A/N: Hey guys. If you're a fan of mine, I'd just like to say that this IS a one-shot, an experiment to keep my skills up while I finish the next chapter of Do Unto Others (which hopefully should be posted sometime around this upcoming Wednesday). If you're not, then I hope you enjoy anyways. The idea for this came to me while watching some MW2 gameplay of the map "Terminal", combined with a realization of the fact that the Insurrection doesn't really get much of the limelight in the Halo world. Now, aliens are all fine and dandy, but I really felt like writing something a bit more, I don't know…real. Something gritty, depicting the struggles of the UN's day-to-day law enforcement personnel against a dangerous rebel threat.
Anyways, sorry about the rant. Here y'go.
000
Planet Biko, Epsilon Theta System
Durban, 1st Planetary Protectorate
August 2nd, 2515, 0530 hours (local time)
The buzzing of his alarm cut through Wilhelm Fischer's slumber, rudely ejecting him from his rather pleasant dream. Rolling over, Wilhelm slapped the "off" button and practically leaped out of bed, throwing the curtains open with all the joyful exuberance of a child on Christmas.
And for Wilhelm, it may as well have been. For today, on the second of August, the year 2515, an action would be carried out so shocking, so tremendous in its scale and magnitude, that it would be remembered for decades to come.
Wilhelm left the bedroom of his apartment, heading into the small, cramped kitchen. Another man was already there, dark-haired and bearded, sipping a cup of coffee and reading something off of a tablet.
Wilhelm didn't bother speaking as he prepared his own morning meal; his friend and partner Isotov Solyvich was never responsive to anything until he finished his morning coffee.
The sausage and eggs that were Wilhelm's customary breakfast seemed to be somehow fresher than usual as they came out of the automated cook-all oven, their aroma just a bit richer. Indeed, everything seemed crisper today, more in-focus, more…alive.
How life is put in perspective when you are on the verge of making history, Wilhelm mused as he slid into a chair on the opposite side of the table. Feeling a little bit ashamed at his childlike enthusiasm, Wilhelm took his first bite as across the table, Isotov drained his coffee in one long draught, setting the cup back on the table and giving Wilhelm that emotionless glare of his that he had perfected so well.
"Good morning to you as well, friend," Wilhelm said with a smile, raising his own glass of coffee.
For a moment, Isotov didn't respond, and then the man's craggy features broke into a wide grin. "Indeed it is," he said, his Slavic accent thicker than Wilhelm's own Germanic brogue. "Indeed it is."
No more was said between the two men; everything that could have possibly been discussed regarding the day's upcoming events already had, and any further conversation would be moot.
Not to mention the fact that while Wilhelm swept his apartment for bugs every night before they went to bed, the UNSC was becoming increasingly paranoid in their attempts to combat the Insurrection, and could have easily placed a listening device on one of their window frames or under a door during the night.
No, for now, it was best to remain silent. The pigs of Imperial Earth would hear their doom soon enough.
Wilhelm Fischer had been born and raised on Biko, a member of a wealthy family of Frieden descent that still nursed bitter resentment towards the United Nations for their defeat during the Interplanetary War of the 22nd century. While the UN may have crushed the military forces of the Friedens and the Koslovics during the war, there was no way for them to hunt down every last sympathizer among the vast populations of 26th century humanity. Many of the families that had fought tooth and nail against the UN's imperialist expansion had faded into obscurity for decades before resurfacing as major sponsors of an increasingly dangerous and influential Insurrection in the Outer Colonies of humanity's fledgling interstellar empire.
Wilhelm had joined the Insurrection at the tender age of fourteen, or rather, joined as much as he could an organization that was really more like a grassroots protest group than an actual organized military. Sure, there was a degree of overarching organization and a vague sense of who gave orders to whom, but for the most part, the Insurrection was broken up into cells that had little contact with one another other than a common desire to kill the fascist imperialist pigs. The devotion to the cause and modus operandi of the Insurrection really varied from planet to planet, with some being hot spots of armed rebel activity, and others less so.
Biko had been one of those calm spots, until recently. The Insurrection's leadership on-planet had recently acquired the backing of a wealthy Koslovic family-of which Isotov also hailed-and therefore now had the funds and the resources to mount an effective campaign against the UN on-planet.
The UN's despicable media decried the Insurrection's methods, routinely covering such events as the slaughters of schoolchildren or the bombing of a Marine barracks. Wilhelm shook his head, laughing inside at the pitiful reporters that attempted to paint the rebels as vicious barbarians. Didn't they realize that the UN's imperialist arm would never rest until it had conquered all? Didn't they understand that in order to gain freedom, to make the proverbial omelet, that you had to break a few proverbial eggs? Nobody in the Insurrection that Wilhelm knew save for a few depraved henchmen truly enjoyed tasks like the murder of civilians, but all knew that it had to be done for the sake of the greater good. Wilhelm was not the type to carve notches into his pistol's handle, but he had killed "innocent" civilians before. He didn't enjoy it, didn't look forward to it, but knew that it must happen for the sake of the Insurrection.
Besides, if the civilians in question were cooperating with the UN fascists, then they deserved their deaths anyways.
At any rate, Wilhelm thought as he finished his breakfast, the imperialists shall have plenty to talk about in a few hours.
"Are you ready?" he asked Isotov, sliding back from the table.
"As ready as I have been in a dozen years," Isotov responded, likewise standing up.
The two men left the room, and Wilhelm checked his watch. 5:35, local time. They had approximately fifty-five minutes until they got the chance to make history.
Wilhelm returned to his bedroom. Quickly, he ripped the sheets and mattress off his bed, revealing a hole cut into the frame of the object, in which were stored a multitude of military-grade gear, ranging from body armor to submachine guns.
For today, however, they would need to get in quietly, at first. Wilhelm selected a chestpiece of Komodo body armor; thin enough to be worn under clothing without causing undue suspicion, but strong enough to withstand a hit from standard security-issue sidearms. He then covered up in a loose-fitting jacket, and put on a pair of slacks over his camo pants, both articles that would be removed once the shooting started. When he was done, he retrieved an M6A handgun and two extra magazines, procured through the black market a few months ago, hiding them in the inner pocket of his coat. He then grabbed a large, black, rather unimpressive-looking suitcase, opening it up. Inside it he placed a pair of military-grade M9 fragmentation grenades, stolen from a raided UNSC arms dump, along with the coup dê grace of the entire armament; a fully-operational, shiny-new M3A2 submachine gun and six extra magazines, which had been separately and painstakingly acquired over months of black-market dealing.
Every member of the team would be outfitting similarly; twelve men in total, operating in six two-man teams.
As Wilhelm replaced everything and prepared to leave, he stopped as he caught sight of himself in the mirror. By all accounts (including his own), Wilhelm Fischer was a handsome man, tall and lean, with medium-length fair hair and stark blue eyes that had ensnared many a young girl's heart during his primary school days. He made a point to keep clean-shaven, and was quite the yin to Isotov's dark, bearded, stout yang.
With any luck, by the end of today, he'd have enough money to get him a night out with any woman he wished.
Wilhelm's self-admiration was interrupted by a rude knock on the door. "Hey," he heard a familiar voice grunt. "You still in there?"
Wilhelm smiled. "I assume you are addressing me and not the wall?"
Isotov snorted in laughter. "Da. Are you ready?"
"And able," Wilhelm said, opening the door and stepping outside to find Isotov similarly dressed, with a near-identical suitcase.
As they left the apartment and headed downstairs, Isotov shook his head. "Maybe if you spent as much time working as you did admiring yourself in the mirror, this day would have come a lot quicker."
Wilhelm smiled at the well-meaning jab, accustomed to the back-and-forth between the two friends. "Maybe," he conceded, moving to the side to make room for an elderly woman coming up the stairs. "And maybe," he ventured, "if you spent as much time looking in the mirror as you did staring at that news tablet-reader of yours, you'd be able to get Tanya to notice you for once."
Isotov elbowed him gently. "Ah, that was uncalled for," he protested.
"Uncalled for, but-allow me, ma'am," Wilhelm said, stooping down to retrieve the purse of the elderly woman as she stumbled on a step and dropped it.
"Ah, bless you, young man," the woman said gratefully, accepting the bag and attempting to hand Wilhelm a twenty-credit note, which the man graciously declined, helping the woman up the next step and then continuing on his way.
As they descended the several levels of stairs to the bottom floor of the apartment complex, Isotov couldn't stop chuckling. "You're such a fraud," he said.
Wilhelm didn't bother responding, leading the way out to the parking garage and the pair's vehicle; a plain, unmarked, white sedan, so much like the tens of thousands of other vehicles in the city of Durban. The two got in, Wilhelm sliding into the driver's seat and placing his suitcase in the back.
Wilhelm started the vehicle's hydrogen fuel cell, pulling out of the garage and onto the busy streets of the city. As he did so, he retrieved a small, portable chatter device, purchased exclusively for this day and connected only to six other chatters throughout the city, the six chatters belonging to the other teams of the group that had been nicknamed, 'the Derringers'.
"Hey guys," he said as he drove, initiating the sequence of code exchanges that would confirm the operation was underway without inciting too much attention from local UNSC conversation-monitoring systems. "Did you all pick up your stuff for Janice's office party?"
"This is Robert," came a voice, "Robert" being the alias for Team Two. "We've got the donuts."
"Ah, man," said another, continuing the code exchange. "Soph and I were going to pick up the donuts."
The code-exchange continued for another minute until Wilhelm had confirmed that all of the teams were on route with no hitches. "Alright, guys," said a new voice, calm and suave. That was "Gerald", real name Joseph Watts, their superior and the mission's supervisor, who would be monitoring the mission's progress from a personal VTO/L aircraft high above. "Looks like we've got everything. Meet at the office and we'll throw Janice the biggest damn birthday party she's ever seen."
Wilhelm smiled. That was the key phrase, the one that meant everything was green and good to go. His smile quickly faded, however, as a car abruptly pulled out in front of him from an alley, forcing Wilhelm to slam on the brake. He honked irritably, speeding up and passing the vehicle on the next straight stretch.
Soon enough, the massive shape of the Patrick A. Mellows Interplanetary Airport loomed up ahead, a huge building that serviced hundreds of planes a day.
That was their target. After they were through, that airport would be assured a place in the history books.
Wilhelm turned off onto the busy airport road, mentally rehearsing the plan. The different teams of the Derringers would arrive at staggered intervals of time and take their seats in the main waiting area. Once all the teams were assembled, they would open fire, kill a couple airport personnel and all the security officers in the area, and take as many civilians as possible hostage. They would then move the civilians to one of the terminals, where they could be more easily defended. The authorities would pay massive sums of cash to ensure the safety of civilians, a plan that the Derringers wanted to leverage to its utmost. Once they had collected the ransom, they would take several hostages with them and demand safe passage, boarding a waiting plane piloted by an Insurrection sympathizer, who would then fly them out of the city towards the mountains. During the night, the men would then jump out of the plane, leaving it to crash and hopefully fooling any tailing UNSC fighters that the rebels had died in the explosion.
Wilhelm calmed his nerves as they pulled into the temporary parking, exiting the sedan with suitcases in hand. Fighting through the throngs of people outside the airport, they stepped inside, into the main waiting room. From there they proceeded to the waiting area, taking their seats in the leather padded chairs and waiting.
The time seemed to tick by excruciatingly slowly, each minute seeming an hour. The crowds of people that moved through the waiting area, checking in at the main desk and proceeding to the terminals, seemed to blur together into a vague, colorful mob. Wilhelm couldn't help but feel a slight sense of disdain at the illusion of security so many of the pompous tourists held. They were just like most UN civilians; arrogant, comfortable, and delusional. They had no idea of the unjust suffering that they were contributing to by their subservience.
Several of the other teams arrived, two-men pairs taking their seats in different sections throughout the waiting area, giving only a brief and innocuous-looking hand signal to show that they were ready.
As they were waiting on the final pair, Wilhelm's thoughts were rudely interrupted as something bounced against his foot. Jerking in surprise, he saw a small rubber ball rolling against his shoe. He was about to kick it away in annoyance when he felt a tug on his sleeve. Turning around, he came face to face with a two-year-old girl, her brown hair framing her little doll-like face. "Ba?" she said.
Wilhelm sighed in annoyance. "You want the ball?" he said.
"Ba!" she confirmed, burbling happily and clapping her hands in delight.
Wilhelm sighed again, reaching down and retrieving the ball, handing it back to the child. Even as the little girl's face broke into a snaggle-toothed toddler grin, a new voice entered the scene.
"Alice! Alice-oh, there you are!" A young woman dressed in a business suit bustled out of the crowd, swooping in and scooping up the child into her arms. "I'm dreadfully sorry she bothered you," she apologized. "She's just adventurous by nature."
"It's fine," Wilhelm assured her, and watched as the woman carried the little girl away.
Wilhelm had been told all his life that those who were subservient to the UN were arrogant and pompous, that they looked down upon those who bravely served the Insurrection. He had been trained to hate and despise them, so he would show no mercy.
But that mother and her child did not match his mental conceptualizations. She was…nice. Caring. Polite.
They had no idea that in a few minutes, they might very well be dead.
She doesn't deserve this, a little voice whispered in the back of his head as worms of guilt and doubt began to collect in the pit of his stomach. None of them deserve this.
"Fischer?" said a voice. "Fischer, are you alright?"
Wilhelm shook his head, banishing the little voice in the back of his head and crushing the guilt in his guts. He had trained for this day for months. He knew he was in the right. He wasn't about to let an overactive conscience dissuade him from the right path. "Yes?" he said, turning to face Isotov.
"The last team has arrived," Isotov whispered.
Wilhelm swept his gaze around the waiting area. To anyone unfamiliar with them, the Insurrectionists would have been impossible to pick out among the throngs. But Wilhelm's experienced eye was able to spot the small groups of men standing or sitting scattered across the waiting area, ready to execute their plan like a well-oiled machine.
One of them, Frederic Narmonov, gave him a small nod from across the room.
They were ready.
Wilhelm drew in a deep breath, looking up to the massive clock on the wall just as it hit 6:30 AM.
It was time.
Wilhelm nodded to Isotov, and stood up, setting the plan into motion. Slowly, casually, he walked up to the counter where passengers bought their tickets, choosing the smallest line.
The M6A handgun inside his coat seemed to grow incredibly heavy as he stepped into line, setting his eyes on the clerk behind the desk, a pretty little blonde that under normal circumstances, Wilhelm would have found attractive.
Shoving down his conscience once again, Wilhelm stepped up, only a single elderly couple remaining in between him and the clerk. He slowly reached inside his coat, his fingers tightening around the grip of his pistol, and prepared to make history.
000
"And I'm telling you that your ticket number isn't logged in that system," Adrianna Waters said, trying hard to keep the frustration out of her voice as she spoke with an elderly couple of tourists who were insisting that they had bought their tickets from Royal Pines Airways, but Adrianna's computer had the tickets logged in the archives of a competitor airline, Biko Vistas. And since the airport's entire computer archives were run by a fourth generation AI, she was more inclined to believe them than the slightly senile-looking old man and his wife.
"Now lookee here, young 'un," the old man said, leaning forward so close that Adrianna could smell the grape-flavored glucosamine drink on his breath. She blanched, the man's dentures smelled like they hadn't been cleaned in years.
"I know what I bought," he continued, and beside him, his wife, resplendent in a purple dress and brimmed hat, nodded enthusiastically. "I'm not so old as to be fergettin' stuff like this."
Adrianna closed her eyes, mentally counting to ten before responding. "Be that as it may," she said tactfully, "it's not in our system. I can't print you the boarding pass unless I have confirmation. I suggest you go over to one of the customer service terminals and work it out from there."
The old man glared at her for a moment, before finally muttering something under his breath about "those darned computers", before turning away. "Fine. Come on, Eunice; we'll figure this out on our own."
"Thank you for your business," Adrianna said, bound to by company policy. The old man grunted disinterestedly, and she couldn't say she was sad to see them go.
Adrianna sighed, brushing a lock of blonde hair out of her eyes and back behind her ear. She glanced at the wall; only 6:30. She groaned inwardly. She still had another four hours to go until her shift was over.
Gathering herself, she looked up over the counter. "Next."
"Right here," said a voice, and Adrianna jumped, looking up to see a rather handsome young man, yellow-haired and blue-eyed, leaning against the counter.
She waited for the man to speak, but he didn't, merely leaned on the counter and stared at her, pinning her with his unwavering gaze. She squirmed uncomfortably as the silence stretched, and finally said. "Um, sir? Can I help you?"
The man stared at her a little while longer before finally shifting. "Yes," he said. "You can help me a great deal."
He reached inside his coat for something, and Adrianna felt a thrill of alarm for a moment.
"I'm sorry," he said, and pulled out a long, matte-black pistol, aiming it at her head.
Adrianna had time to utter only a brief prayer before her world went dark.
000
Wilhelm watched in an almost detached, callous manner as the 12.7mm slug blew through the pretty young woman's head, sending a spray of red across the far wall. Before anyone could react, Wilhelm had shifted his aim to the shocked security guard grappling for his sidearm behind the counter, delivering two shots to the upper torso that dropped the man to the ground in a pool of red.
For a moment, everything was dead silent.
Then the screaming started.
The mass of civilians in the waiting room stampeded for the exits, many trampling others in the process. The other teams of rebels opened fire, first on the security guards, cutting down the ill-prepared guards within seconds.
"No one move!" Wilhelm yelled, but he was unable to be heard over the chaos. He raised his pistol, firing three shots into the air.
Silence fell, no one wanting to risk the wrath of the gunman. "Nobody move or we'll shoot!" he declared, capitalizing on his moment. "If you do not resist, you will not be killed."
The remaining people in the waiting room, some thirty or so, reacted exactly as he had expected, like a mob of sheep. They looked around, seeing the twelve men armed with a various assortment of weapons, and wisely decided that surrender was the best option.
Well, most of them. One very brave-and very foolish-young man stepped forward. "Hey!" he yelled. "You can't do this! You-"
Without pause, Wilhelm shifted his aim and shot the man in the chest. He collapsed instantly. A strangled cry came from the crowd, and a pretty young woman that Wilhelm assumed was his girlfriend ran forward, dropping to her knees beside the corpse and wailing.
Wilhelm allowed himself a vicious smile. Looking around, he saw their horrified faces, staring at him in shock, anger and terror.
They were helpless. His for the taking.
Hoping to build on the example he had just set, he lowered the gun. "If you come along quietly, nothing will happen to you. If you resist, you will die."
He waited for a moment, letting that stark choice sink in, and then nodded to the other men. "Get them to the west terminal."
As the other rebels stepped forward, herding the mass of people down the western hallway into the terminal, Wilhelm shrugged off his jacket and pulled off the slacks, revealing the body armor and camo underneath. He then retrieved his suitcase, placing the M6A in a holster on his leg.
He withdrew the M3, inserting a magazine and thumbing the safety off, racking the slide to chamber the first of the magazine's 5x23mm rounds.
As he rejoined his team, Wilhelm heard the first of the police sirens begin wailing in the distance.
000
The interior of the M12 Warthog APC was dark and stuffy, lit only by the dim glow of the red running lights on the bottom of the walls. The humid air seemed to have a choking life of its own, causing those inside to sweat and curse.
On any other day, Sergeant Isaac Monterrey of the UN Federal Security Bureau's Rapid Incident Response Team 12 would have been complaining just like any other. Today, however, he was literally shocked into silence.
Isaac had been relaxing in the ready room of the Durban City Police Department Headquarters when the call came in that there was a suspected hostage situation taking place at the Patrick A. Mellows airport. More details had gradually come in over the news and through sources until it was revealed that a massive hostage crisis was taking place, with several fatalities already and at least thirty hostages taken. The men were reportedly demanding a ransom fee of one million credits a head, as well as safe passage out of the airport. Many on the news were speculating that this was an Insurrectionist operation, as it appeared to be very organized and precise.
Everyone had been shocked. Biko had always been a relatively quiet colony, secluded and peaceful. Nothing really ever happened here, which likely explained how the Insurrectionists had seized the airport so quickly. Throughout the Inner Colonies, most air and space-ports had at least a platoon's worth of UNSC Marines on station to respond in case of a threat, but in the Outer Colonies, such security was seen impractical and impossible.
It was times like these that those decisions were regretted. Reports and security footage showed that the Insurrectionists were carrying military-grade weapons and body armor. The standard-issue sidearms given to police officers wouldn't due squat against the rebels, while inversely, the rebels' submachine guns would tear through the flimsy body armor issued to cops.
Short of calling in the Army, the only thing that the city of Durban had to respond with was an FSB Rapid Incident Response Team. Designed around the concept of the SWAT teams of yore, each RIRT team consisted of six operatives, all trained to deal with high-stakes and difficult operations such as hostage rescue and counter-terrorism that were out of the league of normal cops.
Of course, that didn't mean they wanted to. Isaac sighed, leaning forward in the darkness as he felt the Warthog begin to slow as it neared the airport. He had been perfectly happy with his career choice; if he had followed most of his buddies from high school into the Marines or the Army, he'd likely be tramping around some Outer Colony hotspot like Harvest or Midgard, getting shot at by Innies.
And now the Innies had come to his own doorstep.
The Warthog ground to a halt, and Isaac looked around at the other men and one woman in the team. He had trained with them for nearly three years now, knew their attributes, capabilities, and weaknesses.
Officer Thomas Perkins sat next to him. The big, black officer had several years' experience, and was a specialist in CQC and breaching. He carried with him a military-grade M90 CAWS 8-gauge shotgun.
Across the way was Officer Charles Gustafson. He was the team's tech specialist and hacker, quiet and reserved.
Officers Antonio Vasquez, Adoni Mastronikes, and Richard Simmons comprised the rest of the team's non-specialized officers. They were all three experienced and calm; Isaac would entrust them with his life in an instant. Like Isaac himself, they all hefted MA4A carbines, versatile and powerful rifles that were the staple of RIRT teams.
The same went for Officer Olivia Birch, the team's sharpshooter. She cradled in her hands an M392 DMR, a military-grade marksman's weapon. Cool and aloof, she could likely have become a Marine scout sniper, but had failed the stalking portion of the course and had chosen to ply her wares instead in the FSB, where hiding was unnecessary. Isaac never felt more secure than when he knew she was watching his back.
The rear ramp of the APC lowered, allowing a shaft of sunlight to illuminate the interior. Isaac blinked and shielded his eyes like a cave-dweller trapped too long underground before retrieving his carbine. "Let's go," he said, and led the squad out onto the airport road.
What he saw was slightly stunning. Dozens of barricades had been set up blocking traffic, yellow and black tape holding back the crowds of reporters and curious civilians. No less than eight squad cars were parked near the stairs that led up to the airport doors, their lights flashing and blue-uniformed officers crouching between them, aiming their sidearms at the doors. To Isaac's shock, a fully operational VTO/L police hovercraft sat on the road. Several other VTO/L craft flitted in the air overhead, both police and news agency craft.
"Ah!" said a voice, and Isaac turned to see a short, balding, harried-looking man in a suit walking towards him. "Police Commissioner Martin Brown," he said, sticking out a hand. "Thank goodness you're here!"
Seeing as his hands were currently holding onto his carbine, Isaac merely nodded, and Brown awkwardly retracted his hand. "Right," he said. "Anyways, Lieutenant Erics is on-station; he'll fill you in on the details." The commissioner guided the RIRT team through the perimeter of cops to a tall man in a police uniform standing over a squad car that had a holographic map of the airport projected above its hood.
As they walked over, Erics was in the process of directing a pair of officers to a vantage point on a nearby skyscraper. As soon as they left, he turned around. "Ah, you're here. Good. As much as I hate to admit it, this…"-he made a sweeping gesture with his hand towards the airport-"…is out of our hands."
Isaac nodded. While he didn't doubt the courage or training of the Durban city police, they simply weren't armed to deal with these men. In order to protect civilians, most police sidearms and weapons were low-velocity and low-penetration, but against armored Insurrectionists, they may as well be shooting spitwads.
"Understood, sir," he said. He noticed several of the cops casting awed glances at them; with their blue-black body armor, military-style helmets, and sleek black weapons, the FSB officers stood out like sore thumbs. Anxious to get moving, he jerked his head towards the airport. "Can you tell us what's going on in there?"
Erics nodded. "Now that is something I am quite familiar with. If you'll come over here, we can get this started." He walked over to the hood of the car where the holomap was, the FSB operatives following.
Erics stabbed a finger towards one of the airport's wings. "They disabled the security cameras as they went, but from the last we saw, they were holing up in the western terminal."
Isaac nodded. The decision made sense, as it would limit the approaches from which the cops could come after them. Unfortunately, that also made the RIRT's job harder.
"It appears that there is at least twelve of them," Erics continued, "all heavily armed. They're demanded a ransom of a million credits a head, which, when you account for all the hostages, adds up to a sum of approximately thirty million, as well as safe passage out of the airport."
Thirty million credits? Isaac's head reeled at the figure even as he felt a thrill of rage at the presumptuousness of the rebels. "Are the authorities not willing to pay the ransom?"
Erics shook his head. "The planetary governor is bound by the Transportation Security Act of 2498, or, more specifically, section 18.2.1A, which states that if criminals or suspected Insurrectionists have seized a transportation hub, they must be removed, forcibly if possible, within two hours in order to prevent them from causing any further damage to public transit systems. We are currently forty minutes into those two hours."
Isaac frowned. "And the money wouldn't get here in time?"
Erics shook his head again. "The rebels demanded it in cash. We wouldn't be able to get it to them until noon, at the latest. Even then, they've promised to kill one hostage each hour unless they get their way."
Isaac blew out a breath. "So we're pretty much screwed either way."
Erics snorted. "Pretty much. Unless we want a bloodbath, you're our only hope for getting them first."
And even then we might have one if we screw up, Isaac thought, but kept his mouth shut. He then frowned as something struck him. "Wait; you said a hostage every hour?"
Erics nodded, seeing where Isaac was going. "Yes," he said gravely.
"So we only have twenty minutes until they kill their first hostage."
Erics nodded wordlessly.
Commissioner Brown appeared by their side again. "You're our best hope."
"How you want to insert is up to you," Erics said. "We'll be on station for backup."
Isaac leaned forward, placing his hands on the hood of the car, momentarily overwhelmed by the magnitude of the operation. In his years as an FSB operator, he had seen several types of calls, mainly for similar hostage scenarios, but never one this large. Dozens of lives depended on his decision; one wrong call, and he could be responsible for their deaths.
He couldn't get into that now; guilt and regrets could be dealt with later. Right now, he needed to focus on trying to save those lives.
Isaac examined every angle of the terminal, thinking of all possible entry points from the windows to the service corridors. None of them would provide enough cover or disguise for the FSB team to get close enough to engage without endangering the hostages.
"Sir," said Gustafson when Isaac was gnashing his teeth with frustration, "I believe I know a way."
Isaac arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Yes, sir," Gustafson said. "I used to work as a janitor here before I became a cop; if we could get up to the roof of the building, then we could get into the ventilation systems and surprise them from behind."
Isaac frowned. "Ventilation systems? Would they be big enough?"
Gustafson glanced around, doing some mental calculations. "Not all of us. Maybe just two."
"Two?" Isaac said.
Gustafson shrugged. "The others could wait until we engage, and then come through the windows or something."
"Or something," Isaac said. But even as he said it, his mind was working. The tech specialist's idea had merit, he had to admit. The Innies wouldn't be expecting such an insertion, and it might just prove enough of a surprise for the FSB team to take the day.
"You know what," he said, "that just might work. It's clichéd as hell, but it just might work."
"Is that an endorsement, sir?" Gustafson asked.
Isaac glanced at the map again. Dozens of lives depended on this decision.
It was risky.
But so was every other alternative he could think of.
Isaac gritted his teeth. "What the hell, we'll do it. Gustafson and I'll go through the vents and pop the tangos guarding the hostages, and then the rest of ya'll can rappel down from the roof through the windows to mop up the rest of them."
Erics frowned. "Sir, are you sure that's the best idea-"
"We're doing it, damnit!" Isaac snapped. "Unless you've got a better idea," he challenged.
Erics relented, and Isaac frowned. "We just need a way to get up on the roof." He glanced around before his eyes settled on the waiting hovercraft.
"We'll take it," he said, readying his MA4A carbine. "Gustafson and I'll go up first, then it'll ferry you guys up to the roof, where you can wait next to the windows until we attack."
"You can have it," Brown said, but Isaac was already on his way towards the hovercraft.
000
Wilhelm was starting to get bored.
He would have thought that the UNSC would have responded quicker, especially with the threat of killing the hostages hanging over their heads, but so far, nothing had happened. It was starting to make him uneasy, wondering if they were up to something.
The rest of the men were similarly nervous, fidgeting with their weapons as they stood watch over the hostages. They had herded the nearly-thirty men and women to the far end of the western terminal, where the entrances would be few and narrow. Wilhelm would have preferred to have been able to make it onto one of the planes, but as soon as the airport's security systems were activated, the doors to the boarding halls had locked.
But, Wilhelm thought that the position they held now was strong enough; backed into the far end of the terminal, the cops could only come at them from straight down the hallway, in which case they'd be butchered easily.
Wilhelm glanced at his watch; they had approximately fifteen minutes left until they would kill the first hostage. But which one? He blew out a breath, shifting his M3.
He would have to be choose one at random. Cruel, but fair.
After all; the Insurrection was all about restoring equality.
000
Sergeant Isaac Monterrey was really, really starting to regret his decision to use the vents.
At first, everything had seemed fine. The Hornet had ferried him and Gustafson up to the roof, where the young tech had located an entrance to the ventilation system. After exchanging a handshake with the airport's security AI to assure it that they were not more Insurrectionists, Gustafson led the way into the cramped, dark vents.
It was easier for him, Isaac thought sourly as he blew a spiderweb out of his face, crawling awkwardly through the blackness, the only illumination being his and Gustafson's headlamps. Gustafson was thin, lanky; it was easy for him to squeeze through the incredibly tight vents. For Isaac, however, it was another story. He couldn't even fully extend; he had to crawl using only one side of his body, like a crippled inchworm. His back and legs already burned from the cramped position. The air was thick and humid, and smelled like mildew. Several times rats scurried by, the patter of their feet seemingly unnaturally loud against the metal grates.
Relief finally came when they reached the apparent end of this section of the vents; the vent they had been following enlarged and opened, revealing the floor below. The opening was covered by a thin grate.
And through the grate, they could see several of the Insurrectionists milling around, dressed in camo fatigues and carrying submachine guns. The hostages were kneeling in two lines against the wall.
And as they watched, one of the rebels, apparently in charge, began to walk over to the line, holding his submachine gun. With horror, Isaac realized the time was nearly up. If they didn't act soon, a hostage would be killed.
Isaac activated his radio. "All units, this is Monterrey. Prepare to move on my mark."
"Hell yeah!" Perkins said. "Let's kill some Innie sons o' bitches."
"Amen," Isaac said.
000
The time had come. Wilhelm was reminded of that as Joseph Watts' voice broke over the radio from where he was supervising the operation high above. "It's time," he said.
"I know," Wilhelm said, taking a deep breath. "I know."
Why was it so hard for him to take the step towards the line of hostages? It must be their eyes, he decided; they stared up at him in abject terror, all of them dead silent save for the occasional whimper or the cry of a child.
Wilhelm closed his eyes and began to walk along the line, each step seeming to echo thunderously in the empty terminal.
Step. Step. Step.
Each stride brought him closer to the next murder.
Step. Step. Step.
Each stride brought one unfortunate soul closer to their doom.
Step. Step. Step.
Each stride brought the Insurrection one step closer to glory.
Step. Step. Step.
Stop.
Wilhelm opened his eyes, turning to the side to see whom he had stopped before, to see the person that would be the first victim of the imperialists' arrogance.
And blinked in utter surprise.
Kneeling before him, her mouth open in a silent plea and her arms wrapped protectively around a child in her arms, was the woman he had spoken with in the waiting room.
"Please," she pleaded, her eyes wet with tears. "You don't have to do this!"
Wilhelm was torn; his conscience would not allow him to kill this woman, or her child, but neither would it let him select another person, as that would be unfair.
"Fischer?" said Watt's voice. "Fischer, have you killed them yet?"
Wilhelm swallowed. "Not yet, sir."
"Well, what are you waiting for?" Watts hissed. "We promised them we'd kill someone and damnit, we're gonna kill someone!"
"Yes, sir," Wilhelm responded dutifully.
He knew what he had to do. He knew what his duty was. But when he looked into the pleading eyes of the young woman, and the innocent, carefree orbs of her child, he simply couldn't. His arms would not obey his mind's command to raise the weapon.
"Ba man!" the child said happily, clapping her hands. "Mommy! It's da ba man!"
He couldn't do it.
"Fischer!" Watts raged. "Fischer, don't you go soft on me! Kill them already!"
Wilhelm grimaced from the magnitude of his internal debate. His conscience spoke on one side, Watts on the other.
Don't do it.
"Kill them!"
You can't do it.
"Fischer! Fischer, I swear if you screw this up I'll throw you out for ONI to get!"
Look at that child. You were like her once. You were just like her.
"Fischer! Damnit, Fischer, this isn't the time to grow a conscience! You know what you have to do, for the Insurrection!"
The two voices began to blur together in a disturbing way.
Don't do it, don't do it-kill her, you have to-no you don't-I never had any trouble before-it's never too late to redeem yourself-I promised I would-is your word worth their life? –
"KILL THEM!" Watts screeched.
That single, hate-filled phrase broke through Wilhelm's mental war, blasting through his protest in a moment of calm. And before he knew what he was doing, before he could stop himself, he was raising his weapon, tightening his finger on the trigger…
…and there was a sudden explosion of noise from behind.
Wilhelm spun around, shocked to see a pair of black and blue armored FSB officers dropping out of the ceiling, their weapons up and firing. Two of his men went down under the unexpected hail of bullets, and Wilhelm dove to the side, suddenly aware that his hesitation would likely cost him his life.
000
Isaac had never enjoyed killing. He had done it twice before, once in a bank robbery and once in a shootout with a pair of suspects holed up in a drug lab, but he hadn't relished the fact that he had taken a life. Neither did he spend weeks agonizing over the decision. He had merely done his job, and nothing was to be gained from a guilt trip.
That having been said, he did feel a sort of fierce joy, a sense of justice, as it were, when he and Gustafson dropped out of the vent, opening up on the first pair of tangos in sight. Isaac fired two shots from his MA4A, the 5.56x45mm rounds piercing the body armor of the rebels and dropping them like bricks.
"Go! Go! Go!" he shouted into his radio as the tangos began to return fire. Isaac dove for cover behind the counter of nearby kiosk before popping back out and firing on his next target. The man went down like a brick, blood fountaining from the hole in his throat.
The air was filled with the sound of gunfire as the rebels fought back, and Isaac muttered a prayer of thanksgiving that they hadn't simply slaughtered the hostages. As rounds began to chip around him, Isaac ducked back into cover.
"We're breaching!" yelled a voice over his radio that Isaac recognized as Perkins, and he decided to give them a little cover fire. He popped back up, thumbing the selector switch on his MA4A back over to full auto and stitching a line of bullets across a pair of tangos. The men jerked like marionettes as the bullets hit them, collapsing in bloody heaps. A second later, Isaac retrieved a flashbang grenade and tossed it towards the remaning tangos, dropping back behind the counter and plugging his ears.
He was shielded from the effects; the Insurrectionists were not. Those that didn't take cover in time were subjected to a blinding flash of light and a earsplitting crash that left them stumbling around, groping for their weapons.
The glass windows on the far western wall abruptly shattered, permitting four more FSB troopers to come swinging through on ropes, sliding to the ground and dropping to one knee as they opened fire on the remaining tangos. Perkins' shotgun thundered, the 8-gauge shell blowing open the chest cavity of an unfortunate rebel, while Birch acquired targets and fired precise single shots, sending targets to the floor with a neat bullet hole to the forehead or chest.
Outflanked and now outgunned, the firefight dwindled as all but one Insurrectionist was killed. That last one hunkered behind an overturned table, exchanging fire with the officers.
It was then that Gustafson, in a fit of bravery, stood up and yelled, "I've got him!"
"No!" Isaac yelled, but it was too late. Gustafson ran forwards, firing his MA4A wildly from the hip with a raw-throated scream.
The resulting scene seemed to transpire in slow motion. The Insurrectionist opened fire, his rounds chewing through the FSB officer's armor and sending him flying backwards to the ground.
000
Wilhelm watched the FSB officer fly backwards with satisfaction, but even then he knew it was not enough. It had been over as soon as the officers had arrived; outflanked and outgunned, his team had fought valiantly, but the surprise had proven too difficult to overcome.
And now he was faced with the prospect of death or capture. He had only one option left.
Standing up, Wilhelm blasted the rest of his magazine towards the FSB officers, screaming, "Come and get me, imperialist pigs!"
As the magazine ran dry, Wilhelm hurled his two fragmentation grenades.
Then he turned and ran, his feet pounding the floor as he sprinted away.
000
The FSB officers dove for cover, the twin concussive detonations of the grenades showering them with shrapnel, fortunately, none of which was able to penetrate their armor. Isaac's face contorted in a vicious snarl. "Birch," he ordered. "Tag that bastard."
"With pleasure, sir," Olivia said, raising her DMR and drawing a bead on the fleeing tango's back.
The gunshot seemed unnaturally loud, ringing out as a peal of justice that echoed throughout the hall. The Insurrectionist fell face-first, a bullet hole between his shoulder blades, and didn't move again.
Isaac was moving immediately, sliding in to Gustafson's side. "Come on, kid," he said, "come on."
But as he rolled the officer over, and saw the vicious damage the rounds had done, he knew there was no use. Gustafson was already gone, the light in his eyes faded, his body limp and pale.
"No, no, no," Isaac muttered softly, rocking the body back and forth. "No. No!"
Gustafson had been the youngest one on the team. It was his plan that had gotten them this far. From the looks of it, the bullets had killed him instantly; not even any time for last words.
A hand dropped on his shoulder, and Isaac looked up to see Officer Vasquez standing over him. "He was a good man," he said. "He shall be remembered."
Isaac slowly, shakily, got to his feet, looking around. The hostages were slowly starting to get back up, rubbing their sore limbs and lining up to thank the officers. A young woman with a child on her shoulder approached him. "Thank you so much, officer," she said. "You're a hero."
"No," Isaac said, pointing to Gustafson. "He's the hero. The hero of Terminal West."