Preface: "Freedom Day" is my idea of a gritty, Campaign-style narrative for Siege, told from the perspectives of Team Rainbow and the White Masks. This story is loosely inspired by Rainbow Six: Patriots, because part of me still wishes that the game got made (with Siege as the multiplayer component). Other sources of inspiration are military/police-themed films and video games. I'll be using most of the game's maps as backdrops and there will be a bunch of original characters thrown into the mix. Oh, and any semblance with real-life persons, living or dead, is coincidental etc. etc.
I hope to deliver the same quality of content as I did in my previous stories. Have a pleasant read! :)
PROLOGUE
"Men fight for liberty and win it with hard knocks. Their children, brought up easy, let it slip away again, poor fools. And their grandchildren are once more slaves..."
- D. H. Lawrence
...
"The Border", Somewhere in the Middle East
1105 hours
...
Ethan Mallory had been awake for more than 24 hours. He was exhausted. If he closed his eyes long enough, he'd fall asleep kneeling with his EBR slung by his waist. But there was thirty minutes left on the timetable, according to his wristwatch. He peered out of the second-floor balcony, facing the Border Control's western exit, scanning for possible threats with his rifle. He estimated another hour of dull waiting, before he could finally leave this place.
Grumbling aside, at least he was wearing something comfy for a change: a purple shirt, a pair of khakis, a shemagh around his neck, and his favorite running boots to keep his feet fresh. With the weather outside, he'd be sweating like a sinner in church if he donned his usual combat gear. And if it weren't for the chest rig, the holstered Glock, and the silenced marksman rifle in his hands, he'd easily pass off as another foreigner stuck in a hostile country.
Two more days, Ethan. Two more days...
After this mission, he would fly back to DC, sort his papers, and take the job in the UK. It was offered to him by a middle-aged black woman, probably a big wig from the Pentagon, more than a month ago. A spot in a classified, multi-national program based out of the England, with a salary more than twice his current paygrade. It sounded dodgy, obviously. But with the alimony, the mortgage, his mother's medical bills, and his daughter's education to worry about, he made the most practical choice.
He just needed to survive this tour.
"Busker Two-Four, this is Blackjack One-Two.", he called into his earpiece. "We're at the rendezvous, second-floor security office, HVI is in custody. What's your status, over?"
A moment later, his radio buzzed with a woman's voice.
"Blackjack, this is Busker. We're still en route to the AO. We got reports of heavy fighting and RPGs at the capital, so we're circling to the mountains. ETA two-zero mikes, how copy?"
"Roger that Busker, we'll sit tight. Double-time it, will ya? Over and out."
With that, Ethan released the call button with a frown on his face. As if the day couldn't get any worse.
There were throngs of people massing to the border, lines of vehicles weaving through a long gridlock, and a mess of shouting and horn honking. The civil war between the loyalists and separatists broke out last year, yet the exodus of civilians never stopped. Towering above the crowd were loudspeakers at the Border Control, shouting instructions in English and Arabic to keep some semblance of order. It was hard not to feel for them all, as much as the American preferred to mask his emotions, but there was nothing that he could do for them either.
His ten-man team was fortifying their position at the security office, using makeshift wooden barricades and metal grates as impromptu protection. One man overturned a desk to use as cover for his M249 by the window, pointed outwards, while another created a sniper's nest facing the southern valley. In the meantime, the office staff kept themselves busy informing all civilians to vacate the main building's premises. To make way for a 'high-profile emergency medical evacuation', as the cover story went. The loudspeakers played a looping advisory.
"For your safety, you need to evacuate the building. Leave all luggage behind. You will be able to retrieve your belongings from a customs agent..."
Operation Witch Hunt was a compartmentalized undertaking; only the local government and the Border Control's top security staff knew what was up. For almost a month, Ethan and his team had been kicking down doors, ransacking houses, and shooting a fair number of people, all to help the CIA capture a guy named Mohandes. 'The Engineer'. About five-foot-eleven, tan skinned, black hair, a dark chin curtain, and a medium build. A terrorist-for-hire who sold discount biochemical weapons to ruthless fanatics in the Eastern Hemisphere. Uncle Sam wanted him bagged and brought back alive. Ethan's team spent most of yesterday to finish the first half of that job; the next step was to fly the prisoner to friendly territory. A bunch of hired guns were on their way to prevent that from happening.
"Any word on those birds, Ace?", team leader Gabe DeWynne called out from the security room.
"20 minutes, Gamble.", Ethan turned around. "They're flying around the capital to reach us. Sounded like a shitfest over there..."
The other man nodded in response, nonchalantly. Gabriel 'Gamble' DeWynne, 36 years old, a native of Aurora, Colorado, married with two kids. The dark-skinned man wore plainclothes under his tactical gear like the rest of the team, except for the blue-and-orange Denver Broncos cap that graced his shaved head. He firmly held a custom Mk18 assault rifle across his chest. Calm and collected, he was the perfect foil to his brown-haired friend. They've served together for a little more than ten years.
This month also marked the fourth time they were working with one Emily Jacobsen.
"…I'm gonna ask you again, asshole. Who bought your stash of Compound Z?!", she continued her interrogation of Mohandes. "WHO DID YOU SELL THEM TO?!"
"…Mo radi oqlk... (…I don't want to tell you...)", the handcuffed man mumbled in his native tongue. There was no language barrier between them.
"A name!", she yelled, manhandling him. "Give. Me. A Name!"
Red-haired, pale skin, around five-foot-nine, most likely in her early to mid-thirties. Emily was the case officer running the show. The smooth, Upper-Midwest accent pointed to a privileged upbringing. And judging by her intimate knowledge of Army codes and brevity, she must have been a former SIGINT tech as well. She donned a black hijab on top of her dark shirt and ash-brown cargoes. The normally taciturn woman was rather verbal with Mohandes, who was sitting on a chair with his head lowered, dirtied and bruised.
The other soldiers could tell that she was about to completely lose her cool. Normally, she got people to sing using her calm voice and icy-blue eyes, or the Beretta M9 on her hip holster. This time however, she was frantic, almost desperate, to get their prisoner to spill the beans. But that was because she had been working on this case for two years. She was close to unraveling this bastard's supply chain and clientele. Failure here meant millions of lives would be at risk. Worse, a rogue weapon would be let loose in the wild for every bloodthirsty psychopath to get their hands on.
Developed by the British after the First World War, Compound Z was a volatile and toxic concoction that, officially, never saw military use outside of Porton Down's testing grounds. While it was quite similar to Sulfur Mustard, especially in terms of color, Compound Z was less potent and deadly. On the other hand, it was also easier to store and manufacture, and this made the toxin incredibly enticing to terrorist groups with big ambitions. With the right knowhow and resources, Compound Z could be made from inert chemicals as a stand-alone dirty bomb or even as a template for deadlier, far more terrifying cocktails.
"He's not gonna talk, ma'am.", Gabe confided Emily. "I suggest we let our friends in Jizan handle him..."
"Gamble, I need to know the buyers of those canisters, right now!", the woman insisted. "They could be on their way to New York for all we know, and this guy is our only lead!"
Ethan overheard the yelling and shook his head. He stroked the brown stubble, pensively, with his Kevlar gloves.
Lady, we have bigger problems to worry about...
The team didn't have much backup. An armed Predator drone on overwatch duty or a cruiser from the Fifth Fleet would've been nice, but the Pentagon denied their requests. The American public was already stingy about the US presence in this region. They would probably lose their collective marbles if they learned that their President had deployed a bunch of Special Forces guys to this country almost a month ago. As far as the brass was concerned, there was no such thing as an 'Operation Witch Hunt'. Ethan absolutely despised this bureaucratic bullshit. To think that he actually spent fifteen years putting up with 'political backlash', 'international pressure', and 'the White House's infinite wisdom'…
"You okay, brother?", Gabe asked Ethan, who looked deep in thought. "You look like shit..."
"I'm fine. Just sucking wind is all…"
"That bad, huh?"
"Nah...", he smiled sarcastically. "...I mean, at least the Broncos didn't win last night!"
The friends exchanged laughs, recalling the incredibly stupid bets they made while they were out in the field, dodging danger at every turn. Gabe was the only other person in the room who knew about Ethan's plans to leave the unit. They had a good run together. Nonetheless, the other man felt bad about leaving his friend for greener pastures.
"One-Two, this is One-Four at the Customs entrance, do you read?"
Just as he was about to relax, Ethan's radio received a transmission. The chirpy voiced belonged to Blackjack One-Four, Omar 'Sleight' Guerrero.
"Lima Charlie, Sleight. Go ahead.", Ethan responded.
"I have eyes on two police trucks parked outside by the entrance, occupants armed with AKs…", his comrade spoke. "…Did you, uh, call-in some backup for us?"
The marksman was puzzled by his report. Neither he nor Emily radioed for local cops to bolster their defenses. The nearest police station was a hundred miles to the south. And most, if not all, of the police units in the region were bogged down by the fighting in the capital. Besides, why would the cops be here if the Border agents were already doing a good job keeping the peace? Surely, there wasn't any shortage of manpower at the checkpoint. It was hard to make sense of it all, putting the pieces together…
Then, it hit him like a sudden jolt. Ethan's curiosity turned into dread in a split-second.
"One-Four, be advised! They're not-"
*BANG!* *BANG!*
Grey eyes widened in shock, as Ethan's earpiece rang with the sound of two gunshots, followed by a grunt and a tumble. His heart skipped a beat, as his fingers froze around his radio's call button. Soon enough, the air went loud with automatic gunfire and terrified screams. When he turned outside, he was treated to a scene of pandemonium- refugees scattering, security guards being gunned down, and masked men in tan police uniforms running and shooting all over the place.
"Contact! CONTACT!", Ethan called into his earpiece.
There was no time to think. A switch was flipped in his brain as his bloodstream filled with adrenaline and his heart began to race. All traces of weariness left him. After flicking his EBR's safety, Ethan raised the rifle and pointed it at the chaos below, whereupon he spotted at trio of hostiles armed with AKs, hiding behind a white van. It didn't occur to them that they were being observed by a shooter from the second floor.
*Pht!* *Pht!* *Pht!* *Pht!*
He squeezed off four rounds from his rifle, muffled by the sound suppressor, and quickly found their respective targets, center mass. The first man dropped instantly, while the second one barely had time to react to his fallen partner when the bullet pierced his torso. The last guy caught one bullet in the chest and another in the neck. In less than two seconds, they all fell to the ground, dead and splattered with blood. Satisfactory work, but the mood didn't allow for celebrating.
"One-Four, come in! …One-Four, talk to me!"
The radio responded with silence. Only one conclusion dawned on him: Omar was out-of-action; probably dead. A casualty. The thought was both gut-wrenching and infuriating. Yet, he knew that he needed to warn his comrades about the danger.
"Team, be advised!", Ethan reported. "I have enemy contact at the west vehicle exit! I say again, west vehicle exit! Shooters armed with automatic weapons, how copy?"
"One-Five copies."
"Two-One copies."
Everyone turned their game faces on and readied their guns, wasting no time to man their defensive positions like clockwork. Soon enough, the distinctive reports of Mk18 rifles and M249 machineguns meshed with the sounds of Kalashnikovs. Nine men and their allies squared off against dozens of attackers. Amidst the cacophony, the security room staff desperately radioed for help. In turn, the team's airwaves were filled with combat callouts. All hell had broken loose.
"One-Five here. I have eyes on multiple tangos converging at the east vehicle entrance. Preparing to engage."
"Roger that!", Gabe replied over the horn. "Precision shots only! Save your ammo!"
"Two-One. Multiple Border agents down, ten plus EKIA confirmed. We're catching lead and buckets on our position; falling back to the main building."
Ethan noted the exchanges in his mind. It felt like the situation turned from 'precarious' to 'completely fucked' in a matter of minutes. But he remembered that help was about to come soon; the team simply needed to hold on for a while longer until Busker arrived. So, he kept firing at the enemies until his rifle's last round was spent. A fresh magazine and a quick tab of the bolt release, he rose again from his position, ready to take out any armed hostile that entered his sights.
Sure enough, he spotted a gunman totting an RPK, running along the sandy asphalt below. Ethan lined up another kill shot in short order. The range was about 30 yards…
*Pht!*
The masked male did a quick faceplant, lifelessly. A pool of red began to form beneath his corpse. Not a moment too soon, another target came into Ethan's view- another AK-wielding shooter, taking potshots from a stalled delivery truck by the street. He did little to conceal his position from the marksman's crosshairs...
*Pht!*
The gunman's body jerked when the bullet struck him, then he fell to the asphalt with a dusty thud. Another kill, another corpse littered the ground. It was time to look for another target. Ethan peered into his scope, the adrenaline kept him upright and awake. High or low, he scanned every corner and alley for anything amiss. He kept his breathing calm and regulated in between short intervals- a trick to steady his aim.
But just as he moved his eyes away from the scope, puffs of dirt and debris suddenly kicked his face, followed by the distinctive snaps of bullets missing him by inches.
"Agh, fuck!", he cursed.
His eyes didn't catch the shots, but he knew that a machine gun just hammered his spot, presumably from across the street. With fatigue impeding his faculties, Ethan took a while to determine the source of the bullets- a group of tangos perched atop the western exit's guard tower, wrested from the security forces during the skirmish. Their silhouettes were clear enough to scope and drop, but the volume of fire was too much for him to risk it. With no clear advantage in sight, Ethan realized it was time to disengage.
"One-Two, falling back! Headed to interior!"
With great urgency and speed, he darted to the security room, vaulting across an open window whilst bullets whizzed by his head and torso. Inside, the security staff were already crouched behind cover, panicking at the rattles of bullets hitting reinforced metal and thick concrete. After hitting the ground, the marksman dove to an overturned desk, unscathed. His luck held out, to his amusement. He now had four walls, Gabe, Emily, and a handful of agents to back him up. Ethan resumed firing at the enemies outside, whereupon Gabe joined him in his spot, lending a hand with his Mk18 rifle. He didn't forget to praise his friend's ludicrous stunt.
"Slick fucking moves there, Ace!", the black man patted him.
"Hah! Jesus, it's like Kandahar all over again!"
The endorphins in his system caused Ethan to smile hysterically amidst the chaos. Emily, meanwhile, was shocked and slack-jawed at the sudden turn of events. She probably thought that an audacious attempt to rescue Mohandes in broad daylight was just a distant probability; fate had just proven her wrong. She exchanged eye contact with the two men with guns, but she didn't utter a word. Rather, she pulled out her sidearm from the holster and cocked the hammer. Her other hand gripped Mohandes by the shoulder, pointing the barrel of her gun just inches away from his left temple. The stakes just went higher.
"Team! Hold your positions! Don't let them inside the compound!", Gabe ordered over the radio.
"What now, sir?", Ethan asked.
The constant gunfire threatened to drown out his voice. Some of the security staff were fighting back using their service pistols. The scene resembled yet another hairy situation that this duo of professionals had weathered countless times before.
"Stand our ground, wait for evac! Keep the prisoner secure at all costs, clear?"
"Let's take him to the break room.", Emily suggested. "The security office is compromised!"
Her idea suddenly raised a couple of eyebrows.
"You sure that's a good call, Jacobsen?"
"No time to argue, Ace!", Emily brushed him off as she lifted their prisoner from his seat. "Mohandes is the priority here! We can't let these bastards find him!"
Against sound logic, Ethan and Gabe left their spot and accompanied the woman and her captive, moving past anxious faces and messy tables. The break room was just next door. It contained the remnants of a lunch break so violently interrupted, but was otherwise unscathed by the fighting. Emily's suggestion made some sense, considering they were outnumbered. By moving deeper into the Border Control building, they were further away from the gunfire outside. But they've also abandoned their defensive positions at the security office. Should the ruthless, masked goons break into the second floor, the trio would be cornered like dogs.
The day took an incredibly dangerous turn. Ethan had no plans to die this day. There was a job offer waiting back home. There was a promise of a better life for him and his little girl, just a phone call away. She was eagerly waiting to see her daddy again. And he was gunning for a chance to embrace a new chapter in their lives. He wanted to remain optimistic, that he would see this last mission through with Gabe and the others.
But he'd been in this line of work long enough to know that things seldom go smoothly as he would hope. And this time, he feared, his luck has started to run out. The gunmen sent to rescue their prisoner were very motivated. The disguises, the guns, the vehicles… Mohandes's benefactor really wanted him returned. Ethan should've expected something like this. 'Mohandes'. 'The Engineer'. An honorific like that was seldom handed to anyone, unless he had a serious rep. Of course the bad guys wanted him back. If they succeed, the CIA would lose two years of covert ops work, blood, and sweat. Millions of lives would be at risk. Omar's sacrifice would be in vain.
Such thoughts only added to the stress in the situation. Ethan was fuming as he walked with his comrades.
"One-Four, check in!", Gabe called to their comrade, refusing to believe his death. "One-Four, this is One-One, do you read? …Fuck."
Mohandes snickered. He was aware of the ill-fortune that just befell his captors. The laughter was enough to break the marksman's self-control.
"What's so funny!?", Ethan lashed out. "Are we amusing you!? Huh!?"
He shoved the handcuffed man into the wall, then gave him a swift punch to the gut, strong enough to send him squirming in pain. That was for Omar. The poor bastard coughed and heaved as he clutched his abdomen. Gabe and Emily did nothing to help him back on his feet. When he came to, Mohandes stared back at Ethan, green eyes filled with contempt. The feeling was mutual. Then a wry smile formed in the prisoner's bloodied face. As if he knew that the Americans were doomed.
"Ace, take it easy!", Gabe scolded his friend.
"I'll be easy when we're finally rid of this asshole…", he raised his fist for another blow.
"Ace! CALM DOWN!"
The words didn't do much. Ethan was angry at everything. The mission was irrelevant. He didn't care about the Compound Z or the prisoner. He wanted to kill him and just be over with it. Gabe would rather not add to the growing strain, so he placed a firm hand on his friend's shoulder instead. They stood there for a few seconds, standing behind a wooden wall.
"Wait...", Emily blurted out. "…Did you guys hear that?"
Too warped by his rage, Ethan didn't understand what she meant. He looked at her rather critically, as if he wanted her to make some damn sense of herself. Then, a rather curious sound came. Something tapped the other side of the wall behind them. At first it was a soft smack, like a dollop of clay splattered across a flat surface. Then a louder tab. Then, the sound of hard rubber.
Then a beep.
...
*BOOOOOM!*
The explosion was incredibly loud and bright. In an instant, a large section of the wall disintegrated, sending a strong shockwave that rumbled across the room. Splinters, smoke, and shrapnel went flying in all directions. The four people in the room were thrown about violently by the sheer force. But Gabe, the man closest to the wall, took the brunt of the blast. Right after the deafening and blinding bang, he was tossed across like a worn ragdoll, with shredded cloth, gusts of blood, and pieces of flesh. Ethan was directly behind him. The blast was loud enough to send bells ringing to his ear. The next thing he knew, his face and chest were scorching. He landed hard on his back and his head bounced on the floor with a bone-crushing thud. The pain came immediately.
"ARRGHH!"
Ethan yelped as his battered body hit the floorboards and his pain receptors went into overdrive. He was hurt all over. Opening his eyes, he realized he was thrown more than six feet by the explosion. He wasn't aware that his friend Gabe was lying just beside him; the Broncos cap was torn and bloodied. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Come on Ethan, on your feet!
Time seemed to crawl; it was probably the adrenaline still kicking. The pain was too much. Beyond the haze from the large gap at the wall, Ethan saw three men decked in grey combat gear and face masks, carrying assault rifles. The ropes around their bodies told him that they rappelled from the roof. Their entrance already known, the new visitors jumped inside and opened fire at the Border agents at the adjacent security office. There were screams and grunts of pain. Then, one of the armed men turned his gaze to Emily, who was flat on her belly, struggling to stand up. He hovered over her crumpled form and gave her a solid whack to the face with the butt of his rifle, knocking her out cold.
Mohandes laid beside her, just as shaken by the blast. Another gunman grabbed him by the shoulder and led him to the hole they just made, where he fixed a separate rope for him to abseil from. In less than ten seconds, the mission completely fell apart.
"Shit... Shit...", Ethan muttered.
These men were highly-trained. Very good. Delirious to the pain in his body, he brought out the Glock 34 from his holster and chambered a round. His wounds inhibited his aim, but he nonetheless fired wildly at the attackers. They were caught off guard- one of them got hit three times in the chest, killing him instantly. In their haste to leave the building, the remaining men quickly fled while shooting at the wounded marksman's direction, their prize in tow. Ethan was defiant, unfazed by the bullets whizzing past him. He held on to the trigger for as long as he could. Unknowingly, this caused his pistol to jam.
*Click* *Click* *Click*
His instinct told him to reload his sidearm. But with fatigue and pain taking their toll on him, Ethan dropped the weapon and collapsed in defeat, helplessly as he watched the assailants rappel away from his view.
Not long after, his earpiece captured the desperate pleas from his comrades, who were scattered and fighting throughout the building. The panic in their voices made it bare that the situation turned for the worst. The attack on the Border Control was well-coordinated.
"Is there anyone on this frequency!? Two-One is down! We have tangos pouring all over the- augh!"
Their words fell on deaf ears. Ethan felt his eyes grow weary. If he closed them long enough, he'd fall asleep on the spot. It didn't take long for him to give in; he found comfort in the blackness that welcomed him.
…
…
"One-Two! Come in!", the earpiece came back to life. "Blackjack One-Two, this is Busker Two-Four, please respond!"
The female pilot's pleas were enough to wake Ethan. He must have been out for a few minutes. Unfortunately, he didn't have the strength to respond; the trauma that his body suffered left him weak and beaten. He was tempted to accept his fate, until he heard frantic footsteps approach his left.
"Ace? Ace! ACE!"
It was a woman's voice. Emily. Her clothes were dirty and her hijab was lowered, revealing a bloodied, pretty face. There was a stream of red running from the nasty bruise on her left temple. But she was alive and strong enough to stand; her blue eyes were lively and filled with worry.
"Ethan, wake up!", she shook him, calling him by name. "...Come on, stay with me!"
"Blackjack, are you there!?", Busker yelled over the horn again. "We're five klicks away from your position! I'm seeing smoke and small arms fire at the compound!"
Hearing the pilot on the frequency, Emily took Ethan's earpiece and called her back.
"Busker? Busker! Do you read?"
"What the- who is this?"
"Oscar-Golf-Alpha, identification: Echo-Juliet.", the redhead replied. "We were jumped at the rendezvous. I have multiple Eagles down at the Border Control! Repeat, Eagles down at the Border Control!"
"Goddamit...", the pilot muttered under her breath. "...Copy that, we're hoofin' it. What about the prisoner?"
Emily paused, showing a look of dismay and shame in her eyes.
"The HVI has been... captured. They... they got him..."
Ethan could hear those words echo as he tried to keep himself from slipping out. But he was so exhausted. He wanted to be out of this place. His addled mind told him that this was just a bad dream. The pain and the numbness were just part of the show. The air reeked with cinders, cordite, and burnt flesh. His head was so clouded. Perhaps by closing his eyes, he'd wake up from this nightmare.
The darkness welcomed him again.
...
Quincy Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts
Several months later
...
"Take a right over here.", Caleb ordered the driver.
The man did as he was told. He was nervous, as was everyone else in the white van. Everyone, except for the pale-skinned bald guy, riding shotgun and giving directions. He had done this before.
The last time he came to Boston was about two years ago, around the same time that he left the Marines. The visit was nothing important; he didn't have any friends or family to come see. He just felt the need to go there and watch the Marathon, see a different city for a change. But the former leatherneck was impressed by the people's resilience. Even after all the tragedies and violence they've experienced over the past decade, they went on with their lives with smiles and a song in their hearts. In a way, he was jealous of them.
Perhaps he could've learned a thing or two from that trip. But he already passed the tipping point a very long time ago. He no longer cared.
"Here we are.", he muttered. "Welcome to Bartlett."
The windscreen greeted him to the sight of a colonial-style metal gate, a testament to the University's long and prestigious history. The van drove closer, only to be stopped by a couple of policemen in black uniforms at the guard post. One of them was a grizzled old man, presumably in his fifties. The other one, a younger man, stood further away and activated an electronic sensor at the post. Standard security procedures.
"IDs please..."
Caleb replied by bringing out his card. Today, he was a food service guy serving organic coffee and tea for the festival at the heart of the campus. He had documents to prove it. And if the officer didn't buy them, he'd just add something else to the story. But the old man, predictably, called to his radio and asked for verification. A nod and a short, inaudible conversation went by. A few seconds later, he returned the ID.
"Okay, son. Head on in."
The driver smiled back, hiding his anxiety. Caleb simply gave a nod as the metal gate before them slowly swung open. Then, they were on the move.
It was a mild surprise for everyone. Every law enforcement agency in New England were still looking for them. Yet, the cops here just let them through without as much as checking their vehicle. Campus security was a bit lax; the guards only had crummy metal detectors as a precaution against danger. Then again, Caleb's crew already knew about this. Their intelligence was top-notch and everyone had done their homework. Everyone knew that this side of the campus had weak security.
Within seconds, the most difficult part of the operation was over. The van drove deeper into the campus, almost leisurely. Everywhere Caleb looked, there were students and yuppies walking about or minding their own business. Trees and shrubs were everywhere, neatly-arranged to beautify the 18th century buildings that Bartlett was famous for. Classes were on-going, presumably, given how many of the kids he saw had books and backpacks in their person. A lot of them also twiddled with their smartphones to pass the time. There were cliques of different kinds throughout the place. A typical day at one of America's most important academic institutions.
It didn't take long for the van to reach its destination: a wide, grassy field, where a bunch of tents and chairs were propped up. Dozens of students were hanging out or having fun with their friends at the festival. Some were dancing, others were singing to the upbeat music. All of them were smiling. There were parched throats and grumbling stomachs all around, so a food delivery truck was nothing to raise an eyebrow over. A few yards across the field was Liberty Hall, the crew's primary objective. So far so good.
Caleb looked at his watch. It was time for their final radio check.
"This is Odysseus...", he said on his radio. "...Trojan Horse is in. Last call."
Within seconds, a string of voices replied. They were hushed and muffled, as they were mingling with the crowd.
"Blue, in position."
"Red, in position."
"Gold, in position."
"Black, in position."
He was satisfied with the responses from the other crews. If Caleb still had a heart, he would've rolled his eyes at the ridiculous callsigns they were all given.
"Odysseus copies. I have the keys to the city. Stand-by..."
With that, the man made his way to the rear of the van. His comrades were already shedding their disguises, exchanging jumpers for hoodies, tactical webbing, and ivory-white ballistic masks. Smuggling their gear into Boston was easier than they thought, given that the FBI and the ATF fell for the bait. One man opened a heavy trunk and began handing everyone their assault rifles, while another began tinkering with the bomb they brought. Everyone shared their grenades evenly. Caleb, meanwhile, was concerned about their package. It was stored inside another trunk, lined with insulating material.
"Hey, be careful man.", one of the crew told him. "We don't have our breathers on yet."
The word of caution was well-placed. Inside the container were stacks upon stacks of yellow canisters, each as large as a small oxygen bottle. Contained in their shells were several milligrams of Compound Z, more than enough to kill a conference room full of people. On their own, the canisters were little more than gas grenades. Combined, they were enough to shut down an entire city block, devoid of life.
That was the plan.
"Lock and load, boys."
Caleb brought out a white balaclava and worn it over his head, then topped it with a grey gasmask, as with the rest of the crew. He cradled an SG 552 in his arms; he would be using his sniper rifle at another time. Each man was handed a yellow canister.
"These things better work, bro..."
"They will...", he replied. "...I told The Engineer I'll put a bullet in his head if they don't..."
They looked at one another for a few seconds. Enough time for them to remove any trace of doubt or second thoughts. Nobody balked. It was time to make history.
"Execute. Execute."
Caleb was the first to step out of the metal doors, a rifle in one hand and a canister in the other. The crowd, still elated by the festivities, didn't notice the heavily-armed man who just emerged from the white vehicle. Poor fools. The only one who saw him was a young woman, dressed in a maroon sweater, emblazoned with her alma matter's sigil. She was looking at her smartphone, smiling, when her eyes caught a glimpse of the masked figure.
She screamed too late.
...
.