Eagles Over Earth
Chapter 12: May Interbellum
May 1, 2020
Classified Location, United States
Looking at his Commander's face, Michael McNeil became convinced that he recognized him. Commander "Cooper" was someone else, most certainly, but he still couldn't place exactly who.
McNeil snapped away from his memory to listen more closely to his leader's words, mindful that any lapse of attention would be noticed immediately – if not by the Commander, then likely by the rest of the soldiers listening to this briefing.
"This war is far from over, but we're much closer to understanding the aliens on multiple fronts," the Commander was saying. "Thanks to Korba and Nishimura in particular, our interrogations of aliens have yielded invaluable research."
McNeil nodded. He'd observed the interrogation of the captured Sectoid firsthand, thanks to an invitation from the Commander, and had initially thought it was torture, with two huge Tesla coil-like devices repeatedly zapping the alien's head. Dr. Vahlen assured the audience that the setup was meant to extract information rather than deliberately inflict pain.
McNeil could've guessed otherwise once the alien began flailing around like a drowning victim. He'd never felt sympathy for the invaders, but he knew pain when he saw it.
"That's in addition to the wealth of alien materials secured in the past months, something Drs. Vahlen and Shen would like to extend their sincerest appreciation for."
Not all the supplies had been secured by XCOM, though. Two days ago, a scout UFO had been sighted and shot down over Finland, but it happened to crash right next to a major GDI base at Hammerfest, negating the need for XCOM ground deployment. The next day, XCOM HQ received several crates of alien alloys and other materials, plus an itemized bill for a replacement Mammoth Tank, signed by a "Colonel N. S. Parker". He was pretty sure it was meant as a joke; there was no way a heavy tank only cost 80085 credits.
"Thanks to those efforts, we've been able to develop and manufacture a new type of body armor, dubbed 'carapace armor' by the engineering staff. I won't shock you with a live fire demonstration this time, since I'm told it's more effective than any other type on this planet. We'll produce six sets, enough to rotate among full squads."
McNeil and others nodded appreciatively. New body armor was always a plus.
"My final order for today is: take a break. You've earned it."
"Sir?" McNeil said.
"You heard me. I'll deploy myself if the need arises, so go – you've got the day off, soldiers." He motioned towards the crate. "To that end, this is for you."
The Commander pried open the lid to reveal a staggering variety of alcoholic drinks. Most of the soldiers' jaws dropped. The Russians practically swooned.
"All yours." The Commander winked. "Don't tell the Council."
That evening, when McNeil next stepped into the rec room, it was totally transformed. For one, all of the furniture was moved around, and it took him a moment to reorient himself with the pool table missing and most of the couches moved. The disco ball also was new; wherever had that come from?
At the bar, Solovyova was serving as bartender. She wasn't much taller than the countertop but that inconvenient fact didn't slow her down, as she took request after request for all of the cocktails the soldiers were ordering. Several empty bottles of beer were already neatly arranged in a bowling pin formation. McNeil ordered a shot of vodka from his fellow team leader and ambled over to a table with Pavlova, who was already slumped over, and Torres, picking away at a cup of chocolate ice cream.
"Hey, Torres." McNeil pulled out a chair and plopped down.
"McNeil." Torres gave a little smile at him. "Don't worry about Ana, by the way. As the medic, I can tell you she's fine."
"Yes, I'm… so fine…" Pavlova mumbled. "So fine."
McNeil turned his attention towards the wider room, which rang with an upbeat piano tune as Sidorov played and Zhang attentively listened close by. Meanwhile, Korba was dancing on a table, with many other soldiers staring in rapt attention. McNeil could not tell if Korba was drunk or not, but either way, their resident troublemaker had moves — moves that would definitely get him thrown out of a church or any polite society, but moves nonetheless.
"What kind of dance is that?" McNeil thumbed at Korba.
"I think…" Torres hesitated, as if seriously trying to describe him. "I think he's trying to flaunt his masculinity."
Not a second later, Korba took off his shirt, waved it around, then threw it to the side. An uproar of laughs and cheers went up, and someone even yelled, "Pants next!" McNeil groaned and looked further around to notice two people leaning against a wall. It took him a moment to realize they were Parnell and Kwan, ignorant of the wider party, shirtless Greeks included.
"Are they...?" McNeil muttered, not sure what the right words were. For all the augmentations in his eyes, he wasn't sure if he could quite believe the sight of his brutal best friend and their depressed cyborg chatting so close.
Torres shrugged, noncommittal. "I did her makeup, if you're wondering."
"That's very kind of you," McNeil automatically replied. "Wait, you have makeup on base? Is that allowed?"
Torres flashed a smile and batted her eyes. Her lips were redder than McNeil was used to. "We girls have to keep some secrets."
McNeil spent the next few minutes unsuccessfully prying for those secrets when the piano suddenly halted.
"Oi, what's going on?" Guo shouted, unexpectedly close to their table. McNeil hadn't even noticed him, but then again, that was the point of covert operatives.
"We're starting karaoke!" Nishimura shouted back. "You want to try?"
"Do I want to try? Oh, I can do more than try."
Guo sauntered to the front of the room, where the TV turned on and began displaying song lyrics. Then, he picked up a microphone and matched them word for word. After a few minutes on his own, Jun and Korba joined him, the three men belting out some of the cheesiest love songs McNeil had heard in years. After going through the album, they bowed and left the stage, leaving it open for anyone to follow.
"Karaoke, huh?" McNeil said. "Have you ever done it, Torres?"
"It's not my type. Why don't you give it a try?"
"You're on." McNeil rose to feet, blue disco lights playing along his face as he approached the stage, put on a pop album, and began to sing.
It went terribly. The only thing consistent was how off-tone and off-beat he was. Never playing a musical instrument in his life probably contributed to that.
"McNeil, this is something you are not winning," Korba, his shirt back on, told him first. Guo and Nishimura said similar things, if less politely, and McNeil finally conceded the stage, making sure to grab rum and coke from Solo's bar before he sat down at Torres' table again, her cup of ice cream since refilled.
"Better luck next time," Torres told him. Pavlova had already fallen asleep on the table, despite the exceedingly loud environment.
He wasn't too sure how many drinks he was on so far, but didn't feel excessively drunk yet. Perhaps Nod had improved his liver too. Still, he couldn't quite believe his eyes and ears when Zhang took the stage. Triad hitman by day, XCOM machine gunner by night… and singer on the side? Yet the bar was fairly vibrating with cheers by the time Zhang took his leave with a deep bow, and McNeil wasn't sure whether his ears would ever enjoy such a melody again.
Nishimura next put out an album in Japanese. The first few were quite celebratory, instant hits that she must've known would convince the soldiers to let her keep going. She too had a great voice, carrying a certain maturity not so different from Zhang's.
When she asked whether anyone else wanted to take over, there were no objections. Besides, anyone who would was probably too drunk to argue. So she put on the last song, and at the first drop, McNeil instantly understood the change in mood.
Though there were faint guitars in the background and the occasional strings, by and far, Nishimura's clear voice carried the room. The only English McNeil caught was "I love you…", but he didn't need to know Japanese to feel the melancholy and understand the meaning: of a chance lost, a person unforgettable, of mistakes made.
As Nishimura continued and a few people dried their eyes, McNeil thought of Navarro. She would have loved to be here. Maybe she would've joined a duet with him. Could she sing? He didn't know, and that hurt. Hell, even Aerts would've been great to have here. In the mere hours McNeil had to know his squad leader, he sounded like he'd be a great man at parties. Or anywhere else except for the memorial wall.
He missed them both, and ambled over to the bar to order something strong from Solovyova, drink and memory and regret and love coming together in a deep haze.
The next morning, McNeil tried to clear his mind by cleaning up the rec room, still a mess from the party. He figured it was the responsible thing squad leaders were supposed to do, though he was more than a little disheartened to see no one else had woken up yet. Nod must've done something to his liver, he figured. He wasn't sure whether to thank them or curse them.
First, he picked up all the empty glass bottles and continued Solo's bowling pin formation, adding enough to make nearly six full rows on the counter. With a mop and water from the sink, he began scrubbing away the stains from the floor. It reminded him of punishments in basic training, but a mop was more capable than a toothbrush. And it sure as hell beat cleaning the bathrooms after taco night.
"Hello, sir!" a young woman's voice chirped from behind. He spun around so quickly the redhead who had greeted him took a step back, but she recovered her poise fast. "Are you the janitor?" she asked.
McNeil was so stunned, he couldn't even think of a response. Who was this person – a new soldier, staff he'd never met, or an infiltrator? And what kind of opening question was that?
"Uh, no," he managed to sputter out. "I'm Michael McNeil. I'm a soldier, not a janitor."
"So what's with the golden glowing legs?"
McNeil spent a too-long second contemplating how to explain his Meld augmentations when a new voice entered the room, one that immediately relaxed McNeil a little.
"What kind of janitors do you know, lady?" Parnell, his hair a complete mess, rubbed his hand on his forehead, whether in exhaustion, disbelief or condescension. "Ahem. I'm Robert Parnell. Also a soldier here at XCOM, not a janitor. And you are…?"
"Specialist Janet Glenn." She straightened up, as if introducing herself to a four-star general, not two hungover men. "Former GDI Special Forces Paragon Squad, and current XCOM soldier."
"You're a new arrival, then."
She nodded. "I got here fifteen minutes ago with my squad and another, Martlet."
"Wait, two new squads?" McNeil and Parnell locked bloodshot eyes with one another. Two full reinforcement squads nearly doubled their troop roster. The Council must have been expecting serious trouble to expand XCOM by that much.
"So why are you here alone?" McNeil pointed out. Looking at her more closely, McNeil realized how young she was. She couldn't have been more than twenty with a baby face like that.
"Oh, I'm just exploring. Especially since it looks like I missed something." Glenn pointed towards McNeil's arrangement of bottles on the bartop. "What happened?"
"You didn't miss a thing," Parnell said.
Glenn tilted her head. McNeil carefully followed her line of sight to Parnell's neck, where a lip-sized bruise poked out above his shirt.
Don't say it, McNeil thought. For your own sake, don't you dare say it. He'll kill if you do.
"Is that a–"
"You missed a huge party to celebrate our victories, but don't worry, we'll have one next month," McNeil spat out as fast as he could. "Assuming you survive, of course."
Glenn wheeled towards him. "Assuming I survive? How bad is it?"
"You really have no idea? Parnell, by the way, you can start mopping."
"That an order?"
"A suggestion, for now, but it's a mess down here." And so are you, McNeil thought, but it seemed Parnell got the message. "Glenn. Let me talk to your squad. You deserve to know what you're getting into."
Leo Ryan could have greeted the newest arrivals too, but he was too busy finishing a letter to his family. While there was no guarantee it would be delivered, he felt it urgently important, if only to calm his own nerves.
He wasn't sure where the tension was coming from. For one, the fighter pilots had incredibly comfortable rooms – queen-size beds, a personal fridge for drinks of choice, and even their own TVs, though the channels were limited. Ryan was fairly certain only the lead staff – the Commander, Dr. Shen, and Dr. Vahlen – had better hooches, and it recalled a joke about Air Force men asking why there was a scorpion in their hotel room.
But how exactly could he describe the thrill and terror of air combat against aliens? He put his pen to paper again, and tried to let honesty flow.
First of all, Nicole, don't read this to the girls.
You've asked me what it's like to engage in air combat. I'll tell you now.
It's insane and thrilling and so incredibly scary. You're flying a mile every moment, in an aircraft worth its weight in gold, against enemies just as expensive and powerful. Imagine the steady chime of a lock-on signal and the distant glare of the enemy craft. Speed, altitude, and everything else from the instruments are already ingrained in me by the time I engage. All that matters in the fight is me and my enemy. The battles don't last more than thirty seconds – thirty seconds, out of thirty-five years of life. Put pressure on the missile and gun triggers to fire, make a sharp turn of the joystick to evade.
And just like that, it's over. Little explosions in the distance, a long trail of smoke towards the earth, and a deep, relieved breath. I've won.
Isn't that one of the first things I said to you, when you asked what I did for a living? "Honey, I win, all the time, every time." It's still true, stupid as I must have sounded in that airman's bar. (Don't tell the girls this yet, either. They should think their dad is intelligent, before they realize they get it all from you.)
Stay safe, Nicole. And girls, stay on your best behavior.
Yours,
Leo
Good enough. He neatly folded the letter and moved it next to his bedside, when a sharp knock on the door caused him to shoot his head up.
"Come in," he said, fully expecting and then seeing his wingman Gauthier step inside.
"What did you write this time?" Gauthier asked.
"The shootdown. Don't worry, I kept it vague enough to avoid the censors."
Gauthier nodded. He didn't write to anyone, insofar as Ryan knew. Instead, he motioned for the draft letter. Ryan obliged and handed it over. Gauthier read it in a short minute, then handed it back.
Ryan half-expected a long, elaborate psychoanalysis of the contents.
"You're feeling lonely, aren't you?" Gauthier instead asked. Ryan hesitated, leading to his wingman rolling his eyes. "You're hereby allowed to admit the truth."
"It's not just that I miss them, much as I do… it's that I have to be responsible for them, too." Ryan felt the words spill out of him. "When I married Nicole, the first thing I realized was that she was going to be the most important person in my life, someone I could never let go of. Now, I've got two little girls who are just like her. Three times the responsibility, you might say."
"Ah, it's that we're no longer young and free."
"Right." Ryan leaned back in his chair. "Funny you mention that, actually. There's another thing – it's whenever I see the soldiers on base, I notice they're so young. I don't think any of them except for Zhang are over thirty. They don't have much to lose."
Gauthier raised an eyebrow. "That comes off as harsh."
"Goddammit, I'm jealous. Not so long ago, I could push myself beyond any sane limit and risk myself for anything. I could hop into a T-38 and blow through a canyon at Mach 1.1, because why the hell not? Now every time I go up in the King Raptor, I can't stop thinking of Nicole and the girls, knowing that they're down there waiting for me."
Gauthier went into a thoughtful quiet, but broke the silence quickly.
"How do you know your date with a fighter pilot is half over?" he asked.
Ryan groaned, but finished the joke. "He says 'but enough about me — wanna hear about my plane?"
"So I'm sure Nicole is all right. She survived your dates. She can – she will – keep your family together, too."
"Thanks, Gauthier. I… needed to hear that."
Walking through the quiet halls of XCOM base, the Commander clenched his hands against his rifle and pistol, remembering the burning heat and cold he'd once carried both weapons through. He remembered the horrified screams of enemy soldiers, trying to hold in their innards as he stepped past, not enough ammo left to give them a mercy kill…
He stopped at the firing range. With his soldiers, new and old alike, conducting drills together in the hangar, that gave him just under an hour to practice here. With a swipe of his hand, he let himself in, his careful steps making almost no noise on the cold concrete floor. Just like how he was taught, all those years ago.
"Target sequence: alien infantry, sprinting, all axes," he called out. "Battlefield conditions: urban."
In response to his order, the range began to set up a series of fast-moving targets of cutout aliens. Worn steel barricades also popped up and several loudspeakers began blaring with simulated gun and plasma fire, for a maximally immersive challenge – thankfully, the heavy sound insulation shielded his working staff from the spectacle.
In chaos that would've frozen most people, the Commander took a deep breath and felt himself at ease, even as he locked onto a Sectoid cutout, dashing from cover to cover against the backdrop of intense suppressing fire.
He fired a single shot, the silenced round crossing one hundred meters in one twelfth of a second, and the cardboard Sectoid shattered. Another immediately rose to replace it – and it too was erased, the Commander feeling only the slight kickback of his advanced rifle against his shoulder. The aliens didn't fight like people, but they died like them – messily and painfully. Of course, their attacks would intensify further. He would have to be ready.
Two Thin Men cutouts appeared next, snaking through a particularly smoky cover. He nailed them both. The Brotherhood of Nod was the next-greatest concern, only a smidge less worse than the aliens themselves. Despite the fierce battles in Hong Kong and Shenzhen, he knew there were many more cells lurking about, waiting to take advantage of the alien invasion or GDI's response.
A Floater dropped from above, but his rifle was out of ammunition. He exchanged the rifle for his pistol and put three shots into the Floater's body, sending it to the ground with a clang. So if the aliens were going to escalate and Nod was going to make more moves, what did that mean for him? He had to draw upon and employ all of his blood-cost lessons from the Tiberium War – the foremost being to expect the unexpected. Against Nod, that lesson saved lives. Against the aliens, it could save the world.
The drill ended and he set down his weapons, satisfied with his performance and needing some time to consider more specific issues.
First on his mind was Zhang's device, a fist-sized thing resembling a CD player more than what he expected of an alien artifact. Vahlen and Shen were cagey whenever he asked them about it, but other scientists had whispered it was a homing beacon of some kind – a revelation that kept him up at night. With any luck, the two doctors wouldn't accidentally summon an alien mothership to park above XCOM HQ.
But if such a ship arrived, at least he could fight it with more than a shoestring budget. With XCOM's successes in rescuing Zhang, shooting down UFOs, saving Saint Petersburg, and now taking two aliens alive, the Council had dramatically expanded their mandate and funding. The second Skyranger, due to arrive tomorrow, was perhaps the most important asset and would double his reach as the aliens were launching more simultaneous attacks, though conventional GDI forces were reporting limited success in stopping smaller incursions.
For the aerial war, his King Raptors were fully outfitted with Phoenix cannons and Avalanche missiles. He was nothing but pleased to see that the Raptors were reliably taking down scout UFOs, as Hammerfest and Havoc's sophomoric bill had most recently proven. Research into heavy air-to-air laser weapons was well underway too, along with a brand-new aircraft to equip the first prototypes. With any luck, XCOM's weapons would become the standard for all GDI fighter aircraft within two months.
As for the new soldiers that had arrived, now there was a group with promise – in his commando days, any one of them would have been a worthy addition to his squad. They were aggressive, determined, and willing to learn. He could always use more, but reminded himself these were literally the best of the entire Global Defense Initiative.
So was he.
We are faltering. The Contamination spreads further. What is our progress here?
As we expected, they are learning quickly. Not without losses and a great division among their nations.
Losses are expected. What is this great division?
The echoes of a dead prophet, silenced by one nation, shouted by the other.
Will this interrupt the test?
No, it improves it. When pitted against each other, they strive further. They fill our moldings and crucibles. They will serve well.
If our war against the Contamination fails, we may not have another choice.
So the test continues.
We continue.
Author's Note: So, we have another interbellum chapter. Cookie points to anyone who can identify the last karaoke song Nishimura sings.
Also, I recently commissioned an art piece featuring a King Raptor taking down a UFO. hates links, but here it is for you (remove the spaces/indents to see it - I also posted it to r/commandandconquer, if Reddit is your thing).
imgur
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/ a/ LXNiLMh
Meanwhile, May was always one of my favorite months in Enemy Unknown. Stay tuned, because it's going to be a long, explosive month ahead.