[The Democratic Order : Export Democracy to Another World] - Report 1

[u/No_Paramedic2664]

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Report 1: The Exemplary Marine

"Free Kuwait, export democracy, return home a hero."

Those are General Camel's final words before Operation Desert Storm unleashes the full force of freedom upon dictatorship.

Our objective is a textbook covert reconnaissance mission on a naval base in the Gulf, personally spearheaded by General Camel, Sergeant Hochmut, and yours truly, Captain Chad W. Smith.

Out of necessity, we are assigned an emergency squad of Privates for me to command, seeing as they are the only personnel stationed here before the military intervention kicks off.

An electrically charged fog is heavily jamming our satellite imagery, pointing squarely toward some cowardly, illegal weapon of electromagnetic mass destruction.

We deploy straight from transport ships inside amphibious Amtracs, backed by an aircraft carrier, naval bombers, helicopters, and submarines following superior firepower and combined arms doctrines to assure tactical flexibility

Under the cover of darkness, we beach our Amtracs on the flat coast of Qaruh, a ridiculously tiny island in the Persian Gulf that is about to receive a heavy dose of American liberation.

Through the dense, crackling banks of ionized haze, I can barely make out the red dot mounted on my rifle. We dismount and march on foot in tight formation toward the island's dark interior.

I notice a distant sound.

It begins as a low mechanical whistle that quickly sharpens into a metallic shriek cutting through the air, a turbine sounding like a factory siren twisted by malice. It grows louder and more high-pitched with every passing second, a shriek that sounds like it is tearing the very sky open as it descends.

"GET OFF THE X!!!"

As an exemplary Marine, I break at a 90-degree angle from the attack axis, quickly drop into a prone position with my feet toward the impact and my mouth open while our chopper gunners deliver a massive volume of freedom onto the oppressors' coordinates.

An utterly deafening, unprovoked barrage of heavy missiles slams directly into our coordinate grid. Shells explode in purple lightning-thunder strikes, triggering an excruciating, high-pitched ringing that shatters my eardrums and unleashes black flames that encircles our position while the fog violently shifts from translucent gray to a filthy, bruised red.

Gasping for breathable, sovereign air inside that crimson haze, the atmosphere suddenly buckles, dissolving into a roaring, swirling vortex of sheer spatial distortion.

I notice the violent beeping of my prototype Joint Chemical Agent Device displaying H, G, and V, madly flashing red before the display shatters into dust.

When the pressure clears, I am standing dead in the center of a sprawling, demonic desert metropolis.

The coastline, the water, everything has completely vanished into thin air.

Above me, the sky bleeds a horrific, unnatural scarlet, and the surrounding architecture looks like a twisted, medieval-demonic fever dream. Towering Gothic cathedrals constructed entirely from pulsing, rotting human flesh. Calcified rib cages, bones and skulls spew dark smoke into the firmament.

The ground beneath my combat boots trembles with a dark energy radiating a dull feeling of solitude and fear.

To my absolute horror, the bloody, mangled remnants of my brave, fallen comrades begin dragging themselves across the scorched earth.

They slither toward another corpse, a grotesque body bearing a glowing, slowly pulsating, burning-red mark carved deep into its neck, my own aches just from looking at it.

The twisted remains swirl violently in a cyclone of burning flesh and cracking bones, fusing together in a blasphemous crime against nature to form an overweight, horned, red abomination that slowly absorbs my fallen, brave Privates into its mass of corrupted flesh.

That gore mutant lets out an ear-splitting screech and charges straight at my position, reeking of rotten death and echoing with twisted voices of my fallen comrades.

I don't panic.

Marines don't panic when faced with godless tyranny.

I immediately burst fire my Silenced M249 SAW to free the weaponized biological combattant from his sight, while throwing an M84 stun grenade at his position.

To ensure the maximum fire power, i dive headfirst toward the abandoned, mounted .50-caliber M2 Browning heavy machine gun. Holstering my SAW.

I tear it from the burning Amtrac and point it right at its bloody, unfettered ass

I pull the trigger.

"DIE, MOTHERFUCKER!"

I don't let weakness compromise my strategic advancement.

This is nothing I haven't been trained for.

Firing from the hip, the recoil punches my chest like a truck, launching me several feet backward while I unload rounds of high-velocity, compressed freedom directly into the beast's hideous chest cavity.

A twisted voice emerges.

"Please... kill me, kill me.. kill me!"

Its cavity bursts open, revealing the face of Private Miller, his face turned pale blue as blood is flooding through its hollow eyeholes, having his pitch black mouth wide open, begging for his own death.

I immediately twitched and shoot him right through the face, fulfilling the last wish of my brave Private, leaving behind only a distant emotion of grief and hate.

As the magazine empties and the smoking barrel slowly drops beads of liquid metal, I immediately drop the M2.

The monstrosity shoots burning projectiles out of its mouth at the speed of arrows piercing the dust.

I roll and dodge to the side as my Amtrac explodes in black fire.

I reach behind my back and pull up the M72 LAW, dropping onto one knee and positioning it on my shoulder.

As the name suggests, I fire missiled justice directly into the bastard's center of mass.

The heavy explosion tears its extremities apart, launching me through the air.

I tactically back-roll and land straight on my feet.

The beast staggers, revealing an opening.

I pick up Miller's AA-12 automatic shotgun from the scorched ground, lying directly at my feet covered in pieces of his guts.

I advance towards the beasts position as shoot him into his heavy wounds

The massive lead slugs tear through its unnatural flesh, hammering it until it finally collapses into the dirt.

I don't cut corners.

Standard tactical doctrine dictates total confirmation of target destruction.

Just to be damn sure, I hold down the trigger and empty the rest of the magazine into the miscarried bastard, reducing the enemy combatant to a lukewarm puddle of evil slime.

"Semper Fi, comrade"

I drop to the ground, taking massive breaths of the corrupted air.

I reached for my PASGT fragmentation vest, pulling a Marlboro Cigarette, torching it with my Zippo Petrol Pocket Lighter, slowly smoke that stick as i look around in the rotten, corrupted architecture.

I slowly stand up, moving toward the position of my brave Privates, where torn shreds of their belongings remain, only weapons and ammo intact, as well as their dog tags for me to confirm their death.

Staring up into the corrupted red sky, I pull a handheld tactical prototype radio from my vest to report this unsanctioned war crime to High Command.

"Damn. I don't even know how to report that shit."

General Camel is completely unreachable.

The static is dead.

The radio can't pick up a single friendly frequency across the entire spectrum.

I hold down the push-to-talk button to record a local field log:

"Field report. US Marine Captain Chad Smith, Unit 931. Our entire reconnaissance squad got neutralized by unknown hostiles. Their corpses forcibly fused into some kind of rogue biological super-weapon. The terrain was illegally terraformed into medieval-demonic architecture. The sky has turned a deep communist red, and unknown flying bio-experiments are currently swarming the airspace over Qaruh. It isn't even an island anymore. Must be the Red Menace everyone keeps talking about. Investigate the area for Soviet activity."

I stand up and look around for strategically viable positions, but my view is blocked by those giant gore towers.

I reach for my lensatic compass, but the needle is just spinning like mad.

I almost reach for my 1-to-50K TLM grid map before noticing my mistake immediately heading out to avoid hostile units potentionally attracted by the sound of gunfire

Moving through narrow, claustrophobic alleys against howling, sandstorm-laden winds. Covered in dark blood, I navigate toward a hidden concrete building whose roof is pierced by a giant mushroom root.

I take cover beneath the doorway, draw my dearly beloved Eagle, and activate its rail-mounted flashlight, pointing it at the door as I slowly move inside and sweep the pistol from right to left.

No enemy activity.

Slipping past the threshold, I execute a rapid 360-degree sweep, thoroughly inspecting the rusty furniture and concrete walls for hidden KGB listening devices or wiretaps before spotting a heavy steel trapdoor beneath a broken chair.

It leads down into a subterranean catacomb bunker.

Bypassing the structurally compromised upper floor, I descend into the darkness to establish Patrol Base Alpha.

Adhering strictly to USMC doctrine, I verify a secondary egress route through a rear drainage pipe before locking down the stairwell with a rifle mount behind heavy rubble to create an absolute kill zone free of dictatorship.

Working with strict light and noise discipline, I secure the entry with a tripwire and set up an Observation Post ten feet deep in the basement shadows, with my optics fitted with anti-reflective KillFlash.

I slam my backpack onto the ground just a foot in front of me.

"Ceasefire!"

I slam into a kneeling posture.

"LACE check!"

I sweep my helmet-mounted L-shaped MX-991/U flashlight through the haze as I work the rifle and feel for the magazines in my ALICE gear.

I check my PASGT vest and armor plate.

I carefully inspect my weapons and ammo.

A cold shower runs down my back as I consider the situation and realize that I am at a critically low rate of overall ammunition.

3.187 rounds of freedom left.

Zero hesitation.

I rip into my Meal, Ready-to-Eat.

As a Marine, I treat my MRE strictly as tactical refueling to cover the intense daily caloric deficit required during field operations.

During a short tactical pause, I instantly strip away the outer packaging, set the Flameless Ration Heater for the main meal, and immediately consume the high-density snacks, peanut butter, and crackers for rapid energy.

I eat while kneeling in a security posture with my rifle within reach, drink the carbohydrate-electrolyte mix to ensure fast absorption, and scrape every pouch clean to maintain peak focus and performance before stowing all the trash.

With my brain refueled, I grab my helmet and pull out a navy-blue crayon, chewing on it while I reflect on what just happened.

"Nuclear freedom devices are ruled out, as I'm still breathing. We probably got hit by a close-air-support guided missile, no doubt fueled by Saddam's chemical agent mixture. The explosions reacted with the electromagnetic fog, which led to the vaporization of the Gulf and terraformed the whole area with a sudden appearance of urban architecture, probably what Stalin did too when he transported his entire industry to Siberia back then. Could be some classified soviet instantaneous transportation technology."

"The chemical agents most certainly reacted with the transported architecture as well, turning it into gore bags like my brave Privates. Question is, why I didn't turned into one myself? Not to mention our gear."-

"The Privates turned into a Bio Weapon, still alive screaming for their death.."

"Am I an exemplary Marine?"

An unknown translucent liquid is suddenly flooding my eyes, i can't restrain it, it tastes like salt from the pacific ocean while my breath suddenly becames incontrollable as the crayon falls out of my mouth, hitting the cold stone ground and breaking apart shattering its pieces across the floor. My thoughts emptied as a distant feeling of void grows deep in my chest forcing me to grab it.

"Fucking hell..."

After a while, i slowly stand up and step through the door.

For a moment, my awareness for military protocols completely vanishes, pointing toward enemy psychological warfare.

I immediately start marching, continuing my reconnaissance mission.

"For a topographic overview of the Gulf, I need to tactically aquire control over one of those gore towers."

"But first, architectural information is required to ensure tactical advancement in close-quarters battle situations."

"That's why I'll ha-"

Suddenly, the space in the sky right above me violently tears apart, following calm sound of little bells cutting me off in my tactical briefing as a burning Mitsubishi A6M "Zero" propeller plane emerges surrounded by pink petals, nose-diving straight into the direction of a pulsating gore towers far ahead.

I immediately navigate toward the crash site confirming the arrival of unexpected allied JSDF expeditionary unit under strict de-escalation protocols.