"The United Earth Government does not and never will approve of assassination. Assassination, as well as conspiracy to commit assassination, are crimes according to UEG law."
-Official statement by President Carlos Valjean of the United Nations General Assembly; 5 December 2410
Unified Ground Command Fort Cole, Nua Manila
Far Isle
0822 Military Standard Time
21 September 2488
Named after one of the long-dead heroes of the Rainforest Wars, Fort Cole sat close to the center of Nua Manila. Its bright gray polycrete walls rose three stories high and were topped at intervals with guard towers. The shadow that the facilities within cast fell over much of the area dependent on the time of day. It was a reminder of the might of the United Nations Space Command. It was also a reminder that they would be around to watch over and protect the citizens of Nua Manila should any harm befall them.
And it wasn't like the locals really minded their presence in the first place. Established concurrently with Nua Manila during the initial colonization of Far Isle, Fort Cole had been a constant for many. The garrison was generally courteous and the commandants had made a tradition of allowing and holding public celebrations within its walls. Founding Day, Solstice, Ninoy Aquino Day, New Year, in addition to Saint Stephen's Day, Samhain, and many other holidays found a home within the walls of Fort Cole. The main bone of contention was the amount of air traffic the base had brought along with it.
Almost day in and day out there were aircraft taking off and landing. Anyone who had not invested in soundproofing for their homes were constantly made aware of the passing of UH-144 Falcons, the new unmanned aerial vehicles, and whatever other aircraft in the UNSC arsenal happened to land there. The high-pitched whines and deeper humming was generally politely ignored.
This was again the case as a D77 Pelican made an unscheduled landing between the resupply runs from the newly-arrived Phoenix-class UNSC Hebe. It was not precisely "unscheduled" as it was "retroactively scheduled." The air-traffic control AI spent approximately five more seconds to plot it into an appropriate landing pad, throwing off the landings which had been calculated to the precise millisecond. This adjustment caused a cascade in the shipping schedules of the supplies, a cascade that was not officially registered with the other subsystems due to a programming oversight.
Subsequently the Army proving grounds on Marinduque would need to wait an extra week while the quartermaster tried to figure out why the M12 FAV up-armor kits had been shuffled into a corner of the warehouse that had been designated for long-term rations. Three pilots found themselves allotted space in the middle of a fuel farm on the Patag Plains with only a skeleton refueling crew to keep them company.
But this rescheduling would not have been possible if it were not for the UNSC Office of Military Intelligence. This particular dropship had no distinguishing features. It had been commandeered from the bays of the Hebe and the pilot was sweating bullets over how to explain to his flight leader why he had been called away from the briefing to fly a Pelican for an unscheduled planet-side run.
Swinging about to make the landing, the Pelican's nacelles blew up a sheet of dust and debris as they swiveled to gently lower the dropship to the ground. The two landing struts extended and touched down quickly and evenly before the rest of the Pelican settled down onto the tarmac.
It takes an average of four minutes for a suborbital insertion by a Pelican dropship to touch down given a straight shot to a landing site. By the time the new orders had been recognized by the localized base AI fragment, there were only two minutes for a welcoming part to meet them. Subsequently the M824 troop transport arrived "just in time" as the four passengers of the Pelican disembarked.
The M824 was a squat and bulky-looking four-wheel vehicle. Part of the M12 family of "Force Application Vehicles," it was intended as a pilot-recovery vehicle for whenever one hot-shot sky-jock burned out and needed to be pried from their aircraft. Officially it was the M824 Cargo/Troop Carrier. But it was commonly just referred to by the personnel operating it as the "Big 'Hog," a variation on the already-common nickname of "Warthog." The olive-drab paint shone slightly in the sun as it drove closer. Aside from the driver, the passengers could see a rather harried-looking Navy ensign. He was likely supposed to be their escort. So much for low key.
There were four of them, all wearing baggy civilian clothes with caps and duffels. All in all, their clothes matched the previous season's trends but there was very little memorable in terms of facial features. Part of the selection process had been for looks. Candidates who were too striking received some plastic surgery on the government dime. The idea was anonymity. It was a fundamental in their trade. See, don't be seen.
The leader of the four stepped forward, his body language giving off a an air of being in control no matter the situation. He extended his hand to the ensign.
"How're you doing," he asked loudly over the sound of the Pelican's engines winding down. "You were briefed on our arrival?"
"No sir," the ensign said. "Orders were to pick you up and deliver you to the Colonel's office."
"Well, call me Lieutenant Cyan," he said, removing his cap after having his hand shaken. He gestured to the others. "Those are Petty Officer Yellow, and Sergeants Magenta and Black."
The other three only nodded.
"They don't talk much," Cyan said with an easy smile. "Now, how about that ride?"
"Yes sir, right away, sir," the ensign said. He was about to salute until he realized that the lieutenant and his subordinates had already loaded their bags onto the Big 'Hog and found seats.
Driving from the tarmac, Fort Cole seemed to spring into existence once clear of the blast shields. Sizeable vehicle depots spanned the distance between the compact buildings of the base. Fort Cole was similar in layout to the majority of UNICOM garrison facilities with fairly low walls and gates to compartmentalize the fort into distinct and defensible concentric sectors. Compared to frontier worlds and their militarized colony starter units, the space and thoughtful order of Fort Cole was a luxury.
Far Isle winter was marked by temperate weather, especially around Nua Manila. The northern and southern states were much less moderate and experienced the extremes that equatorial Nua Manila did not. What it boiled down to was a slightly chilly but dry day as they drove through tier after tier to reach the central administration building.
"Know any good watering holes?" Lieutenant Cyan asked.
"No sir," the ensign said, looking straight ahead. It was pretty clear he didn't know how to react. "We have our own recreational facilities on-base."
"Relax, Ensign," Cyan said with a laugh. "It's not a test. I just wanted to know if there were any recommended local social spots."
The ensign said nothing. They climbed the final slope into the command sector of the base. Watchtowers were laid out with dense overlapping fields of fires as compared to the lighter concentrations of the exterior sectors. Any intruder who managed to make it into the sector would find themselves bracketed with AI-targeted mortar and railgun fire that made the M41 machine guns look penny-ante.
The holographic projection on the windshield that had been guiding them led them into the staff officers' parking spaces. Compared to the utility M12s that served as staff cars and the more eclectic off-duty vehicles, the Big Hog was like a sore thumb. Even the more mundane troop transport configurations were smaller and made much less noise.
Cyan and his team had already jumped off of the transport before the driver brought them to a complete stop. Their duffels were quickly unloaded and they were on their way into the main administration building. A Marine patrol had stopped to watch them as they passed, walking as if they owned the place.
Passing through security was a breeze with the proper credentials. While visually relaxed, the guards still had their weapons close at hand as they waved the group through the scanner corridor. They were saturated with backscatter x-rays, ultrasound, a stream of regulated air, and bathed in a plethora of body-scanning sensors. From this, the security AI could detect any weapons carrying on or in a person, if they were carrying explosives or any other novel biochemical compound, and even their current and future states of mind based on a combination of heart rate, respiratory rate, perspiration, miniscule eye movements, body temperature variations, facial and body movements, subvocalization, pheromone emissions, and several other indicators of stress.
From those readings, the AI would predict and judge whether or not the person passing through the sensors was demonstrating likely hostile intention. If the AI decided that they were, an AI-guided M202 would emerge from the ceiling and escort the intruder from the mortal coil much to the displeasure of the guards' ear drums. The four of them were certainly capable of bringing lots of hostile intention, none was actively being reserved for their coming encounter. Even if they had, the official override that the AI found itself facing with deployment of the security gun would have stopped any automated reprisal.
As they went deeper into the building, the decor changed. It became older and more stately. The glass and ceramic-coated metal became early twenty-fifth century Reconstructionist with its brushed metal and warm wood tones. That in turn became twenty-third century Constructionist, which then turned into something out of the Interplanetary War. However, the uniforms of the staff did not change. They were still very much modern examples of the UNSCDF. This was where decisions were made that could change the face of the planet.
"And just what the fuck do you people think you're doing here on my planet?"
Colonel Heinrich Prescott was the epitome of a modern officer. His office smelled of expensive liquor and Earth cigars. The man himself was almost unremarkable, if stout and beginning to bald. His accent and bearing gave him away as an Inner Colonist. A career officer, he looked the role.
"Colonel, we have our orders. We are-"
"I don't give two fucks about your orders. I don't even give one fuck. As a matter of fact, I give negative fucks about your orders. You'd have to give me a fuck and I don't exactly swing that way, Lieutenant. So what the fuck are you doing here?"
The lieutenant suppressed a sigh. "Colonel Prescott, my superiors thought it would be polite if I were to first notify you and your command as to our presence on Far Isle."
"You and what superiors? All I see here is a fucking Need-To-Know tag with a fucking scrawl from some fucking Admiral from fucking NAVCOM," Prescott said, raising the datapad up and jabbing a finger at the signature. "And that tells me absolutely jack and shit. So unless you want me to toss all of you off planet, what the fuck are you doing?"
"There's something rotten in the state of Far Isle," the lieutenant said, raising a finger. "Rumblings of discontent. You might even call it a disturbance of the peace. We're here to deal with this infection. Consider this to be a doctor's visit."
Prescott was stuck between a hard place and an even harder place. These guys were definitely ONI types. Creepy fuckers waltzed wherever they wanted and took whatever they needed. Everyone had heard stories about these sorts of guys. Black ops super secret spy squirrel shit. But those stories had a definite grounding in reality. And the orders they had were not going to be denied, especially if he had any plans for a retirement that did not involve standing in front of a firing squad if he was lucky.
"So," Prescott said after a moment. He reached for his case of cigars. "What can my garrison do for you?"
"Our AI will be forwarding any requests," the spook said. "But as for now, we need to see your armory." He paused for a moment. "Also, do you know any good bars in the city?"
"I don't frequent them," Prescott said, picking a cigar. "Will that be all, Lieutenant?" The tone of his voice dispelled any illusion created by his words.
"I do believe it will be, for now," the lieutenant said, sketching a salute.
He canted the pistol to the side, admiring the slight pattern from the light reflecting off the carbon fiber-wrapped slide like snake skin. A press-check revealed an empty chamber awaiting the first round. The slim single-stack magazine locked in place with a fluid click before racking the slide chambered a round of 11x22mm.
"Damn shame about those," the armorer said, eyeing the ONI spook.
"What about?" the lieutenant asked, setting the safety of the compact pistol.
"Wist," she said, pronouncing the acronym for 'Weapon Systems Technologies' as a word. "Their CQ-2 line is being binned after the quality control kerfluffle."
He looked at the pistol again. "This isn't going to explode when I shoot it, right?"
"I checked it myself," she said. "Two proof rounds and it still shoots straight."
"Subsonics?"
"They'll feed just fine, but the ramp's a little fuzzy. You'll want to stick to-"
"Spitz, yeah," the lieutenant said, cutting her off. He cocked his head as if trying to remember something. "I'll need three more of these, four mags each, two boxes each, one hard, one soft. Cans too. Four M6Js, with three twenty-rounders each, with enough boxes to load each twice. Two MA3s, if you have them, with four bags. SLS/V 3B optics, and lights for them as well."
She whistled and started pulling a set of carrying cases out. "You looking to start a war, sir?"
"Not with that," he said. "Oh, and I need C-12. Five pure kilos, two cans of cut, and two 1132 kits."
"Be back in a few minutes then," she said, turning to walk away into the shelving units. Anything to get away from the ONI officer.
She wasn't sure what part of the UNSC intelligence apparatus he hailed from, but orders were orders. Judging from his shopping list, something was definitely going down on Far Isle. CQs were very technically issue sidearms for NCIS agents and whoever else needed incredibly compact offensive capability. They were weapons for killing people in back alleys. The rest of the list was just as worrying. M6Js were all but unparalleled in urban spaces, especially when you needed something with more punch than an M7 and did not want to end up overpenetrating a few city blocks like with an MA5. Which, of course, brought her to the odd request. MA3s had been all but out of issue outside of the militia units so far removed from the UNSC logistical chain. The MA37 and MA5 (a rebranding by Misriah's board of profiteers as far as she was concerned) were that much easier to find and feed. But then again, she realized with a degree of dread, so was the MA3. You could buy a box of 4x55mm hollowpoints at just about any sporting store.
With the firepower stacked up on a follow-me drone cart, she headed over to get the final items on the list. The armory was buttoned up well past the point of reasonable paranoia, but the explosives locker made the prior security measures seem outright open and naive. Enclosed in a free-standing titanium battle-plated vault whose wall thickness was measured in meters, there was a small room whose walls were lined with rows and rows of innocuous-looking bricks. Accessing the tank-proof vault meant passing through a barrage of sensors not unlike the entry process at the door, and then opening the door itself before releasing the inner airlock.
Five kilograms of C-12 was the same weight as five kilograms of feathers, but seemed much heavier given how much energy was stored in each brick, just waiting to be released by rapid decomposition. The bricks were packed together with layers of anti-static polymer before she even approached the M1132 demolition kits or the cans of spacer. From there she had to carry things out individually since the airlock was large enough for a man in UXO kit, but not wide enough to bring the follow-me in. With that finished, the entire vault resealed itself, leaving her standing outside with a cart bearing enough raw explosive power and conventional ordnance to wipe out a dozen city blocks.
"Now what the hell are you planning, Mister ONI?" she muttered to herself before gesturing for the cart to follow her back.
The city of Nua Manila was actually rather pleasant, Lieutenant Cyan-Tobias Rasheed in another life-noted. Meteorological reports had predicted rain, and lots of it. Sure, it was fairly humid, but it could have been far worse for the coming rainy season.
"Boss, she's ready," Sergeant Magenta-Edward Hunt-said as he walked out onto the balcony.
"Great," Rasheed said, running a hand through his newly-dyed red hair. "Were there any problems?"
"No fumigation was necessary," Hunt said, offering a bottle of microbrew to his superior. "The local is pretty good."
He accepted it without comment and turned to head inside. The apartment was like just about every other urban safehouse they had used before. Located in the middle of a lower-middle class neighborhood of mid-rise apartments, they were just about middling on the scale of averages. The landlord hadn't raised an eyebrow, not with the extra credits added to the top of the contract.
The rest of the team, Petty Officer Yellow and Sergeant Black-Nicole Vergis and Iola Severn respectively, were already standing around the small holo-pedestal. Projected from the pedestal was the image of a man in his early forties, dressed in a simple brown button-down shirt with black breeches and boots. A long thin scar ran from his left ear down to the center of his chin, highlighted like the rest of him with a neutral gray light.
"Good morning, Griffin," Rasheed said. "How do you feel?"
"Quite well, sir," the hologram replied with a warm smile, his words colored by an archaic Viennese accent. "I am fully non-compliant."
"Excellent," the lieutenant said. "Do you have any questions as to our tasking?"
"Only in the details," Griffin said. "I am correct to presume that the supplies have been acquired?"
"Everything a growing cell needs," Severn said.
"Good," Griffen said with a nod. "With your permission, I may insert myself into the planetary internet?"
"I doubt we could stop you," Rasheed said. "You have the checklist for what we need to be turned," he said more than asked.
"Everything you need, and more," Griffen said after a brief moment as his electronic tentacles reached out into the local unsecured internet. He smiled again with genuine pleasure. "Oh, I am looking forward to this, sir."
The lieutenant only nodded and hefted one of the cut blocks of C-12 thoughtfully. It wasn't all that hard to do what they had been sent to do.
"Let's go knock over a planet," he said.
Office of Naval Intelligence Memorandum - Section 0 Archive
From: 09244-18500-NU
To: 63219-45282-CG
Topic: NAVSPEC? Really?
Has higher gone mad? I can understand sending ASWC to handle the problem. Those guys have their heads screwed on straight, and you can rely on them to get the job done with minimal fuss. Did the Admiral forget to take his lithium? Tasking NAVSPEC for this assignment is like using a blockbuster carpet to put out a campfire. Mark my words, this is going to explode in our faces.
Author's Rant: So...I've been busy. Updates for other stuff are forthcoming, but I figured a bit of stale beer would go well with Halo. Despite that bout of gunporn in the armory, I'm aiming for a minimum of gunplay in this, so if you want more of that classy-ass "Go in and shoot everyone" that I tend to write, check my other stories 'cause this one isn't for you. Comments/critiques are as always welcome, since they help me not suck.