Sword of Eden: Twenty Minutes

[Kaukolastan]

OOC: This is a part of the Sword of Eden thread series. Questions? Comments? Want in? Go to the OOC Thread, here.

THE STORY THUS FAR - The tropical nation of Brazul, attempting to join the modern world, cut several bad deals with world powers, and forces within became greedy. As tensions rose, a tragic terror attack split the nation, and a coup d'etat ensued. The leader of this coup. Generalissimo Porras, cut ties with said powers, and launched a state terror against separatist groups in a campaign to secure his power. Seizing on this opportunity, the nation of Transnapastain stepped in for "humanitarian" reasons, although many wonder if it was truly about the He³ resources in the small nation. As of this thread, Transnapastaini forces, in unison with local Cintano Liberation Front guerrillas, have secured much of the Cintano region, but the provincial capital of San Cadiz has proven a loyalist stronghold, repelling early assaults.

As tensions rise towards the inevitable battle for San Cadiz, a StaSec officer loyal to Porras, Colonel Guerro, flees into San Cadiz with a captured BCS datalink module from the He³ plant, with plans to sell it to the highest bidder, and gain backing and financing for his crumbling regime. He takes shelter in the dense urban core, amid loyalists and diehards, deploying human shields and every weapon at his disposal to gain one last chance for his nation. Transnapastain, realizing the potential for disaster, coordinates with her Directorate allies to recover or destroy this module, and an elite Kaukolastani team is dispatched by Chronus Citadel to rectify this problem by all means necessary. San Cadiz is about to become the killing grounds, and who knows how many will fall?

IC:

“Twenty minutes in the AO, tops.”

A cakewalk, they'd called it. A bag job, a park stroll. The enemy was broken already, curled in the husk of San Cadiz, waiting to be put out of their misery. They were just the angels of mercy, come to euthanize the crippled dog.

A criminal misuse of resources, that's what it was.

Lieutenant Ellis Warner, Commander of Saber Team Four, leaned back into his flight seat. Beside and opposed him waited the other eleven members of the First Lance, variously reclining in the dull lighting of the vertol's cargo hold. Warner rubbed his eyes, fighting off the edge of a headache. Now was not a good time for another damn migraine.

Next to him, Specialist Cary popped open a small metal tube, offering a selection of small white pills. “Pharma?” The medic asked.

“No, no, I'm fine.” Warner replied. God damned BCS wouldn't let a man have a headache in peace. Cary had probably noticed the pain spike on his squad medlink.

“Sir,” Cary murmured, concealing the medical capsule from the soldiers, “you're showing increased stressors and migraine symptoms on the link. I recommend you blunt it to maintain efficiency for the mission.”

“Fine. Fine.” Warner took one of the pills, and popped it. Within moments, his headache began to fade, and the world became brighter, more alive. He'd come down hard in about six hours, but they'd be long gone by then. Fucking pharma.

Artemis Biotech “Nodrazine” 15mg: $11.50

Twenty minutes, tops.

It was a refrain to Warner, sung by the chorus of intelligence agents he'd colluded with on the flight from Sorobade. They'd sung it through VR-link, they'd sung it over satellites, and they'd sung it to his face on the TNS Majesty. San Cadiz, population three-hundred thousand and change, all hostile, looped in an armored noose by Transnapastaini guns. Three-hundred thousand, piled on top of one another in a sloped favela rushing into the ocean port. Three-hundred potential gunmen, desperate and cornered, half-feral, sitting on billions of credits in a five pound case.

One Colonel Guerro, Brazulian StaSec, had taken something that didn't belong to him. The Colonel had acquired a BCS uplink from the He³ Plant, through some godforsaken rash of bad luck, and the kill-switch had failed. The bungled assault on the plant had allowed him to escape, and take refuge in San Cadiz. That time had allowed this Colonel to send out feelers, look for buyers for his new auction, look for allies to help his sad regime fend off their conquerors.

One Colonel Guerro, member of a decapitated organization, known war criminal, had called down all the thunder of heaven on his own head.

Corsingard had sat out the war in Brazul. Subrosa had had it under control, just a few unpleasant natives to corral into line, nothing to worry about. Then the He³ Plant debacle had unfurled, and the BCS module had been taken. Now, it was Corsingard's concern.

And while Transnapastaini forces were here as liberators, taking care to avoid collateral, barring one unlucky tunnel, Warner's Saber Team was under no such compulsion.

In Special Forces, there were several primary mission types, all requiring a specifically “light” hand. Despite popular culture, most SpecFor teams were not 'special' for their sheer killing power, although that was not lacking. No, they were special because of their asymmetrical, flexible nature. These teams could move lightly, unnoticed, through the land for extended periods, carrying out reconnaissance, or gathering local allies. They could enter the local paradigm, win hearts and minds, convert the indigenous to the cause of the outsider, and wage stealthy war upon a larger foe. They were scouts or trainers, harassment and flanker forces. They moved lightly, dressed inconspicuously, and avoided pitched combat.

Saber Teams were the other sort of Special Forces.

They were not a silent knife, they were a sledgehammer, one blessed with infernal flexibility and supernal focus.

Traditional SpecFor, like the Transnapastaini Rangers, dressed in fatigues or local garment, to blend in more ably. Sabers wore spun spidersilk, layered under folded reactive gel combat armor, all of it covered in quantum dot transmit/receive photo-reactive ink, appearing as inhuman wraiths, more machine than soldier. Rangers grew beards, or shaved them, according to local culture, to convince the indigenous that they were friends, or at least allies. Sabers donned blank combat helmets, faces concealed under a granite-gray faceplate and gasmask, to deny the enemy any hint of human weakness.

Saber Teams did not liberate, for that was politics. They did not build insurgencies, for that was inefficiency. They did not negotiate, for that was delay.

Saber Teams killed. There was no mercy, no question, no wavering. There was the mission, and there was the team. There was nothing else. Plucked from the elite of the elite, subjected to hundreds of hours of 'personality mapping', they were switch-button soldiers. The men and women inside the suits were people, but once the helmet was donned, there was nothing but the cold calculus of the mission.

The mission was to find, confirm, and destroy the BCS module. The secondary objective was to kill Guerro and his command team. All else was optional.

Warner brushed his hands over the slick spidersilk he wore. Blue-black, with shimmers of silver, it was smooth to the touch, almost like oil. It had a higher tensile strength than steel, it was light as a feather. It cleaned the wounds that pierced it. It came from transgenic goat's milk, bred in Valle and spun in Artems. It cost hundreds of credits per yard. Layered under the gelatin RCA vest and smart ceramic ballistic plate, it was only one component of his armor.

Artemis Biotech Spidersilk, Size L: $1013
Applied Dynamics Reactive Combat Armor Class IV: $1080

“Hey, Lieutenant!” Sergeant Ires called from across the hold. He held up his helmet's one-way face shield, now adorned with a sketched skull. “How do I look?”

“Like an idiot.”

Ires glanced to the death's head mask. “I think it's kind of intimidating. For the yokels, I mean.”

“Like a terrifying idiot, then.”

“Can I keep it, sir?”

“Fine.” Warner allowed. A little extra fear never hurt their objectives. If the locals broke and ran, it would mean less shooting. Less shooting was smoother. Smoother was always better. If it also meant less killing, well, that was simply a pleasant coincidence.

[Kaukolastan]

The rolling green of the Brazulian jungles were just a blur, splotches of yellow and brown amid the emerald ocean that flowed below. High above, the sleek aircraft sliced through the early morning sunlight like a glass arrows, twin jet engines alight, rotated into the “flight” position on the swept wings. The V-30 Peregrine assault transports banked in tandem, engines vectoring with balletic precision. So smooth they flew, those below might have thought them creatures, and not machines, but the engineers who'd designed them would beg to differ. Nature had nothing on the modern vertol's precision, grace, and power.

Daerne Aerospace V-30 Peregrine: $40,100,000 (approx)

In the hold of the first V-30, Lieutenant Warner performed his final checks. Headache long gone, he reviewed the mission briefing on his tablet computer, evaluating satellite imagery, intelligence estimates, psychological profiles on Guerro and his command staff, and strategic reports on the war progress and its effects on San Cadiz.

Intek Systems “Vapor” Tablet PC: $2,345

The beleaguered nation of Brazul was still nominally under the control of one General Porras, but the primary threat seemed to be this Colonel Guerro. Guerro had participated in the massacres that precipitated the Transnapastaini invasion, but he was not mere third world thug. He had coordinated the defense of the He³ Plant, bloodied the Transis hard there. He had stolen the BCS module, and was negotiating its sale. He had turned San Cadiz into an urban fortress, repelling the first assault only a day before. He was a problem, and needed a solution.

Warner glanced to Sergeant Junker, sitting next to him. The only woman on Saber Four, Junker had come in from the Agency, not one of the combat arms. She was well known for her wicked humor. “Sergeant, how do we deal with human problems?”

Junker pulled the headset from her short cropped hair. “With fire, sir. Prodigious and unyielding fire.” She grinned, a predator's smirk, and tapped the M3 Thermal Weapon sitting on her lap. “And a smile. Always a smile, sir.” She placed the headset back over her ears, returning to bobbing her head to the dance-pop she always favored.

Phoenix Audio Player, Fifth Generation: $199
200+ Songs of Questionable Musical Significance: ~$200
M3 Thermal Weapon “Jellyshot”: $470
M3 Ammunition: $11 per unit, 100 units

Warner shook his head, amused. The M3 was a terrible weapon, there was no doubt. Built like an oversized single barrel shotgun, break action, it loaded ten shot sticks, like roman candles, into its breach. Pressed into the armed position, an electrothermal lance was moved up the candle, primed. When fired, the lance would drop towards the shooter, igniting the candle's sections, front to back. Ignited, the individual jelled fuel balls would vent through their pin hole, rocketing from the weapon in rapid succession. Like hellish bouncy-balls, they would ricochet from obstacles, trailing fire through the air. Fired into a room, they would rocket from wall to wall, the crisscross pattern superheating the air in milliseconds, boiling everyone inside in an instant blast furnace.

Junker liked to paint smiley-faces on the gelatin balls.

Everything Saber Four carried was optimized for devastation and terror against an under-equipped foe. There were too many in that city to conquer, much less with a twenty-four soldiers, but fear, fear would keep the locals cowed until the BCS was extracted. Saber Four didn't have to take the city, that was a problem for the Transnapastain Expeditionary Force, they just had to burn a path through its heart. And if the locals learned why they should never trifle with Directorate affairs, making General Bauer's assault that much easier? That was simply a pleasant coincidence.

The vertol shivered as its engines swiveled into hover position, so subtle that Warner barely felt the change. The noise gave it away, as it rose from a steady thrum into a distant rush, but even that was dampened. The craft was amazingly quiet, for its size and power. Active cancellation and destructive interference, the designers had called it, but the soldiers on the ground called it whispering death.

The V-30 settled to the ground, and the back hatch dropped down, revealing a pastoral sugar cane plantation, albeit one adorned with military trappings and a bustling command post.

Warner waited for the “CLEAR” light, and the engines to drop off into a slight whine, before stepping into the morning light. He pushed past the door gun, striding out into the whipping downdraft, embraced the scent of hot metal and gunpowder, mixed with the tropic air. The light was brilliant orange, shifting through the lined rows of the orchards and cane fields, refracting from every opened canopy on the makeshift airfield. Warner placed his sunglasses over his eyes, trying not to wince. After sixteen hours of flight hopping, it was almost too bright.

F-Sol Designer Sunglasses: $129

Standing on the tarmac, seemingly immune to the blast of the Peregrine's engines, a Transnapastaini Major was waiting, smartly dressed in digital camouflage and jungle “boonie” cap.

“Lieutenant Warner, Saber Four, reporting!” Warner snapped a salute, yelling over the engine wash.

“Major Thomas, welcome to the Manor!” The officer returned it. “The General is waiting for you, Lieutenant! Your men can grab chow and a breather while we brief!”

Warner heard the capital “General” slam into place. “The General?” Behind them, a helicopter was landing, next to the parked V-30s, and the cacophony on the tarmac grew.

“Yeah, you heard me! General Bauer wants to see you, personally.” Thomas was already walking away, stopping only to yell back, “You don't want to keep him waiting!”

Warner motioned to First Sergeant Gaines, who began to usher the two Lances from their respective vertols. There was no need to him to stay here, and when a flag officer requested, a flag officer received. He hurried after Thomas.

The Manor was swarmed with officers and enlisted, computers piled over old desks and tables, maps piles on counters, bedrooms converted to bunk-rooms. It looked like some bizarre fusion of a tourism ad and a bunker, with just a dash of post-colonial style. In the large officer, General Bauer had set his flag, and the old soldier was perched over one of the maps of San Cadiz, arguing with one of his staff over the placement of enemy anti-tank rockets.

Both Warner and Thomas stopped and saluted, and Thomas introduced them. Bauer glanced up, paused for a moment, glanced back down, moved one of the enemy units on the board, and then returned the salute. He apologized a moment later, “Sorry, those damn RPG-29s they've got set in there, we can't lock them down- you're Warner, aren't you?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“God dammit, what are you thinking?” Bauer demanded.

Warner blinked, trying not to react. Thomas suppressed a grin. Only then did Warner notice the tab on Thomas's shoulder: Ranger. The same tab Bauer wore. And the Major was a little old to be a Major. Old soldiers, riding one last time. Inefficient... yet highly poetic. Perhaps that would be him, some day, past his prime and still insisting on gallivanting about in the field. Maybe he'd be more practical than that.

Bauer continued, “This city is a god damned hornets nest. We've got light armor and technicals crawling out of every nook, cranny, and prostitute in this rat warren!”

Thomas added, “And there are a lot of prostitutes, Lieutenant.”

“They've got shoulder fired anti-air and anti-tank weaponry hiding in every cubby they can find, machineguns on every corner, and the populace is armed and pissed. You step in there, you will call down every Brazulian would-be militant within ten kilometers, right onto your head.” Bauer pointed on the map to the center of the urban core. “That unit, if my intel is the same as yours, is pinging out of a church in downtown San Cadiz, center square, all eyes on deck, ringed in by the damned favela. Guerro will be there, bunkered in behind all those shooters and booby-traps.”

“Sir, my team can handle the rabble.”

“They're not rabble, son. I trust you've gone over Guerro's files? He nearly broke our attack on the Helium Plant, and we had damn near a battalion on him. He stopped our first run on this city, and we had armor. He's holed up churches and hospitals and schools, and we can't hit him. He's fighting dirty, he's fighting cheap...” Bauer added with grudging respect, “and he's damn good at it.”

“Sir, we have the capability-”

“What do you have, to take on thousands of gunmen, behind human shields?”

“We're authorized for force-free, sir.” Warner stated impassively.

“Jesus Christ.” Bauer breathed, glancing to the Major. “You're going to go no quarter in there? Do you realize how that will play on the news?”

“That's not my concern, sir. My mission is to destroy that BCS-”

“Mission! The mission is to support a damned war. You go terminator in there, Lieutenant, and the news is going to show- aw, hell, what kind of weapons did you bring?” He interrupted himself, leaning back on his heels, tensed, as if worried about the answer.

“Valkyrie missiles, to be launched from here, drone air assets, gunships on call. My team is equipped with mainly SARs, sir, and a few special weapons.”

“What kind?”

“M3 Thermal Weapon-”

“Oh, for fucks- go on.” Bauer waved him on.

“ASG-120s with Frag12, ABGL-26 with Bolo loads-”

“I get the picture.” Bauer sighed heavily, rubbing his temple. “Son, do us all a favor?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Try not to start a bloodbath in there?”

“Mission parameters do not encourage one, sir.” Bauer's face clouded, and Warner hastily added, “But I understand. I'll keep the violence throttled as best I can, sir. No one wants a massacre.”

“Fine and good, but, what about their AA? How are you going to insert under that?”

“Helios strike, sir.”

“How did you get- I've been trying- gah.” Bauer glanced at his board. “I've been trying to get authorization for days.”

Thomas added, “Stonewalled.”

“Well, sirs, I have it, and I intend to use it. Helios will hit three minutes before insertion. There's a Condor in High Altitude right now, and two Merlins and a Vulture on standby.”

“Fine, fine, bring them in, they can stage here. We'll lay in those Valkyries on station, go ahead and unload them.” The general suddenly looked very old to Warner. “Any chance I could convince you to delay your mission for two days?”

“Two days, sir?”

“I'll have combined arms in play by then, and we can drive a armored fist right into their guts. I would love to have your team in play for the assault.”

“Can't do it, sir. Orders from the Citadel, sir.” Warner glanced down at the General's map. There were a lot of little red “enemy” lights on the digital city plan. But, orders were orders. Saber Teams did not question, they achieved.

Bauer shook his head, almost sadly. “I remember those days. Hell of lot more straightforward, out there in it.” He clapped Warner on the shoulder. “Stay sharp, son. You are stepping into an impossible mess.”

“We do the impossible, sir.”

“I hope so.” The general glanced back to the board. “You know, I found a small stash of very old tequilla on this plantation, looks expensive. You come back intact, I might even share some, and you can tell me how it went in there.”

“We'll be back here in twenty minutes, sir.”

“I'll hold you to that.” Bauer saluted him, taking Warner aback. Ranking officers never saluted first, except in the case of the highest honored, or the dead.

No, there was no time for that. Sabers did not fear, they made fear. They were the best, and they could not be stopped. Insert into the city, destroy the BCS module, kill or capture Guerro, and extract. Simple, efficient, bold. Twenty minutes. A cake run.

Kaukolastani Saber Team Operator: $3,749,467

[Kaukolastan]

Lessick Arts Center
University of Corsingard

The sound of dress shoes on an old wooden stage was very distinct, a clear clap with a sustained creaking that followed on its tail. That very peculiar sound clung to him as he paced behind the heavy velvet curtain. It was dark behind the stage, with the slight swirl of dust from performances long gone. He checked his pocket-watch. Time was nearly up. He straightened his suit, touched his hairline, where the makeup – damn makeup for the cameras – faded into his neatly combed hair. The crowd applauded again, politely. It was nearly time.

Nearly time for him to step out into this old theater, not for music or comedy or inspiration, but to lay out his theories for the brain trusts in Corsingard. Here, in this anachronistic blending of art deco and hyper-modern, between finely worked angel sculptures and rolling OLED displays, he would state the thesis that would drive the reshaping of the nations method of war. The Secretary of Defense prepared for the largest battle of his career.

He had no way of knowing, as his name was called, and he stepped into the lights, standing before the best and brightest of the military-industrial complex, Senators and generals, theoreticians and apparatchiks, CEOs and investors, that his vision would come to be, far greater than he'd ever thought. He had no way of knowing, that forty-eight years after his speech, twenty-four men and women would drop into San Cadiz and wage hell upon their target, just as hundreds had done all around the world, wrapped in a blanket of unified structures. He glanced to his notes, and then to the cameras, began to speak, and changed warfare forever.

“The first battlefield is not on land, or on sea, or even in space. These are all places, terrain to be taken, held, and controlled. The first battlefield is information. Since Sun Tzu, the value of knowledge has been reinforced, but never before in human history has its flow and ebb been so vulnerable and necessary. The first battlefield is intangible, waged in data and perception. Control the eyes, and the hands cannot act...”

Brazul
Present Day

Brazul's connection to the global networks had been tenuous and half-formed before the Transnapastaini invasion, and a combination of precision infrastructure strikes, full spectrum jamming, and adaptive software worms (loaned and deployed, discretely, by her allies) had turned the country into a black hole of information. Nothing went in, or out, but on Transnapastaini channels, and if someone dare transmit without approval, anti-radiation bombs would be on target moments later. The enemy was blinded, and all of this was done in the absence of a specially targeted electronic domination war doctrine.

”The high ground has not lost its significance in modern war, it has simply moved. Once the enemy is blinded, or better, sees what you wish him to see, you seize the highest point: space. As air dominates the land, so does space dominate the air. Hunter killer satellites and anti-satellite weaponry, deployed from air, land, and sea, must clear the skies of any unfriendly designs. Once secure, the interlinked observation and weapons platforms provided from orbit will dominate the terrestrial war...”

Brazul had no satellites to secure, no hands to burn or eyes to blind. Space dominance was never in question. DarkEye satellites, moved into geosynchronous orbit over Brazul, communicated with GPS navigation satellites, and in turn, communicated with HighArc Elliptical observation satellites, compositing an image of the nation, and in particular, San Cadiz.

DarkEye Satellite: $160,000,000

Maps, topographical and visual, thermal and terrain-scan, overlaid with traffic patterns and city demographic maps, established the baseline. More was needed, always more, to feed the voracious needs of modern warfare.

Seventy-thousand feet over Brazul, a Condor RQ-11 UAV glided silently at the edge of space. Like a manta-ray, flat black and smooth, it slowly banked, looping gently over San Cadiz. No pilot sat inside, having to brave the rigors of near-space for the twenty-six hours of flight. Instead, computers coordinated the buzz of the tactical networks, feeding information from its eight electronic eyes to the regional forces. Now, the eyes moved, focusing, zooming, tracking. The number of heads on a hospital roof, the amount of heat in a nearby house, all of these things were noted, filed, and transmitted.

RQ-11 “Condor” UAV: $47,800,000

But still more was needed.

“...once space has been secured, lance down upon the air, and sterilize it for ground support...”

The Brazullian Air Force had been reduced to a morbid joke after the initial engagements of Operation Stratos Thunder, with the Transnapastaini Air Fleet patrolling the skies, yearning for Brazullian pilots to challenge them. After the first day, the good pilots were dead, and by the second, the brave ones were as well. The remaining pilots had refused to launch, their aircraft painted on the tarmac by a dozen circling planes, all waiting for an “honorable” air to air kill.

Air dominance achieved, it was now imperative to suppress the ground.

San Cadiz was filled with light anti-air weaponry, mostly shoulder fired. These were small, portable, and hard to target, especially when tucked into sensitive targets like churches, schools, and hospitals. Fortunately, what these weapons gained in portability, they lost in durability.

“...with the air secure, suppress the ground with impunity...”

In a V-30, Lieutenant Warner pressed his tablet computer, drawing up a map of San Cadiz, provided through the BCS link, and tapped an “Execute” button twice.

High above, the Condor translated that tap into coordinates, and relayed to DarkEye, which confirmed. Location, time, and atmospheric conditions calculated, the launch instructions were delivered to a Chariot Orbit to Air Satellite, which acknowledged, oriented, and fired. With a small puff of compressed gas, and a burst of retro-thrusters to compensate, a payload package detached from the Chariot, arcing into the atmosphere. Nearby, a reload tender dispatched from an arsenal satellite and drifted towards the Chariot, carrying another payload to refill its quiver.

Chariot Bombardment Satellite: $213,100,000

Dropping through the atmosphere, the Helios Non-Nuclear Enhanced ElectroMagnetic Pulse Warhead tracked in on San Cadiz, or rather, the seas outside it, positioning its blast radius to avoid interference with allied forces. Reaching the appropriate altitude, the Helios weapon detonated, flooding the air over San Cadiz with nearly 50,000 volts per meter.

Helios NNEEMP Warhead: $8,987,000

On the first V-30, Warner's tablet flickered slightly, and the red circle appeared over San Cadiz. He nodded slightly, and pulled on his helmet, his team following his lead. In the cockpit, the pilot pushed the throttle forward, and the V-30 entered the engagement zone, her HUD displaying the same overlaid EMP radius.

Flanking the two V-30s, two AQ-8 Merlin Lavs rushed ahead to survey the city and secure the landing zones, while above, an AV-7 Vulture gunship began its predatory search. Six Valkyrie missiles, deployed from box-launchers at the manor, took up holding patterns higher still, waiting for the call to rain down upon the chosen. Higher still, the Condor watched impassively, and highest of all, the DarkEye system stared, unblinking. War had come to San Cadiz.

AQ-8 “Merlin” UAV: $10,300,000
AV-7 “Vulture”: $19,650,000
Valkyrie Tactical Response Missile: $587,000

“…with all enemies suppressed, the interlinked forces, from infantryman to general, move forward as one. What one sees, all see. A rifleman spots a threat, and merely presses a button, and artillery places rounds on that target within seconds, while air support links reconnaissance data to all below, under the watchful eye of satellites overhead.

The first generation of warfare was fought with the tools of hunter-gatherers, spears and stones. The agricultural revolution brought us the sword, the phalanx, the legion, and the cavalry. Third generation warfare came with industry, with mechanization, armor, and air power. Fourth generation warfare is upon us, waged by networks of man and machine, linked into an organic whole, led by emergent decisions of local commanders and computer reaction. The information age is upon us, and its killing power is terrible beyond our father's imagining.”

[Brazul]

Colonel Rodrigo Luis Galhardo Guerro had not been to church in a very long time.

He could still remember his First Communion, walking down the aisle, everyone dressed in whites and pastels, the sonorous tones of the bell building from somber to joyful as he stepped between the wooden pews. He remembered looking up at the altar, so pure and beautiful, looming over his small world. He remembered his mother holding him, and his father patting him on the head. His father had worn his police uniform to the ceremony, having just returned from the night patrol.

His father had been a great man, a peacekeeper. He remembered listening to his father drift to sleep in the kitchen, snoring on the table with one hand on the radio. His father had tried to save San Cadiz once, when the drugs poured through the streets. He remembered being so proud, trying on his father's hat and belt, playing at duty and honor and things he could not fully grasp.

He remembered the spray of blood that had covered his face. He remembered the blast of the bomb, the ripping snaps of the machine pistols, the squeal of tires, and the roar of the engine. He remembered being crushed under the bodies, soaked in the blood on the steps of the cathedral, staring into unblinking eyes.

He remembered the bells never stopped tolling joyfully, and that the sky was the clearest spring blue.

Just like today.

Colonel Guerro strode from his car, leaving the door hanging open behind him. Around him, the city seemed a blur, as if he were drifting on autopilot. Soldiers manned barricades, distributed weapons and ammunition to the militias. Intersections were torn apart, buildings felled into makeshift bunkers.

All by his command, all according to his plans, but he felt so little of it. A junior officer, a Captain Lopez, approached, asking about fire brigades and lanes. Guerro answered, but never thought about his answer. He didn't brush the Lieutenant off, he was not flippant, but these were decisions he'd made weeks ago. Decisions he'd made not about how to hold this city, but how to lose it in the most damaging manner. San Cadiz was lost. The armored force encircling it guaranteed it; the only question was time. Would they wait for a siege, or slam through with an armored column?

Guerro placed bets upon the latter. His opponents were powerful, but not patient. They would assault. It pained him, but their heedless charge would win. He could bleed them, he could slow them, he could dance about them, but he could not stop them. Not in San Cadiz.

It was all his fault.

When he'd joined the army, his mother had told him how proud his father would have been. She'd held him with her remaining arm, pulled him close to her chair. For years, she'd been forced to live on the dole, since being crippled in the attack that killed his father and sister, and the shame had made the proud woman stoop more than any injury, but she'd looked at him with pride.

He thanked an absent God that she was long dead.

The Cintano Liberation Front. Such a pretty name for such a barbaric band. They fought for secession and regime change, but they fought with knives in alleys and gun-downs on church steps and bombs in schools. They bought blood with drugs and plead for international sympathy when the hammer came down upon them. They were rabid dogs, vicious and unrepentant.

He made war upon them. Then-Captain Porras had recognized his fire early in the Civil War, brought him respect and commendations. Porras had pushed him into the aristocratic officer core, even though he was not from any of the wealthy families. Guerro knew Porras was a politician, another weasel, even then; but Porras had given him a chance, and understood his fire.

Guerro was moved to StaSec, since the traditional military had little use for an angry peasant boy with a head full of books. It was an insult, but Guerro was used to insults. He'd taken the best from StaSec he could, culling the salvageable from the chaff, training them, using them, honing them. StaSec lacked sophistication, but they had dedication in spades, and he had burned those fires until the men were not men, but instruments of vengeance, carving through the jungle with fury unbound.

They'd won the war.

He'd tried to go to church then, to say his words to God, to level his anger, but he'd frozen at the base of the stone stairs. He'd found his victory in the jungle and swamps, but he'd lost something, too.

Hell would have him, one day, but not until his country was through with him.

He paused at the base of the steps again, staring up at the adobe cathedral, its radiant stones and shimmering glass, and the silent cross high above. Guerro had waded through swamps and filth and blood, he'd crawled through his own dead under bombardment, and he had never frozen. He froze here.

His error had been tactical, one of perception. His rage, his hate, the callous scars he'd built on his spirit, none of those had caused his failure. His failing had been hope.

Hope, when Astarte Industries announced their venture space program, and then-President Remon had spoken of a greater tomorrow, when Brazul would no longer be forced to lower its head in shame, shame Guerro knew so very well. Hope, when, in the wake of the devastating bombing of the launch facility, Generalissimo Porras had united the country to hold onto that dream, to cling to it like the promise of a new day.

Guerro had believed.

The CLF had been behind that bombing, just as always, vipers in the grass. He had been tapped, once and for all, to end the problem. It was gruesome work. It was the devil's work. But better the devil's work now, if only so that his children might someday know sleep without fear, food without the shame of begging, and look to the stars without turning away, lest their dreams be found wanting. He had been asked, and he had obeyed. He was a soldier.

And then the fires had come.

He should have known, when Estevan Remon was taken from that hospital. He should have known, when the mysterious Senor Fuller slipped out of a secure cell and five guards went “missing”. He should have known when Astarte Industries imploded onto itself like so much vapor in the moments after the bombing. He should have known!

The game had been rigged, and Guerro had been the fool.

A jet roared overhead, and the people around him flinched. The wind-rose of the Transnapstaini Air Fleet hung over the sky like a ghostly presence, sending curls of terror into the countryside below. Guerro did not cower like the others. This foreign army, sent here to liberate the bastards who murdered his people; this foreign army, who coddled the worst criminals in the CLF while flying flags of righteousness; this foreign army, who swathed themselves in paladin's shining armor, while carrying the blood of the Brazulian people out in crates of cold cash, courtesy of Helium Three.

The devil take them all. The devil take Presidente Porras for being a fool. The devil take Rodrigo Guerro for not being a better man, or a smarter monster. But not yet. He had a mission, and he was still a soldier.

He climbed the stairs, and the bell began to toll.

At the door, soldiers restrained an elderly man, holding him back from charging down the steps at Guerro. The old man wore a priest's collar, and clutched a rosary, but his face was not as pious as Guerro had remembered. Now it was pocked from age and alcohol and disease, the weight of the world sparing not the men of God.

“Good morning, Father.” Guerro stated calmly, stepping up and giving a slight nod.

The priest glared at him. “You will take your guns out this place!”

“No.” Guerro stated flatly. “I will not.”

“You must!” The priest cried.

“I can not.” Guerro returned.

“This is a place of God! You bring your sin, the sins of man, onto these grounds and spit in the face of God and His Church!” The priest, winded, drew in breath to continue yelling.

Guerro interrupted, “For what it is worth, Father, I am sorry it has come to this, but I need this building-”

“There are children here! Single mothers, the sick, the elderly, the young! This is a shelter for God's most precious-”

“It is a strong building, constructed well, reinforced and dominating the town square. It has a well built courtyard and deep basements. It will serve well as a fort.”

“This is a sacred-”

“It's psychological value will prevent the enemy from bombing it with impunity. They maintain the illusion of liberators, and will be loathe to attack a hallowed target.” Guerro's voice was flat, emotionless. His mother would have wept to see this. His father would have turned away in shame.

The priest reared back, as if slapped by Guerro's cold reason. “You cannot do this.” He muttered weakly. “I will stop you.”

“If you try, I will kill you.” Guerro never raised his voice.

“You would damn yourself-”

“I already have, Father. A bit more blood in the ocean would not raise the tide.” He tried to keep the slight lump from his throat. He had walked through those door so many time before. “For what it's worth, Father, I am not targeting this church. I've used schools and hospitals as well.”

The priest's face went ashen, and he began to pray.

Guerro turned to the Sergeant holding the elderly minister. “Take him to the basement, lock him away. He may be an information risk. Do not hurt him, feed him well, but keep him secure.”

The StaSec men dragged the priest away, his prayers fading into the depths of the church. StaSec had dedication overflowing.

“What was he saying?” Captain Barillo asked, stepping alongside him.

“I don't know. I don't speak Latin.” Guerro lied. The priest had been praying for protection from the devil who walked the earth.

“Sir, one of the buyers responded. They are willing to meet with you.” The computer module from that “Astarte Industries” vertical-takeoff craft was his only card. Without it, Brazul would burn. With it, or rather, the money from it, they might live to fight another day. Guerro just needed to get it from this city. Time. He needed more time.

“Have they sent transportation?”

“Yes sir, two submersibles arrived with their response. Major Riposo has them hidden down at Monge docks, slot four. They're well hidden.”

“And Ilda?”

“She refuses to go, not until you've gone with them.”

The bell above tolled loudly, repeating its dirge. “Captain, go down to my home and evict them if you must. I don't care if you have to knock her out, just get them on that submarine!”

“Yes, sir. I'll take care of it-” Captain Barillo was cut off by a sudden flash in the morning sky, a bright star bursting high above. “What in the name of-”

The street lights flared brightly, then burst, sending showers of electric rain down the streets. Car alarms and horns sounded as one, echoing through the fortress city of San Cadiz, then fell quiet. For a moment, everything was eerily still. Everything was silent.

Guerro needed little time. He glanced from stalled car to stalled car, to his frozen watch. “EMP! It has begun!” He tried his radio, but it was silent, so he cast it aside.

His men knew their parts. The militia would stand and die. San Cadiz would bleed the attackers. Guerro snarled, at the world, at himself, at God. He needed more time. Brazul needed more time. “Captain, Brazul requires you.”

“We will stand, Colonel.” The Captain saluted him. Only now did Guerro notice that the man wore Army tabs, not StaSec. The Army saluted him, now, at the end. “God speed.”

Guerro nodded. “With or without, Captain. I will not fail you.” He needed to get to those docks. Ilda and little Manuel should be there. She was stubborn, but she was not stupid. There was no need for them to die for his sins, not when the module he carried might save them. He took off at a sprint, running into the heart of San Cadiz.

Overhead, the hand cranked storm siren began to wail, and within moments, the call echoed back from the points of the city. The keening wail blended with the toll of the bells, and somewhere in the distance, smoke began to rise.

All along the watchtower, princes kept the view
While all the women came and went, barefoot servants, too.

Outside in the distance, a wildcat did growl,
Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl.

[Kaukolastan]

The lights went out in San Cadiz, and the assault began.

In the cockpit of Orvos 1-1, Chief Warrant Officer Miranda Kelson pushed the throttle forward, the moment the red pulse vanished from holodisplay. Expertly, the V-30 swooped over the city, cutting towards its target. The last burst transmission from the BCS module placed it in a city square, tucked inside of a cathedral-cum-fortress. The module only "pinged" its location every fifteen minutes, to conserve battery power, and it had gone silent over an hour before, probably tucked into a basement or sewer, cut off from satellite access. If it had survived the EMP, that was. The Saber Teams had to be sure, and it was Kelson's job to get them there.

Riding on white-hot plumes, the vertols raced above the city, slicing through the perfect blue skies. The outrider craft, the hunters, swarmed about, shielding the transports.

(OOC: Recommended listening: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7AlEvy0fJto)

[Brazul]

Below, Sergeant Garcia was manning one of the outlying air defense posts. Tucked into the dense urban warren, he was in charge of a three man team perched on an adobe ledge, below camoflouge netting and buried between two laundry lines. However, this defense point could sweep the skies approaching San Cadiz and defend, or at least warn, the city core.

The lights had gone out only moments before one of his men spotted the approaching aircraft, and the private began pointing and yelling, nearly jumping out of his boots.

Garcia grabbed his radio, but only silence answered.

One of the privates smacked the side of his SA-7, trying to get it to fire.

Garcia could only watch helplessly as the aircraft passed over the first defensive line.

[Kaukolastan]

The holo-HUD in Reaper 2-1 was alive with wire frame color reticles, drawing Lieutenant "Tuna" Munger's eyes from point to point. The landing zone flashed green on the horizon, possible enemy sites orange, confirmed flashed red. Below, civilians scrambled from rooftops, while militia boiled into the streets, mixing with the morning market crowds. His AV-7 banked about the main avenue of the San Cadiz Business District, nicknamed Highway Sierra by the mission planners, getting a good look at the crowds.

They weren't flashing weapons, not yet, so his guns remained quiet. No radars spiked him, no flak or tracers reached for him. He swung wide, clearing another air lane for Orvos Flight, and his drone "Wingmate" AQ-8 followed him in a wider turn, its flight computer anticipating his maneuvers.

[Brazul]

Eduardo Rodriguez was the militia watch officer in charge of the industrial park outside the Business District, and he was more dedicated to this job than any he'd held in his colorful employement career. For years, his mother had harassed him to leave the house, to hold a job for more than two months, to get up and go do something instead of sitting around and drinking and playing with motor boat engines. She had begged him to care.

Well, Eduardo had found his fire, finally, in the defense of his homeland.

Even if he still drank and played with motor boat engines on the job.

Twenty feet over his head, one of the attack craft blasted past, tearing shingles and his latest engine from the rooftop, setting his hung laundry on fire. He bolted from his lawn chair on the roof of the rubber processing factory, dropping his morning cervaza (well, more like his fifth). "Holy Mother of God!" he cried, as the shark-like aircraft whipped over his head, weapons on proud display. It faded into the sky, it's skin changing color to match the horizon, and Eduardo couldn't remember if he'd dropped the beer on himself, or if something far more embarassing had occured.

The other men, mostly his fishing buddies, all stared at him, and Eduardo felt a moment of panic. This is why he didn't get jobs! To much pressure!

But they were counting on him, and he fell into a role he'd never truly thought himself comfortable in. "Guns! Get the guns!" The militia had been given standing orders from the Colonel, simple ones at that. If enemies entered their zone, they would light a signal fire and defend. Eduardo had no way to know that the signal fire was a standby devised in case of jamming, not EMP. He didn't know what the EMP was. He knew his duty.

He scrambled across the rooftops, grabbing one of the premade molotov cocktails from a shelf, bounding towards the prebuilt firepit, filled with grease and tires. Behind him, his militia was cranking an old 14.5mm antiaircraft gun from behind a shallow wall, brining it into alignment. They'd never had training on modern anti-air weaponry. They didn't know radar from infrared, but point and shoot had been taught over the crash training in the last week.

They did not know their gun was the first to fire, since the prepared defenses in the outer layers had been neutralized. They did not know their fire was the first to be lit.

Eduardo lit and hurled the molotov into the fire pit, and it blasted into roiling flame, catching the grease and dried wood, then burning into the tar and rubber. In moments, thick, rolling black smoke came pouring out, flooding the skyline.

Behind him, the archaic gun boomed, once, twice, three times, stuttering out a slow automatic thump, the first of many that erupted from the city, until the sky was filled with tracers and puffs of smoke, and the warning fires began to spread, blacking out the baby-blue skies.

[Kaukolastan]

Munger's cockpit lit up within a split moment of the first gun's firing, red brackets slamming into place on the city map, direction controls springing up on his helmet display. He tapped his stick to the side, and the AV-7 Vulture spun around, sliding through the air with ease. Predicted fire lanes sprung onto the HUD, and he slipped the craft into the gaps between the guns, even as his thumb toggled the weapons switch.

He caressed the trigger, and the 30mm ETC gun beneath the craft spat hot death, dancing fire over the rooftops as the armor piecing incendiary rounds rippled from edge to edge of the rubber factory.

Nearby, the AQ-8 acknowledged the weapons-free, and targetted supplemental targets. When Reaper 2-1 engaged a rooftop, Reaper 2-2(automated) covered, noting and engaging probable vectors for incoming fire. The onboard computer detected a large quantity of human targets gathering near the water tower, noted the appearance of a quad-barreled gun system, and determined that there was a 96.7% chance of hostile activity.

The mission threshold was 90%, so Reaper 2-2 tasked one AGM-112t Caldera missile to deal with the issue. Unlike a human pilot, it did not focus to watch the impact, turning to seek out new threats and protect its Wingman before the thermobaric missile had struck the tower.

AGM-112t Caldera: $71,000

[Brazul]

Eduardo had only just hurled the molotov when the rooftop exploded.

Waves of fire hurled down from the larger of the two aircraft, staccato ripping noises and a wall of tracers that hid the true horror inside. The walls around his "headquarters" erupted into flaming debris, the 14.5mm gun twisting apart, even as it was bathed in chunks of meat and a fountain of blood.

The building itself shook, knocking Eduardo to the ground as supports gave way, pieces of reinforced stone and steel tearing free of the walls and ceiling, fires raging across the rooftop. He could see, but could not understand. One moment, his friends had been aiming their gun. The next, there was nothing but smoke and stink and twisted chunks of man and material strewn together.

The building began to quiver, to slide. Eduardo tried to stand, but his bloodied legs failed him. He didn't know when he'd been hit, or by what, but there was nothing below his left shin. Fear began to take him, and then creeping darkness.

As the rooftop began to give way, he noted the old water tower was gone, a smoking, twisted skeleton still bleeding perfect clear water stood in its place, pieces of men hanging from its crown. Odd, he thought, he never remembered such a building there.

The roof collapsed, and Eduardo was dead long before his body fell through the third story.

[Kaukolastan]

"Targets in industrial park suppressed. Proceeding to Highway Sierra." CWO Kelson's voice echoed in Warner's earpiece. "Stand by."

Warner glanced down, back to his tablet. The touchscreen displayed a realtime overhead view of the city, compositted on BCS from the tiered overhead assets. He touched on the Highway, the main run into the square. It was alive with probable and possible threats, pocketted with confirmed enemy assets.

There were a troubling amount of non-electronic antiaircraft assets in this city. Those would make this mission far more challenging.

He tapped his screen again, scrolling over to view the possible landing sites. The square by the target building was far too crowded with antiair fire. He would have to land on Highway Sierra and infiltrate on foot. A quick tap, and the entire strike force was updated to the change.

Around his landing zone, more red dots appreared, machine gun positions recognized from image scans and gun profiles; anti-air installations; rocket teams. General Bauer had been right about this city. It was a damned hornet's nest.

Fortunately, Warner was a professional exterminator.

Another quick tap, just like choosing a song, and he tasked a Valkyrie strike to the corner of the supermarket, where a machinegun was waiting. Another tap, and a second strike was set on a technical waiting in a back alley. A third touch, and a clump of militia was chosen for death.

High above, the Valkyrie Tactical Response Missiles loitered on electric engines, circling the combat. Missions tasked, they cut their wings, plunging downwards, popping out flight control surfaces as their rocket motors ignited. Two hundred and fifty pounds equivalent of TNT was the payload, wrapped in carbon-fiber for a blast casing, designed to optimize close quarters shrapnel while minimizing collateral.

In the secure hold of the V-30, Warner's Advisor pinged. A fractal of the ARES AI system, Saber Four had long coordinated with Scipio, the team advisor. Scipio noted Warner's firepower choices, correllated them, and asked to assist.

The test appeared in Warner's HUD. You have chosen to deploy TRMs against clusters of targets exceeding three confirmed hostiles and five hundred credits of assets. Would you like me to establish that as the autofire threshold on the Valkyries?

Warner replied, subvocally, "Negative, Skippy. Leave firing on manual."

That is inefficient.

"We have an advisory to minimizine collateral from local commanders."

Understood. Shall I keep more missiles in queue?

"Please. I want four in the air at all times, ready to go."

Acknoweldged. I have also appended a resupply request for the Manor's box launchers.

"We shouldn't be here that long, Skippy."

Preparedness shall carry us through, Master Warner.

Warner chuckled. "Right as always. Don't know why you even keep us around, Skippy."

Pleasant company, sir.

[Brazul]

Lucia walked away from the gun truck to get a view down the main road, and that saved her life. Carlos had been hitting on her again, and she needed to step away before she punched him in his worthless mouth. Not that she hated him. No, he was kind of cute, but he was an ass. Maybe good enough for Maria, but not for her-

The explosion hurled her into the concrete wall, smashed her vision into darkness. Pain erupted across her back, and she slid to the ground, unconcious.

---

Diego was crouched on top the supermarket, the RPK half-hidden under blankets beneath the dead neon signs. From here, his team would be able to supress any attack up the boulevard, so long as the anti-tank teams did their parts. The rising smoke could only mean one thing. It was nearly time. He reached for his nose, to scratch an itch-

A mix of neon sign and Diego were blasted through the roof of the supermarket, and the mangled corpses of the loader and spotter dropped in a moment later, followed by water from the ruptured fire system.

---

Staff Sergeant Fuentes had had just about enough of trying to coordinate the militia. Some of the men were already debating whether to stand and fight here, or run back to their homes. If the enemy didn't arrive soon, Fuentes might be required to force their stand. He was not looking forward to that.

Fortunately, his problem was solved by two hundred and fifty pounds of explosives, delivered from high above.

[Kaukolastan]

The explosions blossomed around the highway, and Warner was satisfied with the sudden decrease in enemy fire. Several of the outlying stations were already running, fleeing from the utter hell that had been unleashed in their midst. They would not get far. Reaper Flight was still hunting.

Outside, Reaper 2-1 identified a disabled 2K22 Tunguska antiaircraft vehicle on the Highway Sierra. The crew was scrambling over the top the craft, trying to free up the guns. They did not succeed. Cannon fire raked the vehicle, tearing the men from the top like old meat, starting the ammunition cooking.

Two more Valkyrie strikes slammed down, killing without warning.

Reaper 2-2 prowled over head, slowly, smoothly, choosing high value targets. Without an internal gun, it preserved its rack weaponry for special targets. When the militia tried to fortify inside a nearby car lot, seven targets clustered in one building, and passed Reaper 2-2's engagement threshold. A solution was chosen and dispatched, and Reaper 2-2 did not bother to confirm the explosion.

GBU-72: $35,000

Orvos Flight began to descend into their deployment vector, sweeping between the tallest buildings. As they approached the combat zone, their miniguns tracked back and forth, delivering pinpoint destruction. Reaper Flight swept back and forth, spewing cannon fire at any moving target. Death had its day in San Cadiz.

In the safety of the V-30 hold, there was nothing but the gentle hum of the sound dampened miniguns, and the occasional rumble of some far distant thunder. Warner's tablet flashed and chirped, showing percentiles and options, like some hybrid between game and spreadsheet. Specialist Gristen turned to Sergeant Ires, "So, Sarge, we doin' squad lunch when we get back?"

Ires shrugged. "Depends on traffic, I guess. How's my skull?"

"Spooky, Sarge." One blank mask said to the painted mask.

Warner ignored their conversation, entering in final targets. The light in the vertol hold went red, and the squad checked their weapons. This was modern warfare, cold and precise.

[Brazul]

Lucia opened her eyes, her vision fluttering and dim. She couldn't see anything to her left. Why?

She raised a hand, felt the hole where her eye should have been, felt the blood streaming over her broken face. Why couldn't she feel the pain?

Around her, the boulevard was burning. Dull thumps and muted buzzing rang down the streets, broken buildings sloughed into alleys. Fires spread without warning, blasts of dirt and debris erupted from solid walls and earth.

Bodies were everywhere.

A piece of Carlos was plastered to the old theater wall. He'd been such a nice guy.

Across the road, there was another thump, and the glass facade of the automotive dealership inflated, then exploded, vaporizing the militia clumped within. Lucia knew them, but she felt nothing. The glass rain fell on the streets, and the smoke rose higher.

Something wet landed near her. She did no look.

In the street, soldiers ran, their will broken. They were not just militia, but uniformed, too. They ran, as if fleeing some leviathan, risen from the deep. They did not get far, when a steel wind blew them down, seperating them in metal curtains that fell from above.

The boulevard was a river of blood, flowing from the heart of San Cadiz.

She could not feel, but she began to cry. This was modern warfare, hell incarnate.

[Kaukolastan]

Mission Time: 3 Minutes.

The initial deployment plan had required Saber Four's First Lance to drop onto the church's courtyard via fast rope, while Second Lance, on board Orvos 1-2, would deploy on the main square, to neutralize any counter offensive, drawing enemy eyes during the strike. With the overabundance of light infantry in the square, and the proliferation of anti-air assets, Warner had ordered a sudden change of plan one minute and forty seconds into the mission.

In almost any engagement, sudden changes of plan during execution were catastrophic. Some portion of the units involved would get the message, some would not. Some would question, query, offer other solutions, and increase the confusion. Some would misinterpret the new orders. Some simply would not get the orders at all, and meander blindly into destruction, or sit at base pointlessly.

But this was the networked battlefield, and these were Saber operators.

Within milliseconds of Warner tapping his tablet, changing the deployment point of First Lance from the church to Highway Sierra, the entire engagement had been remapped. Scipio, the AI adviser, noted the change of attack plan, and recommended three new deployment points for Second Lance, to provide cover for the assault. Warner reviewed them, and chose a bank, five stories high, the highest building in the square besides the church on the hill, positioned on the “hinge” corner where Highway Sierra met the square. This process took forty-five seconds.

Upon selecting the target, Scipio transmitted the change of orders through the BCS to Second Lance commander, Lieutenant Heusen, as well as Warrant Officer McGill, the pilot of Orvos 1-2. McGill and his navigator chose an appropriate attack vector, which was then transmitted to Orvos 1-1 and Reaper Flight, while Heusen constructed his assault plan for his team based on uploaded copies of the building's floor-plans, scanned from the local government's web archive.

Within thirty seconds, Warner had his confirmations and plans returned from his teams. With one tap of the execute command, his HUD, and the HUDs of the entire team, updated with movement and objective points, indicating enemy positions, friendly positions, mission objectives, where to move, where to direct fire, and where their allies were going to be. There was nothing left to chance, and the fog of war was blasted clear by the light of technology.

Orvos 1-2 split from formation, rushing towards the bank rooftop, while Orvos 1-1 descended into Highway Sierra. Warner checked his mask. The crowd below had no idea what was about to happen.

[Brazul]

Salvador Pereira had come with the rest of his male relatives, from little Renato to grandfather Plinio, to protest the foreign aggression. It had seemed like the brave thing to do at the time, when they'd been full of beer and swagger, telling the women of the family how they would fight with their old guns the way their forefathers had, how they would drive off the bastards who trampled on Brazullian honor. With their friends and neighbors, they'd massed in the square, where Guerro's soldiers had told them which benches and fountains to hide behind, which storefronts to cover in.

The officers had told of how the whoresons would come to burn down the church, to spite God himself.

In the square that morning, Salvador had become a crusader as well as a patriot, and Colonel Guerro himself had told how this church must be held. And the Colonel was a great man.

At first it had been somber, then joyful. They'd talked among themselves, left their positions and gathered in center of the square, like a festival. They'd eaten breakfast and laughed about how they'd drive off any bastards who tried to take their fair city. Plinio had his guitar, and Salvador had placed down the launch tube he'd been given by the StaSec men to sing along.

When the lights went out with the first explosion, and the sirens began, Salvador had suddenly lost his spirit. When the rippling explosions ran down the boulevard, punching towards the square like a shark-fin sliding through the water, his legs became jelly.

He was a damned coward, he knew now. He'd told his wife how strong he was. He'd bragged about how many he'd kill. He'd believed it, almost.

Now he knew better. The first of the gray-black aircraft swept over him, roaring like a tiger while it slipped through the sky like one of those damned sharks in the sea. Death was here.

Salvador wanted to run, to hide in his home and cry his shame. Around him, no one ran. Not little Renato, not old Plinio. Salvador wanted to run, so very badly, but not in front of them. He would not be seen a coward, not now, even if he was.

The crowd forgot their positions, they forgot their assignments. Some drew weapons, some lifted the missile tubes they'd been handed. Salvador opened the heavy metal case, removed the large launcher from inside, trying to stop his hands from shaking.

How did this thing work? He tried to remember the instructions he'd been given. Turn on the power. He remembered that. He shouldered the tube, feeling the hum of the gyros inside, watching the ring on the sight flicker.

He did not know that his armored case had shielded the weapon from the EMP. He did not appreciate that he had one of the handful of working launchers in the square, and that many men were cursing themselves, attempting to make worthless tubes and inert rockets fire. He lifted the sights, even as one of the largest of the aircraft roared into view, slowing near the mouth of the square.

He didn't notice the second of the large craft swinging wide, or the sleeker, smaller aircraft sweeping about to attack. He focused his shaking hands and sweating brow, lining the ring onto the transport. He held it steady, pulled the trigger halfway, just like the soldier had said. The ring turned green, the tube buzzed loudly.

Just like he'd been told, he lifted the tube, aiming over the target, and fired.

The tube rocked on his shoulder, the launching charge spitting out the rocket, which jumped over him, dropped, and ignited, roaring airborne.

Then all hell broke loose.

---

In the Cintano National Bank executive office, Rorik Horvat was enjoying his first drink of the morning. It was a cushy assignment, the very best kind. He was getting paid to sit in an office, play solitaire, drink, and make fun of Mile Babic, the fucking new guy. Babic was fiddling with his portable TV, bitching about telenovellas and the fact that they were all in Brazullian. At least porn needed no translation, but if that son of a bitch tried to masturbate again, Horvat was going to fire his gun for the first time since this job started.

Really, who attacked a fucking church?

Sure, that might happen back home, in the war torn wastes, but not here. Not when the fight was between of a bunch of “god and country” cunts and natives who didn't realize they were getting fucking colonized. Back in the army, they'd have already fire bombed this damn city to the ground, not bothered laying siege and dropping fucking leaflets.

There hadn't even been any mass rapes yet, which was a pleasant change of pace from the army. Of course, that meant that Babic kept trying to slip in a combat jack when no one was looking. Fucking new guy.

This was a vacation, that's what this was. Pleasant change of pace from the motherland. Less war, less “international incidents”, less godawful war crimes that just faded into a wall of numbers and farcical ultra-violence as pissant warlords tried to make their name. Just decent drink, good pay, a nice office... and Babic trying to jerk it every forty-five goddamn minutes.

Ok, so there were downsides to every assignment. At least Sergeant Vukoja hadn't gotten his rage up yet, and was content to sleep with his whores in the conference room. If this job kept Radoslav Vukoja happy, then it made Horvat fucking ecstatic. Last time shit went wrong, the crazy bastard showed up and ordered that only flamethrowers and combat knives were allowed for weaponry. Worst week of the year, by far.

Truth be told, he'd become a merc to get out of that shit. Better Vukoja and Babic and the rest than the generals in the motherland, with their pointless wars and pissing contests. At least here, he got paid, and there weren't any damn kill quotas. He was almost feeling human again, although that might have been all the mojitos and beautiful green forests. And the local senoritas. If he could speak the language, he might even try to buy one.

Then the lights went out.

First thought: someone hit the power station. Before thinking, he declared, “About damn time.” This “war” had been far too much pussy-footing. It was far past the point that any serious army engaged in some terror bombing. He'd learned that back in the war. This just made him feel more at home.

Then Babic started yelling about his television not working.

His battery powered television.

Horvat had a moment to ponder this when the bombings started, one after another. Boom! Boom! Boom! Each was closer than the last. The sirens started wailing.

Horvat dropped his mojito, grabbed his helmet and rifle. The assault was starting. Vukoja's plan was to hold the high ground coming off the main highway and protect the church. Horvat's plan was to keep shooting until enough people were dead, then ditch weapons and uniforms and hide like civilians. He had old tourist clothes and a passport, so did Babic. They'd done this before, it was why they kept money in an offshore account. They were just foreigners, caught in the mess. Who was shooting? Not us!

Sometime they could convince Vukoja to play along. Sometimes they left him for dead and the crazy fucker just showed up, scarred but alive, with another goddamned contract. He didn't mind.

Horvat flipped the desk, Babic pulled the blinds. They set up their over-watch, Horvat with his old sniper rifle, Babic with the carbine and spotting scope and nudie mag. Bitch was still trying to get that combat jack in.

They didn't expect the assault from above.

[Kaukolastan]

DEE-DOO! DEE-DOO!

The alarm tone pierced the cockpit of Orvos 1-1, and the holo-HUD sprang to life, red boxes slamming around the projected launch site of the MANPADS fired from the crowd.

CWO Kelson slammed the vertol into emergency maneuvers, while WO Huller, the copilot, attempted to manually confirm the launch and initiate countermeasures.

All of this, well disciplined and drilled, took mere seconds. Those seconds would have been far to long, at the short range of the missile launch, but the automated systems were even faster.

Between the moments when Kelson's HUD erupted into launch warnings and when her hands reached for lift control, the internal systems acted. First, the launch was pinpointed, based on vapor trail, firing signature, and radar response. Nearly simultaneously, a list of appropriate weapons systems was called upon, and the weapon was estimated to be a MANPADS, passive infrared tracking, first generation, based upon theater briefings and firing data.

All of this was confirmed before the rocket had moved more than one hundred meters, and before Kelson had even reached the controls.

On the belly of the V-30, a Directional Infrared Countermeasures pod activated, a small dome swinging its glass eye out to stare at the oncoming missile. With a sudden surge of power diverted from the lift fans and main engine, the infrared laser pulsed, blasting out the seeker tip of the attacker.

The missile, suddenly overwhelmed with data, preemptively detonated, well short of its target, showering shrapnel over the crowd below, and scattering a few fragments onto the V-30.

In the cockpit, Kelson swore as the incoming SAM suddenly blossomed in front of the cockpit, flowering debris towards them, that spanged and crashed from the hull. For a moment, the HUD flickered, damage alerts flashing-

The reports finished: No serious damage. Five percent efficiency loss in left turbine from chipping.

Huller flagged the V-30 for additional maintenance.

Hyperion DIRCM System: $1,144,000

Kelson, however, gritted her teeth. On the HUD, the origin of the rocket had been pinpointed, and more MANPADS profiles highlighted in the crowd. If one had survived the EMP, more might have, and that was simply unacceptable. Kelson flicked the weapons systems online, and activated the minigun pod.

There was a subtle hum from the port side of the aircraft, and the problem was solved.

---

Jackal One-Six jumped from the open door of Orvos 1-2, striking ground with a practiced stride, taking the two foot drop within his sprint, rushing the rooftop door of the bank. Behind him, the rest of Saber Four, Second Lance, call-sign Jackal, followed, vaulting from the hovering vertol.

The aircraft shimmered in the air, appearing like the sky, like the building, like the sky, depending on the angle and flare of light. Below it, the rooftop was scoured clean by the down-blast of its turbines, and the soldiers of Second Lance poured across the windswept surface, weapons ready, faces tucked behind the smooth blank masks.

Jackal One-Six, sometimes known as Lieutenant Theodore Heusen, heard the popping bang of the missile detonation in the square behind him, but he ignored it. Rather, he noted the launch, the successful shoot-down, and the retaining of his mission objective, and proceeded without any of the whooping or staring associated with less professional combatants. The launch reinforced his objective. This building would secure the square, and any hardened resistance would be located here. He would root that out.

One-Four approached the doorway, sliding a fiber-optic line underneath the frame. In the corner of 1-6's visor, he saw the camera feed. Clear.

These amateur's hadn't secured the rooftop access.

1-5 ran the camera up the frame, checking for mines. Clear.

1-3 breached the doorway, 1-4 pushed through with a street-sweeper, swinging the ASG-120 automatic shotgun to cover the stairs.

1-6 watched the guncam footage from the shotgun, while also watching the view from Orvos 1-2 pull back into the air as the vertol fell back. Below, in the square, even through the building, he could see the wire-frame red outlines of hostiles and the yellow frames of unknowns, illuminated by eyes in the sky. Both colors were vanishing quickly.

But that was not his concern.

Second Lance leapfrogged itself, sliding rapidly and quietly through the stairwell, while all hell reigned outside. At the first door, fireteam one stacked for entry, while the other three teams pressed down further. Again, the fiber camera threaded the door.

This time, there were hostiles. Six men total, four firing out the windows onto the square below, onto First Lance, with two guarding the door. They were arranged behind tossed furniture and desks, armed with a mish-mash of foreign equipment. There were two exits from this room, both heading left, one into a conference room, the other into an office. 1-6 flagged the doors green, office holding priority.

1-5 commented, “Mercs.” There was disdain, even through the clinical processing of the helmet communicator.

1-6 nodded, gave the order. “Hold. Wait for sync.”

From below, the radio calls came in, “Jackal 1-3, confirm four hostiles.” 1-6's helmet lit, wireframe red outlines appearing below his feet, matching the ones through the door.

“Jackal 2-3, stairwell secure.” On the video feed, 1-6 could see where they'd set position over the main lobby of the bank, digging in the M155 to dominate the choke point

There was a slight delay, and then the final check. “This is Jackal 2-6, we've got- check the feed, six.”

1-6 tapped the camera feed, revealing a room where a giant, half-naked man was cavorting with three mostly-naked women on a break room table. Assorted weapons were piled by the couch, seven feet away.

2-6 checked in again, “Women appear to be unarmed.”

1-6 smiled at the joke, very slightly. “Take them down.”

“Ready, sir.” Four more red outlines appeared.

“Breach and clear on mark.” 1-6 commanded.

There was a flurry of clicks, and four units of Octo were queued in the squad resource list, all of them synchronized to a single detonator.

1-6 motioned, the accelerometers in his glove translating the movements into HUD UI commands, compressing his overhead view into “tactical” mode, erasing all but the most pertinent of the red outlines, as well as team data. He swept his index finger slightly against the frame of his rifle, and the countdown began, transmitted to all the members of Second Lance.

3. 2. 1. Breach. The charges fired as one.

It was just clockwork, movement, violence, and consequence.

The door erupted from its hinges, slamming back, into the room, disintegrating as it flew away, spattering the first two mercenaries with shrapnel.

1-6 flowed through the door, moving like water from a dam, sweeping left, while 1-5 and 1-4 swept the right and center.

His finger caressed the trigger, and the rifle sang. With each touch of the firing stud, the electric ignition system sparked, volleying three rounds through the barrel. With each round fired, the mercury compensation system plunged in counterpoint, while the barrel slid back into its housing. Only after the third round was clear, the muzzle spitting blue-white fire with it's distinctive chirping-crack, did the recoil stroke reach his shoulder.

M19 SAR: $930

BCS Uplink Gunsight: $15,500

Without thinking, without feeling, he compensated, letting each volley ride from the weapon as catharsis, like it was an extension of himself, reaching out to touch the enemy-

The merc was wearing heavy body armor, complete with ceramic plates. The plate stopped the first round, but the second and third punctured straight through, slowing in the soft meat of his chest. This slowing heated the round, and the reactive metal unfurled, becoming a corkscrew, and then a flower. By the time each round left the merc's body, each traveling in a different angle, they were carving baseball sized holes, leaving shards of near-liquid metal in the wound channels.

SS312 Ammunition: $0.15 (x3)

The merc collapsed backwards, and 1-6 swung the shimmering holosight towards the next target, the crosshairs on his HUD tracking his muzzle angle and projecting the impact point.

In the center of the room, the two door guards toppled back, trying to regain their feet from the sudden onslaught of shrapnel. One was already wounded, bleeding profusely from a wound in his side. The other was faster, unhurt, swinging his rifle up-

BOOM! BOOM! 1-4's shotgun bellowed on automatic, spewing fire from the barrel as the rotary magazine spun. The first shot caught the uninjured mercenary in the leg, and the micro-grenade detonated, sawing the limb free in a spray of blood and bone. The mercenary screamed, his shots wild, as he toppled over the misting remains of his leg-

The second fragmentation round caught him in the chest, carving his upper torso from his legs.

The slower mercenary screamed now, too, scrambling backwards-

BOOM! BOOM! The first shot took his head off at the shoulders. The second simply redecorated some of the office furniture. 1-6 noticed the waste of ammunition.

ASG-120 SOPMOD: $870

Beowulf 18.5mm Micro Grenade: $8

On the right, 1-5 worked his SAR like a buzz saw, cutting men down like chaff. Two more went down. 1-6 took aim at his next target, the final mercenary, who was turning to run, back towards the conference room. The SAR chirped, so nonthreatening, and he was no more.

“Clear!” The calls came, but they were not finished, sweeping towards the marked doors, both sudden and inevitable.

A mercenary jumped into the office door, charging the main room, foolishly, brandishing a pistol. 1-6 fired, but 1-5 got the kill. 1-4 tossed a concussion grenade into the office.

Clear.

On the floors below, the grisly work continued, much like above. Within seconds, nearly two dozen mercenaries were dead, with the last to die screaming into their broken radios, or, in one case, jumping from the third story window.

At the stairwell choke point, a failed counteroffensive ended in the roaring sweep of the machinegun team, as they fed hundreds of rounds of ammunition through the electric gun, sending hot waves of death through the escalator and front glass facade like swarms of angry hornets and a blistering wind. Six men charged up the stairs, one toppled back down intact enough to scream a warning. Any further counter-attack fled into the square outside, where the slaughter grew.

The only trouble came on the third floor, where a half-naked man threw an unknown woman at the breaching team, and responded to the sudden deposit of six rounds of ammunition into his chest by hurling a vodka bottle at the door and then jumping out the window, using one of his companions as a cushion on the car he landed on. Jackal 2-6 could not confirm the kill, but rated the severely injured and fleeing madman as “mission incapable”. The surviving woman surrendered.

Back in the fifth story, in the main room, mere seconds had passed, they swept towards the final door, prepping to unleash a barrage of fire-

Inside the room, the two mercenaries, a sniper team, had tied themselves into the corner with white flags -tissues?- over their heads, their weapons chucked into the corner. One was sitting on a portable television set, while the other was brandishing a passport in his bound hands. “Surrender!” One screamed in broken standard.

Jackal 1-6 was feeling generous, and left them handcuffed to a support beam for someone to deal with later. For now, the building was secure, and Second Lance deployed machinegun and sniper fire to cover the square and church.

[Brazul]

Salvador Pereira lowered the missile launcher, shocked. Perhaps his eyes had lied to him.

He could still see the vapor trail, twirling smoke and steam that hung in the air, pointing from him to the shadowed craft hovering in the building canyon. The orange blossom hung in the air, folding harmlessly over the monster, then fading away.

Somewhere, deep in his gut, he felt its metal eyes on him, like a shark for the wounded seal. It rotated, slowly, casually, like the grim reaper come to call on the man who laughed at funerals.

Salvador dropped the launcher, unthinking, suddenly remembering how good his wife's churros were, or how much he liked fixing the old car his father drove. How many places he'd rather be than here.

The rest of the mob was slower to realize this, still firing their rifles that sparked from the killer floating on plumes of fire, pointing broken missiles at it and cursing the fried circuitry.

Salvador started to run.

There was a flash from the side of the aircraft, a sudden roar-

Salvador struck the ground, brushed down by a hurricane of heat and buzzing. His legs burned. His side burned.

He turned his head, saw the crowd cut down, like wheat during a gale storm, just folding and falling in rows, red spraying and spreading as water from the torrent.

On the stones of the pavement, leading to the steps of the church, the red pooled. Another body splashed down into the gore. Salvador looked up, straining, pain shooting though his bullet-riddled body.

Above, the Blessed Mary's statue stood, holding the infant Christ-child. She held out her hand to the world.

Salvador reached up, thinking of anywhere but here, and how he hadn't said goodbye-

The statue was unmoved.

“Please!” He cried, dragging himself up the steps of the church. The buzz had become a roar, another rush of hot wind, another chorus of screams from the plaza-

Another body- little Renato, just twelve, slammed into the stair below the Blessed Mother. Salvador screamed, more grief than pain, though the pain was greater than he'd ever known.

The statue was unmoved.

“Mother of God, please!” He'd never sin again. He'd be a holy man, a good father. “Please!”

The skies answered, and the next wave of gunfire ended Salvador Pereira.

---

Captain Amancio Barillo ducked beneath the out wall of the church wall, using the fine stone for cover. Below, the square was a bloodbath, waves of minigun fire from the assault transport laying out the encamped “army” as winnowed rows. Worse, the smaller, straight-winged drones began criss-crossing, stuttering cannon fire through those that fled away from the main herd.

That was just what it was, he realized. The damn aircraft were herding the mob, funneling them into better and better kill zones. It wasn't war, it was slaughter.

At least the church had better defenses, with the tiered courtyards, gates, and stonework. It was too narrow to get free fire from the swooping aircraft, not unless the transports or that accursed gunship wanted to stop and hover. Barillo had four 14.5mm KPV machine guns tucked into shops around the square, holding fire until just that occurred.

If the enemy got overconfident, or too aggressive, the hidden nests would devastate any helicopters that dared to stop moving. Crazy turbines or chameleon-hulls or whatever, a helicopter was a helicopter was a helicopter as far as Barillo was concerned. They could be killed.

He just wished the damned things were easier to kill.

The gunship roared overhead, cannon roaring, turning more men into meat and wasted time.

“Captain!” Sergeant Mata screamed to him, crouched behind the cherub-covered fountain. “Can we use those fucking guns?”

Barillo would love nothing more, but he had cold calculus on his side. This war had drilled home one point in the surviving Brazullian officer core: you got one shot. That was it. Once those guns fired, they, and their crews, would die. The missile launch below, and the answer it received, only reinforced that harsh lesson. One shot. Make it count.

Guerro had told him to hold Our Lady of Salvation. He would hold. And if that meant waiting until his command consisted of two wounded corporals and a half-crazed StaSec cook, then he would, just for the chance to bring down one of those infernal machines. There were only five, and they were the hinges of the enemy's power.

“No! Not yet!” He screamed in reply, firing his rifle at the passing drone.

“They don't do us much good when we're dead!” Mata replied.

A damn good point. But he would not waste those guns.

Barillo poked his head over the wall, looking down into the square, where the dead waited. Now, though, smoke poured over the corpses.

What now? In a moment, he had his answer, as the transport chuffed dozens of smoke grenades from its box-launchers, filling the square with a wall of gray smoke. The oncoming cloud crept over the sprawled bodies and writhing wounded, whisking them from sight and almost from memory. They will not leave us even our grief. The though emerged, unbidden, with a giggle of terror, but Barillo forced it under. He was the officer here.

The smoke rolled onwards, towards the base of the steps, concealing the transport. They're unloading in the square, using the smoke for cover. My guns are worthless. How did they know?

He almost broke, but steeled himself instead. It was just a precaution, on the part of the enemy commander. He would have done the same. He would adapt his plan.

This position was secure, relatively. They could fortify their position here, and force whoever came out of that smoke into a firefight at the choke-point gates.

“Cuelho!” He called, yelling for his Lieutenant. “Fortify that gate, take cover until they vault the walls- they'll have thermal- you know what that is?” He would have loved to have Captain Lopez with him, the junior captain had faced the storm before. Cuelho was a good kid, and spirited, but was still just an enlisted man at heart.

“No, sir!” Cuelho replied, trying to correct the angle of his too-large helmet. Just like his bar, that was a hand-me-down.

Barillo scowled. There was no time to explain. “They can see you in the smoke, you can't see them. Get behind something solid until they come out.”

“Aye, sir! I understand!” The lieutenant gathered his men and rushed into the lower yard.

I pray you do. “And stay out the open!” Barillo screamed down, as the drone made another low, buzzing pass. Too fast for those old guns, in their hidey-holes. Too damn fast.

He ducked back into cover, pulling up his binoculars to try and see the overwatch team on top the bank. The EMP had wrecked his comms, but surely they'd seen the hell below them. Where was his sniper support?

[Kaukolastan]

At the edge of space, where the blue atmosphere faded into the speckled black, the RQ-11 glided, seemingly still above the glassy orb below. A slight pulse raced from one system to another, a detection, a catalog check, a classification, a transmission. An electric eye shifted, a lens flickered, a focus ring twitched. A fate was sealed, in the rushing stillness at seventy-thousand feet over sea level.

---

Jackal 2-5 placed herself into the comfortable sniper's perch that the mercenaries had built, shifting the position only slightly to change her angle. Laid onto its bipod, the M10 Special Applications Scoped Rifle (SASR) made a menacing sight. Unlike many marksman's rifles, it was not a converted sporting gun, nor an accurized assault rifle. Every piece of the SASR had been constructed for military sniping. It was light, rugged, accurate, easily integrated into the BCS network. It was not pretty.

An ugly amalgamation of floating barrel, ignition system, feed mechanism, scope, bipod, grip, and trigger sat against an offset skeleton stock and monopod.

Jackal 2-5 found Sassy to be quite pretty, in a modern art sort of way. It fit just right, shot perfectly, and felt ever so smooth. Just like a rifle should.

She pulled up, onto the recoil pad, swinging the digital scope over the defenders crouched below. The scope was showing zoom power at 72x, but the figures were clear as day. A slight shudder went through the building, and the scope jumped. Jackal 2-5 frowned, and activated the bipod's Isolation mode. The assembly hummed, and the vibration stopped.

She made herself still, empty. Breath in, breath out. The helmet assisted, synching quiet beeps with her breath to help her find rhythm. Soon, she was perfect inside the sway, and the scope moved as she willed it. The tranqs were working already, just trace doses, flowing from the medical systems into her arms through dermal patches. She was perfect, clockwork.

There was a ping on her HUD, and her scope highlighted an arrow to follow. She tracked up, where an officer was arranging defenses by the gate. The target had been chosen by an asset high above, but she needed to confirm.

The golden bars on his shoulders gleamed, and 2-5 made her choice.

She tightened her grip on the trigger, a half pull.

Inside the rifle, the caseless round sealed into the chamber, the arc-ignition system primed. The harmonic isolation activated, countering the vibrations from blood-flow in her hand, sympathetic movement in the metal, breeze on the muzzle. The weapon locked into firing position. The scope lased the target, calculated for range, consulted with atmospheric data on the BCS, and adjusted the cross-hair for wind, pressure, and drop.

M10 SASR: $1540

Jackal 2-5 shifted her aim, returning her cross-hairs to the lieutenant's chest. The rifle settled, and she stilled.

She was not a pretty sight, not in the Light Reactive Armor. All angles and straps, plates and pads, with strength assist and surveillance gear, she looked more machine than woman. She complemented the rifle, and it complemented her. Together, they were the weapon.

The rifle cracked, the acrid blue-white flash of the caseless round barking her judgment. The gyros snatched the weapon out of the recoil-stroke, returning it into firing position before Jackal 2-5 could lose her aim. She saw the impact.

At six hundred twelve meters, through an active battlefield, it was a difficult shot.

The bullet took the lieutenant in the chest, less than four millimeters from Jackal 2-5's target.

The reactive round detonated inside his body, tearing his back apart like hamburger falling into a lawnmower.

SM1132 Ammunition: $0.50

Jackal 2-5 followed on, targeting the man to the body's left. CRACK! Next target. CRACK! The soldiers below were still panicking. CRACK!

After ten rounds, there was a pause in the slaughter, until she seated a new magazine.

---

The Condor noted the removal of one target from the BCS system. It had already found seventeen more valid targets in the .13 seconds required to process the updates from Jackal 2-5. Her efficiency was noted. The electric eyes accelerated their search patterns to stay ahead of the look-shoot-kill curve.

---

Saber Four Commander, First Lance, callsign Hydra 1-6, sometimes known as Ellis Warner, was fully satisfied with the initiation of hostilities.

He jumped from the open doors of Orvos 1-1, rushing forward through the smoke and haze. To him, there was no obstruction. Terrain maps coordinated with enemy positions and thermal scans, aligned from vertols and every view point of the Saber Team. There was nothing but the open square, littered with fading heat signatures and the occasional fleeing target. Ahead, the church loomed, nearly popping out of his HUD in its shaded and highlighted digital glory.

Six stepped over another mangled body, an old man with a guitar slung on his back. Ellis Warner would have wondered why a man would bring a guitar to a battle. Six knelt on the body, and took a snap shot at a moving target. The target toppled, and faded from prominence on his HUD.

The battle for the square was over, as suddenly as it began.

Six charged through the smoke, and the terrified survivors fled, parting before his team, abandoning their dead and dying. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered a request to minimize casualties, and Six did not prioritize the retreating mob.

Warner might have wondered what a sight they made, their armor flowing to match the rolling smoke, juggernauts emerging from the haze, spreading death before them. He might have found it poetic, or horrifying, or simply the logical consequence of mismatched forces.

Six noted the gate position, the sudden highlighting of targets at Scipio prioritized this section of the battlefield. Within seconds, the sniper fire lashed down from above, cutting into the enemy's “secure” flanks. Six pointed to two portions of the wall, one on each side of the main choke. His twitched his data-glove, and confirmed the call.

Two Valkyrie TRMs slammed down, tearing open two new flanks. One motion more, and First Lance split into a pincer, rushing through the gaps, colliding onto the harried center. The enemy had more force, but First Lance had more mass at any point they chose. Defeat in detail was a pleasant concept in the Academy, swarm fighting was interesting in abstract. In execution, it was dominance.

[Brazul]

Barillo finally got his sniper support.

One moment, Lieutenant Cuelho was giving orders, stepping into the open to coordinate. Barillo was about to order him back into cover when the boy's chest had burst over the statue behind him.

Barillo slammed back into cover as more men followed, dropping like cut marionettes, snap, snap, snap. Mother of God. He glanced to the silent statue, looming over the square, and almost laughed, maddened. Appropriate.

Then the walls exploded below, the detonations scrambling men and stone together mere moments before the enemy poured over the walls. Now, Barillo had a chance to meet his opponent, face to face. He tried to get a good look, but they kept sliding out of focus, blurring into the walls and smoke and carnage, like watery phantoms.

“Fire!” He screamed, and his men obeyed. For a moment, illuminated by blasts and flashes, caught in the reversal between light and shadow, he finally saw his enemy.

He had been expecting strike soldiers, armored and armed, or commandos, in light gear. He had been expecting to fight men. These were not Transnapastaini soldiers, not like any he'd seen or been briefed on. He'd expected the overwhelming fire they'd brought before, the heavy hammer crashing from the sky. This was different, almost like combat by surgery.

He unloaded the magazine of his weapon, rattling off bursts. The targets were hard to track, fading in and out of view, never seen until they were gone, the blue cracks of their weapons the only sign. Barillo lined his shot on one that had slowed, firing once, twice, three times. His shot hit, the target folded and fell, but then popped back up, returning fire, not even bleeding.

Barillo ducked back down, a hanging plant exploding over his head. They could have at least had the good graces to bleed properly. No one just shrugged off rifle rounds like that. Not in that light armor.Robots. They sent fucking robots. He was giggling, now.

Another meaty smack, and Sergeant Mata toppled, missing his upper torso. Barillo was getting very tired of his sniper support.

He wished for a radio, so he could tell one of his KPVs to take out the bank roof.

The left flank began to fold, and Barillo saw the blurring shapes along the parallel courtyard, slipping into position to roll his entire position. This was pointless, here in the open.

Another explosion ripped through the courtyard, and the gunship roared overhead, chased by its little-buddy drone, buzzing along.

Barillo had about enough of clear skies.

“Fall back! Fall back to the church!” Our Lady was his last stand, he knew that. There was no choice. “Inside!”

The retreat was not quite a rout, and when Barillo finally dove through the doors, the last man in, and slammed them closed behind him, he only had one third of his command left. Not quite a rout, and not quite dead, it would have to be good enough.

He was a soldier, he was an officer. A real officer, not StaSec.

It would have to be good enough.

He would hold.

He had to.

[Kaukolastan]

The enemy defensive line had imploded, just as the simulations had predicted.

The church had been defended in layers, a classic defense-in-depth strategy. The core church was geographically dominant, and held by a platoon strength force, dug in and fortified. To assault them, an attacker would need to clear the courtyards and terraces around it, held by another platoon force. To attack those positions, an attacker would need to control the square (far too large to hold without overwhelming force). To control the square, one would need to control both the church and the bank, the two converging lines that provided enfilading fire over every defense. To reach any of this, one would have to penetrate a massive decentralized air defense grid, covering much of the city. At every point, the enemy would be delayed, and, once spent, would be subject to massive counterattack from forces gathered in the city core.

Any attempt to lance the center would have been disastrous. Direct assault would have required a brigade or more, just to penetrate the city's outer layers. The only approach was rapid defeat in detail. The EMP provided cover, while Transnapastaini Air Fleet pounding away at the entire city brought confusion to the true location of the assault. Misdirection and deception were powerful weapons, but they were only the beginning.

With aerial dominance, the church could be negated, while rapid assault would seize the bank. The massed irregulars in the square would be dispersed by overbearing “shock and awe” tactics, followed by a hammer and anvil, with the soldiers on the ground forcing the defenders against a wall of bombardment and sniper fire. In this, swarm tactics were the key, rapidly bringing sudden superior force concentrations against portions of the larger defense. The key was rapid dominance, to slam the enemy so hard and fast that they would not have a chance to recover, much less react, to the preceding blows.

In under seven minutes, twenty-four soldiers and six aircraft had reduced two full platoons of regular infantry, as well as a light brigade of irregulars, to a shattered pulp, holed inside of an ad hoc bunker.

This is what Sabers did, this is why they were chosen.

They were not finished.

---

Mission Time: 7 Minutes

Six pressed himself against the worked stone of the church, taking a moment's cover in the shadow of the Virgin Mary statue that overlooked the courtyards and stairs. He called up the overlay map, checking combat status. They were two minutes ahead of schedule, and using less ammunition than expected. They hadn't even needed to deploy the grenade launchers. This was acceptable.

The aerial feeds confirmed what he'd suspected. The remains of the forces in the square were scattering into the city, harried by Reaper and Orvos flights. Outside the green operational zone, the Air Fleet continued to pound concentrated targets, dispersing any counter-offensive that might have been forming. Of course, Six didn't intend to give the enemy any time to even consider a counter-attack.

The building's schematics flashed over his HUD, and he tagged the entry points. The front door was a bloody choke, probably impenetrable without crippling losses. If the enemy commander was competent, the side access and rectory doors would be defended with converging fields of fire. If Six was setting up the defense, he'd have stationed men along the pillars, in the balcony, and behind the altar, in the sanctuary. The stone of the church would provide more than adequate cover from gunfire and grenades, and the attacking forces couldn't risk destroying their objective with an airstrike. It was a perfect position for a last stand.

Of course, all of that assumed the attackers wanted their objective intact. It also assumed the attacker would confine themselves to bullets and other conventional methods of destruction.

Six tagged the access points, Hydra One to the main door, Hydra Two split onto the side accesses. Jackal would provide overwatch. He motioned, and Hydra 1-3 hustled to his side, already arming the M3 thermal weapon.

1-3's armor was splotched with white paste, scattered across her torso like thrown paint. Any other armor, and she would be dead. That was the beauty of reactive combat armor.

Before the invention of RCA, modern combat armor had grown increasingly resilient over the closing years of the previous century, until millennial armors were more than capable of withstanding a mid-power rifle round at near range. However, this increase in protection came at the cost of increased weight and bulk, reducing soldiers to lumbering hulks, easily brought down by heavier weapons when they could not move quick enough. Further, the sheer hindrance of these heavy armors led to soldiers removing the trauma plates, or otherwise modifying their armor for weight reduction, especially when stationed in warm climes. At that point, all the protection in the world didn't matter, since the end-users were removing it to stay guard against heat stroke and exhaustion.

RCA was the solution. Instead of heavy layers of aramid fibers and ceramic or metal plates, stacked one over the other, RCA used a pressure-responsive gel, slurried inside of smart plastic. The reactive gel, when subjected to direct pressure, would align its molecular structure, growing stronger with each ounce of pressure. A sudden spike in surface pressure, say, from a bullet striking at several hundred feet per second, would cause the contacted area to flash-harden into solid plate, then ripple outward from impact, spreading the energy over the entire surface area.

All armor protects by diverting energy. In traditional body armor, Kevlar strands warp around incoming bullets, while ceramic plates resist and shatter, wasting the energy of the round. However, soft armor could not stop heavy fire, and hard armor was both too cumbersome, and of limited uses: broken plates offered no protection.

In RCA, the outer layers were comprised of spun high-modulus polyethylene, treated with shear thickening fluids that caused the entire surface to “bind” when subjected to strong shear force (such as bullet impacts), dispersing the energy like any other body armor. Beneath this, the reactive gelatin was held in smart plastic, ready to suddenly harden upon impact, shatter, and then re-liquify when the pressure was removed. Behind that layer, there was more smart plastic, more shear-thickening spun fiber, and finally, a layer of spidersilk “biosteel”, threaded with silver for wound sterilization. With this design, the armor was lighter than comparable body armor, more flexible, and could be used over and over again without repair.

When the bullets had struck 1-3, her armor had functioned exactly as expected, absorbing, dispersing, and protecting. Two moderate caliber rounds to the torso had gone from being life threatening to being an annoying bruise, and all lighter than most mid-grade combat armor.

All she had to show for her trouble were two white splotches, where the gelatin had leaked through the exterior bullet holes, before the smart plastics had sealed over the ragged tears. They decorated her chest-plate like white blood, and smelled like a new car.

Six pointed to the stained glass window, and 1-3 nodded, tucking into the cover provided by the church wall. She lifted the M3, shoving the barrel through the glass, and pulled the trigger.

The electrothermal ignition rushed back, down the candlestick, firing each jellied ball in sequence. One after another, the fuel balls rocketed into the church as 1-3 swung the weapon from side to side. There was a final swish, and the last rocketed from the weapon. 1-3 pulled the M3 clear, broke the action, ejecting the expended candlestick, and loaded the next, slamming the thermal lance forward to arm it.

Inside the church, each jet fuel ball rocketed forward on a plume of fire, scorching through the air, rebounding from the walls, floor, and ceiling like an infernal bouncy-ball, some child's toy given horrific new purpose. The balls, each painted with little smiley-faces, rocketed, rebounded, and ricocheted through the church, leaving trails of searing heat like lasers. Within seconds, the patchwork trails turned the church into an oven, flash heating the entire interior to over nine hundred degrees Fahrenheit.

“Down!” 1-3 called, and Six ducked with the others as the stained glass shifted, slid, and then exploded outwards in multicolored rain. Flames, burning shrapnel, and a wall of heat blasted through the holes, the sudden incoming oxygen blasting the interior of the church in a massive flash-over.

The doors exploded from the front, igniting as they toppled down the stairs.

A single soldier, uniform melted to his blacked skin, bone showing in places, flames licking out from exposed patches, staggered, gurgling-screaming, and toppled down the steps, coming apart as he fell.

Inside, the pews burned, the murals melted into chaotic running colors. The charred remains of the defenders were scattered about, some where they'd ineffectually tried to put themselves out in the early seconds, others where they'd been thrown by the blast. The statues were burnt, shattered, and melted, defaced into twisted visages straight from some sinner's nightmare. Heat still shimmered from the air, and Six was glad for his gas mask to filter the fumes.

Hell had come, but they were not finished.

[Brazul]

One moment, Captain Barillo was attempting to convince Father Vicente to remain in the basement, as the old priest gripped the bars of the makeshift jail and yelled invectives about desecration and judgement. He'd stepped forward to grab the old man's shoulder, to tell him to remain quiet and calm, perhaps even to attempt to apologize, and the entire world had gone to hell.

Perhaps literally, at that.

There was a sudden roar, a blast of fire that flooded out of the stone spiral staircase, nearly visible waves of liquid heat spilling from the furnace above. Only one of the damned fuel balls found its way downstairs, rebounding out of the stairwell, flashing past Private Melendez, bouncing from the floor near his feet, then up, rocketting on a trail of light.

Melendez screamed, twisted, his skin blackening and clothes bursting into flame-

His ammunition began to cook as the flames erupted over his skin and hair-

The soldier toppled, and the fuel ball bounced again, carving another path of flame through the air, igniting a tapestry, leaping through the center of the basement, splitting furniture as it passed, lighting the door aflame, then bouncing back, towards Barillo-

The Captain shifted, shoving the priest down, into his cell, and the heat rushed over him-

The fuel ball burst, another plume breaking its skin, diverting its path down the hallway, into a deeper chamber-

Barillo was consumed in fires, his hair, his clothes- everything. He twisted on the ground, rolling, writhing, trying to bat away the fire, praying the inferno hadn't claimed him like it had Melendez. It was a mercy when darkness took him.

---

Father Vicente knew hellfire when he saw it.

That monster Guerro had turned the house of the holy into a den of sin, turning God's protection into a mockery, just a pawn in a human conflict. The murderer, the thief, had with him some case. Vicente had ministered to the addicts, to the lost. He knew the look of a man with an ill prize, the near feral way the thief held his stolen goods, the addict his stash. The moment “Colonel” Guerro had held that case, Father Vicente knew the church was in peril.

When they placed guns in this house, he'd protested. When they'd tucked their prize in the sanctuary, he'd railed. When they'd taken to drinking and whoring in the pews, he's cried “enough!”. Guerro had looked him in the eyes, and told him, “These men are dead, Father. Forgive them their excesses.”

The Colonel was different than these men. These men were desperate, a mix of broken and fallen men, pressed by circumstance into the dark. Vicente had ministered to them, prayed for and with them, appealing for mercy, or reason, or one good turn. Guerro was evil.

The beast knew better. He knew the church would not stop those he'd crossed. He played God like a pawn, and thought himself the wiser. He ruined men to assuage the pit in his soul.

He'd damned them all.

When the gates of hell opened up, and the fires poured forth, Vicente knew exactly what had brought this judgment down. He fell to his knees, calling on heaven for mercy, for this church, for those fallen and still living... in shame, he prayed for his own survival.

Outside of his cell, the fires smoldered, and Barillo moaned. The Captain was alive, still. The fire had burned him, but not taken him. He might still be saved. Vicente reached to him, unable to offer aid through the bars. Instead, he offered prayers, that this one might be saved. These were better prayers than those he offered for his own sake.

His prayers were soon interupted, with the crunch of boots on the broken stones. Vicente knew, before looking up, that the devil's retainers were here, to claim their own. He did look, though, clutching his rosary, and hoping.

His hope was in vain.

Standing before him, in the melted stairwell, was a black and smoky golum, man shaped but false, walls of armor and angles, armor colored like the fires behind it. The flat faceplate turned to him, tilted, and an echoing, mechanical voice spoke, “This one is alive.”

Another stepped from behind the first, covered in weapons, a human skull painted white over its helmet. It knelt by Barillo, placing fingers on the captain's burned chest. There was a hum, a hiss, and something clicked in it's gauntlet. Without speaking, it turned to the first and nodded.

Barillo screamed, his eyes opening.

Incoherent, the captain wailed, consumed in pain and fear.

Vicente fell back, holding out his rosary like a shield, reciting prayer after prayer.

The blank faced golum, with the number six on it's chest, faced him for a moment, and Vicente nearly vomitted in sudden terror. They could not touch him. He was a soldier of God, not this world.

The skull golum lifted the captain to his knees, and the officer screamed again, babbling about fire and Melendez and Cuelho-

The blank face spoke, leaning over the burnt man, it's voice flat, machined, horrible, “Where is the module?”

Barillo screamed.

“The module. Give me the module, and the pain ends.”

Vicente nearly forgot his prayer, then redoubled his concentration.

The skull pressed something into Barillo's neck, there was another hiss. The blank one spoke, “Guerro had it. Where is it. We can make the pain stop.”

Barillo screamed again.

The skull spoke, it's voice deeper, but less commanding, still distorted into the inhuman bark, “He's useless.”

The blank one leaned closer to the captain, his metal face nearly touching the scarred skin, peering into the burnt man. Barillo screamed of his home, of the ocean, of pain, but not of a module. The blank one stepped back, and stated. “Do it.”

The skull dropped the injured man, drawing a glinting knife-

“No!” Vicente cried, to everyone's surprise.

The blank one raised a hand, and the skull froze. Only then, slowly, did the blank one face him.

Vicente nearly regretted speaking, staring into his own distorted reflection, wreathed in the fires of the basement.

The golum spoke. “This is mercy, priest.”

“He needs rights, he is not yours.” Vicente's tongue was thick. “Guerro is who you want. Not this one.”

The golum stepped closer, and Vicente thought he could feel the heat. “Where is Guerro?” It was a command, not a question.

Careful now, the priest knew. He was dancing with agents of the pit. He must guard every step. “Take no more. Leave these men!”

“Give me Guerro.”

He is already yours. Vicente uttered another prayer. “You cannot defy God.”

The beast was silent.

Heartened, Vicente continued, “You want his prize?”

“Yes.”

“If I tell you, will you leave these men?”

“Yes.”

Vicente almost told them. He'd heard the soldiers talking, he knew where they planned to hide the case next. He almost revealed it all, but he remembered mercy. “You must offer Guerro a chance to repent.”

“That is not my concern.”

“You must!” The priest tightened his grip on his rosary.

“Fine.” The blank mask seethed, and laughed, both at once.

Vicente told them. He told them of the aparment the Colonel kept for his mistress, and of his command post in the hospital, where he hid among the wounded and weak. He did not to which the man had run, but it satisfied the golum.

The blank one stepped back, head moving as if he was speaking, though no sound emerged. Vicente prayed, and hoped he'd made the correct choice.

After a moment, the skull nodded, stepped closer to the cell, and Vicente feared-

There was a crash, and the gates fell apart, the cell door toppling open. There was a whipping noise, a shimmer, and some silken wire retreated into the skull's armored gauntlet. The bars fell apart, sliced clean, falling around him. The blank one spoke. “You should go, priest. This place is done.”

They departed as they came, and Vicente dragged Barillo's slumbering body from the church.

When he broke into the open air above, sweating, panting, burnt and tired, there was no sign of the attackers, just the fires and smoke in the blue skies, and the distant rumble of war.

[Kaukolastan]

Mission Time: Sixteen Minutes

Six had one foot still on the landing skid when the V-30's massive lift fans ripped him from the embrace of the earth below. It was always thrilling, the plunging sensation in his gut as the winds tore past, the buildings and trees receding with ferocious velocity. For a moment, he could own the sky.

These thoughts were unprofessional, and he stepped into the interior cabin, swinging into his waiting seat. As he landed on the bench, he reached for his helmet, peeling the mask away, over his head. Enhanced filters or not, gas masks were suffocating, and he needed a clear mind.

Warner put the armored helmet on his lap, then adjusted his earpiece and throat mic. “Scipio, I need a breakdown on those target zones. Prioritize the hospital and the apartment complex, I want breakdowns on any scenario with a ninety-fifth percentile or better, and the three worst case scenarios for each- negate that, the three worst with a fiftieth percentile or better. Prep those and load.”

Acknowledged, Master Warner. Are we pursuing the objective, then?

“I'm finding out.” Warner pulled his PDA out, drawing engagement zones around the priest's targets.

“He was pretty damn specific, eh, lieutenant?” Ires asked, holding his skull mask in his hands, admiring the white paint. “Looked like he was gonna shit himself.”

Warner glanced up, eyes narrowed. “That was unpleasant. I'd rather not repeat it.”

“If they would just play ball, sir, we wouldn't need to spank 'em.” Ires commented, and others nodded, especially Junker, checking the thermal scoring on her M3. Ires turned to Cary, the medic, “Gonna need more painkillers. Stuck all mine in a crispy critter.”

“Why?” Junker asked. “Waste of resources.” She brushed her fingers through the white paste on her chest, sniffed her fingertips, and recoiled. “Stuff smells like shit.”

Warner didn't argue. Worst move the enemy could have made down there, shooting Junker. It didn't harm her, just bruise her, and piss her off. After that, well... at least he couldn't smell the fire through his mask.

Processing complete, lieutenant. Uploaded to tablet.

“Transmit to BCS low-level interface, make it available to Directorate Forces-” He was cut off as two fighter-bombers, emblazoned with the Transnapastaini wind-rose, screamed past the vertol's open door, their wake shaking the craft as they commenced an attack run on the city below.

“Oft'ly low, sir!” Cary yelled, as the pilots fought to keep the aircraft stable.

“You know how they do it.” Warner replied. Low and heavy, full speed ahead and damn the altimeter, the Air Fleet motto. “At least they're taking this seriously.”

Outside, the brown and red cityscape was split by a sudden rolling blast, white then yellow then fading into black smoke, as another strike mission tore through the harbor district, filling the sea with rubble. A fighter-bomber whipped overhead, and tracers pierced the cerulean skies, searching in vain. Another dull CRUMP from below, and the tracers abated.

Local elements are still dispersing from live fire zones. Chaos still rules the city, but local commanders appear to have begun organizing responses.

“Acknowledged, Skippy.” Warner took one more look out the door, to where the city brushed the sea, and the fires that now marred the landscape. The vertol shook again, another close explosion, and he had to hang on to the overhead rail. Pandemonium. Just terrified animals, herding from one fire to another. We still have time.

He held up his hand, and the chatter in the unit halted as he activated his outgoing communications. “This is Saber Four-Six, calling Eagle, come in Eagle.”

There was a slight pause, just the roar of the engines and wind, and the martial pounding below. His headset crackled, then cleared, as the response came, “This is Eagle Actual, go ahead.”

General Bauer himself. Better than expected. “Sir, the package departed the target moments before we arrived. It is currently inbound to a secondary site in the city.”

“Do you have the site, soldier?”

“Yes, sir, both of them.”

There was a pause, and Bauer spoke again, perturbed, “Both?”

“Yes, sir. Guerro has two sites, Hospital de Santa Maria and the Bahia apartment complex. Our intel is reliable-”

Bauer cut him off, “And how did- no, never mind, you're sure?”

“Yes, positive.” Warner cupped his hand over his earpiece, hunching over to drown out the sound and fury. “Requesting permission to pursue the objective, sir.” He transmitted Scipio's data to the Manor, where Bauer's men could see the new objectives on their command boards. He would have preferred a straight BCS link, but the Transnapastainis insisted on operating their slower CIMS network.

Another sortie roared past, and Bauer paused before responding. Warner knew what to expect, given the weighted silence, as the General reviewed the data. “Negative, Lieutenant, you don't have the firepower to handle that mess. Pull your team out before the city wakes up.”

He hadn't come this far, flown all these hours, fought and killed for this. Not now. He was sent to succeed, not retreat. “Sir, this is our last shot. We pull out, and that package goes underground. We know he has contacts, we know he has plans, we need-”

“What we need, Lieutenant, is to win this damned war! You tell me how your team getting ground up in the city core helps that, and I'll listen!”

Warner felt his blood pounding, but his emotions were still cold. Maybe it was the chems. “Sir, we're still running over eighty-five percent of our ammunition count, including heavy weapons, we've taken no casualties, and air support is still flushed-up. This is our last good chance!”

There was another pause, longer. When Bauer spoke, his voice was heavier, tired, older. “You're right, soldier. You're right.” The general drew in a breath, as if to give a eulogy. “Permission granted. I'll clear the fire lanes around the target areas, and my forces will try and keep them off your back. Fight smart, Lieutenant, and get the hell out of there at the first sign of trouble. Godspeed.”

The channel closed, before Warner could thank the general.

The tactical map on his tablet shifted, clearing two new green zones, and closing the old. Below, the swirling clouds of people were still random, instinctual, but patterns were beginning to form. They didn't have long, not now. Speed was everything.

Warner chose Scipio's third plan. First Lance would take the apartments. Second Lance would take the hospital.

Are you sure splitting the team is wise, Master Warner?

“No, Skippy. Best of the worst. We need speed.”

Understood, sir. Scipio adjusted the mission time to allow for thirty-five minutes in the combat zone.

Warner took one last look around the cabin, at the combination of apprehension and excitement on his team's faces. None protested the sudden change of plans, the increased risk. None bragged about their willingness to go into the next fight. They accepted, they adapted, they overcame, and none would admit to the others they were worried. They were his team.

“Remember, people, velocity is our friend.” The assorted faces nodded. “We slow down, it gets bloody on all sides.” They understood.

Warner gritted his teeth, pushed his tension down, into the lump in his gut, and re-seated his helmet.

Six called up the attack plans. He had a job to do, and he did not fail.

[Transnapastain]

The Manor
South of San Cadiz,
Cintano, Brazul

The racket and commotion about the manor grounds was as loud as any battlefield General Bauer had ever known. The thudding roar of helicopter rotors dominated the cacophony, as they ferried troops, supplies and information. Second only to that was the low, throaty rumble of the engines powering the mechanized war machines that transformed the neatly planted and cultivated fields of the plantation into churned mud and grit. Finally, distantly, the pounding of artillery could be heard, like the distant thunder of an approaching storm.

And that storm was fast in its approaching.

Bauer turned from the window of his office, formerly some Brazullian plantation's master bedroom, and looked over the reports on his desk. Some were hard copy, an interesting name, he'd always thought, for loose, printed paper. Others were more modern, loaded onto flash media cards inserted into tablet PC’s for ease of use. All of them told him the same things he knew from the start. Namely, that the city was a hotbed of resistance, split between regular army, paramilitary State Security forces, and local militia. They told him that the Air Fleet and artillery corps were pounding hard targets (a euphemism, he knew, that meant “anything that looks like it may, or might have been, a viable target) in the city, concentrating on the harbor district, and city center, in addition to “strategic targets” that had been passed onto him from intelligence, to include water pumping stations, electrical substations, and petroleum storage faculties, to name a few.

There had been other targets on the list, targets Bauer had been loath to approve. They included the know home addresses or offices of senior military commanders in the Brazullian military and State Security Service. He’d attempted to have those targets pulled from the strike lists, citing that attacks on what were largely civilian populated areas may garner dissent against the occupation forces by the very civilians they had come to liberate.

His arguments had run into a wall of cold, hard logic, reinforced by the views of bureaucratic “war fighters”, soldiers who knew nothing of actual battlefield, and spent their military careers feeding projections into computers, and treating the soldiers under their command as chips on a board, or markers on a map; as opposed to the real, living, breathing people those electronic markers represented.

Worse, they’d sent one of those virtual soldiers into his midst.

Worse still, they’d sent him with carte blanche.

Worst of all, he came from the Agency, out of Kaukolastan, straight from his comfortable office in Corsingard… which meant his arrogance knew no bounds.

The only thing Bauer couldn’t decide was if, when pushed, he’d rather turn his service pistol on this Field Commander Fallon, or upon himself.

Bauer sighed, because he knew that, no matter how much he loathed the technocratic commando thrust upon him, there was little he could do. The man had been appointed by the Executive Council, the committee of representatives from the four member nations of the Directorate, which oversaw and operated the centuries old alliance. While each nation remained an independent power, extensive accords over the years had transformed the Directorate from an aligned group of superpowers, to a close knitted, nearly single governmental organism. While each nation maintained its independence, no nation dared act in anyway not approved by the council, or undertake any venture that may prove dangerous to the Directorate at large.

Though rarely employed, the Executive Council had the ability to empower an individual with its authority, designating them Agent Imperator in some mission of extreme urgency. These individuals spoke and acted with the authority of the Council, and their decisions were all but binding. Only in times of great peril, when the security of the entire Directorate may be in jeopardy, were individuals ever entrusted with such authority, and then only for the duration of crisis. These were times of great risk, when the entire alliance hung on sudden, sure, and direct action.

Times like now. With a crucial BCS module, a key to the entire Directorate defense grid, in enemy hands, the recipe for catastrophe was plain to see. The fact that the Executive Council had empowered this particular agent obviously represented that the council had great faith and belief that he could get the job done. A brief glance at his service history - which wasn’t exactly what Bauer would have considered service, if asked, though no one had - showed high marks and top performance through a variety of training courses. Quick promotions and endorsements from superiors demonstrated an ability to obtain success over any adversaries, against any odds, and, worst of all in Bauer’s mind, at any price.

He’s good, maybe even the best man for the job, Bauer reflected, then again, the best man of the job is the one that’s willing to kill his men to claim his prize. It was not that Bauer didn’t understand that men died in warfare, no, far from it. He, unlike many members of the Directorate’s military forces, had a clear understanding of warfare, having been in actual ground combat. Bauer understand that sometimes the prices paid for objectives taken came in blood, but he believed that if there was a way to obtain that objective with less bloodshed, that was the right way to go about taking it. It was not the most efficient, most effective way; it was not what the computer projections and game theorists offered as “optimals”, but, to Bauer, preserving the lives of his soldiers, and the civilians they were charged to protect, was paramount.

Bauer wished they’d sent someone else… perhaps someone with combat experience like his own, or at least someone from his own nation's intelligence service. This war was Transnapastain’s show, after all, they were the ones fighting and dying, to secure the objectives, both material and immaterial.

In truth, he just wished they’d sent anyone else.

A light rap on the wooden door broke Bauer’s concentration on his thoughts. He glanced at the newcomer, ready to give the interloper a piece of his mind for interrupting, when the words caught in his throat. Instead, as he recognized the intruder, a smile crossed his lips as he spoke “Afternoon, Major, what have you got for me?”

Major Anthony Thomas, Bauer’s old comrade and current adjutant, remained in the door frame. Thomas stated, “Call for you in the dining room, er, command center, General. It’s the Saber team.” He shifted on his feet uneasily.

“Something else you wanted to say?” Bauer asked, his voice weary

“His majesty has also made himself at home in the comms room, sir.” Thomas replied glumly. “I know he comes to us straight from the Citadel, but, Jesus, Eric, you’d almost think he put his pants on by leaping into them, as opposed to one leg at a time like the rest of us.”

Bauer laughed with little humor, but he accompanied Bauer to the command center, which was, indeed, formerly the dining room of the estate. The large oak table, worth several thousand dollars, by Bauer’s estimate, had been removed, and was more than likely being used to fuel a cooking fire in the yard, and replaced with a state of the art electronic Combat Operations Asset Tracking Board, or COAT board, colloquially called “the battle board.” Officers sat or stood at portable data stations, constantly monitoring, filtering and disseminating information to units in the field. The board itself could be manually updated by the technicians, but automatically updated itself with reports from CIMS and BCS linked units.

“Ah, General, good of you to join us.” Agent Fallon declared as Bauer and Thomas entered the room. The Agent was already perched over the board, hands dug into the corners, leaning forward, his imperial eyes boring down onto the digital display over his hawk-like nos, not unlike some bird of prey, preparing to descend upon a fresh target.

Bauer took a spot at the end of the table, giving Fallon a simple nod in greeting. He replied, “Right, well, with your approval, I’d rather get down to business than practice sniping. Mister Fallon.”

Fallon waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, “Of course, General. We're all business here.”

Bauer waved an aide away when he was offered a wireless headset, declaring, “No, no, go ahead and put this on speaker, we don’t want to leave our guest in the dark.”.

“No need to worry, General, I can hear them just fine.” Fallen said, tapping his earlobe, indicating the micro-receiver built into his incredibly expensive, and oh so stylish, Agency issue digital glasses.

With a grumble and a bit more violence than necessary, Bauer stabbed his finger on the transmit button. “This is Eagle Actual, go ahead.”

He heard Warner’s voice come across the rooms speakers clear as day. ”Sir, the package departed the target moments before we arrived. It is currently inbound to a secondary site in the city.”

“Do you have the site, soldier?” Bauer asked in anticipation, if they had lost track of the module, the entire mission could be compromised. Hell, the whole war is compromised. Bauer thought bleakly.

“Yes, sir, both of them.” Warner’s crystal clear voice rang throughout the room, offering hope that the dismal situation may yet be rectified.

Of course, Warner’s reply indicated a new set of problems had arisen. While these were more surmountable than the previous, Bauer did not like complications. “Both?’ he asked.

“Yes, sir. Guerro has two sites, Hospital de Santa Maria and the Bahia apartment complex. Our intel is reliable-”

Bauer cut him off, “And how did- no, never mind, you're sure?”

“Yes, positive.” Warner replied, his voice giving credence to his optimistic words. Then he spoke the words Bauer was dreading, “Requesting permission to pursue the objective, sir.” Years ago, Bauer would have asked the same. In the hot seat, there was only the mission. Now, with age, command, and, hopefully, wisdom, the decision was not so easy or eager.

From his left, one of the technicians called out, “General. We’re receiving a burst transmission from Saber Four-Six, uploading it now.”

The Battle Board cleared, and quickly resolved itself into a new configuration. Bauer instantly new he was looking at projected strike options as determined by the unit commanders AI assist. Green arrows indicated air transport corridors to red marked target zones. Yellow lines indicated ingress and egress points. Rapidly, red “enemy” markers begin to blaze on the board as intelligence assets, drones, observation aircraft and reconnaissance satellites, reoriented themselves to observe the target areas.

Bauer whistled softly. There were a lot of red “enemy” lights winking into existence around those areas. Icons for light armor (in this case, another euphemism for pick up trucks with something larger than a heavy machine gun on them.) The markers indicating hostile infantry (in this case, any person on the ground carrying a weapon) were too solid and clustered to distinguish individual forces. Worse, both sites were in the center of civilian sectors of the city. While the apartment complex could get a pass in Bauer’s opinion, the hospital, even if it was being sued as a command center, was strictly off limits.

Bauer shook his head and keyed the microphone, “Negative, Lieutenant, you don't have the firepower to handle that mess. Pull your team out before the city wakes up.”

Fallon began to speak, clearing his throat as he liked to do, but was interrupted by Warner’s voice coming over the radio again, “Sir, this is our last shot. We pull out, and that package goes underground. We know he has contacts, we know he has plans, we need-”

“What we need, Lieutenant, is to win this damned war! You tell me how your team getting ground up in the city core helps that, and I'll listen!” Bauer roared back across the radio channel.

“He’s right, General. For the record, I protest your decision and request that you reconsider.” Fallon said from his station to the side of the table.

Bauer spun on the agent from the Citadel, snapping, “Noted, Mister Fallen, but this is a military problem, and that makes it my problem.”

“I recognize that, General, however, the fact that I am here, now, with these credentials, should clue you into to how serious the Citadel, and the council proper, takes this operation. It has been thirty years since another has carried this badge. And if I recall correctly, and I do, that was also to clean up one of your nation's messes.”

And I’ll bet he was just a big an asshole as you are. Bauer thought, and softly exhaled before the words could leave the safety of his brain, and roll of his tongue. “And I appreciate that, Mister Fallon, but those men will die, if they attack that target. Further, they will be launching a no-holds barred assault on two civilian instalations. That does not fit with my orders, and will complicate the occupation.”

“It does, however, fit with my orders, which supersede yours, as I supersede your position on this matter.” Fallon replied, “Namely, that the BCS module will be recovered, or destroyed, at all costs. Some of those men may die, General, and if they do? So be it, they are all volunteers.”

As if to support Fallon’s assessment, Warner’s voice echoed through the room, “Sir, we're still running over eighty-five percent of our ammunition count, including heavy weapons, we've taken no casualties, and air support is still flushed-up. This is our last good chance!”

“No.” Bauer said, partly to Fallon, partly to himself, “It's too hot in there, and they’ll be ripped apart, We can cordon the city, make sure noting leaves it, by air, sea, land, or donkey, if we have to.” Bauer thought quickly, searching for a solution that did not commit those soldiers to their deaths. “Yes, a blockade could work, and then, when we hit the city with combined arms in less than day, we’ll be able to snatch the module back with ease.”

“Too risky.” Fallon declared, “there’s too high a probability that it could slip by us. If its emergency GPS locator battery fails, we’ve lost it for good.“ Fallon pointed towards the radio set, “He’s right, this is our best bet to recover or destroy the module.” Fallon waved has hand to encompass the battle board, “If you’ll but look at the game board-“

Bauer's rage erupted, and he bellowed, “War is not a game! These men’s lives are not pawns, or tokens to be gambled away, or spent without recourse! Do you even care about those soldiers, Agent?” Bauer spat, “That they have wives, husbands, sons and daughters waiting from them at home?” He felt his blood boiling, and realized he was barely managing to control his temper. He steeled himself, turning his fury into a cold edge, “I noticed you were conspicuously absent when they boarded their flight into that hell hole. A good commander would have seen his men off when they embarked on such a suicide mission.”

“A foolish notion.” Fallon replied dismissively, “A wise commander would understand that his presence at their send off would unnerve them, making them believe their mission was anything but routine, completely out of the ordinary. No, I could not allow myself to be seen, lest it betray the grave necessity that this mission succeed.”

Bauer shot a glance at Major Thomas, who was standing several feet behind the agent, leaning on he doorjamb. The look he saw on Thomas’ face meant the man was mirroring his own thoughts, namely, what the penalties for shooting a representative of the Directorate Council entailed, and if it would be worth enduring those hardships.

But, of course, Bauer knew those hardships were not worth executing the smug, sniveling excuse for a soldier standing before him. Bauer shook his head. “One might wonder if we were on the same side here, Agent.” He muttered, and reached for the microphone

Before he could press the transmit button, Fallon replied to his comment, “Of course we are, General, I’m simply sorting out the trash.”

Shaking his head, Bauer keyed the microphone, and exhaled a long, tired sigh, “You're right, soldier. You're right.” A second, longer sigh, “Permission granted. I'll clear the fire lanes around the target areas, and my forces will try and keep them off your back. Fight smart, Lieutenant, and get the hell out of there at the first sign of trouble. Godspeed.” He keyed orders into the battle board.

He hung the transmitter back on the radio station and levelled his gaze on Fallon. “If this goes south… when this goes south, Agent Fallon, those men’s deaths are on your hands.”

“If they had aborted their mission, General, the potential deaths of thousands would be on yours.” Fallon replied “I believe that the lives of twenty-four volunteer soldiers are worth preventing the endangerment of thousands, and are certainly worth maintaining the security and stability of the Directorate.”

Bauer shook his head and uttered a rueful laugh. “How the hell do you sleep at night?”

Unperturbed, the Agent replied “On silk.”

[Brazul]

Rorik Horvat was handcuffed to a pole. That was not uncommon.

What was uncommon was the fact that Babic was fine with this, cuffed to the reverse side of the support beam, singing old drinking songs about bosom young ladies and questionable morality. While this alone made Horvat's brain hurt, the fact that he found himself straining against his bonds in time to the blasted Three Peasant Girls and a Bull made him furious. It was just so damnably catchy!

“Mile!” He called, cutting off the man's incessant singing, “Would please kindly shut the fuck up?” Again, he tried to pull his hands out from the cuffs, tried to bend his knees and force himself to his feet.

“Why?” Babic asked, preparing to begin the even-more-horrific third verse. The bastard was clamping his feet instead of clapping. If possible, that was more annoying.

“Because if you don't, when I get free, I will redesign your face with your chode.” Horvat declared, collapsing to the ground in a thump, even more tangled than before. It hurt like hell.

“They're gone, comrade.” Babic commented, tipping his head towards the smoke-filled sky, now tinted red with the light of fires. “The machine-soldiers got back on their pretty little birdie and flew back home.” He chuckled. “They wouldn't dare land that thing in the motherland. Our villagers would strip it for parts and use the fuel for cooking.”

Horvat paused, then commented, “You do know that shit it poisonous, right?”

“Bah. Only for you soft southerners. Mother cooked dirt in jet fuel every night. It was delicious.”

“That explains so many things, Mile. So many things.” Horvat slumped against the post. He was getting tired, needed to conserve his energy. All in all, this was not the worst thing he'd been in this year. Whole team was dead, he was half-naked and chained to a pole with Mile Fucking Babic, and the city was on fire, but it could be worse. They hadn't shot him in the legs for fun. Professionals were so predictable like that. As long as you didn't get killed in the “dear sweet motherland, that's a lot of bullets” stage of the battle, you could usually hide with the wounded and dead, and they wouldn't even toss frag grenades into the body piles to check! Vukoja would never have made that mistake.

“So, Mile?”

“Yah?”

“You think Vukoja is dead?”

Babic glanced around the room, to the piles of bodies, the charred holes in the walls. He glanced down from his perch, to the smoldering ruin outside, contrasted so harshly with the mid-morning light filtering through the smoke. “Against this? He'd never surrender, and I've never seen a killing happen so fast. BOOM-BOOM-BOOM, took out Marek, Yefim, Anatoly just like that. I'd imagine, once they got there, that they deposited-” Babic stopped to count on his fingers. Horvat had to give Babic credit, the whoreson was good with his numbers. “Six or eight shots into his chest, and then he plunged out to window to avoid defeat at the hands of mere bullets.”

Both men nodded, agreeing on the wisdom of this. Finally, Babic declared, “Shit. He's coming back, isn't he?”

“Yes.” Horvat declared. “And if he finds that we surrendered...”

“Shit. Shit.” Babic scrambled to his feet, trying to perch against the post. “We've got to get out of here, make up some glorious story-”

“I've got a pick.” Horvat declared, pressing himself up, trying to get his feet under him.

“A pick?” Babic looked back, over his shoulder, to talk face to face. “Why a pick?”

“Remember Iskra?”

Babic sighed. “Dorezal's wife? Ah, the beauty... all the right scars... all the right violence... wait- you- you? No! You bastard!”

Horvat grinned. “Like I said, I have a pick. Fool Horvat once, shame on Iskra. Fool Horvat twice... no one fools Horvat twice!”

Babic burst out laughing. “Assuming we don't get burned to death, killed by an angry mob, bombed, or found by Vukoja, I am going to buy you a drink! I might even buy you two drinks!”

“You don't have any fucking money, Mile!” Horvat said.

Babic revised his offer, “I will pretend to buy you a drink, and then stick you with the tab!”

“Deal!” Horvat could almost stand. Once he stood, he could get the pick from his shirt. Once he had the pick, he could pick his lock, and then decide if he was going to bring Babic along.

Outside, another building slumped over, consumed by fire, artillery rumbled, and the angry mobs were pouring through the streets. What they'd do when they found foreigners, any foreigners, only the devil knew. It was another week in paradise.