This is a short story based on an idea I had and tinkered with for years now. I'm submitting it for your approval. This is a Sci Fi/Thriller story set in the modern day, five minutes into the future... with giant robots.
Expect plenty of nods to a lot of Mecha.
= = =
Cracks of gunfire and explosions echoed through the streets of Damascus, the captial of Syria, as the fighting between the Government under the rule Bashar al-Assad and the Anti-Assad rebels, now calling itself the Free Syrian Army, was reaching its climax. Armed and equipped with weapons and support from the West, the rebellion had exploded from where it had been previously been holed up in tiny border towns and hidden strongholds, gaining momentum and strength as it barreled into the limits of the Capital City.
To the world witnessing it, opinion was split along two familiar lines. To the West, the advances and successes of a people long downtrodden by a ruthless dictator were celebrated by governments and media alike. A much desired restart of the Arab Spring was well underway, where people would be free to choose their leaders and their destinies. To the East, the ardent refusal of any real negotiations and reform in lieu of violent overthrow of a country's legitimate ruler was seen as a crime. A naked grab in a region already unstable for almost seventy years by Western paymasters not wholly interested in democracy but control over influence and resources.
Regardless of how either side viewed it, there was no denying that the end was nigh. The Free Syrian Army controlled about forty percent of Damascus now, including the major roads and the port. The remainder of the city was held by the soldiers of Assad's army and his allies from Iran's Revolutionary Guard and Hezbollah. Even as they crumbled to the steady advance at the edges of the city, they were well entrenched around the Presidential Palace, where Assad loudly and vehemently denounced the Free Syrian Army, their war, and the West.
With the rebels digging in for the final stage of the siege, there was little else he could do. Out in the Mediterranean Sea, two powerful navies, US and Russian, stared one another down. Neither willing to directly intervene and trigger a much larger conflict with the other. Iran and Lebanon had committed everything they could to the fight but in the face of an increasingly powerful and united rebellion, their support had whittled away to all that was left in Damascus.
Still, Assad promised to the rebellion a "Miracle from God" that would crush the Free Syrian Army and end the question of his rule once and for all.
"He said it'd be any day now, didn't he?" asked Maureen Woodrow, a young American reporter who had been embedded with the Free Syrian Army and following them for the last month through their advance on the capital. She was interviewing the FSA's Commanding Officer General Selim bin Amir, who had set up the FSA's command post at the port of the city, which was already seeing aid flood in from around the world.
The commander of the Free Syrian Army, an older man who had been a former General of Assad, nodded. "Only as we have made it into the Capital, has he made this declaration of Godly Intervention."
Maureen nodded. "Do you believe there is any truth to this threat? That Assad may launch a Biological or Chemical Attack?"
"It is very unlikely, all stocks of Biological and Chemical weapons possessed by the Assad regieme were destroyed or turned over to international authorities as agreed upon in 2013," the General gruffly replied. "Assad's promises of destruction are only the ravings of a friendless man surrounded by his enemies."
Maureen nodded slowly. "And if there is something that Assad may do, will the Free Syrian Army be ready for it?"
"Yes. Two years ago, I would've told you that we couldn't handle even the regulars of his army. But thanks to considerable aid from our allies and brothers who understand the importance of freedom for the Syrian people, we are more than ready to handle what Assad's regieme may unleash."
"Thank you General bin Amir," she turned to the camera set up on a tripod. "Spirits are high here in Damascus as the Free Syrian Army prepares the final thrust to take the Presidential Palace. This is Maureen Woodward for the Associated Press."
She gestured to the cameraman to cut the feed. "And we're done here for now."
"I should be thanking you, you know," the General said as the cameraman picked his camera up. Maureen looked back at him.
"Excuse me?" she asked.
"Thanks to your people, we are closing this dark chapter of our nation's history. More important than your guns and money... it is the truth you reveal to the world that's making this all possible for us," the General said to Maureen. "I cannot thank you enough, our people cannot thank you enough. May God above bless you."
Taken aback by the man's gratitude, Maureen managed to smile. "It... It's just my duty, General. The truth has to get out there, and it's our job to tell it."
Minutes later, Maureen climbed into the passenger seat of a white pickup truck as her driver and cameraman climbed into the driver's seat. Slamming the door shut and pulling her headscarf tight around her head, the young reporter reclined in her seat and looked out the window as her cameraman started up the truck and left the port. Their destination was an armored unit close to the palace but out of the general line of fire.
"The truth is, this whole war is just one more step towards the new world order," she muttered aloud over the rattling of the pickup navigating the busy streets.
Hamid Houssan, an Arab American who had only arrived in the last week to be both her cameraman and translator, looked over at her in surprise. "You don't really believe in that, do you?"
"Believe in what, that this war does nothing but further the agendas of a few rich old white men who get off on controlling the lives of billions?" she asked in turn.
Hamid shook his head and chuckled. "Never would've figured you for one of those types."
"One of what type?" she smartly replied.
"Those conspiracy theory nuts." Hamid shrugged his shoulders. "Maureen Woodrow: Pulitzer-winning war correspondent and Tinfoil Hat Fashionista."
Maureen laughed and looked back to him as he stopped at an intersection, to allow several heavy duty trucks towing surplus American artillery pieces to roll by, followed by armored vehicles--also American surplus. "There's no theories only the reality you don't want to accept. For instance, do you really think that the FSA will give Syria the democracy it's fighting for when this is done?"
Hamid pulled a grimace at that. Power vacuums were an ugly thing, and even with all the good will in the world, military powers were never ones to just relinquish complete control when the struggle was over. Watching his expression change, Maureen nodded.
"The West doesn't want that either. They want whoever agrees with their plans for the region, and bin Amir fits that to a T. He hates Iran, he hates al-Qaeda, and he has quietly expressed Israel's right to exist."
Hamid's eyebrows rose in skepticism as he began driving again. "And I suppose that's how he was able to acquire ten billion dollars in weapons from our suddenly booming economy?"
Maureen nodded. "It's all online to read. Cables leaked six months ago called the Free Syrian Government weak and disorganized, only held together by a mutual hatred for Assad. They identified Selim bin Amir as the man the CIA wanted to support in the post-Assad vacuum as the 'real' leader."
Hamid hummed. "So another strongman like Mubarak or Saddam."
"Exactly. Someone the US can sell weapons to in order to put the squeeze on the Iranians and Russians."
Hamid sighed. "American Imperialism, right?"
"It's not just an American phenomena. Remember that just a week ago, before the FSA overran it, this was all but a Russian strategic port."
Hamid pulled the truck over to the side of a street near a block of bombed out and collapsed buildings. In front of them, American-built Abrams tanks, the earliest models, were positioning themselves upon the top of the ruins to have a good firing arc on the Presidential Palace. Putting on a pair of sunglasses to shield her eyes from the harsh desert sun, and a helmet over her headscarf, Maureen opened the door.
"It's plain Neo-Imperialism. Rather than spread yourself thin conquering and bending a people to your will, you feed them money and guns and they will fight whoever you command them to for the privilege to suckle from the teat. That is the legacy of the Cold War, a Puppet's game."
Both climbed out, as one of the tanks fired towards the Presidential Palace. Reaching into her pocket, Maureen pulled out a small handheld camera as Hamid got his bulkier camera from the back of the truck. "This round's almost over."
The fired High Explosive shell whistled through the air and smashed into the front lawn of the Presidential Palace, the resulting explosion briefly shaking the building. Underneath bright lights connected to generators set up elsewhere, Bashar al-Assad sat in a comfortable wooden chair, seemingly unperturbed by the war ready to march to his doorstep.
Across from him, a Russian man wearing a ballistics vest over his suit and a press band around his right arm sat in another chair. The impacting shell had rattled him, causing him to look up at the ceiling.
"Another miss, those American tanks are always inaccurate," Bashar said to the reporter before him. "Don't worry about the misses, the one that kills us will be the one we don't hear coming."
Alexi Stenovich laughed weakly at the Syrian President's gallows humor, before trying to make himself more comfortable. A veteran reporter and foreign correspondent, Alexi had covered many stories around the world, from the Chechen conflicts to the American wars in the middle East, to even riding with the Russian Army into Georgia in defense of South Ossetia. For the last six years he'd become the go to man for the so-called Arab Spring, and the sputtering revolution had finally brought him here, to sit in the same room as the "Last Dictator" and record what were very likely to be his last hours alive.
Or minutes, given the explosion just now.
"I have to admire your courage in all of this, President. Most men would appear more desperate in your shoes. Yet here you are, the picture of serenity," Alexi admitted.
Assad nodded. "The time for desperation passed long ago. Knowing what I do now, I am not afraid... I am confident in the victory that is coming."
The coming victory... This perplexed the aged reporter. Only days before, as the FSA arrived, Assad had appeared on State Television transformed from an increasingly vehement, desperate leader, to the calm and composed man before him. There, with unwavering certainty he declared to the Syrian people that the end of the Civil War was nigh, and the FSA was marching to its complete annihilation.
"I find that fascinating," Alexi said, "You have promised for days now a total victory. But forgive me... I'm not certain myself by what you mean. The rebels have encircled the city and hold the port. There is no way in or out for you or your supporters. I must know... What is your plan for defeating the rebels?"
"I cannot reveal those details, I am afraid." Assad smiled some. "Even if I could, you would find it so incredible that you would call me crazy for believing it. But a miracle is coming, and I called you here to show it to the world."
"When is your miracle coming, President?" Alexi asked. "And will it really end the rebellion?"
Assad nodded. "It will be very soon, and it will break them." He checked the wrist watch he wore, and noded. "Any minute now."
Over a hundred thousand feet above the Earth, well out of reach of all but the most advanced air defense systems, a very large aircraft descended from even higher in the thin atmosphere. It was a great black flying wing, larger than the American B-2 Stealth Bomber. It was larger than even the largest aircraft in the world flying today, its great wingspan an absolute necessity for flying at these altitudes. Owing to this shape and its dark color, its approach was unheralded, unnoticed by anyone on the ground.
Within the aircraft, a woman dressed in a blue and gray flight suit and helmet walked down a row of twelve similarly dressed men and women, their faces unseen from behind the opaque visors of their helmets. "All right," she said to them. "We are ten minutes from the DZ. You've all been given your briefing on what we're going to do and the repercussions for it. What I want to hear from you, before we suit up and ship out, is if any of you have any lingering doubts or new objections to this Op."
She stopped at the end of the line of soldiers, and then turned around to face them. "Anything? Any objections? Your checks have already been cut, you can back out now and there'll be no consequence to you or your house."
The soldiers all stood still in line, none making a sound.
The woman folded her arms. "Not one?" A hand went up at the other end of the line, and the woman looked over to the pilot. "Rayfield."
"My complaint," the thinly built male pilot replied, "is that you're not telling us to go suit up."
The other soldier immediately broke into light laughter at that. Taking that as no objections at all, the woman slipped her hands to her hips and nodded. "Well then, wise-ass. Go suit up, the rest of you too! Get ready to go earn your paychecks. "
"Sir!" the pilots shouted in unison, before they turned and headed down the wide corridor towards the back of the plane.
As they departed, the woman headed for the front of the plane, walking up two flights of stairs to door. With a hiss and a click, it slid open to allow her entry into a spacious bridge better reserved for a ship than an aircraft. At the front of the plane, seeing the world through its wide, well-armored windows were the flight crew. Two pilots, three flight engineers, and a radio officer. Seated behind them was another row of consoles manned officers: Electronic Warfare, Command and Control, and Weapons System operators. Finally, seated on a chair slightly higher above them, was the Captain, an older man wearing a gray and blue officer's uniform.
"Captain Dressel, we're about to fly," the woman said with a quick salute reminiscent of the United Kingdom's Royal Navy.
Captain Dressel tilted up his officer's cap, the kindly-looking 50 year old gray-beared Captain nodded to the woman in the flight suit. "And you?"
"I'll be launching as well, Captain. We will meet at the rendezvous in three hours."
Captain Dressel nodded again. "Don't get shot down out there, Ashta. Get in there, get down, and come out alive, you and your men."
The woman laugehd behind her helmet. "Don't worry, nothing's coming out of your paycheck."
"Good. Happy Hunting." With another salute, the woman turned and headed back out the door, leaving the Captain to follow her out with his eyes. As the door closed behind her, he looked back to the bridge in front of him and noticed the other officers staring at him with wry looks.
"What?" the Captain asked. The soldiers just kept staring. Catching the meaning of their looks, he let out a laugh. "Oh come on, like none of you don't look."
The other crew laughed and turned back to their stations, as Captain Dressel rose from his seat. "The drop will commence in five minutes. Let's make some noise!"
Across the back of the great craft, missile tubes slid open as across its belly two pairs of double doors opened to reveal six large containers hanging inside the first bomb bay, ready to be dropped. Aboard its bridge, the electronic warfare operator called back to Captain Dressel.
"We are bringing the noise, Captain. Jamming is active."
Far below in the Mediterranean Sea, were ships from several NATO countries acting as a protective screen for international aid to flow uncontested into the port of Damascus. The most powerful force of this screen was the USS Theodore Roosevelt and its battlegroup, consisting of seven ships in total to keep at bay the Russian Navy, whose own carrier group was bolstered by an amphibious assault force.
While neither side was interested in shooting one another, their commanders on both sides were itching for a much more satisfying political victory. A game of chicken in which the leader of the losing country would have to stand before the camera and explain their failure to the world.
On the bridge of the Roosevelt, what had been just another day in the standoff was suddenly transforming as one by one radar and communications was knocked off line first aboard the carrier, and then across every ship in the task group, leaving blank screens filled with radar noise and all radio channels filled with static.
The other NATO vessels, Turkish, Italian, British, French, and Spanish also suddenly lost their sensors and with it a panic set in as commanders tried to fight their way through the interference and identify the source. And it wasn't just their ships as the Russians quickly fell victim to the powerful Electronic Communications Countermeasure broadcast across the theater of operations.
On the bridge of the aircraft, the silence was deafening. "The noise has been brought," the EW Operator finally reported.
Dressel nodded. "Begin operation."
The six containers immediately fell away from the belly of the aircraft, steadied themselves and fired rocket motors that propelled them towards the ground many miles below. From the second bomb bay, four sleek but large twin-engined fighter jets were dropped one by one into the thin atmosphere, where they immediately dropped nosefirst towards the terrain below. Moments later, missiles began firing from the dorsal mounted tubes in salvos, curving over and plummeting towards the ground ahead of the falling containers and fighters.
"This is Maureen Woodward reporting from the heart of Damascus, where the Free Syrian Army has already begun its siege of the Presidential Palace." Maureen reported into the camera as the tanks up on the ruins opened fire again, joining the violent reports of artillery pieces shelling the palace. "Tanks and artillery pieces like those seen behind me are shelling known positions of Hezbollah and Revolutionary Guard, softening them up for the advance on the Presidential Guard by forces hardened by years of fighting a bitter struggle back and forth across the country."
On the other side of the camera, Hamid looked into the viewfinder and noticed something wrong right away. "Maureen! Maur! Cut, cut! We've got no connection."
Maureen stopped. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing, we're not broadcasting." Hamid lowered the camera and looked at the Wi-Fi transmitter connected to the camera. "It's on the fritz."
"Is it still recording?" Maureen asked. "We can just keep going, come on-" As Hamid lifted up the camera to point back at her, both heard a whistling.
Maureen looked up for only a moment before she ran at Hamid and grabbed him. "Get down! Get down!"
Before he dropped the camera, a missile hurtled from the clear blue sky above and smashed into the top of one of the FSA Abrams, blowing clean through the tank from top to bottom and causing it to explode violently.
A second later, two more missiles wiped out the two other tanks, their explosions sending shrapnel and exploding ammunition scattering in every direction. Hidden behind a low, strong wall, Maureen and Hamid both covered their ears as the explosions quickly passed.
"What... what was that?" Maureen asked as she pulled out her handheld camcorder and pointed it over the top of the wall towards the tanks. She then looked over the wall herself, and gasped. "Oh my God... They're gone."
Hamid sat up, and pointed his camera at the sky. "Maur, look up!"
Maureen looked up, and her eyes widened when she saw dozens of contrails descending from the sky above. "What? Oh... Oh my God..."
The missiles, homed in on their targets with perfect accuracy, crashing down on the armored vehicles and artillery pieces of the FSA. Consuming them and their crews with tremendous explosions. The blasts went on, deafening and frequent, for over thirty seconds, before all became eerily quiet in Damascus save lingering explosions and gunfire from panicking soldiers.
The explosions had brought Assad and Alex from his Palace's bunker and to the front garden, where they were suddenly an audience to the devastating air strike.
"What' is this?!" Alexi demanded before he looked to Assad, who was smiling. "President Assad, what just happened?!"
"God's will." He pointed skyward. "Look! Look! It's begun!"
Alexi and his own camera crew looked skyward, as the six large containers fell from the sky their rocket engines cut and large parachutes quickly slowing their descent. The closest of them suddenly unsealed, its seams bursting before its sides and bottom blew away, revealing a sight that caused Alexi to stumble backward and fall in disbelief.
Maureen lowered her own camera as Hamid dropped his to the ground, unable to hold it. Wide-eyed, they watched as the panels fell away to reveal the unthinkable. A large humanoid robot, painted black and swathed in what appeared to be green fabric and slatted body armor. Its parachutes, attached to a large backpack, suddenly cut away and the robot plummeted a hundred feet to the ground before engines on its backpack and in its calves fired, slowing it even more to come to a thunderous landing directly in front of the two CNN reporters.
"A... A giant robot," Maureen gasped as it looked down at her with red eyes glowing inside of a black visor that went around its entire head. Reaching up to its shoulder, it removed from a hardpoint to remove a Kalishnikov-style rifle that it took in both hands and pointed first at them, and then past them at a pair of Light Armored Vehicles up the street.
With two loud blasts, it fired a shell into each of the lightly armored vehicles and destroyed them easily. Regarding the two news reporters a final time, the robot turned away and then propelled itself forward, a loud screeching sound emanating from its feet as it slid along the street.
Another of the robots landed nearby an Abrams that had survived the missile barrage. The FSA soldiers in and around it could only gawk at the machine in shock as it quickly drew its own rifle to spray them down with bullets. A three round burst ripped into the Abrams' turret, and another burst tore apart the soldiers attempting to flee from the gunfire.
The other four robots landed around the city and immediately began to attack, including a robot painted royal purple and gold and sporting a large backward-sweeping fin atop its head, unlike the other bald headed machines. It also carried a different weapon, a more compact weapon resembling a pump action shotgun.
Inside the machine's chest mounted cockpit, surrounded by panoramic monitors, Ashta manipulated the trackball controls and foot pedals, sending her machine into motion. Pumping a round into the chamber, she aimed the shotgun at an artillery unit and fired, shredding the guns, trucks, and their terrified crews with tightly packed shot consisting of dozens of iron balls.
"Fan out and destroy as many armored vehicles and FSA positions as possible. If they're not carrying guns, don't shoot them," she ordered the other pilots.
"Roger!" the other pilots reported in unison.
Maureen and Hamid had managed to regain their bearings and moved, first taking cover and then quickly pointing their cameras at the incredible turn of events. "I don't believe this, I don't... I just don't! What are those things?!" she shouted as she watched one of the robots attack an Abrams that was bringing its main cannon to bear on it.
Before the tank could fire, the robot fired first. Its rifle shells left deep impressions in the turret armor before the top of the turret was blown clean off. Skimming around the tank, it fired into its rear and backed as off its engine and stored ammunition explodion violently.
"This is unreal," she heard Hamid gasp, and nodded in agreement.
Another Abrams' main gun fired, from range. Its target turned and dodged to the side from the hurtling shell. Lifting its own rifle, the robot fired off several bursts that pelted the tank, which managed to back away from the worst of it. Before the tank could return fire, another of the robots leaped on it from behind another bulding and landed on it. Aiming its rifle straight down, the robot ripped into it with a single burst before it jumped away and left it burning.
Landing after firing its thrusters, the robot ejected its banana-shaped magazine into its hand and tossed it aside, before drawing another from one from one of the pockets of its armor and reloaded it. Inside this robot's cockpit, Rayfield looked up to see several Free Syrian Army attack helicopters quickly moving in.
"Wow," he said, "they really kitted out these guys. Do they have planes too?"
"If they do, they're not going to be a factor," Ashta replied.
The helicopters opened fire with Anti-Tank Missiles on his machine, the wire-guided missiles closing in on him rapidly. Unconcerned, Rayfield only smiled as reticles appeared over the five missiles, and then winked. A split second later, the missiles all exploded violently before even coming close.
Lifting up his robot's rifle, Rayfield fired single shots, hitting each of the several helicopters square on their cockpits, knocking them from the sky. Gunfire raked his machine, and he turned around to see another Light Armored Vehicle firing repeatedly with its automatic cannon. Each round bounced off the robots body armor, doing insignificant damage as Rayfield lifted his rifle with one hand and finished it with a burst.
"American military might, designed and built by the lowest bidder."
Sliding to a halt in front of a burning Abrams, another of the robots turned its rifle down on several Free Syrian soldiers, one of them aiming an RPG at its chest. The soldier screamed for strength from God and fired, the missile racing for the chest of the robot before it exploded far short of its target. The soldier holding the RPG shook his head in disbelief before he too burst into flames. A rifle shot the ended his misery, as the robot turned and continued on.
"What is this?" Alexi asked again, unable to accept what he was seeing even as it unfurled before his eyes. "I don't... I don't understand, what is happening?"
Assad held out his hands, as another explosion propelled a tank's turret above the Damascus skyline. "This is a revolution. From this day the world will never be the same."
The Syrian President was certainly right. Weapons that existed only in fiction were running rampant through the city, striking down the enemies of the Assad Regieme with complete impunity.
"General! We have to get out of here!" an FSA runner gasped as he staggered into bin Amir's forward post. "The enemy is wiping us out!"
General bin Amir rose from his seat. From the moment the communications fell and fighting began, he had been as blind as everyone else. "What is happening? How?"
The runner bent over and gripped his knees as he tried to catch his breath. "They are... giants..."
"Giants?" Anti-Aircraft fire suddenly drowned out any other noise as air raid sirens blared.
Another soldier ran in. "General! We have to flee! It's an air attack!"
"Flee! We can't flee now, we're so close!"
The soldier shook his head. "We can't win, they're Russian!:
General bin Amir paled on the spot. "Russian?!"
Outside, multi-barreled anti-aircraft guns spewed tracers high into the air towards familiar the large fighter planes, which curved and weaved through the air to avoid them. General bin Amir and his staff quickly evacuated the building and looked up to see the fighters, Russian built Sukhois, without a doubt.
"Where are the Americans?!" the General asked before the anti-air systems lowered their trajectory and began firing out over the water. Following the tracers, bin Amir grew wide-eyed as a single fighter skimmed at wave weight under the lowest trajectory of the guns, its engines kicking up a huge spray of water behind it. "No... no, God in Heaven no...!"
Spotting the General's familiar white uniform among the people on the shore, the rapidly approaching pilot smiled and released the safety on her plane's underwing mounted rocket pilots. "Yippie Kai Yay, motherfuckers!" she cheered as she held down the trigger with extreme prejudice.
The fifteen rockets in each pod fired in quick succession, sending thirty projectiles into the FSA General and his staff and ending them in a barrage of tremendous explosions. Lifting her fighter's nose up, the pilot redline the throttle and shot past the curtain of anti-aircraft fire, leaving the gunners yelling in frustration before a second fighter's rockets pounded the turrets into burning ruins.
The explosions echoed from the port, and Maureen looked back to see smoke rising from it. She slowly shook her head, as a third and fourth fighter dropped rockets on the port. There was no doubt in her mind what it meant. "The FSA is broken."
"Oh shit..." Hamid said as his camera followed one of the fighters. "They're Russians! Those sons of bitches!"
Maureen pointed her camera at the Royal Purple robot, which ejected a shotgun shell as it stood over the retreating Free Syrian Army. She saw it turn and begin walking towards the Revolutionary Guard and Hezbollah positions, and the Presidential Palace beyond them. "Hamid, stay here. Keep filming."
She got up and ran out across the street and into a narrow alley between two ruined buildings. Hamid called after her, but quickly hunkered down as another of the robots appeared and walked slowly past his position. Saying his prayers to any God in the audience, he only pointed his camera at it and waited.
The forces loyal to Assad were celebrating in and around the palace as Ashta's custom painted machine stepped into the front lot and towards the front steps, where Bashar al-Assad and his fighters had gathered. Alexi stood to the side, staring in awe at the machine that towered over them.
It was easily twelve meters tall, maybe a little taller he couldn't be sure. Its body armor was covered in scorch marks and had rounds of different calibers embedded in it. Between the slat armor that surrounded its lower left leg like a cage, a tanks armor-piercing round was wedged in between and dug partway into the body armor underneath.
Its red eyes behind the visor on its head suddenly faded, before the entire chest of the machine swung open, revealing behind it a round sphere whose own door swung down and revealed the flight-suit swathed pilot as she climbed out.
Grabbing a winch that extended from the opened chest armor, Ashta descended to the robot's feet, and walked up the steps towards Assad as his cheering fighters stepped aside.
Assad looked aside to Alexi and gestured for him to come over. "Please, come! Come! I want you to meet our heroes!"
Alexi looked to his camera crew, and then nodded for him to follow him over to Assad. As his cameraman pointed his camera at the suited woman, she reached to a latch and removed her helmet, revealing the face of a pale-skinned, blue-eyed women, with chestnut brown hair that was tightly wrapped up in a bun. Her western features briefly startled the Syrian fighters, but their cheers did not abate as the woman stepped up to the President.
"President Bashar al-Assad, allow me to introduce myself! I am Ashta Kiev, Matron of the House Kiev and Cleaner of the Tappan Military Industrial Complex," she bowed politely before him. "We've just about wrapped this up."
Assad nodded and took Ashta's hands. "Yes, you were wonderful! You and your... what did you call them again?"
"Multipurpose Agile Tank," Ashta replied.
Alexi mouthed the words with her, before he looked up at the machine.
"Or simply MAT."
"MAT," Alexi quietly repeated.
"God praise you, thanks to you Syria and her people are saved," Assad said to her as he shook her hands again.
Ashta nodded slowly, and slipped her hands from Assad's. Pulling her helmet back on over her head, she made sure it was properly affixed, before she looked out back at bombed, ruined Damascus. "President Assad, do you remember what the Tappan Military Industrial Complex agreed to do when you gave us the contract to end this war?"
"Yes, the eliminate all belligerent forces against the nation of Syria," he replied.
Ashta promptly drew a royal purple and gold revolver and shot Assad in the chest. As he fell onto his back, she briskly stepped up and fired a second round square into his forehead. "Contractual obligation fulfilled."
Before the horrified soldiers could react, the MAT's eyes flashed again behind its visor, and the loyal men of Assad promptly burst into flames. The wave of heat forced both Alexi and his camera crew back, leaving light burns over their exposed skin as the woman turned and walked into the flames to the lowered winch.
"Russian," she said to Alexi as she grabbed the winch. "Make sure you got all of that, and show it to the world. This is Day One of Year Zero."
The winch lifted her up to the cockpit, which she swung herself into. Both inner and outer hatches of the MAT closed then, and it turned and walked towards Damascus as their supporting fighter jets circled overhead.
Stopping just short of the buildings, Ashta saw a glint and looked down to see a terrified Maureen holding her camera up at the MAT. Smiling, she had her machine raise its arm and hold up two fingers, before she kept walking to rejoin her fellow pilots. Falling backward, Maureen watched the MAT walk past, and shook her head repeatedly in disbelief.
"This is real... This all really happened," she murmered as she watched the machine walk off into the smoke and dust of the blasted city. She looked down at her camera, and rewound it back to an image that would become iconic in the days to come:
The Multipurpose Agile Tank, the MH.3 Bogart, flashing the V-Sign to a shocked and awed world.
Expect plenty of nods to a lot of Mecha.
= = =
Cracks of gunfire and explosions echoed through the streets of Damascus, the captial of Syria, as the fighting between the Government under the rule Bashar al-Assad and the Anti-Assad rebels, now calling itself the Free Syrian Army, was reaching its climax. Armed and equipped with weapons and support from the West, the rebellion had exploded from where it had been previously been holed up in tiny border towns and hidden strongholds, gaining momentum and strength as it barreled into the limits of the Capital City.
To the world witnessing it, opinion was split along two familiar lines. To the West, the advances and successes of a people long downtrodden by a ruthless dictator were celebrated by governments and media alike. A much desired restart of the Arab Spring was well underway, where people would be free to choose their leaders and their destinies. To the East, the ardent refusal of any real negotiations and reform in lieu of violent overthrow of a country's legitimate ruler was seen as a crime. A naked grab in a region already unstable for almost seventy years by Western paymasters not wholly interested in democracy but control over influence and resources.
Regardless of how either side viewed it, there was no denying that the end was nigh. The Free Syrian Army controlled about forty percent of Damascus now, including the major roads and the port. The remainder of the city was held by the soldiers of Assad's army and his allies from Iran's Revolutionary Guard and Hezbollah. Even as they crumbled to the steady advance at the edges of the city, they were well entrenched around the Presidential Palace, where Assad loudly and vehemently denounced the Free Syrian Army, their war, and the West.
With the rebels digging in for the final stage of the siege, there was little else he could do. Out in the Mediterranean Sea, two powerful navies, US and Russian, stared one another down. Neither willing to directly intervene and trigger a much larger conflict with the other. Iran and Lebanon had committed everything they could to the fight but in the face of an increasingly powerful and united rebellion, their support had whittled away to all that was left in Damascus.
Still, Assad promised to the rebellion a "Miracle from God" that would crush the Free Syrian Army and end the question of his rule once and for all.
"He said it'd be any day now, didn't he?" asked Maureen Woodrow, a young American reporter who had been embedded with the Free Syrian Army and following them for the last month through their advance on the capital. She was interviewing the FSA's Commanding Officer General Selim bin Amir, who had set up the FSA's command post at the port of the city, which was already seeing aid flood in from around the world.
The commander of the Free Syrian Army, an older man who had been a former General of Assad, nodded. "Only as we have made it into the Capital, has he made this declaration of Godly Intervention."
Maureen nodded. "Do you believe there is any truth to this threat? That Assad may launch a Biological or Chemical Attack?"
"It is very unlikely, all stocks of Biological and Chemical weapons possessed by the Assad regieme were destroyed or turned over to international authorities as agreed upon in 2013," the General gruffly replied. "Assad's promises of destruction are only the ravings of a friendless man surrounded by his enemies."
Maureen nodded slowly. "And if there is something that Assad may do, will the Free Syrian Army be ready for it?"
"Yes. Two years ago, I would've told you that we couldn't handle even the regulars of his army. But thanks to considerable aid from our allies and brothers who understand the importance of freedom for the Syrian people, we are more than ready to handle what Assad's regieme may unleash."
"Thank you General bin Amir," she turned to the camera set up on a tripod. "Spirits are high here in Damascus as the Free Syrian Army prepares the final thrust to take the Presidential Palace. This is Maureen Woodward for the Associated Press."
She gestured to the cameraman to cut the feed. "And we're done here for now."
"I should be thanking you, you know," the General said as the cameraman picked his camera up. Maureen looked back at him.
"Excuse me?" she asked.
"Thanks to your people, we are closing this dark chapter of our nation's history. More important than your guns and money... it is the truth you reveal to the world that's making this all possible for us," the General said to Maureen. "I cannot thank you enough, our people cannot thank you enough. May God above bless you."
Taken aback by the man's gratitude, Maureen managed to smile. "It... It's just my duty, General. The truth has to get out there, and it's our job to tell it."
Minutes later, Maureen climbed into the passenger seat of a white pickup truck as her driver and cameraman climbed into the driver's seat. Slamming the door shut and pulling her headscarf tight around her head, the young reporter reclined in her seat and looked out the window as her cameraman started up the truck and left the port. Their destination was an armored unit close to the palace but out of the general line of fire.
"The truth is, this whole war is just one more step towards the new world order," she muttered aloud over the rattling of the pickup navigating the busy streets.
Hamid Houssan, an Arab American who had only arrived in the last week to be both her cameraman and translator, looked over at her in surprise. "You don't really believe in that, do you?"
"Believe in what, that this war does nothing but further the agendas of a few rich old white men who get off on controlling the lives of billions?" she asked in turn.
Hamid shook his head and chuckled. "Never would've figured you for one of those types."
"One of what type?" she smartly replied.
"Those conspiracy theory nuts." Hamid shrugged his shoulders. "Maureen Woodrow: Pulitzer-winning war correspondent and Tinfoil Hat Fashionista."
Maureen laughed and looked back to him as he stopped at an intersection, to allow several heavy duty trucks towing surplus American artillery pieces to roll by, followed by armored vehicles--also American surplus. "There's no theories only the reality you don't want to accept. For instance, do you really think that the FSA will give Syria the democracy it's fighting for when this is done?"
Hamid pulled a grimace at that. Power vacuums were an ugly thing, and even with all the good will in the world, military powers were never ones to just relinquish complete control when the struggle was over. Watching his expression change, Maureen nodded.
"The West doesn't want that either. They want whoever agrees with their plans for the region, and bin Amir fits that to a T. He hates Iran, he hates al-Qaeda, and he has quietly expressed Israel's right to exist."
Hamid's eyebrows rose in skepticism as he began driving again. "And I suppose that's how he was able to acquire ten billion dollars in weapons from our suddenly booming economy?"
Maureen nodded. "It's all online to read. Cables leaked six months ago called the Free Syrian Government weak and disorganized, only held together by a mutual hatred for Assad. They identified Selim bin Amir as the man the CIA wanted to support in the post-Assad vacuum as the 'real' leader."
Hamid hummed. "So another strongman like Mubarak or Saddam."
"Exactly. Someone the US can sell weapons to in order to put the squeeze on the Iranians and Russians."
Hamid sighed. "American Imperialism, right?"
"It's not just an American phenomena. Remember that just a week ago, before the FSA overran it, this was all but a Russian strategic port."
Hamid pulled the truck over to the side of a street near a block of bombed out and collapsed buildings. In front of them, American-built Abrams tanks, the earliest models, were positioning themselves upon the top of the ruins to have a good firing arc on the Presidential Palace. Putting on a pair of sunglasses to shield her eyes from the harsh desert sun, and a helmet over her headscarf, Maureen opened the door.
"It's plain Neo-Imperialism. Rather than spread yourself thin conquering and bending a people to your will, you feed them money and guns and they will fight whoever you command them to for the privilege to suckle from the teat. That is the legacy of the Cold War, a Puppet's game."
Both climbed out, as one of the tanks fired towards the Presidential Palace. Reaching into her pocket, Maureen pulled out a small handheld camera as Hamid got his bulkier camera from the back of the truck. "This round's almost over."
The fired High Explosive shell whistled through the air and smashed into the front lawn of the Presidential Palace, the resulting explosion briefly shaking the building. Underneath bright lights connected to generators set up elsewhere, Bashar al-Assad sat in a comfortable wooden chair, seemingly unperturbed by the war ready to march to his doorstep.
Across from him, a Russian man wearing a ballistics vest over his suit and a press band around his right arm sat in another chair. The impacting shell had rattled him, causing him to look up at the ceiling.
"Another miss, those American tanks are always inaccurate," Bashar said to the reporter before him. "Don't worry about the misses, the one that kills us will be the one we don't hear coming."
Alexi Stenovich laughed weakly at the Syrian President's gallows humor, before trying to make himself more comfortable. A veteran reporter and foreign correspondent, Alexi had covered many stories around the world, from the Chechen conflicts to the American wars in the middle East, to even riding with the Russian Army into Georgia in defense of South Ossetia. For the last six years he'd become the go to man for the so-called Arab Spring, and the sputtering revolution had finally brought him here, to sit in the same room as the "Last Dictator" and record what were very likely to be his last hours alive.
Or minutes, given the explosion just now.
"I have to admire your courage in all of this, President. Most men would appear more desperate in your shoes. Yet here you are, the picture of serenity," Alexi admitted.
Assad nodded. "The time for desperation passed long ago. Knowing what I do now, I am not afraid... I am confident in the victory that is coming."
The coming victory... This perplexed the aged reporter. Only days before, as the FSA arrived, Assad had appeared on State Television transformed from an increasingly vehement, desperate leader, to the calm and composed man before him. There, with unwavering certainty he declared to the Syrian people that the end of the Civil War was nigh, and the FSA was marching to its complete annihilation.
"I find that fascinating," Alexi said, "You have promised for days now a total victory. But forgive me... I'm not certain myself by what you mean. The rebels have encircled the city and hold the port. There is no way in or out for you or your supporters. I must know... What is your plan for defeating the rebels?"
"I cannot reveal those details, I am afraid." Assad smiled some. "Even if I could, you would find it so incredible that you would call me crazy for believing it. But a miracle is coming, and I called you here to show it to the world."
"When is your miracle coming, President?" Alexi asked. "And will it really end the rebellion?"
Assad nodded. "It will be very soon, and it will break them." He checked the wrist watch he wore, and noded. "Any minute now."
Over a hundred thousand feet above the Earth, well out of reach of all but the most advanced air defense systems, a very large aircraft descended from even higher in the thin atmosphere. It was a great black flying wing, larger than the American B-2 Stealth Bomber. It was larger than even the largest aircraft in the world flying today, its great wingspan an absolute necessity for flying at these altitudes. Owing to this shape and its dark color, its approach was unheralded, unnoticed by anyone on the ground.
Within the aircraft, a woman dressed in a blue and gray flight suit and helmet walked down a row of twelve similarly dressed men and women, their faces unseen from behind the opaque visors of their helmets. "All right," she said to them. "We are ten minutes from the DZ. You've all been given your briefing on what we're going to do and the repercussions for it. What I want to hear from you, before we suit up and ship out, is if any of you have any lingering doubts or new objections to this Op."
She stopped at the end of the line of soldiers, and then turned around to face them. "Anything? Any objections? Your checks have already been cut, you can back out now and there'll be no consequence to you or your house."
The soldiers all stood still in line, none making a sound.
The woman folded her arms. "Not one?" A hand went up at the other end of the line, and the woman looked over to the pilot. "Rayfield."
"My complaint," the thinly built male pilot replied, "is that you're not telling us to go suit up."
The other soldier immediately broke into light laughter at that. Taking that as no objections at all, the woman slipped her hands to her hips and nodded. "Well then, wise-ass. Go suit up, the rest of you too! Get ready to go earn your paychecks. "
"Sir!" the pilots shouted in unison, before they turned and headed down the wide corridor towards the back of the plane.
As they departed, the woman headed for the front of the plane, walking up two flights of stairs to door. With a hiss and a click, it slid open to allow her entry into a spacious bridge better reserved for a ship than an aircraft. At the front of the plane, seeing the world through its wide, well-armored windows were the flight crew. Two pilots, three flight engineers, and a radio officer. Seated behind them was another row of consoles manned officers: Electronic Warfare, Command and Control, and Weapons System operators. Finally, seated on a chair slightly higher above them, was the Captain, an older man wearing a gray and blue officer's uniform.
"Captain Dressel, we're about to fly," the woman said with a quick salute reminiscent of the United Kingdom's Royal Navy.
Captain Dressel tilted up his officer's cap, the kindly-looking 50 year old gray-beared Captain nodded to the woman in the flight suit. "And you?"
"I'll be launching as well, Captain. We will meet at the rendezvous in three hours."
Captain Dressel nodded again. "Don't get shot down out there, Ashta. Get in there, get down, and come out alive, you and your men."
The woman laugehd behind her helmet. "Don't worry, nothing's coming out of your paycheck."
"Good. Happy Hunting." With another salute, the woman turned and headed back out the door, leaving the Captain to follow her out with his eyes. As the door closed behind her, he looked back to the bridge in front of him and noticed the other officers staring at him with wry looks.
"What?" the Captain asked. The soldiers just kept staring. Catching the meaning of their looks, he let out a laugh. "Oh come on, like none of you don't look."
The other crew laughed and turned back to their stations, as Captain Dressel rose from his seat. "The drop will commence in five minutes. Let's make some noise!"
Across the back of the great craft, missile tubes slid open as across its belly two pairs of double doors opened to reveal six large containers hanging inside the first bomb bay, ready to be dropped. Aboard its bridge, the electronic warfare operator called back to Captain Dressel.
"We are bringing the noise, Captain. Jamming is active."
Far below in the Mediterranean Sea, were ships from several NATO countries acting as a protective screen for international aid to flow uncontested into the port of Damascus. The most powerful force of this screen was the USS Theodore Roosevelt and its battlegroup, consisting of seven ships in total to keep at bay the Russian Navy, whose own carrier group was bolstered by an amphibious assault force.
While neither side was interested in shooting one another, their commanders on both sides were itching for a much more satisfying political victory. A game of chicken in which the leader of the losing country would have to stand before the camera and explain their failure to the world.
On the bridge of the Roosevelt, what had been just another day in the standoff was suddenly transforming as one by one radar and communications was knocked off line first aboard the carrier, and then across every ship in the task group, leaving blank screens filled with radar noise and all radio channels filled with static.
The other NATO vessels, Turkish, Italian, British, French, and Spanish also suddenly lost their sensors and with it a panic set in as commanders tried to fight their way through the interference and identify the source. And it wasn't just their ships as the Russians quickly fell victim to the powerful Electronic Communications Countermeasure broadcast across the theater of operations.
On the bridge of the aircraft, the silence was deafening. "The noise has been brought," the EW Operator finally reported.
Dressel nodded. "Begin operation."
The six containers immediately fell away from the belly of the aircraft, steadied themselves and fired rocket motors that propelled them towards the ground many miles below. From the second bomb bay, four sleek but large twin-engined fighter jets were dropped one by one into the thin atmosphere, where they immediately dropped nosefirst towards the terrain below. Moments later, missiles began firing from the dorsal mounted tubes in salvos, curving over and plummeting towards the ground ahead of the falling containers and fighters.
"This is Maureen Woodward reporting from the heart of Damascus, where the Free Syrian Army has already begun its siege of the Presidential Palace." Maureen reported into the camera as the tanks up on the ruins opened fire again, joining the violent reports of artillery pieces shelling the palace. "Tanks and artillery pieces like those seen behind me are shelling known positions of Hezbollah and Revolutionary Guard, softening them up for the advance on the Presidential Guard by forces hardened by years of fighting a bitter struggle back and forth across the country."
On the other side of the camera, Hamid looked into the viewfinder and noticed something wrong right away. "Maureen! Maur! Cut, cut! We've got no connection."
Maureen stopped. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing, we're not broadcasting." Hamid lowered the camera and looked at the Wi-Fi transmitter connected to the camera. "It's on the fritz."
"Is it still recording?" Maureen asked. "We can just keep going, come on-" As Hamid lifted up the camera to point back at her, both heard a whistling.
Maureen looked up for only a moment before she ran at Hamid and grabbed him. "Get down! Get down!"
Before he dropped the camera, a missile hurtled from the clear blue sky above and smashed into the top of one of the FSA Abrams, blowing clean through the tank from top to bottom and causing it to explode violently.
A second later, two more missiles wiped out the two other tanks, their explosions sending shrapnel and exploding ammunition scattering in every direction. Hidden behind a low, strong wall, Maureen and Hamid both covered their ears as the explosions quickly passed.
"What... what was that?" Maureen asked as she pulled out her handheld camcorder and pointed it over the top of the wall towards the tanks. She then looked over the wall herself, and gasped. "Oh my God... They're gone."
Hamid sat up, and pointed his camera at the sky. "Maur, look up!"
Maureen looked up, and her eyes widened when she saw dozens of contrails descending from the sky above. "What? Oh... Oh my God..."
The missiles, homed in on their targets with perfect accuracy, crashing down on the armored vehicles and artillery pieces of the FSA. Consuming them and their crews with tremendous explosions. The blasts went on, deafening and frequent, for over thirty seconds, before all became eerily quiet in Damascus save lingering explosions and gunfire from panicking soldiers.
The explosions had brought Assad and Alex from his Palace's bunker and to the front garden, where they were suddenly an audience to the devastating air strike.
"What' is this?!" Alexi demanded before he looked to Assad, who was smiling. "President Assad, what just happened?!"
"God's will." He pointed skyward. "Look! Look! It's begun!"
Alexi and his own camera crew looked skyward, as the six large containers fell from the sky their rocket engines cut and large parachutes quickly slowing their descent. The closest of them suddenly unsealed, its seams bursting before its sides and bottom blew away, revealing a sight that caused Alexi to stumble backward and fall in disbelief.
Maureen lowered her own camera as Hamid dropped his to the ground, unable to hold it. Wide-eyed, they watched as the panels fell away to reveal the unthinkable. A large humanoid robot, painted black and swathed in what appeared to be green fabric and slatted body armor. Its parachutes, attached to a large backpack, suddenly cut away and the robot plummeted a hundred feet to the ground before engines on its backpack and in its calves fired, slowing it even more to come to a thunderous landing directly in front of the two CNN reporters.
"A... A giant robot," Maureen gasped as it looked down at her with red eyes glowing inside of a black visor that went around its entire head. Reaching up to its shoulder, it removed from a hardpoint to remove a Kalishnikov-style rifle that it took in both hands and pointed first at them, and then past them at a pair of Light Armored Vehicles up the street.
With two loud blasts, it fired a shell into each of the lightly armored vehicles and destroyed them easily. Regarding the two news reporters a final time, the robot turned away and then propelled itself forward, a loud screeching sound emanating from its feet as it slid along the street.
Another of the robots landed nearby an Abrams that had survived the missile barrage. The FSA soldiers in and around it could only gawk at the machine in shock as it quickly drew its own rifle to spray them down with bullets. A three round burst ripped into the Abrams' turret, and another burst tore apart the soldiers attempting to flee from the gunfire.
The other four robots landed around the city and immediately began to attack, including a robot painted royal purple and gold and sporting a large backward-sweeping fin atop its head, unlike the other bald headed machines. It also carried a different weapon, a more compact weapon resembling a pump action shotgun.
Inside the machine's chest mounted cockpit, surrounded by panoramic monitors, Ashta manipulated the trackball controls and foot pedals, sending her machine into motion. Pumping a round into the chamber, she aimed the shotgun at an artillery unit and fired, shredding the guns, trucks, and their terrified crews with tightly packed shot consisting of dozens of iron balls.
"Fan out and destroy as many armored vehicles and FSA positions as possible. If they're not carrying guns, don't shoot them," she ordered the other pilots.
"Roger!" the other pilots reported in unison.
Maureen and Hamid had managed to regain their bearings and moved, first taking cover and then quickly pointing their cameras at the incredible turn of events. "I don't believe this, I don't... I just don't! What are those things?!" she shouted as she watched one of the robots attack an Abrams that was bringing its main cannon to bear on it.
Before the tank could fire, the robot fired first. Its rifle shells left deep impressions in the turret armor before the top of the turret was blown clean off. Skimming around the tank, it fired into its rear and backed as off its engine and stored ammunition explodion violently.
"This is unreal," she heard Hamid gasp, and nodded in agreement.
Another Abrams' main gun fired, from range. Its target turned and dodged to the side from the hurtling shell. Lifting its own rifle, the robot fired off several bursts that pelted the tank, which managed to back away from the worst of it. Before the tank could return fire, another of the robots leaped on it from behind another bulding and landed on it. Aiming its rifle straight down, the robot ripped into it with a single burst before it jumped away and left it burning.
Landing after firing its thrusters, the robot ejected its banana-shaped magazine into its hand and tossed it aside, before drawing another from one from one of the pockets of its armor and reloaded it. Inside this robot's cockpit, Rayfield looked up to see several Free Syrian Army attack helicopters quickly moving in.
"Wow," he said, "they really kitted out these guys. Do they have planes too?"
"If they do, they're not going to be a factor," Ashta replied.
The helicopters opened fire with Anti-Tank Missiles on his machine, the wire-guided missiles closing in on him rapidly. Unconcerned, Rayfield only smiled as reticles appeared over the five missiles, and then winked. A split second later, the missiles all exploded violently before even coming close.
Lifting up his robot's rifle, Rayfield fired single shots, hitting each of the several helicopters square on their cockpits, knocking them from the sky. Gunfire raked his machine, and he turned around to see another Light Armored Vehicle firing repeatedly with its automatic cannon. Each round bounced off the robots body armor, doing insignificant damage as Rayfield lifted his rifle with one hand and finished it with a burst.
"American military might, designed and built by the lowest bidder."
Sliding to a halt in front of a burning Abrams, another of the robots turned its rifle down on several Free Syrian soldiers, one of them aiming an RPG at its chest. The soldier screamed for strength from God and fired, the missile racing for the chest of the robot before it exploded far short of its target. The soldier holding the RPG shook his head in disbelief before he too burst into flames. A rifle shot the ended his misery, as the robot turned and continued on.
"What is this?" Alexi asked again, unable to accept what he was seeing even as it unfurled before his eyes. "I don't... I don't understand, what is happening?"
Assad held out his hands, as another explosion propelled a tank's turret above the Damascus skyline. "This is a revolution. From this day the world will never be the same."
The Syrian President was certainly right. Weapons that existed only in fiction were running rampant through the city, striking down the enemies of the Assad Regieme with complete impunity.
"General! We have to get out of here!" an FSA runner gasped as he staggered into bin Amir's forward post. "The enemy is wiping us out!"
General bin Amir rose from his seat. From the moment the communications fell and fighting began, he had been as blind as everyone else. "What is happening? How?"
The runner bent over and gripped his knees as he tried to catch his breath. "They are... giants..."
"Giants?" Anti-Aircraft fire suddenly drowned out any other noise as air raid sirens blared.
Another soldier ran in. "General! We have to flee! It's an air attack!"
"Flee! We can't flee now, we're so close!"
The soldier shook his head. "We can't win, they're Russian!:
General bin Amir paled on the spot. "Russian?!"
Outside, multi-barreled anti-aircraft guns spewed tracers high into the air towards familiar the large fighter planes, which curved and weaved through the air to avoid them. General bin Amir and his staff quickly evacuated the building and looked up to see the fighters, Russian built Sukhois, without a doubt.
"Where are the Americans?!" the General asked before the anti-air systems lowered their trajectory and began firing out over the water. Following the tracers, bin Amir grew wide-eyed as a single fighter skimmed at wave weight under the lowest trajectory of the guns, its engines kicking up a huge spray of water behind it. "No... no, God in Heaven no...!"
Spotting the General's familiar white uniform among the people on the shore, the rapidly approaching pilot smiled and released the safety on her plane's underwing mounted rocket pilots. "Yippie Kai Yay, motherfuckers!" she cheered as she held down the trigger with extreme prejudice.
The fifteen rockets in each pod fired in quick succession, sending thirty projectiles into the FSA General and his staff and ending them in a barrage of tremendous explosions. Lifting her fighter's nose up, the pilot redline the throttle and shot past the curtain of anti-aircraft fire, leaving the gunners yelling in frustration before a second fighter's rockets pounded the turrets into burning ruins.
The explosions echoed from the port, and Maureen looked back to see smoke rising from it. She slowly shook her head, as a third and fourth fighter dropped rockets on the port. There was no doubt in her mind what it meant. "The FSA is broken."
"Oh shit..." Hamid said as his camera followed one of the fighters. "They're Russians! Those sons of bitches!"
Maureen pointed her camera at the Royal Purple robot, which ejected a shotgun shell as it stood over the retreating Free Syrian Army. She saw it turn and begin walking towards the Revolutionary Guard and Hezbollah positions, and the Presidential Palace beyond them. "Hamid, stay here. Keep filming."
She got up and ran out across the street and into a narrow alley between two ruined buildings. Hamid called after her, but quickly hunkered down as another of the robots appeared and walked slowly past his position. Saying his prayers to any God in the audience, he only pointed his camera at it and waited.
The forces loyal to Assad were celebrating in and around the palace as Ashta's custom painted machine stepped into the front lot and towards the front steps, where Bashar al-Assad and his fighters had gathered. Alexi stood to the side, staring in awe at the machine that towered over them.
It was easily twelve meters tall, maybe a little taller he couldn't be sure. Its body armor was covered in scorch marks and had rounds of different calibers embedded in it. Between the slat armor that surrounded its lower left leg like a cage, a tanks armor-piercing round was wedged in between and dug partway into the body armor underneath.
Its red eyes behind the visor on its head suddenly faded, before the entire chest of the machine swung open, revealing behind it a round sphere whose own door swung down and revealed the flight-suit swathed pilot as she climbed out.
Grabbing a winch that extended from the opened chest armor, Ashta descended to the robot's feet, and walked up the steps towards Assad as his cheering fighters stepped aside.
Assad looked aside to Alexi and gestured for him to come over. "Please, come! Come! I want you to meet our heroes!"
Alexi looked to his camera crew, and then nodded for him to follow him over to Assad. As his cameraman pointed his camera at the suited woman, she reached to a latch and removed her helmet, revealing the face of a pale-skinned, blue-eyed women, with chestnut brown hair that was tightly wrapped up in a bun. Her western features briefly startled the Syrian fighters, but their cheers did not abate as the woman stepped up to the President.
"President Bashar al-Assad, allow me to introduce myself! I am Ashta Kiev, Matron of the House Kiev and Cleaner of the Tappan Military Industrial Complex," she bowed politely before him. "We've just about wrapped this up."
Assad nodded and took Ashta's hands. "Yes, you were wonderful! You and your... what did you call them again?"
"Multipurpose Agile Tank," Ashta replied.
Alexi mouthed the words with her, before he looked up at the machine.
"Or simply MAT."
"MAT," Alexi quietly repeated.
"God praise you, thanks to you Syria and her people are saved," Assad said to her as he shook her hands again.
Ashta nodded slowly, and slipped her hands from Assad's. Pulling her helmet back on over her head, she made sure it was properly affixed, before she looked out back at bombed, ruined Damascus. "President Assad, do you remember what the Tappan Military Industrial Complex agreed to do when you gave us the contract to end this war?"
"Yes, the eliminate all belligerent forces against the nation of Syria," he replied.
Ashta promptly drew a royal purple and gold revolver and shot Assad in the chest. As he fell onto his back, she briskly stepped up and fired a second round square into his forehead. "Contractual obligation fulfilled."
Before the horrified soldiers could react, the MAT's eyes flashed again behind its visor, and the loyal men of Assad promptly burst into flames. The wave of heat forced both Alexi and his camera crew back, leaving light burns over their exposed skin as the woman turned and walked into the flames to the lowered winch.
"Russian," she said to Alexi as she grabbed the winch. "Make sure you got all of that, and show it to the world. This is Day One of Year Zero."
The winch lifted her up to the cockpit, which she swung herself into. Both inner and outer hatches of the MAT closed then, and it turned and walked towards Damascus as their supporting fighter jets circled overhead.
Stopping just short of the buildings, Ashta saw a glint and looked down to see a terrified Maureen holding her camera up at the MAT. Smiling, she had her machine raise its arm and hold up two fingers, before she kept walking to rejoin her fellow pilots. Falling backward, Maureen watched the MAT walk past, and shook her head repeatedly in disbelief.
"This is real... This all really happened," she murmered as she watched the machine walk off into the smoke and dust of the blasted city. She looked down at her camera, and rewound it back to an image that would become iconic in the days to come:
The Multipurpose Agile Tank, the MH.3 Bogart, flashing the V-Sign to a shocked and awed world.