Jack and Pietro: A Love Story from Corazol and the Sierra Madre

Pietro shifted in his seat. The vibrations knocked his desk about in the office, the only things seeming to stay in one place were the two men in the room. They shared nothing but an icy stare into each other's eyes. Paintings were falling from the walls, books dumping off of shelves, bits of dust and ceramic coming from the ceiling—but the two men stared on, as if the world had stopped and there were nothing else but their chairs and the stainless steel table between them.

Pietro was the mayor, he had a responsibility to the people of his city. He had a responsibility to keep them from harm, to bring them stability and prosperity, to protect their property. He broke his concentration to glance out the window, barely turning his head to avert his gaze. Four plumes of black smoke were drifting upwards in the distant cityscape, billowing up in a vain attempt to block the sunlight. Beyond the smoke, the noise, the concussion rocking the city hall, one may consider things business as usual and expect to see tourists teeming in the streets.

But beyond his sight in the streets below were not vendors peddling food and overpriced knock-off sunglasses and watches. There were not tourists, sweaty in the heat of the day and weighed down with souvenirs, on their way to their resorts and hotels. There were not locals jockeying through the throngs of people to get to work or to the market or to get to wherever they called home. The streets, normally so full that having a driver's license was a waste of money, were being ground under treads and the boots of rough men. Each blast marked the hit of a rocket-propelled-grenade or the detonation of a charge tossed into a building, the destruction of yet another armored vehicle, the crumbling of a monument to the littered pavement. He had a responsibility to prevent this.

And he had his responsibility to the crown, to the people living further west, to the people living to the south in the tropical region, to those in the cities that had more spas and resorts than apartment complexes and residential houses, to those in the tiny military camp less than a kilometer away. He was the plug in the dam, though the waters were lapping at the top of the wall hungrily.

The phone rang, both men stared at it, as if it was some alien object they had never seen before. Pietro's blood ran cold, his eyes and throat dried up, the room lurched as he leaned over, his arm weakly extended, barely held up by what strength he had in an attempt to show some semblance of dignity and strength. The voice on the line rasped, hacked as if it was fighting the very air it was breathing. The Gutanas had fallen, the Kingdom's forces were being driven back from the coastal road.

He did not hang the phone up or even respond. Pietro simply nodded to the only other thing in the room. And with that, it was done. A hand extended to him, hanging confidently—almost defiantly—in the stale dusty air. Pietro was undone.

A few dark blobs shifted from tree to tree in the woods, evading a volley of tracers from four men in hastily done foxholes. Jack lowered his rifle, sighing. The scattered riflemen couldn't hold for long, he knew it. His company was as disorganized as the little groups of riflemen, spread over a kilometer with reports half an hour old. His mortars had been captured, the crews carrying whatever weapons they could take from their compatriots or what they could find in their now abandoned vehicles. Their canteens were empty, rucksacks flopping about half-full—or half-empty—as they paced along the crest of the hill.

“Sir, got movement bearing eight-five. Looks like a convoy.”

He scanned through his rifle's ACOG sight, trying to make out what was now approaching from the city. The shapes gliding down the road were not the low, angular boxes that signaled a less friendly group of nomads. He dragged his RTO over by the straps of the radio backpack hard, jerking him into position while he slid onto the net. Corazol had fallen, making his position even more tenuous. His riflemen were sprinting back west as a team further back let loose with an intense wall of lead into the woods. His center was falling, no reports from second platoon since noon, third fighting its way through an enemy blocking position to the south.

Jack motioned quickly, ordering the handful of men with him back up the hill. The heavy thump of brownings echoed from the east as the Royal Army Corps of Sahrani fell back in column, men clinging to the sides of their M113s as they ground the pavement under their treads.

The sun was getting to them as they huffed and grunted up the hillside, the sounds of small arms dying down as first platoon continued falling back to the potentially prematurely named Tora Line. Jack tried not to think of the aching in his legs, the emptiness in his stomach, the sweat stinging his eyes or the alarming silence of his group. He was trying to visualize the situation, place NATO markers down in his head, a platoon here, a platoon there, giant red and blue arrows sweeping over the map dramatically to attempt to show some sort of decisiveness.

Second platoon reported in after an agonizing forty-five minutes, but they were carrying six wounded and were low on ammunition. They were three hundred meters north of their place in the company and would have to fight their way southwest to meet first platoon. He still had no new orders from command, so he could only march on.

The only news that would reach the rest of the world would be a small statement:

The morning of October 4th, Sahrani Liberation Army (SLA) forces overran the Kingdom of South Sahrani (KSS) border outposts. Within twelve hours, Corazol was under SLA control. A regiment sized force of light infantry had been deployed to help train the Royal Army Corps of Sahrani (RACS), but is now struggling to hold the line alongside native forces. NATO is organizing a battalion of troops to bolster the defenses and help repulse the SLA, but it may take up to seventy-two hours before the first boots hit the ground.

RACS forces have set up light defenses at the Sierra Madre mountain range and Hiccoras woods in what is now designated the Toro line. Ortego is under seige, but holding the SLA advance south. US forces have fought their way to Paraiso, but are being redeployed along the Toro line.

The main bodies of troops attacking RACS units are believed to be composed of the 2nd Mechanized Battalion, 9th Light Battalion, and the 12th Armored Recon Battalion. Luckily the terrain should force the enemy to dismount when they attack any BLUFOR defensive positions.

The situation is developing.

[This is an attempt to give some reference for what will hopefully be an interesting series of posts from Dog Company's Arma II sessions.]