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As the plane flew low over the neighborhood to land, Matthew jerked awake and looked at his watch to confirm the time. The plane from Orlando had arrived at exactly 8 a.m. Matthew cursed in relief and sluggishly dragged himself to the shower, brushed his teeth, shaved, and threw on an olive drab sleeveless shirt, pants, and light jacket and rushed down the streets to George’s Burgers for breakfast.
Half the building was blown up in the bombing run last month when the European Federation began its occupation of the U.S. and the place was beginning to run out of its food supply. Matthew rummaged through the walk-in refrigerator and found some eggs and potatoes for hash browns. When he finished cooking, he figured he’d make burgers for later. He rushed back to the rickety house, climbed into the attic and laid down quickly near the blown off corner and placed the two boxes of breakfast down. He rolled on his stomach, known as prone position, in front of his sniper scope and adjusted focus on the faraway runway where the plane landed and was slowing to a stop. “How far was it Vick? About 170 meters?” he whispered to his side. Wrapped around the spotter scope next to him was a dog tag with Victor Ephraim imprinted on one side. Matthew ate his breakfast then munched on Victor’s. “Yep. Sounds about right. Damn Euros…they think they can protest the construction of our space plane when they got a WMD of their own in orbit? Well…once the HVT is in sight, they’re gonna have a hard time staying organized in this war. Shoulda seen this coming though.”
Matthew heard rotors of a helicopter chopping the air far away and quickly jumped to the second floor and raced to the shadow next to the window. Coming down the street, facing him, sci-fi style transport trucks were cruising along the street in the oncoming lanes section. “Patrol…” he whispered, he quickly glanced through the driver’s window and saw the man smoking. After they passed, he stayed hidden until he couldn’t hear the far off helicopter then climbed back into the attic just in time to see the plane parked in place. He gripped the handle of his .50 caliber Barrett semi-automatic sniper rifle, and took steady aim. “This is gonna be one hell of a shot, Vick. Wish me luck.” He held his breath to steady his aim, and saw the General and zeroed in on the window of what looked like a Volkswagen Jetta. The General sat in shotgun, and before the car started up, Matthew took the shot. Just when it looked perfect with the Coriolis effect, the wind kicked in and pushed it right, puncturing the tire opposite the General. The three men got out and inspected the damage, and Matthew took a second shot, hitting the target center mass.
As the General fell already dead, Matthew slung the gun, grabbed the dog tag and rushed outside, unveiled the hidden motorbike, and started it up. He sped at 60 mph instantly and got on the highway to John Wayne Airport. “Hawk Eye this is Alpha One, the HVT is down, proceeding on bike south to John Wayne Airport.”
A reply came a few seconds after. “Alpha One, Hawk Eye. We’re tracking you on satellite. Continue south and keep us posted.” Matthew took the airport exit off the I-405, zoomed straight at the airport entrance, shooting the glass with his G18 pistol and worked his way through the terminal until he was on the runway.
“Harbinger Four, Alpha One. The LZ is clear, but they’ll be here any minute.”
“Alpha One, we are en route to the LZ, ETA 2 minutes.”
“Two minutes?! I’ll be held at gunpoint then!” He cursed loudly and hid behind one of the plane’s wheels, rifle readied on top. After 1 minute, 4 cars came zooming around the corner, then stopped adjacent to the first plane. The soldiers in the first car shot the window then threw a grenade, zooming to the next plane, then the next.
“ETA 30 seconds.”
Matthew looked outward from the runway and saw nothing, but he clearly heard Harbinger’s rotors. “Roger. Be advised, there are four Jeeps filled with tangos. Spool those miniguns.”
“Copy. Out.”
Matthew turned back towards the car and saw them rushing out, rifles ready. He cursed again and began firing, one by one they fell. He quickly reloaded his weapon as the other cars pulled up and began taking cover. His gun jammed and took cover behind the wheel, just as the familiar buzz of the M134 minigun began pelting the cars with bullets at 3000 rounds per minute. The cars exploded in clouds of flame, and the Chinook helicopter landed near Matthew. Four men emerged from the back to suppress the remaining few men as Matthew quickly boarded. The soldiers followed behind, and they took off. Matthew breathed slowly as the buzz went on and off. He slowly drifted to sleep, clutching his rifle and his best friend’s dog tag.
Back at the base, Matthew was in the debriefing room with Colonel Marshall, going over the details of how to push the Europeans off their soil. “With General Dubois now dead, they’ll be unorganized and we can annihilate them little by little. We’ll have to focus on pushing them off the Florida coast. Then we can focus setting up fighters and bombers on the runway at the Kennedy Space Center, and you and your battalion will have ample air support,” the colonel stated.
“My battalion?” Matthew started. “I’m sorry, but I don’t work very well in a large group.”
“Sorry, Matt. Not giving you much choice. You can remain the sniper of Echo 5, but you will need to a part of the 33rd Assault Battalion from now on. With their general dead, there will be no more need for covert missions.” Mathew cursed a string of slurs in his head, and got up to leave. “One more thing. Your squad leader is named John Baker. Dismissed.”
“Hooah,” he mumbled, then saluted. He subtlety stormed out the room and jogged to the indoor target range. He checked around to see if anyone was around and saw no one, then walked to the armory. “WA2000,” he asked.
“Here ya go, Johnson. Great work out there in Irvine,” the soldier said, grinning wide.
“Yeah, sure,” he whispered. He loaded his gun, and started firing, missing all but one shot. He reloaded, then shot all 10 shots without missing a beat, nailing every single target in the center.
“Hate to see you on a bad day, Johnson,” the man called around the corner.
“Eh, right. I’d go Solid Snake on your a**.” Matthew barely smirked, then returned to shooting for another 20 minutes, switching his weapon every two magazines. He returned the SCAR. “I’m looking for Sergeant Baker.”
“Ehhh, sorry. Haven’t seen him. Ask around, maybe you’ll run into him.”
Matthew went to the mess hall and got a tray of mashed potatoes and chicken with an apple. As he walked, he chewed on his apple slowly, trying to look for John. He took the edge seat of a table and slowly ate, flashes of his friend getting pelted with bullets haunting him. He finished then left his tray where it was and hurried out the building. He stretched and a man in his mid-20s walked up and extended his hand. “Johnson?” he asked.
“Yeah?”
“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Baker, your new squad leader.
Matthew shook his hand firm, but briefly. “Eh, likewise.”
“Well, formalities out of the way, you better gear up. We’re already moving out. The plan is for us to push the Euros back along the southern border.”
“A straight line to Florida…” Matthew noted. “We should push them through that fence and get the Mexican army on their asses, too.”
“That’d be a load off, but the war is between them and us. And they won’t be giving up so easy.” Baker started off toward the Humvees in the distance. “Anyway, get your loadout and meet us with the APCs past those cars.”
After a month of continuous fighting with his new battalion, they finally pushed the Europeans back to the point where they retreated. The battalion converged on the outskirts of the beach and Matthew’s squad along with two squads of tanks slowly advanced toward the shoreline. Matthew took shelter in a hotel with a good view the coast as instructed by John. Their new assignment from Col. Marshall was to kill as many Europeans as possible while they retreated and make sure the message is clear that they will not stop. The storm made visibility of the coast nearly impossible, but Matthew planned ahead and looked through the thermal scope of his new rifle, a slightly modified .50 caliber Barrett bolt action sniper rifle. “This is Echo Five,” John called over the radio. “We are in position on the first floor of the building overlooking the coast.”
“Echo Five, this is Hawk Eye. Rest of the battalion is holding position back further inland. Pick off any enemy stragglers and wait for the tanks to give you the signal to attack.”
“Hawk Eye, we copy and are keeping eyes on the tangos.”
“Hawk Eye copies all. Out.”
Matthew didn’t say a word after the briefing. The death two months earlier of his best friend set him in such a fit that he would’ve preferred to pick every single European one by one by himself. But he figured the incendiary shells the tanks would deliver would be enough to send the message. However, he wouldn’t stop until the American flag flew over Paris. The M1A2 Abrams tanks lined up just ahead of the building and adjusted their aim to the amphibious transport boats docked on the coast. A minute later, a loud whistle echoed overhead and the tanks barreled towards the shore, spreading out. They simultaneously fired their rounds, hitting the boats dead on as soldiers scrambled to safety behind the debris. Matthew instantly started firing away, while his squad moved in closer to rack up their kills. The tanks held their place 100 meters from the boats and started firing their 22mm cannons and .50 caliber machine guns. One Abrams exploded after a large clang echoed above the gunfire. “Hawk Eye, this is Mud Hog. We just lost one of our tanks. We’re spotting heat-seeking rockets in the houses to the west.”
“Copy that, Mud Hog. We’re ordering in the rest of the ground troops to close in and clear the area. We’re also sending in Apaches to aid you in fighting the enemy gunships.
Matthew held his position, sniping any enemies that came within sight. His thermal scope flashed white as a far off destroyer exploded and began to sink in the ocean.
“Mud Hog, this is Bravo Three. We’ve cleared the houses of Javelins and are using them to our advantage. We’ll provide cover fire.”
“We copy. Thanks for the assist. All right, get those TOW missiles ready to fire. Let’s deliver some fireworks!” Two tanks suddenly flung back and exploded as the last started to back away.
“Col. Marshall, this is Hawk Eye. We are reading intense thermal signatures being shot from the battleship 5 miles away. Intel confirms they have rail guns in their arsenal.”
“Oh you’ve gotta be shitting me!” John cried. A second electric blast zoomed in on the last tank, blowing it to pieces.
“Echo Five, retreat immediately. We are sending in F-117s to take out the battleship.”
Another electric current took off a corner of the building Matthew was in. The world grew into a high pitched whine around him as Matthew staggered to his feet, and began firing from blindly through the rain as artillery shells began exploding near him. One shell landed right next to him, wounding him severely.
The next morning, Matthew slowly began to wake up. He weakly lifted his head and looked around and saw men in the distance carrying bodies. He passed out again, and awoke a few minutes later, swaying as he vaguely saw a man holding him under the arms. He heard him speaking, but it was too indistinct to make out.
Later that day, Matthew was wide awake and looking around the medical room. Large enough to house 50 beds, half of them were full with sleeping and aching soldiers. “Glad to see you’re awake,” a voice sounded beside him. He looked to see and saw a man facing away, tending the soldier, then he turned around and smiled. “Back from the dead, eh?”
“Not really…” Matthew muttered.
“Not really? You were bleeding all over your torso from shrapnel. You were just lucky the artillery kicked up lots of mud; the shrapnel barely got to all of you.”
“Right…what’s your name?”
“Mark Hanson. Yourself?”
“Matthew Johnson.”
“Pleasure, Matt. I’d talk longer, but I’ve got a job to do. Once these boys here have been sent home or back to their battalions, I’ve gotta help pack up some gear to be ready to transport. We’re setting up base in Hammerstein, Germany. A bit strange to be calling Germany a state now, isn’t it?”
“Times change,” Matthew smirked.
“That they do. Now look where we are. While I’m away, is there anything I can get you?”
“Cold glass of water and an extra pillow, I guess.”
“You bet.” Mark jogged off, tending to the other patients then brought the water and pillow. Matthew noticed a slight marking around Mark’s forehead.
“Where’d you get that?” he asked, pointing and tracing the marks.
“Oh, that’s from the damn straps of my helmet. In medical training, they required us to wear them to be prepared to apply medical attention on the battlefield. Never saw a good reason why. I’m not going on to the battlefield any time soon.”
“Why not?”
“Too much death. Out on the beach, seeing just one dead body makes me think of how pointless war is. Those men had families, loved ones that they can never go back to now. And what do we do? We salute them and keep on fighting; keep sending men to die for what? Revenge? International dominance? And what do you fight for? Why did this war start?”
“Those damn Euros killed my best friend.” Matthew muttered, asking himself the questions.
“And that makes it okay to kill? The Europeans are human, too, with friends and families. Think about it. Every man you’ve killed had a best friend that would love to get revenge. And for what? If this war hadn’t started, you and YOUR friend would be alive and well, living a happy life. You don’t have to be a killer, Matt. Remember that.” Mark walked away, and Matthew lied back in his bed.


Another month of fighting and bloodshed, starting from a paradrop in Hammerstein, Matthew grew more and more questionable of his motivation to continue this war. Every death he committed, he felt weighing on his shoulders. He sat alone in the Hammerstein base, trying to clear his head. “Wake up, Johnson,” John called. Matthew looked up and saw the stern, determined look of his sergeant. “We’re moving to Rumelange, Luxembourg next. Should be a hell of a show. So get your gear, we’re moving out.”
“Roger,” he complied, standing up. He noticed Mark jogging up to him and went to meet him. “Hey, Mark, what is it?”
“Hey…” he said, panting a bit. “I know you’ve got your orders, but for once, try not killing. Here.” Mark gave him a satchel. He checked it and found a bunch of medical supplies crammed in. “Try saving others for a change. You hear me?”
“I hear ya.” Matthew slung on the satchel, and jogged to the Humvees.


As the Blackhawks sped forward to scout the small city, Echo squad formed a position and marched down the streets. The 16th Armored Battalion had hit the city the day before, leaving mostly rubble. John noticed a giant hole in a corner building they were passing and ordered Matthew to scout it. He didn’t notice until he heard whispering, but two men were covered in dust in the corner of the destroyed room. One looked to be bleeding in the leg, shoulder, and stomach area. The other, leaning over his friend, had scrapes but, nothing serious. The man leaning in was whispering in German, while blood began to build in the wounded man’s mouth. Matthew eased closer, and the man heard him and turned around. He scrambled back in shock and drew his pistol, which didn’t fire. He forgot to load it. He tossed the gun to the side and cringed into the corner. “S’il tu-plais, monsieur,” the man whispered, crying. Matthew stepped a little closer and the man pleaded again, louder. Matthew hushed him with his finger, and realized he was holding his gun. He slung it over his shoulder. The Frenchman pointed to his friend. Matthew studied him, and moved closer. He remembered Mark’s words as he began patching up the wounded soldier as best as he could. When he finished, he packed up the leftovers of his equipment. He turned to the Frenchman, pointed at the pistol, and shook his finger from side to side. He understood and smiled, laughing and crying. He returned to his friend, who began to slowly speak to him in German. Matthew paced himself getting back in position.
“Nothing but rubble, sir,” he reported.
“Good. Let’s hope that’s the case for the rest of the town.” They patrolled for another hour before a runner came from behind.
“Bad news, guys. We’re gonna be without reinforcements for at least a week and a half. Europe has officially gone in to Defcon 1, and their WMD hit our base in Hammerstein. Satellite shows no survivors.”
“Well, ain’t that a b***h…” John remarked. “Are there any orders about what to do from here?”
“The colonel’s being briefed on that right now. He’ll contact everyone over the comm link.”
“Hooah,” John remarked. The runner sped off to the side to deliver the message. “Step it up, Johnson.”
Matthew had stopped on the sidewalk to absorb the message. What was the point of this war? In the era where weapons of mass destruction are used as often as any other military resource, Matthew knew this was just the beginning.