Bjorgensfjord

"War's are never won in a single battle. But sometimes, a single shot can turn the tide."

-Imperial Infantryman's Booklet, 3rd Edition

All of Bjorgensfjords air defense had been scrambled to halt the incoming alien attack. Two squadrons of Army Drakkens, two of Whirlwind heavy fighters and three of Javelin interceptors roared up to meet their numerous foes. The three SNC Drakken's had joined the assault, lending their firepower to the attack against the shviri landing craft. It had only been twelve hours, and despite the arrival of reinforcements from long range squadrons, the losses had swiftly become intolerable, and still the shviri assault came on. For every drop-ship brought down, a dozen more would take its place, delivering thousands of soldiers to the Bjorgensfjord station, itself fast devolving into a charnel house of horrifying proportions.

Captain Wulfram Mulders pulled the Fey Phantom into a steep climb, engines howling their frustration as he willed the craft to ascend faster. Red warning lights flashed and the SNC pilot cursed as he realized that their fighter escort had failed to stop the shviri interceptors. He could see the alien landing craft coming down, thrusters slowing the elegant vessels as they made their descent outside Bjorgensfjord. It was up to him to bring as many down as possible. They were massive ships, easily capable of carrying a five or ten times more infantry than the Drakken could ever hope to lift. But all of that came at a price, they could hardly maneuver, and their armament was nonexistent. Only their armor and shielding were powerful, to better withstand atmospheric entry, as well as resist incoming ground fire and aerial interception. The first target flooded his helmet HUD, its massive shape dwarfing his aircraft. His co-pilot and navigator, a certain Rudolf Junkers, focused on the route ahead as Mulders looked at the fast approaching blips that marked the shviri escorts, closing in to end the impudent gunships assault.

Mulders unleashed a torrent of profanity as he saw one of remaining Army gunships behind him get torn asunder by a missile. Unlike the Army aircraft, the three SNC Drakken lacked defensive turrets, but thankfully, this meant they had speed on their side, and that put them at the head of the strike force. He could hear a scream as another of the rear-ward gunships was torn apart by the fast alien aircraft. They passed through the flight of human aircraft like scythes through wheat, unslowing and agile beyond belief, weaving with an eerie grace Mulders would have sworn was impossible had he not seen it dozens of times before. In comparison to the lithe, slender alien aircraft the human gunships were ugly bricks, slab-sided and lacking any of their opponents artistic finesse. They had neither the speed nor the agility to match the enemy fighters, having been built to deliver and support ground assaults rather than fight in the air. In return, they were utilitarian, and for all their flaws, their sturdiness and brutal firepower could not be underestimated.

His last pair of Haywire missiles streaked away from their pylons, tearing apart the engines of the nearest transport mere seconds before Mulders pulled up and over the unwieldy craft engaged in its terminal free-fall.

"Sheevee rockets on our six. Three of them," Junkers said, absolutely sang-froid.

His ability to remain calm in the midst of combat was something Mulders envied.

"Got it."

A daisy-chain of flickering chaff sputtered out behind him as he juked to dissuade the pair of shviri fighters that were closing in on them, spewing a stream of lasers at the sluggish gunship. For once, the pilot wished their craft had a defensive turret. But it didn't. Of course, there were other ways of shaking off pursuit. Mulders smiled as he opened up the flaps. He had been a test pilot once, and he had pulled off insane maneuvers with far less agile craft than a Drakken. It slowed to near stalling speed, jerking violently in the still Fyran air as warning gauges blinked their protest. The timing couldn't have been better. In a heartbeat, the pursuing aliens had overshot him. One pulled up, out of range, the other flew below, a fatal error. The shvir had never put much thought into their individual pilots survival, do or die, it was the only way. An acceptable methodology for a species with numbers far greater than their foes. Mulders pressed down gently on the trigger. Instantly, the gunships nose guns roared their anger and cooled to silence, one burst, it was all it took. In milliseconds, the thirty-millimeter shells tore a fiery path of destruction toward their target, striking it down in explosive fury. The SNC pilot felt a slight thrill race through him as he saw the hapless craft crash towards the ground, but swiftly recovered his focus. They had brought over a hundred Haywire anti-tank missiles to Bjorgensfjord in anticipation of the tough combat, and already the commando's own reserves had run out, and Mulders knew they weren't making the dent needed. Another transport entered his vision, he still had time to change vector. He banked sharply, drawing a bead on the landing crafts cockpit. The nose mounted gun roared its anger, sputtering blue sparks marking the area where the enemy vessels shields absorbed the repeated hits. The SNC pilot swore and pulled up, just narrowly avoiding a collision. Down below, the transports were already disgorging their cargo, the infantry and armored vehicles unloading straight into a mass artillery barrage. And yet none of it was enough. With his helmet masking the look of horror on his face, Mulders dove down, the ammunition counter dropping in seconds as he strafed down the length of the shviri columns. It was like throwing pebbles at the ocean, but as long as he was in the Phantom, he could fight, and perhaps, eventually, the tide would turn.

It had been three days since he had found the perfect spot. Three days of waiting out in the wastes, bunkered down above Bjorgensfjord. Three days alone, preparing for a single shot. He could hear the roar of engines from the descending alien transports. Dozens of the vessels moved through the air, seemingly identical to one another, descending through a curtain of flak and human aircraft to offload their cargo. Below there were thousands of the aliens, swarming in a sea of violence and confusion. But the sniper only sought one. To seek one target, one general, in a teeming sea, was a seemingly impossible task. Yet Jonathan Cain waited patiently for his opportunity.

The wind picked up, tugging gently at the corners of his cloak, whispering softly to him, his only companion out here in the wastes. His slate gray eyes stared out, unblinking and devoid of emotion. There was no spark of life, no flicker of hope or trepidation. Nor did they reflect the all too human fear and dismay that must have come from the sight of the armada arrayed before him. Even the excitement and anticipation of the impending kill wasn't there, only the void.

The scope on his Aurora pattern rifle traversed incessantly across the forlorn landscape and slowly, surely, the square muzzle brake shifted along with it, searching for its chosen victim. As the black clad sniper moved slowly under the camouflage cloak, the material distorted the light about him. It hid the man from prying eyes, making him a mere ghost in the field, a patch of heated air to any unprepared observer. And so the killer waited.

He saw it in a heartbeat. A shuttle, descending stealthily among the transports. Smaller and better escorted than the freighters delivering the vanguard of the shviri onslaught, it was a mere afterthought for the veteran sniper that his target had indeed arrived. Assir Vass. The shviri marshal in charge of the landings, and the alien meant to mastermind the assault on Bjorgensfjord.

The front ramp on the vessel dropped with agonizing slowness. Dozens of shvir marched down, guards, officers, and finally an APC. There was still no sign of the target. The sniper pulled back the bolt, an archaic mechanism that defined the Aurora. His camouflaged form seemed utterly immobile as he reached down to one of the ammunition pouches at his waist. Slowly, surely, he drew out a single, twenty millimeter round. It slid into the breech easily. The gentle click of the bolt being locked into place was the only sound as the sniper centered his rifle on the APC. Still there was nothing, no sign of his quarry, the quarry he was certain now sat in the personnel carrier. Cain's hand ran across the golden rose that hung around his neck, a reminder of a love he had lost long ago. The rangefinder read 1323 meters. An acceptable range. Then the opening appeared.

It took him a split second to recognize Vass as he dismounted from the carriers rear ramp, wearing a ceremonial suit of armor. Its appearance would have been ridiculous had it not been for the small, built in shielding system that gave it protection far beyond the armors mere thickness. It mattered not. The rifle swung up half a millimeter and Cain fired.

The Aurora's recoil would have torn off his arm had it not been for half a dozen separate dampeners built into the massive anti-materiel rifle, all working together to reduce the force to a mild kick, hardly greater than that of a common assault rifle. Almost instantly, the round exited the rifle, sabot petals splitting apart like a flower as they passed the weapons muzzle. Only the penetrator flew on. A single, three inch atterium rod, more expensive than the rifle from which it was fired. A projectile that could tear through a transport from front to rear, aimed with seemingly inhuman precision at a single shviri officer.

It took less than a second for the projectile to strike its mark. The shviri commander never heard the shot being fired. The shield overloaded, the sparks emanating from the device swiftly replaced by the gory remains of Vass' head as the penetrator hurtled onward, only halting after it had struck the APC behind him.

Cain didn't wait for further confirmation. He had done his duty. The strictly hierarchical and ill conceived nature of the shviri war machine would suffer without their marshals strong leadership. The surrounding alien officers and soldiery desperately searched for the source of the shot, not knowing that he lay over a kilometer away, too far for an effective response. Slowly, the SNC sniper pulled back and began his retreat. He had sown the seeds of doubt in a single shot, and that was good enough.