Another World at War

Chapter 41: Too much Ice

Mclaw shrugged. "Eh, you're special forces. Adapt, overcome, and all that shit."

As Mclaw opened the door, Sab braced himself against the frigid air that rushed in. The temperature plummeted rapidly as they stepped out of the base.

-10, -20, -30, -40.

The sky was dark and foreboding, casting an eerie glow over the snow-covered fields. The group trudged out into the blinding white expanse, the cold biting at their skin despite their bundled-up clothing.

***

It had been roughly two weeks since their arrival. Mclaw sat in a shallow trench, his exhale visible in the frigid air as he opened the visor of his mask. The cold immediately hit him, but he had already locked down the rest of his suit, preventing the cold from creeping past his neck. Despite the biting cold, he didn't seem to mind, though.

Across from him, Mabasa was doing the same, just instead of sitting in the open he was huddled under a tarpaulin cover as he quickly ate from an insulated ration pack. He finished his food in less than half a minute, shoving the empty packet into a black bag pulled from one of his pouches before closing his visor.

Mclaw ate slower, savouring the warmth of the food. He finished a few minutes later before closing his visor and standing up. He grabbed a bag and stepped out of the trench, Mabasa following closely behind. "Ready for patrol, Tian?" Mclaw asked.

Mabasa nodded. "One final look, eh?"

Mclaw turned his head. "One final look."

The two walked for a few minutes, clutching their rifles to their chests as they ascended a slope. Mclaw crouched down, motioning for Mabasa to follow suit. They made their way through a natural trench until they reached a small observation point, covered by a tarpaulin caked in snow.

Crawling inside, they looked through a small opening. Mclaw pulled out a thermal scope and attached it to his visor, switching off his in-helmet lens to get a clearer view.

Mclaw checked his watch, "Their timings seem perfect again."

Mabasa pulled out his scope, "You're right," he said tapping his wrist pad in time with the patrol leader's steps, "Their steps are even the exact same, down to the millisecond."

Mclaw smiled, "Bet they'd do a better job in guards regiments."

Mabasa chuckled, "Those guards are still killing machines."

Mclaw heard the distant sound of a jet engine and looked back down the scope. The two operators immediately switched on their night vision and watched as the jets flew above the base while the anti-air guns trained their sights on the aircraft.

As the jets got closer, Mclaw winced slightly, concentrating on the shape of the aircraft. "Is that a fucking Frogfoot?" he asked.

Mabasa turned to look at him. "What?"

Mclaw peered closer, pulled out an old notebook, and handed it to Mabasa. "This is a Cold War-era Soviet attack aircraft, and it looks oddly familiar to the one that just flew overhead, right?"

Mabasa examined the notebook. "Very similar," he said.

Mclaw nodded. "Neither Australia, New Zealand, nor any other nation under NZA control operated the Frogfoot, so that raises the question of how they got them."

Mabasa watched as the aircraft circled back around into view before disappearing across the ocean. "Does that mean someone is supplying them?" he asked.

Mclaw shook his head, "I doubt it, we haven't been able to get scans of many NZA aircraft though, so I guess it is possible..."

Mabasa looked up, speaking into his microphone, "1-7, send me the files on the Frogfoot."

Burt responded, "Roger 1-2, sending files."

Mabasa pulled up his pad, "The Frogfoot was retired last year in four countries simultaneously. Three African, one South American."

Mclaw nodded checking over the files, "Correct, in total fiftyish attack aircraft," he sighed, "RACs not gonna like this."

He climbed out of the observation point pulling his rifle into his shoulder, "That's enough recon, let's get back and assess our situation."

Mabasa nodded following the Captain into the snowy plains.

***

Zeller paused from cleaning her rifle and locked eyes with Mclaw, "John," she said firmly.

Mclaw nodded in response and gave his order, "Sophie, get everyone ready to march to the rendezvous point."

Gibson approached and started setting up his radio on a nearby snowbank. He handed the microphone wire to Mclaw, who plugged it in and spoke into the radio, "Kilo Oscar. I repeat, Kilo Oscar, over," Mclaw said, changing to a mutter as he waited for a response, this time speaking to no one, "One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, four thousand."

After a brief pause, a voice crackled through the radio, "It begins..."