Author Notes:
Yeah, I am actually quite sick right now, and the dang Cloudflare crashing ain't helping me in my update speed man. I think a combination of overworking and sleep deprivation is kicking me in the curb as well, despite my best attempt at using coffee to fuel my productivity.
But that's enough about me.
Salutation to Sergeant Byron Borcherding for supporting the Belkan Reich! Hope you enjoy the discount, and I sure hope you enjoy the new chapters!
Now, as per usual, don't forget to check out the picture and the Monthly Recruitment Drive (if you're a newcomer, of course). Thanks for reading, and have a nice day to all you wonderful readers and supporters of mine.
P.S: As you can see, I am quite stunned for various reasons.
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The suddenness of the gunshot comes as a shock to everyone, so much so that even the King's Royal Guards forget to either tackle the King and his Queen to cover or to figure out where the shot comes from. Instead, everybody, even the highly-trained soldiers themselves, stares, transfixed, as the Count of Farbanti collapses backward with a hand clutching his wounded shoulder. It's only when the Count of Farbanti's retinue gathers to shield him with their bodies that the people around start reacting.
"T-The Count is shot!"
"Doctor! We need a doctor over here!"
"Where did that come from!? Does anybody see the shooter!?"
Yet, before any reasonable response can be made from the factions in the meeting square, one shout, coming from the direction of the capitalists' group, is made very noticeable.
"The leader of those ingrates is down! Loyal soldiers of the Kingdom of Erusea, seize this chance and finish this motley group of rebels once and for all in the name of the Crown!"
The call to arms is like a bolt out of the blue, causing no small amount of confusion as to who shouted that and why. Yet, in the brief moment following the declaration, the initial shock has given way to dawning horror as some soldiers and bodyguards of both the King and the capitalists bear their weapons against the civilians of the Count of Farbanti's faction.
"No..." King George VI, who has registered the motions of some of the soldiers amidst a wall of loyal guardians, exclaims in a swirl of complex emotions. "Wait-!"
Before King George VI can put a stop to the coming madness, the soldiers and bodyguards, some standing down on street level, some stationed by the windows, pull the triggers of their weapons. And unlike before, where it was just a brief sniper shot, this is an entire hail of lead, perfectly engineered to cut down swathes of horrified citizens. The first to fall are, unfortunately enough, the once curious and hopeful citizens who managed to snatch the front row seat of this once historic meeting. Since the capitalists' bodyguards, the Erusean Army, and even some of the King's Royal Guards come bearing Lee-Enfields and Bren machine guns, a veritable bloodbath appears in a singular moment as the slew of .303 Erusean bullets punctured the undefended civilians in the front, hitting those behind them. Surprisingly, however, the initial burst of weapon fire failed to finish off the injured Count, all thanks to his personal guards that piled upon him as a last-ditch effort to protect the important man. Some of them are even injured or have perished on the spot, but the Count is fortunately still largely intact and is awaiting rescue.
In less than thirty seconds, dozens, if not hundreds, are dead or injured, and such a massacre won't be tolerated by the Count's faction. Having embedded themselves among the now fleeing and stranded civilians of London, the Count of Farbanti's militia, formed from his group of core bodyguards and some additional external helpers, joins in the fray. These militia return fire with military weapons of their own, some Erusean-made, some American. They fight from cover to cover, using suppressive fire to rescue the injured civilians or the children who are hiding behind the deceased in fear.
"T-This is madness!"
"Stop! Someone, make it stop!"
"Help me! Mother, help me!"
"Fire! Keeps firing! Do not let up!"
"Burn those sons of bitches!"
It's absolute anarchy in the heart of London.
King George VI tries to put a stop to the senseless slaughter, of which nobody knows when, why, or who lit the fuse. Yet, when the militia lays their guns on the Royal Guards' position, he and his Queen are made to hide inside a commandeered building as bullets fly all around them, even killing a couple of the Royal Guards. As the pair of frightened leaders are hunkered down behind a bar counter, the Royal Guards and some members of the Army fortified the location, manning the windows and doorway as they retaliate against the militia.
Confused and scared, the group of capitalists tuck themselves behind whatever protection they can get in the square, using their private armed forces to protect their own hide and attack near indiscriminately. The most cowardly of entrepreneurs and merchants have tried and run away, only to be shot and killed or injured by stray bullets. The braver nobles, however, stick to their guns, trying to make sense of the situation as they protect themselves well.
Once the shock of the slaughter fully sinks in, though, not a small number of the London military garrison and police force join the militia, either unofficially or actively. Those with wavering loyalty assist in treating the wounded and evacuation. Meanwhile, the men-at-arms who witnessed the reaping of their own family members, friends, or just innocent souls in general, directly fire upon the other two factions, righteously enraged and indignant. Their actions, while bolstering the firepower of the militia, further add to the chaos as they wear the same uniforms as the Army soldiers and policemen on the other side of the front. Things are made more chaotic when the militia brings out Molotov cocktails and madly charges at the opposition's Bren machine gun units. As the fiery flame and acrid smoke consume the circular battle line, officers who are either loyal to the King or the nobles allow the usage of grenades, further adding to the sheer devastation of life and what was once a scenic square.
Gone are the useless thoughts of why and what-ifs. There's only kill or be killed, react or act. As losses on all sides are mounting, it's become clear to the participants of this war in a pocket that something has to be done to break the stalemate, or else none will walk out of this killzone alive.
"You there! Lead a group to evacuate the civilians! The rest of you, deploy smoke and follow me! We need to rescue the Count!"
"Our King is in harm's way! Quickly, assemble your men! If God doesn't save the King, then we will!"
"Sergeant, prepare to deploy smoke and provide suppressive fire. We need to evacuate the King and the Queen back to the castle!"
Three factions, three separated plans of action, all dancing to an unknown tune. Yet, ironically enough, they all play their cards at the same time. All three factions assemble their men, deploy their method of concealment and disruption, before initiating a mad charge. One side burst out of their cover, seeking extraction. Another rushes to where their ultimate authority is, hoping to earn their share of glory and recognition. The last one makes haste to their influential leader, the face of their entire movement. Nerves are high in the square with little to no visibility, a result of an overabundance of smoke grenades. The chaotic suppressive fire, used by all three warring sides, the mind-numbing deathroes and screams for help, the scent of burned corpses, the squelching of feet stepping on puddles of gore... All of this combines to create a daunting atmosphere that causes even the few veterans around to have a numbing sensation, a sense of forboding, as if the enemy is not just in front but is everywhere. And in a way, that's correct.
As if guided by an unseen hand, the three factions come into visual range in the smoke, where all sides just sort of stop right then and there, guns raised, eyes wide open as their brains are muddied after all the fighting, the horrors. So close together are they that they can reach out and touch their elbows to members of the other factions. Their pupils tremble and shrink as they see but fail to register what the others are doing.
The Royal Guards are spearheading the way, with the remaining loyal military garrison and policemen, with the disheveled King and Queen secured inside a protective ring.
The militia and their cohorts are removing the injured Count of Farbanti from the war-torn square while posting up rearguards.
The nobles and their personal forces, each eager than the last to be the heroes of their own footnotes in history, pump into one another, ultimately pushing against their members in the front like a series of dominoes.
And then...
Well...
There's no then for those who are about to die.
BANG
Just like before, the first shot is fired. Yet, once again and in a very poetic manner, none of the three factions cares about whose side fired first. Only this time, due to the low visibility environment in the middle of the square, and with everyone wearing largely the same attire. The answers to the question of who to shoot come out as:
Shoot the people who are in front, not behind.
It's an answer that is taken to heart instinctively by everyone, even when no one even gives the order or instruction. As everything unfolds naturally in a sequence of three-way violence of actions, the first to fire is similarly the first to die due to their unfortunate position of being the guys on the front. And in the few seconds of the shootout, the second-highest spike in death count occurred today as more than two dozen combatants lay resting in their pools of blood. All because a few of them are wielding either a Bren or Lewis machine gun, devastating weapons in a matchup where no submachine gun is involved. When the smoke from not just the previously deployed smoke grenades, but also from all the gunfire, clears up, the square now appears even worse off than before, with enough bodies to contaminate the ground red, and not a single spot is clean of mud-soaked gore. From the middle of the scene of carnage, a hotchpotch of bloody footprints forms three separated trails, each going in a different direction from one another. And, as swiftly as it has begun, the gunfire ceases as all three factions vacate the bloodstained square, leaving behind all the deaths and even some unconscious injured, just because they are mistaken to be dead as well.
The situation is so volatile and chaotic that no one can even perform a double-check on the bodies on the ground. As long as there's blood and no movement, then that person is declared dead and abandoned on the spot.
While the eventual fates of the extracted VIPs are still nebulous after the last major exchange in the lightning-fast but deadly shootout, perhaps the most... No, the most unfortunate losers and sufferers throughout this entire tragic ordeal are none other than the people of London themselves. They were, for the most part, curious spectators or peaceful protesters and advocates at best. They were housewives, widows, kids, and their grandparents, but now? They've either died ignoble deaths, been permanently disabled, or traumatized for life. None of them was an active servicemember, yet the scars they took today outweigh even what some of the long-serving veterans will carry.
This isn't a war...
Nor is it a riot suppression...
It's a well-orchestrated terror attack, and one of, if not the first of its kind.
Understandably, the consequences of which will be dire for the factions that are now locked in a bitter struggle, locally as it may be.
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"Get me the Grand Admiral..." I stand up from my seat at the artistically crafted mahogany meeting table. "Tell him I need the 3rd and 4th Expeditionary Strike Groups posted East of London ASAP."
"Additionally, I want the entirety of the 141st Division and all Ravens not on duty to be ready for an amphibious and airborne invasion in 24 hours." As Bryn drapes my coat over my shoulders, I add. "And my 404th Division to be ready for deployment by the next 24 hours."
When Bryn dutifully hands over my cap, and I put it on, I give my staff one more set of instructions. "Contact K-Town as well, get them on stand by for long-range bombing missions. If need be, we'll use the entirety of the 509th Bomb Wing to blow a gateway straight into Buckingham Palace."
"Although the situation developed faster than we expected, this is indeed a good chance to finally take out yet another one of our enemies." Giving Rosa and her military cabinet a parting nod, I depart with Bryn to take a flight out to the sea.
Ultimately, we, the Belkan Reich, don't need to care about the spy-cell-turn-terrorist-organization's motivation. Since they have been so good to fell London, to tenderize the meat for us, don't mind us taking the killing bite then.
"It's time to say curtain call to the Kingdom of Erusea."
To the victor goes the rest of history.