Ioannina, European Federation, October 2035

  Nikos "Spartan" Andrianos leads me through his expansive property, a quiet retreat nestled between the lush orchards. Once a decorated air force colonel, he now lives as a civilian, far removed from the chaos of his past. As we walk, the soft rustle of leaves and distant hum of the world outside blend into the backdrop, yet his eyes still carry the weight of years spent in service, his voice tinged with the stories of a man who has seen both glory and sacrifice.

  Must have been our fourth combat sortie that week, and it was only Wednesday. We never knew if it was the pilots or the planes that would break first. Some weeks we slept next to our aircrafts in the hangar. Just put our folding beds far enough for the mechanics to work in peace and we'd doze off.

  The low growl of my J79 engines filled the cockpit as we thundered over the Thrace Plateau at 12,000 feet. Smoke and dust clawed at the sky, the ground below was like a broken chessboard of wrecked vehicles and burning outposts. Greek, Turkish, Egyptians, Syrians, Macedonians, Saudis, Serbs mechanized and armoured units were dug in, fighting side by side against those beasts that broke from the north. The defensive positions were in a U form. The Thrace Salient as we called it. We held them from the sides but they were moving more and more south towards the Marmara sea.

  “Zeus Two-One, this is Hoplite Six. We need immediate CAS on Crab positions at grid one-three-five, danger close. They’re breaking through.”

  I craned my head left, scanning the battlefield. My HUD flickered with targeting data as Hoplite Six, a surviving ground FAC, lazed the targets. Below, the enemy swarmed—a shifting mass of dark, armored bodies. They poured over the trenches like a black tide, their blue-white energy blasts streaking through the smoke. A Turkish Leopard 2A4 took a direct hit to the turret—metal sagged, liquefied, then the amunition cooked off and sent the turret ten meters in the air. No escape.

  “Roger, Hoplite Six. Ordnance hot. Beginning attack run,” I called, throttling forward.

  I pushed the stick down, rolling the Phantom into a steep dive at 8,000 feet. The airframe shuddered slightly as I switched the weapon selector to bombs. The Crabs didn’t have radar-guided defenses, but their blasters could still swat us out of the sky if we weren’t careful. No time to loiter.

  “Pickle!”

  Four Mk-82s tumbled from the racks. The second they left the pylons, I pulled up, feeling my seat press into my spine as the Phantom climbed. Below, the ground split apart—flames, dirt, and chitin erupted skyward. Crab bodies cartwheeled through the air before slamming lifeless into the mud. Killed just enough to give the guys downstairs time to take back the position.

  “Splash! Direct hit!” Ghost, my WSO, called from the back seat.

  “Hoplite Six, status?”

  “Still getting hammered on the east side! They brought up a Beetle!" I could hear the cries and south in the background. You had to give it to those forward air controllers and JTAC's. Those guys had to lean to say "I know your men are getting killed, but hold on the jets are coming" in every language of the region.

  I banked hard and scanned the eastern flank as I thanked god I had went to military academy and then flight school. If not I would have been down there trying to hold it off. Then I saw it.

  A Beetle.

  Easily the size of a five-story building, its shell was a blackened, jagged mess of organic armor. Six massive legs carried it forward, crushing craters into the ground with every step. Its mandibles clicked and hissed, the sound somehow audible even over the chaos of battle. A Greek armored platoon had formed a desperate firing line in front of it, but their shells ricocheted harmlessly off its hide.

  Then it breathed.

  A thick column of liquid fire spewed from its mouth, blanketing the battlefield in roiling napalm. The nearest Leonidas IFV didn’t stand a chance. The vehicle burst apart as its ammo cooked off, sending flaming wreckage spiraling into the sky. Soldiers scrambled, some collapsing mid-run, bodies turned into charred husks.

  “Ghost, we’re taking it,” I growled, my grip tightening around the stick.

  “Copy that, arming Vulcan,” Ghost replied, flipping the master arm switch.

  I lined up the shot. No missiles, no bombs—just the M61 Vulcan, six barrels of 20mm righteous fury. I slammed the throttle forward, diving to 3,000 feet, the airframe shaking from the speed.

  “Guns, guns, guns!” I squeezed the trigger.

  The Vulcan spat fire.

  Tracer rounds slashed through the air, hammering into the Beetle’s right flank. The chitin cracked and splintered under the onslaught, but the thing didn’t explode. Instead, it screamed.

  The impact staggered it, sending tremors through the earth. Its right legs collapsed, torn apart by hundreds of high-velocity rounds. The massive creature keeled over, slamming into the dirt with a ground-shaking thud.

  The battlefield fell into stunned silence for a fraction of a second. Then the radios erupted.

  “Holy hell! Zeus Two-One just clipped the damn thing’s legs!”

  “Hit it again! It’s still moving!”

  I pulled up hard, barely avoiding the rising plume of smoke and debris. The Beetle thrashed, spewing globs of fire at random, but it wasn’t advancing anymore. The ground units had a chance now.

  “Zeus Two-One, that was insane!” Hoplite Six called out.

  I exhaled, hands trembling slightly on the stick. “Just another day in the office.”

  Ghost chuckled. “Damn right.”

  We weren’t done yet. I banked around for another run.

  The fight wasn’t over.

  Not by a long shot.

  It thrashed wildly, dragging its ruined right side through the mud, crushing wreckage and bodies beneath its bulk. Even with its legs torn apart, it was trying to crawl toward the Greek and Turkish lines, spewing arcs of molten fire from its gaping maw. The beast let out an ear-splitting screech, a guttural noise that made my cockpit instruments rattle.

  Then, over the radio, a desperate voice cut through the static.

  "Zeus Two-One, AGAIN! AGAIN! AGAIN! It's still moving!"

  I banked hard left, my helmet jerking slightly from the G-forces. Below, I could see Greek and Turkish troops scrambling for cover, firing everything they had at the beast—tank shells, ATGMs, heavy machine guns. But it wasn’t enough.

  "Ghost, we’re going for the other legs," I growled, leveling out for another run.

  "Copy, arming Vulcan. Let’s take this bastard down."

  I lined up the Phantom’s nose with the Beetle’s left legs, switching to guns. The massive creature was trying to pivot, to turn its fire-spewing mouth toward the ground forces, but I wasn’t about to let that happen.

  "Rolling in hot!"

  I dropped to 2,500 feet, my reticle settling over the joint between its middle and rear legs. Squeeze.

  "Guns, guns, guns!"

  The Vulcan roared, a solid stream of tracers tearing through the thick, armored joints. I could actually see the impact this time—thick, black ichor sprayed out as the rounds ripped into its limbs, tearing through chitin and muscle. The Beetle lurched violently, its rear legs exploding into pulp.

  It collapsed.

  A thunderous BOOM rocked the battlefield as its entire bulk slammed sideways into the dirt, sending a shockwave of dust and fire through the trenches. The massive creature spasmed, its mandibles gnashing at the air. Its front legs scraped at the earth, trying to push itself up—then they twitched one last time and went still.

  For a moment, I just stared.

  Then the radio erupted with cheers.

  "You got it! You got the damn thing!" I heard the same men harassing the FAC earlier cheer behind the radio.

  I exhaled, hands still locked on the stick. My pulse hammered in my ears. The Beetle wasn’t burning, wasn’t twitching. It was dead.

  Ghost let out a breathy chuckle in the backseat. “Well… that’s one way to step on a bug.”

  I smirked. “Next time, let’s bring RAID instead of 20mm.”

  "Zeus Two-One, this is Hoplite Six," the FAC called, his voice still shaking with adrenaline. "You're clear to egress. I think we can handle the rest from here."

  I exhaled, rolling my shoulders to shake the tension out of them. My flight suit was damp with sweat, my fingers stiff from gripping the stick too hard.

  Then the AWACS controller’s voice cut in, cool and professional.

  "Turkish Air Force F-16s will take over now. They're on station."

  "Copy, AWACS," I muttered, pulling the Phantom into a slow climb, leveling off at 10,000 feet. The last rays of sunlight stretched long across the Thrace Plateau. Below, the battle still raged, tracer fire lancing through the evening air, but we were done.

  Time to go home. I was wondering what there'd be to eat at the mess for diner. Wednesdays were usually lamb. Can you believe that? In the state our army and country was in we were being served lamb and some rice on Wednesdays.

  Then the right wing tore off.

  No explosion. No warning. Just a violent shudder—and suddenly, it was gone.

  The Phantom lurched left, rolling so hard my helmet slammed against the canopy. The world outside whipped into chaos—sky, ground, sky, ground—flashing past too fast to process.

  "What the hell?!" Ghost shouted.

  I fought the stick—nothing. The plane was gone, a crippled, spiraling mass of metal tearing itself apart.

  "Ghost, eject! Eject!" I bellowed.

  I reached down, yanked the D-ring, and the seat exploded beneath me.

  Blackness.

  I came to for half a second.

  I was upside down, tumbling, wind howling in my ears. My arms were numb, my chest locked in a tight, crushing grip.

  Then—snap.

  The parachute deployed, slamming me to a stop so hard my head snapped forward.

  I tried to move.

  Darkness again.

  I woke up to the dull thud of my body hitting the ground.

  Pain. My ribs screamed. My helmet visor was cracked. The scent of burning earth filled my nose.

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  I gasped.

  Then I heard movement.

  Heavy. Slow. Not human.

  I forced my eyes open.

  Something big was moving beyond the trees.

  I could hear it—slow, heavy footfalls crunching against the dry earth, the sound of branches snapping under its weight. It lurked just past an olive orchard, hidden in the dark.

  My fingers found the grip of my pistol, unholstering it with shaking hands. I tried to steady my breath, tried to focus—

  Then I heard it.

  Footsteps. Fast. Sprinting. Coming straight at me.

  I barely had time to turn before hands grabbed my shoulders, shoving me down. A body pressed against mine, and for a second, my entire system froze.

  I damn near shat myself.

  A voice, barely a whisper, right by my ear.

  "Ssssshh."

  That was all he said.

  I swallowed, forcing my breathing to slow. Whoever he was, he wasn’t killing me. Not yet.

  The distant thing kept moving beyond the orchard, its massive shape shifting in the darkness. I had no idea how long we lay there, listening. My Phantom had gone down in the early evening—maybe around six or seven. It must have been close to ten now. The world was pitch black.

  Finally, the hands released me.

  The figure slid off me, rolling onto his stomach to my right. I turned my head, forcing myself to take in the details.

  A silenced M4-type rifle. A patch with a neutral-colored Turkish flag on his vest. Camouflage netting draped over his shoulders, the hood pulled over a boonie hat.

  Definitely special forces. Reconnaissance, maybe.

  He looked young.

  The night was dead quiet, except for the sound of branches snapping under something massive.

  Then I saw what he was looking at.

  The Beetle.

  Not even fifty meters away, half-hidden among the olive trees. Its chitinous body glistened under the moonlight, shifting as it moved. Thick, barbed legs dug into the soil, crushing roots and branches like they were nothing. It was bigger than I remembered—maybe my mind had blocked out the sheer scale of it in the air.

  Then another one emerged from the dark, came down from one of the hills away its heavy bulk swaying as it stepped into view.

  A third followed, slower than the others, its mouth glowing faintly as it exhaled a wave of embers into the night air. Even from here, I could feel the heat.

  I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to stay still.

  The Turk beside me didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.

  His rifle was still, aimed low, his eyes locked on the creatures. He had the look of someone who had done this before. Someone who knew what happened if you made a sound.

  I tightened my grip on my pistol, but I already knew the truth. I was lucky enough to land in one of their beetle pastures. I had hit those things from the air before—bombed the hell out of them, actually. But in the air, with the right weaponry, you had a fighting chance. Big bombs, high-velocity projectiles, and a hell of a lot of firepower. But now?

  Now I was on the ground, a single 9mm pistol in my hand, and three Beetles no more than fifty meters away. The kind of things that had shredded armored vehicles like they were made of paper.

  I had to wonder—what cursed act had I committed in a past life to end up like this?

  I held my breath, praying the Beetles wouldn't catch wind of us.

  But then—just as I was starting to think we might actually make it out—more of them appeared.

  From the north, over a ridge beyond the olive trees, came another massive shape. It moved slowly, its legs grinding against the earth as it emerged from the darkness. Another. And another. The creatures were in full force tonight.

  They lumbered across the field, not noticing us, but the ground vibrated beneath their weight—each step a thudding reminder of how small we were in the face of their might.

  One of the Beetles came closer, its bulk looming as it crossed the edge of the orchard field. It was so close, I could see the heat radiating off its armored body in waves. Its legs moved with a mechanical precision, each one pushing into the ground with an audible crunch. The air around it shimmered from the heat it emitted.

  I couldn’t even breathe as I watched it draw near.

  The Turkish soldier beside me signaled quickly with his hand, motioning for me to stay still. His eyes were wide, his expression deadly serious. He moved so slowly, like the slightest twitch would get us both killed. His rifle was aimed low, its silenced barrel pointing at the earth, ready for any movement.

  It passed over us.

  I could hear the scrape of its legs against the soil as it moved right above us, its weight sending tremors through the ground. I could see the glow in its mouth, like a furnace ready to spew fire and death. The heat was unbearable—I could feel it even through my gear. The air smelled of burning metal and acrid sulfur, the kind of smell you get when you've been too close to something that burns hotter than the sun.

  I forced myself to stay as still as possible, feeling my muscles lock up in sheer terror. If it noticed me, if it decided to turn around...

  But the Turkish soldier didn’t flinch. He held his position, his face a msk of concentration.

  The Beetle passed, its massive form blotting out the stars for a few agonizing seconds, then continued forward, leaving nothing but the faintest echo of its footsteps behind.

  I let out the breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

  The soldier’s hand didn’t lower. He was still motionless. Time stretched in that field, each second feeling like an eternity. We must have waited an hour, maybe more. It was like being a kid again, waiting for my parents to fall asleep before I could sneak out of bed and do something stupid.

  The Beetles remained unaware, their massive bodies slowly shifting, their giant legs pressing into the earth as they lumbered past, each movement a monstrous reminder of how insignificant we were.

  Finally, the soldier moved. His eyes flicked to me, and his fingers pointed to my body, then made a quick OK sign, silently asking if I was alright.

  I nodded, trying to mask the ache that was settling into my body. My back felt like it was on fire from the crash, and I could barely feel my legs, but I wasn’t about to stay in that field. There was no way in hell I was staying under those things for one more second.

  He signaled for me to rise slowly, his hand just a faint whisper in the dark. I complied, forcing my legs to hold my weight. It felt like moving underwater, my muscles stiff from the fall, my body a collection of bruises and exhaustion. I didn’t dare make a sound.

  The soldier didn’t hesitate. He started to move out, his M4 rifle held low, his movements smooth and quick. His combat uniform blended with the night, the ghillie upper blending him into the shadows like some kind of ghost. He wasn’t even wearing a plate carrier, just a simple rig with six magazines and a pouch for a radio—a soldier who didn’t need more than the bare essentials.

  I, on the other hand, was a mess. The fatigue in my legs threatened to give out with every step, and I tried to match his pace, but he moved like a shadow. Faster than I could keep up with. My steps were heavier, slower.

  But he never left me behind. He’d move ahead, then, without even turning back, pause, just enough for me to catch up. No words. No acknowledgment. He didn’t need to look at me to know I was struggling, didn’t need to tell me to hurry. It was like he knew exactly how far to push me before letting me catch my breath.

  We walked through the field, keeping low, moving past the sleeping Beetles. Every so often, I could feel their presence—massive, lumbering shapes just out of reach, their backs turned to us, unaware. Every step we took was calculated, making sure we stayed far enough from them, always in their blind spot. If they woke up…

  The soldier pulled a chemlight from his gear. It was IR, visible only through night optics. Probably to signal this positions to my colleagues who were still flying above.

  We moved through the night, my body running on adrenaline and sheer will. Each step I took felt heavier, my muscles screaming, but my mind focused on the soldier ahead of me. His sharp eyes scanning the horizon, his movements silent and efficient. He was leading me through the dark like he’d done it a thousand times.

  I could barely keep up, but I had to. There was no other choice.

  He helped me over a wooden fence, his hands strong but gentle as they guided me over the splintered wood. My legs were still shaky, but I didn’t let it show, gritting my teeth as I pushed through. On the other side, the ground felt softer, almost too quiet, as though it was trying to swallow every sound we made.

  We moved quickly, my feet dragging behind the soldier as he led me through the night. The landscape seemed to stretch forever in the dark, but I could tell we were heading toward something—an abandoned village, barely half a kilometer away.

  It felt... strange.

  Surreal.

  The faint glow of the moon gave the buildings a ghostly appearance, everything was just the way it should be at night, just as if people had gotten up and left. There was no movement, no sign of life. Just the occasional rustling of wind through the empty streets.

  If it weren’t for the explosions in the distance, the occasional roar of fighter jets above, and the distant tracer rounds that lit up the sky like fiery streaks, it might’ve felt like just another quiet night. Like when I was a kid, walking home late after missing the last bus, the streets eerily empty, with only the sound of my footsteps to keep me company.

  We kept walking, the eerie silence of the abandoned villge wrapping around us like a thick fog. But then, without warning, the soldier stopped, his eyes scanning the shadows ahead. He muttered a word—quiet, but loud enough for me to hear. It was Turkish, and I couldn’t make sense of it. My mind was too scrambled, still processing everything that had happened.

  From somewhere up ahead, just beyond the shadows of a tree, a voice answered back. Low, hushed, almost indistinguishable from the wind, but it was a response. The soldier didn’t hesitate—he just nodded slightly, signaling for me to keep moving.

  As we approached, I saw the shape of a figure in the bushes, just barely visible in the dim light. The soldier’s eyes flicked to him, and the figure stood up, slowly and cautiously but left his heavy machine gun where it was. The soldier walked forward, their steps synced, moving like they’d done this a hundred times before. The figure reached out, shaking the soldier’s hand firmly—an exchange of trust, a signal of something unspoken.

  They whispered something to each other. I couldn’t catch the words, but I could feel the tension, the silent understanding between them. The only word I could make out was the one that chilled me:

  “Greek.”

  Not even two minutes later, we were led to a basement, but it was nothing like the village above. This place was alive, buzzing with activity. Maps were strewn across tables, laptops flickered with data, radios connected to antennas outside and a handful of men—similar to the Turkish commando who had rescued me—were huddled around, working, talking, communicating. The energy was completely different from the quiet, eerie stillness of the abandoned village. Here, there was a sense of purpose, of focus. These were men with a mission, a clear goal.

  I was still trying to take everything in when a man approached me. He was older, grizzled, wearing a uniform that looked more polished than anyone else's in the room. There was authority in the way he moved, in the way his eyes scanned me with a kind of assessment I didn’t fully understand.

  Without hesitation, he extended a hand, and I shook it.

  "If it wasn’t for Murat here, we would have called in the airstrike on that Beetle pasture earlier," the officer said, his voice steady but carrying a weight of gratitude. "He was the one who spotted your chute and volunteered to go grab you out."

  I nodded, a little stunned. Murat—the soldier who had silently led me through the night—had seen me fall, watched as I plummeted from the sky. My heart skipped a beat as the image of my chute flaring out, only to be followed by the violent crash to the ground, played again in my mind.

  Apparently, Murat had been up on a hill, with his team, overlooking the field. Anti-tank weapons in hand, ready for anything. But when he saw my descent, he’d volunteered. No hesitation.

  The officer’s words still rang in my head, but my thoughts were interrupted as he continued.

  "Your copilot has been picked up five kilometers west of here. He's in friendly hands." The words barely registered at first, but when they did, I felt a wave of relief. He was alive.

  The officer gave me a small, almost imperceptible smile.

  "If you want to see the fireworks, you have five minutes to get upstairs."

  I stood frozen for a moment, trying to process it all—Murat's quiet heroism, 'Ghost' survival, and now this: a chance to see it all unfold from the ground.

  I made my way upstairs, my legs still stiff from the crash and the long trek through the night, but the adrenaline had a hold of me now. The stairs creaked beneath my boots as I ascended, the noise seeming too loud in the silence of the house. When I reached the top, I stepped into a dimly lit room, the scent of stale coffee and the faint tang of sweat filling the air.

  Two JTACs, one on a chair and the other on the bed, eyes locked through high-powered optics, their hands moving with practiced precision over radios. They were in constant communication, calling out coordinates, target parameters, and battle updates in a steady rhythm. Their voices were calm, but there was an edge to them—a kind of quiet urgency that came with the territory.

  One of them barely looked up when I entered, his eyes flicking toward me only for a split second before he was back on the radio. The other nodded, but neither offered me any words. I understood—they had a job to do. And right now, I was nothing more than a bystander in their mission.

  I moved to the window, my gaze drawn outside to the vast field below. It was a quiet scene, almost serene, but the reality of what was happening was just beneath the surface. The Beetles—those massive, terrifying creatures—were still out there, slumbering, but it was only a matter of time before everything erupted.

  As I stood there, lost in thought, the door behind me opened quietly. Murat stepped in, his camouflaged gear blending with the shadows of the room. He didn’t say anything at first, just gave me a small nod before pulling out a cigarette from his pocket. Without a wrd, he offered it to me.

  I took it, grateful for the small gesture of normalcy in a world that had gone completely off the rails. Murat flicked his lighter, and I did the same, the flame casting a brief, shaky glow in the dim room.

  He lit his own cigarette and leaned against the window frame next to me, staring out at the field as well.

  "no one will notice another light with what's to come" he said in broken English. The smoke curled around us as we both took a long drag, our silence filled with the weight of what was to come.

  Murat didn’t speak for a long time. When he finally did, his voice was low, like he was talking more to himself than to me.

  The room was quiet, the air thick with tension as we stood there, watching the field below. Murat took another drag from his cigarette, his eyes narrowed and focused. I did the same, the smoke curling into the cold air around us, mixing with the static hum of the radios.

  Then, the first Israeli jets appeared, cutting through the night sky with deadly precision. Their sleek forms were just above the treetops, engines growling like hungry predators as they banked sharply to the left. The air shifted with the noise, and I knew exactly what was coming.

  The jets locked onto their target, and I watched as air fuel bombs dropped from their bellies, two massive, glowing cylinders tumbling down toward the field. The first bomb hit with a violent thud, spreading a thick mist of fuel across the ground. For a second, the entire area was submerged in a shimmering blanket, the fuel soaking into the earth and clinging to the Beetles—those towering, nightmarish creatures sprawled out across the field.

  Before I could even react, the second bomb followed, and the moment it hit, the fuel ignited in a blinding burst. The field lit up in a fireball, orange and yellow flames spiraling upward, stretching high into the sky. The Beetles, coated in fuel, were consumed by the flames, their massive bodies ablaze. The heat from the explosion rushed toward us like a wall, and even from the window, I could feel the intense pressure of it, like the air itself had been squeezed from my lungs.

  The fire raged, dancing across the field for a good ten seconds. Then, something shifted—there was a violent, almost unnatural stillness in the air. And then, in a single, terrifying moment, the interior fires of the Beetles erupted.

  The ground shook beneath us as the Beetles exploded. A blinding flash of light tore through the darkness, so intense that it momentarily illuminated everything, leaving everything around us in a white, searing glow. The explosions were massive, the sheer force of it throwing debris into the air in every direction. The air crackled with energy, and for a second, it felt like the world itself had snapped.

  I could barely see anything for a moment, the flash still burning behind my eyes. But as the light faded, the field was nothing but a charred wasteland, smoke rising in thick plumes from the remnants of the Beetles. The shockwave echoed across the valley, and I could feel the tremors in the building, as if the earth itself was still trembling from the explosions.

  Murat took another drag from his cigarette, watching the aftermath with the same calm, unreadable expression. He didn’t need to say anything. The fire, the destruction, the chaos—it all spoke for itself.