By this time, Colonel Greyman was already outside the tent with his subordinate officers. They were witnessing the carnage and the terrifying show in the sky. They watched as a Wing Bolt chased a jet at a horrifying speed. Sometimes the objects moved so fast that the officers only heard the sound, and some of the tents had already been turned upside down because the pilots occasionally flew low.
"What the hell is happening?"
Of course, this wasn't a bright question; it was more rhetorical, because anyone would know what was happening. "That damn A-class devil sent B-class Wing Bolts to intercept our aerial assets," Greyman said between gritted teeth.
After a moment, one of the officers handed him a phone. "Sir, it's the flight commanding officer. He wants to speak to you," he said, handing Colonel Greyman the comms.
Holding it, Greyman quickly calmed himself and opened his mouth, but what came out seemed nothing close to calm. "What the hell is happening up there?" he asked in a loud voice.
The voice of the flight commanding officer responded almost instantly. "The A-class devil sent Wing Bolts to intercept our mission, although we've been able to keep them at bay for some time now," the officer responded.
"Keep them at bay? It's carnage up there!" Colonel Greyman retorted.
"Sir, do you think if we were not doing anything you'd be able to stand and speak with me? By now, probably your entire troop would be dead. We're trying our best over here, and we fairly have things in control," the officer responded, his voice also sounding frustrated.
Colonel Greyman scratched his brow. "What do we do now? Do you think you can beat those aerial devils?" Greyman asked. If the Air Force were defeated and forced to retreat, the mission wouldn't just be an utter failure; the massive loss of life that would follow would be overwhelming.
A slight pause came from the other end, and then the officer responded. "Yes, we will prevail. As far as I know, out of the 28 pilots that I sent to engage the devils, 6 of them have reportedly completed their objectives, and I've sent them to assist the others. So, our fighters are slightly gaining a numerical advantage. This isn't to say that we haven't lost some... 4 of my fighter pilots have been exterminated, but not without taking down the devils with them. So, all you and your troops have to do is be steadfast, get ready to do your own job as we do ours, and pray to the Church for us," the flight commanding officer spoke.
Colonel Greyman listened to the officer and sighed. "Okay... We'll be ready for your signal," he said. As the line disconnected, he looked at the sky filled with lines of fire and sighed.
Back at the medic tent, Graves was sweating bullets, simply because of the terrifying, piercing screeches he was hearing and the loud sound of jet engines passing just over their tent. They had been instructed to hold the poles of their tents so that they wouldn't be turned over, but that seemed to be an almost impossible task. His hands were tired, coupled with the fact that he was just an unawakened human, so his fatigue was worse, but still, he couldn't show his suffering.
Sometime earlier, they had gone to help bring in a fighter pilot who had ejected from his wrecked jet. The man seemed to be filled with delight, constantly murmuring to himself. Graves had caught some of what the man said, something like, "That damn devil thought it could kill me. Unfortunately for him, I'm the best pilot there is."
Through this, Graves had realized that this man had somehow killed one of those flying horrors. He had glanced at the man's breast tag, and the name "James" was barely visible. Being covered in soot and mud, the medics had barely noticed the faint blood pooling from the man's left side until a few minutes later when they did a quick injury run-through of his body. They discovered that a sharp, long piece of metal was protruding from the man's left rib. Thanks to the help of advanced medicine, he was taken care of and was regenerating at a steady pace.
Sometime later, the flight commanding officer spoke to the Colonel. He announced that all 14 Wing Bolts were eliminated, but 20 of the 28 fighters that had been sent to engage them were dead. Only 8 had made it out alive, with 3 ejecting from their jets. Fortunately, they had landed in the friendly area.
"We're four minutes away from dropping the bombs, sir," the commanding officer said through the comms.
3... 2... 1...
Back at the tent, an officer who had just received a call suddenly shouted, "Brace for imp—!"
But the words barely left his mouth when a crushing shockwave blasted the tent. Graves, who had been holding one of the poles, felt his hands shattering. Indeed, they did shatter because, as he held the pole, the energy of the blast transferred directly into his hands, breaking the bones. Not just him, but everyone who was holding a pole was sent flying. His world spun as he was thrown through the air. He coughed up blood, his eyes almost going white, and then he landed. Everything went black, leaving only a ringing noise in his ears as blood oozed from his major orifices.
Sometime later, he woke up to a voice that was shouting at them to wake up. It felt as if he were being pulled out of a deep well. Waking up on a cloth on the floor with several others in a similar condition, he checked his body and realized all his injuries had been healed.
"Seems like they used the regenerative medicine on us," he said as he stood up and walked toward a long line.
They were being handed their bags of medical packs—not necessarily their original bags, but the ones that had been flung away by the blast wave and mixed up. Graves was handed one when his turn came. Wearing the bag, he waited in another column. Before him, in the distance, flashes of gunfire echoed, coupled with the sound of heavy bombardment from tanks and artillery. Jets still flew in the sky, but the bombers seemed to have already left. It was an all-out carnage.
Colonel Greyman had been the first to be told that the bombs were about to be dropped, so he had alerted his troops beforehand. Since they were all wearing their PCS (Personal Combat Suits), the shockwave had not affected them very much. After the bombardment, he had immediately sent the ground troops to clean up every remaining devil.
Back at the medic tent, the air was tense, not really because of the unfolding battle, but because they would soon be a part of it. The combatants had already registered a high number of casualties, so in the next thirty seconds, all the medics were going to be rushed out to the front line.
Graves was among the second row. Even he, who had done this seven times, was terrified. He tried to tell himself some motivational words, but nothing worked.
"Damn it all!" he murmured under suppressed fear.