[media-credit name=”Image courtesy Harrison Allred” align=”alignleft” width=”575″][/media-credit]

Sgt. Jackson, also known to those in the battalion as “Black Jack,” stared at the sky. There seemed to be something in it. He could hear a buzzing in his ears—not loud, but definitely there. It was getting louder and more irritating. Jackson closed his eyes and started to fall into the dark, until he realized the buzzing sounded like screaming. His eyes snapped open and he saw a marine leaning over him.
“Get up now, sir!” the man yelled, looking terrified,“They’re almost here!”
Black Jack rose to a sitting position, and the marine reached out his hand and helped him to his feet.
“Where are the others?” Black Jack asked.
“Already took cover in the bunker, sir,” the marine said. “We need to get there, too”.There was a screaming from the sky, and then a crater and pile of wreckage appeared right ahead them. Black Jack was knocked to the ground, losing his breath. He looked to where the marine had been standing and saw him on the ground, a shard of metal the size of a forearm going through his neck. The marine’s eyes looked out, unblinking…
Black Jack climbed to his feet and saw the wreckage of a BIRD, or Bomb and Incendiary Round Drone. The drone was the unmanned attack craft of the Alliance, and used only for heavy combat situations. The drone could carry the equivalent to two or three tactical nukes in armament. Black Jack scanned past the wreckage of the craft, and spotted the bunker not fifty yards further on. He grabbed the fallen marine’s dog tags and sprinted for the bunker. Then he heard the rumbling behind him and turned. The bunker wasn’t going to help. There were at least ten Killer suits behind him, each with enough firepower to destroy a fair-sized mountain. He threw himself to the ground and ripped off his radio. He hailed the high command as quietly as he could.
[media-credit name=”Image courtesy Leeanne Klagge ” align=”alignright” width=”350″][/media-credit]
“Sgt. Alex Jackson, reporting from outpost two-two-six,” he whispered into the radio. “We are under massive fire and request an air strike—codeword Alamo.”
“This is High Command,” command squawked back. “Confirm the request, Alamo.”

Black Jack closed his eyes, “Confirming request for Alamo strike,” he hissed into the radio “Ten Killer class suits converging on outpost two-two-six. Burn ‘em up command.”
Black Jack took one last look around him and saw mud and puddles everywhere, the way they were burned into the ground—like ash and tar sitting solid in pools there. He closed his eyes and felt an odd contentment.
He heard the scream of several BIRDs over head.

Written by Zachary Bain