Warfly combat engineers sprinted through the trenches, dragging thick black cables behind them. One of the rebels crouched, thumbing a small detonator.
"Better cover your ears, boys!" he warned Brian and Simon.
"Showtime, baby! BOOM!" He slammed the switch.
A chain of explosions erupted across the opposite dune. The shockwave turned the ridge into a sinkhole, swallowing sand and metal alike. The enemy tank teetered for a heartbeat—then flipped forward, nose-first into the crater, vanishing under the roaring sand.
Brian and Simon climbed out of the trench, bursting into the main hall of the half-ruined facility. From above, Dan watched the battlefield unfold—terrorists retreating in chaos while the Bravo Wind regrouped with the Warfly rebels to push the black-cloaked fighters back behind the ridge.
"Cease fire!" Sergeant Walsh said loudly.
"They're runnin' with their tails between their legs! Woo-hoo!" Dan shouted from the second floor. But before anyone could cheer back, the ground trembled again.
Something massive was rolling through the dunes.
The second tank emerged from the haze, its turret slowly turning toward the building.
Brian spotted a Warfly soldier sprinting across the yard, arms full of ammo boxes.
"Got the rounds, boys! Sorry I'm—" His grin froze.
Through the window, Brian saw it—the tank barrel locked straight on him. "NO! Get back!!"
Too late.
The shell hit. The white wall exploded inward, crushing the rebel where he stood. A spray of red mist covered Brian's face. The ringing in his ears drowned everything—the shouts, the gunfire, the world itself. The gray floor beneath him turned scarlet.
"It's reloading! Everybody down—NOW!" Walsh yelled.
Simon tackled Brian to the ground just as the turret twisted again. The world shook… but before the next round could fire, a sharp metallic roar split the sky.
A jet's shadow streaked across the sun.
The aircraft was lean and deadly, its wings razor-edged, painted with a blue shark mouth. A squadron of five tore through the clouds, guns blazing.
"Holy shit— A-85 Thunderstrikes!" Simon shouted, peering through a hole in the wall. The jets dove, unleashing hell—missiles shredding the antique tank to pieces. Three more screamed low, strafing the enemy camp like pouring boiling water on an anthill.
The Marines roared with triumph, raising their rifles and fists.
But in Brian's ringing ears, it wasn't cheering he heard. It was a football stadium. A crowd chanting,
"Hooray! Hoo-ray~~~~~~~" the sound of victory in another life.
Dan grinned and threw a thumbs-up at the jets as they climbed back toward the clouds. The Wolfray commander ran to Walsh, talking fast, urgency written all over his soot-streaked face.
Dan jogged down from the second floor, and when he spotted Simon, "What's up, amigo!" he yelled, throwing his arms open and tackling his buddy into a bear hug.
"Good to see you still alive, Danny," Simon laughed, patting him on the back.
Field medics roamed nearby, injecting medicine into wounded soldiers, dulling screams into sighs. Outside, the surviving Warfly rebels stepped from the ruined building, breathing in the scorched air of victory. They lifted their faces to the sun and saw three birds circling above the desert sky.
Some began dancing, laughing, and grabbing each other's hands in celebration.
Their leader walked forward, looking heavenward with tears in his eyes. "God is great!" he cried.
Then his body lifted—levitating slowly off the ground. For a moment, the soldiers shouted in awe. They thought it was a miracle. But then— Thud! The man's body fell from the sky like a sack of meat, crashing into the sand. His skull cracked open on impact. The laughter stopped. Every rebel stared upward.
A figure was descending from the clouds—wrapped in shredded cloth, floating like an angel twisted by war. Its bare feet gleamed silver-white, metallic, and cold. It touched down beside the corpse of the fallen leader.