Know Your Enemy - NSF
The National Secessionist Forces (NSF) remain a very real and increasingly widespread terrorist threat. Ten years ago, in response to the Sporting Weapons Act of 2042, splinter groups from nearly every state militia refused to surrender their rifles, grenades, land mines, and other "collectibles" prohibited by the Act. Unified under the charismatic leadership of Leon Woods, these isolated fanatics eventually formed the NSF with Woods assuming the rank of General. Their intended goal: the "liberation" of Washington, Montana, Oregon, and Northern California. While Woods died during his infamous "last stand" in 2045, his war machine continues what can only be termed an occupation of the United States, aided by an encrypted network designed by dissident computer scientists from San Francisco and Seattle.
The U.N. has declared war on the NSF.
UNATCO Handbook
Sam stole a quick glance out the second story window of the 'Ton Hotel and was greeted by a war zone. Bodies littered the street as the ambient echo of gunfire carried through the brisk night air. In the distance, tracer rounds cut upwards through the sky, gunners firing blindly at UNATCO's shadow-like helicopters. Most of the fighting was concentrated south of Central Park, and the NSF resistance was starting to break into pockets. Sam pulled back from the window and sat slouched against the wall, rifle in her lap. It was the Alamo all over again.
She felt a hand on her shoulder.
"You okay?"
Sam shook her head.
"We can't do this, Damian. Our regiment's already down to a quarter strength. Half our people were in Battery Park and LaGuardia says UNATCO took that half an hour ago. Foxtrot and Victor lost Rockefeller Plaza. Carnegie was supposed to be held by Romeo and nobody's heard from them for hours. We can't retreat, either, even if we wanted too, because we all know what's at stake."
There was a roar from the streets outside as gunfire from both sides renewed. Sam looked up, a quiet sadness in her eyes.
"This is it, isn't it?"
Damian gave her one of his shy, half smiles.
"I think so."
Sam lowered her head towards the rifle, tears welling up in her eyes.
"Don't be scared, Sam… okay? It'll be okay."
"I don't want to be a martyr."
Damian was hugging her now, his weapon forgotten on the carpeted floor. His voice still carrying the shy, half smile.
"There are worse things to be."
In the hotel lobby below, Nicholas had herded the hostages into the reception office. There was less of a chance of them catching any stray shots from the firefight that would ensue when the UNATCO strike teams inevitably hit their building. The reports from the outside were getting pretty grim. UNATCO was closing in on the generator and had already surrounded the warehouse. He leaned against the opposite wall, watching the hostages. There were three of them, all civilian. The old one had complained, but otherwise hadn't been too much trouble. The NSF took hostages only in cases where it was absolutely necessary that UNATCO be delayed as long as possible.
They'd been taking a lot of hostages lately.
Out of the corner of his eye, Nick saw a uniform blur past the window towards the door. He pulled his pistol from its holster and shouted up towards the others.
"UNATCO TEAM! JUS-"
That was as far as he got before a rifle round tore through the window glass and caught him just above the left temple.
The fire team swarmed into the lobby, eyes and rifles pointed up and down, left and right, eyes scanning for anyone hiding behind a door, or a railing, or a potted plant. One of the terrorists from the upper stories started to come down the staircase into the lobby, rifle raised. Collins squeezed off a three round burst, sending the man tumbling forward down the stairs like a rag doll, landing in a crumpled heap on the floor.
Sam was kneeling in the second story hall, her back to the window. The rifle shook in her hands, threatening to slip through her clammy grip and onto the floor. Her lungs shuddered short, ragged breaths. Nicholas was dead. Sweat drenched her. Damian was dead. Her vision was blurring. Damian was dead. There were footsteps coming up the stairs. Damian. A troopers shadow on the hallway wall. Sweet little Damian…
Sam's shot went wild, blowing a hole in a florescent ceiling light above the stairs. Lead exploded from the trooper's submachine gun.
Below them, the owner of the 'Ton was being led out of the reception office.
"Are you alright, Mr. Renton?"
"Fine. I think that's all of them. You got they guys upstairs?"
There was a second burst of gunfire and the crash of shattered glass, followed by a distant thud.
Zavala emerged from the corner of the landing above and gave Collins a thumbs-up. The other members of the squad were moving through individual rooms, searching for any NSF stragglers.
"Yes Sir, just securing the area, now."
Renton stopped, grabbing the trooper by the arm.
"Hey… My daughter… Sandra… You haven't seen her, have you? She's been gone all week. I've been trying not to think about it, but…"
Collins looked out the hotel's open lobby doors and frowned.
"Tonight's a bad night to be on the streets."
"If you see her, tell her, tell her I don't care. I don't care where she's been or what she's been doing. She can come home. No questions, no speeches."
"Don't worry, sir. As long as she stays clear of the NSF she should be okay."
Gilbert Renton looked down at the bodies scattered over the lobby floor.
"Now we just need to run these sons-of-bitches out of Manhattan."
The helicopter touched down in the middle of the parking lot, its blades beating almost silently through the cool night air. Uniformed men were hurrying past towards a large warehouse in the middle of the lot, each one armed and looking very determined. A Military bot sat motionless near the lots gated entrance, the only hint of life coming from its single, glowing eye. There was gunfire in the distance, and occasional rocket blasts, but it paled in comparison to what was going to happen here.
The Gunther stepped off the ebony craft as a squad of soldiers, the helicopters other passengers, rushed passed him. They parted as they ran past a middle-aged man in a cobalt trench coat coming towards Gunther. They stopped a few feet apart.
"The spitting image of your brother."
The man in the trench coat smiled.
"You've met JC then? How's he fitting in?"
"Better than you ever could. It is hard to believe he is your brother."
Paul looked away at the support helicopters coming in just above the skyline.
"Yeah… I know what you mean."
There was a silence between the two men as the helicopters landed and the second wave of reinforcements began to disembark, hauling weapons and equipment out of the choppers. Paul turned back to Gunther.
"So, are you here for moral encouragement, or are you taking command?"
"Manderley is not pleased with your handling of the assignment thus far. I am here only to ensure that the mission is carried out correctly."
"Good to see Manderley hasn't lost faith in me. How's the generator?"
"Your brother will be more than adequate. The EMP field will go down on schedule."
Paul glanced back at the shielded warehouse and the machines of war building up around it.
"Here's hoping."