They were the last words the Great Obo ever heard…
The battle was over by noon. Every one of the Mongols had died, most at the hands of the Western Forces, some by their own swords.
Hunter had landed the Stealth on a highway nearby. Jones had been airlifted to the site also. Both men met with Dozer on the battlefield.
"We lost about four thousand men," the Marine told them. "Young men, most of them. Good troops."
Scattered from the plateau to the trenches lay thousands of dead Mongols, covering the bodies of the dead Circle soldiers. On the ridges surrounding the valley, huge fires still burned.
Hunter looked out on the battlefield as the victorious Western Force soldiers collected rifles and swords from the dead Mongols.
"This was needless," he said to Jones and Dozer. "It was nothing more than a mass suicide, with these creeps pulling some of our guys into hell with them…"
Hunter walked out into the battlefield alone. He faced the east. The sky was turning red. It was not the Aurora Borealis this time. The red was in his eyes. They were burning. Burning with hate.
Viktor was responsible for this. The devil himself had gored the American continent and watched it bleed. And for what? Ego? Power? Or was he just following orders?
Hunter was convinced. Viktor's mission all along was twofold: Conquer America at best, keep it destabilized at worst. He would have won either way. It would take the continent years to recover from this. Hunter's dream of reunification — a long shot before — was now even further stalled.
He felt his senses start rippling. Jolts of energy pumped through him. He closed his eyes. He called on the feeling. That's when he saw him. Viktor.
Alive. He was sure of it. Fleeing. Escaping. Across the Atlantic.
And Hunter was going after him…
The end…for now