The Last Hound Part 1

Flashback to the Dallas incident

"Squadron Report! Come in. Do you copy? Does anyone copy?" Red shouted into his radio, concealed in the tank graveyard, clad in his ghillie suit. The airwaves responded with nothing but static until a lone voice crackled to life.

"They're gone, Red... Commander Anderson is cleaning house. I'm working my way back to you," Houston reported.

"I can't believe it... Prez, and the others I trained... They're children! Why would Anderson do this?" Red expressed his disbelief.

"That's why I have trust issues, little brother. Just meet up with me; we've got to get the hell out of here. I've arranged for one of my old friends to provide us with a ride out of this area. Our fellow Vermont comrades probably have the kill order to eliminate us, while the other schools—Davy Crockett, Grand Lake, and North High—are likely gunning for us as well," Houston explained.

"Then we have to fight our way out... Big Brother," Red asserted.

"We have to get out of here.... I'll see you there..." Houston said

End of Flashback

The scene shifted to the medical tent, where the League team, led by Major McKenzie, entered. Major McKenzie's eyes widened at the sight of numerous boys in various states of distress, receiving medical attention from their school medics. Some were screaming, others crying, and some merely grunting in pain. Ben and the other medics worked tirelessly, patching up their friends who had been shot.

"Hold the pressure there!"

"We need clean water!"

"Hold still! I know it hurts; just hold still as I try to patch you up!"

Walking through the medical tent, Major McKenzie couldn't believe the extent of the injuries suffered by the boys. The Japanese schoolgirls assisting the medics expressed a mix of relief and concern. Outside the tent, rows of bodies were laid out, covered with sheets, a somber reminder of those who didn't make it.

As the survivors carried stretchers bearing the deceased, placing them in a grim row, Major McKenzie couldn't shake the haunting memory of the Dallas incident, where he witnessed the aftermath of a match that claimed 4,500 lives.

The League and its President had promised such a tragedy wouldn't happen again, but now, it had occurred once more, not by accident but through a deliberate act of revenge. Someone had used live rounds to secure victory, proving a sinister point.

The scene shifted to Houston in his tent, undergoing medical checks by Ben, his school medic. Bandages covered cuts, and Ben carefully removed a knife that had been embedded in Houston. Houston's right arm and cheek were bandaged, attempting to alleviate the burns inflicted when Anderson shot the Molotov off the air.

"You're really lucky that this knife Anderson used didn't cause serious damage to your right arm," Ben commented as he stitched up Houston's right shoulder, where the knife had pierced through.

"Yeah... Sure he is," Red quipped from within his older brother's tent, sporting an ice pack on the bruise from the hit he took against Anderson. "I'm so glad I didn't get stabbed or shot," Red added.

"Yeah, but the others aren't as fortunate, little brother," Houston grimaced as Ben continued stitching his wounds. "With this program he has... This is something different."

"Very different... I mean, this is about Tankery, a sport that you and the others are playing. When did he get this idea of controlling guns and creating a private nation for himself? Where did he get all that from?" Red inquired.

"Well, he got that idea three years ago, remember the Dallas Incident?" Houston shared.

"Yeah, a place where I died," Red somberly remarked.

"Yeah, that... Look, before the match started, Anderson shared that dream of his with me. Not when I was tortured, but when he told me what he was doing—a dream of something he wanted to happen during the Dallas match," Houston explained, reclining in his seat as Ben continued tending to his wounds.

"Remember back then during the War on Terror when the United States entered Afghanistan... To seek and export terror, and a war against those governments that support them. Well, Anderson had a father who was in the Marines, along with Cousin Lenadaro's unit at the time during the war in Afghanistan. He had this theory that he always talked to his dad about all the time—a system that can control guns," Houston revealed.

"Control guns?" Red questioned.

"Yeah, not a deterrent control; it's the ultimate approach to the perfect peace that would control guns on soldiers in Modern Warfare. Making the weapons they use ID-tagged, which only works for ID-tagged soldiers who use ID-tagged gear," Houston explained.

Houston continued, his expression reflecting the gravity of Anderson's vision. "He believed that by implementing this system, wars could be fought with precision, minimizing collateral damage, and ensuring that only those with the right authorization could operate lethal weaponry. It was supposed to be a step towards a world where conflicts could be resolved without the unnecessary loss of life."

Red furrowed his brow, trying to grasp the enormity of Anderson's idea. "But how does that connect to what he's doing now, turning Tankery into a deadly game? How does controlling guns on soldiers relate to this private nation and revenge scheme?"

Houston winced as Ben finished up the last stitches on his wounds. "That's the thing, Red. Anderson's vision evolved, or perhaps devolved, into something darker. He saw the power he could wield, not just in warfare but in shaping society itself. The concept of control shifted from preventing chaos to imposing his will, his vision of order, even if it meant using lethal force to maintain it."

As Houston spoke, Red couldn't help but think about the consequences of such unchecked power. Tankery, once a sport, had become a pawn in a dangerous game of one man's delusions.

"I've been trying to wrap my head around it," Houston admitted, a troubled look in his eyes. "But one thing's clear: he wants to prove that his vision, his way of control, is the only way. And he's willing to sacrifice anything, anyone, to make it a reality."

The realization hung in the air, heavy and unsettling, as the medical tent continued its frenetic dance between life and death.

"So, you think what happened in the Dallas Incident was really all his doing?" Red asked.

"It could be, but I can't be sure. Whoever shipped those live ammunition during that time almost made Anderson carry out his plans. After I took down everything at Vermont Tankery Academy—our old squad, our Tankery team, all of it—I let it burn to ashes during the end and fall of our old school," Houston revealed.

"I see. But now he has what he needs: guns, men, everything," Red remarked.

"Well, not everything. What he still needs is the money—the funding that will propel him toward his goal. That's why he's after the League and the old funds of the Battle Reenactment of America Association," Houston explained.

"Money is the lifeblood of his grand vision," Houston continued, his gaze distant as he recalled the twisted ambitions of Anderson. "He needs resources to sustain his private nation, to fund the development and implementation of his control system on a broader scale. That's what makes the League and its associated funds so attractive to him."

Red nodded solemnly, connecting the dots. "So, this whole Tankery competition was just a means to an end for him? A way to get the money he needed?"

"Exactly," Houston affirmed. "He used the guise of competition to manipulate, to position himself strategically within the League, all while gathering the necessary resources. And now, with the chaos he's orchestrated, he's pushing to make his grand vision a reality, with Tankery as the centerpiece of his control system."

Red clenched his fists, a mix of anger and frustration etched on his face. "We can't let him succeed, Houston. We can't let him turn Tankery into a tool for his warped version of control."

Houston nodded, determination in his eyes. "We won't, Red. We'll expose his plans, rally others against him, and put an end to this madness. But we have to be smart, strategic. Anderson's got the upper hand for now, but we'll find a way to turn the tide."

As the two brothers shared this resolve, the medical tent buzzed with activity, a microcosm of the turmoil both within and outside its canvas walls. 

"Commander and Captain Houston," one of the Rangers from Davy Crockett High School entered the tent, saluting both Red and Houston. Houston acknowledged him, "What's wrong?"

"The other Commanders are gathered and waiting for you," the Ranger reported.

"Right, I'll be there very soon," Houston replied. The Ranger saluted and left the tent.

"You think Graham and Muller will be joining us to go after Anderson?" Red asked.

"Well, in that meeting, I'll go find out," Houston said.

As Houston left the tent alone, he entered the command tent to find Muller, Graham, Welsey, Elijah, Miho, Maho, Kay, Katyusha, and Darjeeling all gathered with Major McKenzie. McKenzie smiled upon seeing Houston arrive and assured that he was alright.

"Good to see all you High Schoolers Commanders gathered around," McKenzie said, his arms crossed. "Since you're all here, I'll give you an update on the aftermath of this War Game match. Since America Tankery League won, Federation Sensha-Do will back down on their demand to shut down The League's Tankery sport and will continue what we do best. However, it will take time for the officials to arrive on the island, including Technical, Urban Architecture, Medical Professionals, and the Board of Educations, along with all of your families." McKenzie informed the group.

"Then what about Anderson?" Houston asked, his arms crossed, raising his eyebrows in question.

"Well, after seeing the aftermath of what he did to you all after you defeated the Federation Sensha-Do team, he will be tracked down by JSDF, and with the help of U.S. military troops. There's nothing you kids can't do against him. Seeing what he has done to you all and to some boys who were shot or killed, leaves it up to us adults to find him. This way, we can keep you teenagers out of danger from whatever Anderson is planning to do," McKenzie explained.

"What? You can't leave us out of this! I know what he could be planning to do. I know what he's like; I used to be in his old unit back then, Major! Come on!" Houston argued.

"Houston, I think it's time for you to stop," Muller interjected.

"What?" Houston said in surprise.

"Yeah, I agree with Muller on this one. It's time to stop. We did it, won our War Game, but it's time to leave the real problem to the officials. Houston..." Graham added, his tone urging for reason.

Graham continued, his voice firm yet empathetic, "Houston, we've done our part. We've fought the battle, and we've won. Now it's time for the authorities to take over and handle Anderson. It's not just about us and our vendettas; it's about protecting everyone, including those who can't defend themselves."

Muller nodded in agreement. "Major McKenzie is right. They have the resources and the experience to deal with this situation. Let the professionals handle it."

"For what?! After what he's done to us! Muller... Graham... You guys know what we were forced to do during the Dallas Incident... The three of us survived that horrible incident as I paid the terrible price of betraying that unit, which led a lot of people I know to die, including Red, who I had to put down when Anderson greatly injured my little brother!" Houston exclaimed.

"And yet he somehow comes back alive," Wesley added.

"But the point is, back then, we had a reason to fight in that match—to survive and defeat Anderson. If we could do it then, we can defeat him now," Houston argued.

"Houston... Back then, we didn't get help from the association officials. They mostly stood to the side and watched the bloodshed happen, leaving the casualties up to us. That's why we don't want a repeat of back then, Houston. It's time to leave it to the authorities. Besides, this isn't the war you think it is; it's just a game," Graham explained.

"Yeah... A game for us to enjoy Tankery in America," Muller concluded, emphasizing the need to differentiate between the sport they loved and the dangerous vendetta Anderson was pursuing.

"I get it. I do," Houston admitted, his tone heavy with resignation. "But Anderson won't stop. He's driven by something beyond reason. We can't just wait for the authorities to handle it. He'll slip away, vanish into the shadows, and resurface with a new plan. We have to finish this."

"Well, if you want to go after Anderson, you have to do it without me and Muller's help. I'm sorry, Houston," Graham said, attempting to offer support by placing his hand on Houston's shoulder. However, Houston slapped it away, his frustration evident as he glanced at everyone in the room.

"Then I have to kill him myself," Houston declared as he abruptly left the command tent, heading back to his own tent with Red waiting inside. Red was resting on the bed, anticipating Houston's return.

"So?" Red asked.

"They said we should let the authorities handle Anderson themselves," Houston reported.

"Are they crazy? They don't know what Anderson is capable of," Red said.

"I know," Houston spoke, his voice getting raspy. As he began coughing and feeling his body weaken, he grabbed a syringe from his back pocket and quickly injected himself. Slowly catching his breath, Houston threw the syringe away, attempting to stand on his feet. He stumbled, but Red quickly caught him and sat him down, making him sigh.

"Maybe the others are right... We should let the authorities handle it. Enough is enough, Don. We can't take any more of this," Red suggested.

"I'm not dead yet," Houston asserted, his determination unwavering even as his body showed signs of strain.

"You know what I mean... You can't beat Anderson. He's got the system on his side, making weapons useless against him. And even if they weren't, Anderson has enough men and machines to surpass any military. Things can't get any worse. Face it, Don, we've lost," Red said, his voice filled with sadness.

"Red..." Houston spoke up.

"We should've never gotten involved in this sport or this mess back when Father forced us to join Tankery back home," Red lamented.

Hearing his younger brother's distress, Houston placed his hand on Red's shoulder and spoke up, "It's not about winning or losing. We started this, and it's our duty to finish it." The weight of responsibility and determination in Houston's words hung in the air as they faced the challenges ahead together.

"You really think we can take him?" Red asked.

"Most likely, yes. If we are together," Houston replied.

"Well, I guess there's no stopping you two from going now, is there?" McKenzie spoke, entering the tent. "Pardon the intrusion; I was on my way to talk to you about letting this go. I can see it will be impossible to contain you here, Don," McKenzie said.

"So, what are you going to do? Throw me into a cell while I let you boys handle the work?" Houston questioned.

"Something like that. But seeing how determined you are to bring down Anderson, it would be a hard pass to let someone with more experience be waiting in a cell. So, no," McKenzie replied.

"Thank you. But there's another thing here," Houston handed McKenzie a list.

"What's this you're giving me?" McKenzie asked, his eyebrow raised.

"Equipment list," Houston stated.

"That's a lot of hardware, Don. What do you plan on doing?" McKenzie inquired.

"What I was taught to do back then... Kill them all," Houston declared, his tone unwavering and resolute.

McKenzie studied the equipment list for a moment, his expression a mix of concern and understanding. "Don, I get that you want to put an end to this, but we can't endorse a vigilante mission. The authorities will handle Anderson. We have a system in place, and it's the right way to go about it."

Houston leaned forward, his eyes locked onto McKenzie. "Major, with all due respect, you know as well as I do that Anderson won't be brought to justice through bureaucratic channels. He's too cunning, too well-connected. We need to act swiftly and decisively, outside the system."

McKenzie sighed, realizing the gravity of the situation. "Don, you're asking me to turn a blind eye to a potentially unlawful operation. I can't condone that."

"I understand the risks, Major. But sometimes, you have to go outside the rules to protect what matters most. If we wait for the system, we might lose everything," Houston argued.

Red, who had been listening silently, spoke up, "Major, we're not asking for your approval. We're just letting you know what we're going to do. We appreciate everything you've done for us, but this is something we have to handle ourselves."

McKenzie looked at the determined faces of the two brothers, realizing that trying to dissuade them would be futile. "Just be careful, both of you. I can't officially support this, but... I won't stand in your way either."

Houston nodded appreciatively. "Thank you, Major. We'll do what needs to be done."

As the two brothers left the tent, McKenzie couldn't shake the feeling that this decision would lead to consequences, both anticipated and unforeseen.

As the days passed, Houston and Red prepared for their mission. They loaded the equipment provided by McKenzie into the Jeep. Just as they were about to depart, footsteps approached, and the brothers turned to find Graham and Muller standing there.

"So, you two are really doing this?" Graham asked.

"Yeah, we are," Houston confirmed.

"Well, I'm sorry, Houston. Sorry for us not coming. The reason why we chose not to go is not to have our revenge against Anderson for what he did to us. But the reason we are staying is that... will one of us be coming back after what will happen," Muller explained.

"Yeah, since our families are coming, I don't want them to see me in a body bag after what you two are going to do," Graham added.

"I know. Which we both understand. Take care of yourselves. Even watch out for my guys; make sure none of them follow me or Red. I don't want them to follow their Commander to the battle of death," Houston requested.

"Don't worry. I'll tell your Vice Commander, Jefferson," Muller assured.

"Thank you, old friends," Houston said, offering brief hugs to Muller and Graham before breaking away. The weight of the impending mission hung in the air as they exchanged parting words.

Just before Houston could get on the jeep, he heard someone calling his name. Turning around, he saw his tank crew—Grant, Troy, Scott, and Machine—running up to him, their expressions filled with concern.

"Houston... Why... Why are you doing this?" Scott asked.

"Well, I'm not running before, and I'm not running now. I'm going to fight him," Houston replied.

"With what? With this equipment that you've got? No. I mean, we can't let you go out there. Grant and Troy will get our tank fixed, and then we can join you, and—" Scott tried to continue, but Houston cut him off.

"We just can't let you fight alone! Not with your little brother. We can get our Lone Star Sherman tank working. Just give us more time to fix it!" Grant pleaded.

"Yeah, I know, but there's no time," Houston spoke up.

"No time!? No time for what? You fighting against this Anderson and his army with you and Red alone? You want to fight them?" Troy exclaimed.

"It's not that we have a choice, but it's me and him who have to do it," Houston responded, his tone rising.

Houston and his crew began arguing, each member begging to let them accompany him. Scott yelled out, grabbing everyone's attention. He turned to Houston, his face showing a mix of fear and sadness.

"It's okay... You boys take care of each other. Okay? It's all right. This is my fight, one that I can't let you boys get hurt. You're just like my family. Just like Red," Houston said, his voice strained with the effort to suppress his emotions.

Houston took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. "I appreciate your loyalty, and you're all like brothers to me. But this is something I have to face alone. I can't risk any of you getting hurt because of my personal vendetta. I need you to fix the Lone Star Sherman, and when the time is right, join the fight with the League. You have your own part to play in all of this."

Scott, Grant, Troy, and Machine exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of frustration and understanding. They respected Houston's decision, even if they didn't fully agree with it.

"Take care, Houston," Scott said, offering a firm handshake.

Houston nodded, gripping Scott's hand firmly. "You too, Scott. Look after the guys."

As the tank crew dispersed, heading back to their task of repairing the Lone Star Sherman, Houston turned to Red, who had been silently observing the exchange.

"Let's go, Red. We have a reckoning to face," Houston said, his voice carrying the weight of determination and responsibility.

"Wait before we go... There's something I must do first," Red said.

"Okay, make it quick. We leave soon," Houston replied.

Nodding, Red quickly headed somewhere in the camp, leaving Houston alone in the Jeep, waiting for his brother. Standing there, Houston grabbed a pack of cigarettes, noticing there were only two left. He opted to save his last smoke for the right moment, lighting the second one and smoking alone.

As he gazed at the camp, Houston found it hard to think straight. His mind was filled with a mix of emotions, memories, and the weight of the impending battle. Trying to distract himself, he turned his thoughts to Maho, realizing he had left her a note. The uncertainty of what lay ahead hung heavily in the air, and Houston took a final drag of his cigarette before flicking it away, steeling himself for the challenges that awaited.

Maho wandered through the camp, her eyes scanning the familiar faces, searching for the one she couldn't seem to find. A deep sense of unease settled in her chest, a feeling that something wasn't right. She approached Houston's tent, hoping to find him there, only to discover it empty.

A note caught her eye, placed carefully on the table. She picked it up, her hands trembling slightly as she unfolded the paper. The words on the note blurred through her tears, and she read the heartbreaking message:

"My dearest Maho,

I hope this letter finds you well. By the time you read this, I'll be gone. There's something I need to take care of, something I have to face alone. I want you to know that you mean the world to me, and our time together has been the most precious part of my life.

I cannot express the regret I feel for leaving like this, but I believe it's the only way. You deserve a life free from the burdens that come with being tied to me. Please, continue your life and forget about me. It's for the best.

I know your arranged wedding, and I know it's approaching. I want you to be prepared for it and fulfill the duty that has been placed upon you. You deserve happiness, Maho, and I hope you find it.

Take care of yourself, my love.

Yours always,

Houston"

Maho's heart sank as the weight of the words settled in. A flood of emotions overwhelmed her—confusion, sadness, and a deep sense of loss. The realization that Houston had left without a proper goodbye left her shattered. She clutched the note to her chest, as if holding onto it could somehow keep him near.

Tears streamed down her face as she struggled to process the reality of the situation. The camp, once bustling with life, now felt eerily silent and empty. The impending arranged wedding seemed like a distant concern compared to the ache of losing the person she loved.

Maho sank to her knees, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. The note crumpled in her grip as she allowed herself to grieve for the love she had lost. The camp, with its memories of Houston, became a lonely place, and the future felt uncertain and daunting without him by her side.

Miho stood by the beach, gazing at the full moon reflecting on the water. A soft sigh escaped her lips as memories flooded her mind—the laughter, camaraderie, and shared experiences with her old and new friends. However, one figure dominated her thoughts more than others: Red.

Despite being the same age, Miho found Red's personality to be a refreshing contrast to her own. She recalled moments when they enjoyed each other's company, the genuine connection they shared. One memory stood out vividly—a time when Red had helped her carry a heavy box of machine gun ammunition. His willingness to lend a hand left a lasting impression on Miho.

Another recollection tugged at her heart—the day she twisted her ankle while cleaning her Panzer IV tank. Ben, the school medic, was occupied, and it was Red who stepped in to take care of her. His kindness and concern spoke volumes, creating a bond that went beyond the battlefield.

As Miho continued to stare at the moonlit waves, she couldn't help but feel a mixture of gratitude and longing. The camaraderie she shared with Red and the others was a source of strength, a beacon in the midst of the challenges they faced. The memories of their time together fueled her determination as she prepared for the battles yet to come.

Miho's contemplative gaze was interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. She turned to see Red walking towards her, his expression carrying a mix of determination and something she couldn't quite decipher.

"Red," Miho greeted softly, a small smile forming on her lips.

"Miho," he replied, his eyes reflecting a complex blend of emotions.

As they stood there by the moonlit beach, the air seemed heavy with unspoken words. Miho felt a knot tighten in her stomach, sensing that something significant was about to unfold. The usual camaraderie between them was replaced by a somber tension.

"I wanted to talk to you before we leave," Red began, his gaze drifting to the distant horizon.

Miho nodded, a sense of melancholy settling over her. "What's on your mind?"

Red took a deep breath before meeting her eyes. "I've made a decision, Miho. There's something I need to take care of, something I should have done a long time ago."

Miho's brow furrowed, her concern deepening. "Red, what are you talking about?"

He hesitated for a moment, as if grappling with the weight of his words. "I can't stay with the League. There's something I have to face alone, a reckoning of sorts. It's my past, Miho, and I can't let it haunt me any longer."

A sinking feeling settled in Miho's chest, the weight of his words pulling at her. "Red, you don't have to face it alone. We're a team, and we'll support you through whatever comes."

A sad smile touched Red's lips, but his eyes betrayed a deeper sorrow. "Miho, there are things I've done that I can't ask you or anyone else to bear. I have to face the consequences, and it's something I need to do on my own."

Miho's heart ached, the realization hitting her like a wave crashing on the shore. "Red, please... Don't go."

He reached out, gently cupping her cheek, his touch warm against her skin. "Miho, you've been a true friend. I'll never forget the moments we shared, the battles we fought together. But I have to do this. For me, and for everyone else."

Tears welled in Miho's eyes as she grasped the depth of his decision. "I'll miss you, Red."

His thumb brushed away a stray tear, and he leaned in, placing a tender kiss on her forehead. "Take care, Miho. Keep being the amazing commander you are."

As Red walked away, leaving Miho alone by the moonlit beach, a sense of loss enveloped her. The waves echoed the heaviness in her heart as she watched him disappear into the night, knowing that their paths were diverging, and the separation carried the weight of a final farewell.

Returning to the Jeep, Red nodded at Houston, who flicked away his cigarette before they both got in and drove off into the night. The engine's hum seemed to resonate with the gravity of their mission.

As they navigated the dark roads, Red turned to Houston, breaking the silence that hung in the air. "Are you ready for this?" he asked.

"Yeah, I am," Houston replied, his eyes focused on the road ahead. "Even though we'll be outgunned, outnumbered, and on what seems like a suicide mission that will likely get us killed. But what's worse than death when you have your brother with you? We might be remembered for what we're about to do, but I can tell you what we're going to do. We will kill him."

The determination in Houston's voice resonated through the Jeep, cutting through the night air. The weight of their shared mission pressed on them, but a resolute fire burned in their eyes as they drove towards the inevitable confrontation that awaited them. The road stretched out ahead, winding and uncertain, but the brothers faced it together, ready to confront the darkness that lay at its end.

Driving past an opening, the determination in Houston and Red's eyes was palpable as they envisioned taking down their former commander. The memories of the Dallas incident weighed heavily on them. They remembered the betrayal, the escape from Anderson's vengeful pursuit, and the order to kill them both.

The scene shifted to a brief flashback—a chaotic escape, with Houston driving and Red firing from the shotgun seat as they were chased through the streets. It was a harrowing memory, etched into their minds, a testament to the lengths they had gone to survive.

Back in the present, Houston and Red found themselves in a different region, passing through a dense forest. They took a short break, with Houston studying the map, trying to recall the location of the hidden Forward Operating Base (FOB) Anderson had established.

Now back on the road, driving through a dense grass field that resembled a jungle, Houston brought the jeep to a halt. He turned to Red, a sense of purpose in his eyes.

"We're close. Come on, we move on foot," Houston declared.

"Then let's gear up," Red responded.

The two brothers prepared themselves, checking their weapons and securing their gear. The atmosphere was tense but focused, a shared determination evident in their every move. As they stepped out of the jeep, the dense foliage loomed around them, concealing the path to the FOB where Anderson awaited. The echoes of the past mingled with the anticipation of the present, and the brothers pressed forward into the unknown, ready to confront the ghosts that lingered in the shadows.