"It wasn't there yesterday," Case muttered, staring at the columns forming on the far side of the river.
Across the water, an entire encampment sprawled along the bank—tents, supply crates, fires, wooden barricades, even boats pulled up along the shore. A forward base. A staging ground. And it hadn't existed twenty-four hours ago.
Case felt his mouth go dry.
He patrolled this area daily. Sure, there had been more raiders lately—better armed, better coordinated, probably supplied by the Legion. But this? This was nowhere on his radar.
How could Caesar move such a massive force in a single day? What had he missed? Or worse—what had gone wrong?
Case swallowed hard.
Had the Rangers on the other side of the river been overrun? Slaughtered before they could send a warning?
The thought clawed at him.
Something wasn't adding up.
Jack stepped up beside Case, his revolver still smoking faintly from the last exchange. The moment he saw the riverbank, his expression hardened into something grim and cold.
"Shit…" Jack whispered. "That's not a raiding party. That's a damn invasion force. Fucking hell, we really underestimate the Legion. Jacob should act before they become a pain in the arse."
Milla lowered her rifle slowly, eyes tracking the movement across the water. "Corbin… that camp is fortified. Look at those barricades—they didn't pitch those today. Case, are you sure it wasn't there yesterday?"
Case blinked. "I patrol this section every morning. I swear it wasn't there yesterday."
Corbin didn't question him.
"Then they moved under the cover of night," Jack said quietly. "How could this be…?"
Corbin shook his head. "Doesn't matter right now. Whether the Legion had help or not, we've got a situation on our hands. If this invasion force isn't stopped—or at least disrupted—we're screwed."
Jack pressed a hand against the transceiver fixed to the side of his helmet. He switched channels, then spoke with clipped urgency. "Farmstead, this is Delta Patrol. We have a situation. Repeat, we have a situation. We've spotted a major Legion buildup on the far side of the Colorado."
A crackle of static answered him—then a familiar voice cut through.
"Say again, Delta?" Jacob asked, tension already creeping into his tone.
Jack didn't hesitate. "We're looking at a full troop concentration—tents, fortifications, boats. Possibly an invasion force. Estimate one to two thousand Legionnaires preparing to cross into the Mojave."
There was a long pause on the other end. Too long.
Jacob finally replied, voice low. "Copy that… one to two thousand? Are you absolutely certain?"
"Do you want me to recount, Major? I count at least two or three Battalions from where I am standing, and probably more."
"Two to three battalions…" Jacob muttered. Paper rustled on his end, followed by muffled voices—Farmstead's command staff reacting, scrambling, probably preparing. "That tracks with Caesar's doctrine. If they're staging a crossing, they wouldn't commit anything smaller."
"They are," Corbin said flatly. "And the result won't be pretty for us."
"Copy. All patrols are being recalled. Farmstead is going to full alert." Jacob's voice dropped. "Get back here, Lieutenant. We need you. And are you certain it only appears today?"
"Well, I'm certain," Corbin replied.
Jacob exhaled a harsh breath. "We can speculate later. Right now, you need to get back to base immediately. We'll notify the other Ranger outposts and get eyes along the Colorado. If the Legion is really pushing west this early… the boys are more fucked than I anticipated."
"Copy that, Corbin, out."
=Back At The Farmstead=
Outside, the Farmstead was busier than ever. The usual laughter and idle conversation had vanished, replaced by shouted orders and the constant stomp of boots on hard-packed dirt. Rangers checked and rechecked their weapons, reinforced firing positions, and hauled supplies—anything that might give them an edge against what was coming.
Milla and Case worked alongside the others, dragging sandbags into new positions and stacking them waist-high along the eastern wall before the meeting began.
"You two—perimeter," Amelia ordered as she passed by. "East and southeast sectors. Double the sentries, check the firing lanes, and make sure the fallback positions are marked."
"Copy," Milla replied without hesitation.
Case nodded. "Understood."
"Briefing in forty minutes," Amelia added. "I want everyone back here by then."
Across the yard, storage crates were pried open. Riot gear emerged piece by piece—helmets with reinforced visors, heavy chest plates, shoulder guards scarred from old battles. Some sets bore the Desert Rangers' markings; others were older, stamped with faded U.S. Army insignia. One thing was certain: every veteran Ranger was being issued a full set.
A quartermaster called their names.
"Milla. Case."
They stepped forward together. Two crates were dragged out and dropped at their feet—heavy, solid, unmistakable. The markings on Case's crate were old, partially worn away, but the contents were something else.
A regular combat armor, a polymer-reinforced combat armor with its helmet. They were preparing for something now, not the usual Viper, an actual threat from the Legion. They might be barely trained based on Ranger standards, but they earned the right for that gear.
Inside the command tent, Jacob spoke calmly, his voice carrying enough weight to still the room.
"It's worse than we expected," he said. "Centcom confirms the buildup appeared overnight. And…" He paused, letting the implication sink in. "They raided an armory in Arizona. These aren't fresh recruits. We're facing Legionnaires equipped for sustained operations—near-peer, not the usual machete-wielding legionnaires."
The tent fell silent.
Maps were spread across the central table, their corners weighed down by .50 BMG rounds and battered field manuals. A single lantern hung overhead, casting harsh shadows against the canvas walls and illuminating the tight, focused faces of the Desert Rangers gathered inside.
Amelia broke the silence. "There's more. Our observers identified several heavy weapons in the Legion's arsenal—specifically, artillery. 105 mm howitzers."
A murmur rippled through the tent.
Amelia continued, voice steady. "If they're operational, they'll be able to bombard Farmstead from across the river, and several other positions. We need to hold them back, at any cost, sabotage them, or anything."
"Correct," Jacob said. "So we deny them that capability."
He looked around the tent, meeting each Ranger's eyes in turn.
"Direct engagement is off the table," Jacob continued. "We don't have the numbers, and we don't have counter-battery fire. What we do have is mobility, terrain knowledge, and Rangers who know how to disappear."
Corbin let out a short breath. "So… we go guerrilla on them? Hit and run. Sounds fair, to be honest."
Jacob didn't respond right away. Instead, he turned his head slowly and fixed his gaze on Case.
"Case," Jacob said evenly, "do you think you can pull this off?"
For a moment, Case didn't answer.
He looked down at the map—at the red markings clustered along the riverbank, at the circles Amelia had drawn around the artillery positions. He'd fought before, but this was different. Sabotage. Deep behind enemy lines. Against a force that outnumbered him hundreds to one.
"I…" Case started, then stopped. He shook his head. "I'm not sure, sir. That's not a small job."
Jacob stepped closer, his voice calm, even. "You're the best shot we have at that range. You've proven it. You keep your head under fire, and you don't freeze when things go wrong."
Case clenched his jaw. "I doubt my marksmanship is enough."
"No," Jacob agreed. "Which is why you won't be going alone."
He turned slightly. "Milla."
She straightened immediately. "Sir."
"You've worked with explosives," Jacob said. "You know how to move without being seen. You know how to plant charges and walk away clean." He paused, then added, "Paired with Case's engineering sense, that gives us a real chance."
Milla nodded once.
Case drew a slow breath. "If that's the order, sir… then that's the order."
"Good." Jacob didn't smile. He reached to the side of the table and gestured to a small equipment crate. "For night movement, you'll be issued West-Tek low-light goggles MK 1. Not perfect, but good enough to see without giving yourselves away."
He slid another note across the map. "Too slow, too loud. Case, you'll take a scoped supressed marksman rifle with match-grade 5.56 rounds—enough punch to drop spotters and crews if needed. Milla handles the real work."
Milla's expression didn't change.
"Satchel charges," Jacob continued. "Old pre-War stock. Reliable. You don't need to destroy the guns completely—just crack the breach, wreck the recoil system, or cook off the ammo. Artillery doesn't have to explode to be useless."
He looked between them. "In and out. No prolonged contact. If it turns into a firefight, you disengage."
Corbin added quietly, "You're not there to be heroes."
"Understood."
"In the meantime, we—the veterans—will draw their attention. Hard." Jacob tapped a section of the map far closer to the main Legion encampment. "We'll hit their outer perimeter, their supply trains, and whatever they're using for command and control, Decanus, Centurions, you name it."
Milla frowned. "That's suicide."
Jacob didn't dismiss it. "It's dangerous," he corrected evenly. "Which is why it won't be subtle. We do everything to make sure your mission succeed."
Case crossed his arms. "You're talking about a fighting withdrawal."
Jacob nodded. "That's correct. We make enough noise that every Legionnaire with a rifle starts looking the wrong way. Spotters get pulled. Patrols redeploy. Artillery crews sit idle, even firing at their own people."
"That makes our mission…" Milla began.
"Comparatively easy," Case finished quietly.
Jacob met Case's eyes. "Your job is to slip through while they're focused on us. If this works, you won't even hear the shooting until you're already planting charges."
Milla exhaled slowly. "And if your mission goes wrong?"
Jacob didn't hesitate. "Then we hold their attention as long as it takes," he said. "Best case, we come back lighter. Worst case—" he paused, just long enough to be clear, "—the Legion loses men it can't afford to replace, their command structure turns chaotic, and Farmstead still stands."
"You sound overly confident," Case sighed.
"Not really, I've been through worse," Jacob just smiled.
"In that case, then I want to modify the plan, sir. I need to bring heavy guns too, in the case that we might need to fight off while retreating, you might not want us to play hero, but we do believe that this mission might result in one of us not returning home in one piece if we are merely equipped with 5.56 rifles." Case said.
"Suit yourself, kid."
"Thanks sir."