❝One can resist the invasion of an army but one cannot resist the invasion of ideas.❞
—Victor Hugo
My eyes remain glued to the American flag pinned on the opposite side of the plane, examining the familiar pattern. It has the thirteen stripes and fifty stars, but the flag is almost entirely black. The stripes alternate between black and white, except for one blue stripe near the middle of the flag. It's called the Thin Blue Line.
It used to represent support for the police force, but it has since shifted to representing support for the AC. Blue, overall, has become the color of patriotism in America.
I've seen it quite a few times. During President David Eaton's speeches, they fly both the Thin Blue Line flag and the normal American flag. I wish I could say I like it, but I'm not so sure what I feel about it.
I don't feel much of anything at the moment.
By the time we reached the settlement camp, the entire thing was blown to bits and up in flames. We were far too late, and we ended up retreating to Fort Simon in Southern Georgia. We heard that many major towns and cities in Florida continued to get bombed even after we left. Both Charles Lee and John Laurens demanded that we be given more men and get sent back into the crossfire to evacuate the civilians we left behind. Neither George Washington nor Thomas Castle gave such permission. Instead, the normal American Air Force took over the operation, shooting down the invading Cuban planes.
March 15, 2058.
It's been one month since the attack, now dubbed the Bombing of Florida. It's been all over the news, the headlines dangerously startling. Many headlines include the death toll, which simply sickens me to see the number. I've avoided reading any article, telling myself it's unnecessary. I mean, I was there. What more do I need to know? Alexander, on the other hand, reads everything written about the Bombing of Florida. According to him, a majority of the state has been destroyed and the people have been evacuated to other settlement camps.
Alexander makes a point to remind me that Nikolai Ivanovich made a direct threat to Florida during his Russian-Cuban conference back in December. I asked him what he thinks the correlation is, but Alexander seemed keen on insisting that Nikolai was in no way behind the attack. What happened was completely planned by the Cubans.
Well, President Eaton and George Washington were having none of it. Both were furious, perhaps for different reasons. It was embarrassing to Eaton — the inferior Cuban Air Force almost destroyed an entire state. It was a smack in the face to Washington — he was caught off guard and his AC troops were unable to fight off the Cubans... or maybe he's just distraught that his nephew is dead.
So while us AC soldiers waited idly with stationed AC soldiers in Fort Simon, Washington and Eaton got together with the brightest military minds in America to plan something. Apparently, John Laurens was requested at the meeting, but he turned the invitation down, insisting to stay with his men.
Next thing I knew, a new unit of the Air Force AC came by and picked up about seventy of the AC soldiers at Fort Simon, both from the British side and American side, including my unit.
That's where we are now, flying through the air to an undisclosed location. We're packed into a series of three fighter planes, twenty-three soldiers in each plane. These are our three groups. The first plane has a group led by Charles Lee and Aaron Burr. The second plane has a group led by the General who was standing by at Fort Simon by the name of Henry Knox. The last plane, which I'm on, has a group led by John Laurens.
It was strange. I was originally assigned to go with Knox, but John Laurens made a specific request for me to be on his team. I had no objections since it would mean I'd be reunited with Alexander, who is also with John Laurens. Peggy and Rory are also in this group, but Vincent is sadly with Lee.
As we flew to our destination, John Laurens educated us on what the fuck is going on. He has a map posted on the wall we sit opposite of, pointing to locations and talking a lot. Frankly, I'm not listening. I can't tear my eyes off the flag.
Inwardly, I'm still blaming myself for what happened in Florida. I have yet to confide these guilts to anyone, but Alexander has figured it out. We haven't had much time to talk about it.
John Laurens seems to be finishing his presentation, then with a nod, he steps away and saunters into the cockpit, closing the door behind him. I'm briefly reminded of Bushrod and the excitement he felt when I agreed to go on a date with him. A date we will never go on. If I had known he'd die that day, what would I do? What would I say? Do I have to say anything? I didn't know him, and frankly, I shouldn't have to. Still...
"You weren't listening to that, were you?" Alexander whispers to me.
I shake my head sorrowfully. "I got distracted."
"I could tell," Alexander says, his voice almost drowned out in the sea of voices from our peers. They're conversing about the mission we're getting sent to, placing bets on how many soldiers will die. "You were goggling at the TBL."
"TBL?" I raise my brow.
"Thin Blue Line... the flag."
I nod, then shrug. I turn to face Peggy, who is in a conversation with Rory. I butt in as politely as possible, then ask them what the fuck we're doing. Peggy is happy to explain:
We're flying to Havana, Cuba. Our goal is to invade the Palace of the Revolution, which is where the Cuban President lives. We have only one mission: kill the bastard.
We're assassins now, I suppose. This seems like a suicide mission. Every plane in the Cuban Air Force will be targetting us the moment we enter their vision; no way they'll ever let us get close to the President. For the sake of the mission, let's say it works. We'll be parachuting down to the ground. I figured we'd be doing something like this, for we were forced to strap parachutes to our bodies. We're not professional paratroopers, but all soldiers are trained to use parachutes in basic training.
I've had a lot of practice working with parachutes before basic training for unrelated reasons.
All three groups have three different drop-off locations to make it harder to find and kill us. My group will be dropping down over a history museum near the Palace. I don't know where the other teams will be dropping off.
We will have to recollect as a group, then push our way to the Palace. He'll be there, we're assured. They aren't expecting this, so the President will certainly be there. We must locate him and put a bullet between his eyes. We have orders to avoid killing civilians, but our Generals said that might change if the public attempts to protect their President.
Essentially, it's an invasion to complete an assassination.
I don't know what all those men in Eaton's big meeting were thinking: killing the Cuban President? That's the quickest way to piss off Russia!
But then I recall the outrage that blew up throughout the entire country after Florida was destroyed. Hell, even our Allies got pissed! Killing their replaceable President is nothing.
I thank Peggy for her knowledge, then sigh deeply. Peggy seems to notice my discomfort, and flashes a daring smile in my direction, seeming to want to calm my nerves.
"Are you okay, (Y/N)?" she asks.
I nod. "I suppose."
"You look like utter shit, Russki," Rory jumps in, the slightest hint of friendly concern in his tone.
I gaze back at Rory, noticing how much paler than normal he is. He seems tired as all hell! I suppose he's still distraught about losing his best friend during that incident back in South Korea. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if it traumatized him. I imagine it would be similar to the pain I'd suffer if Alexander were killed. God, would I be able to go on if that happened?
"I can say the same thing about you, asshole."
"Jesus," Alexander hisses, gazing over at Rory, looking at the large rocket launcher over his shoulder. "They hooked you up with an RYG?"
"I was surprised as well," Rory explains. "Apparently, they want us ready for tanks."
"Or giants," I add, momentarily envying Rory. I have yet to be given Wings.
"Or large crowds of guards," Alexander murmurs morbidly, his eyes fixing on some unspecific point on the ground.
"We have orders not to hurt civilians," Peggy reminds us in a matter-of-fact tone.
"That can change any moment," Rory says, somewhat mimicking her tone.
"But will it?" Peggy challenges, furrowing her brows.
Rory shrugs, "It might."
"What do you two think?" Peggy asks, shifting the question to Alexander and me.
"I don't see why not," I say. "If we're provoked by the public, we'll have no choice."
"It's definitely going to happen," Alexander says confidently as though he traveled to the future to make sure he's right before saying this statement. "These Cubans love their president. They'll protect him at all costs once they see our uniforms."
No one retorts what Alexander said, for we know it's the truth.
I watch in curiosity when John Laurens emerges from the cockpit, strapping his retracted shield onto his arm.
"We're gettin' close to the harbor now," John Laurens states, bringing silence back to the plane. "Other than the three planes with soldiers, we have ten more planes who will fight off the Cuban Air Force, which is sure to attack us before we even make it to land."
He says this somewhat morbidly, and I understand why. We have our own Air Force acting as our first line of defense against the Cuban Air Force. They're going to get shot down... just to buy us enough time to deploy to our landing areas.
I hate the bravery of these men and women.
John Laurens orders us to stand up and file close to the sliding door leading outside. He presses his finger against his earpiece, clearly getting a message from one of the other generals.
"The hell you mean?" John Laurens hisses. He pauses for a second as the other person replies, then responds once more. "Don't give me that bullshit, Lee! That's where we'll be deployin'! Listen, I ain't bitchin' 'bout it, but what's the point of gettin' killed before we even land?"
There's another long pause, meaning Lee is explaining something. I'm sure Knox bumped into the conversation at one point. They bicker for a while and I struggle to piece together the meaning behind John Laurens' words. Luckily for me, I don't have to struggle for long. About two minutes later, John Laurens curses Lee once more, then turns his attention back to us.
"Change of plans. Apparently, there's a small battalion stationed by the museum we were supposed to drop by at. We'll be dropping off at a historic mansion on the other side of the Palace."
"The battalion will still see us. They'll rush over to shoot us from the sky!" someone comments.
"Trust me, I know," John Laurens says. "The best advice I can give is to not die. That's all we got at this point."
We remain silent, drinking in this new information. We were hoping for a relatively peaceful deployment, but as it turns out, there will be Cuban soldiers nearby. After a couple more minutes, John Laurens tells us that we're approaching the Havana harbor. Well, his words are unnecessary, for a second later, I can hear the sound of planes zooming by ours, followed by the firing of missiles and machine guns.
The Cubans have already spotted us. There are no windows in the plane, but I can hear our protection planes fighting off the Cubans, distracting them and shooting them down before getting shot down themselves.
It's unnerving. At any point, the protection planes can fail to guard us against a missile, and our plane will be struck. That's all it takes. A single missile and we're dead. I haven't come to realize it until now, but we are in the middle of an arm wrestle against Death. Our veins are pulsing and popping, our hearts throbbing and racing. Death can win at any moment.
I know I'm not the only one thinking this, for when I glance around at the other AC soldiers in the plane, they look sickly and green as though they're ready to puke. We're all here under the oath that we will gladly die for the survival of freedom in the Western world, but I wonder how many people are having second thoughts now that they're at the jaws of hell.
I glance over at John Laurens, wondering how he's fairing, and gawk when I see how calm he is. He adjusts the parachute on his back nonchalantly, his eyes remaining on the metal floor of the plane. Has he done this before?
John Laurens briefly presses his finger against his earpiece, then looks back at us. "Knox and his men have deployed in their location and will be heading for the Palace."
About two minutes later, John Laurens informs us that Lee and Burr have deployed and are also heading for the Palace. The only hope I have that there won't be an army of soldiers waiting for us the second we leave this plane is the fact that the soldiers may have left in order to fight with Knox or Lee's men. Frankly, I think it's unlikely. I suppose we'll find out soon, though, for the doors start sliding open.
I evaluate myself. Our backpacks are attached on a line around our hips so that when we jump, it will act as a weight to keep us flying down at a steady rate. Normally, our bags would weigh up to one hundred and ten pounds. The heaviest load I ever had to carry was one hundred and forty. However, for this mission, we're carrying a mere eighty pounds on us; that's including what's in our bag and over our shoulders.
Of course, we're used to this kind of weight. In basic training, one of our tests was to carry one of our comrades over a mile's distance.
My hands are sweating, so I swiftly wipe it on my pants. I keep my stony expression plastered on my face while I glance around at my fellow troops. Peggy's eyes are wide with excitement. I didn't think she'd be excited about this. Rory seems somewhat anxious, which makes sense. His best friend died during a "mission". Who's to say he won't? If Vincent were in our team, I'm sure he'd be calculating his path down to the ground without getting shot.
I shift my gaze to Alexander, who stands to my right. He's gnawing on the knuckle of his thumb — a clear indicator of his nervousness. I take a deep breath and prepare myself to ask him if he's alright, but just as I do that, John Laurens says we're above our deployment area and we must jump.
Just like everyone else, I'm stuck in a stern soldier mindset, and not a single nerve in me hesitates to leap from the plane. I do it heedlessly as though it were going to blow up. In less than three seconds, we're all free-falling to the ground.
If we didn't have our bags dangling a foot below us weighing us down, we'd continue to fall for a minute more. But because of that extra weight, we have to extract our parachutes early off. I follow suit, pulling on my cord and allowing the large chute to pop open and slow my fall.
I take this moment to evaluate our location. We're hovering above a large mansion with open fields, tall trees, and colorful gardens. There are a series of large open water pools in the property; we should avoid that. From this height, I can make out the even larger Palace. It's a good distance away, but if we're fast, we can cover it in about ten minutes. That is, of course, if we come across no obstacles.
This is too much to hope for, and there's no point in crossing my fingers. Merely one minute after jumping out of the plane, I can see Cuban military vehicles driving towards this mansion. They've seen us.
We drift downward at a constant rate, and I take the chance to pull out my pistol from my belt. Using a TFX while up here would be futile; the recoil would just throw off my balance. A pistol is fine.
"Seven military vehicles are comin' our way," I hear John Laurens say into the earpiece calmly. I scan the air for a moment, searching for him, but it's hard to find anyone in a sea of soldiers. "We can't do shit while in the air. They have the higher ground on us. Focus on driftin' further away from them."
Several soldiers confirm the orders with a "copy that" in the earpiece. I remain silent and carry out the order. Leaning my legs forward, I softly move closer to the mansion, hoping I could maybe land on the roof. Unfortunately, I don't have much time. The Cubans arrive faster than we anticipated.
Before I know it, the vehicles burst through the mansion gates and stop under us. Several Cuban soldiers exit from the vehicles and pull out large and dangerous guns from their straps.
Shit, this is about to get ugly.
Some of us have made it to the safety of the backside of the historic mansion. I wasn't so lucky. I catch sight of my fellow soldiers popping out their shields, so I copy their actions and eject my shield. Right, this is our only defense now.
I watch over my shield as the Cuban soldiers take meticulous aim, staring into the rear scopes of their weapons. I take the brief moment to fire three shots at them with my pistol, but I have little confidence that the bullets got anywhere near them. Then, it's their turn.
I essentially curl up behind my shield as the rain of bullets come in my direction, ricocheting off the sturdy material like a bouncing ball. The shield won't last forever, though, and it will wear down. Hopefully, I'm on the ground before that happens. I continue to drift towards the mansion.
I watch in panic as some of my other comrades get shot, having been unable to protect themselves with the shield. Despite the dire situation I'm in, I still find my mind buzzing with worry for Alexander. Where the hell is he?
Just as I'm nearing the mansion, there's another rain of bullets after the last one ceased. The Cubans are reloaded, and ready to shoot the rest of us down. Once again, I use my shield to protect myself. Unfortunately, my body is not what they're aiming for; my parachute has become the new target.
They pelt bullets into the soft material of our parachutes, putting several holes in it. Some other soldiers begin falling rapidly down to the ground, their parachute having completely failed to withstand the attack.
I look up at my parachute when I feel myself descending at an increasing speed, and I swear silently when I see it's become akin to swiss cheese. I'm still more than thirty meters in the air. That's more than a hundred feet! With a few more bullets, the parachute fails, and I begin falling.
My perception of reality is distorted. The world rushes by in a blur, my limbs flailing, my heart throbbing, my lungs refusing any more air to pass through. The speed constricts my throat, and while I'd like to scream, no sound comes out. It's as though my windpipe has been sealed off with the world's strongest glue. I'm choking on it. For a moment, I wonder if I'm suspended in air, dangling on a string or floating. Time slows down, and I take this chance to make one thing clear to myself: falling from this height... it'll kill me.
I finally reach the ground. Or at least, I thought I would. Instead, I plunge below a cool surface, my descent slowing to a non-sickening speed. At first, I thought perhaps I had fallen straight through the Earth and was killed instantly, drifting down into hell where I am expected. But that doesn't explain the cool temperature of my surroundings... that doesn't explain the water.
Holy shit, I landed in one of those large bodies of water! I... I've never considered myself lucky, but this is beyond lucky. Many of my comrades have fallen to their death. Then there's me, somehow landing in one of the scattered water pools.
I can't breathe down here. I try swimming up, but I find it's impossible. My arms can move, but my legs... they can't. I glance down and see that the line that kept my bag attached to my hip has tangled around my legs, keeping them together and preventing me from swimming. What more, the pool of water is deep. I can't see where the bottom is, and the heavy bag drags me down further and further.
I can hear the muffled sound of bullets from under the water, but other than that, I'm surprised by how silent it is down here. I can't scream for help even if I wanted to. There's a stinging pain in my lungs, and I know my time is limited. I have no time to panic, only to act.
I reach down to my legs, pushing between the rope to pull out my combat knife from the holster I keep it in around my right thigh. As I wrap my hands around it, I keep my grip firm, praying it doesn't slip out of my hands. Staring at the dangerous weapon, I debate which side to use: the smooth side or the teethed side?
I go with the teethed side and repeatedly drag the blade up and down the line and the parachute ropes, watching it get thinner and weaker as my lungs scream louder and louder for air. The line finally breaks, sending the bag falling downward and no longer dragging me down. Well, there goes all my gear. In a hurried motion, I pull the line off my legs, setting them free. Then, I begin swimming up faster than I ever swam before.
I break through the surface of the water, gasping in deep breaths of hot air, thanking every single particle of oxygen for the life they provide. I'm gripping onto the side of the water pool as I regain sanity. My head is incredibly light and my body shivers from the shock. In the distance, I can make out the blurry sight of Cuban soldiers fighting the AC troops that have made it down. Bodies are scattered around. I can't tell if they're alive or not.
Using all the strength I have left, I haul myself out of the water and onto solid ground. I stare down at the grass, counting the number of bullets being fired. It goes too fast and I lose count. Where's Alexander?
"(Y/N)?"
I lift my gaze, hoping that I'll see Alexander's violet eyes. Instead, I see the all-too-familiar John Laurens. He's striding over to me, keeping his eyes on the fighting going on further away. His shield remains up as he walks to me, clearly impending someone to see us and fire away.
I cough up some water I must have inhaled, then use all my strength to prop myself up on my knees. I need to get up... but I feel awfully weak. That fall, while not lethal, did a number on me. My heart beats erratically, or not at all. My limbs ache, feeling something like jello.
Before I can say a word, John Laurens reaches me, then pulls me up to my feet. I practically fall into him, my knees wobbling and giving way.
"Shit," I hear John Laurens murmur. "Are you okay? Were you shot?"
I try to respond, but all that comes out of my mouth is a helpless groan. He somehow translates what I'm trying to say and offers me his shoulder. We're taking shelter. Behind the mansion, there are a couple more AC soldiers. Some are shot, some are waiting for John Laurens' instructions.
John Laurens presses on his earpiece, saying "Regroup behind the mansion. Over."
I'm surprised when I don't hear his words in my earpiece, so I suppose I somehow turned it off. I feel over my ear to turn it back on, but find it's gone. Shit, I must have lost it while I was in the water.
If I want to stay knowledgeable about orders, I'll have to stay close to John Laurens. Not that I have much of a choice at the moment anyway. He continues to support my feeble body. Frankly, I'm getting him wet. If he minds, he doesn't say. If he doesn't mind, well...
We wait idly for a while, and when very few soldiers come behind the mansion, John Laurens theorizes that they're trapped in battle. That's the last thing on my mind.
"Alexander..." I murmur weakly. John Laurens hears me, then leads me to the wall of the mansion.
"Stay here," he orders, leaning me against the wall. He then turns to his other soldiers. "Listen up. Our allies are out there. We have to compromise the enemy and recollect our numbers."
I stop listening after this, searching through the soldiers for Alexander as though he'll appear out of nowhere. He's nowhere in sight. Could he be one of the ones out there fighting? I'm motionless as John Laurens and a group of ten soldiers eject their shields, prepare their weapons, and leave the safety of the mansion. I stay behind the mansion with about four injured soldiers and one uninjured soldier. I question why he didn't join the fight, but I catch sight of a medic patch on his sleeve. He can pass as a medic.
From his bag (which everyone has removed from the line and thrown over their shoulders) he pulls out a large first aid kit, muttering something incoherent as he gets to work to tend the injured. I watch in amazement as he works magic, wrapping bandages, applying disinfectant, injecting morphine.
Here I was panicking after getting wet. Some of my fellow soldiers have several gunshot wounds in the legs or torso.
I remember the low amount of soldiers that graduated from my training unit, and I envy the ones that failed. They don't know it, and they may feel bitter for going through all that training only to fail, but their lives were spared.
In the far distance, I catch sight of a large tree near the perimeter of the territory. At the base of the tree is a small figure, staring up into the tree. They have a uniform, meaning they're apart of our unit. What the hell are they doing?
Finding a little more strength in me, I slowly stride towards the soldier and the tree. Didn't they hear the call to meet up behind the mansion?
When I'm half-way there, the person turns around, and I gasp to see it's Peggy. What the hell is she doing? She catches sight of me and waves me over, panic in her eyes.
This gives me enough strength to pick up my pace to a jog. When I reach her, she pulls me into a tight embrace. I'm surprised by it and hesitate to return it. Normally, I resent hugs. However, I realize the fact that she's alive is a miracle, and I hug back.
"You're alive!" she exclaims, pulling away. "Why are you drenched?"
"I fell into the water," I explain shortly.
She nods and points up into the tree. "We have an issue."
I look up into the high branches of the tree, seeing a parachute stuck in it. Attached to the parachute is the one and only Rory Miller. He's dangling upside down, unable to remove his parachute as it has wrapped itself around him in a similar way that it did to me.
"Mind helping?" he calls down stupidly.
"I don't know how to climb trees," Peggy admits shyly. "Do you?"
Instead of responding with words, I toss Peggy my TFX, run up to the tree, jump off the trunk, and land a catch on the lowest branch, which is far from low. I hang for a moment, still feeble from my wet landing, before I pull myself onto the branch, balancing on it as I find the next target. This goes on for about two minutes. I scale the tree, staying close to the trunk where the ever-thinning branches are thickest. Rory is quite high up.
I can't believe it. Since when did I care about Rory? I wouldn't admit it to him or anyone else, but I know I'm concerned about him. As a graduation mate. When I reach him, the branches are dangerously thin, making small snapping sounds as I stand on them. I pull out my knife and cut the parachute lines. It sets him free, and he falls a short distance down before grabbing a branch and stopping his fall.
"Shit!" Rory hisses, looking up at me. "Let me know before the lines break next time, yeah?"
I begin the scale back down to Peggy, landing shakily. Peggy hands me back my gun, patting my shoulder enthusiastically.
"Nice going, (Y/N)!"
Rory lands a second later, balancing himself before turning to me.
"Thanks..."
"Right," I nod.
"Why are you wet?"
I ignore his question and run my hand through my hair. "Come on. We're grouping up behind the mansion."
As we rejoin the injured soldiers, I give little notice to the sounds of gunfighting and explosions going on beyond the mansion. It sounds deadly, but I have confidence in my side. The Cubans may have more soldiers than us, but we have advanced equipment and months of rigorous training under our arms. My confidence grows when the number of shots being fired lowers. The fighting is stopping.
After waiting behind the mansion for five more minutes, I hear the sound of one of the military vehicles coming in our direction. When it turns the corner and stops in front of us, I see our soldiers are packed inside it. John Laurens is driving.
"Get in," he orders. None of us hesitate to file in from the back and into the spacious interior. We help the injured in the vehicle first, allowing them more space than everyone else. As I'm about to go in, I hear my name being called.
"(Y/N)!"
It was from John Laurens. I pop my head around the side of the vehicle to see John Laurens through the side window. He nods to his right, and I know what he's saying. He wants me to take the passenger seat.
I give Peggy and Rory a reassuring pat as they get into the vehicle, then walk over to the passenger side. I pop open the door, slide in, then shut it closed.
"What do you want?" I ask.
He tosses me a map that was laying on the dashboard. "You'll be my GPS," he states sternly. It wasn't a question or request. It was an order.
"What's the point?" I asked, unfolding the map and laying it on my wet lap. "They already know we're here."
He begins driving around the mansion and to the front driveway where many bodies lie, most of them being Cuban soldiers. There's another vehicle with AC soldiers filing into the back.
"We're in their vehicle," John Laurens explains. "If we're lucky, we can pass by with little suspicion. They might let us right into the Palace."
I look down at the map and see it's been marked on. It has symbols of where their troops are stationed in case of an emergency. A lot of it is written in Spanish, but symbols are universal.
"So you want me to navigate you away from where the soldiers are?" I ask.
"That's the plan," he nods, coming to stop next to the other vehicle. I ponder for a moment, thinking of the logic behind it. John Laurens knows how to read a map. He doesn't need me to read the map for him. Does he want me to? Why me of all people?
I peer into the other vehicle, gasping when I see Alexander is driving it.
"(Y/N)!" Alexander cries out.
"I told you she's okay," John Laurens says.
"Are you hurt? Did you get shot? Why are you wet?"
Alexander's questions come faster than I can respond. The most I can do is give him a reassuring grin. My heart relaxes now that I know he's okay. If he's alive, that's all that really matters.
"We're goin' to try to sneak through town," John Laurens says to Alexander.
"Won't we get caught?" Alexander asks.
"Not in these patterned vehicles," John Laurens says, patting his steering wheel. "They'll think we're Cubans. Follow close behind. Make sure your men have their weapons on the ready in case this goes bad."
"Roger that," Alexander nods, his eyes glowing with something akin to resentment.
With that settled, John Laurens drives through the front gates that the Cubans initially came from. With two more turns, we drive onto the mostly-vacant street of Cuba. I suspect everyone bolted when they saw American planes flying overhead. Speaking of planes, our transportation planes are still engaged in a violent air battle against the Cuban Air Force. They keep sending in more and more Cuban planes. Our defense has to continue fighting. If they flew away, the Cubans would focus on dropping bombs on us instead.
"Take a left turn here," I say, looking at the name of the street signs and matching it with the names on the map. John Laurens obeys, turning the steering wheel. I glance in the side view window, seeing that Alexander's following close behind.
Speakers play throughout the city, Spanish words being shouted at painful volumes. While I can't understand it, it brings me fear. What the hell are they saying? Surely, it can't be anything good. It must be a warning.
"Take another left, then a right at the end of the street," I say when the speaker's voice ends.
As he does this, he presses against his earpiece. "Didn't catch that, Lee. What did you say?"
Charles Lee is contacting him? Guess that means he's alive. How close is he to death? He landed closer to the Palace than we did. That's sure to be deadly. Were they able to hold off the Cubans?
John Laurens listens for a minute, then curses. "We only have eighteen men left, Lee. With your numbers, we're only at thirty soldiers. Knox's men fuckin' retreated! I don't give a fuck what Burr thinks is righteous!"
"Take a right," I mutter shyly, hoping I'm not interrupting him.
"Goddammit, Lee! Tell Burr to fuck himself!" John Laurens shouts, his hand having a death grip on the steering wheel. He drops his hand, ending his conversation with Lee, then looks at me. "Did you hear that speaker a while ago?"
I nod. "The one in Spanish, right?"
"Yeah, that one. It was the Cuban President. Lee has a translator in his squad, and the translator says he was ordering the people to take up arms and find us... At least we know the President is still here."
Vincent. It was definitely Vincent. He's the only translator I know, and he happens to be on Lee's squad.
"Shit," I hiss bitterly. It's a well-known fact that everyone in Cuba (especially Havana) are trained militia members. While they're not in the army, it's a requirement for all Cuban citizens to own weapons and be ready to defend the country if needed.
"Lee wanted a free-fire. You know, permission to kill civilians," John Laurens says. "Burr insisted on not harming the civilians."
"Why didn't you give in your opinion?" I ask.
John Laurens, with a somewhat sinister look on his face, shakes his head. "I'm not good at makin' decisions like that. I wanted them to figure it out, and they've decided to not harm civilians."
"Lee listened to Burr?" I ask, thinking that Lee doesn't seem like the person to listen to anyone. Not even his own Lieutenant Colonel.
"Apparen'ly," John Laurens says, seeming as surprised by it as I am. I don't say it out loud, but John sounds sort of disappointed that a civilian extermination hasn't been issued... But he refused to place in his vote. It's odd needless to say.
"That's — turn right — that's complete bullshit," I hiss. "The entire Cuban population will be looking for us and we can't even fight back?!"
"I assume they want to focus on takin' down the President."
"Surely the President is getting evacuated," I reason.
"He might stand his ground and wait until the situation gets dire."
The Palace gets into view, and I'm shocked to see it's completely surrounded by Cuban soldiers. The front gates alone have two trucks full of Cubans soldiers brandishing their guns. They don't suspect us, for we're in their vehicle. But once we get closer, they'll be able to see the uniforms we're wearing.
"The hell are we going to do?" I ask, checking to make sure Alexander is still following behind us.
"Are you buckled up?" John Laurens asks nonchalantly.
"What?" I look at him in confusion.
"Buckled up," he repeats. "Do you have your seatbelt on?"
"No."
"Well, you might want to, (Y/N). Hold on tight."
He gives me no time to reach for the seatbelt before he accelerates, going at a nauseating speed right towards the Palace gates. The Cuban soldiers motion for us to stop, but when we don't, they figure something is wrong. Just as they pull out their guns to attack, we bust through the gate as though it were butter and we were a hot knife. They shoot at our vehicles, but their bullets are nothing against the durable metal. The wheel plates protect the rubber from popping.
Guards at the bottom of the steps leading up to the Palace notice us, but they have no time to react before they have to leap out of the way to avoid getting run over. I emit a rather embarrassing screech of panic when John Laurens pulls a tight turn, swerving the wheel all the way to the left, and we drift to a stop.
"Alrigh', let's go!" John Laurens calls, hitting the divider that separates the carrier and the driver's area. They get the idea, as I hear them jumping out of the vehicle. Even the injured hop to their feet. The only way an AC soldier stops fighting is if they're dead.
I hadn't realized it, but during that terrifying acceleration and drift, I had gripped on whatever I could hold on to, which happened to be John Laurens' arm.
He pulls his arm away and leaves the car, putting up his shield. As we leave, the sound of bullets whizzing through the air returns. The Cubans... they know we're after the President now.
Shit, time to go. I pop the car door open and eject my shield, saving myself from three bullets that immediately fly at me. I back up slowly towards the stairs leading to the front doors. I catch sight of Alexander, taking shelter behind the vehicle he came from. He's fearlessly firing back at the approaching Cubans, his shield not even up. Is he not scared?
"Alex!" I shout. He darts his eyes towards me, then makes a beeline for me. He grabs my arm, then rushes up the stairs with me, following everyone else.
I follow him loyally, getting into the palace before either of us are shot. Other soldiers are already here, including John Laurens, who pulls something out of his pocket. We somehow all make it inside, and when we're clear, John Laurens pulls a pin of a grenade, then throws it outside before slamming the doors shut. I saw it burst into violent flames right before my vision was cut off. That'll hold them off.
"On my lead!" John Laurens calls out. He begins to move expertly through the large, elegant Palace. I assume he knows where he's going, so all seventeen of us follow him.
"That was too fucking close," Peggy says, coming up next to me.
"Don't get too excited yet, yeah?" Rory exclaims, pushing between Peggy and me. "This place is full of soldiers, no doubt. They're definitely on the guard if they heard or saw us enter."
John Laurens must know this as well, for he seems to be on high alert. We must be quite the sight; striding through the large halls with our ejected shields like a bunch of turtles. Where are they... where are they?
After scaling three floors without seeing any soldiers, I let my guard down. I'd like to believe that this place is empty, which shouldn't be a welcoming thought. If there are no soldiers in the Palace, then the President must be gone.
"Alexander," I whisper. "Where is everyone?"
I don't know why I expect Alexander to know more than I do, but he's somehow can give me an answer. "With the President," he whispers. "They're wherever he is. Protecting him."
After a couple of minutes, John Laurens is about to turn a corner. But one step later, he backs up, clutching his gun firmly. I don't have such reflexes, so I end up walking past the corner. I hear bullets before I can see them, but I'm pulled back by John Laurens. It was fast enough to save my life, but not fast enough to stop a single bullet scraping my right side cheek, leaving a thin and slightly-bloody cut on the spot.
Looks like we've found where all the soldiers are.
We back up slowly as they continue to fire at the wall as though it'll do anything. That slow pace turns into a dash back to the end of the hall when they toss a grenade down the hall. Using our shields to block the shrapnel, we barely make it out of the damage range. It breaks apart the walls slightly.
I can hear the sound of heavy boots running towards us, meaning the Cubans will be turning the corner any moment. Most of us kneel down, our shields up and guns out, ready for a deadly encounter. John Laurens suddenly grabs Rory from out of the group, then pushes him forward.
"Use the RYG, Miller!"
Rory reacts quickly, pulling his rocket launcher from his shoulder and hoisting it up into position. Rory gets down on one knee for a more stable shot, takes aim, and when the Cubans appear from around the corner, he fires.
The rocket sweeps down the hall at lightning speed, scorching the porcelain-white walls black, exploding when it makes contact with the soldiers and blasting into a huge explosion that blows a large hole into the walls, giving us a sight of the exterior world. The blast sends smoke into the air, the intense heat setting off several sprinklers on the ceiling.
Great, now we're all going to get wet. Bodies lay bleeding or blown to bits at the impact area. This would disturb me if I didn't expect it.
John Laurens orders us to follow him again as we run back down the hall and around the corner. As we pass by the hole in the wall, I see a Cuban helicopter pass by. The hell?
There are a few more soldiers at the end of the hall, but we take them down easily with a couple of headshots. John Laurens leads us to the large door they had been standing in front of, and I realize it's where the President must be.
"Fingers on the trigger, soldiers," John Laurens says, placing his hand on the handle. He tries to turn the handle, but it doesn't budge. "Shit, it's locked."
"Move!" Alexander growls, pushing past John Laurens. With one swift and powerful kick to the door, it bursts open.
The next thing I know, we're all blown backward against the wall. My vision goes white and my hearing fades. The door was rigged with a flash grenade!
The lot of us are incoherently crawling on the ground, unable to see or hear. The white slowly goes away, but what's left is far from an improvement. When I turn my head, the colors mush together. My vision is incredibly blurry. There's a prominent ringing in my ears, a pitch so high it's painful.
I search for my gun, having lost it during the explosion. If my gun was right in front of me, I wouldn't know. My vision is that bad.
Now, other than the ringing, I can hear the muffled sound of a helicopter coming from the inside of the room. I find the energy to prop myself up on my knees, reminding myself of our mission. The President must die, so he will die.
I make out a blurry image of one soldier stand up, leaning weakly against the door frame and raising a small gun. The soldier fires it once before sliding back down to the ground. I make out the blurry image of violet eyes, and my mind clicks with instant recognition. It's Alexander.
I go back on all fours and crawl to his collapsed figure. It's a painfully-tiring distance to travel in my weakened state, and when I reach him, I press my cheek to his chest, desperate to hear his heart beating. It's there. Erratic, fast, but present.
Alexander is still alive. In incredible relief, I nuzzle into his chest, on the brink of tears. He pats my head, equally happy to see me.
While the colors are blurred together and faded, I can see someone hop through a window and into a helicopter. The helicopter promptly flies away, taking that person away with it.
It was the President. That's a fact. They got the fucking bastard out before we can kill him. Alexander tried to kill him when he shot that gun, but he missed.
That grenade left us temporarily incapacitated; if any more soldiers came, we'd be dead. We regain stability at different speeds. By the time my hearing returns to normal, John Laurens is already on his feet, wobbling into the room, his hair wet from the sprinklers. Alexander helps me up to my feet, supporting me when he sees my legs are trembling.
Alexander leads me into the room, then leaves me leaning on the desk in front of the large window where the President left through.
Other soldiers regain coherence, joining us in the room. I watch for a moment as they search the room as if expecting clues to pop out or something. I tried helping, but John Laurens forced me to remain on the desk, pointing out that I have a bloody nose. I wiped the blood away, having not even noticed it. I told him it was nothing, but Alexander was quick to back John Laurens up and insist I stay put.
I don't like being treated like a child, but I said nothing. I watched Peggy and Rory poke at a pile of burning papers. John Laurens comes up to them, remarking that it was probably a load of important documents the Cubans wouldn't want us getting our hands on.
John Laurens turns to face Alexander. "I saw you fire a shot... you didn't hit the President, did you?"
"Of course, he didn't!" one of the soldiers growls. "If he did, the fucking President would be here with a bullet in his head! That bastard probably missed!"
"I didn't miss," Alexander snaps back in a dignified voice. "I knew there would be no point shooting with a normal gun since the flash grenade left me incoherent. Even if I did manage to hit him, it wouldn't be a lethal shot. Instead, I used a tracking gun."
Alexander pulls out something from his back pocket, brandishing a small, pistol-like gun. It's marked with a glowing green stripe on the stock, signifying that it's a tracking gun.
The way tracking guns work is revolutionary. If a person is shot by one, a thin, small needle goes two millimeters deep in the person, lodging itself into the target's skin. It's so thin that the target doesn't feel it.
"It was a successful shot," Alexander says superiorly. "The marker should show up on the radars of our Air Force. If he's still on that helicopter, he can be shot down from the sky. That is if you let the Air Force know."
John Laurens seems to weigh the validity behind what Alexander says, then he steps away to radio up the Air Force.
While he does this, I slowly walk to Alexander. "Nice job, Alex."
He runs a hand through his wet, auburn hair. "Thanks, (Y/N). Guess this mission may not be a complete failure after all."
John Laurens finishes giving directions, then he leads us out of the room and through the wet halls once more. He's communicating with Charles Lee. By the sound of it, Charles Lee and Aaron Burr have been cornered by a group of the Cuban militia and were forced to gun them down. As a result, a free-fire has commenced. We're free to kill civilians.
John Laurens requests a plane to pick us up, as many soldiers and civilians are bound to be on our tail by now. To my surprise, he leads us towards the higher levels of the large building. When I asked, he said a Hawk would come to pick us up from there.
Lo and behold, John Laurens leads us to a balcony on the fifth floor, and a Hawk comes hovering by in a helicopter-like way.
We hop in, helping the injured in first, then filing after them. Alexander offers me a hand of support as I go in, which I gladly accept. John Laurens is the last one in, and when he shuts the doors, he calls for the pilots to fly off. The Hawk's helicopter mode lifts us higher into the air, and once we're high enough, the jets take off, sending us away.
"Lee, are you there?" John Laurens says into his earpiece. His head perks up, signaling that Lee responded. "Are you out yet? Alright. Knox wants us to regroup with him in Key West. Over."
We remain silently huddled in the plane as we fly further North and back to what remains of Florida. I'm anxiously waiting for a radio back from one of the other pilots to say they shot down the President's transportation. It's only a matter of time.
I hear explosions coming from below, and it causes us all to jump in surprise. The hell? The explosions are persistent and never-ending. They confuse John Laurens enough to encourage him to slide the doors open again.
I gasp when I see bomber planes flying by, dropping missiles of all different sizes onto the city. They're blowing the place up!
"Lee, what the hell is going on?!" John Laurens shouts into his earpiece. "If you don't know, ask fuckin' Burr!" There's a short pause, then John Laurens continues. "The hell you mean Washington ordered a city bombin'?! What the hell are we trying to achieve?! We have the President on our radar! We just need to-"
We're cut off when the plane we're boarded on takes a sharp turn, slamming us into the wall and each other.
"Sorry," I whisper to Peggy, who I literally butted heads with.
"Y'all better sit," John Laurens calls over his shoulder. "It's going to be a bumpy retreat."
We plop our little asses onto the uncomfortable ground, and I glare at John Laurens as he remains standing by the open door. He doesn't seem affected, even when the entire plane rattles. He's way too focused on arguing with Lee.
"Listen, tea bag! I don't give a single fuck what Knox went through! You tell him to go back to his drop-off location and get those soldiers he fuckin' abandoned or I'll tell him myself! You know damn well you don't want me to be the one to tell him!"
Alexander beckoned over the soldier with a medic patch who was going around and helping heal everyone's minor injuries. He walks over, then kneels in front of me.
"She's got a cut on her cheek," Alexander says. "Will she be okay?"
I nearly smack Alexander's head for making such a big deal over a little scratch, but I keep myself composed. I'm not a fucking child.
The medic tilts my chin to the side to get a better view, then reaches into his first aid kit. "It should be fine," he says. "Looks like just a small scrape. It could have been much worse. With a bandage and time, it'll be fully healed in a week. It'll leave a small scar, though."
I stay still as he places a bandage over the cut, then walks off to help someone else.
"A scar?" I scoff. "I guess we are more alike now than before." I pat the arm which I bit. It has fully healed a while ago, but a scar was left on his skin.
"Funny," he sighs. "Here, don't move."
I stay still as he licks his thumb, then rubs my cheek.
"You looking for another bite?" I joke, partially grossed out by his actions.
"You had blood on your face."
I must have smeared some on myself while wiping away my bloody nose. "Thanks, I guess," I say. I scooch closer to him, craving comfort. After such a terrifying mission, my mind is completely blank. I stare at the vacant eyes of Peggy and Rory, figuring they feel the way I do. I can't comprehend what I feel. It's too complicated.
Five minutes into the flight, Havana is far away now. The explosions are barely audible from this distance. John Laurens' argument has stopped and he continues staring out the door, his fists clenched.
It's relatively quiet other than the small talk about what happened and a few girls crying over the soldiers who died during the mission. Our uniforms are mostly dry at this point, but there's still a solemn chill in the air. It doesn't make sense since Cuba is a rather hot country. I'm shivering.
"Hey, (Y/N)," I hear John Laurens call out, breaking his silence. "Come here."
As much as I'd like to stay put, I hop to my feet. I motion for Alexander to follow me. He seems as hesitant to join John Laurens as I am, but he follows me nonetheless. We approach the door he's standing at, Alexander making a pushing motion as a joke. Well, maybe it was a joke.
"What's up?" I ask when Alexander and I step to his right.
"Look down," he murmurs, not seeming to mind that I brought Alexander with me after only calling me.
Alexander and I shift our eyes downward, seeing what appears to be a desolate town completely surrounded by water. A small island. The buildings that once stood are in shambles and fires are raging, consuming everything it touches.
"It was a man-made island," John Laurens informs us. "The name... it's irrelevant. It got bombed with the rest of Florida despite not being of American territory. It had a high population of children."
"The Cubans bombed it?" I ask stupidly.
John Laurens nods. "Figure what we're doing to Havana is righteous payback?"
"Well," Alexander jumps in, "if you consider all they did to Florida, it's more than appropriate."
John Laurens scoffs. "That's what I've been telling myself."
I stare into John Laurens' solemn eyes, hating that I can see the confusion glistening in the hazel color. I think I'd like it better if he was as unreadable as Alexander.
"General, I-"
"He's dead, by the way," John Laurens interrupts me.
I tilt my head and furrow my brows. "Who?"
"President Heriberto Castro. They shot down his helicopter. I got the report a minute ago."
Alexander and I are dead silent, the sound of the Hawk jets bouncing in my vacant mind. Without Alexander's tracker bullet, no way President Castro would have been killed. We should be celebrating. And yet, we can't.
John Laurens pats our shoulders gravely.
"Good job, Hamiltons."