Chapter 27 - The Art of War (Part III)

Author's Notes: Apologies for the long wait.

Life was rather simple for Dominik Stahl. That suited him just fine. Perhaps if it were his younger self, from what felt like untold ages ago, he might have felt his blood boiling and passions erupting in a titanic wave of emotions that would sweep him up in a berserk storm of vengeance for his fallen comrades and patriotism for his motherland.

Yet, such foolhardy days were no more. No, instead he had shifted his singular focus from the trials of a nation and dreams of glory, to the purportedly simpler task of following behind the footsteps of one man.

Of course, nothing was ever simple when that man happened to be the most ruthless, cunning, brilliant and more often than not, utterly insane general he’d ever heard of.

It must be admitted, seeking shelter under the shadow of such a personage was not at all what he had imagined. General Lee’s orders were seldom very complex or complicated. That was not what left rivals and allies confounded as one. Instead, it was the impossible scope of his vision, the staggering magnitude of his insight, and the sheer balls it took to even reach for such heights from a mere empty canvass. Indeed, General Lee worked as most geniuses do, on a realm an order of magnitude above that of the usually accepted and recognized standard of their time. He dabbed with his brush, one stroke here, another there. Sometimes slow, agonizingly so. At times fast, extremely so, to the point where everything became a blur and nothing seemed to make sense anymore. Such seemingly effortless flickers of willpower and intellect served to create a vague outline that would only finish taking place at the very last moment, a breathtaking spectacle that would confound the souls of any immortal, let alone one lowly Dominik Stahl.

Of course, the journey to such Nirvana was Hell itself. After all, when you closely follow the path of a blazing meteor, you had to be ready to pick up a scorch mark or two. Stahl found himself surprised at how often thoughts of stopping came to him, even now, years after he’d taken up service under this man. Fantasies came to him still, unbidden, of just halting, merely for a moment or two, both to catch his breath and gain some distance from the incandescent mass of destiny that was Michael Lee. Maybe, just maybe, then he would not pick up quite so many burn scars, and not feel like an incompetent henchman, a sailor hopelessly out of his depth treading water for all he was worth in vain hopes that he would somehow empty out the entire ocean before it swallowed him in its depths and claimed him as another piece of flotsam.

Not that he was complaining, of course. Such weakness, it was inconsequential. Stahl knew he would never act out on those. They merely came and went, like the whispers of a ghost alighting briefly upon the shores of his consciousness before being ruthlessly dragged back through the gates of mediocrity. That’s all it was.

Stahl may not possess that spark of brilliance which distinguished the best, let alone a blazing sun of radiance such as that possessed by only the few truly great. What he did possess, however, was a dogged determination to stay on his chosen path no matter what trials may befall him. They called him Ironmask, both ally and foe alike, and though he didn’t particularly enjoy it, he did not dissuade anyone from using it. At least it was far more flattering than his previous nickname.

The Hellhound. Why? Because he would not bark, not even glare. But he did bite, and once he did, he would never let go. Ever.

Just like his master. Perhaps they were more alike than he’d thought.

Such were the thoughts flittering through the back of his mind as Stahl mechanically directed the deployment of troops all along the western fringes of the Yangtze River. Thousands of men trekked almost soundlessly through the deepening gloom, their eyes blazing with an almost primal thirst for revenge.

Watching your brothers in arms being butchered like pigs in a slaughterhouse for half an afternoon will do that to any man. It had stoked a fire in their chests that would not go out easily, even if it were threatened to be snuffed out altogether, along with their own spark of life.

These men would not break. Many were rookies, whatever they had been able to scrounge up at a moment’s notice, but the pressure emanating from the silent profile of thousands of grim-faced killers awaiting their blood baptism was quasi-religious in its intensity.

The fact that their commanding officer had somehow steered them clear of one devious trap after another didn’t hurt such zealotry, of course. It was almost as though it had been pre-ordained, this rendezvous with fate down the barrel of a smoking gun spitting out death at a rate of 950 rounds per minute. Mines, infra-red sensors, laser emplacements, ambush sites - they had all been efficiently sidestepped or eliminated with equal ease when necessary.

Stahl himself did not understand any of it. How his commanding officer had known - for he had to have known, for surely no mere stroke of genius, no matter how dazzling and all-encompassing, could achieve such thorough prescience - all of this information when he’d briefed his officers on their missions was utterly beyond him.

Then again, he did not truly care. Such common concerns were inconsequential as well. They had no bearing upon the fact that he was well and truly become a hellhound. A dog at his master’s leash, hungrier for the kill than ever, and there was the scent of blood in the air.

He fancied he could hear the slow, measured intake of breath from 12,000 men as they slid the safety off their weapons, rested the solid poly-carbonate stock on their shoulders, and lay their cheeks against the cool surface of their rifles, eyes staring intensely down the barrel and into the holographic sight.

Soon.

It would be soon.

***

Major Akatombe was not what most men would call timid. Well, at least not within his earshot, unless they wanted to deal with all 322 pounds of combat marine badassery pounding the snot out of their silly heads.

Still, as he drew in yet another shuddering breath, almost half-closing his eyes and clenching his teeth as he struggled to slow down the mad hammering of his heart, Ombue “Warthog” Akatombe couldn’t help but wonder just exactly how or why he had drawn the short straw on this particular totempole of shitsticks.

“Go over the Three Rivers Pass” and “Climb the summit of Peak Inwha” was all well and good when he was surrounded by over 50,000 allied troops armed to the teeth, with himself wearing his own custom-rigged combat exoskeleton, sporting a vulcan gatling gun with a rate of fire of over 9,000 sounds per minute, SMART auto-targetting RZ-7 missile system and a goddamn flamethrower thrown in for good measure. Yeah, it had sounded like a great idea at the time.

Now, what the hell was this?

He barely dared to turn his head, afraid the enemy convoy passing not 500 feet below him would detect the slight movement, and decide to fire off a salvo of concentrated anti-infantry ordnance - just in case it’s not just a rabbit - on his armorless, weaponless, defenseless, and frankly just plain scared shitless ass.

He might as well just be naked, waving a giant flag that read, “Make PEACE, not WAR!”, what with all the heat they were carrying. Or not carrying, which would be far more accurate.

The only piece of gear they had been allowed to bring was a compound polymer laser targeting long range ballistic guiding system. Which basically meant all of shit, nothing. It was just like a goddamn toy gun you bought at a kid’s store, with no hard, sharp edges or parts small enough to be swallowed. Because anything else would obviously be too dangerous for the poor little baby.

It didn't even shoot anything. All it would do is paint a target using its laser in order to broadcast the exact coordinates to a central relay station, which would in turn transmit said coordinates into the targeting subroutines of the self-propelled, self-navigated ballistic missiles fired off from a mobile weapons platform situated at a cozy, soul-warmingly safe distance away, like the Bahamas or some shit. Once in closer proximity to the target, the unique heat/radiation signature caused by the laser would unfailingly guide the missile true onto its target. Which wouldn't do him any good because by the time the actual weapon got here his balls would likely already be shot through with so many holes he'd look like a bloody sieve.

What had he ever done to deserve this shitjob?

That was the question he could see mirrored in the eyes of each of his subordinates, all 26 of them. Yeah, 26. The hell, he carried more bullets than that in his sidearm, the smaller one of several he always carried on his person. Which of course, he was not permitted to bring along. He wasn’t even allowed to bring his tactical combat knife, which for his 7’1 frame meant it was the size of a goddamn machete for anyone else.

He was simply not meant for this kind of mission. What the hell had the commander been thinking? Usually, he was held in reserve for smash’n’grab missions, smash’n’burn, smash’n’destroy, smash’n’kill.. Basically, anything with the word or even the faintest notion of smashing something to a barely recognizable meat paste, that was his job.

All this ninja sneaking pansy ass shadows stuff, it was just insane was what it was. What would he do if he accidentally sneezed and suddenly all those trucks packing enough heat to blow him straight to the moon and back turned their deadly muzzles on him and lightly “sneezed”?

There wouldn’t be enough leftover of him to even recognize via DNA sampling. They’d simply buy the biggest damn box of fertilizer they could find and scatter his immaterial ashes. He’d always known he would die on the battlefield, and he honestly didn’t have any higher expectations. After all, he was only good for one thing, and one thing only.

Smash things.

Eventually, he would find something that would smash him in return. But at least he wanted a fighting chance. Hell, how about at least firing back? The hell was he supposed to do with this toy gun? Smile at the enemy, ask how they were feeling, and could they please roll over and die? Wave his miniature gun at them threateningly until they realized what any mildly experienced soldier already knew, that laser guided ordnance had the single spectacular flaw of being ridiculously easy to foil due to the potent signal jamming technology deployed upon any modern day battlefield. They were nearly useless, relics of wars of the past.

What was definitely no mere relic from the past was the convoy slowly snaking its way closer on the rocky pass below. Laser batteries, large scale ballistic ordnance, mobile and semi-stationary artillery - you name it, they had it. It was like the christmas list of a mad god hellbent on razing half the world to the ground. The other half he would simply atomize. Less of a mess that way.

Whoever the other side had, they meant business, that was for damn sure. Meanwhile, all his side had was what basically amounted to a toy gun. He doubted whether it could even brain one of those bastards down there, should he use his own brand of tactical brilliance and simply wield the damn useless gun as a club - it felt that flimsy.

Well, at least technically they shouldn’t be found out since they had shed every last scrap of gear that would be detectable through any readings, be that armor, guns or even a nail clipper. The laser targeting gun was obviously made of some high tech stealthy shit, but that just made it more useless.

Hell, he'd rather take his chances with the nail clipper.

Akatombe sighed deeply, resisting the urge to shake his head, resigning himself to fulfilling the task that had been assigned to him. Inflict a 90% casualty rate? He would have scoffed, but didn’t dare. Instead he settled for grunting inwardly, the only sign of insubordination he would ever dare show towards that crazy, crazy man who was his boss.

Bloody bastard was probably watching somehow, some way.

Hefting his toy gun, he checked the batteries, then flicked the receptor on and began calibrating the signal. A uniformly flat line was displayed on the small screen cradled within his massive hands.

Time to get to work.

Shit reason to die a shit death for a shit job on a shit day because of a shit bo.. Erm, well, he was going to die anyway, so he might as well call him that at least once.

Shit boss.

A slightly exhilarated grin lit upon his face at that. Take that, Boss.

General Shit, hahah. At least he’d have a good laugh on his way to shit hell.

***

“Achooo!”

“Erhm, General?” Came the obsequious voice from my left. “Would you like me to set up a thermal containment field?”

One of my signature moves, a slightly arched eyebrow, told this obsequious toadie exactly where he could shove his thermal containment field. I was about to unleash hell upon the unsuspecting faces of thousands upon thousands of enemy soldiers, and this idiot wanted to prop up a heater?

“Achooooo!”

The hell? It wasn’t even that cold. I rubbed my nose irritably, then glared into the distance as I wondered if my officers were doing what they’d been told. I was incapable of checking their positions as I had ordered a complete radio blackout until further orders. Usually, a radio blackout would not matter as much, since each trooper had a personal biochip implanted which would regularly transmit data to HQ.

That was usually the norm. However, I couldn’t help but let a grin of sheer joy light upon my face as I looked up to see the cascading tinge of green slowly suffusing the clouds above. The green lines formed a crazy jumble of zigzagging patterns, radiating a corruscading net of lights spreading out more swiftly than the eye could follow, blanketing the firmament all the way to the horizon.

It was breathtakingly beautiful.

Now, don’t take me for a sentimental fool. I could care less for the fancy lightshow. What it meant, however, was that the stratospheric radiation storm had finally arrived. Such storms were randomly formed in the stratosphere, a remnant of the insane weapons of mass destruction unleashed in the previous world wars, which had in effect ruptured the atmospheric layer around the Earth. Over the decades since, major endeavors had partly healed our collapsing atmosphere at exorbitant costs, but the radiation storms that would shimmer into place one moment and vanish with as much warning in the next were a permanent reminder of the folly and hubris of humankind.

Not one given to much philosophising, I instead rejoiced in the technical aftermath of such a phenomenon. Although the radiation was mostly rendered harmless to living beings, it did create a containment field that altered the polarity and scattered the spectrum wave of any incoming and outgoing signals in the immediate vicinity. That meant that in this digital age, for all intents and purposes and for a very brief window of opportunity, we were all blind as mice.

And well, in the land of the blind, the one eyed man is king.

Especially if that one eye was a badass know-it-all prophet and harbinger of the bad, bad times to come.

“General, our readings are detecting atmospheric anomalies rapidly coalescing in the region,” Came the anxious voice of one of the men manning a console to one side. “It seems to be a stratospheric radiation storm event.”

A sudden burst of panicked voices rang out, all trying to convey urgent information vital to the success of the mission. Each and every one of them knew that such an event was one of the worst disasters that could befall a military mission. It would effectively cut off all uplinks in or out of each command hub, rendering all centralized tactical planning useless and strategic considerations near impossible. Electrical devices were liable to fail more often than not, and sensor readings became unreliable at best.

Ah, it was glorious.

Slowly, I raised my hand over my shoulder as I continued to look at that beautiful bitch of a storm brewing in the distance. Instantly, a hush descended over as everyone stood transfixed, gazing at my back.

In turn, I gazed into the distance, past the once massive crags which now had crumbled into dust. My eyes traveled past the sight of a land laid barren, a desolate wasteland still smoking in its ruin, and into the deep shadows lurking beyond, where my enemy lay in wait.

“Xiao Ming, can you ride out the storm?” I whispered to myself as I narrowed my eyes, my upraised hand slowly curling into a fist. Immediately and as one, a loud collective intake of breath could be heard from behind me. That was the signal. Finally, and at long last, it was finally time.

“Begin the assault,” I ordered, and inevitably molten heat boiled over into my voice from the rumbling furnace of my heart.

“Unleash hell.”