Previous Chapters:
Chapter one
Chapter two

The Men of Area 37

It wasn't a game, contrary to what most of the commodores thought. This was hell. While the commanders were allowed to stay in safe haven watching the battle unfold in real time from some artificial imaging system in an air conditioned room with attendents all around, not even they could deny it. Rather than pick up actual images of the people they were sending off to die, they had little icons that didn't look human. Rather than hear the shattering screams of the dead and dying, a female voice notified the one responsible "Our base is under attack" in a tone that was merciless and without emotion. To them they were nothing but an icon, those men down there who died by the thousands and millions.

Sure, in a few hundred years or so, the only thing that will be remembered for these brave men will be a number. The number dead, the number wounded, and the number that went missing. Their pain would never be known, their story never told, their blood, and tears of men just like you and I never recognized, as it was none of anybodies concern. They didn't exist. This is their story.

Chapter Three

"Delivery"

 1128 TST, CSBC Clipper;

Low Orbit over Tarsonis, Confederate Capitol World

Somewhere in the upper atmosphere of the tropical planet of Tarsonis, there sat the cruiser. Inside the captains cabin was a table, with 8 chairs to accompany it. It was not a protruding table, it did not stand out in any way, and nothing important had to do about it. The men though, did.

The men were centered around the table. All knew what they had come for, and none appeared at all comfortable. At the top of the yellow table was a well built man of around 35 years, inside a rusty teal Marine Battle Dress Uniform. He was twice hero of the Confederate Expedition, and had earned a number of medallions for bravery under fire. The Identification label on the left breast read "Col Richard Hughes, CNC D.S". Colonel Hughes had been promoted to a full Colonel only 30 days before, and was now the Commander in Chief of Delta Squadron.

Arrayed around him were the various subordinates and high commanders of Delta Squadron. Most were under 25 and had only been appointed to the job because the former commanders had been KIA'd. They were all very nervous, many biting their lips or tapping their feet on the ground. They all wore the Model IX Confederate Officers Battledress, which featured vertical stripped yellow in between the teal colors to let troops know not to screw with them. Visors were all down, and the grim expressions on their faces told it all.

"Now that we are all gathered, I presume we may begin." Hughes stated in a reluctant tone. Nobody responded. "As you all know, we are entering the third day of the Zerg invasion. For those of you that do not know, we have already lost the colonies of Mar Sara, Chau Sara, and the half constructed penal colony of Char. Our communications network is almost completely down, and we are in a way, isolated from the outside." This was not news to any of them, as they had been briefed an hour beforehand. However, the reiteration of this emphasized its meaning, and a few of the officers began to shift in their seats.

"The Confederate Militia has given us full control of the situation gentlemen, which means that with the cooperation of the Omega Squadron and the Tarsonis Guard, we will begin offensive movements against the invaders. We have over 150,000 siege tanks at our disposal, as well as 1,900,000,000 Infantry and personnel willing to fight to the death.

"However, the Zerg invaders have already began to siege Tarsonis City, and half of our troops are committed to retaining the capitol until it can be evacuated. We have already lost more than half of the east hemisphere, and we need to start taking some of it back. We have some reports of Mining Colonies and local militia's holding off the invadors with urban warfare tactics, and we are going to begin to relieve them with heavier firepower. Before our communications were lost, the Korhal Guard is deploying a detachment of troops as well as 3 fleets of warships to reinforce us, and we are hoping for their arrival within the next 48 hours. Should we take out the hive clusters and spawning points of the enemy, as well as disable their mining capabilities, we may be able to crush the enemy with the help of the Korhal fleet.

"There remains one problem however. We have lost all contact with the Bloodhawks when their capitol ship Norad II and its escorts were shot down in a skirmish with the invaders. When we deployed troops to find the lost squadron, we found they had gotten to General Duke and made a secret alliance with the commander. We have lost contact with Space Station "A", when the platform was attacked by Terrans with Confederate Markings and Alpha Squadron Colors. We have ruled out the possibility of the Morians and other Pirates, but it still leaves the Sons of Korhal as an assailant in this attack." The men were unmoved. They had already heard of this, and it was no longer new: Edmund Duke had betrayed them and their people, and it was his fault that hope of survival was snuffed out like a candle in the wind.

"Now is the time for planning gentlemen... we begin at 0330 tomorrow, and if you will open the folders in front of you, you can start to prepare for what's soon to come."

Michelle Armstrong was still struggling to keep the vessel steady. The damaged hydraulics were leaking fluid now, and the backup system was non functional. The amount the ship was reacting to the commands was diminishing by the moment. She had to land this plane now. About half a kilometer away was the landing pad she would try to put her down, as it was cleared from any of the concrete strucutres. It was beginning to look familiar now. The noon sun was high in the sky, and if it wasn't for the fact that she could very well die a burning death, this would normally have settled for a good day.

"Kevin! Drop the first load on my mark!" Armstrong shouted, not even glancing away from the outside. There was no reply, as the load chief was busy fixing the load for its rough landing. The corpsmen, not knowing what to do, were gathered in a huddle near the side. They would have to wait inside until the thing landed or crashed.

The dropship was bobbing up and down now, its vector jets fighting the commands of Michelle. The struggling engine was keeping the slow pace, and soon they were over the target zone, still 300 meters from the landing point.

"Mark! Drop, Drop, Drop!" And with that the rear section of the lower fuselage folded downwards like a bomb bay, and the floor the load had been strapped too drifted freely to the ground below. The top of the bound "package" was connected by fabric wires to a foot think neo-steel pole running across the top of the fuselage. The load dropped out of its storage, and at fifty feet into its decent the wires snagged back, pulling open a cumbersome object on the top of the entire thing, revealing a parachute, before snapping back into the ship. The new found support slowed the decent as the parachute deployed, and it was now free from Armstrong's responsibility

The pad was getting bigger now, but the dropship more rebellious. The second load rigging had been already set, and in 5 seconds Armstrong gave the word.

"Mark! Drop, Drop, Drop!"

The vessel jolted up into the air, feeling free from the huge load, leaving Armstrong the task of taming it back down again. The landing sight was now about 100 meters distant, and Armstrong had to rig it in for landing. Vector nozels were pointed at 100 degrees, pushing the force of the engines towards the ground and ten degrees forward, to slow it down some. This was probably the hardest part of flying the thing, a manual emergency landing with gravitational force to worry about. Armstrong flipped the safety cap off of three red switches, and flipped them all on, one by one. The display on the lower left side of the cockpit displayed three green lights in a delta pattern, one in a twelve o'clock position, and two others in five and seven. Landing skids on the outside of the ship were down and in a locked position, one on the nose and two others on the rear.

"Hold on back there! I'm putting her down!"

Roberts watched as the dropship heaved up and down as if it were being tossed about. The Enemy air unit was finally being killed off, and right now the biggest threat was the 45-ton dropship that was flying barely controllable. There was a heavy black spray coming out of the port side, and it didn't look like it was supposed to be there at all. Out of nowhere, the vessel nosed upwards, its solitary engine fighting a futile battle against gravity. It slowed, peaked, and the tail accelerated downwards and out of control. By sheer luck and hard control by the pilot, the craft was able to level out seconds before it collided short of the pad. The skids snapped from the pressure and were of no use in slowing the ship, as its belly ground right into the rock.

Roberts was not a man to be standing by, and ran up to help the ship, in a way he wasn't sure how. He stopped ten meters from the ship, and bolted his attention to the left, where the terror filled his eyes. The flyer roared past the base at a scant five meters from the ground, and as if sprinting on the air it flew on, screamed at the Commander in a loud, pale, almost angry wail Roberts was not soon to forget. He couldn't move, couldn't pick up his feet He attempted to turn to the flyer and bring the sights of his weapon on it, but his arms betrayed him, as they spasmed out of control. The beast accelerated, and Roberts panicked. Something dropped.

Seeing the green ball come out of the monster and crawl along, advancing on him, Roberts felt himself lose his grip on the weapon as it left his fingertips. It was over, he was dead. When the ball struck it didn't come as a surprise. The world dropped from under his feet, and it seemed to be traveling very far away. He looked up at the sky, the light blue infinite, and was for a moment no longer here, no longer close to his death, no longer a pawn in a game of kings. As quickly as he disappeared, he was slammed in the back by solid earth. He was lifted off of his feet and thrown on his back, to come to a sliding halt three meters later, his half-ton battlesuit not even leaving a dent in the ground.

He continued to stare at the sky, where all was clear. He wasn't going to wake up, he would stay here forever. Soon, even the light went away, and the stars went out.

When they later recovered his body, it had a certain smirk on it, as if he were glad to be freed from the grasp of life. He was later taken off on the dropship Amsterdam for burial with full honors, which was later shot down en route. He was never known again.