Chapter Ten: Shock
"Its standing Nod policy that if a Brother or Sister is wounded in battle, we leave them be until we can recover them safely. No heroics. It'll simply cost us more men trying to recover the wounded in battle, and we've got the manpower to replace the injured if they die in the meantime. If there's three things the Brotherhood has in plentiful supply, those are Tiberium, hate, and manpower."
-Anonymous Nod tactician
Commander Logan Rawne didn't like aid stations. They put a face on his chess pieces.
His insurgent force had set up their command and control center in a baseball field outside a small school, and had converted the school itself into a makeshift barracks, aid station, and temple until a proper Hand of Nod could be fabricated to support their troops. Rawne himself had checked the order as he waited, confirming that the prefabricated parts for the facility would be ready within the next two hours, and drone assembly would take another two hours.
They would need working, specialized facilities like the Hand if they were to support the advance; Rawne wasn't optimistic enough to believe they had the momentum to fully overrun the GDI defenders with their first push.
In the meantime, he found himself taking a detour through the school itself, due to a GDI mortar barrage - probably from a squadron of their damned Pitbulls. It was unguided and random, but the barrage had put the base security force on stand-to, and while that was happening senior officers weren't supposed to be outdoors until the all-clear was sounded. Rawne had ducked into the school so he could cut through it to his operations center.
Only now he was detouring through the aid stations, because the main hallways were being choked with traffic. Between various soldiers moving to and from the barracks and temple facilities, message and transport drones carting weapons and medical supplies around the corridors, chanting black-clad priests and confessors, and the all-too common sight of wounded troops being carted on stretchers, the crowds of humanity were jamming the main corridors, so that even the Battle Commander himself couldn't get anywhere.
He'd found a clear route through the sector marked for medical purposes, and worked his way through it, almost wishing he'd chosen to stick with the corridors. Rawne strode through hallways lined with wounded men and women lying on the floor or crammed in school rooms, with medics patching up vicious wounds or performing emergency surgery. He passed one room where blood was running off a bed and pooling on the floor as two medics frantically tried to save a man whose gut had been lacerated by grenade shrapnel. Another wounded man, his head wrapped in a bandage, was limping toward them with a mop, trying to help soak up the blood so they could work without slipping.
Rawne could smell a strange mixture of disinfectant, blood, and incense in the halls, and over the pained moans and occasional scream he heard the chanting of Nod priests. Chaplains and confessors, clad in simple robes instead of their elaborate and heavy battle dress, walked the halls offering blessings and words of comfort to the wounded, or giving the worst off last rites and shots of pain-killing euphoric mercy drugs. Rawne heard a curious mixture of Arabic, Farsi, Chinese, Spanish, and even some Russian and other East European languages as the confessors offered services for any number of religions, as well as those of Nod's own cult.
It felt, oddly, like Rawne was walking through a bazaar in some far-off country, instead of a hospital filled with the dead and dying. The languages and scents pulled him away from the reality he was surrounded by - a reality he ignored as much as possible anyway.
As he cut through the aid station, he heard yelling. Rawne frowned and picked up his pace, stepping over wounded men and women and around orderlies and medics, and found himself moving into a side room, what had once been an office. It was now a holding area for recovering wounded personnel who couldn't be immediately sent elsewhere.
"I am not being transferred to a damn holding area!" a woman was shouting. "I'm not going to be sent to the rear for this!"
"Private, calm down," responded what sounded like a doctor. "I don't have any control over where you're-"
"I don't give a damn!"
Rawne stepped into the room where the argument was taking place, and found himself standing next to a stretcher where a woman was sitting, stripped down to her undershirt and fatigue pants. Beside her was a harried-looking medic, trying to placate the woman, hands held out before him in a calming gesture. A medical drone drifted nearby, awaiting orders.
Not much good those gestures would do, Rawne noted, as the woman's yes were covered with bandages. She would have been pretty, he guessed, if he could see the rest of her face. What was visible didn't look half-bad - covered with small cuts and abrasions though it was.
"Look, you can send a request up the chain, but for right now you're getting transferred to rear echelon until you've healed," the medic said, and the woman cursed angrily at him.
"This was my first engagement, and-"
"What's the situation?" Rawne asked, and the medic looked up, his eyes widening.
"Sir," he said, straightening and nodding. the private on the makeshift litter sat up as well in the presence of a superior officer. Rawne looked around, noting the med drone, and gestured for it to approach before the medic could speak. With a couple of taps on his forearm computer, Rawne called up the woman's medical data.
"I was having a disagreement with the Private here," the medic continued. "We need room for more patients, and she's getting transferred back."
"They're pulling me out of the fight, sir," the woman responded quickly, vehemently. "I'm still able-bodied. I can still fight!"
"Except that you're blind, Private Marona," the medic said, shaking his head.
"Says here," Rawne mused, looking over Private Mari Marona's file. "Shrapnel from a grenade, during room-to-room combat with GDI troops. Recovered by Black Hand after being wounded in action. Correct?"
"Yes sir," Marona replied with a nod. Rawne looked over her record, nodding as he did so.
"Top marks in selection, qualified for possible Shadow candidacy," he added, looking up at her, and she nodded again. "Why did you take infantry instead?"
"To fight, sir," she replied. "Shadows are spies. I wanted to go up against the enemy face-to-face."
"Well, you've got a good attitude, at least," Rawne said with a smile.
"Commander, is there some-" the medic began, but the commander cut him off.
"Do her wounds preclude reconstructive surgery?" Rawne asked, and the medic shook his head.
"There will be scarring, but we can replace the eyes with cybernetic replacements," he said. "But she's low priority, and will-"
"They're only going to give me Class Two implants, Commander," Marona protested. "Twenty/forty vision, best! I'll never be qualified for infantry again!" He heard strained emotion in her voice as she said that, and Rawne nodded.
"Class Three or better is required for front-line infantry work," the commander mused. "And then, only for special forces units. We don't have the resources or facilities to outfit everyone with eye injuries with Class Three or better. Certainly not for line infantry."
"Yes, sir," Marona said, and he could hear the anger and frustration in her voice a little more clearly now. "Today was my first day in combat, and I-"
"Its the first day for lots of troopers," Rawne said with a shrug. "Many of them aren't as lucky as you."
"Sir, I-" Marona said, and then paused. Her lips pressed together, and she nodded slightly. "Yes, sir."
Rawne stood there for a moment, looking over her data again. Her face, a blurry, quick shot taken from basic selection, flashed over his screen. She really had been decent-looking when she'd had eyes. He frowned, mulling it over, and looked to Marona again.
"Battle Commander override," he spoke, looking up at the medical drone. "Rawne, Logan."
"Override accepted," the drone spoke, its voice low, mechanical, inflectionless.
"Reschedule transfer for Private Mari Marona. Cancel reconstructive surgery for Class Two optical replacements. Reschedule reconstructive surgery for Class Seven optical enhancements. Tag priority, high, immediate."
Silence filled the room as both medic and soldier gaped at the commander.
"Sir?" Marona said, not sure what she'd just heard. Rawne smiled, and reached out, patting her shoulder.
"One of my personal bodyguards was killed in action today at Andrews," he said. "There's a spot open."
"Sir, you want me to . . . ."
"If you're up for it."
Her shocked expression shifted to a giddy smile.
"Yes, sir, I would!" Rawne grinned, and patted her arm.
"Good," he said, and glanced to the medic. "You. Take care of this, personally. There might be a commendation for you if its done quick."
"Yes sir!" the medic replied, standing ramrod straight.
Rawne stepped out of the aid station a few minutes later, a skip to his step and a smile on his face that even the chanting confessors and dying men all around him couldn't shake.
The Marine medic had finished examining Colt, which mean that he'd more or less asked if he was hurting anywhere and checking for blood spurting from unnoticed holes. Once Colt was clear, the medic moved on to assist in the more severe cases.
The Corporal looked around in a daze, hearing the Hammerheads spraying gunfire about a kilometer north, chasing the rest of the surviving Black Hand troops. He found himself peering down at the Nod corpses, many of them with faces locked in blank expressions of rage or gleeful fanaticism. None of them seemed pained; the euphoric drugs they had been taking had seen to that.
Then there were the fallen GDI troopers. Colt sat and looked at those men and women for a long while, letting the rest of the world drown itself away. A few Marines were moving the bodies of the fallen friendlies out of the way, and he watched them go about their grim business with numb awareness. After several long minutes, Colt started to stand, his legs shaky and uncertain. A hand hit his shoulder, a passing Marine steadying him, and distantly, Colt heard him ask if he was okay. The corporal nodded and moved away.
He picked his way past Nod bodies, noting other Marines policing weapons and checking for enemy wounded. The occasional gunshot echoed around the street when they did.
The dazed corporal finally found his way to where Alpha had been positioned, and located the two troopers he'd killed. He crouched beside them, and removed their helmets, shaking his head as he looked over their ruined faces. He knew these guys, had taken drinks and played pool or cards with them from time to time. Good men, reliable soldiers, loyal as one could reasonably ask.
And he'd shot them. Two bursts to their faces.
He stared at the bodies and the wrecked skulls for a while, and then fished out their dog tags. Colt slipped them into his pockets, and then moved aside as a few Marines came up to check and move the bodies. They would be given a proper burial in due time.
Colt promised himself he would make sure of that.
"Why now?"
The trooper standing by the other side of the wide window looked up. Lieutenant Fariq was sitting on an overturned cabinet at his side of the window, watching the other end of the street, the captured M16 Mk. II cradled loosely in his hands. They could hear the rattle of gunfire outside, mixed with the high-pitched scream of Hammerhead chainguns. The occasional detonation rumbled through the walls of the apartment building.
"What?" the trooper asked, the filtered voice coming through the helmet's rebreather was a higher-pitched than he expected. With their heavy body armor, visors, and air filters, it was hard to distinguish gender.
The pilot gestured back toward the window after he got over his surprise, indicating the smoke columns rising up to the north, the helicopters flying overhead, and the bodies of the Nod troopers they'd killed.
"This," he said, frowning. "Nod. Why now?"
The trooper shrugged. Fariq wished he had a helmet instead of just a an ear-bud, so he could read her actual name, as her armor didn't display her name. He heard movement behind him as one of the other troopers shifted position. Warbling voices came over the radio, giving routine check-ins. What had Corporal Rodigo said her name was?
"Jinna?" he asked, and the trooper looked up. After a second she shook her head.
"Terrence," she replied, a tinge of amusement in her voice.
"Oh. I thought you were . . . ." he looked back out the window. The Hammerheads were blasting away at something else.
"I thought we won," Terrence remarked after a few moments of silence. Fariq glanced to her. "Kane was dead, Nod was broken. The war was over two decades ago."
"Five minutes ago I thought you were a man," Fariq replied. Terrence looked up at him through her visor, and they burst out laughing. He leaned back, setting down his rifle, and let the shaking laughter hit him. Some of the other troopers glanced over, and he heard a few chuckles or mumbled questions from them.
The fit died down after a moment, and Fariq wiped his eyes, grabbing his rifle. The radio hissed and murmured again. A long stream of automatic gunfire echoed, close by, and a pair of Hammerheads swooped through the air, spraying rivers of metal from their dual twin-linked chainguns and launching volleys of rockets from belly pods.
"Platoon," came a voice over the comm, and Fariq glanced up. It was Lieutenant Lumbargo, First Platoon's commander. "The jarheads have finished securing the area. Sit tight for evac."
"Sir," someone asked. "Any news on C's Third?"
"Yeah," Lumbargo said, his voice a bit heavy. He was silent for a moment. "They ran into two companies of Black Hand."
Cursing and muttering filled the room at that.
"Any survivors, sir?" some else asked, and Lumbargo paused.
"Platoon took eighty percent casualties. Most of the survivors are badly wounded."
Fariq was silent, staring out the window, clutching his rifle tightly as the weight of those words crashed into him. Those men wouldn't have been out here if it weren't for him. Every death in that unit was on his head.
He had still not spoken another word when the Marine APCs arrived to pick up the platoon. He barely looked up when Terrence tapped him on the shoulder, and the pilot slowly rose, numb and impossibly exhausted as he trudged after her toward the waiting transport.
The Marines had transported the few wounded from the botched rescue attempt back to the operating command center via Guardian APCs. Colt sat in the back of one of the transports, the rear hatch open to let some real air into the vehicle, which was stuffed with four badly wounded men. There wasn't any room for him to sit, so Colt had taken an uncomfortable improvised seat on the very edge of one of the stretchers, most of his body exposed to the open air out the back of the vehicle. As the transport bumped and rolled along the glittery mirror-shine pavement, the soldier looked over the dog tags he'd recovered.
Only four men from Third Platoon, C Company had made it out of that clusterfuck intact. Five wounded had survived; Alpha was a complete loss, and Delta had mostly wounded. Bravo and Echo were also gone; they'd caught the other half of the Black Hand assault force on another street, and while they'd kept them from flanking the rest of the platoon, the men and women of those two squads had been completely wiped out. One of the two sniper teams had been caught in the open and killed as well.
Charlie was down to Jordan, who was missing his arm, and Colt himself. Effectively speaking, Third Platoon no longer existed.
The Guardian came to a halt sometime later, and the corporal looked up from the tags, to see they'd arrived at the support base by the beach. GDI troops were bustling about, and from the direction of the beach Colt could see lines of Marines and armored vehicles rolling off hovercraft as they slid onto the sands. The corporal scooped up his pack and weapon off the rack he'd stowed them on, and clambered out of the APC, moving out of the way of a team of medics who rushed over to grab the wounded.
He stood there on the pavement, watching them lift up his fellow recon troopers, medical drones hovering overhead and tending to the wounded as they were loaded onto gurneys and hurried off. Once they were out of sight, and the Marine APC began to roll away, Colt found himself alone and cut off. Dozens of men and women moved past him, maintenance robots rolled or floated past, and he could hear hundreds of voices, but at the same time, he was completely by himself. His unit was gone, and he didn't know any of the Marines or Airmen surrounding him.
The trooper wandered over to a stack of ammunition crates that had been left by someone, piled up by one of the empty motor pool lots; all the base's vehicles were ferrying troops and supplies, and what little wasn't being used by Fourth Battalion had been snatched by the Marines. He flopped down on the crate, noting it was marked as 12.7mm rounds for the Guardians' dual machinegun turrets. He idly peeked inside, and frowned, seeing boxes of packed 7.62x39mm rifle rounds instead. A supply fuck-up, probably why they'd been left there.
In a situation like this, he needed to report to his superiors, but there was still a battle going on and every trooper in the battalion was north at the airbase, fighting off the remnants of the Nod assault force. Pretty much anyone short of the senior battalion commanders would be out there directing the troops, which meant he had no one to report in to.
So Colt sat on the supply crate, watching the Marines rolling off the beach, and tried to think of what he should do now. After a few minutes of simply letting himself rest, he found himself slipping back to the battle and the troopers he'd been forced to kill. Cringing, the corporal pushed the memory back, not wanting to think about it anymore, but it still came on, unbidden. With a quick, vicious gesture, he snatched up his helmet and put it back on, turning on his HUD and patching into the battalion network. Accessing the comm net and checking on his comrades might pull his mind off what he'd done.
Almost immediately, his HUD flashed with an incoming text message, and he brought it up. Colt stiffened as he read the words, and jumped up off his crate, gathering up his gear again. Slinging his rifle and pack over his shoulder, Colt started jogging toward the command post, double-time.
When you got a message that the Battle Commander himself wanted to talk to you, you didn't jerk around responding to it.
The wall directly ahead splintered and shattered, and one of the assault troops twitched and fell backward, crashing against a wooden cabinet. Another man twisted around, his armor deformed and weeping blood, the booming report of a shotgun sounding up the passage. The air was thick with dust and a tinge of smoke.
Brother-Captain Jose Alvarez moved forward to the corner of the intersection, splinters of wood paneling and hunks of plaster deflecting off his armor. His cape, shredded and torn from the kilometers of fighting he'd passed through, hung limp behind him as he shouldered his rifle. In his huge, heavy gauntlets and body armor, the assault rifle he was carrying seemed like a delicate toy, not like his laser rifle or flamethrower.
He was approaching the intersection's corner from the right side, which meant he'd be leaning to his left. Without thinking about it, Jose switched his grip, hefting the rifle's handle and trigger group with his left hand and bracing it with his right. Rounds scythed up the hallway, tearing holes in the once clean and pristine walls as the GDI troops tried to desperately stymie the Black Hand of Kane.
Jose paused at the intersection, a chunk of wood bouncing off his helmet. A quintet of Nod assault troops - well-trained light infantry in full-body armor and helmets with glittering red optics arrays - lined up at the other side of the intersection, waiting to move. The squad leader nodded to Jose, who nodded back. The Hand glanced at his HUD, confirmed the other two Hands in his fire team were behind him, and rolled around the corner, rifle up.
He spotted movement - a GDI trooper in a doorway, unhelmeted, pointing a shotgun his way - and fired a single burst that tore through his throat and jaw. He lurched backward, shotgun firing into the floor and ripping up a chunk of carpet. Jose sidestepped, dropping to one knee as his fireteam swept in behind him, their assault rifles blazing. On the other side of the passage, the assault troops began to storm in as well. The entire corridor became a channel for a torrent of gunfire, dust clouding the air as the GDI troops down the passage returned fire. Wood and glass broke, centuries-old paintings were torn apart and cast to the floor, and men screamed and died.
One of the assault troops fell, rounds cutting through his midsection and deflecting up through the armor plating into his bodyglove. He thrashed on the floor as blood seeped from his stomach, and one of his comrades dragged him back around the corner. The Hands strode forward, bullets deflecting off their armor and scoring holes in the rent walls, their rifles barking controlled, unflinching bursts.
One of Jose's displays went dark, and his head snapped back, a round penetrating his helmet's optics. He dropped to one knee again, firing a wild stream of rounds down the hallway and emptying his magazine. He released the rifle, letting it hang from his chest by its strap, and dragged out his sidearm. As it rose, he sighted another GDI soldier, and fired, the ruby-red laser beam striking him in the chest. His armor flashed and boiled, then fused as the man toppled to the floor, ash billowing from the wound.
After a couple of seconds of hunting for another target, Jose realized the enemy were all dead. He rose, holstering his sidearm and grabbing his rifle, reloading it, and fervently wished he still had his laser rifle and its much larger energy cell. Orders were orders, however, and they were already causing enough of a mess in the place without lighting the building on fire with energy weapons.
The Hands started up the hallway, taking the lead, while another fire team of assault troops moved up behind them. The elite Nod soldiers kept the corridors cleared while the assault teams broke off to breach and clear side offices and rooms. All throughout the building, other Hand units were following suit, taking this structure one hallway and room at a time.
Rounds ripped out of a door as Jose passed it, skipping off his armor, and he spun, hosing the door with a third of his rifle's magazine. Between his weapon and the GDI trooper on the other side, the door was reducing to kindling and flying shards, which broke down completely as another Hand kicked in the door. A shotgun blast staggered him, and then he was through, rifle blazing. Jose chased after his fellow Hand, sweeping the room beyond, and found a side office riddled with bullet holes and a couple of enemy corpses.
Jose glanced to the bodies of the infidels before moving back out into the hallway, hearing a flurry of gunfire echoing from a nearby room as the assault troops cleared it. Many of the GDI troops defending this place weren't wearing helmets, or even body armor; most, in fact, were wearing nondescript gray garrison uniforms. He suspected they were clearing out GDI's REMFs, which explained why they were advancing so quickly.
"Brother-Captain," a voice hissed over the comm, from Brother-Sergeant Brusca. "We have reached the primary objective. Standing by to breach."
"Copy," Jose replied, clearing an intersection and hurrying up the hall. "My team will be at our marker in fifteen seconds."
It was a generous estimate, as they arrived within twelve. The Hands and the assault fire team stacked up on the right side of a nondescript door, another assault team moving past to secure the other end of the corridor. Jose signaled to the next man behind him to prepare a breaching charge.
The disc-shaped explosive was set quickly, and Jose sent a flash-message to Brusca. A second later, he responded with another text message, confirming that they had a charge set on their end as well. Jose grabbed a flashbang off his belt, primed it, and sent the signal to breach the door.
There was light and noise and smoke and Jose's arm pumped. He immediately surged forth, rolling around the corner and sidestepping. He instantly felt a furious series of impacts along his chest armor as he rolled through the smoke, and then the flashbang detonated. His armor reacted instantly, visor darkening and helmet cutting off all audio input for a split-second. The eye-searing light and ear-popping sound filled the chamber, and when his vision returned, Jose saw several GDI troops recoiling, ears bleeding. Two of them were still standing, wearing helmets and body armor that protected them from the flash and noise, and were firing their rifles. Rapid-fire punches continued to hammer his chest as they shot the first target they could see.
One of the infidels twisted immediately, perforated by a dozen rounds as the other Hands stormed into the room. Jose sighted down his rifle, lining up his target in the iron sights and once more cursing the lack of his own laser rifle and its integrated helmet sights. He squeezed off two bursts at the other standing GDI trooper, hitting him in the chest and shoulder; one round managed to deflect off the plating and into the man's arm, and he spun around, rifle firing wildly into the ceiling.
Jose charged, firing another burst that shook the armored soldier, and then the Hand crashed into the man, shoulder-checking him into the desk at the far end of the large, circular room. As his foe slammed into the desk, the Hand shoved his rifle down into the infidel's throat and fired two single shots.
There were a few strangled screams and cries of agony around the room, which ended as the Black Hand executed the stunned or wounded infidels scattered around the chamber. Within moments, only the faithful remained standing, clad in heavy armor and with tattered, ripped capes dangling from their shoulders.
Jose looked around the bullet-riddled room, and exhaled. He reached up and pulled off his helmet, the pressure seals hissing, and cool air swept over his sweat-soaked face. He smiled.
"Brothers," he declared, standing in the middle of the legendary Oval Office. "We have taken the White House, in the name of Kane!"
The normally stoic Black Hand burst into thunderous cheers, men ripping off their helmets and pumping fists in the air. Jose laughed, raising a clenched hand high above him.
"Come!" he shouted, climbing up onto the very desk the Presidents of the United States had used. "Let us consecrate this place in His Name!"
"Peace!" the Hand shouted at once. "Unity! Brotherhood!"
"In the name of Kane!" Jose roared, standing tall and proud atop the desk. "Peace! Through! Power!"
A gentle wash of colored lights fell across the room as the doors slid open. He could hear the beeping and whirs and hissing fans of hundreds of computers filling the chamber, mixed in with the muted voices of technicians and officers. A dim red light suffused the room, mixing with the glow of consoles and holograms and the various important-looking bits of light on the myriad array of machines. The black-uniformed Brothers and Sisters moved around the room almost sedately, an illusion fostered by the low lighting.
Kane slid across the chamber, his cloak gathered close. His eyes moved across the various holographic displays, pausing at the one in the center of the chamber, a massive globe the size of a small house, showing the dozens of fronts that had opened up in the last few hours, spreading across the planet. A thousand conflict zones glittered on the planet's surface, and each one invited a smile on his features.
Officers slid past the Messiah as he looked over the display, stepping carefully in the dim lighting. The low illumination and red gleam were supposed to remind the Brotherhood that, for all their power and technology, they were an organization that thrived in the darkness and the shadows, both literally and figuratively.
In reality, Kane preferred the dim red light because people tended to stumble over things they couldn't see. It was small and trivial and definitely petty, but something the Messiah found endlessly amusing.
The war was progressing well, he noted, raising a hand to the holographic controls. Kane rotated the globe about, zooming in to specific battlefronts, observing regiments and divisions and army groups advancing. The data was updated in real-time by a small army of EVA units, receiving data directly from the battlefields and patching it together. A couple of his generals had raised concerns that transferring intelligence data directly from the field to Temple Prime itself would lead GDI's InOps agents to the center of Nod's command and control network, but Kane had dismissed their worries. He reminded them that it was their job to ensure that GDI would never be in a position to launch an attack on Temple Prime in the first place, and that even if they did locate their capital, they would have to fight through some of the most heavily-defended and inhospitable terrain on the planet to reach it.
Kane smirked as he remembered that explanation. In reality, the last thing he was worried about was keeping Temple Prime's location a secret.
Casualties thus far had been high, he noted. Even the EVAs couldn't keep track of the losses on both sides, and the fog of war ensured that no number could really reflect reality, but they estimated Nod would have suffered at least a million casualties by the end of the first twenty-four hours of combat, with similar numbers of GDI military personnel, and several times more in civilian casualties. That number would multiply several times over in the event of a massed GDI counterattack.
Kane nodded as he ran the numbers in his head. They were more than acceptable.
"Your Eminence," came a call from across the command center, and Kane turned, seeing one of his tacticians standing by one of the hologram projectors.
"Yes?" he asked, noting the man's agitation, and started striding across the room, cloak billowing behind him. "What's happened?"
"We just received a priority report from the B-2 assault force, Strike Group Babylon," the tactician replied, and then hesitated. Kane drew closer, and the man hit a few keys on the projector's terminal. "General Holt is dead."
"Dead," Kane muttered, looking over the hologram a sit displayed casualty reports and images from the B-2 assault force's forward command center. Roaring pillars of flame and smoke arose from the heart of the array of prefabricated structures sitting just inside the Blue Zone walls, and repair and recovery drones were flitting about as engineering and rescue crews frantically tried to recover the wounded.
"That appears to be an artillery strike," Kane said with another frown. "GDI?"
"We backtracked the shell arc," the tactician said, shaking his head. "It came from one of our own Spectres."
Which meant that someone had captured one of their artillery pieces. No doubt they'd used the Spectre's communications array and sophisticated targeting equipment to backtrack the source of the Spectre's last orders, and from there backtrack to the command centers. From there, it would be easy to locate the source of the majority of outgoing and incoming data, which would have been Holt's CIC. Simple but effective.
An unfortunate consequence of Nod's superior command, coordination, and control abilities. Kane found the idea of GDI using their own methods against them a refreshing change of pace, as such adaptation was a long time in coming.
"Has this Spectre been recaptured?" Kane asked, and the tactician nodded.
"It was abandoned when the nearest units of Black Hand found it," he explained.
"Video feed," Kane demanded, and the officer complied, bringing up a recording from a helmet camera. The jerking and grainy footage showed a squad of Black Hand sweeping the area around one of the artillery platforms, its legs braces extended and cannon raised. All around it Kane saw the crumpled bodies of the artillery piece's security force, the two buggies that had been accompanying it ablaze. The Hands moved around the artillery emplacement, clearing and securing the area. After a moment, the camera's wearer moved around the Spectre, and stopped at something scrawled on the side.
"What is that?" Kane asked, pausing and magnifying the image. As soon as he realized what was written there, a slight smirk appeared on his face.
Dear Kane: Merry Christmas!
Love, your buddy Havoc
"Send a priority message to all our forces in B-2," Kane said, straightening. "An enemy commando is on the loose inside our lines. Take utmost precaution and care."
"Yes sir," the tactician replied, and moved away to issue the advisory. Kane turned and looked back toward the display, and chuckled.
"So, still fighting your misguided little war, Parker?" he mused. "Perhaps there are still elements of GDI worth something more than simple slaughter."
He frowned, and then reached out into the holographic display. He moved a series of symbols around in the interface, and a moment later, he was connected to the EVA command unit operating in B-2.
"Ow," he heard someone mutter behind him, accompanied by the impact of a shin on a console, and the Messiah's frown turned into a grin.
"EVA," he said quickly. "With General Holt dead, we need a new commander for this phase of the Eastern Seaboard invasion. Contact Commander Logan Rawne, and place him in command of the forces advancing into Washington D.C. He is to direct his entire force against the Pentagon. I want that decrepit symbol of GDI's rule obliterated."
Karrde heard someone enter the room behind him, and he glanced up, seeing a young corporal enter the room. Judging by his scuffed and battered armor and uniform, it had to be Colt, but he didn't immediately address the soldier, except to raise a finger to tell him to wait.
" . . . most of our troops are pinned down," General Jack Granger continued on the video screen. "Our A-SAT defenses are offline, and I have no goddamned idea who is running the show at GDI."
The video feed from the Pentagon was grainy, filled with static, and punctuated by constant explosions, shouting, and the insistent beeping of very self-important consoles. Nonetheless, Battle Commander Karrde could make out the General as he stalked through the Pentagon's CIC, and could hear his voice clearly enough, which was all that mattered.
The General wouldn't be calling him personally when things were this bad unless he had something important to say, so Karrde just kept his mouth shut instead of asking stupid questions. There was a flash offscreen, and Granger blinked, looking away from whatever had just happened. The glare faded, and he looked back toward the camera.
"This is no time to stand on protocol," he said. "The entire Northeastern Blue Zone has been overrun and we're taking the worst of it here in DC."
Karrde heard someone call to the general from offscreen, and Ganger turned. A moment later, through the static, Karrde caught sight of Lieutenant Telfair.
"General," she called as she got closer, her tone edged with that adrenaline-fueled anxiety one got during their first taste of real danger. "They're starting evac procedures."
"You go ahead, Sandra," Granger replied after a second's consideration. Karrde nodded as he spoke; he had a job to do.
"Sir, you can't stay here," she protested, and Granger's face tightened.
"That's an order, Lieutenant," he said, his voice once more resonating with authority. Sandra hesitated, glancing toward the screen where Karrde's face was doubtless displayed on her end, and nodded.
As she moved away, Ganger looked back to Karrde, his expression grim.
"Nod troops are closing in," he said. "You're the only man I can trust to protect the Pentagon. Kirce James at TheaterOps will bring you up to speed." He glanced away quickly, and then looked back.
"Its all on you now, Commander," Granger said. "I need you to take back this city." There was another flash from somewhere nearby - EMP charges, Karrde guessed, trying to fry their electronics - and Granger frowned, unperturbed, before cutting off the transmission.
Karrde glanced down to his Comcom, and pulled up maps of the airbase, before glancing back to Colt. The corporal stood nearby, anxious, judging by his posture. Karrde ran over his troops' positions, grunted, and began issuing orders with his left hand, tapping holographic controls.
"Corporal, we've been mauled a bit by this assault," he explained, glancing up. "Fourth Platoon, C, took some casualties. Half of their Bravo is wounded, and they lost their squad leader. The assistant squad leader is a green PFC straight out of boot. I don't have time to reconstitute the unit and they need a real NCO to take over until this pile of shit gets sorted out."
Colt blinked, uncertainty crossing his features.
"Sir?" he asked, surprised, and Karrde nodded.
"Not sure how you managed to survive close combat with Black Hand troopers," the Commander said, "but you kept control of your squad and fought off a numerically superior force of elite Nod infantry. And, if your helmet camera's footage is any indicator, you killed a Black Hand trooper in single combat. That's not insignificant.
"Bravo needs a squad leader, and yours is nonexistent," Karrde continued. "Its highly irregular to put a man in charge of a unit he doesn't know due to casualties, but I don't have time. You're in charge of Fourth's Bravo squad now."
"Commander, I lost my entire squad," Colt said, incredulous. "I don't-"
"It wasn't your fault, corporal," Karrde replied. "Truth told, you did as well as any man could be expected to do in that situation. You have your orders. See to your squad."
Colt hesitated, and then nodded.
"Yes, sir," he replied.
"Dismissed."
Colt turned to leave, and Karrde watched the young soldier depart, frowning. There was potential in that one, he knew, and he brought up the feed from Colt's helmet camera once again. He moved through the combat recording, and then replayed the brief five seconds where two GDI soldiers turned, their perceptions and minds clouded by Nod hallucinogenic grenades, and began firing on their comrades. Almost immediately, their helmets exploded as Colt gunned them down.
That kind of quick-thinking, unhesitating practicality, decisiveness, and ruthlessness was all too rare. He would make a good squad leader, or officer, if he lived that long.
Karrde closed the file and got back to work; it would take some time to get the battalion gathered up, loaded onto the transports, and throw them into another hellhole.
Two attack motorcycles rolled around the corner of the street, their mounted sensors sweeping the area for life signs. After a few minutes, Corporal Kissan, the ranking member of the recon pair, cursed.
"I got nothing," he said over the radio, and glanced to Private Nigel as the other recon trooper scanned in the opposite direction. They both saw the fires, but neither of them paid anything more than a cursory glance toward them at the moment. They had much more to worry about, especially as the sun was going down.
"Negative here," he replied. Both men were on edge, because in their case, seeing nothing was almost as bad as seeing something. In this case, "nothing" meant no obvious threats, though both bikes' sensors were pinging with hundreds of human contacts in all directions. That was understandable, as they were invading a city, but at least they hadn't picked up any mines or traps.
"Eyes One, bring them up, all clear as far as we can tell," Kissan said, rolling up the street while Nigel stayed in position, fingers hovering over his bike's missile launchers. Kissan continued toward the fires in the middle of the street, a pair of destroyed Nod buggies in the middle of the road, corpses of friendly troops strewn about. Tangles of razor wire had at one point lined the street, but were now twisted by fire or blasted apart by explosives. The checkpoint they'd established was in ruins.
As Kissan scanned the area, he came up with only other human life signs. No active military-grade transmitters, no radar signatures, no scanners of any kind that would signify missile launchers - though someone could have simply turned them off.
Half a minute later, a truck loaded with Nod troops, followed by a Reckoner APC, trundled around the corner and rolled toward the checkpoint. The troops in the truck dismounted, a dozen Nod militia fanning out to secure the checkpoint. The Reckoner stood back, and its hatches opened, another squad emerging.
Down the street, Niles leaned back in his seat, and reached up to pull back his goggles. He rubbed his eyes, and lowered them back down to his face, and then looked up at his bike's screen.
He felt an impact in his chest, and his screen flashed a liquid red. It took Nigel a second to realize he was looking at his own blood, and then he toppled forward onto his controls, his fall arrested by a large hand gently easing his corpse down.
Behind the dead bike trooper, the street exploded as half a dozen rockets and grenades suddenly lanced out at the Nod militia. Of the two dozen soldiers, ten of them were killed or critically maimed instantly, shrapnel tearing them apart as the explosives tore into their bodies.
Kissan hadn't detected the scanners of enemy missiles, but that didn't mean there weren't missiles out there. He revved up his motorcycle's engine, whipping it around and firing up his targeting display, trying to track where the missiles came from.
"Nigel, do you-" Kissan's words died in his lips as he saw Nigel slumped in his seat, and standing beside the bike, leveling a pistol his way-
The Nod biker was a hundred meters away, with a dozen Nod soldiers between him and the man by Nigel's bike. A normal soldier, straight out of boot on his first day, would never have made that kind of shot with a pistol. Even an experienced target shooter might find it difficult.
But that was why they called him "Havoc."
Kissan's visor shattered, his head snapped back, and he toppled out of his motorcycle as the rest of the ambushed Nod militia found themselves under fire from multiple directions by a superior number of GDI troops.
The Reckoner's driver was frantically backing up as the rest of his comrades were dying, the APC trying to get out of the ambush zone, when a young Zone Security officer by the name of Blunt jumped on board, hauled himself through one of the open troop hatches, and shot the driver in the back, through his seat.
Two minutes after the ambush began, the last Nod trooper was dead.
As the GDI troops secured weapons and equipment from the dead Nod troopers, Emily Wong and her cameraman hurried into the street, getting as much recorded footage as they could. They caught Colonel Parker as he walked over to the second Nod bike, and stood over the driver, nodding to himself.
"What are we going to do with these?" Emily asked, and a very evil grin plastered itself across his face. He glanced up, hefting his pistol.
"Bad Things," he told Emily. "And make sure you remind 'em when you send this footage," he added, pointing to the dead Nod trooper's broken visor. "That was left-handed."
-
Author's Notes: I love writing Havoc. :D
No intel file for this chapter, sorry. Don't have anything to comment on at this point.
This chapter was obviously a bit more of plot progression and character development than it was outright violence and destruction. However, expect things to seriously heat up in the upcoming chapters. Its time for the Pentagon siege . . . .
With regards to Colt's scene with Karrde, I had some reservations about having him meet up with the battalion commander, as a soldier in that situation really should report to his company commander (as his platoon's lieutenant is dead - Magrabi took a tank shell to the face way back at the beginning of the story) but the company commander is in the field. That's why Colt spends a good chunk of his time sitting on the ammo box with nothing to do, because the rest of his company is out fighting. That and Karrde really is something of a micro-manager - it comes with being a Battle Commander :D
Until next chapter . . . .