"We'll have to contain this. Full blanket intercept: nothing gets transmitted in or out of the system without us knowing about it."
"That's a given. It's also a given that there's going to be a thousand and one vids of this leaked all over the ChatterNet."
"As long as it's contained local to the system we'll be fine. "
"Fine? That's now how I'd describe it. An entire city's gone."
"A terrorist action."
"A grade-A cluster [expletive deleted] is what it is. Make no mistake: heads are going to roll for this."
"Not unless we get caught. Full blanket intercept. You've had this ship sweeped?"
"Of course, Sir, we're secure. No bugs, no traces. Black Shard couldn't touch us if they tried."
"Good, get it done. Inform the Admiral. If the public finds out what happened here, we're all gonna burn."
/Strictly EYES ONLY file_ .Net#file_designate-ARROWHEAD- [ONI Case File, retrieved 2561]/
"Alright people, let's go over it one more time."
The command staff were assembled on the Carpathia's briefing deck in their entirety. Army, Navy, support specialists and logistics teams; repair units and communications specialists. Those planet-side were represented by three-quarter size hologram, with the shimmering representations of Fireteam Leaders of Platinum and Trident towering over them; giants both. Only Chimera were absent, represented instead by Kaizen, who stood quiet and serene despite the fact that she was currently focusing on a multitude of second to second battlefield oversight tasks. Fireteam Chimera's sigil rotated on the disc at her feet, a subtle reminder of her current assignment.
General Stape planted both hands on briefing controls, like a minister leaning over a pulpit. Above him, a slowly rotating image of New Cadiz floated in the air.
"As of 15:30 Zulu Time, the situation is as follows. The primary target and capital city, Argjend, is secure. Martial law has been established, and the situation is stable."
Stape looked up, expression haggard.
"New Cadiz is not. Ground side contact reports and orbital scans have confirmed hostile ground forces far exceed previous estimates. The city is in open insurgency, and I am elevating our combat response accordingly. We need to redraw the rule book."
"That means doing what local forces should have done in the first place. A concerted assault; ground and aerial, supported by directed artillery and drone strikes. Individual task assignments have been hot-piped to your neural laces. Don't be shy when availing of indirect fire. If it looks like an Innie hole, smells like an Innie hole and acts like an Innie hole, then you know what to do. Call it in, let the drones do their work and plug it. Marines and Army personnel can hold the real estate once the dust settles."
"What about Orbital Two?" asked the hologram of Lieutenant Colonel Howard, the commanding officer of UNSC forces groundside, "We risk burying half the city if any of the support tethers come down."
Stape indicated the display above.
"Targeting solutions have been plotted to avoid areas deemed to bear a structural risk to Orbital Two. New Cadiz is - broadly speaking - broken into three concentric rings of settlement, separated by dried river beds and aqua-ducts; here, here and here."
Three wide rings settled over the rotating overlay of the city as Stape spoke.
"Aerial drone support can be provided as deep as the second tier. After that, it'll be down to the ground teams to do the heavy lifting. Mantis support has been authorised, and all Stride elements will move into position once we're ready to make the final push."
The briefing closed with a crisp salute. There was a clamour as the room rose to its feet in unison.
"Let's make it happen people. Our boys groundside are counting on us. Dismissed."
The deck cleared. Only the most senior command personnel remained, the two Spartans included.
"Well that's the official position, people, now can someone please explain how in the hell we landed in this mess?" Stape asked aloud, over the hush.
Nobody answered him.
"Resistance is stronger than anticipated, General." Kaizen said at last, her sentence illustrated by floating screens of helmet cam footage relayed from Chimera; strobe-flashed and frantic. The audio had been muted.
"Force disposition and tactical hardware matches known profiles from no less than sixteen separate radical organisations. Perhaps more alarming is their coordination. They have grouped themselves under a single banner: the ULF."
"They've had thirty years of mandatory UNSC Service to learn how to fight." Stape growled, scratching at his jowels, "Now they're using it against us."
"Respectfully I was more referring to their cohesion as a whole. Many of these identified groups are known to be mutually antagonistic. A single cohesive strategy between these groups is improbable, but under the circumstances self-evident."
The others present shuffled nervously.
"Sir, I repeat my request to be deployed into New Cadiz." Spartan Loic said quietly.
"I second Trident Leader's request." Chase nodded confidently, "Fireteam Platinum stand ready, General."
"Fireteam Platinum will remain exactly where I need them, which is in Argjend; making sure we don't wind up with a second cluster-fuck on our hands. Now if you've got anything else to add, by all means spit it out, Spartan."
Chase said nothing. Loic uploaded his tactical report with a series of keyed instructions into his TACPAD.
"We've secured as many surviving members of the local Senate as possible. Acting Governor Jennings is coordinating civilian relief efforts, but unless we do something about all the refugees flooding in from New Cadiz, we're going to be left with a major humanitarian crisis on our hands."
Even with his golden VISR, there was no hiding the scowl in Chase's voice.
"New Cadiz is in open rebellion." The white armoured Spartan scoffed, "We should focus on stamping the ULF out."
Loic stared over at his armoured counterpart pointedly.
"And if the ULF decide to smuggle in a bomb amongst them? Perhaps a landmine into a crowded plaza. Or a Havoc? They're a security risk, which makes them our concern." Loic shook his head and addressed Stape directly.
"Sir, we need to keep the local civilian government on side here. I appreciate the need to salvage the situation in New Cadiz, but if we lose public support, it's going to create more problems in the capital than it solves."
Stape mulled over this for a moment.
"Kaizen, you're the Smart A.I. here. What do you think?"
"Spartan Lambert is correct, General. Efforts should be made to retain local support, if at all possible."
"Very well. Divert some of our shuttle launches toward Argjend. Medical supplies, standard hum-rats and any medicine the local auto-manufactories can afford to spare. Liaise with friendly Army stores planet-side, see what you can rustle up. Work with Governer Jennings, do what you can."
"As you command, General." Kaizen bowed.
"Thank you, General." Loic added.
General Stape leaned over the briefing panel, to a point where his belly bulged against the rim of the projector. The harsh up-light underscored the sheer weight of responsibility resting on his shoulders.
"Something's not right. Even if our local commanders dropped the ball, three RCT's should have been more than enough to secure the city."
It was Eric's turn to speak.
"Somebody's organising them. Somebody smart, and with a lot more resources than we've given them credit for."
"Perhaps a more important question is why?" Kaizen said quietly, ticking off points on her glowing fingers, "Cadez is a backwater. Mining output is mediocre, relative to some of the orbital operations in the adjoining systems. Politically unimportant; strategically its only discernible value is Orbital Two, and even then if they wanted to establish independence, why not hit Argjend, and sever colonial control entirely?"
"Not to mention, why risk an open fight? Insurrectionists have always favoured asymmetrical warfare." Eric added, "Openly challenging the UNSC to a straight up fight? It's suicide."
"If it's a fight they want to pick, then I'm glad to give 'em one." Stape replied, fixing them all with a dangerous smile.
"Make no mistake, gentlemen; once Chimera secure RCT Charlie, we're not just going to consolidate. We're going to roll over these bastards, and roll them hard. If they want to turn New Cadiz into a war zone, then I'm happy to show them what war really means."
The average distance for a modern infantry engagement in the 26th century ranged dramatically based on a number of fundamental variables.
Location and historical context were key. In the Human Covenant War, distances were dramatically shorter than the brushfire wars that had preceded it; a by-product of the Covenant military's zealous honour system and lust for face to face combat. A fundamental error on the invaders' part: one that led to an unexpected, disastrous defeat at the final hour; snatch-stolen by the vagaries of fate and a single hero's courage.
Before this time, back during the original Insurrectionist War, and even in the cloying mists of the Rainforest Wars that came before, distances had been dramatically longer - ranging between two hundred metres to two hundred kilometres, depending on the circumstances, topography and optical capabilities of the combatants involved. Scopes, unmanned drones and long range sub-orbital bombardment meant that the enemy was often only seen with the naked eye once the fighting was done, and the kills were being confirmed in the settling dust; verified by clearance teams sifting through broken rooms, artillery shredded jungle and bombed out broken streets.
In the New Cadiz of 2557, caught up in the cramped confines of the side streets and adorned in the very latest in MJOLNIR technology, Chimera's firsthand experience became something rather more immediate.
Distances shortened.
Chimera burst into the next open square, darting into assault positions. They knelt behind burnt out cars, up-turned stalls and bellied down amongst strewn debris. Bullets snapped down from the buildings above them. Shields sparked and fizzled in protest. Chimera responded with interest, weapons moving from target to target with laser like precision. Luke's SAW rattled as it reduced concrete cover to jagged pebbles, its keening shrill punctuated by the thunderous boom of Chidinma's anti-material rifle. The juddering steady blurt of Damien's Battle Rifle stood out in contrast to the dry bark of Rashid's Battle Rifle. Men screamed in pain and terror as they died.
Something hiss-sneezed at them, and the world erupted in a plume of fire and dirt.
Damien snarled as he was thrown off his feet, his fall transitioning into a smooth roll. Pebbles tinkled against his armour as scorched sand poured over him. His VISR pulsed as it washed itself. Shield icons warbled in distress along the bottom of his HUD.
"RPG!" he bellowed, "Three, take it out!"
Chidinma's only response was to smoothly snap her rifle to bear and squeeze the trigger. A hapless insurgent, lurking on a parapet high above, burst from the waist up. The launcher spun as it clattered to the street below. Ever pragmatic, Rashid scooped up the discarded launch-tube from the ground and dumped its remaining rocket into the rebels' perch for a good measure.
The parapet shattered in a deluge of smothered fire and a cloudburst of cascading masonry. A flaming boot plopped down onto the dirt beside Rashid. A gnarled ankle bone jutted out, aflame like some gristly flag pole.
"Target down." Rashid clipped over the com.
Rashid looked over at Chidinma and shrugged his shoulders, tossing the spent rocket tube aside.
A hush descended once more, the only gunfire the distant pops and ominous rumbles from further afield. Damien held up an armoured hand, then waved twice. Clear, advance. Chimera rose to their feet, moving smoothly through the settling dust. Viktorya paused to crouch low over a gurgling insurgent, her knife biting deep. The agonised death-rattle ceased abruptly.
"You could have just shot him." Luke remarked, gingerly stepping over the broken body as he went to follow. Viktorya shook her head in irritation.
"Conserving ammunition." Viktorya replied, wiping the blade on her fore-arm as she rose to her feet.
"Chatter, Chimera." Damien scolded over the com, rifle scanning for targets.
Luke suppressed the urge to shudder as they moved on.
They advanced deeper into the city. Chimera's unit tactics differed in no way from any well drilled UNSC infantry team. It simply was a matter of scale and fluidity. They stuck to the back alleys and side streets, picking their battles carefully. Engaging every pocket of resistance was counter productive: they had an objective to get to. Ruthless as she was, Viktorya had a valid point: the longer they spent in the field, the more ammunition would become a priority.
The mission clock was running close to two hours. Ammunition reserves hovered at fifty percent, and the only prospect of re-arming infield was by getting to RCT Charlie, or requesting a direct orbital supply from Carpathia itself, which carried its own risks.
When Chimera were left with little choice, they punched through some of the smaller buildings in the path to their objective. In this case, a sorry looking machine shop roughly a klick short of their objective. Weather-beaten, shuttered against the dusty wind; daubed in gaudy separatist graffiti. Its roof was a mushroom cluster of boxy air handling vents and cooling towers. Multiple points of entry. Multiple targets too, judging by the activity on Damien's sensor suite.
Damien drew close to the building, crouching cautiously. The sensor could be spoofed. Eric had taught them that in their first week. With the city's sanitation system fully inoperable for over a month, vermin were everywhere. Twice he had asked Kaizen to recalibrate his system to register max level bio-signs only. Still, better to be safe than sorry.
A brief hand signal and Chimera formed up, stacking on a large wooden door secured by a rusted chain. Rashid took a position on the far side of the door, quietly snapping the chain with his hands. He slid his combat knife into the crack between the doors, levering it into the lock mechanism. Rashid held it there, and gave Damien a single nod, awaiting the command.
Damien flashed the go signal.
The door exploded outward, reduced to matchstick wood by a deluge of fire whickering out from the depths of the shop. Rashid flinched back, armour scarred and shields piping. Thick holes punctuated the butchered wood, which banged and shook on its fraught hinges. He looked back at Damien and shook his head.
No good, they knew we were coming.
Storm-clearance was all about speed, communication. methodology. Basic drill-work: hit fast, strike hard. Ordinarily, Chimera would do as any UNSC fire team would: stacking on doorways, prefacing any assault with breaching charges and flash grenades, tearing ruthlessly through the dun smoke; checking corners and hugging the walls. Clearances would be called when all was done and the target structure reduced to a broken, empty shell of a building.
But the Insurrectionists had planned well. Each block of houses was tightly packed in on top of one another; compact miners' homes designed for shift-gangs flushed through on a temporary cycle. Prefabricated for the most part, though much of it had been dressed up in local stonework; a local affectation oft-repeated across the galaxy. The rebels used the cramped density to their advantage: knocking internal walls through from one house to another, turning a each block of a dozen houses into a single warren, a twisting inter-connected maze of short-cuts where insurgents could melt through and reform their attack from unexpected angles. Mouse-holes, the tunnels were called.
The sorry little machine shop was no different. The insurgents had levelled a bi-pod mounted machine gun at the doorway, aimed squarely at head height. It was a Felkannon .50 calibre support piece; a well maintained relic that had likely spent decades buried in a back room in some idealists' attic, and was only now being put to dangerous use.
In the ensuing battles to come, it was telling that the majority of UNSC fatalities recorded during the initial assault of New Cadiz were decapitations. Every doorway became a potential kill point; either booby trapped or used as a focal point for lurking ambushers. It would take days for UNSC ground forces to properly secure the city properly; weeks, even. Time Chimera simply did not have.
Damien did what was necessary. He glanced at the building once more, confirming his plan with a check of the TACPAD bolted onto his wrist. Kaizen pulled the specs on the structure from what little semblance of the local ChatterNet remained. A double height pitched roof, with light provided by auto-tinting skylights peeking out through the jumble of boxy air handling units. Two storeys; a harsh climb for a physically fit man, but little more than a running jump and a clamber for the average Spartan. Damien relayed his instructions via hand gestures.
One thing the Innies had not planned for was their attackers being Spartans. A conventional foe they could have resisted; stubbornly, until inevitable bombardment would dislodge them from their nests, likely annihilating most of the city in the process. Not so with the Spartans. They were military precision perfected, encased in almost impenetrable armour, and buffered by a robust shield system to boot.
This granted the Spartans a certain leeway in their approach to combat. A certain level of creativity was allowed for. A certain Flair, as Luke called it. A machine gun might damage a Spartan, even kill them with the right concentration of sustained fire. Damien had no intention of letting that happen. The insurgents had braced for a conventional assault, against conventional foes. They hunkered down by windows, trained machine guns on the doorway; watching all normal points of entry. In breathless panic, they hid behind the smoking barrel of the heavy bipod, sweat-soaked and terrified.
Acknowledgement lights went green on all fronts.
Go.
Skylights burst in overhead and Chimera descended, weapons blazing.
Safely removed from the bloodshed on the muted hush of the Carpathia's bridge, Rebecca watched Chimera's vitals collectively spike as they tore an eastern trail across the city. She had killed the video feed shortly after landfall, choosing instead to monitor the heart rates and adrenaline readings on the tactical display. Even so, the audio feed was enough to make her palms sweat and stomach lurch.
Rebecca had quickly realised that she wasn't entirely cut out for this war business. Until now it had seemed like an adventure. Being whisked away to a top secret program on the very edge of human space. Told secret things, laden with import. Classified this, and classified that. It had all seemed tremendously exciting at first; romantic, almost.
She closed her eyes, screwing them shut, but the after images from the initial landfall remained, seared into her memory with all the soothing subtlety of a branding iron.
"Status, Doctor?" a filtered voice said behind her.
Rebecca jumped. Eric had an unfortunate habit of appearing out of nowhere; an impressive feat for an eight foot death machine. Rebecca sighed and peeled off her headset, settling it around her neck. If he noticed the subtle quake of her hands, he didn't mention it. She looked up and saw herself reflected in the golden visor. Even with its tint, she looked pale, washed out.
"No red flags, Eric. Chimera are holding up. Standard combat reflexes, well within standard Spartan operating parameters."
"Excellent. Keep me informed."
The audio spiked as another breaching charge detonated. Tinny gunfire rattled up from the speakers of her her headset. Another clearance report, calmly delivered by Chidinma this time. Rebecca turned about in her chair. She looked deathly pale.
"You must be proud, Eric."
"Doctor?"
"Two hours in and rock-solid. Two hundred confirmed kills, with countless more possible. They're every inch the killers you expected them to be."
"Spartans, Doctor." Eric corrected automatically.
Rebecca smiled wryly, saying nothing. Another doorway exploded in fire; more gunfire, screams. She'd best get used to it. After all, Chimera's activation had ultimately been her responsibility. Rebecca swallowed the lump in her throat, and turned to the display monitors, settling the headphones back on her head.
The com pinged. It was Damien.
"Spartan 451 to Carpathia, come in Carpathia."
There was a note of urgency in the fire team leader's voice. Rebecca snatched up her headset.
"This is Carpthia. Go ahead 451."
"We're just short of the main aquaduct. Estimated range; five hundred metres. I don't know if you're seeing this, but we've got crowds congregating ahead of our position over. Looks like militia sympathisers, but most of them aren't armed."
"What's the call, 451?" Eric said, as he patched in.
"They haven't seen us yet, Sir. Request permission to disperse tear gas before advancing, over."
"Get me a visual." Eric said to Rebecca.
For the first time in two hours, Rebecca flipped back on the visual feed from Chimera's helmet cams. The Spartans were crouched low in the shade of a side street, looking over at a throng of people mobbing the block of low-rise houses ahead. The homes were in one of the lower income parts of the city. Scaffolding rose up over the rooftops like skeletal fingers, grasping at the burning sun overhead. The crowds clung to them, crouching low on the slate rooftops, milling about the streets below. A few isolated gunmen walked amongst them, occasionally firing in the air as excitement got the better of them.
Vagrant youths stalked back and forth like caged animals, chanting, whooping. Some threw stones and all jostled for a better view of what lay out of sight. Younger children, perhaps as young as six or seven, ran back and forth, carrying flags and packets of ammunition, excited and terrified by the intoxicating chaos; giddy, heedless of the danger. The mob were forming a screen, beyond which armed insurgents were firing down upon the target convoy advancing up the dried up aquaduct, just out of sight.
Eric leaned forward and keyed the com.
"451, this is Chimera Actual. Rules of engagement are clear: neutralise any armed hostiles and disperse the remaining crowd. Minimise civilian casualties."
"Copy, Chimera Actual." Damien replied, rising to his feet and nodding to Rashid with a wave of his hand.
Chimera Four slapped a grenade into his breach-loaded launcher, snapping it shut with a satisfying clack. There was a hollow phunk as the grenade arced up into the air, twirling in the midday sun. It slapped down in the midst of the crowd, before tumbling to a rolling stop. The crowd didn't react, not immediately. They were too busy focusing on the beleaguered UNSC column on the far side of the building. Then the gas filters hissed to life, venting swirling coils of thick green smoke into the air. The crowd erupted with a surprised shriek and barked shouts of panic as the mist consumed them. The gun men barked at one another, a mix of different languages.
Damien waved Chimera forward. They rose up out of the shadows of the side street, striding forward, spreading out in a wide line. Luke tossed a second smoke grenade. Rashid's grenade launcher thumped twice more as they advanced. The smoke rose high and thick, choking the street. The world became a cloying green, swirling blur.
"Thermals." Damien instructed.
Kaizen worked smoothly, synching her target identification software with the viewfinder lenses integrated within Chimera's VISR suite. As the crowd rushed toward them, blindly clawing at each other with gnarled hands and streaming eyes, the insurgents bearing arms were tagged and categorised as viable combat targets; neatly outlined by red targeting boxes. Chimera stalked through the blinding smoke. They didn't need to open fire. Gauntlets and rifle butts broke bone and burst flesh. Slicing knife work thumped home with wet smacks.
Rebecca quietly averted her eyes from the display as Eric looked on, nodding in approval.
Damien pulled a sweating, trampled man back to his feet as he marched against the tide. The man pulled a knife and lashed out drunkenly. A mistake. Damien broke the man's wrist and simply shoved him back into the surging mayhem, moving on. The scrambling crowd churned around them, desperate to escape the maelstrom. Blind animal panic took over as they fled into the streets beyond.
"Clear visual on isolated Red Flag, upper rooftop." Chidinma reported, pausing to line up a shot with her anti-material rifle. An insurgent had appeared on an overlooking ledge, squinting down into the twisting smoke below.
"Take him."
The rifle thundered. The red box vanished as the sniper tumbled from his perch.
"Tango down."
The Spartans vaulted up into the building the Insurrectionist gunmen had previously occupied, taking overwatch positions. Damien moved to a window and sighted down his BR-85. In the distance, RCT Charlie sat exposed on the water duct, trails of smoke rising up from where vehicles had been torn apart by determined AT fire.
On the Carpathia, Chimera's com channel came alive once more.
"Sir, we have eyes on the convoy."
Eric nodded at Rebecca. She tapped a key and Damien's VISR-cam filled the central display.
"Sit-rep?"
"Grim, Sir."
"Get to it Chimera One, Chimera Actual out."
Overhead, rotors whooping, Falcon air assault landers began thumping over the aquaduct, their weapon crews unloading into the insurgents lurking in the ruins on the far side of the water duct. Drones buzzed far overhead, eerily omniscient as they unloaded rockets into targets unseen. Chidinma looked up at them, envious of their sky. General Stape's air support had finally arrived.
"You heard the man, Chimera, we've a job to do. And I, for one, don't want to let the flyboys have all the fun. Let's move!"
Rapid footfalls rang out against the high ceiling of the dimly lit mineshaft.
Military boots, sand-encrusted and weather-worn, marched into the chamber with purposeful intent. There were three men, wrapped in dust cloaks, storm goggles and shaven headed. Sweat glistened on their foreheads, sun burnt and red-raw from a hard morning's fighting. You could smell the burnt cordite lingering on their clothes, clinging to them like ingrained cigarette smoke. Each carried modern military hardware, heavily customised; ranging from heavy ballistic scopes to padded stocks - no two were alike.
They marched into a large cavernous chamber, itself a hive of activity. The centre of the room was arranged not unlike a UNSC war-room; a central command module mounted on an elevated stage, propped up by a robust set of steel lattice struts and accessed by skeletal metal steps. Large banners declaring allegiance to the United Liberation Front swept down, deep and crimson. The rest of the chamber was a hastily converted war-room: mobile power generators hummed and throbbed, as thick cables snaked across the floor. Packing crates, loaded with the high grade UNSC munitions had been broken open, and brimmed with lethal hardware. Heavy clumps of industrial-grade blasting munitions clumped ominously along the edges of the mineshaft, strewn along girders and supporting joists; expertly wired. The ULF's elite guard, fully armoured in surplus UNSC gear stood watchful at the edges of the chamber.
Insurgents bustled to and fro, though the crowds parted for the three veterans; stone killers all.
They snapped to attention before a tall, imposing man in a long black coat. Age had rendered his pale flesh gaunt, and his smooth hairless scalp and unblinking eyes unnerved even them. This was a man who had seen things, done things. It was difficult to gauge his age: while his body was strong and powerful beneath the dark coat, his voice indicated a man close to his late fifties, and faint surgical-tissue behind his ears and at the base of his jaw line spoke of a man who had worn many faces over his long journey to the dark tunnels beneath New Cadiz. His appearance had a regal quality, and his blue eyes seldom demonstrated expression beyond the faintest twitch of disapproval.
Three crisp salutes were answered with a solemn one in return. The man in the black coat bowed his head as he conversed with the new arrivals, who gruffly produced a small recording black box, before he turned and ascended the steps leading up to the main briefing dais. There, the main the black coat joined a shorter, younger man, who hunched over the tactical readouts, his brow furrowed deep in thought.
Al'Hajar was not a particularly tall man, nor was he particularly well muscled or built. Slim and handsome where the man in the black coat was imperious and reptilian, Al'Hajar was warm and enthusiastic to those on his side; ruthless and cruel to those who were not. A hard lifetime of dogged resistance to the UNSC had not sapped his energy. Bright, intelligent eyes and a neatly groomed beard shot with white. His name was doubtless a code name, adopted by some ancient oath against the UEG.
Al Hajar, codenamed Black Stone by the UNSC intelligence community, was wanted on a half dozen planets for countless acts of terrorism. Targeted assassinations, public bombings, funding and inspiring local cell leaders; Al'Hajar was a man of startling contrasts. For all this ruthlessness, he never missed a day's prayer. He never drank, seldom swore, and yet would kill a busload of people and sleep like a baby. Even in spite of his commanding role, Black Stone was not afraid to get his hands dirty; being a notoriously savage fighter when required.
For that, his men loved him.
And they truly were his men, it had to be said. It stood testament to his magnetism that so many disparate groups flocked to his cause. He was more than simple fundamentalist. While he doubtless had the support of fanatics, who followed his religious devotion and joined him in prayer, his charisma and tactical nous had a wider appeal to radicals from further afield. The anarcho-Christians respected his keen tactical mind and open willingness to take on the UNSC in their own backyard. The more right wing elements, a thousand marginalised extremists from a hundred eclectic organisations, many of whom were secular, saw the opportunity for major civil unrest and seized it with two clenched fists.
It was his tactical brilliance that inspired their collective trust. He knew when to hit the UNSC, how to catch it off balance. A targeted assassination here, a public shooting or bombing campaign there - everything was precisely measured to cause the maximum carnage at the most opportune moment. ONI had devoted considerable resources in their efforts to eliminate Al'Hajar, and yet still he lived. The men had dubbed him The Lion of New Cadiz, praising his courage to so openly declare his resistance to the UEG.
Without him, the insurgency's cohesion would collapse overnight.
Al'Hajar smiled as his most trusted advisor approached.
"Well, Conrad," Al'Hajar's voice was upbeat, but the man Al'Hajar knew as Conrad Hedeker could feel the tension in it. The Lion of New Cadiz wanted to be out there, fighting alongside his men. "What's the word from the front?"
Conrad Hedeker stood with his hands clasped at the small of his back, chin tucked to his chest as he mulled over the map of the city.
The display lit up where his hands touched the floating images; red circles isolating and identifying the three major flashpoints across the city.
"They hit us with orbital strikes; ODST and other Special Forces, most likely," Hedeker's voice was precise; dispassionate and business like. "No bombardment, at least for now."
The three red circles pulsating like sores on the tactical overlay.
"Hard contact drops, directly targeted to reinforce their beleaguered southern convoys. We suspect it's the UNSC Carpathia, supported by two vessels of a similar tonnage."
"The Carpathia?"
"UNSC Frigate, Charon-class. Captained by a Captain Reade. Reliable officer, though not particularly brilliant. She's not the one calling the shots, however."
Heddeker waved his hand once more. A single portrait of a grizzled man in a spotless Army uniform, bedecked with medals rose up above the display. A haggard face; bloodshot eyes. The image was time-stamped and marked Classified, eyes-only. It dated from two weeks ago. A dozen illegal black ops scrolled past. There was more redaction than actual text.
"Observe: one General William Frederick Stape, commander of the JSF operating in the Granica System. Thirty year veteran. We've fought alongside one another before, in one form or another. The Second Battle of Harvest. Then Reach, then Earth in '56. Ground commander by trade: brusque, no-nonsense, efficient. Enjoys making an entrance; not ideally suited to police action such as this. I would refer you to his penchant for Orbital Strikes and deploying advanced Special Forces."
Another drift of his hands panned the display past a litany of harrowing battle reports. Hedeker continued speaking, dispassionate to the point of apparent boredom.
"An opponent to be feared, certainly, but it's not so much what he's doing that interests me…" Hedeker's eyes tightened, "… but rather who he's using to do it."
Hedeker nodded down at one of his lieutenants. The soldier inserted the data chip into the underside of the map display's belly. Video footage, shaky and static-shot, overlaid itself over the biographical data-pane.
Gunfire raining down on a convoy. Mortar fire, wild and sporadic. Cloudbursts of shrapnel blasting into the air. Flak, thrown up by a half dozen crude field pieces across the city.
The image cut to street level. A UNSC soldier sprinting across the street, bullets dashing at his heels, hurling himself through a doorway. The viewpoint jerked upwards, zoomed out. There was a dazzling lens flare as the viewfinder auto-adjusted. Then drop pods; shrieking darts of fire ripped across the clear morning sky. Panicked fingers pointed up at them, as the rebels reacted to the unexpected meteor shower. An impact detonation; clouds of billowing dust washing across the frame, obscuring it, some two blocks away. Then pandemonium of a tide, savagely turned.
The focus shifted, tracking something moving. Too fast to see. Whoever was operating the camera didn't live to see what killed them. The camera was suddenly on the floor, staring into the unblinking eye of its former owner.
Al'Hajar managed a blink of his own in surprise.
"I don't understand."
"Watch again." Hedeker said quietly. "Look closer."
With a little wave and loop of his wrist, Hedeker rewound the image. The camera leapt back up into the hands of its owner. The earth spat forth drop pods which shot back up into the air. Dust-wash receded into the ground, burned in by glinting lens-flare. Gunfire. Then -
Hedekker slaped the display with an open palm. The image froze.
It was a blur, one too massive to be a proper human. Blue armour, a hulking, sculpted giant; as much tank as it was Greek hero. It's BR-85 was painted squarely at the camera.
The colour visibly drained from Al'Hajar's face.
Nobody in the chamber moved for a moment. A hush fell over the bustling cavern, as all eyes fell on the image shown. The ULF elite guards exchanged nervous glances. Eventually Al'Hajar spoke. His voice was barely a whisper.
"So it's true then. They're here."
A low chuckle filled the chamber. Hedeker wore an unsettling smile.
"You should be flattered. It's not every day the UNSC sends a Spartan." Hedeker replied mirthfully. Then his eyes narrowed, noticing something. He spread his hands out, as though peeling apart an imaginary curtain.
The frame zoomed in on the unit logo decorating the giant's chest. A single white circle framing a roaring mutant; part lion, part goat, part snake; a beast, all crouched and ready to pounce.
A mongrel, snarling thing.
Hedeker smile softened, as though recognising an old friend. It was an expression so seldom as to unnerve even Al'Hajar.
"Interesting." Hedeker mused aloud.
Al'Hajar glared at Hedeker.
"You know these things?" Al'Hajar pointedly refused to call them people.
"A passing familiarity, you might say. My, but it has been some time."
"This changes everything."
The older man's artic-blue eyes never left the display.
"Yes… yes, I rather expect it does." Conrad Hedeker said faintly.
Al'Hajar looked at Hedeker fiercely.
"And you'll take care of it?" Al'Hajar was busying himself with casualty reports from the western flank. "Kill them now, quickly, and be done with it."
Hedeker looked back unblinking. He smiled, coldly.
"Of course, Al'Hajar."
With that Hedeker turned smartly and clopped his way down the stairs. His three lieutenants attended him; McBride, Pershing, Petrovic. His best men, gifted operators to a man. Their loyalty was absolute.
"Al'Hajar expects results." he said to them privately, "And our mission clock is ticking. It's time to escalate. Do we have a possible target location?"
McBride, a slab-jawed monster of a man produced a holo-map projected by his neural lace. It rotated in the palm of his hand. Pershing reached across and plucked the map from the air, lighting it up and enlarging it on his own TACPAD. Pershing was a compact but well made man, with dangerous eyes and a no-nonsense manner.
"We've lost contact with the ambush team engaging the southern column along the MSR. Over the next half hour, coms went dark from Ambush Teams Fifteen through Thirty Four, along this route here."
"That's over ninety men." Pershing added pointedly.
Hedeker considered this with pursed lips.
"They're heading east, then."
"Toward the waterway, yes Sir. Our reports indicate they're moving toward the eastern column."
Hedeker rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"To reinforce the eastern convoy pushing the water duct. How many men do we have stationed there?"
"Three hundred, possibly more if the locals commit."
"I mean proper fighters; ones with real commitment."
"A hundred men, or thereabouts, Sir.."
"A pity to lose so many, but it should buy you some time to get established. McBride, head for the Dahkar Market, two klicks northwest. You'll receive our guests there. Pershing, you have your orders - move to your assigned position and await my signal."
The last person Hedeker turned to Petrovic, his sour-faced demolitions expert. A Kosolovic diehard, but UNSC trained and - like the others - ODST qualified.
"Preparations are proceeding as planned?"
The flint-eyed engineer nodded once, confidently.
"Excellent."
The man they knew as Hedeker fixed them with a look.
"No mistakes, gentlemen. We only get one shot at this."
The men paused for a moment. Then they saluted in unison.
"Sic Semper Tyrannus, Comrade Hedeker." Petrovic said fiercely.
Conrad Hedeker returned it sagely, meaning it. He was, after all, consigning each of them to their deaths.
"Sic Semper Tyrannus, gentlemen. Fight well."