Holding the Pass
"That's John Friedman's voice, right?"
"Yeah. Spot on."
John Friedman's voice boomed through the radio, echoing loudly. Whether out of panic or haste, it was spilling over the public frequency.
We hit the nail on the head. A smile crept across Cheol-woo's lips.
"Enemy headquarters is withdrawing. Not many of them—around thirty, give or take. Let's hurry."
"Mr. David Min, this is where we part ways."
"Pardon?"
"I'll assign you my elite squad, so go ahead and pursue John Friedman first. I'll stay here with the company."
"Enemy forces are following to protect headquarters. If you stop here, you're dead."
"That's why I'm staying. Someone has to hold this pass."
"..."
Atop the mountain pass, the commander halted. Infiltrating successfully between the enemy forces and headquarters had gone well. But the enemy was peering right at their position through recon satellites. If they allowed pursuit, they'd be caught before securing John Friedman.
Which meant someone had to stay and buy time. From the moment they'd planned the op, the commander had already guessed who that "someone" would be.
"It's a mountain road—block the pavement, and their speed drops sharply. Bringing the whole company on a small-unit infiltration was all for controlling this pass. No time. Go."
"..."
Cheol-woo fell silent, unable to argue further. No matter how he sliced it, the Australian commander was right—and reasonable. He'd have reached the same conclusion himself.
Cheol-woo let out a deep sigh and clasped the commander's hand.
"Hold out for 24 hours. I'll capture John Friedman within that time and order their disarmament."
"Understood. We'll be waiting."
The commander turned without hesitation, barking orders to fortify positions. Cheol-woo mounted his bike.
Ah—this is why I hate commanding troops. Treating lives like chess pieces never got easier.
The bike roared down the narrow mountain path, with NewTontonMan lumbering after it in heavy thuds.
"Hurry with the defenses. Enemy's two regiments. Assume you'll fight to the death."
"Yes, sir!"
The soldiers shouted back and rushed to build fortifications. The enemy: two regiments. Them: one company. Holding even ten minutes would be a miracle with that force disparity—but the terrain made it less hopeless. Conserve ammo, and they could last up to twelve hours max. Beyond that? Impossible.
The one who wins in the end takes it all.
Whether the unit got wiped or not, if David Min preserved the nuke codes and took John Friedman, it was a strategic victory. Sacrificing one ability-user company for that? More than worth it.
"Colonel, Australian 1st Company has engaged Federation forces. They're dug in on the hill, defending, while two Federation regiments surround and assault."
"Why? Even with the numbers, why charge a bad position?"
"Just starve 'em out till 1st Company comes down on their own, right?"
"..."
At the LA Base, the situation room buzzed with puzzled chatter at news of the clash.
Australian 1st Company had fortified the highest hill, road included. The Federation couldn't be blind to it—why assault that ironclad fortress?
The lone colonel who knew the answer clenched his fist, hand trembling.
John Friedman's in danger. They have to break 1st Company to cover the boss's escape.
The Australians holding the pass smack in enemy territory. The Federation's reckless assault on that fortress. Both sides playing optimal strategy—one to secure Friedman, the other to stop it.
What the colonel had to do was clear.
"Colonel, recon shows Federation's wide open to us. Hit now, we could devastate them. Attack order?"
"No. Move the howitzers and strike 1st Company first."
"Pardon? Their main force is exposed! David Min and 1st Company are traitors, sure, but Federation's the real enemy—shouldn't we prioritize them?"
"Shut it! You the commander? Follow orders and quit bitching!"
"..."
The colonel bellowed at the mounting pushback. The order made no sense, and he had no excuse left. Damn—Colonel Douglas handled this shit better. He ground his teeth.
No more dissent in the situation room. But it felt like cracks were spiderwebbing through LA Base command—crack, creak.
"Fucking bastards, they're fast."
"You're fast too? On a bike... huff, what're you—!?"
"I got gear."
"Even all that weighs less than my suit!"
One hour into chasing John Friedman. Cheol-woo clicked his tongue at the stubborn distance.
Enemy fleeing in trucks—catchable speed-wise. But they were fucking with the road: spike strips for tires everywhere, even dense minefields to slow pursuit.
"Hold up."
"That puddle ahead looks suspicious."
Why's there water? No rain in three days. Cheol-woo's brow furrowed.
Finally, he stopped the bike, grabbed the Barrett anti-materiel rifle. Loaded armor-piercing slug, aimed center-mass at the puddle, fired.
Whoosh. Water rippled—nothing else.
"..."
Cheol-woo reloaded silently. Aimed at the edge, fired.
The instant the slug plunged in—BOOM! Asphalt erupted in thunder. Leading bikes flipped; soldiers spun, dirt-caked faces staring back.
"Didn't. Just figured if I were them, I'd hide a mine and cover it with muck."
Magnetic proximity mine for metal, probably. Cheol-woo gnashed his teeth.
Distance widening? At this rate, Friedman slips away forever?
Ahead lay Las Vegas—neither rebel-held nor Federation. Worst case, gone for good.
Then an idea hit.
"Hey, fuel efficiency on their Humvees and trucks? Max range full tank?"
"Our bikes?"
"Fuel. Cut that off."
Perfect—their vehicles were hitting a gas station, pulling in one by one.
NewTontonMan, reading his intent, rushed up and knelt. Cheol-woo mounted the railgun on her shoulder, shouldered it. She held her breath, steadying.
Fired.
The slug screamed over 3km, slamming the pump. Blue plasma flashed.
KABOOM! Massive fireball erupted, station in flames. Nearby vehicles flipped; some peeled out desperately.
Moving targets at range? Tough. Stationary pump? Child's play.
Even with onboard jerry cans, they'd have to stop—unavoidable. Railgun shots left: five. Friedman clueless.
They'd run dry now—no stops. Max 300km escape.
Ours: bikes good for 300km flat-out. Catch 'em in four hours. Certainty settled in.
Two more hours of chase. Far ahead, their speed dropped sharply—vehicles lining up, halting.
Then soldiers manning Humvee MGs, aiming this way.
Cheol-woo's lip curled.
Gotcha, you motherfuckers.