Journal #5

November 12th, 2989

This will be my final journal. Everything after this day is classified and we are to create no record of it. Our numbers are dwindling and our strength weakening, but it doesn't matter anymore. We reached one of our hidden arctic outposts and radioed command. Turns out they thought we were dead. Apparently the Imperials thought the same. This means we have an armoured division in the arctic, equipped for arctic warfare, which the Imperials don't know about. Perfect. An entirely new operation is being built around this advantage; Arctic Tundra. As of tomorrow, we officially no longer exist.

Over the coming days we're going to rest up in the safety of the outpost, while supplies and reinforcements get dropped in. High altitude stealth bombers are going to be retrofitted for troop and supply deployment and fly in high over radar range to drop crates and troops. An entire special-forces division is dropping in, roughly forty men and women. A para-insertion at that altitude? I feel sorry for the poor bastards. Very, very cold. And the suits to counter that cold are very uncomfortable. Plus, if enough moisture condenses in their chute packs and freezes, they're as good as dead. They'll be accompanied by an eighty crate drop of fuel, munitions, weapons, provisions, arctic survival gear, parts for the vehicles, and anything else command can spare.

We're going to hit Glycen like it's never been hit before, and the Imperials won't have a clue till we're pushing armour through their defences. My only real concern is the so-called White Knight, some sort of Imperial weapons system built for arctic warfare. If even half the stories are true, this thing could tear us apart. But, I prefer to ignore war stories and focus on intel. And according to intel, it doesn't exist.

Private Jacob Allen,
Jekotian 83rd Airborne Armoured Division

P.S. Mom, dad. I'm sorry. For everything. I love you. I will never forgive myself for what happened to your daughter.