The Story

Prologue:

Outskirts of southern France...
Ft. White Fox
3:55p.m.

Ft. White Fox was a small, but well-defended base. It was located in the outskirts of southern France, and it was a supply base. Everyday, C-130 Hercules cargo planes would hover there and paradrop some supply crates. Ft. White Fox was also well defended, which is why Soviet scouts that came into the sights of the fortified supply base never made it to report back. They had Prism Towers that looked like watchful, guarding giants, who would pound anything that moved onto the surrounding grounds. Each Prism Tower had a single Patriot Missile Battery next to it, to defend from air attack. A strange, gray building with two big radar dishes were twirling around: a Communications Center, a useful building, whether it is emergency or support. G.I.s were in the fortified walls, which were made of gray, reinforced concrete and reinforced titanium. Some were armed with semi-automatic rifles.

Four weird vehicles were parked in the front. They had long, slender cannons that had shells that traveled a great distance. They had low, crawler-tracks that made them move quickly. They had a German flag on the side, with the Allied symbol: an eagle on a shield. They were German Tank Destroyers; even Apocalypse Tanks wouldn’t get a chance to return fire after the first shot. A War Factory was next to the Drop Zone, it was painted a cool navy-blue and the reinforced glass roof was glowing white, a ramp led down to the ground. 

In a Barracks behind one of the walls, a man stepped out...
The man was a tall and well-built man, built like an athlete and looked like one. He had short, blond hair that made him look smart, and sparkly blue eyes that sparkled like a jewel. He was wearing a khaki military uniform, with two big letters in capitals and painted white on the bulletproof vest he was wearing. He was armed with a semi-automatic rifle, which was gray and slender. That man was a G.I., and his rank was a Private. He was an American G.I. and his name was John Ranger. Private Ranger wasn’t stationed in Ft. White Fox since the beginning of the Second Red War. He was originally stationed in a French fort, Ft. Bastille, which was in the outskirts of Paris. But Soviet V3 Rockets destroyed base defenses, allowing the heavy assault of Soviet Rhino Heavy Tanks to coldly slaughter the defenders mercilessly. He escaped when some brave Nighthawk Helicopter pilots bravely landed in the base to rescue the remaining forces. John Ranger was one of the lucky twenty men who escaped alive; five Nighthawk Helicopters came to rescue the remaining men. The fifth chopper never returned to Ft. White Fox. A Flak Trooper blew up one of the engines of the fifth chopper, sending the chopper crashing to the ground. Nobody inside survived the crash.

John’s friend, Private Corey Harker, was one of the men inside the doomed helicopter: he was only twenty-five years old. But he got over Corey’s death quickly, as he realized that everyday, someone takes their first breath into this world, and someone takes their last. Death is common everywhere. 

It’s another day at this dump, John thought. It’s another BORING day of guarding this dump. He was wrong. Not very far away, about a hundred of men in red military clothing and, wearing metal masks which was meant to intimidate the enemy and wearing jet-black leather boots, were marching toward the base. They were all armed with M1 Carbines: Soviet Conscripts. As soon as they saw the massive fort, the leading Conscript, a big man wearing a bulletproof vest, a cold, metal mask and a gray helmet, cried something in Russian that was very obvious: CHARGE!

The Conscripts repeated the single word, and soon every Conscript was making a would-be suicidal charge to the enemy. The battle was about to begin. 


Chapter 1:

The Beginning of the Battle...

Private Karen Walden was one of the few female soldiers that fought in the Second Red War. Karen was a redhead, and her long, flashy red hair was tied up in a bund. She had lovely almond eyes, and a sweet voice that sounded like she sang like a nightingale. Her build was nearly flawless; it would make just about any man want to marry her. Karen Walden was one of the twenty survivors that escaped Ft. Bastille, and she was even luckier that her all of her friends (including Private Ranger) escaped alive. Karen knew how John felt when he saw the black cloud of flak swallow up the second engine of the fifth Nighthawk Helicopter, causing it to spin crazily down, slamming onto the ground and disappearing in a bright-orange fireball that consumed the wreckage, killing all people, including John’s friend, Corey Harker, onboard. 

She was on the wall, wearing a khaki military uniform, complete with a khaki military cap and brown, combat boots. She was clutching her semi-automatic rifle as if she was hugging a squish toy. She was marching up and down the fortified wall like the soldier she was, guarding the fort. A loud clumping of leather boots was becoming increasingly louder, and each step seemed to increase speed.

"What?" she wondered, she turned her head around to see the incoming horde of Soviet Conscripts. She swore in Spanish, as her parents were of Spanish origin, and ran toward the ladder and climbed down. She ran toward the Communications Center, lashed out her hand, pulled it open, and ran up a floor and into Commander Henley Leech’s office.

Commander Leech was an African-American man, tall and thin. He was in his early fifties, and his head was complete bald, not because he became bald, but because he liked to shave his hair bald. His eyes were dark-brown, and from a distance they seem to be full of warmth: look closer and his eyes actually gave a cold gaze. He was wearing a tight, dull-gray military uniform that looked so tight that you could expect it to squeeze all the air out of him. He had about a dozen badges, in all colors, shapes and sizes that sparkled like an emerald. He had jet-black polished boots, which were polished so fine that you could see a perfect reflection of yourself.

"Private Walden", snapped Commander Leech, "You know the rules. Do NOT go into the Commander’s office, especially when he’s doing important things!" 
"Unless there’s an emergency", the woman added, "look out the window." She lifted up her right hand and pointed to the window behind the commander. He turned around. "Oh boy"... he said, with his mouth dangling open.

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