Spectre of the Sinner - Chapter 1 part 2: An unexpected disaster

“Yo vriend, you look like hammered shit there. But at least you’re in better shape than those guys over there…”

A distinctively thick accent bellowed from behind, unnecessarily startling the busy bees. Even the angel, who was just some distance away, blatantly frowned at the source of the voice. Soon the owner of the voice appeared from the trenches connecting the frontline and the HQ: a towering figure clad in a darkly colored exoskeleton suit, shoulder carrying a heavily modified German buzzsaw, chambered in the legendary thirty-aught six calibers. Following closely from behind him was a formation of similarly clad operatives, numbering just a bit over 20 souls, all pushing their way through the miry mud with their weapons at the ready position.

“If only they decided to obediently disarm themselves and opened the damn doors… Well, the faults lie with the parasitic top brass, not the poor boots on the ground though. Besides… you’re way too loud for your good.”

The man shrugged at my venomous remark. We did properly incite the other side to surrender their arms, yet what we received was rather colorful replies, thus forcing our hand. After all, this whole farce of war was the product of decades of unbridled aggression based on that damned theory of a certain strain of ideology about the end of political history.

“At any rate, they still haven’t deployed [them] right? If so then you could’ve just hanged out with us till now. At least let this humble [Lieutenant colonel] have a chance at restoring his honor at the ring against his superior.”

Ignoring the questioning gaze that the recruits gave us, I offered him a shrug, before stabbing him with an annoying glare. Of course, being the understanding adult he was, he silently dropped the matter, not without challenging me to a future bout in the ring. I’d give him high marks there for his persistence then and there, were it not for this cursed operation standing in the way.

Noticing that a couple of fresh magazines were offered my way, I gently shook my head, greatly puzzling the lots. It seemed that they were the newly added operators in our rank, and I silently thanked them for their concern. Such cute children were they if only they didn’t get caught up in this blasted war.

With such thoughts ruminating in my mind, a blackish mist started to emanate from my left arm. The eerie supernatural sight of course caught the recruits off guard: in a panic, they sought to extinguish the black mist by various means. Yet, a wall of amused silence held them back in place, with the wall being the seniors of the unit. A token of sympathy for the new kids: a disapproving head shake, accompanied by an exasperated sigh escaped from my being.

“Wait… am I the only one looking it right?”

“What on earth is this?”

Confused murmurs from the recruits soon attracted unwanted attention from the surrounding units, thus some of the CO responsibly shooed them away. And as for what I had done, I’d wager that the FPS community would be green with envy of what I did: namely, the act of generating ammo out of thin air. The previously emptied ammo pouches were refilled with freshly loaded magazines, and the various “lemons” and “pineapples” were fully restocked as if I had just paid a visit to an armory.

“He’s not called [Halphas’ Armory] for nothing”, that hulking bastard chimed in with his thick South African accent, “that’s why we have never asked for…”

“Yes, we still do, if only for the sake of appearance”, threw in a reminder by me, “at any rate, shall we begin tightening the noose?”

Noticing the gravitas in my voice, the unit began its preparations in earnest. Soon, the allotted UGVs to our unit were lined up by black-clad operators, each ready to lay waste on the remaining defending enemy troops. I also readied behind one of such UGVs towards its starboard side, training my Kalashnikov towards the opposing trenches. Yet, a strangely uncomfortable feeling held me back in my place… Yeah, something was amiss here, yet I was uncertain what was being missed. After all, the preparation for this phase of the operation was meticulously planned for at least half a year already, and the pieces already fell into the required places too.

“I know what you’re thinking there, vriend… Suitable music for this occasion.”

“Now you’ve mentioned it, yeah no wonder why.”

Thanking my second-in-command, a list of marching songs appeared in my view. Frustratingly scrolling through the playlist, then I hit the jackpot: a classic fictional march song, composed at the turn of the century for a certain RTS series, which I’d bet that many of these kids here would bang their heads to.

“Пожелай мне удачи в бою.”

A silent murmur escaped from my mouth, invisibly blown into the wind to who knows where. I silently observed the now quiet frontline. A sense of heightened tension crawled on the skin of every participating combatant, waiting for the very moment of truth.

With a flick of my finger later, every UGV with a functioning loudspeaker started to blare the march, initiating the start of the next phase of the operation. Of course, I had to do one of my many jobs properly. After all, this was yet another stepping stone to my ultimate objective which I had pursued for years, for decades on end.

“ONWARDS TO VICTORY!”

“URA!”

With such an energetic response from the troops, another round of sacrifice was made to the [High Patriarch of War]. The hordes of steel beasts mightily roared across the battlefield, guiding the sacrifices into the frenzy of blood ritual. Of course, the other side also did their very best to contribute their part in the ritual, as a hail of lead welcomed our advance. Tracer rounds of various calibers were hurled at each other, sending the unfortunate souls, or steel beasts for that matter, to either Hell or Valhalla of their choice. Occasional trails of white smoke furiously roared and twirled between the closing gap between our advance and the enemy’s trenches, only to either succeed in finding their marks and sending the poor sap to the altar or explode somewhat harmlessly thanks to onboard interceptors, creating an ethereally beautiful scene in the chaos of the bloody ritual. Elsewhere on the battlefield, the thundering roars of loitering munitions and artilleries echoed endlessly like the odious chanting of an evil cult.

“Suppressing fire! Don’t even fucking worry about the goddamn ammo!”

“Enemy’s SMAW, one o’clock, 70 meters!”

“Copy that! Proceed to engage enemy SMAW!”

With most of the focus of the starboard side column focused on engaging that lone SMAW operator, I lazily donated the poor soul a couple of 6.5 Grendel out of obligation. Just as the poor bastard returned to Mother Earth, I started to pay attention to the trenches underneath our foot. A few of the defenders laid low waiting for the chance to ambush whoever overpassed their positions, yet our unit’s lightning-quick response, which was helped by the live feed of overhead UAVs, dashed any hopes to inflict some extra damage on our formation. As our unit’s objective was to clean up the compound, which was situated over 200m away from our current position, we naturally skipped through the brutal affair of the operation: to pacify the maze-like trenches which ran around the compound’s periphery.

Of course, any boneheaded soul who had a death wish on hand would be glad that our unit didn’t disappoint them: for their cold bodies were meticulously laid messily as our warpath trailed through the trench network to march, or to be more accurate, trudged onward to our objective. The same cannot be said for the rest of the friendly forces participating in this operation, as at least about half of the assault personnel were diverted to wrestle control of the trenches, thus beginning the most tedious and bloodiest part of the ritual. A glance through the live feed of various hovering UAVs painted a vivid scene: every meter, every corner of the maze-like trench system was turned into the prize for the victor of a rather bloody tug-of-war game, one that our side was keenly on winning through sheer manpower and firepower difference.

Soon, we found ourselves standing in front of the objective: a fortress-like compound, where intelligence detected suspicious activities on the compound’s premises. Its sheer size easily made all of us involuntarily gulp in amazement, and it seemed that some already had to fight against the urge to take a few pics to brag with their social circle.

“Looking that damn thing up close gives me chill vriend”, my second in command shuddered, “as if I’m about to enter a supervillain’s lair, full of nasties that are much worse than anything you’d encountered so far…”

I could only offer him a nod of assenting, as I also shared the same sentiment with him. Even with the available aerial recon photos alone, the place already reeked of odiousness, let alone being in physical proximity like this. As such, it was a rather understandable desire for any soul who still has a halfway functioning conscience to cleanse this spot of the vile tumor out of existence.

Seeing one of the recruits raising their hand, I almost instinctively knew what their query would be about. After all, the irregularity of this operation was already grating on my nerves far more than usual. Countless questions swirled in my mind, and unfortunately, the answer lay in the belly of that damned white beast.

“And yes, [Lieutenant], the brass could’ve just let the regulars do the job… if only there wasn’t another piece of concerning intel about this damned place”, I exhausted a sigh, “let me show you guys what I’d learned.”

Ignoring the bewildered reactions, I conjured a 3D holographic display of the compound. The figure intricately showed the details of the compound, and it would have been the same model used in the debrief session held at our base if not for a crucial difference: a bright red spot in the model’s basement. Downing a quick nip from my canteen, I continued slowly.

“And that’s our objective”, I pointed at the red spot while drawing a question mark over it, “whatever the Hell is this, our job is to go in and deal with it.”

Everyone quietly nodded at my statements, understanding the gravity of the situation. Preparation work was commenced immediately. Naturally, I also participated in the process by resupplying them with fresh ammo through my [Armory], switching the barrel of my Kalashnikov to the 10” one, and reviewing the available intelligence. The only vexing thing was the constant admire gasps from the recruits as they got resupplied, forcing this operator to glare at them to shut them up. You never know when and where the enemy spies are lurking after all.

Elsewhere on the muddy altar of this blood ritual, it seemed that our side was in the process of cleaning up the last few pockets of resistance. The hot-blooded fictional marching song had long since ended, returning the battlefield to the state of only the primal sounds of war remained. Soon, a dust storm was whipped up as fleets of choppers arrived, bringing in more fresh troops and equipment to the scene.