The Siege of Moscow
Siege of Moscow, July 19th 2032
My name is Vladimir Kolva. I am Russian soldier stationed underneath the battered Russian capitol, Moscow. The year is 2032, and I’ve been here for one month; the sound of my city crumbling resonates through my ears. This bloody adversary attacks our city with weapons of chemicals, and bacteria. As I walk through Russian underground, I can see people dying of our own viral weapon, Ebola. They are quarantined in section guarded by Russian soldiers wearing hazmat uniform. Others are wheezing to death as a result of enemy attacks. Those illegitimate sons use airborne anthrax to kill us. If it’s not that, it’s blisters caused by the other kind, or lethal mustard gas. I’m glad the Chinese die slow deaths from the deadly and painful poison, Ebola. It is my deepest regret that I cannot kill them with my hands, lest I get infected. I wish to drink their blood like dog, but I cannot, for they are too shameful to even touch. Worse than lepers. Our warheads, loaded with Ebola, deny us the privilege of conventional warfare.
Our war started when the Chinese cleverly accused us of planning an invasion. We massed on the border to defend our land! We knew the attack was coming. They struck first. We had no intention to attack; we saw them like they saw our warheads. All of this loss because Russia chose to stand against a repugnant foe. They supported North Korea, and North Korea’s cowardly attack on their Southern brothers. They said, “Test of our warheads.” Ha, test our warheads! The weapon was live, and landed in the southern state. It killed 50,000 innocent men, women and children. We Russians have heart, one enshrouded in stone, iron and vigor, but we do have heart. An attack of that magnitude on innocent city because of pathetic border dispute, and jealousy. Pft, I spit on Korea, and its allies the Iranians, and these disgusting Chinese pigs.
Our allies have all but abandoned Russia. The very countries we helped industrialize, setting far apart from their weak and feeble neighbors, they now turn their weapons on us, or their cheeks turn aside to our needs. Now our only ally is the very foe we Russians despised the most. But what we Russians despise more than those Capitalist swine, now, more than ever, are the imperialistic illegitimates, the Chinese. Especially now that they invade us with their army of 70,000,000, and launch their anthrax and mustard gas on our beloved Capitol, Zion herself. We can never return to peace! Us Russians will fight these dogs back into their cave, and then slay the heart of the prostitute who bore them. I will have avenged my family, or my name is not Vladimir Niccolavitch Kolva.
I can hear their missiles bombing our city. I wait inside myself, eagerly awaiting the time I get to kill a Chinese pig. Soon, my prayers are answered. I prayed, yes, I prayed, for strength. Before my departure, my comrades and I sit around a table with a bag of American dried beef. My comrades grab a piece of United States cow, and eat it, talking in our native tongue.
“Ha, looks like the turkeys have some good things. Capitalist swine probably still think they are going to convince us to buy their overly priced leather,” says Micholvich.
I glance at him and bellow, “Their cows are quite tasty, though,” I say this to him while chewing on a piece of the dried meat.
“O-boy-Oberto. Ha, what does that mean, I wonder, comrade?” asks Micholvich.
“It is a way the capitalists brainwash each other into being even more capitalist. They use words that rhyme to subvert the rational creature, and sell them on consumerism,” I say.
Micholvich laughs heartily.
“But what is worse than Capitalist is hypocrite. At least the United States will admit to their own ideals. The Chinese, however, they attack without couth. They call themselves a nation of reverence, but then sanction a country to send their dogs into another helpless one. They expect us to roll over like those dogs, to be teased with a bone. I say those Chinese illegitimates will die,” says Mickov.
Micholvich nods his head, as I do. These two are my only friends in the world, now. Since this war began, a year ago, everyone else I know has died. With the order to attack ringing like melodic music in my head, we put on our spirits, and our hazmat suits. Mickov laughs, and tells me that he can make this very thing out of his tent. We all laugh.
The generals of our armies all hide like mongrels, underneath our feet, and now it is up to only us people of Russia to defend Zion. We had many tanks, soldiers and equipment waiting underground, but much was destroyed. We now have a fraction of what was once our army. We have one last force of 200,000 waiting for the final assault against the Chinese. That is all. But now, it is up to us civilians to battle the Chinese, who bombard Zion.
I grab my AK47, the most trustworthy weapon ever made.
I follow my comrades, a row of us merge into another, which merges into another, which merges into another. We soon are 6,000 strong, exiting out a hole in the ground, like rat. It is despicable that our proud people be relegated to holes in the ground.
Exiting the hole, a fog of war mists us. It is not smoke, but chemicals, vaporous spores, death, the very being. The mist fogs even the tight tunnels we walked. My comrades walk with me. Looking out of my suit, the world is framed inside the outline of goggles. My peripheral vision is blocked, and for once, a fear consumes my bones. We walk, and all I can hear are the sounds of bombs and death. The once horrendous hatred is now turned to fear. Though I speak strong to you, fear consumes my very bones. Artillery roars like thunder, the mid-afternoon, cloudless day blocked by the fog of war. If you were in Moscow, you wouldn’t recognize her. Zion has become shrouded by gas and viral dust which blocks out even the sun. Black smoke rises from countless fires, burning fuel lines, bombs and fire. The Chinese artilleries flash, illuminating the far east horizon. It looks like lightning emanating from endless peals of thunders. The city was crumbled, the Kremlin destroyed, my home a smoldering pile of ash. Around me is corpse after corpse, civilians, infected by anthrax, or killed by mustard and nerve agents. I look to my left and see little black haired girl, holding her doll. Dead, no use describing the horror, but the black bile of Ebola drips from her lips. It was our weapon that killed her.
Soon, our column is dispersed. We run through the rubble, through the destruction. What weapons could mankind throw at us now? What more devastating thing is there than this? Even nuclear war couldn’t hold this kind of devastation. Around me are the corpses of not hundreds, not thousands, but millions of innocents. Animal—killed: cattle, dogs, sheep, children, everyone dead, except us. Or, are we also dead, too? Was my humanity stripped from me by the Chinese pigs? Rage enshrouds me, like the fog of viral and chemical weapons upon Zion.
We continue down further. Artillery still thunders, Iranian fighters rip past our ranks, dropping more chemicals, more viruses, more bacteria. One slams into my column, tearing my fellow soldiers limb from limb. I swore revenge. I hadn’t seen the enemy, but I know they are out here. I knew. We couldn’t touch them because they might be infected with our own weapons. We couldn’t support any more viral outbreaks. Around me are the deformed bodies of casualties, covered head to toe with blisters. I don’t even turn away; how can I when it is all around me? My friends and I make our way to Russian counter artillery. One of our Hin-Ds flies above us, and disperses a volley of fire and brimstone. Above us is a dogfight between Russian and Iranian Air Forces. A plane loses its wing, a blazing fireball smoldering with black tar; it crashes into one of the few remaining buildings.
“Fire!” yelled the artillery commander. The giant cannon fires at unspecific targets. The entire air recoils, a shockwave penetrates my very bones. The hiss of fighters roar around us, beside us is Russian artillery. It is not so lucky; it is destroyed by Iranian bomb. When bomb made impact, the entire metal structure turned into a spew of shrapnel that cut through my comrades surrounding it. Micholvich’s suit was scraped, but not penetrated from what I could see.
We man another artillery post bravely, as the enemy overwhelms us with shells. The fighters roar over us, battling a blaring battle of fire and speed. They are hidden by the fog of noxious gas surrounding us. The Hin-D is now destroyed in mid combat by another Iranian helicopter. Our escort was destroyed, which left us no other choice but to abandon our post. The Iranian helicopter sprays its fury at us, tearing my retreating comrades to pieces. We fire back with RPGs but they are no match for enemy helicopter. Demoralized by our loss, we retreat back to the nearest bunker entrance, the nearest entrance to our newly formed underground city. We find cover quickly, and rest in the dismal tunnels. Around us are wounded soldiers, executed on the spot to prevent the spread of illness. Quickly, I check my suit for any breaches; I find none. Micholvich has only one, but it didn’t seem to penetrate. Mickov looks fine, too. We are sprayed down head to toe in our suits with bleach, to prevent the spread of spores. We retreat after long day, receding back into the depths of our tunnels.
When we finally find sanctuary, it is next to an anthrax treatment station. I look at the sore-covered people, and I am greatly sorrowed. They wheeze. The night is spent listening to the sounds of dying countrymen, dying a slow death of anthrax or Ebola. We aren’t allowed anywhere near them. The quarantines are not very good; in fact, the virus and bacteria infections spread throughout our people regardless. I still wait to fight, though. I will die for my country whether by virus, bacteria, chemical, fire or gun.
Sleep doesn’t come easily to me anymore. I rest my head against a dirt pile, but I can neither sleep as I can cry or scream.
I turn to talk to Mickov, “Mickov, I never wanted to be soldier,” I say to him.
“You sound like capitalist,” says Micholvich to me. “You both sound like capitalist, with all of your whining,”
“At least capitalist wouldn’t destroy Russia to such extent, yah?” says Mickov
“What? And communist would? Where are you getting at, Mickov?” I ask him.
He shrugs and says, “Ah, I’m just saying that I don’t think United States would have gone to such lengths to destroy Russia; that’s all I’m saying,” says Mickov.
“Let me tell you something about United States, Mickov. They are probably the ones who enticed China to attack. Remember Afghanistan?” asks Micholvich, his grandfather killed in Afghan war.
“Keep quiet, Micholvich; Afghanistan was when we were still part of the Union,” I say, trying to prevent demoralizing argument.
“We were the Union, until the capitalist swine toppled us!” shouted Micholvich. “Now we are their puppet, fighting their war with China. We are Afghanistan and Vietnam. We are just the stage that the real war is being fought. It is China and America who are enemies: we bear the brunt because we were stupid. We are nothing to either,” shouts Micholvich angrily.
“Obviously we are something, if it is China itself attacking us. The United States is giving us thanks for being the battleground. You are right that we Russians are not the ones who chose this war, but we only fight it for Russia. It isn’t the United States in this wear, is it? No, it is Russian blood. Russia fights this war, and the United States will help win it,” says Mickov, who seems greatly appreciative of the aid being given.
“I don’t know. I am not much of American enthusiast, but I have to say that recent developments would show that the USA is turning out to be more of an ally than anyone else,” I say to Micholvich.
“China was only in it for their own self-interest. They didn’t want only Russia, they wanted to rule the world, and take control over the new world. Ah, I’d say that’s why they stay out of WWIII,” Mickov says.
“World War III? The United Sates just wanted to get rid of African gold standard. I believe that WWIII was all set up by American government. They nuked Israel, they had to. Why would Muslim nuke his own holy city? They wanted Muslims to band together and fight as one, so they could also be broken as one. It was all scam,” says Micholvich.
“No, Micholvich, it is all in your head. United States is not as bad as you think they are,” says Mickov.
“Ha Mickov, you’re letting o-boy-Oberto get into your head, comrade,” I say, “The Americans aren’t as sinister as we’d like to believe, at least not as sinister as the pigs, but they are bad. They are wasteful and superficial culture based on set of principles that not even they follow. They are joke. They are also just like us,” I say.
“Bite that tongue!” shouts Micholvich.
“How do you say,” Mickov answers inquisitively.
“They are just like us because they are oppressed people as well. Yes, I say it: their freedoms are just dreams distracting them from the reality that they are to their own government puppets on a string. Our government makes us work in its factories, tells us how to live, breath, work, socialize, fight, theirs do the same thing only with media and o-boy-Oberto. Their whole society is o-boy-Oberto. They are puppets dangling on the strings of their own so called freedoms. Corrupted by their little jingles and media, they have no freedom: they also get killed if they challenge their government, just like us; they go to prison for their ideas, just like us, and they stand in a line, just like us; they lost those values, and the vigor that they brag about having, but in reality, they lose it long ago, just like us. Their only freedom is they get to live in big house, with white fences, and have dog as best friend. Pft, if that is freedom, than that they are full of. If that is freedom, then we can say that we are not free people, and they are. But if we see it for what it truly is, there are no free peoples. Not anymore.”
“You dare challenge our government!” bellows Micholvich.
I laugh. It is funny. We fight in stinking hole like gopher, to pop our head out and die of rat poison? It is funny, Comrade, understand why.
“I have to say that our government is better just because the fact that we don’t hide our intentions from our people. Does it shame you that I have found common ground between the two most, supposedly, polar opposite cultures in the world?” I say again.
“I think you are wrong, Kolva, about America. Where else can you go and accomplish your dreams? Maybe all that stuff is true, but at least they have the ability to fail or accomplish something,” Mickov’s words angered Micholvich. I fell silent because someone might hear us, and those words stung the soul of my communist heart.
“You capitalist, swine!” whispered Micholvich.
“I’m not capitalist; I’m just simply saying…” started Mickov, trying to defend himself.
The tremors of an explosion from the outside startles our conversation, cutting it short. The shockwave bursts us back into the realization of where we are, and what is happening all around us.
Iranian Fighter Pilot
“Zoubir, I can see the fogs rising from the enemy’s wasted capitol. I’m readying to launch my angel of death upon these blasphemers,” says Mustapha.
He flies in tight formation with me, “Mustapha, no. Have mercy, for they were our ally for quite some time.”
We fly low, in our MiG-238s. The enemy has Su-47s. This I dread but know for sure. A much more superior weapon to our MiGs. They will surely have less, though. The Chinese raided their airfields with bombs and chemicals not but a week ago. They couldn’t have more than five squadrons. We have twenty just with us.
Out of the bile cloud surrounding the City of Moscow, eight fighters plume out. Russian for sure. I can see the vultures closing in on us. Su-47s no doubt. I can tell because of their wings; they curve toward us as they fly. What unholy bird flies with wings outward—only these. A tank looks like a turtle, a fighter an eagle, a jeep like a beetle, but these Su-47s, they look like an evil djinn, with their unnatural, curving wings. They are evil, and I know it.
“Mustapha, break formation, you fly with the six others to deliver our payload.”
Mustapha is one of only three bombers with us. He flies the new Iroquois XA; a devil we bought from America, the women‘s blood. The Iroquois is a Hydrogen Modified Helicopter large enough to fit fifty, full grown men. The craft has jet engines, and the propellers encase themselves inside a circular chamber, only allowing the blades to make contact with the air above and beneath. This helicopter flies at supersonic speeds, the fastest helicopter in the world. Ha, the women’s blood Americans… their contractors sold us these under the table. We bought half a dozen of them, with our wealth. We brought three to this battle. A far superior weapon to the Hin-D.
Mustapha flies in close formation with our other six fighters. I watch them drop below. The other two Iroquois fly within the large cluster of formations which approach the city. The Russian interceptors are few, and our fighters are many. Nine fighters against twenty squadrons! We all joke.
“Halael, take your squadron down and intercept their attack,” I watch as a squadron of seven flies out to meet their squadron. The fighters find themselves in a violent dogfight. My warning lights begin to flicker. I look down, “What in the name of Ishmael!” I scream, though I don’t know why. Then I look up, and I can see out of the city, 12 missile tails, heading straight for our squadrons.
“What! Break up, break up!” I roll my bird of prey down, and fly straight for the deck. On my radar I can see eight of the missiles hit their targets. The one for me splashes into the ground. While pulling up, I find myself cutting through an enemy squadron. I fire my machine gun, but hit nothing. I pull my craft out and am blinded by a continuous scream of warning lights. I cannot sit still. Around me I can see smoke trails, and my friends burning to their death. The Russian pilots are far superior. Mustapha is all that is left of our bombers. We have a payload of three chemical warheads, each one meant for a crucial target.
I finally balance my craft, and I find sense out of the dementia of the battle. Only 3 Su-47s are seen. We still have many of our fighters left, but still, only a fraction of what once was. QXAAMs, I think. It has to be. They launched all at once. I knew it, so I give the orders to my brothers, “My brothers, don’t let the initial bite be the sting that brings you to your knees. For it wasn’t venomous, and they haven’t enough strength to bite like that again. Kill them.”
My words give great encouragement to my fellow pilots. Quickly, I roll my craft and find the tail of a Su-47. It out maneuvers me, and can fly faster. I simply hold still and fire a SAAM. The weapon leaves my craft. The Su pilot out maneuvers it, coursing my missile to leap off vector. Then, the demon turns around and shoots me. Its bullets spray at me, hitting my fuselage, and my wing. My craft is wounded, not critically, but enough. My fighter is now slower than it once was; I realize the superiority of the enemy. They have us beat with their demons. Only 9, and they still mount an infallible offense against our MiGs.
“Quickly, my brothers, we shall recede to the city and take to destroying their artillery,” I say.
The fighters in my battered squadron soar down toward the wasteland that was once Moscow. Our fighters take on casualties as we close in the gap. Finally, we penetrate the plumes of poisonous gas. Once inside, we only see for three kilometers. The buildings come up fast. Below, I see an artillery cannon. I can see the enemies loading it. I lock onto it, and let loose a missile. It soars through Russia’s wasteland, like a dove in flight. The weapon finds its target and destroys it. Next to it is another artillery. Quickly I roll around and can see an enemy interceptor trailing on me. Quickly, I fire a missile, and before the enemy has time to react, he is hit. His fighter is only feet from the ground, and it finds its way into the standing building. I turn around, and marvel at my kill. I am ready to brag. Turning around, I lock onto another artillery cannon, and let loose another missile. The missile makes impact with the artillery piece, and now I am up to three enemy kills. I turn around and fly out. I can see Mustapha, as I am leaving. An enemy Hin-D hovers as defense over the last remaining artillery cannon that we know. Mustapha flies toward the Hin-D and destroys it with his superior firepower. Then Mustapha attacks what is left of the remaining troops, killing hundreds as he follows them back to their rabbit holes. Soon, the order to recall is announced. My fighters recede back towards Iran, where we will make pitfall. We will refuel, regroup and then re-launch tomorrow. The Russian interceptors disappeared somewhere, broken and shattered.
The flight home lasts an hour, when at supersonic speeds. We land our craft gracefully on the airfield. I look at the casualty report, and I am shocked. We lost over seventy percent of our fighters. I then realize why the interceptors departed. They used up all of their ammunition on us. They killed so many of us, that they didn’t have anything left to spare. I talk to everyone else, and soon find out that I am the only pilot who killed one of the demons. Perhaps this means some of the dead did, but I do not know.
Around me sick and dead. Viral attacks Russians use on us kill millions of my people. We barely have enough to hold this city. If not for Iranian air support, we have nothing. Miles I trekked for nothing. From city, artillery fires upon us. We have hundreds more artillery firing back. We launch missiles, as well, missiles loaded with deadly gas and bacteria. We countered Russian viral attack with bacteria. We attack them with bacteria. Officer walks by us, picking random people to take to burn pits. He no touch them, no, he use other infected to do that.
“If you get infected, we burn you. No get infected. No touch anyone, no help anyone, if friend gets hurt, no help him. You might get Ebola, and thin our ranks. This last stand for Russians. All we need do kill their remaining artillery, then launch final assault onto their city. We close to end of phase one, so no die, no get infected. No help your brothers. You no help them; you just being weak if you do.”
General sees one of our men vomiting. Black bile pours out his mouth, like black blood. It has red, and black mixed in it, smelling like rotting flesh. Smell of death fumigates from it. Everyone knows what smell means, and what it is. We turn away from him, exile him.
“You, front line, we need you to infect our enemy. You, you go to burn pit.” He give orders like those to everyone. His eyes pass by me; I stiffen. I show alertness to demonstrate that I no one of infected. Officer nods his head, ushers hundred or so infected into line. He orders sterilization squad. Infected know what needs done; they know they die.
Sterilization battalion arrives shortly after general passes order on, and then they pull their high heat flamethrowers on. The hundred infected stand in column and burn alive. They used to be shot, but sometimes blood trickle onto someone else, and spread infection. I watch familiar sight of hundreds of people melting away, into ash, burning alive within flame of their own brothers. They no even stop when they charred. They burn them down to ash, and spray ash with bleach. They then go on bile inspection, and throw bleach over everything. Giant vats of pure bleach on back of men, along with thermite lacquer tanks, spray ash. They spray bleach on everything with hose. The Russians have experimental treatments from Americans; we no have anything. The infectious defense they use work.
“If you get infected, you die. No get infected,” say general again, yelling. We nod our heads, and then man battery. Enemy artillery shells blast us up and down our lines. Behind our lines, line of tanks, and jeeps, ready for invasion that still yet to come. Half of hundreds of thousands of war machines no even be used. Ebola infection thinned our ranks too severely.
While working artillery, I notice one man bleeding from eyes. I point him out, and he grabbed by hazmat police, thrown into one of thousands of burn piles. He knocked out with anesthesia before he thrown into burn pit, so he no get back out and bleed over us. His blood quickly found, sterilized, because infection transmitted by blood, and bile is secreted as result of virus. All his friends thrown into mass pit as well. They ask me if I know him. I lie and say no. Of course I know him, he one of my friends. He and I brothers for long march leading up to this. A trail of infected span here from there. We lose millions to virus.
Enemy artillery batteries fire at us with much intensity. One of their rounds hit burn pile. The bloody ash spews over all. The general touched by spew. I see him looking around, panic on face. He no hesitate. He march over to another burn pile, and throw himself onto it as example. Burning alive I hear him scream in agony, but he no show cowardice by rushing back out. Everyone within sight watch. Hazmat troops quickly come in, round up suspected infected, about 3,000 of them thrown alive into burn pit, on spot. Soon, our area deemed hot zone, and my blood taken as security measure. They find no virus in me, and let me move on to next artillery battery. I walk. The black smoke of thousands of burn piles dim sky around me. It midafternoon, but sky black, and only light from distant horizon, it burn pit. The city itself also spew smoke, but that smoke different, maybe more sinister. Aside from black cloud that loom over all, city have cloudy haze. That fog from our chemical and bacteria. Behind our artillery hundreds of thousands of war machines waiting to be used for final assault.
Soon I hear fighters in distance, hissing form behind enemy city. I follow that sound for few minutes. I know just who they are. Iranians. I walk further down line of ally artillery, but soon stop when hissing of fighter jets seem to erupt into great battle. I quickly turn around to see. At that moment I standing in front of one of our North Korean platoons. They special forces from Korea, specially trained for urban conflict. I no understand how much use they be in city that is now rubble. They different from us in many ways. Language, bone structure, culture, but foremost, their apparel. They wear head to toe body armor, respirators, and even vision aiding goggles. We have only 3,000 of these elite men with us, for that all Korea afford to send. But these 3,000 are best trained urban combat fighters in world. They so impervious to noxious gas that I see all around smoke enshrouded city. I again begin to walk but am disturbed by sounds of crashing fighters that echo in background.
I return to my new post, but no even talk to anyone to avoid infection. Behind our battery giant fire, filled with charred bodies. The artillery piece fires and resonates through my bones. Another sanitation squad seen heading my way. The artillery fires make me feel dirty, because my skin touched by dust. Everyone has to wear gloves, everyone has to wear dust mask, but even that no work. Our protection is in sharp contrast to Koreans. Also, it no airborne virus, it transmitted by sweat, blood, mucous or any fluid from human. The virus has ninety-four percent kill ratio. It virus that takes ten day to incubate, so I might have it and no even know it. It virus that actually eats away at your innards, turning your insides into bile. The bile then vomited out. The vomit is blood, puss and pieces of rotting flesh from inside you. How we be protected from virus transmitted through bodily fluids with only dust masks and latex gloves? They say pain caused by virus insurmountable, and excruciating. Like searing knife cutting you from inside. The pain alone said to be immobilizing, and even bring one to wish death upon oneself. Ten days man have it and no even know. That what make it so deadly. The first missiles do nothing, and our people laughed. But ten days later, almost fourth of our army infected. Thirty days later, almost half, three months later, over three fourths of our army either infected or dead. Year pass by, and out of original seventy million who start march, only five million of us remain. It projected that out of five million who remain, over half of us infected as well.
Infected, no infected, nobody knows who’s who. Russians chose very wise choice in use of virus. It no airborne, and no transmit through breathing. It virus spread best through unsanitary conditions, and what more unsanitary than war? It virus easily contained in the civilized world, but no possible to contain in survival conditions. It virus that also have ninety-four percent kill ratio. Only six out of every one-hundred infected survive. Our weapon no even have half the impact. Our people no have Ebola strains in our arsenal. Only anthrax.
Another man bleed and puke his organs. The vile smell of rotting flesh fill my nostrils; he ushered away, and burnt alive along with hundreds of others. We have thousands of casualties hour. We even have to call in for reinforcements. To prevent viral outbreaks, back in our homeland, the reinforcement transports to and fro, here or there, either destroyed or basted in bleach, and then stockpiled with hundreds of thousands of troops ready for final assault. This assault coming, too, because Russian resistance about to break, or so I hear. After two month siege, and taking almost twenty million more casualties from the siege alone, we ready to invade. We surely win, too, but at what cost? The more time we spend out here, the more people infected, and the more people killed. I just happy it all come to end.
Over the city I hear fighters whipping around in great fight of eagles. I wish I with them. I wish I no have to be here. They somewhere safe. They no die without dignity. But me, my death, or life, may somehow take with it thousands of others. They die in peace, and have the comfort of conventional warfare on their side. But us, and also our foe, we suffer from the torments of mankind’s most sinister sins. Those people in the city no longer enemies, they just people. I know that we launching similar type of weapon back. We no different. Soon, the word come in. The last enemy artillery cannon destroyed by our Iranian friends. The invasion commence in three days. Three more days of losing thousands of people. This no war, it viral breeding ground. How our people so ignorant? Beside me, another man begin to lose innards. And then another, and then another, and then they burned.
Invasion of Moscow, July 23rd, 2032
Three days after last Russian artillery destroyed, it time we go. We no given suits. We given dust masks and rubber gloves. Chemical attacks stop day we destroy last enemy artillery. So it almost safe. The city undoubtedly still noxious, and deadly. It most uninhabitable place on Earth. Our entire army load inside columns of war machines, stretching out as far as my eye sees. The roars of engines echo through silent battleground. I imagine it intimidating sight to enemy, seeing endless army of war machines moving towards their city. There no fire shooting at us, no defense. Two million vehicles approach city, tanks, APVs, troop carriers, helicopters, all-terrain vehicles, all come in from East. Iranian air force to come in from west side of city. Our forces meet in city, and completely surround enemy. Iranian Air Force also drop in extra paratroopers for invasion.
Two mile trek into enemy’s wasteland capitol, long trek. No shot fired. We already beat enemy? Approaching city, dead pile high. I see atrocity befallen to Russia. Millions of innocent lives destroyed, and no living soul in sight. I ashamed of our own people for even starting this war. I myself no like Korea, and wish that we side against them. But here I am, about to fight side by side with them, approaching city in mass columns, finding nothing.
“We won!” shouts soldier, his scream echoing out from truck bed.
Next to him, man vomits. The vomiting man kneels over, and everyone on that carrier jumps off moving caravan. Some crushed under weight of tanks, others found footing. One of tanks in column near me sway off path and run over troop carrier. The driver must have gotten sick. Maybe he panics because someone onboard sick. We no win war: we lose ninety-four percent of our men before we even get back home. Our caravan stop at the city limits, ready to breach it. We lose troops on our way into city. The Russians no even have to fire shot. The Iranian Air Force nowhere to be seen.
I think to myself that this may be actual victory. I look around at all my people; through my own eyes, our country no afford seventy million full hazmat suits, or maybe they try not to think about it. I look around, at wasteland in front of me. All that stands of it rafters and destruction. I with front lines and see everything so clearly. Behind me miles worth of vehicles still awaiting, the great battle that seemed like it no ever happen.
Beside me, one of dust masks explode with human bile. The black bile pour out in unnaturally long stream, spraying everyone on my carrier. The acrid bile all over me. I no handle it anymore. I jump off because I infected, just as I see others do. I run toward enemy projected footholds in blind panic, before I get my bearing; fighter rips through sky, and tears hole deep into our lines. I have my AK47 with me; that all I know. I watch as our men flood out of burning perimeter of mangled vehicles. About thirty of them destroyed. Surviving troops engulfed in flames run in numerous directions, only to find their own countrymen rejecting them. I feel bile on me now; I know I infected; I know I dead. But I pay no mind to bile, teeming, viral death; I pay mind to my mission. Transports around me emptied, so I run in line with my advancing countrymen. More bombs slam into our lines. These bombs dropped by supersonic jets, likes of which I no say because they moved as fast through air that I no see them. About eight of them unleash payload on our column. All around me I see bile seeping out of gasmasks; I see some of my people falling to death from no wounds, just dying by over exertion. I see casualties inflicted by bombs that just drop. I watch as my people melt away into human gore. I stop, I need to, war too hard to bear. It when I stop that enemy show his face.
A shower of chemicals fall upon our advancing troops. Some fall on me, and make contact with some of my skin. It burn with great intensity; my lungs feel like a taught rubber band ready to break. I have to fight, though, the pain so unbearable. It final day of my life, and I have to fight for my country’s sins. I took three steps and hear hundreds of bullets spraying at me like great sin all around. I duck down, and watch as my sick brothers fall down. Enemy fire heavy waves of fire. I hear tanks driving from opposite side of where we stand. Then I hear enemy’s tanks fire. I look back and see our lines engulfed by great fires of enemy tank batteries. I watch as enemy unleash massive army against our battered ranks. This army well suited, well trained, well rested, and unaffected by two month siege. Our siege do nothing but angered enemy. I never imagine that such people exist. We ignorant to think victory come to us so easily as three thousand mile trek, two month siege and sixty-six million dead.
Around me, I see my people, as they ripped apart by encroaching tanks. Tank artillery shoots us down ferociously, leaving pockets of human gore everywhere. Quickly, I gain composer and run along with hundreds of thousands of my fellow brothers. We approach suspected enemy lines. Our sick army shot down, run over, and blown to pieces by them. They show no mercy. I never seen adversary so relentless as Russians. I stagger where I stand, after I realize there nothing left of battle surge. I see my people dying from gunshot wounds now, not virus. Afflicted by shell shock, I turn around. I see Russian foot soldiers running toward me. They have on tent like suits. They even have better equipment than us. I pay no mind, because I know my place to die for my country. I kill them, as they kill me. I partake in my country’s sins with great regret. I no help but see them as people. I hesitate, because I know their heart. A man halfway out of hole sees me. I panic and fire. The recoil makes my hand slip, gun falls from my shoulder. The bullets cut him dead. The man is pushed away. I look up, see another man in hole. Gun, barrel, flash…
Iranian Fighter Squadron
This is it, the day of rectitude. The blasphemers will die. I fly my fighter in close formation with the Chinese F-14s and F/A-22s. I’m in my MiG238. Mustapha is the only remaining Iroquois pilot. Our birds of prey fly in close formation with each other while zooming over the Russian landscape. We can see civilians below us, watching as our flocks of angels fly majestically over the Russian countryside. Moscow is only minutes away. We meet up with the five Chinese squadrons, and their ten bombers. Their fleet was mighty, as the raptors fly in formation loose behind us. Along with our squadron, fly five troop transports to provide the Chinese with reinforcements. The Chinese raptors would surely be a match against the Su-47s. My heart is filled with confidence about this battle. We fly in a cluster of sixteen squadrons, ten bombers and five troop transports, each filled with over a hundred battle ready, fully equipped and suited, Iranian troops.
“Mustapha, Allah smiles upon us today. We bring raptors of truth to fight off evil djinn. The enemy will crumble underneath our fleet of deadly eagles.”
“True, Zoubir, Allah surely is with us today.” We fly in formation.
A Chinese translation speaks over the intercom in our native tongue of Farsi. “When we get to the city of Moscow, your MiGs will be no match for the enemy. Fly as cover for our bombers and your transports. Our birds will deal with the enemy interceptors. The Su-47 is a formidable weapon, but is no match for Chinese might.”
“This is squadron leader, Zoubir Bin Kahim; we are humbly at your service, and will adhere to your will. We know how deadly these djinn are, and I know in my heart that your raptors are angels in disguise. They will slay the djinn that we go to battle. It is our honor to fly with you.”
The Chinese translator says nothing else. I am moderately offended because I gave him my highest honors. My mind will need to focus, though. I want more than anything to defeat those evil Russians. Their djinn mocked us last time, but this time we bring angels, not raptors, to the fight.
I look at my radar.
“Ahh!” Then static. I quickly look up and see that Mustapha, along with nineteen other fighters, are now smoldering fireballs, freefalling to the ground. Mustapha’s helicopter is pieces of broken steel, blood and bone. My heart sinks. I follow the missile streams as they trail back to the swarm of… of… this cannot be! I look out toward the enemy and see a cloud of F/A22s flying like demons toward us. The Russians do not have these fighters, only the… the… no! It cannot be!
The enemy swarm cannot be picked up on radar, as an F/A-117 flies underneath me. These are American fighters, they have to be! Upon observation, I see Russian crests, but they fly American fighters. I quickly roll my plane down to engage one of the unknown aggressors. The enemy squadrons merge with our own, as five Chinese raptors are blown away before they can even respond to the attack. These pilots are trained, far better than the Chinese. In the distance, I see the American relief fleet that flies in daily supplies to Russian fortifications in Moscow.
“My fellow brothers fly with me!” I shout, trying to heighten morale.
QXAAMs collide with the remaining raptors, leaving only three Chinese raptors, and five Chinese Tomcats to survive. As quickly as the enemy fighters appear, they vanish. I can see them receding into the distance. They fly low to the ground to avoid radar. This was probably how they got to us. They are too fast for our fighters to pursue, but we do have the American relief in front of us with only a few escorts. I was just about ready to give an order to Mustapha, but then I realize that he is no longer, and resides with Allah. My heart sinks. But I then see my revenge. I yell out over the intercom, “Those were Americans in disguise. Destroy their transport planes!”
“How do you know that, Zoubir,” asked the Chinese pilot, in a robotic translation.
“My brother, they deliberately targeted our air superiority. American political tactics, they want to destroy our advantages before we reach Moscow, to give Russia a chance to win, but also to exclude themselves form the conflict. We will now attack their transports, because Allah declares the truth to me!”
The transports are off vector about two miles, but our fighters reach them in a matter of seconds. Our bombers and transports fly with the remaining F-14s and Raptors toward Moscow, as our MiGs swoop in to overwhelm the enemy transports. F-15 Eagles are their escorts. They will never expect an attack on American Transport planes, but they broke the Geneva Convention first, and now we legally must react. My fighters rise like a cloud of angels in flight. Twenty of our fighters soar into battle. Over the communication links I hear the enemy taking notice to us.
“What, what the… sir, bogeys inbound, bogeys inbound, get ready to en…” scream American voices, as I shoot a cockpit with my machineguns. His fighter flies erratically, and then finally finds its course to the ground. The remaining interceptors scatter to engage us. Even the Eagles are superior to our MiGs, but we have numbers, and more battle experience. They are only one step up from us with their technology, but we are more skilled, and outnumber them four to one. We have the advantage. My fighters tear into the enemy transports first, destroying all three of the cargo planes, undoubtedly filled with Anthrax and Ebola treatments. I have achieved victory, and know that I deal the enemy a crippling blow. These are vital for the Russians’ survival. Enemy fighters scatter around in a small swarm. I trail one of the djinn with my bird of truth, and unleash a volley of death upon it, crumbling it into smoldering ash. Quickly, I roll up, only to find one of my fighters breaking apart into silence. I whip around, and destroy the last F-15. The others dispatch quickly. My fighters recede back to our bomber/transport formation. We have only eight remaining fighters from the dogfight, the Chinese have few more.
Soon our presence looms over Moscow. I can see the endless column of Chinese war machines invading. Smoldering piles of dead fill the horizon, left at the Chinese’s former position. They were killed not by enemies, but by a virus. We knew all too well the conditions of this war. I try to let my mind focus. I can see enemy tanks below, amassing an impressive defense against the endless columns of Chinese. I watch below, and can see Chinese troops flooding off of the troop carriers, like ants scurrying about prey, but when a shell makes impact against those carriers, I can almost see their flesh peeling off. The battle is one sided, the Russians laid waste to the Chinese. I rise back up to the bombers’ altitude, and watch as a wave of bombs drop on the Russians. I can see from my high altitude the bombardment breaking the Russian ground assault. We fly over the Russian battlement, and turn around for the second, final pass. That is when those djinn from perdition rise from the ashes.
In front of me, four squadrons of Su-47s, each three strong, but one is a squadron of two, soar toward us from the direction we came. It is the same squadron we engaged, plus three more. Behind, enemy MiGs, archaic, but formidable, flew in clusters of twenty squadrons of three.
“The djinn are back for revenge! All craft break formation and engage,” I yell through the speakers.
They all take to the sky, swooping up, and then falling down. The Su-47s unleash a volley of QXAAMs that collide with our fighters, turning three into smoldering ash, and destroy a bomber. This volley came from the first two. The three Raptors take quickly to this, and engage the enemy craft. The Su-47s and the F/A22 Raptors are an even match. I watch as one Su-47 out maneuvers our Raptors, but then the Raptors gain back on them with their superior speed. The first of the Su-47s go down in a smoldering fire. I am pleased with this kill. While watching, my fuselage is rattled with bullets, shot by one of the inferior MiGs. Quickly, I roll around, finding myself behind it. I destroy the enemy craft with ease. I look to see how my brothers are doing, as I can hear their joyous celebrations over the communications with every kill they obtain. These are easy -to-destroy fighters. It is like target practice. Quickly I roll back down, and find myself staring at an enemy Su-47. I fire a missile, but am not so lucky. He rolls out of it, and fires a volley of machine gun fire into my fuselage. A missile bombardment leaves his craft after he cripples me, which destroys two bombers. I am ashamed at my failure, and arrogance. I thought I was a good fighter pilot just because I had mistakenly shot one down the day before, and then had four kills today. But now I fight an actual, worthy opponent. I try to out maneuver but find it hard due to wing damage. The enemy has me in his sights. Quickly, I dive; I dive; I dive; the enemy is on my wing. It is a demon chasing me. I can see the battlements below, as I fly closer. I pull up just before I reach the ground, and hit my thrusters. A sonic boom echoes out through the battlement. I thought I shook him, I had no warning lights, I had no…
At Mickov’s bedside, I see him wheezing in pain. Then, nothing. I close his eyes. He is dead.
Somehow enemy illegitimates infect him with anthrax. I am enraged, and I cannot wait to spill enemy pigs’ blood. I am ordered with Micholvich to follow our ranks over to the battle. The pig devils are mounting for their invasion, the continuous artillery stopped for three days. The chemicals stopped raining down. I follow Micholvich through the tunnels, up to the sewer lines, hoping that today is the day that the cowards attack. I follow my comrade with hatred in my stone heart. Micholvich and I both request to be in the front line, so we can be the first to see the enemy illegitimates with their slanted, devil eyes, and their ugly, virus blood. I want to see them bleed and watch them explode from within. I want to see what our weapon does to them, to see them laid to waist like the little girl and her teddy. Would they be us, or would they be monster?
I don’t say anything to Micholvich on the long walk to the sewer. We walk down tunnel with our AKs strapped to our backs. We wear our bio hazard suits over our bodies, which make it hard to move, but my hate educes focus to make it easier. I follow behind Micholvich, anxiously waiting to destroy the pigs with my trusted weapon. I still have not killed a man, but I now wish to more than anything.
We soon find ourselves waiting eagerly, clinging to a ladder that will lead us to the outside, into the perfidious wasteland that will be the stage of a battle greater than any in history. Greater than Stalingrad. Greater than Borodino. A great war more horrendous and greater than all other wars combined. For three hours we wait, crammed together with Russian infantry that come up just the other day. They waited below us: they were even below us. This is last, all-or-none battle, and this decides the fate of Russia. Our Russian troops, after fighting, breaking, and fighting, and breaking, all recede to our underground bunkers, and we wait for two months for Battle of the Pigs. Tanks, infantry, veterans of countless battles, we wait, deep below the surface. Thousands wait. All of us fight, broken, regrouped and then repeated until we wait beneath the smoldering ruins of Zion. We finally fight, when there is nowhere else to go.
“No, Kolva!” I will be first to go up and kill Chinese illegitimates. You will be right behind me, no?”
I do not contest with Micholvich. He wants to kill Chinese more than I. Micholvich was told to keep watch over city from manhole. We all stand on ladder for long time. From outside we can hear the enemy war machines rumbling closer, every second that passes, they rumble closer. We can feel the earth tremble, the column, a wall of tanks as far as the eye can see. Micholvich laughs, describing enemy pigs vomiting over themselves in their jeeps, and then jumping out like cowards only to disrupt their columns, or be crushed by their own. I laugh, but secretly am envious, that I do not see this stupidity, and that there are less for me to kill. We wait longer, and a loud scream is heard outside, a sound like a jet. Micholvich speaks in wonder, as he describes eight planes that he never has seen before, fly in low, faster than anything he ever has seen. He says that they drop many fire bombs, and then fly away as fast as they appear. I imagine the puking swine being effulgent in flame, and laugh hard, as do my comrades.
“Get ready, my comrades, their troops are close now,” says Micholvich. I can hear the enemy vehicles, and feel them as they shake the ground. My heart begins to pound like drum. My hands grip my trusted weapon. This will be my first taste of real combat, and I am ready. I want to kill those illegitimate pigs with my own bare hands. I would if not for their infection that they carry in their blood. I can hear our tanks and their tanks exchange fire. The explosions are immense. It is time to go. The thought of Micholvich’s army, the army he describes, it means more Chinese for me to kill. Our troops have already engaged them, but now it was me and Micholvich’s turn.
Micholvich takes three steps outside, and I look down to watch my footing. I look up, and his blood and brain matter, bone shards and mush pelt my mask. Micholvich falls to the side like limp, sickly dog that has been shot. I am enraged, and push him to the side, as I rise out of the sewer. Framed in my goggles, with a smear of Micholvich’s blood, I see an army of Chinese, a pathetic, broken army, covered in black bile, sick as death. I sneer in hatred. Rather than let myself feel pity, I turn it into hatred. Then I see the illegitimate pig who killed Micholvich. I stand on ladder, aim, and fire. The pig’s chest pops like a Champagne bottle spewing red syrup. He falls.
I crawl out of the hole, as explosions rattle the battlefield. I look around. I see so many Russians, but many more pigs, locked in battle. I watch as the pigs try to engage in hand to hand combat. They were trained to do that because of their infection. I kill pig after pig, watching their infectious, dirty blood desecrate our Russian soil. Enemy blood spilled on Russian soil was nothing foreign to Russia, but this infected swine was something different. Their blood deserved to be vomited up by Zion’s soil. I am glad it is this enemy whose blood I spill. No other enemy has ever caused as much damage as the pig illegitimates. I can see that the enemy is sluggish, and barely able to move. I watch as they spew black bile from their mouths, and fall to the ground, splashing in their own filth. A pathetic army of invalids. I shoot them without mercy. I retreat with my lines, and hold back behind a tank as it fires on the battlement. I watch as the Chinese troop carriers are destroyed by tanks. I watch as the limbs of enemy soldiers scatter from them. I laugh again, and pit my fury against the Chinese aggressors.
“Look, in the sky!” yells one of my comrades. I look and can see many fighters, and bombers, approaching. I laugh at them, and fire my weapon into the air. A fighter flies in close over top of us. He then retreats to his bombers. I laugh again. But when bombs fall from them like rain, I know fear for the second time. I watch as they smash into Russian tank lines. The order to retreat is revealed to us. I know I have to run, in order to kill more of the pigs. I have to run, but want to stay, you see? Do you understand, comrade, why I want to stay and fight? Contrary to my lust for blood, I follow my lines in and travel past craters filled with human parts, scorched vehicles, and rotting corpses. Anger fills my stone heart, as we continue. Then more fighters join the battle. Our fighters. Their wings are bent differently, like cherubim in my favorite hymn. I am happy they are ours. Their missiles destroy the bombers, as they fly in and kill the enemy fighters with ease. I laugh. The battle overhead rages on, as I retreat back to the underground with my comrades. On my last glance at the dogfight, I can see one enemy fighter diving for the ground. Another follows, one of ours. I watch as the fighter pulls up, I watch as it levels; the enemy fighter bursts the air around it. I can feel the pilot’s relief, but don’t want to feel it. I do, however, find closure. The pursuer fires his vengeance upon the fleeing Iranian, tearing into the back of the cockpit with bullets. I watch as my ally fighter soars up, back into the looming dogfight, and then watch as the enemy crashes into the ground in a fiery ball of glory. I laugh, spit at the fighter, and then enter back underground. I hold the image of the plane crashing and rejoice over this sign of victory.
Aftermath, July 31st, 2032
American News Broadcast
While sitting at a bar, with the love of my life Jorgia, I watch the most splitting image I’d ever see on the TV. A news helicopter flies over the aftermath of the siege of Moscow. The city is smoldering underneath its own ashes. I can see Russian people hobbling across the battlements. Civilians holding weapons, and dead loved ones, as the camera pans and zooms.
“Oh my… Brandon?” Jorge says, holding her hand to her mouth, and gripping me tightly. I look at the stinging image. Nothing could be made out of it, nothing stood. In the distance, burn pits can be seen, as they smolder into embers of human bone and skulls. They were all infected. The image then switches to a fleet of helicopters flying into the battlement to give viral relief.
Over the broadcast one can hear, “After a month of conflict in Moscow, the city has finally opened itself up to relief helicopters. The Ebola virus is being contained…” and then it switches to an image of our F/A22s flying over the path that the Chinese trekked on their advance. The fighters are dropping napalm all over the dead. Then it switches to ground platoons physically burning the dead. The infected Russians are all sent to outpost stations, where they are either vaccinated or executed to prevent further infection.
“The Chinese have declared an official surrender as of 3 o’clock am, Eastern time, yesterday. The Chinese are now accusing the Russians of unruly wartime ethics, as the Russians pursue their adversary eight miles behind the border of China. Nuclear War is being threatened. The Russians are being pressured by the UN to withdraw out of China.
“In related news, the Chinese have set up discrimination camps, in joint effort with NATO, to contain the possible spread of Ebola, declaring Russia is responsible for the worst plague in human history. Unfortunately, those who are infected are going to be dealt with accordingly.” The caster said this with only a little bit of reverence.
I watch in horror as the stinging images are cast over the 3D caster.
“If this is what war looks like, what is my little Marc going to do? What is his life going to be like?” asks Jorgia, teary eyed. I kiss her, not knowing how to answer the question. Everyone in the bar falls silent, as the aftermath of war is revealed to us.
Neifert, B. K.. The Fifth Angel’s Trumpet. Kindle Direct, 2015.
Copyright ©2015 B. K. Neifert