The Sky Falls

A Storm Brewing

Rain hammered the roof of the chow hall relentlessly, filling the drab metal building with a steady, metallic drone that gnawed at my nerves. It was cold and bitter outside, the kind of rain that seemed to seep into your bones and stay there. Inside, beneath the stark glow of fluorescent lights, the air was thick with the smell of wet uniforms, stale coffee, and overcooked rations.

I sat hunched over a tray of something grey and soupy labeled optimistically as "beef stew," my appetite already dead. Across from me, Airman Ramirez poked at his own tray, eyes fixed on the datapad he'd propped against an empty cup. He looked more irritated than concerned, his usually calm demeanor fraying around the edges.

"Check this out, Locke," Ramirez muttered, turning the datapad toward me. "Another city going to hell."

On the screen, grainy footage showed burning buildings, streets littered with debris, and soldiers corralling angry crowds beneath skies black with smoke. It looked like every other damn city we'd seen on the news lately. Chaos. Collapse. The new normal.

I sighed, leaning back in my chair. "Which one this time?"

"Boston," Ramirez said with an exasperated grunt. "Riots everywhere now, man. Whole damn country is falling apart."

"Yeah, no kidding," came Fisher's loud voice as he dropped into a seat next to Ramirez, his heavy frame making the table rattle. He dug into his stew, grimacing at the first bite. "Damn, tastes worse every day."

Ramirez rolled his eyes. "You always say that, Fisher."

"And I'm always right," Fisher shot back, chewing loudly. "Anyway, Command's drafting civilians now. Heard they're scraping the bottom of the barrel—teachers, store clerks, anybody who can hold a rifle."

I shook my head, disgusted but not surprised. "Figures. Command ran out of trained infantry weeks ago. They've been losing this war faster than they can admit."

Ramirez glanced at me sharply. "Think they'll come for us next?"

"We're already in," Fisher cut in dismissively. "We're 2T2. Air transportation specialists. Somebody's gotta keep the war machine moving."

As if responding directly to Fisher's words, the shrill beep of datapads erupted around the chow hall, filling the air with a familiar, irritating tone. Ramirez swore softly, pulling his closer.

I scanned my screen quickly, a sour taste rising in my throat:

URGENT DEPLOYMENT ORDERS

SELECTED 2T2 PERSONNEL REPORT IMMEDIATELY FOR FORWARD OPERATIONS BRIEFING

WAR READINESS PROTOCOL 99-B ACTIVATED

I exhaled sharply, irritation flaring up instantly. "Goddammit. Here we go."

Fisher scowled down at his datapad. "Protocol 99-B. That means forward deployment—building austere airfields behind enemy lines. Supply runs in contested territory. Just great."

Ramirez rubbed a hand over his face, looking more annoyed than anything else. "So much for keeping us out of direct combat. They're really throwing us out there?"

Fisher snorted bitterly. "Didn't you get the memo, Ramirez? War don't care about us. They're desperate. Hell, I bet we'll be pulling double duty—combat and cargo."

I shoved tray away, stew forgotten. "All right, let's get this over with."

________________________________________

Deployment Briefing

Within minutes, we joined the crowd filing into Hangar Three, a vast metal building at the edge of the airfield, packed with irritated-looking 2T2 personnel. No one seemed panicked or shocked; we'd all heard rumors this was coming. Most of us were just pissed off about it.

Master Sergeant Kaine stood waiting, arms folded across his chest, his one cybernetic eye glowing faintly red in the dim hangar lighting. He was a lean, weathered veteran, his face scarred from countless deployments. Around him stood a cluster of officers in pressed uniforms, looking utterly out of place amid the grimy, rain-dampened airmen.

"Quiet down," Kaine growled sharply, cutting off the scattered grumbling instantly. "I'll make this quick. The frontline has collapsed faster than expected. Command activated Protocol 99-B for select 2T2 personnel—that's you. Your job is to build and operate austere airfields behind enemy lines, ensuring friendly forces can resupply, reinforce, and evacuate wounded."

He paused, letting that sink in before continuing. "You'll move cargo, you'll load aircraft, and you'll do it under fire. Enemy territory means you'll likely be shooting back. Now, you've all had basic combat training already. This ain't boot camp, and we don't have time for refresher courses. You'll get a quick memory jog on weapons and tactics, then deploy immediately."

Fisher raised his hand lazily, irritation obvious in his posture. "Sergeant, respectfully—why pick us? You got infantry units."

Kaine stared him down coldly. "Because you know logistics better than anyone else, Airman Fisher. Infantry can hold ground, but without supply, they're dead within days. You'll be lifelines. It's not optional, so stow the complaints."

Ramirez muttered quietly beside me, "Great, building airfields while getting shot at. Just what I signed up for."

Fisher snickered bitterly. "Welcome to war, Ramirez."

________________________________________

Forward Training Base Delta

Within hours, we were crammed onto crowded , rumbling through driving rain toward Forward Training Base Delta. It wasn't far—a temporary facility hastily built for quick refresher training and briefings, designed to shove us forward as fast as possible.

We pulled into Delta as evening fell, the rain letting up slightly, becoming a miserable drizzle. The base was little more than prefab buildings, muddy pathways, and endless stacks of cargo crates and sandbags. It smelled strongly of jet fuel, diesel, and wet dirt.

As we stepped off the transports, boots splashing into deep mud, Kaine waited once more, barking sharply, "Form up! Let's move!"

We assembled quickly, still annoyed but used to orders. Fisher adjusted his soaked uniform irritably, Ramirez sighed deeply, shaking rainwater from his sleeves.

Kaine walked down our line briskly, his cybernetic eye scanning each of us methodically. "Remember, you're already trained, but we need you sharp. Tomorrow, you'll run weapons, airfield ops under fire, and defensive fortification drills. I don't care if you're annoyed—I don't want mistakes. Understand?"

"Yes, Sergeant!" we responded in unison, automatic and flat.

He nodded curtly. "Dismissed. Get some rest—you'll need it."

We trudged toward the barracks through muddy pathways illuminated by harsh floodlights. Fisher shook his head, muttering irritably, "Goddamn logistics and combat. What a combination."

Ramirez exhaled heavily. "This is gonna be one long war."

I glanced around the dreary camp, rain dripping steadily from the edge of my helmet, and sighed. "Ain't it always?"

Crash Course

Sleep at Forward Training Base Delta was little more than a formality. Barracks lights snapped on abruptly at 0400, harsh fluorescence stabbing through closed eyelids, ripping us from restless dreams into immediate irritation. Around me, airmen groaned, cursed, and dragged themselves upright with practiced resentment. It was nothing new. Annoyance was our default state.

I swung my legs off the bunk, feeling the cold metal beneath my feet, and rubbed grit from my eyes. Ramirez sat on the edge of his own bunk across from me, silently pulling his boots on. He glanced up briefly, eyebrows raised slightly.

"Ready for this shit again?" he asked dryly.

I snorted, lacing up my boots methodically. "As ready as I'll ever be. Bet you five bucks Fisher complains first."

A bunk over, Fisher shot us both a sour look. "Already complaining. Guess you win."

Ramirez laughed quietly, a brief moment of genuine humor breaking through the oppressive gloom. Fisher shook his head, muttering darkly as he yanked his uniform straight. "Combat logistics, building airfields in enemy territory. Command must really hate us."

"Not hate," Alvarez cut in from a nearby bunk, tying her dark hair tightly back beneath her patrol cap. She was one of the few who rarely complained, her expression always calm and focused, though even she seemed mildly irritated this morning. "We're just expendable enough to be useful."

Fisher snorted bitterly. "That makes me feel way better."

I stood up, pulling on my jacket as the barracks door swung open with a loud bang. Corporal Harris stood silhouetted in the doorway, helmet low over narrowed eyes.

"Move your asses! Formation outside in five minutes. Full gear. Let's go!"

We filed outside quickly, boots squelching through ankle-deep mud. Dawn had barely touched the horizon, a thin grey line slowly bleeding color into the sky. It had stopped raining for the moment, but clouds still loomed thickly overhead, promising another miserable day.

Master Sergeant Kaine was already waiting, clipboard in hand, cybernetic eye glowing dimly in the early-morning gloom. Behind him, racks of M7 Gauss Rifles and tactical gear were laid out neatly. It looked more like a formality than anything—a simple memory jog before deployment.

"All right, Airmen, listen up," Kaine barked, his voice cutting sharply through the predawn silence. "Today we confirm what you already know. Weapons familiarization, airfield operations under simulated fire, and defensive fortification construction. Remember, your primary mission remains logistics—supplying friendlies and establishing austere airfields. But out there, you'll also defend yourselves and your cargo. No mistakes."

Fisher leaned toward me slightly, whispering irritably, "Bet you he repeats himself five more times before lunch."

Kaine's cybernetic eye snapped toward Fisher instantly. "Something to add, Fisher?"

Fisher straightened quickly. "Negative, Sergeant!"

"Good," Kaine growled. "Grab your gear. We're moving to the weapons range first. Hurry up!"

We grabbed our weapons, their familiar weight oddly reassuring, even if it did mean another day of monotonous drills. Ramirez checked his magazine with practiced efficiency, sliding it home smoothly. I did the same, feeling the rifle settle comfortably into my hands.

We marched silently toward the muddy weapons range, boots squelching rhythmically in the thick mud. Targets stood downrange—silhouettes painted vaguely to resemble enemy combatants. It was a ritual we'd done countless times before, but today there was a heightened sense of purpose. We were going forward soon, and annoyance had given way slightly to quiet determination.

"Line up, weapons ready," Kaine commanded crisply. "Standard combat drill. Three rounds, center mass, on my mark."

We raised our rifles mechanically, sights aligning automatically with practiced precision. This was basic muscle memory, ingrained into us through years of periodic drills and qualifications. My finger tightened around the trigger as Kaine called, "Fire!"

Rounds cracked sharply through the cool morning air, muzzle flashes briefly illuminating faces etched with practiced boredom. The targets downrange jerked under our accurate fire.

Kaine nodded slightly, expression unreadable. "Again."

We fired once more, the repetition familiar, mindless, easy. After several cycles, Kaine waved us down. "Satisfactory. You know what you're doing. Good."

He stepped forward, voice serious. "Next, airfield construction under fire. Simulated artillery and small-arms attacks. Remember, your job is building and supplying these strips while surviving combat. Don't let enemy fire distract you from your mission."

Ramirez sighed audibly beside me. "Simulated fire again. Damn, I was hoping for live ammo."

Fisher chuckled bitterly. "Don't give them ideas, Ramirez."

Simulated Hell

The airfield simulation area was nothing more than a vast, churned-up expanse of muddy terrain punctuated by scattered cargo containers, runway mats, and rusted heavy machinery. Loudspeakers broadcast simulated artillery explosions and enemy gunfire, distant but annoyingly persistent.

Kaine pointed to the field. "You have one hour to assemble and fortify a basic forward landing zone for cargo drops. You're under constant simulated fire. Move!"

We broke into small groups, instantly setting to work. Fisher took point on one of the forklifts, firing it up with practiced ease. Ramirez directed cargo operations, shouting instructions clearly over the loud simulated battlefield noise. I grabbed runway mats, dragging them toward a marked landing area, working quickly despite irritation at the muddy, slippery conditions.

Fisher cursed loudly from his forklift, wheels spinning briefly in the mud. "This terrain sucks ass!"

"Adapt, Fisher!" Kaine snapped from nearby. "The enemy won't provide you a paved runway!"

I laughed quietly despite myself, shaking my head. Alvarez moved methodically beside me, carrying a heavy crate of ammo and dropping it neatly near the cargo zone.

"We'll be doing this with bullets flying at us soon," she said flatly. "Think Fisher will complain even more then?"

I grinned slightly. "Guaranteed."

Ramirez jogged past, shouting over the simulated explosions. "Twenty minutes left, people! Let's finish it!"

We quickened our pace, annoyance blending with determination. Soon the simulated landing zone took shape—runway mats laid in straight lines, cargo stacked efficiently, defensive sandbag walls rapidly forming. It wasn't pretty, but it would do.

Kaine checked his watch, nodding reluctantly. "Time's up. Adequate work. Remember, you'll be doing this for real very soon."

Fisher sighed loudly, stretching his sore back. "Nothing like manual labor under fake artillery fire."

Ramirez shook his head, smirking slightly. "Just wait till it's real, Fisher."

Kaine cleared his throat sharply. "Enough chatter. Rest up tonight—you deploy tomorrow morning."

We exchanged brief, knowing glances. Annoyance was still there, but now it was tempered by the seriousness of what lay ahead.

The Night Before Deployment

We sat in the barracks that evening, cleaning rifles methodically beneath dim lights. Conversation was sparse, mostly idle griping punctuated by grim humor.

Ramirez glanced up, eyes narrowing slightly. "Anyone else worried we're gonna get our asses shot off building airfields?"

Fisher snorted bitterly, wiping oil from his rifle bolt. "Worried? Nah. Annoyed as hell, definitely."

Alvarez smiled faintly, nodding slowly. "At least we know our jobs. Logistics under fire—could be worse."

"Could it?" Fisher asked dryly.

Alvarez shrugged. "Could be infantry."

I chuckled quietly, sliding the bolt back into my rifle, locking it smoothly into place. "Fair point."

Ramirez shook his head slowly. "Still gonna suck, though."

Fisher leaned back on his bunk, staring at the ceiling thoughtfully. "Guess we'll find out tomorrow. Just another day in paradise."

I glanced around the barracks, seeing familiar, annoyed faces and tired eyes. "Paradise," I echoed wryly. "Right."

Tomorrow we'd deploy, building airfields deep in enemy territory, moving cargo under fire. It was the kind of assignment nobody asked for but accepted because we had to.

The war didn't care what we wanted

Deployment Day

The rumbling growl of transport engines ripped me from a shallow sleep. Outside, the sky was still dark, but floodlights cut harsh beams across the muddy staging area, illuminating cargo pallets and the heavy machinery we'd loaded meticulously the night before. It was finally deployment day, and despite the usual irritation, a quiet tension settled over the barracks.

I sat up, rubbing my gritty eyes as boots hit the cold concrete floor around me, airmen pulling on their gear mechanically, quietly grumbling their familiar complaints.

Ramirez tugged on his boots quickly, glancing my way. "Think we'll get breakfast before we get shot at?"

"Probably just MREs," Fisher grunted irritably, pulling his jacket on roughly. "My favorite cardboard cuisine."

I shrugged, checking my own gear. "Beats going hungry."

Fisher snorted, not convinced. "Barely."

Corporal Harris appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the glaring floodlights outside. "Five minutes, people! Full gear, outside, ready to roll!"

We filed out swiftly, boots splashing into ankle-deep mud, the air cold and damp. The drizzle had returned, misting our faces as we marched quickly toward the waiting dropships, their engines idling loudly. Nearby, forklifts and loaders moved last-minute pallets of ammunition, rations, and construction materials into the cargo bays.

Master Sergeant Kaine stood at the boarding ramp, clipboard in hand, his cybernetic eye glowing faintly as he checked names. "Locke, Ramirez, Fisher, Alvarez—you're Ship Two. Move your asses."

We jogged quickly up the ramp, the metal beneath our boots vibrating from the dropship's powerful turbines. Inside, rows of crash seats lined the hull, cargo already strapped tightly in place down the central aisle. The cabin smelled sharply of oil, fuel, and sweat—comfortingly familiar yet strangely ominous.

I strapped into a seat beside Ramirez, securing my rifle carefully across my chest. Fisher dropped heavily beside me, immediately fussing irritably with his harness straps.

Ramirez sighed, leaning back against his seat. "So, how long until you complain about the turbulence?"

Fisher grinned sarcastically, fastening his harness roughly. "Give it ten minutes."

Alvarez settled calmly across from us, checking her rifle methodically, expression serious but composed. She glanced up, voice level. "We ready for this?"

I tightened my harness, nodding slowly. "Ready as we'll ever be."

"Speak for yourself," Fisher muttered, shifting uncomfortably. "Damn seats were definitely designed by someone who hates people."

Ramirez chuckled dryly. "They probably had you in mind."

"Very funny," Fisher shot back, relaxing slightly as our dropship shuddered briefly, preparing for takeoff.

Master Sergeant Kaine stepped into the cabin, scanning us quickly. "Listen up. Your objective is clear: set up austere airfields behind enemy lines to keep supplies moving. Do your jobs fast, and do them right. Don't get killed. And if you do, die quietly—I don't need complaints. Understood?"

"Yes, Sergeant!" we replied sharply, even Fisher sounding respectful for once.

Kaine nodded curtly. "Good luck, Airmen. You're gonna need it."

He turned and exited swiftly, the ramp sealing shut behind him with a sharp hiss of hydraulics. The cabin lights dimmed, replaced by a muted red glow that cast eerie shadows across faces now focused and serious.

The dropship engines roared louder, vibrations rattling through the hull as we lifted sharply off the ground, gravity pressing us heavily into our seats. We soared into darkness, engines whining steadily, the noise drowning out everything else.

After several long minutes, Ramirez leaned close, shouting over the drone of engines. "How long until we land?"

"About two hours," Alvarez called back calmly. "We're landing just past enemy lines—assuming intel's accurate."

Fisher scowled, leaning forward. "Intel accurate? You mean the same intel that said the enemy was 'contained' a month ago?"

Ramirez rolled his eyes. "You're so reassuring, Fisher."

"Just realistic," Fisher snapped back, adjusting his rifle impatiently.

I leaned my head back, trying to relax, but tension coiled tightly in my gut. Our mission was straightforward but dangerous—constructing airfields quickly, moving cargo under constant threat of enemy fire, and ensuring supplies kept flowing forward. Simple in theory. Complicated as hell in practice.

Into the Fire

Two hours later, our dropship began descending sharply, jolting violently as it breached turbulent cloud cover. Fisher cursed loudly, gripping his harness tighter.

Ramirez smirked tiredly. "There it is. Told you."

Fisher just growled irritably as turbulence shook the craft roughly. The lights flickered briefly, engines whining louder, straining beneath heavy crosswinds.

Suddenly, a sharp metallic clang echoed loudly through the hull, followed instantly by harsh alarms blaring from the cockpit. Alvarez's eyes snapped open wide. "What the hell was that?"

The pilot's voice came urgently over comms, tight but controlled. "We've been hit! Enemy anti-air fire. Prepare for rough landing!"

"Son of a bitch!" Fisher roared, grabbing his rifle tighter.

I braced myself instinctively, adrenaline surging through my veins as the dropship lurched violently sideways, metal groaning ominously beneath us.

Ramirez cursed sharply, eyes wide but steady. "Hold tight!"

The hull shuddered violently again, alarms shrieking louder, red lights flashing urgently. Through the narrow viewport, I glimpsed smoke and flames trailing from our right engine, streaming past in a twisted, fiery ribbon.

The pilot's voice crackled over comms again, barely audible above the chaos. "Brace for impact! Brace—!"

A deafening crash cut him off, the entire cabin spinning violently, metal screaming as the dropship slammed into something hard, skipping and sliding along the ground, cargo ripping free and tumbling wildly through the cabin.

My head snapped forward sharply, pain exploding behind my eyes as we finally ground to a halt. Everything was chaos—smoke filling the cabin, sparks raining from damaged equipment, bodies groaning and coughing in the dim red emergency lighting.

I fumbled urgently with my harness, chest aching as I freed myself, stumbling to my feet. "Ramirez! Fisher! Alvarez—you good?"

Ramirez groaned, freeing himself shakily. "I'm alive."

Alvarez rose slowly, blood trickling from a shallow cut across her forehead. "Fine. Fisher?"

Fisher staggered upright, coughing roughly. "Still alive, unfortunately."

"Good enough," Alvarez said sharply. "Get your gear. Move outside. We can't stay here."

We forced open the damaged hatch, smoke billowing into our faces as we stumbled out into a dark, rainy landscape illuminated only by flames licking along our wrecked dropship. Around us, chaos reigned—more dropships burning, scattered cargo crates, airmen shouting orders and dragging wounded clear.

Fisher surveyed the devastation grimly, shaking his head. "Guess we start building that airfield now, huh?"

Ramirez nodded numbly, shouldering his rifle tightly. "Looks like it."

Alvarez moved forward decisively, calm despite everything. "All right, let's get organized. Locke, Ramirez—secure cargo. Fisher, you're on heavy equipment. Let's build this damn airfield before we lose anyone else."

We moved forward, annoyance long forgotten, replaced now by grim determination. The war had finally found us.

And there was no turning back.