The young farmer slid silently along the trail near his homestead. Just a few hours earlier, his friend, Maritel, had come racing into his house to tell him that more aliens had landed a little way south and that they were fighting the Dominion aliens. Incredible! Just a few months ago, the young man, Brrton, had never imagined that anything existed above the sky and now his friend was telling him that two alien armies had landed in his country and were now warring with magical, fire-throwing weapons.

When they had first arrived, the strange smooth-skinned aliens—they called themselves “Vorta”—had warned Brrton’s people that no one was to try to escape the area or the entire village would be sacrificed. Just to make his point, the alien had ordered the bumpy, horned ones—the “Jem’Hadar”—to kill Jelosit and his family. Just like that. No remorse, not a second thought for their innocence.

Some of the hotheaded youngsters—Brrton included—had advocated fighting back, despite the superior weapons and the ability of the Jem’Hadar to appear and disappear at will. But older and wiser hearts had prevailed and even Brrton had come to realize that any active resistance would result in more senseless executions.

The Vorta had promised that as long as the villagers abided by the two rules—don’t leave and don’t fight back—then the people of Hrsselts would be free to live as they had before. So far, that had been true. Traders might have been a little scarcer and bringing goods to the markets in the city meant quicker trips—so the Vorta didn’t think they were trying to escape—but overall the only change was the sense of foreboding. Every week, the farmers gathered in the village square to buy and sell goods, but also to gossip about what these aliens were up to.

But now, things were different. Maritel had burst into his home this morning with the news of the fighting and the new aliens. Brrton himself had seen the bird-machines fly overhead all morning. His friend had speculated that the new aliens meant more troubles for them, but Brrton thought differently. If they were fighting the Dominion aliens, then perhaps they were here to free them. Maritel had made a good point that maybe the new aliens would fight off the Dominions and enslave the people themselves and be even crueler masters. Brrton hoped not.

He’d waited in his house for hours after Maritel left to go spread the news, but he couldn’t wait any longer. Brrton had to know what was going on. He had to see for himself, even if wandering into a war zone between two armies with magical weapons was foolhardy to the extreme. He had to know!

So now, here he was, sneaking along the lane that led to the main road to town. He expected the aliens would be moving along it if they intended to go to the large fort the Dominion had constructed north of the town.

His hearts leaped in his stomach as an ominous rumbling sound suddenly penetrated the forest beyond his field of cava wheat, and he realized that he was all too correct in his judgment.

Brrton ducked behind a tree, holding his musket, feeling suddenly foolish for bringing it along. It might be enough to kill a trsskit pillaging his barn, but it was worse than useless against the all-powerful aliens. He supposed the familiar weight of the weapon had given him some measure of comfort against the unknown that was presently about to move through his fields.

Abruptly they were there. Giant, monstrous metal beasts emerged from the forest, eight of them in a line, floating through the air. Like magic! The mere sight of them knocked Brrton to the ground. He had never imagined anything like it in his worst nightmares. He knew they were looking for him, he just knew it. They could see him behind the trees and they would throw their deadly beam of light at him and kill him, just like Jelosit had been killed. He tried to run, but couldn’t. His knees were shaking badly. Finally, as the machine-beast came closer and closer, his instinct to run overcame his instinct to hide where he was and Brrton ran as fast as he could, away from his house, down the lane. The village might not provide much protection from these beasts, but it was the best he could think of. All he knew was that the end of the world had come and he had looked in the maw of the ravenous beast that brought destruction with it.

1^st Platoon, Alpha Tank Co, 172^nd Armored Bn, 172^nd Regiment
Grid 9245 Alpha
H+7 hours

“Chief, I have a sensor blip on a single lifeform.” Chief Jwinst, the Andorian leader of 1^st Platoon of Alpha Tank Company, looked at the display before him for the sensor feed coming from Tank 2. Sure enough, a single figure was running away from his platoon, headed northeast on the road. But it wasn’t Jem’Hadar or Vorta or Cardassian. The computer tagged the blip as a native of the planet. “Ignore it Tank 2, it’s just a native. We probably scared him out of that farmhouse over there. Now keep an eye out for the enemy.”

The phaser tanks moved slowly across the field on their anti-grav thrusters. The squat machine, the MT-15 Galleon Marine Battle Tank, consisted of a heavily armored and shielded main hull, about 6.5 meters long and 3 meters wide and 2 meters high, with a round, mostly featureless turret on top. Instead of the long barrel of the phaser cannon found on earlier models of tank, the MT-15 sported a phaser array, a long strip of emitters that were smaller cousins to the type found on starships, that allowed it to track and fire at multiple targets in several directions at once. The crews had taken to calling the tank the “supernova” because of its ability to rain destruction in all directions.

The four tanks of 1^st Platoon moved forward, Tank 2, Jwist’s wingman, to the left and behind Jwist’s Tank 1; Tank 4, the other section leader, to the right and behind; and Tank 3 to his right and rear, making a V-formation. Several hundred meters to Jwist’s right, 2^nd Platoon moved forward in the same maneuver. And supporting them all were two companies of infantry bringing up the rear.

“Recon reports that a column of enemy troops and tanks were seen moving in this direction, so keep a sharp eye out,” Jwist said over the radio. Keying the intercom, he spoke to his driver, Ricard Vila. “Ric, steer us clear of the buildings over there, I don’t want any unexpected guests to this party.”

Jwist examined his sensor feeds which accumulated data from every available source: the tank’s own sensors; those of the other tanks in this platoon and those in the rest of the company; and the data being collected by battalion headquarters, by regiment HQ, and by division HQ for this area from land, air, and space assets. It made for an impressive array of information that was currently telling Jwist nothing.

The tank commander could smell the battle and even taste it, his antennae quivering at the impending action. His people were a warrior culture as deeply ingrained as the Klingons, if not as brutal. That was why Jwist had joined the Marines, instead of the regular Starfleet; he didn’t relish the thought of fighting and death, but if an enemy were to strike the Federation, he wanted to be there on the front lines defending it. If only his parent-group could see him now, they would be very proud of their son.

An alert lit up Jwist’s threat board; recon had found the enemy formation. “Line formation,” he said on the platoon frequency. Immediately, the other tanks drew up in a line, spreading out to the left and right. Right there, he thought. They are just beyond that line of trees. They must have been masking their signature with jamming or countermeasures, but some brave recon had snuck up close enough to get a tricorder reading on more than a dozen tanks and a couple of companies of infantry. Jwist hoped the soldier got out of the way before the enemy’s location became a charnel house.

“Slow down a little, Ric. We don’t want to come up on them too soon.” The driver acknowledged the command and the tanks all slowed. Jwist waited and waited for just the right moment and there it was.

“Red, four tanks, twelve o’clock in the tree line. Fire!” The whole platoon fired as one, phasers lancing out from the turrets into the unseen enemy. Tanks 2 and 3, being on the ends of the line, fired at the targets furthest to the flanks, while Tanks 1 and 4 focused on the targets in the middle. At first, the enemy’s shields deflected the weapons and gave them time to recover from their surprise and fire on the attackers, but time had been lost. The Marines’ phasers cut through the others’ shields first and the enemy tanks began exploding. Looking briefly around, Jwist saw that 2^nd Platoon was also deep in the action, striking targets, although one of their four tanks was stopped dead and burning. “May the gods keep them,” Jwist breathed, quickly returning his focus to the battle.

Although the enemy tanks had been destroyed, he saw that a group of Jem’Hadar were preparing a heavy weapon to attack his platoon. Before he could react, Tank 2, commanded by the efficient Hung Yan, had run his phaser across them, sending bodies and parts of the heavy phaser flying. Just then the Marine infantry company came sprinting up to engage the other non-armored foes, so Jwist began looking for other heavy targets to engage.

Suddenly, his tank was hammered by a concussive blow and thrown to the side as a deafening explosion made Jwist involuntarily flatten his antennae against his skull. “What was that?” Ric yelled from up front.

A quick glance at his display showed Jwist the worst. A platoon of enemy tanks had flanked his unit, coming into the area between him and 2^nd Platoon and, concentrating their fire on Tank 3, destroying it. Just that morning, that tank’s commander, Isaac Alen, had been joking with Jwist about competing for kills and making a bet. Now that jocularity left a bad vibe in his antenna, as if it were somehow now inappropriate. But there was no time for such thoughts, as quick as they passed through his mind, because he needed to react before the rest of his platoon was killed.

“Red, right flank, cross, fire!” Without having to turn and even before the whole order had come out of his mouth, the three remaining tanks opened fire. But this time, surprise was with the enemy and, outnumbered and getting hammered, Jwist ordered a retreat.

“Red, pull back, seek cover behind the tree line,” he yelled into the communicator. He switched to the battalion frequency. “Tango-Delta-Three, requesting support. Under heavy fire, taking losses.”

A few seconds later, the reply came back from HQ. “Understood, Tango-Delta-Three. Be advised, all units under heavy counterattack. Pull back to phase line bravo gamma. Air support is coming ASAP.”

Indeed, as he looked at the other tank platoon and the infantry companies, he could see them pulling back, trying to disengage from the enemy. Jwist knew that the regiment was still pretty thin on supporting artillery and the other battalions hadn’t even moved out yet. Maybe sending this battalion out alone as soon as it was ready hadn’t been such a great idea. Even as his mind wandered down these paths, Jwist had continued to fire and his tanks were already moving back to the trees. They moved quickly, but not so fast as to overtake the infantry they were there to protect.

Jwist’s wingman, Tank 2, carrying Hung Yan and driver Isabella Agnelli, exploded, throwing burning metal in all directions, the turret flying high into the air. “Faster, Ric,” Jwist ordered and still the weapons fire from the enemy tanks increased. The tank began sounding like a bell, throwing him side to side, as the phasers tried to burn through his shields. The two tanks raced for safety, now overtaking the infantry.

When Tank 4 exploded, it was in the middle of a platoon of infantry. A dozen soldiers were incinerated in the blast and a dozen more were flung about like dolls. Their comrades rushed back to save them, carrying the ones who looked whole enough to still be alive. Jwist became very calm at that point, even though all of the attacking enemy tanks were now focusing their attention on him. He ordered Ric to steer clear of the infantry. When he died he didn’t want to take his comrades with him.

Jwist sought out and found what he thought would be the enemy command tank. He turned up the power to the phaser emitters as high as he could and fired. Under normal circumstances, he’d burn out the array in a minute, leaving him defenseless. But this wasn’t normal circumstances. He knew that in less than a minute he’d be dead. Even as the tank shuddered around him and it sped across the battlefield, he poured fire into the enemy. Finally, just as his emitters were about to explode from too much energy passing through them for too long, the enemy tank exploded. Jwist was allowed only a brief satisfaction, because his own tank’s shields finally failed.

Littered across the once pristine cava wheat field, the demolished tanks looked like toys dropped helter-skelter by some giant child. Fires burned everywhere, lit by phaser blasts and superheated metal. Even as the last of the Marine infantry gained the forest line, he looked back and reported to his commander, “1^st Platoon, Alpha Tank is gone, sir. They’re all dead. No survivors.”

172^nd Regiment Area of Operations
H+7.5 hours

“Tiger Flight, this is Tactical Air Command. You are directed to grid 9241 Delta and engage enemy armor and infantry there. Coordinate strikes with 1^st Battalion, 172^nd Regiment.”

Becca heard the command come over the tactical frequency and the squadron commander’s reply. Her squadron had flown continuous missions for eight hours from just before the initial landings until a few hours ago. Then they had been given three hours to rest and were back in their cockpits again. It had been a chore to drag her tired body back to this seat. Rich had sworn that the ship smelled of sweat and adrenaline, even after the crew chief assured him that his people had been through it thoroughly, servicing and cleaning it for the next mission.

But now, they were back in the saddle again, a place that Becca felt like she was never going to leave, a place it seemed she’d always been. Checking her flight display, the lieutenant pinpointed the location of grid 9241 Delta even as she received the order to lead her section in following the commander to that area.

“What have we got, Rich?” she asked. Her co-pilot was already downloading the latest data on that part of the battlefield from headquarters.

“First Battalion of the 172^nd got mauled pretty good by a Cardassian column,” he said, reading from the display. “According to recon data, there are at least two dozen tanks and several hundred troops. They’ve got our guys pinned down along phase line bravo gamma. Looks like regimental HQ is trying to bring another battalion up to reinforce, but they still just getting their act together in the landing zone and won’t be there in force for at least a half hour.”

Becca grimaced and gripped her control panel a little tighter. “I guess it’s up to us then.” She sighed. It wasn’t bravado any more—that had been burned out of her in the first hour of fighting—but cold realization that sometimes on the battlefield, responsibility for others fell into your lap, wanted or unwanted. “Do we have good data on friendlies and enemies?” she asked.

“Yep, anything north of this line”—the line showed up on her map display—“can be considered a free-fire target. The mudbugs will also designate high-priority targets for us with tricorder-linkup as well.”

They were almost on top of the beleaguered troops now, flying at medium speed over the treetops. “Tiger Flight, we’ll go in by section,” the squadron commander transmitted. “Fire at target, then get out and circle around. Vary your path 30 degrees.” Good plan, thought Becca. By only allowing a section of two fighters to fly over the target zone at a time, it reduced chances of a collision or a friendly fire incident. And by varying the entry and exit from the kill zone, it prevented the enemy from predicting where and when the next flight of fighters would appear.

The CO and his section would be first, and then Becca’s flight would follow, and then the others. The commander swooped in at a relatively high angle that gave him time to acquire a target and pump a lot of fire into it. After his section left the zone, two enemy tanks stood burning. It was Becca’s turn next. “Okay, Tiger Flight Two, follow my lead.”

She nosed over at several thousand meters altitude, letting her fighter gain speed, but not too much. Rich sorted through the targets, which were now scrambling for cover and beginning to throw fire back up at them, and picked one and fired. Becca had to jink the Viper back and forth, but a few shots still plinked off their shields. Finally she pulled up hard, the intertial compensators and anti-grav thrusters whining to keep the fighter from scattering pieces of itself all over the landscape. One more tank was destroyed, and it would only get harder from now. Already, several of the enemy vehicles, realizing their only hope was camouflage and cover, decided to enter the trees and throw up sensor jamming.

After several more passes by the whole squadron, more than a dozen tanks were now burning in the fields and under the trees and 1^st Battalion had halted their retreat and began to hold the line. “Thank you, Tiger Flight,” called battalion HQ. “We’ll call you again if we need you.”

Rich chuckled as the squadron commander replied, “No problem, 1^st, 172^nd. Your big brothers in the air are here for you anytime.” Becca would have laughed, too, at the perennial repartee between the ground and air forces, but she was too sick and tired of killing. It just wasn’t as fun destroying tanks for real as it was in the training and simulations because you knew real people were dying. She used to live for the hunt and the kill, but now she realized she would never look at it the same way again. From now on she would do it because it was necessary, and for no other reason.