Deep beneath the Philippines, more than a hundred and fifty of the world's best soldiers, scientists, and engineers were - unusually - all feeling and thinking roughly the same thing.
Why are we stuck here?
In the dramatic emptiness of the Situation Room, two figures stood and debated.
Terror attacks in Europe were sensitive territory for Doctor Moira Vahlen; she hailed from the German-Swiss border, which was one giant Chryssalid nest by now. The news from Paris was only making the situation worse. "There must be something we can do-!"
Commander Masara bin Sharif, having pulled Vahlen aside to discuss her attitude to events, was still no more impressed. "Doctor, you know the rules that XCOM operates under. There is no proof of alien or EXALT involvement; there are no grounds for XCOM to deploy."
"At least think of the panic reduction!"
"Doctor, I'm not risking XCOM's political independence to subdue a group of politically unrelated terrorists when the aliens are still gathering strength. We haven't heard anything for a week; I want Strike-One to be ready if they decide that Sydney looks juicy.
"And if we did deploy, what would we do? Subduing mundane terrorists is not like eliminating alien strike forces or EXALT cells. It's not about dramatic combat - which, incidentally, is what our operatives are trained for - it's about disarming and containing. It would be like bringing a sword to a surgery: we're too specialised away from this.
"Even if we were able to secure either city, which I doubt with the manpower we have available, we'd have to explain ourselves, risking our secrecy; or leave again, meaning the situation on the ground could go back as far as square one. I'm sorry, Doctor, but there's nothing XCOM can do here."
The punching bag in the rec room was getting a workout. Colonel Maria 'Prophet' Vorobyova couldn't remember ever having seen a queue for it before.
This will not be good for morale. It's hard enough taking the aliens on when it seems like Earth's united behind us...
She dreaded having to break the news to Annette Durand when the latter awoke in about half an hour. Or earlier, if the gods were feeling even more vengeful.
In Mission Control, the mood was the same. Central Officer John Bradford was, at first glance, unreadable as he watched the two red icons on the hologlobe. A closer look would show that he, along with several other staff, were barely suppressing white-hot rage at unwillingly fiddling while Paris and Beirut burned.
The fact of the matter was that unless EXALT was involved, XCOM was effectively toothless to stop the bloodshed. And if EXALT were present, XCOM would know by now; they always left signs behind. But intel wasn't saying anything, so here they were. Just watching. Fuming.
The motto on the wall of the barracks was 'Vigilo Confido'. He wouldn't be surprised, come morning, if someone had taken it upon themselves to change the second word.
Hell, 'impotent' would be a good fit right now, language butchery be damned.
