Alarms woke me after less than an hour of sleep. The aliens have commenced a second wave of terror attacks.
Cpt. "Boghead" Borg is heading up the team on the Skyranger, with Lts. "Cyclops" Gryspeerdt and "Enigma" Lambert. Cpls. Mitchell and Arnold on fire support, and another volunteer - Rk. Anja Meinhardt - wielding an arc thrower, round out the squad.
They'll see Marseille before morning.
Cdr. Amyus Bale - Personal log - June 26
I found time at last to write the letter to Sentinel's family.
In the early hours, I slipped down to the barracks, seeking inspiration from Saxby's old locker. As I remember, it used to be stacked full of tabletop board games. These were his downtime passion, a joy he wanted to share with everyone around him. The XCOM database inform me that he'd even started writing articles about them. They made me smile.
Unsurprisingly, I never had much time to join in. In any case, the thought of moving pieces around a board, making tough calls, losing here, winning there - just didn't appeal to me, somehow.
The games are all gone, now. To family, or shared in the barracks. I know Cpl. James Arnold had his eyes on them. Sentinel's locker was empty but for a sad pile of dust, a little lint. And tacked to the door, a rectangle of card.
A game component, I thought at first. But no, or not exactly. It was a tarot card. The Magician.
I flipped it in my hands idly, curiously. On the back, someone had penned a kiss.
In the early hours, I slipped down to the barracks, seeking inspiration from Saxby's old locker. As I remember, it used to be stacked full of tabletop board games. These were his downtime passion, a joy he wanted to share with everyone around him. The XCOM database inform me that he'd even started writing articles about them. They made me smile.
Unsurprisingly, I never had much time to join in. In any case, the thought of moving pieces around a board, making tough calls, losing here, winning there - just didn't appeal to me, somehow.
The games are all gone, now. To family, or shared in the barracks. I know Cpl. James Arnold had his eyes on them. Sentinel's locker was empty but for a sad pile of dust, a little lint. And tacked to the door, a rectangle of card.
A game component, I thought at first. But no, or not exactly. It was a tarot card. The Magician.
I flipped it in my hands idly, curiously. On the back, someone had penned a kiss.
 |
| Cpt. Jordan "Sentinel" Saxby, KIA. We will remember. |
Battle Report, June 25 - OPERATION STONE PALACE
The fight was vicious but tidy. Two dead Mutons felt like an iota of payback for Twitch and Sentinel. Cpl. McGee showed some serious grit, coolly standing her ground for the killshot even after her cover had been blown away. She bore the wounds without complaint.
The squaddies fought well as a team under Borg's direction, with particular distinction going to Mitchell, who put on a burst of speed to get on the X-rays' six when they had Boghead and McGee at a disadvantage. They'll all make Corporal, and I'm bumping Boghead up to Captain.
Cdr. Amyus Bale - Personal log - June 22
There is something unreal about XCOM Knowle now. I traverse the corridors, expecting to find Twitch leaving the armoury, Sentinel setting up games in the bar...
I've been visiting Nix in the infirmary. He's in a bad way. He almost died in Manchester, going lone wolf on the far side of the cemetery in an attempt to flank the X-rays. Hunted by a pack of Sectoids, he ended up in a life or death duel with the last of them, trading pistol fire from opposing sides of a vending machine. He'll be in the Cauldron for a long time.
I've promoted him to Major, little though that means to him right now. He has a brother and a comrade to mourn.
I've also promoted Pip Ash to Lieutenant. There's no denying Voodoo panicked in the cemetery, but he put a lid on it too. He was the one the who pulled the team out of there, dragged Nix back to the Skyranger full of holes.
Morale has taken a steep dive. Twitch and Sentinel were two pillars around which the garrison was built. Something had to be done, so yesterday I gathered everyone together in the armoury.
This was a deep and painful loss, I said, one which inspires disbelief. Twitch and Sentinel were some of the best - friends and soldiers. We will not forget them; nor will we let their loss weaken us. We must train harder, fight harder - for each other, for survival. And for revenge.
They seem to have taken this to heart. Cpl. Zoe McGee, in particular, has started training with a grim zeal. Her example can't be ignored; the others are following suit.
Cdr. Amyus Bale - Personal log - 20 June
Now I feel truly numb.
That graveyard was a deathtrap. Nowhere to hide, no room for manoeuvre. Pinned on the road, a squad of the alien heavies we call Mutons and a sea of Sectoids prowling among the gravestones.
Stone shards flying, masonry leveled. Grave dirt scything through the air.
Rk. Perez wasn't ready for this. She was a volunteer, eager to bag the first live X-ray. I'd made use of the arc thrower volunteer-only, and forbidden the more experienced officers from stepping forward: too much risk, too much to lose. Perez came up to my office the next day - nervous, confident, tightly wound.
When the plasma fire began to erupt around her, it was too much, too soon. She panicked, dropped to her haunches, sobbing into her mic. Tipped over the edge by her breakdown, Voodoo lost control, breaking cover and firing wildly at the enemy. Seizing this momentary distraction, Perez made a break for the Skyranger, sprinting across the open, head down.
Backed up against the cemetery wall, Twitch cursed, head falling. For a moment, his whole body slumped. Then a growl.
"Not again."
Bringing up a grenade, he wrenched out the pin with his teeth, launched it at the cluster of Mutons. Gritting his teeth, he pulled up his trusty shotgun for the kill.
The night before the op, I'd found Twitch in the bar, a chair pulled up in front of the memorial board. He was toying with a notched combat knife, one he'd kept strapped to his shin since he came back from Norway. There was a newspaper clipping on the table, a blurred monochrome photograph with a scrap of prose.
We sat in silence for a time. At last, he spoke, eyes downcast.
"How do you stand it, sir? The killing?"
"You're not falling for the X-rays, Twitch?"
He didn't laugh. "We killed them, sir. Lin, Jang... her."
He pushed the newspaper clipping towards me. I recognised a fuzzy shot of Willie Thorne, the Canadian politician suspected of collaborating with the aliens.
"I ordered those boys into that UFO," he continued. "I threw that grenade." He stabs the knife down hard into the wood, leaving it there.
"Listen, Twitch," I said, leaning in, "this isn't easy. I know. But you did your duty. You followed your orders, my orders. You did your job."
The Captain stood up, looking at me with pale eyes. "They'll be payment for what we've done, sir. There's a reckoning coming."
"It's game over, man. Game over."
Two Mutons were momentarily stunned by the blast. The third sighted expertly, shot Twitch right in the chest. He was dead before he hit the ground.
"Twitch is dead, sir." Sentinel's voice was heavy. Removing his fingers from the corpse's neck, he looked over at Voodoo where he was cowering behind the bonnet of a Renault, caught his gaze and signaled curtly. Voodoo tensed, ready.
There'd been something jaunty in Saxby's step that last week. A spring I'd not seen since he weathered the terror attacks in Kaduna, with the other vets. Did I wonder about it for more than a second, between plans and reports, risk assessments and briefings?
Sentinel stepped out, bestriding Twitch's body where it lay in the litter of the street, spraying suppressive fire across the Mutons' flanks. Voodoo leapt up, dropping one Muton; Cyclops took down the other.
The third was squatting behind one of the last of the gravestones, bulky arm raised to protect its eyes from Sentinel's precise fire. It's other arm jerked.
The grenade chuckled across the pavement, coming to rest in the crook of Twitch's knee. The explosion ripped off one of Sentinel's legs, sent him tumbling in a cloud of blood and dust. His screams pierced the coms.
Voodoo and Cyclops were wounded, hounded by Sectoids. Nix was fighting for his life on the far side of the cemetery.
Saxby bled out on the concrete.
That graveyard was a deathtrap. Nowhere to hide, no room for manoeuvre. Pinned on the road, a squad of the alien heavies we call Mutons and a sea of Sectoids prowling among the gravestones.
Stone shards flying, masonry leveled. Grave dirt scything through the air.
Rk. Perez wasn't ready for this. She was a volunteer, eager to bag the first live X-ray. I'd made use of the arc thrower volunteer-only, and forbidden the more experienced officers from stepping forward: too much risk, too much to lose. Perez came up to my office the next day - nervous, confident, tightly wound.
When the plasma fire began to erupt around her, it was too much, too soon. She panicked, dropped to her haunches, sobbing into her mic. Tipped over the edge by her breakdown, Voodoo lost control, breaking cover and firing wildly at the enemy. Seizing this momentary distraction, Perez made a break for the Skyranger, sprinting across the open, head down.
Backed up against the cemetery wall, Twitch cursed, head falling. For a moment, his whole body slumped. Then a growl.
"Not again."
Bringing up a grenade, he wrenched out the pin with his teeth, launched it at the cluster of Mutons. Gritting his teeth, he pulled up his trusty shotgun for the kill.
The night before the op, I'd found Twitch in the bar, a chair pulled up in front of the memorial board. He was toying with a notched combat knife, one he'd kept strapped to his shin since he came back from Norway. There was a newspaper clipping on the table, a blurred monochrome photograph with a scrap of prose.
We sat in silence for a time. At last, he spoke, eyes downcast.
"How do you stand it, sir? The killing?"
"You're not falling for the X-rays, Twitch?"
He didn't laugh. "We killed them, sir. Lin, Jang... her."
He pushed the newspaper clipping towards me. I recognised a fuzzy shot of Willie Thorne, the Canadian politician suspected of collaborating with the aliens.
"I ordered those boys into that UFO," he continued. "I threw that grenade." He stabs the knife down hard into the wood, leaving it there.
"Listen, Twitch," I said, leaning in, "this isn't easy. I know. But you did your duty. You followed your orders, my orders. You did your job."
The Captain stood up, looking at me with pale eyes. "They'll be payment for what we've done, sir. There's a reckoning coming."
"It's game over, man. Game over."
Two Mutons were momentarily stunned by the blast. The third sighted expertly, shot Twitch right in the chest. He was dead before he hit the ground.
"Twitch is dead, sir." Sentinel's voice was heavy. Removing his fingers from the corpse's neck, he looked over at Voodoo where he was cowering behind the bonnet of a Renault, caught his gaze and signaled curtly. Voodoo tensed, ready.
There'd been something jaunty in Saxby's step that last week. A spring I'd not seen since he weathered the terror attacks in Kaduna, with the other vets. Did I wonder about it for more than a second, between plans and reports, risk assessments and briefings?
Sentinel stepped out, bestriding Twitch's body where it lay in the litter of the street, spraying suppressive fire across the Mutons' flanks. Voodoo leapt up, dropping one Muton; Cyclops took down the other.
The third was squatting behind one of the last of the gravestones, bulky arm raised to protect its eyes from Sentinel's precise fire. It's other arm jerked.
The grenade chuckled across the pavement, coming to rest in the crook of Twitch's knee. The explosion ripped off one of Sentinel's legs, sent him tumbling in a cloud of blood and dust. His screams pierced the coms.
Voodoo and Cyclops were wounded, hounded by Sectoids. Nix was fighting for his life on the far side of the cemetery.
Saxby bled out on the concrete.
Battle Report, June 19 - OPERATION ENDURING FOG
A small cemetery in Manchester. A graveyard in the night.
We made it our own, claimed it with our dead.
Cdr. Amyus Bale - Personal log
I can't ignore the situation here in the UK anymore. Above us, in rural Devon, the roads are being disrupted by cars piled high with haphazard salvage: refugees from violence in the cities. There's been talk of relocating Parliament, moving the royal family to the Isle of Wight.
The USA are putting a lot of pressure on me to intervene against incursions in Miami, but the Skyranger is flying for Manchester as we speak. Cpts. Twitch, Nix and Sentinel, Lt. Cyclops, Sgt. Voodoo and Rk. Esmeralda Perez - good hunting.
The USA are putting a lot of pressure on me to intervene against incursions in Miami, but the Skyranger is flying for Manchester as we speak. Cpts. Twitch, Nix and Sentinel, Lt. Cyclops, Sgt. Voodoo and Rk. Esmeralda Perez - good hunting.
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