestria and Saddle Arabia use human weaponry and equipment in their war against each other. All acronyms and unfamiliar terms will be accompanied by a definition.This story is rated Teen for excessive violence, language, and graphic situations.

Entry 1: Blood on the Beach

Entry 1: Blood on the Beach

Captain Shining Armor

Homeguard Unit, Designation One-Alpha-Echo

0303 hours, January 14 2013

Jalahar Province, off the coast of Saddle Arabia

We were cold, colder than ice, than snow, chilled to the bone. Our breath was like smoke in the frosty air, curling and dissipating in the night. The waves broke silently against the hull of the iron boat, occasionally spraying us with sea salt. The folds of my fatigues contained little pockets of saltwater that further chilled me. The fatigues themselves did little to help against the freezing temperatures, and my Kevlar helmet trapped cold air underneath it, blasting my mane and horn with frost.

My boat was one of forty-six that plowed soundlessly through the icy water, en route to LP [Landing Point] Mustang on the shores of the Arabian Sea. We had our uniforms, desert fatigues with patterns to help us blend in with the arid surroundings. I was wearing the signature Homeguard red-and-black uniform with a dark jacket over my Kevlar vest. We had our rifles, standard M4A1s with scopes and NODs [Night Optics Devices] and ammo ports, so a unicorn didn’t have to hook up to an ammunition unit back at base in order to restock his gun. We each had a Beretta sidearm and a couple of frag grenades. Some of the ponies in my unit carried M249s or M240Bs, while others had outfitted their M4s to the point where they looked like futuristic space guns instead of modern day military weaponry.

The only thing we didn’t have was an enemy to shoot at.

I couldn’t do a warming spell, as no doubt the Saddle Arabian Predator drones would pick up the MDR signal, so I was more than relieved to see a large campfire burning on the white beach, set up by boys from the 81st Infantry and men from Joint Ops – Canterlot Sector, who we in the Homeguard liked to call ‘jocks’ or ‘jokes’, depending on whether you liked them or not. The boat glided onto the beach and stopped. The operation commander, Barnabus Buckner, signaled from the shore for the boat operative to drop the ramp, and with a soft thud, the ramp touched down, and I felt cold sand underneath my hooves.

“Captain Armor!”

Commander Buckner and his second, Lieutenant Darkblood, came up to me and saluted. I saluted back and cleared my throat.

“Gentlemen. How’s the situation looking?”

“A lot better now that you showed up with the Homeguard,” Buckner said. “Could you walk with me? And bring your men.”

I nodded and called out to the twenty-or-so guys in my unit, each burly and carrying several pounds of equipment. The beach was a flurry of activity, with ponies moving right and left to set up equipment and vehicles for the inland push. Darkblood noticed where I was looking and smiled.

“We should have done this a long time ago,” he said. “Saddam Hussar won’t be expecting an attack from the north.”

“Are you sure? They’ve got Predators, you know.”

“We know, but we’re prepared for them. We’ve got AA and AT [Anti-Air and Anti-Tank], courtesy of the Crystal Empire. Anything flies where we don’t want it flying, it goes down in a ball of fire.”

“It’s good that we’ve rendezvoused with the Aquastrians, but with all due respect, sir, do you really think this is a good idea? I mean, sending all of our troops north, just to meet with the sea ponies and attack from behind?”

“Yes, I do, actually,” the commander huffed. “We aren’t taking much ground from the south. Hell, last month damn RSA [Republic of Saddle Arabia] troops nearly drove us back to the border! No, we take ‘em from here. They won’t be expecting a naval attack, and once we take Zakirabad, Hussar will be shitting his pants in fear.”

I cringed. “So what’s the plan?”

Commander Buckner took over the conversation. “The plan is to get all of our forces together, all HAPOCs [Head Assault Pony Operation Centers], and launch a trident offensive on Zakirabad.”

“Zakirabad?” I asked. They nodded.

“It’s home to one of Hussar’s major arms production facilities. If Zakirabad falls, then Naghdad should be easy pickings.”

I thought for a second as a few passing soldiers saluted us.

“Why not just scramble a few jets and take the facility out? Put some JDAM [Join Direct Attack Munition] strikes in there?”

Buckner shook his head. “Too many civilian casualties. Besides, they have AAPs all over the perimeter.”

I understood immediately. AAPs were Anti-Air Pegasi, and they could knock a squadron of F-22s out of the sky in no time whatsoever.

“So infantry assault?”

Darkblood nodded. “Correct, Captain. But we’ve also got tank and APC [Armored Personnel Carrier] shipments as well as an artillery attachment from our boys in the south. After we take out their anti-air, we can call as many wings in as we want. If we push hard, we can surround Zakirabad before dawn breaks.”

“That’s good to hear,” I said as we stopped on a small dune. “I’m happy to contribute my men in any way possible, gentlemen.”

“Splendid!” Buckner said. “We need a guard detail on our communications outpost up that ridge. I know, I know, it’s grunt work, but right now I’ve got no units to spare. Do you think—?”

“I’ll do it, Commander,” I said. He was right, it was grunt work. But he was operation commander. I wasn’t about to deny his orders.

“Good to hear it, Captain Armor. Comms landed about an hour ago, and right now Chatterbox is up there trying to get a signal. Take your men up the hill and set up security. You’ll mobilize with the rest of us when the time is right.”

With that, we saluted each other, and despite the groans of my men, we walked up the hill toward the comms post.

Chatterbox was our radio pony, the stallion who worked the comms and mikes during operations and setups. He was a messy pony with a mane that reached down to his hooves, and I assumed he only looked like that because he was in Special Services, where they were much more lenient toward how you dressed and presented yourself.

As the rest of Homeguard 1AE set up a perimeter, I went to talk with him. He did not look please to see me.

“You want something, man?”

He didn’t even salute. I held back my annoyance.

“I’m Captain Shining Armor of Homeguard One-Alpha-Echo. Commander Buckner assigned us to your station on protection detail.”

“Pffh!” he said dismissively, tinkering with electronic equipment that I knew nothing about. “As if I needed protection. You and that softie Buckner better watch your rump, if a sniper were to pick us off they’d go for the officers first…”

“Hey, shut up! And keep your voice down!” I snapped. “He’ll throw you in lockup if he heard you!”

“He ain’t General Clopton, man. Even Commanders don’t got authority over Special Services, you know? C’mon, man. He ain’t much of a commander.” He held his hooves up. “‘Wouldja kindly do this? Wouldja kindly do that? Please, if it ain’t too much trouble, fire back at the enemy.’ You’d think a damn commander would grow some damn balls.”

I probably should have punished him or cited him for such insolence, but it was true. Even the Homeguard didn’t have any real authority over Special Services. They were a league of their own. As for Commander Buckner, troops respected his word, but his voice was definitely not the loudest on the battlefield.

“Fine. Just finish up. I don’t wanna have to foalsit you all night.”

“Hey, chill out, sir,” he replied, chuckling at his own joke. It was still freezing cold, and the warmth of the campfire around which many of the ponies in my unit sat was so tantalizing.

Chatterbox got to work on setting up the monitors and other equipment, and I sat on a stool underneath his awning, looking up into the moonlight, searching for the mare in the moon. I started to think of home. I wondered what Twilight was doing back in Ponyville. Probably boning up on her studies or hanging out with her friends. I chatted with her via Skype back at Camp Stallion, my home base. Of course she’d been happy to see me, but she was used to me being gone for long periods of time. After all, I’d been Captain of the Royal Guard at Canterlot before the war broke out and I was assigned to the brand new Homeguard unit. Three months later, I’d gone from Camp Stallion all the way up to the Barren Sea, where the Equestrian Navy hooked up with the Aquastrians and shipped us to LP Mustang, at the northernmost tip of Saddle Arabia.

“…that wrench?”

“Huh?”

“Pass me that wrench, will ya?” Chatterbox said, holding out his hoof.

I passed him the wrench, still thinking. So far we’d managed to push the Arabians away from Equestria, and now somepony got the idea that we should join our Aquastrian allies and flank from the north seas, while the rest of our boys chipped away at their defenses from the south. To me the idea was both brilliant and ridiculous. It was true that Commandant Hussar would not be expecting a full-scale attack from the sea, but I thought we had wasted far too much time moving all our troops onto the Aquastrian aircraft carriers and seabases. Plus we’d left most of our heavy-duty equipment, like our heavy artillery, behind. With no heavy guns and no air support, it was going to be real tough to take Zakirabad, never mind Naghdad.

And there I was, sitting on my rump on a hill on the beach, freezing my tail off as I foalsitted the mechanic…

But this was still a Homeguard’s job. A Homeguard was supposed to protect his men and his country no matter where, what, or when his situation is. I’d seen quite a bit of action in my months as a Homeguard, enough to make some ponies go crazy. I guess I welcomed the rare moments of calm that showed up amidst the heinous carnage of war. Normally army captains don’t see much action, but I was in Homeguard. We functioned a little bit differently from the regular army boys. That was why Buckner and Darkblood sought me out in the first place. As for looking bad in front of the other soldiers, I didn’t worry. I still got respect from everypony I met as soon as they saw my black-and-red fatigues and the Homeguard insignia on my shoulder, a black stallion’s red-eyed head flanked by twin M16s.

“HAPOC Twenty, HAPOC Twenty, this is HAPOC Ten, do you read?”

Chatterbox had gotten the radio to work and was trying to talk to the men that had landed further down the beach. All I heard was static, but as I sighed and watched my breath dissipate into the chilly night, a voice came on.

“Roger, Ten, this is HAPOC Twenty. Go for niner.”

Chatterbox did a little happy gesture with his hoof, but then the voice spoke again.

“Ten, be advised that HAPOC Six and Twelve both report IR flashes in the south hills. They’re saying…yeah, they’re saying it looks like Arabians. Might be changers and eagleheads as well, over.”

Changers and eagleheads. Changelings and griffons. Government mercenaries. I tensed, and Chatterbox’s grin vanished. He turned to me. “The Commander will want to hear this. Will you get him?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said before galloping down the hill. All along the beach, ponies were unpacking equipment and issuing orders. We were to initiate advancement when the sun went up, mostly because of the cloud cover provided by our pegasi allies. But if changelings and griffons had been spotted…

“Commander Buckner, sir!”

The black-maned, blue-coated unicorn turned around at the sound of my voice. “Yes, Captain?”

“HAPOCs Six and Twelve are reporting enemy sightings. Comms thought you’d want to hear for yourself.”

“You bet your rump I want to hear for myself! Starrier, Moonbeam, get Darkblood then follow me!”

We trekked up the hillside to the outpost. Chatterbox was in a frenzied state, with sweat dotting his brow despite the cold.

“Sir, the situation doesn’t sound good,” he said as the lieutenant trotted up. “Now HAPOCs Eight and Nine are reporting enemy visuals, and…”

“HAPOC Nine? But ain’t we HAPOC Ten?” the one called Moonbeam asked, arriving with Darkblood and the other grunt, Starrier.

“We’re HAPOC Ten,” I answered.

“Son of a bitch,” Darkblood cursed. “We need to ready our defenses. If opfor sees us coming this whole operation will be blown.”

The radio crackled to life again. The operator sounded worried.

“Ten, this is HAPOC Twenty. Now we’ve got opfor sightings at…oh, mother…Six has ceased communication. Are you getting anything from them?”

Chatterbox fiddled with a few knobs on the radio dashboard, but only static came from the speaker. “Negative, Twenty, Six is unresponsive.”

Suddenly I heard it.

A low, quick sound, muffled by the fog. It sounded like somepony beating a drum very fast.

“Ten, be advised, Eight is reporting shots fired on the embankment! HAPOC Twelve has gone dark! We are detected, I repeat, we are detected!”

“Shit!” Commander Buckner cursed. He too had heard the gunfire. “Captain, get to your squad leader and prepare a defensive line! Those shots will reach us soon, and we need to have an answer! Starrier, stay with the comms. Moonbeam, go with Captain Armor and give his unit some backup firepower! And bellow down the line!”

Bellow down the line. Code for tell everypony you see that hell is about to erupt around your hooves.

“How the buck did they find us? I thought this beachhead was cleared!”

“It bucking was! They must have snuck up on us!”

“Bucking damn it! If they expose us, this whole operation is toast!”

“How many are there?”

“Who the buck knows? A hundred?”

“No, shit, more than that! GET TO YOUR LINE!”

Where that had been order, there was now only chaos. At least it was controlled. Everypony knew where they had to go. Infantry stallions hit the lines of the hills where the HAPOCs stood, while the artillery remained on the beach. Sniper divisions began to flank the oncoming enemy. I ran for the hills, meeting up with Major Fetlock of the 102nd Infantry Brigade. He was entrenched in a wide ditch in front of HAPOC Ten, as were the infantry from HAPOCs One through Twenty. Soon hundreds of soldiers were cemented in the makeshift trenches in front of their command centers, stretching for about a mile up and down LP Mustang. Fetlock was firing his SAW at the tall embankment that overshadowed LP Mustang, about a half-mile away. I saw more muzzle flashes from the hills and dunes to the south. I looked down the line and saw that somepony had already been hit. A young unicorn was bleeding badly from the chest as the medic unicorns attended to him. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen.

Major Fetlock stopped firing to reload his LMG, and I shouted over the gunfire. “Major Fetlock! Homeguard’s gonna set up a line in those rocks over there!” I pointed to an array of boulders a few hundred feet from where we stood. “We need suppressing fire!”

“Whatever you want, you got it, Captain! You hear that, maggots?! FULL FIRE!”

With that everypony in Fetlock’s unit raised his weapon and fired, as my men and a few ponies from Moonbeam’s platoon made for the rocks. The ground blew up around me, but I ignored it. Gunfire wasn’t new to me.

As my unit took cover in the rocks and began firing at the enemy, Commander Buckner’s voice came over my earpiece. “All units and HAPOCs, be advised that the enemy is confirmed RSA. They knew we were coming, boys, but the operation is still a go. We push forward, and we’re gonna take Zakirabad.”

A cheer went up and down the beach, only to be drowned out as the gunfire increased, intermixed with the mortar fire that rained down on the Arabian soldiers. Someone on my radio reminded me to switch to NODs, so I did, pulling my night-vision goggles down from my helmet and watching as the world around me turned green and black. I lined up one soldier in my sights, a beret-wearing mustached unicorn with eyes full of hate, and squeezed the trigger, feeling the rifle butt slam into my shoulder. I saw a flash of darker green erupt from the pony’s head, and he went down.

“Scratch one!” I yelled to my troops, who cheered. Some of them didn’t answer, too busy firing at the enemy. Meanwhile voices came and went on the radio.

“Multiple hostiles engaged! Fire on the embankment!”

“RPG inbound!”

I saw a flash and a trail of smoke, and suddenly HAPOC Six went up in flames.

“SHIT! HAPOC Six is Oscar Charlie!”

“Where the buck is HAPOC Twelve?”

“We need to get off the beach! We’re sitting ducks here!”

I fired and fired, reloading when I had to, but there seemed to be no end to the muzzle flashes and the sand that snapped up around me. Suddenly, about a half-hour into the fighting, I heard the caw of an eagle. Sure enough, griffons flew down out of the sky and dropped mortar rounds on us. An explosion rocked the trenches in front of HAPOC Ten, and a ruptured propane tank spread fire all over a group of ponies. They flailed and screamed, but were quickly silenced as they became easy targets for sharpshooters from the overlooking cliffs. My heart grew sick, and I continued to peek over the rocks and fire my gun, reloading whenever necessary.

It went on like that for over an hour. I saw a few more men go down, but I didn’t hear about any fatalities over the radio. Soon a message came over the comms that the government troops were trying to jam our communications, and that’s why we couldn’t get anything out of HAPOC Twelve. Suddenly Buckner came over the radio again, this time addressing me specifically.

“Captain! Do you have an open link with the Aquastrians?”

I passed down the question to Chatterbox, and I nearly burst with happiness when I heard the answer.

“Confirmed, we still have the link!”

“We’re not gonna get these bastards with bullets alone. One of our scout pegasi just did a layover. They have a whole bucking division set up in those hills and on that embankment. We need some air support. Get Chatterbox to scramble an Apache or two from the Celestia!”

I struggled to hear him over the gunfire. The ESS Celestia was one of only two Equestrian Navy aircraft carriers. The navy wasn’t that big, tiny compared to the mammoth Aquastrian Navy, but it was big enough. The commander was right. An Apache would make short work of the government soldiers attacking from the ridgeline and hills. I pushed the talk button on my earpiece.

“Yes, sir!”

No response. I figured the commander was busy trying to stay alive and make tactical plans. I made my way across the rocks, keeping my head down, until I caught sight of a pony with a bright green mane.

“Chatterbox! Keep your head down!” I yelled, knowing that his hair would make him an ideal target. Chatterbox came over to me, slinging his heavily-modified M4 over his shoulder.

“Captain Armor!”

“Chatterbox, I need you to radio the Celestia and tell them we need CAS [Close Air Support]! Apaches, jets, pegasi, whatever!”

“Roger, sir!” With that Chatterbox pulled out a mini-radio from his pocket and began to chatter off.

“One-Echo-Twelve, One-Echo-Twelve, this is LP Mustang, requesting air support, over.”

We waited a few seconds, then a voice came over the other end.

“Roger, Mustang, Apaches are inbound. Stand by.”

Chatterbox smiled. “Copy, One-Echo-Twelve. Out.” He looked at me. “Tell Buckner.”

I nodded, pressing my hoof to my earpiece. “Commander Buckner, we have Apaches inbound!”

“Roger, Captain.” Then the commander switched to all frequencies. “All units, be advised we have Apaches inbound. Get yourselves out of the line of fire and let the birds do their work.”

So we did just that, pulling back as the ground snapped up around us. The choppers’ ETA was about fifteen minutes, so we had little else to do but wait for the rolling fire. In the meantime there were plenty of things to shoot at. Soon the RPGs fell silent, and only the constant crackle of gunfire broke the otherwise tranquil night. A fire was burning to my left. Which HAPOC was that? Did it matter?

It went on and on like a never-ending nightmare, but I knew this was only the beginning. There would be many more battles like this, and I knew that—

“Choppers inbound! Get down!”

No sooner had the command gone out than did two AH-64s soar overhead and pepper the cliffs with 30mm rounds, mixed in with a few Hellfire missiles that lit up the night sky like a fireworks display. Those of us with NODs were practically blinded by the explosions, but we cheered with the rest of the soldiers as the gunfire tapered off until it stopped completely. The Apaches did a little roll to salute us, then flew back to the sea.

That moment more than ever I appreciated how we had teamed with the Aquastrians. Without those helicopters we might have been overrun. I took off my NOD, as the fires from the blown-up HAPOCs lit up the night enough to see. I sat on my rump, unsure of what to do next.

But Buckner certainly wasn’t. Within the hour he had all HAPOCs restored and had us going up the cliffs to scan for any survivors of the Apache barrage. There were none. After we returned, we had unexpected news: our heavy craft, including our artillery and our tanks, had been cleared for deployment. They were on their way in an Aquastrian ship and would arrive the next morning.

I rejoiced along with the rest of my men, but I knew that far more dangerous roads lay ahead of us. But that night, we celebrated what must have been the first major victory for Equestria since we’d been pushed back to the border.

The push for Zakirabad—and for Saddle Arabia—had begun.

Entry 2: Meals on Wheels (cowritten by totallynotabrony)

Entry 2: Meals on Wheels

James “Big” Macintosh

Private First Class, 141st Infantry Brigade

1326 hours, January 16 2013

Kanterhar Province, South Saddle Arabia

"It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no Wonderboooooolt. It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no fortunate cooooolt.”

Private Carney had an annoying habit of singing along with whatever we played on the radio. I remember he wouldn’t shut up no matter what we threw at him. No matter how many times Gunner, Ox, and Caballine told him to be quiet, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. It didn’t mind me so much, but it pissed the hell out of Ox, our fireteam leader. He actually volunteered to relieve Gunner of the machine gun nest on top of the Humvee we rode in. Eventually we shut the radio off and just rode in silence.

I couldn’t blame the kid. Carney was brand new and he’d already been deployed to Kanterhar, where fighting was fiercest. He was just trying to blow off steam. I found that I blew off steam best shooting bad ponies with my gun, which I named AJ. She was loyal, hard-working, and had a hell of a temper when it came to a fight. Just like a certain pony I knew.

Carney was brand new. You could call him a little overconfident. Ox made it clear a while back that he didn’t want to foalsit the new guy. He’d already gone through it once.

Well, in Ox’s eyes, I was still a B.N.P. [Bucking New Pony.] I’d seen enough combat to earn a promotion to PFC, but I still wasn’t used to this.

I don’t think I’ll ever really get used to it. I used to be a farm boy in Ponyville, and now I’m fighting a war. What for, you ask?

In truth, I really don’t know. I’m not really one to express my opinions. I just notice things, is all. Some might call me shy, but I don’t have any problem with putting a bullet in the head of a pony that’s trying to kill me.

Caballine liked me, and so did Gunner. Ox respected what I did and appreciated my efforts in Fire Team Four. As for Carney, things weren’t getting off to a good start. Especially when he kept singing without any music.

“Some colts are born, made t’ raise the sun, ooooh, and bring the moon down, too!”

“Oh for buck’s sake! Shut the buck up, Carmey, or I’ll throw you out!”

Finally, the kid stopped. “It’s Carney, sir.”

“What?”

“It’s Carney. C-A-R…”

“I can spell, Private!” Ox turned around to look at us, keeping his eyes on the new kid.

“Carney, huh? You get a lot of jokes about that?”

“What? Like I work for a carnival?”

“No, like your face is so bucking ugly that you belong in a freak show.”

Caballine stifled a laugh as she kept her eyes on the road, which was practically invisible due to the flying dust. I had to lean over and pretend to cough so that I wouldn’t double over. That was a pretty good insult, and I felt bad for the kid, don’t get me wrong, but I could only barely keep it contained.

“Well, I suppose that does make you an employee of the carnival, so you’re right, grunt!”

Carney didn’t speak for the rest of the trip.

We were on our way to a settlement called Bagriza. We’d been assigned a town sweep because Predators spotted terrorist activity, but as usual Command didn’t want civilian casualties. So they sent in the foot ponies.

It was something I had gotten used to. In truth, the army life is kind of dull. There’s a lot to do, but most of it is menial labor. You have to scrub the floors, clean your gun, accompany patrols, guard checkpoints, and other stuff like that. I got to see action, though, about two weeks ago in Guldeesh, just south of Nagram AFB, where I was stationed. That’s where I became Private First Class Big Macintosh (I don’t use my first name, not if I can help it.)

I’d done my share of town sweeps. Most of the time we came up with nothing, and ended up driving dozens of miles back to Nagram with nothing to show for it. Occasionally we’d find a gun or somepony left behind, but the RSA almost always managed to abandon the town before we got there.

But ARSA [Army of the Republic of Saddle Arabia] was the least of our problems. Now we had the Arabian Brotherhoof, a guerilla group that wanted both the RSA and the Equestrians out. We found more of them than we did government troops on our searches, and they tended to be more violent, more unpredictable. But worst of all was, you couldn’t tell them apart from the regular civvies, and we ended up arresting and searching nearly every damn pony we came across. You couldn’t trust anypony.

So I didn’t. Especially not after that day.

“Why so quiet, Mac?”

Caballine nudged me. I broke away from my thoughts and looked at her fiery eyes. She was a pretty mare, with her crimson mane cut short and her straw-colored coat peeking out from underneath her ACU. She could also find a needle in a haystack in under a minute, and use that same needle to disarm a bomb. She was a hardy little thing.

I just shrugged, and she smiled and playfully punched my arm. “C’mon, big guy. Bit for your thoughts?”

“I dunno,” I said. “Kinda hard t’think with all the bouncin’ and dust flyin’ up everywhere.”

“Damn right,” Ox replied. “I can barely see anything.” He brought his walkie-talkie up to his mouth. “Roller One, this is Roller Four, do you have visual on anything that ain’t sand, over?”

A few moments later: “Negative, Roller Three. We’re still ten miles out from objective. Sit tight. Over.”

“Copy, One. Out.”

“Ten miles?” Carney piped up. “That doesn’t seem too far.”

“It ain’t,” I said, looking out the window and seeing only clouds of sand. “I jogged ten miles every day back home.”

“Didn’t you live on a farm?”

“Eyup. Where’d you live, Carney?”

The new guy looked at me like I was about to insult him. “Manehattan. Bucklyn, specifically.”

We argued good-naturedly about the pros and cons of big city life.  Carney thought I was a dumb hick, and I threatened to teach him a thing or two.  Luckily, we didn’t have to endure much more bickering.  The Humvees could make good time even on the terrible roads.  It was a damned shame that we hadn’t yet received up-armor kits for extra protection, but at least the lower weight made the Humvees faster.

The town of Bagriza looked like many of the settlements in Saddle Arabia; sand-colored and primitive. Carney looked at me.  “Remind you of home, Mac?”

I didn’t reply, my eyes scanning the buildings around us.  I hoped Carney would shut his stupid mouth and do the same.  The convoy was most vulnerable in the tight confines of a town.

Moving as fast as we were, IEDs [Improvised Explosive Devices] would probably not be an issue.  The Arabian Brotherhoof were slippery bastards, but they couldn’t plant bombs if they didn’t know we were coming.  That made it important for us to get in, do the job, and get out ASAP.

Speaking of IEDs, that’s what we were here for. Intel suggested there was a sort of factory were the Brotherhoof was building them. I didn’t really know who or what “intel” was, but sometimes they were right and sometimes not.  We-or at least the more experienced of us-knew to take anything intel said with a grain of salt.

“Eyes on target,” called Ox from the turret. “See that three story building up there?”

I glanced forward, noting the structure he had pointed out before going back to scanning my area of responsibility. Everything about military order was divided into sections. Each member of the fireteam in the Humvee had an assigned task. Our Humvee was one of six in the convoy, which formed a small platoon of troops. Had it been necessary, we could have brought along more Humvees to bolster our ranks to a company or two. As it was, intel said resistance would be light and so only thirty of us went on the raid. This time, intel was wrong.

The radio squawked. “Roller convoy, approach target area and proceed as directed.”

Ox started giving orders. As fireteam leader, it was his job, but the rest of us knew them just in case. The plan called for the six Humvees to surround the target building before we went inside to take down the factory. To make that happen, we had to know the route to get there.

Caballine steered us in the right direction while consulting a map.  Gunner helpfully held it beside her with magic. It was really more of a rough sketch made from overhead imagery, but good enough. The problem was not our route, but who we encountered on it.

A civilian ran out into the street ahead of our Humvee. The narrow corridor between buildings didn’t leave much room to maneuver, and Caballine jammed on the brakes to avoid running the pony over.  From the turret, Ox shouted and waved a hoof, trying to direct him to get out of the way.  None of us in Roller Four spoke the local language.  The stallion was clearly trying to tell us something, but his point wasn’t coming across.

The hair on the back of my neck went up.  Something wasn’t right here.  The noncombatant locals might not hate us, but they didn’t go out of their way to warn us of danger.  Whoever this pony was, we wouldn’t gain anything by trying to communicate with him.  In fact, it would only delay us from the mission.  Or...

“Armed stallion on the roof, two o’clock!” shouted Ox, swinging his turret. He didn’t have to tell Caballine to get moving. The pony in the street jumped out of the way as the Humvee shot forward. I gritted my teeth and pulled my rifle closer.

“What-” Carney started to say, but his voice was drowned by the sudden burst of M249 machine gun fire from the turret. Ox was taking no chances.

The Humvee swung around the next corner as Ox briefly stopped firing to radio the situation. By now, Carney was fully aware what was happening and he wasn’t pleased. “That raghead set us up!  He pretended to be all innocent and then-”

This time it was me who cut him off. “Shut up! We all know what happened, an’ you talkin’ is not gonna help! Keep your mouth closed and your ears open.”

Ox didn’t say anything, but I thought he would be pleased that I took care of Carney. The radio began calling in more status reports. There was significant resistance at the target area.  They might not have been waiting for us, but there sure were a lot of Brotherhood in the area looking for a fight and we were delivering it to them as fast as our wheels could go.

“Technical!” called Caballine, spotting a pickup truck with a machine gun in the bed. I heard Ox light it up, spotting tracers from the M249 riddling the truck with holes. We swept past the wreck, noting a couple of dead ponies. Carney stared wide-eyed at the blood.

We slid to a stop near the target building. “Macintosh, Gunner, Carney, cover the rear.  Caballine, get us up the street to the command position.”

At Ox’s order, I opened the door and bailed out simultaneously with Gunner.  Carney did the same, but a little more slowly. I took half a second to get my M16 shouldered, scanning the buildings around us. The rifle’s sling was wrapped over my back to hold the weapon secure and my right hoof rested on the trigger guard. As a unicorn, Gunner didn’t have that problem.

The Humvee proceeded up the street with Ox covering the front quadrant from the turret.  The rest of us brought up the rear. Moving at the alert position with only three legs left for walking is not exactly easy on the muscles, but comfort comes second when your life is on the line. Despite his magic, Gunner was feeling something of the same thing. Unicorns can’t carry the load of armor and ammo on their body as well as an earth pony, which is why that race was less common in the army. Pegasi even less so.

We joined up with the rest of the convoy. There was a pony in every Humvee turret, and occasionally one of them would shoot at a bad guy. A group of dismounted soldiers covered behind the vehicles. The Lieutenant in charge of the convoy was there, coordinating with the fire team leaders before assaulting the building. “Team Four, you’re taking the south staircase.”

“Yes sir!”  Ox turned to the rest of us and we headed off. Caballine had replaced him in the turret and would not be coming with. The military likes to pretend to be integrated and equal, but we’re actually sexist as hell. All of us would gladly go into combat on behalf of a mare.

Ox looked too preoccupied with commanding the rest of us to worry about a little thing like getting shot as we assaulted the stairs, and that was good.  I don’t like my leaders looking more scared than I am. Gunner’s face looked grim but determined. Carney was a mess, but I was glad to see that he still gripped his rifle tightly.

The first floor had already been cleared, swept by M249 fire and grenades.  A piece of pony lay next to the stairs and I ignored it.

We leapfrogged up the staircase, covering each other in turn just like we had been trained. That was the great thing about training. It was long, grueling, and unpleasant, but it taught you how to do things instinctively, without having to think about it. Pausing at the landing, Gunner yanked a flashbang grenade off his load-carrying harness and tossed it through the door. “Flash out!”

I closed my eyes and braced against the wall. The ear-shattering blast was over in an instant and we went through the doorway, spreading out to keep any burst of fire from hitting more than one of us.

Two ponies were down, looking dazed and stunned. “Carney, cover them!” ordered Ox.  Gunner and I followed Ox through to the next room, meeting up with another fireteam. After declaring the floor secure, it was time to mount the stairs again. The two prisoners we’d taken were left with a support pony while Carney rejoined us.

“Flashes again,” ordered Ox. Gunner nodded and tossed two of the grenades out on the third floor. The two of them went left after the blast while Carney and I swept right. I saw one Brotherhoof member down and holding his ears. Further back, another stallion rolled out from behind cover, raising an AK-47.

I pulled the trigger three times, ensuring the pony would go down and stay there. His blood decorated the wall behind him. Still moving, I swept the muzzle of my rifle around the room, checking behind cover and pieces of equipment that took up the floor.

The next target to pop up was on Carney’s side of the room. It wasn’t my responsibility to cover that area, but I swung my rifle because I didn’t trust Carney. I was right not to. He hesitated, fumbling in surprise. I was an instant late in firing, and the raghead got off one shot before my bullets cut him down.

“Carney!  Are you all right?”

I kept my eyes on the room, rifle still ready.  I heard hard breathing and some pained moans.  Seconds passed, and I tried my hardest not to abandon my vigil.  Then Carney spoke.

“I’m okay.  The-ouch-my armor stopped the bullet, but it hurts like hell.”

I let out a breath I’d been holding. The shock plates and kevlar might have been heavy, but it was worth its weight in gold. “Are you good?”

“Yeah.” I heard him get up, and he trotted over to me. “Sorry.”

I bet you are, I thought. “Come on.”

I had taken half a step forward when an armed stallion came through the next door. Carney was still slower than I, but at least this time he got a shot off. Good; he was learning. We advanced, stepping over the fallen body.

We reached the end of the building and declared it clear. Coming back, Carney and I met up with Ox and Gunner. They both saw the marred surface of his armor, but didn’t comment.  It would have to be declared to the quartermaster who issued the gear, but not until we got back to base.

Back down at street level, we put up a perimeter to protect the rest of our guys as the demolitions ponies went in to organize the destruction of the factory. This was no time to relax, even though a shot hadn’t been fired in our direction for several minutes. I took a moment to glance at Carney’s face. There was a shallow cut on the side of his face from a fragment of bullet that had glanced off his armor, but more importantly I saw how his eyes had changed. He was serious.  He now knew what it took to fight and stay alive. Even a lowly PFC like me could see it.

With the explosive charges placed, we got back in the Humvees and pulled back to watch the fireworks. Really, it wasn’t that impressive, just a little puff of smoke from the third floor. We couldn’t just take down the building, as the civilians might not like that too much.

Mission accomplished, we rolled out of town. Carney was still on edge. He didn’t even sing along when the radio played that old Hay Stevens song about Arabians. Something very important had happened to Carney’s attitude. If we were going to survive, if our convoy was going to fight like it should and repel any attackers who thought we were easy pickings, we needed ponies like him-the new him.

I thought a little about going back to base for some nice food and giving AJ a good cleaning. She deserved a little TLC after the day we’d had. I made a mental note to help Carney with his rifle. He’d earned it.

Entry 3: The Night the Lights Went Out in Zakirabad (cowritten by totallynotabrony)

Entry 3: The Night the Lights went Out in Zakirabad

Captain Spark

80th Bomb Wing

0034 hours, January 18 2013

The skies above Saddle Arabia

I looked out the window but there was nothing to see, not even when I adjusted my glasses.  The desert passing by only one hundred feet below our aircraft might as well have been miles away, lost under the clouded night skies.  Good.  Darkness was our friend.

The B-1B Lancer was arguably the best bomber in the world for minimum altitude strike missions, and there was no place I’d rather be than sitting at my defensive systems station in the back seat.

Lieutenant Colonel Dust was the pilot.  His helmeted head rested on the seat in front of me.  As unicorns, we were both in the Air Force’s minority.  His deft touch on the controls and my training with electronics made us suited for the low-level penetration bomber role.  Pegasi generally made up the fighter pilot corps, but the natural flying sense of our copilot, Major Winter, was a nice complement to Colonel Dust’s abilities.  Beside me in the back was an earth pony mare named Captain Burster, the offensive systems operator.  Because she was in charge of our ordnance we nicknamed her Boom-Boom, which could have been taken several ways but she didn’t seem to mind.

Our crew had trained together for quite a while.  Even if we weren’t all good friends, which we were, the practice would have honed our group into an effective unit, a cohesive collection of ponies working together in sync.  We’d rehearsed missions like this in the Neighvada desert, a place similar to Saddle Arabia.  Tonight was the real deal.

I checked my systems panel.  Off to the northeast was our set of targets, a SAM [surface-to-air missile] site and an electric substation.  The missiles guarded the power grid for Zakirabad from ponies like us who wanted to take it out.  The intel guys had told me that we were dealing with SA-5’s, a very long range system developed in the old Hooviet Union.

The Lancer was not a true stealth aircraft.  It was a lot harder to see on radar than some things, but that would only help us so much.  Our primary method of staying out of sight was flying in the dirt like Colonel Dust was doing.

In a way, a unicorn pilot was a lot less unconventional than the plane he commanded.  The B-1B was massive, and could carry a 75,000 pound payload- almost a whole semi truck.  Despite that, it looked like a scaled-up fighter, with wings that folded back at high speed to allow it to skim the ground at nearly Mach 1 with no trouble.  The four afterburning engines had power to spare, and the trio of bomb bays could carry just about any mud-moving weapon the Air Force owned.

“Ninety miles to target,” reported Burster, her voice going out on the cockpit intercom.

“Still clear,” I replied, checking the threat board.

Our reports did not leave the airplane.  Part of sneaking in was staying quiet.  Everything about the mission had been planned ahead, and there was no need for the radio.  If we stayed on the correct course and speed, our support would arrive right on time.

Bringing up the rear, miles behind us to the south, was a Navy EA-6B Prowler, a small, slow aircraft with next to no weapons.  What made it valuable were the jamming pods hanging beneath the wings.  In the face of enemy radar and communications, the Prowler could blast the area with a cloud of RF [radio frequency] noise to render electronics useless.

Bucking Navy.  They were just going to hang out and work their little beep-boop computer thing.  Meanwhile, we had to do the heavy lifting- literally.  The Prowler couldn’t carry enough weapons needed for the mission.

Knocking out the SA-5 missiles was first priority for a reason.  They had a very long range and very powerful warheads.  We could sneak under the radar for a while, but the closer we got to the site, the more likely it was that we would be detected.

I checked threat board.  Seventy miles out.  The radar, over the horizon from us, was starting to tickle the upper surfaces of the bomber but not enough for a return just yet.  “I suggest another drop in altitude to evade radar.”

“Gotcha.”  Dust carefully, very carefully, applied a slight magical pressure to the control stick in front of him.  The plane gave up another twenty feet of altitude, dropping us to a mere eighty.  This was technically the autopilot’s job, but I trusted Dust more than a computer.

Funny, then, that my whole job was dealing with electronics.  Maybe my dislike of enemy radars had inadvertently carried over to all electronics in general.  You can’t blame me.  My whole job was defeating detection and keeping the Lancer invisible.

I glanced at the time display, counting down.  We had carefully planned the mission, down to the second.  I watched the time continue.  When a prearranged moment came, my screen flashed into a whiteout with a huge amount of static from the Prowler.  If the jamming looked this bad to me, imagine what the missile operators must be seeing.

“Jamming’s on.”

Dust made a small noise to let me know he had heard.  I wasn’t required to let him know, and he wasn’t required to respond, but both gestures were good for everypony’s confidence.

Still, the jamming wouldn’t protect us forever.  When we got close enough to the radar, its signal would “burn through” the cloud of noise and pick us up anyway.  Dust carefully altered course to spiral us towards the target, reducing our closing rate.  This kept us hidden in the jamming longer and fooled the radar’s range calculators, so it thought we weren’t moving so fast.

The maneuver did make our course longer, however.  Good thing one of our bomb bays had been fitted with a ten thousand gallon fuel tank.  The plane had some pretty long legs to begin with, but this gave us quite a boost.

We spiraled in, staying low and patiently approaching the target.  At thirty miles, it was time for our final attack run.  The Lancer came around, its sharp nose slicing through the desert air directly towards the missiles.

My hooves shook slightly with nervousness as I hit the switches for our electronic countermeasures.  The bomber carried a small jammer of its own, but at this point we were committed to the attack and whatever happened, happened.  I tried to relax, adjusting my glasses again.  There was one final touch to our defenses.  I popped loose the ALE-50 Towed Decoy, a small target that trailed behind the plane and would hopefully attract a missile meant for us.

The mare beside me had her weapons ready to go.  She checked the readouts and compared our location to the drop zone.  I felt Dust pull back on the controls to get the bomber to mission altitude.  It was at that moment my panel lit up with acquisition.  They had locked us up with fire control radar.

Had a missile been launched right then, we would have been dead.  There was a moment’s hesitation as if the radar operator could hardly believe his eyes.  Then- launch.

I couldn’t see the missile site in the dark, but the satellite photos of the site that the intel guys had shown us before the mission depicted it as a six-pointed star like the old Hooviet doctrine.  Each point on the star had a couple of missile launchers facing outwards.  The radar, command center, and generators were at the middle of the star.  Even if we didn’t manage to take out the missiles themselves, they would be useless without the other things.

The fiery rocket motor of the launched weapon went streaking by my window as the plane passed the missile’s minimum engagement distance.  It hadn’t had time to arm, and disappeared harmlessly behind us.  At the same instant, Boom-Boom shook loose two dozen Mark 82 Snakeye bombs.  The Lancer jerked higher with the sudden drop in weight.

Each weapon packed five hundred pounds of high explosive and was fitted with tail fins that slowed it down, letting our low-flying airplane get away before the bombs exploded on the ground and damaged us.

The radar disappeared from the threat board under the onslaught of twelve thousand pounds of destruction.  I touched Boom-Boom’s shoulder, wordlessly congratulating her on a job well done, but didn’t take my eyes off the board.  The night wasn’t over yet.

Dust pulled back on the stick, lifting us away from the ground to where any surprise anti-aircraft gun emplacements couldn’t get us.  Our next target was only a few minutes away, a substation that controlled critical infrastructure for Zakirabad.  While it didn’t provide electricity to the whole city, it was an important target because eliminating it should cause a domino effect that took down the entire power grid.  That was why we had to destroy a serious missile defense system to get to it.  Speaking of, I cut loose the decoy.  There were no more radar sites out there to take advantage of its distraction.

We did have to worry about Anti-Air Pegasi, but they had to have daylight to see us or be guided by a ground control station painting us with radar.  This low, this fast, it wasn’t a problem.  And once we turned tail for home, none of them would be able to catch up.  The last time I checked, the only pegasus who could break Mach 1 was Rainbow Dash, and she was one of our pilots.

The substation was a worthy target even if it wasn’t as inherently dangerous as a missile site.  A blackout in Zakirabad would give our troops a big advantage.  We had planned for darkness.  The enemy hadn’t.  Not to mention the loss of all the electronics the Saddle Arabians normally took for granted.

The Prowler ended its jamming and turned away.  The hard part of the mission was over.  The Navy aircraft would get home before we did, but I consoled myself that at least I would be returning to a nice runway instead of a ship.

Over our next target, the rotary bomb racks installed in the belly of the Lancer spun to the correct position and unleashed a couple of special weapons.  They were cluster bombs, loaded with reels of fine graphite wire.  Over the target, the conductive filaments would spread out like a spiderweb and short-circuit the entire substation.  It limited collateral damage and death of any civilians in the area, and destroyed electronics just as well as a bomb.

I glanced out the window.  The glow of Zakirabad’s lights on the horizon were suddenly snuffed out as if the city had never existed.  Mission complete, the bomber slowly banked into a turn, heading for home.

A warning tone sounded in my headset, alerting me to a new radar that had just turned on.  I frantically checked my equipment, surprise and fear quickening my movements.  The signal was fighter-based, and coming in on our tail.  “We’ve got a big problem!”

I searched my memory for an aircraft that matched the radar return I was getting, deciding that we probably faced a Mirage F1.  It was an older fighter, but that didn’t make it any less deadly.  The Lancer was fast, but not fast enough to run.  It certainly couldn’t outmaneuver the smaller plane.

That didn’t mean we were going down without a fight.  Dust shoved the throttles forward and pointed the nose at the ground.  We slipped through Mach 1 and kept accelerating.  Forced to follow to get a good radar picture, the Mirage mimicked our path.

From what the blinking lights of the threat board were telling me, the fighter was getting close to missile range.  I threw all the power I could into our meager jammer and fired a few rounds of decoy chaff and flares to confuse the Mirage’s sensors.

Did I say buck the Navy?  I take it back.  While the fighter’s radar wasn’t as powerful as the SA-5 site, the Prowler detected it and turned back to give us a helping hoof.  The blanketing RF jamming effectively shut down any hopes the fighter pilot had of locking us up with a radar missile.

I knew that the Mirage could still track us by the glow from our afterburning exhaust.  The fighter was able to carry heat-seeking missile to home in on that, too.  Less serious but still something to think about were the fighter’s machine guns.  The jamming had bought some time, though.  Our assailant would have to get a lot closer to use those other weapons.

With a practiced eye, Dust hauled back on the stick, pulling the Lancer out of its dive under as many g’s as the airframe could stand.  We leveled out over the desert at fifty feet and Mach 2.

And then the Mirage disappeared.  I blinked, hardly believing it.  Cautiously, Dust pulled the throttles out of afterburner and we made a slow spiral up to altitude.  I squinted through the window, making out a plume of flame in the night.  Our pursuer had slammed into the desert sand.

“We got a maneuver kill!” I cheered on the open airwaves.  “Nopony ever beats the ground!”

Under wartime flying rules, any way you could destroy an enemy aircraft was acceptable, including tricking them into crashing.  This was one of the very few times that a bomber could claim credit for killing another airplane.

“Hang on there, Air Force,” came the voice of a Naval Flight Officer sitting in the back of the Prowler.  “It was our jamming that confused his radar altimeter into thinking he wasn’t so close to the terrain.  If anything, you got the assist.”

Buck the Navy.