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"I could really use you guys in our push on Point Rapture - that's going to be some tough bush, those Believers have got it locked down tighter than Miriam's asshole."

"So a great deal tighter than yours," rumbled Thorsen.

"I'd laugh, but I know you're meaning that as a proposition," said Gunner, and poured himself another drink.

"What's the game-plan?" asked Gomez. He had sidled over to join them after the third or fourth round.

Gunner turned serious. "It's some heavy stuff - they got more artillery than you can shake a stick at, and about a battalion of the most hard-arsed Believer pukes they could get their hands on, all holed up in a bunker overlooking the pass. Air core's been hammering fuck out of it for a month now," he shrugged his massive shoulders, "but no joy."

"Can't you just bypass it?" asked Sonia.

"Would love to. Unfortunately, it's controlling the only pass out of Garland's crater, and the way around involves a hundred miles of mindworm-infested fungus jungle. Couple that with Believer guerillas, and you can see why Command wants this done out in the open."

Sonia wondered just how many commander's buttons Gunner had tucked under his shirt-lapel these days. She wouldn't be surprised if the man was Command on this. Spartan commanders liked to lead from the front.

"So what would you want a probe team for?" asked Sonia, eyes narrowing.

"Simple. They have turned Rapture Point into a bunker. A few well-placed viruses, a dash of C4, and a hearty dose of chaos, and we have a crack that we can force. A good Spear of Spartans, we'll take the point in a day. Shit, even if we get bogged down in street-to-street, it beats the fuck out of sitting in dusty trenches, ducking mortar-fire."

"You're that confident of personel superiority?" asked Sonia.

"Sonia!" said Gunner, looking offended, "we're Spartans!"

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The following morning, Sonia woke with a blinding headache, and the sound of the Orders-ticker printing off an assigment slip. It was low-tech stuff - a heat-printer set into the hab-cube wall, that ran off your orders as they came in. Sonia suspected Maintenance didn't replace them because they made such a racket. Ensured soldiers got of bed nice and quick for the action.

"One day off," groaned Sonia.

She lurched over to the printer, and ripped off the ticket. PROJECT CODENAME NIKE, REPORT TO INT. OPS. 7. 1. 15. UNDER COMMAND JAMES HOLCOTT.

James Holcott. Gunner.

"Motherfucker," spat Sonia, and punched the bedframe. Her hand hurt.

She pulled on her work clothes. A grey boiler-suit, woven with silksteel. It was Spartan policy that, even when in a non-frontline assignment, Spartan personel should be ready to defend themselves. The suit was a far cry from the giant, articulated suits of armour frontline troops would go into battle in, but it would stop shrapnel and small caliber bullets.

~Hey Boss, I can feel your hangover from here. You got the orders?
Thorsen's voice came through the mindlink.

~No rest for the wicked.
Linked Gomez. The touch of his mind felt like swimming through rancid whisky.

~Boss, what are Gunner's ops usually like?

~Don't talk to me about Gunner. He's dead to me.

Sonia felt Thorson and Gomez chuckle as she stepped into the 7-1-15 command-point, which linked her district into the Command Nexus, the giant network of communications fiber and encrypted tightbeam that held the Spartan millitary machine together.

Gunner gave Sonia a slightly guilty grin, and motioned her to sit down on one of the seats around the round table. Thorsen shouldered in just behind her, before flopping down on a chair.

Sonia spent a moment looking around the familliar surroundings. 'Crete walls, hardened, a holo-map in the middle. It was showing a representation of Rapture Point, walls cut away to show the warren of temples, factories, and houses that burrowed into the ground. A hard nut to crack, no doubt about that.

Harder still for the fact that Believers fought for every inch of ground with berserker furiosity, and there would be traps upon traps in every hangar and hall.

Even with the defenses 'cracked', it would be one hell of a fight. But then, that's what Spartans were for. That's what Spartans dreamed of.

"I can see you're all coming to the same conclusions as I did when I first surveyed this here image." Gunner waved a hand at the holo-map.

"Without a serious leg-up, there's no way Spartan Sixth is taking Rapture Point. These walls are 'crete reinforced with synthmetal. They are manned by well-supplied and highly motivated men and women, who have a great deal of firepower on hand."

"You know the Believers. You know as well as I do that we can't bluff, barter or buy our way into victory here, even if our livers had turned lilly enough to consider the notion."

"But, I won't send the Sixth up against that wall. Maybe we could win, but even if we did, there wouldn't be no point."

"Tensions are heating up between us and those Morganite whores. Outside chance, we'll be at war by the end of the year. If that unhappy circumstance comes to pass, we don't want to be fighting on two fronts. So, we have to take Rapture point quick, pacify the population, then be ready to swing around to show ol' Wabuda K why money is a poor substitute for might."

"I know you. I know you're good. And, I know you know your business better than I do, so I'm going to keep my objectives short, and simple. Put a hole in that curtain wall. Find out as much as you can about any second-layer defense plans, and communicate that intel. Destroy their networks, or at least, compromise them to the extent they won't be any use. That's what the Sixth needs to win. And Sparta needs you to do all this by Proxima-rise, otherwise we're going to be between a rock and a hard place."

Sonia leaned forward. "What if we fail?"

Gunner's look soured.

"There's a plan for that, too."