The frontier world of YP-T9 was dry as a corn husk, much of its two large continents covered by desert. Climatologists surmised its environment was in the middle of a long dry cycle, but whether that was true or not, even its lushest places had little to offer in the way of botanical or zoological diversity compared to similar planets. The hardy grasses clung to hard-packed dirt where orange rock shelves weren't showing through the thin layer of soil, bent perpetually against the stiff, dehydrating breezes.
SSV Ardenne was sheltered from the buffeting winds by a loose ring of pre-fab buildings that comprised the Alliance outpost on the arid planet. Looking out on his single dilapidated ship, Lucian Stockholm carefully lit his pipe and drew a long puff before turning to address the motley crew of Marines from across Alliance space that he and Shepard had put together for his task force. As the smoke left his lungs, he once again thanked the wonders of genetic science for eliminating his need to worry about lung cancer. A plume of thick weed smoke curled from his mouth.
Stockholm snapped his fingers and shutter closed over the window, darkening the room as he stepped up to the podium.
Over thirty Marines were seated in the room, facing him and the viewscreen behind him showed a technical infrastructure map as well as a geographical satellite image of their target.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Atreus City, an Alliance colony on the planet Hera that was terminated in its initial phase of construction. As you can see, it's hardly close to complete, but much of the preliminary work in preparation for the installation of a permanent colony was completed. The savanna leveled off and trees cleared for landing and building sites, several foundations erected, and a nearby river tapped to provide running water."
Stockholm scrolled through several screens highlighting the prominent features of the colony site. Extensive data was gathered in preparation for the colonization, and even more recorded during the initial construction, before funding had fallen through and colonization efforts were turned elsewhere. When he was given his dummy assignment, Stockholm inherited the files on Hera and Atreus City and had spent countless hours poring over the specs until he felt as if he knew every inch of that failed colony.
Sitting up in the front row closest to him with her legs crossed, Shepard drummed her fingers on her knee as if in boredom. She'd already seen all the files on numerous occasions and hardly needed to be briefed, but since she was his ground leader she was obligated to be part of the mission briefing. The rest of the Marines, though, were being brought up to speed on their first assignment as a unit, and everyone listened with rapt attention as Stockholm went over detail after detail.
"In essence, gentlemen, all of this makes Hera, and the Atreus City site in particular, an extremely attractive spot for pirate gangs in the region, whether for a place to stash their goods, as a hideout, or even a main base of operations for the bigger organizations. Considering its remoteness from the nearest Alliance military outpost, Hera is valuable in that regard as well, though thankfully the T9 facility should reduce that particular metric.
"There's no doubt in my mind that there is a pirate presence on or around Hera. Unfortunately, we have no intelligence pertaining to possible pirates activities at the Atreus City site or on Hera."
"So, no word on what to expect on the ground?" asked Ops Chief Hyatt, sitting roughly in the middle.
Stockholm chewed his pipe before answering. "No."
Hyatt swore.
"This is a recon mission as much as it is a potential scouring mission. Our primary objectives are to secure the Atreus City site and assess the pirate presence on Hera," Stockholm went on. "Commander Shepard and I have agreed on a squad-based aggressive reconnaissance strategy. Four group leaders will lead teams of five, operating semi-autonomously toward the same objectives. Commander Shepard will be leading one of these teams, designation Red Team, and the other group leaders will follow her orders. The three other teams will be Chief Hyatt's Blue Team, Lieutenant Bradley's Green Team, and Lieutenant Haytham's Gold Team."
A round of murmurs swept through the contingent at the announcement. Stockholm was aware of the friction that existed between Commander Shepard and Ops Chief Hyatt, but he had faith in their professionalism.
"Commander Shepard will now outline the four teams' strategy," he said, stepping aside from the podium.
Shepard casually flicked her blonde ponytail back over her shoulder as she got up from her seat and picked up the pointer from the podium, bringing on screen a high resolution satellite image of the main city site, where colony's core buildings were intended to go.
"Aside from the pumping station on the river for fresh water, this is where we're most likely to encounter pirate forces and equipment. This is precisely where they would have optimal conditions to set up a temporary camp or a permanent base with the least of effort. I would expect any pirate worth his or her salt to have made good use of we provided.
"With this in mind, we've come up with a multiple-insertion, four-point encirclement plan for securing the outpost. Two drops, two main groups. One will be Haytham's Gold Team, they will capture the pumping station, here." With the pointer, she indicated the head at the river, a few klicks northwest of the city site. "Once clear, Gold Team will move south in support of the second group, Red, Blue, and Green Teams, as they converge on the city site from the west, south, and east. The presence of heavy artillery may necessitate a concerted effort from all three teams of second group, or possibly even all four. Unless ordered otherwise, we stay in radio contact with each other but keep the ship-to-shore channel closed.
"Any questions?"
Haytham, the Staff Lieutenant, also in the front row, raised his hand. "If things go badly, can we expect reinforcements?"
Stockholm interjected himself. "Most of our limited forces will be already deployed on the ground, but provided there is no heavy anti-air defenses, Ardenne should be able to provide a strategic air strike if needed. Now, if there are no more questions?" No one raised a hand. "Alright then. We'll update with whatever new information we might have en route. Ardenne leaves at eighteen hundred hours, so check your gear and find your chairs, Marines."
Every Marine in the room stood and saluted.
"Dismissed."
As they all filed out, Stockholm watched Shepard, who scowled at the door after they were gone.
"Something on your mind, Commander?"
Cara crossed her arms. "Hyatt doesn't like it."
Stockholm took another drag of his pipe. "Doesn't like what?"
"Going under my command. He was a bad acquisition."
Stockholm squinted at her. "Is that an objective assessment, Commander?"
Shepard gave him a hard stare. Her eyes were like chips of blue ice. "I've been running the simulator with him, against him, all sorts of scenarios. He's an exemplary soldier but his execution just doesn't feel right; he's prone to making nondecisions in crises."
Stockholm put his hand on Cara's shoulder. "He's at where you used to be, Cara."
"I was never like him," she retorted, shrugging off his hand.
"Shepard," he sighed, "I talked to some of his instructors at the Academy, some of the most hard to please snobs in the Alliance, and they gave him rave reviews. Give the man some credit. I think you might be giving Bradley too much all the time."
A grin tugged at the corners of Cara's mouth. "No, sir. All I give Bradley are bruises."
Stockholm chuckled. "The man should know better than to be suckered into a wrestling match with you. Maybe I ought to take you to school sometime, show you how a real man wrestles."
Cara's grin widened into a sly smile. "Hmm, you can 'wrestle' me anytime, Lucian. Anytime."
"We've got a mission first, Shepard. Don't forget about that. I didn't strike your record clean just so you could 'wrestle', remember? Frontier Security has to succeed."
Shepard's grin vanished, her severity taking over. "We're not ready yet, Admiral. Why are we pushing this forward, are you under much pressure from the Admiralty?"
He nodded. "After a sort. An ass named Mikhailovich wants his ship back, he even threatened to go to the ambassador. Seems he isn't in on the joke."
"He will be soon enough."
"Isn't that the truth."
Technically, since the Frontier Security Task Force was privately funded and had only a paltry existence on papers in military ledgers, it was not an officially recognized division of the Alliance Navy and had no right to requisition either ships or men. Stockholm and Shepard had utilized a number of regulatory loopholes to put together their current outfit, but they could still be overruled by an executive order high enough up in the food chain.
Frontier Security was meant as a dead-end job to keep Stockholm out of Alliance foreign affairs, out of the Consulate, and content enough to keep his mouth shut and stay out of trouble. His family history was well known and he was considered by the politicians too volatile to be allowed much authority. Yet his rank and abilities as a soldier and a commander necessitated some kind of recognition, in keeping with military doctrine, so the Admiralty and the politicians coughed up the paper tiger that was the Frontier Security Task Force, confident that he could do nothing but accept the meaningless post and do nothing, as they wanted.
But if he were able to prove that his outfit could accomplish real tasks with real benefits to human interests, the public reaction alone would change his political stature, and he could then rightly demand legalization for his new task force.
It was all depending on Shepard and her ground teams to get the job done. But then, that was why he picked her in the first place. Cara Shepard got jobs done. She proved that six and a half years ago.
"Are you all clear on our mission objectives?" Cara asked as she and her four-man squad moved through the armory.
"Transparently, ma'am," answered Fergus Bellamy as he strapped a grenade belt around his waist along with his tech equipment.
"Ricketts, Garces?"
The sniper tightened her rifle's shoulder harness. "Aye aye, Commander."
Corporal Tim Fraser, holding a rifle in one hand and a shotgun in the other, gave her a nod. "Ready to kick ass, Shepard."
Cara grunted her approval. "We've got no intelligence support heading into this op, so I want you to be prepared for anything." That was always a worst-case scenario for any kind of operation. having no intel on a target area meant you had absolutely no idea what you could be facing. Every plan, strategy, and tactic was a gamble when dealing with so many unknown variables. Lack of intel was what got entire teams killed for nothing; a situation with which Cara was experienced.
"A creed you're going to have to get used to is 'expect the unexpected', as cliched as that sounds. You're going to have to make snap decisions that can cost you your life if you get it wrong. In such a situation, any hesitation can be deadly, so you don't. As your commander, that's an order; if you think an action is necessary, you take it and you take it immediately." Her gaze traveled round, looking into each pair of eyes individually, weighing the humanity she found in them.
As usual, this soul-searching was about as helpful as sticking cotton in her ears in an attempt to hear more clearly. She didn't understand the obsession about looking into someone's eyes. They'd prove themselves to her by the choices they made, not by some look-into-my-eyes nonsense.
Abruptly, she turned on Garces. "Franca, how many people do you want to kill?"
The dark-haired corporal blinked in surprise, not expecting the question. "Commander?"
"How many people, corporal?"
"None, Commander," she stammered.
"You're a sniper! Your job is to kill people!" Cara hissed. "We're talking about people who would rape, murder, and discard your dear mami without a second thought. So answer me again, how many of them do you want to kill?"
A hot glare came into Garces' brown eyes. "I'll kill enough of them, Commander."
"Good," Cara growled. "Ricketts, how many are you going to kill?"
"As many as I need to, Commander, and not one less." Ricketts could have been cast of iron.
Cara turned to Bellamy. "Bellamy?"
"I'm with the Chief, ma'am. We'll kick some pirate arse," he said with a grin. Marines from Ceres already understood what she was saying.
"We'll get it done, Shepard," Fraser said confidently, giving Garces some silent encouragement with a steady hand on her shoulder. "You can count on us."
"I'm glad to hear it," Cara responded tersely.
She turned back to the racks again to get her own gear on. Most of it was Alliance standard-issue, but she'd taken the liberty of procuring some of her own equipment custom from some private manufacturers. Instead of a generic Alliance Kessler Semiautomatic, she'd purchased for herself an Elkoss Edge sidearm equipped with an advanced recoil dampener and a hammerhead rounds system. Her rifle was a specialty weapon; an Armageddon Advanced Assault Weapon, or AAW, from the prestigious Elanus Risk Control Services. She had also the Ariake Tech Katana shotgun, and a standard sniper rifle, even though she didn't expect to have to use the latter with Garces around.
Her armor for this op would be the smoky black Gladiator armor, a choice she preferred over the standard Onyx hardsuit for its combination of stealth abilities and superior damage protection. The color also matched her attitude; she was in no mood for last-minute doubts.
As she fitted the armor around herself like a second skin, Cara almost regretted being so harsh with Garces. But the girl needed to be beaten a little before she'd be tough enough to survive. She hoped she'd beaten her enough, because otherwise the cute little Latina wasn't going to last the day.
She had confidence in the other ground leaders, even--though she was loathe to admit it--in Chief Hyatt. The man was a soldier through and through, despite her doubts of his split-second decision-making. Bradley she was convinced would do fine; he had a very clinical mind, if he was a bit too shy for a Marine. And Haytham, like anyone from Ceres, was just scary to watch, either in combat or in command.
No, any pity she had might as well be saved for what pirates they might meet on the surface of the planet Hera. They were about to be struck by the long arm of the Alliance, mauled by the Teeth of Vengeance.
Swathed in armor from neck to toe, armed with an arsenal of weapons, Cara twisted and tied her ponytail into a bun and fastened on her helmet and she was finally back to where she belonged. She was heartbeats away from re-entering the straight-up, kill-or-be-killed struggle from which she'd been absent for the last six and a half years. Making brawls in the prison yard wasn't the same. This was where she wanted to be, on the front-lines of no man's land.
Six and a half years. A long time to be away. But now she was back, and she'd conquered her demons.
Cara looked at her squad, her Red Team. They were the best she could make them, waiting on her word. She grinned in anticipation. "Let's get ready to rock, Marines!"