CHAPTER FOUR
WORLDS IN COLLISION
"There's a period in any war between the first blow and the second. It's a quiet moment, an almost tranquil time, when the realization of what has happened is just sinking in and everyone feels they know what happens next. Some prepare to flee. Some prepare to hit back. But no one moves. Not yet. It's a perfect moment, the time when the ball is at the highest point of the throw. The action has been taken, and for one frozen moment everything is moving, but everything is at rest. Then there are those jackasses who can't leave such things alone. And the ball starts downward again, the second blow is thrown, and we plunge into the maelstrom."
Michael Liberty (2500), The Liberty Manifesto (Pirated Broadcast)
Hardheart Café, Downtown Tir Nanog
Bountiful, 36 Aegis System, Korprulu Sector
THERE was commotion by the doorway—instinctively, Raynor and the remainder of his men went for their weapons, ensconced in their booth in the dim of the Hardheart Café. Raynor felt the cold metal of his handgun under his calloused fingers—the revolver had a single bullet left, one last round left to dispatch the hierarch that had disposed of Kerrigan—but it looked like he might have to use it up sooner.
For in the doorway was the crumpled form of the bouncer, face flushed as if he had been deprived of respiration for quite awhile—and standing in the hallway was the unmistakable diagnostic silhouette of a Dominion Marine in a CMC-400 combat suit. Three black chevrons had been painted on his chestplate against the crimson background of his armor plating, and he had an Impaler gauss rifle in one hand, and behind him, a line of similarly armored soldiers. Visible on his armored buttressed shoulderplate was the phoenix insignia of the 616th Marine Division (Frontier)—and Raynor knew with a sure certainty that there would be no non-violent resolution. Yes, the Raiders had run—now run aground and they would have to face the consequences and the hunters arrayed against them.
"Do you know how to use one of these?" asked Raynor to Gardner, indicating a semiautomatic.
"No."
"Take it anyways."
The Marine sergeant planted himself in the doorway and remonstrated in cutting tones, his voice amplified by his helmet loudspeakers. "Attention! This is a routine search and sweep. Stay seated and place all weapons on the table. We will be coming to check IDs—nothing more. When you're done, you may go back to your business."
Right. Or else, if you get caught without a valid ID—you're gonna get fucked and ass raped.
Raynor understood the situation with a pristine clarity. The situation had presented itself, and there was only one method of egress available out of this quagmire.
He stood to address the table, and addressed his men slowly.
"Well, gentlemen—"
There was the frantic rattle of weapons fire nearby—and momentarily, Raynor thought he was dead.
Time skipped a beat, and calmly, Raynor looked down at his hands, flexed them—and found that he was still alive.
When he looked behind him, he saw several figures on the floor below, all firing on the intruding squad of Marines with small arms and an exacting accuracy. Already, the sergeant and the point men in the rifle section were already dead—killed by unarmored "soft" targets whose rounds had found their faceplates and their underlying cerebra. The rest of the Marines were now surging through the door headlong through the unabated fire, placing themselves in the "kill zone" as the anonymous shooters continued their return fire.
Raynor released a breath, then quietly examined his men to the left and to the right—all of the Raiders had their weapons drawn; Major Pereira was foremost amongst them, clutching a 7.62mm assault rifle with a quiet confidence as the curious firefight erupted beneath them.
"Well. Looks like someone else got the same idea. Let's ditch this fuckin' place."
Advanced Operating Base Steadfast, Tactical Operations Center
Terran Dominion Advanced Special Operations Command
Bountiful, 36 Aegis System, Korprulu Sector
Advanced Operating Base Steadfast (AOB Steadfast)'s extant existence was testament alone to the capacities and capabilities of the special operations logistical units of the Terran Dominion—in the nineteen hours since the capture of LSA Chenoweth at 1913 hours the previous evening, Contingency Strike Force One had deployed three of its five constituent force packages in force on the surface of Bountiful. Each of the deployed force packages numbered approximately sixty special operators and the requisite C2 and logistical personnel to sustain company-level special operations—these were Banshee Troop, Intruder Troop, and Specter Troop. Each of such Troops contained three platoon-size "conventional" (non-psionic) special operations forces and a variable detachment of "augmented" (psionic) special operations personnel (Ghosts) or else paramilitary operations officers from the Unified Intelligence Command.
Battlecruiser Vizier of the Monarch Carrier Battle Group (CBG-25) had already been forward deployed over Tir Nanog in order to provide immediate air interdiction or ground interdiction, should the Raiders make any overt attempt to escape by aircraft or groundborne transport from the city. Arrays of anti-aircraft batteries had already been emplaced by the Marines to encircle the city and enforce the airborne blockade—any aircraft or starship leaving Tir Nanog would be immediately intercepted without question.
The purpose of AOB Steadfast and installations of similar classification being erected around or inside Tir Nanog was to provide operating sites for the special operations forces of Contingency Strike Force One to launch reconnaissance patrols into the city, or should actionable intelligence emerge, conduct direct action raids.
AOB Steadfast had been constructed from what nineteen hours ago was an abandoned network of chemical storehouses and shipping crates nearby Tir Nanog's largest spaceport. In precise synchrony, serial flights of special operations capable Hercules transports had offloaded SCVs of the Special Operations Sustenance Command and modular pre-fabricated Dominion buildings—barracks and starports. The barracks were immediately colonized by the special operations personnel of Phantom Troop, whereas the starports served as forward refueling points for the extended Wraith patrols being flown over the city, as well as overflights by Raven UAVs on surveillance missions.
Meanwhile, the chemical storehouses had been cleared of IEDs and potential flammables, and were retrofitted into a makeshift groundside command-and-control facility for Contingency Strike Force One's headquarters—Commodore Son and his staff. Neosteel battle plate had been welded over pitted and corroded metal, whitewashing the despondent disrepair and turpitude of the warehouses and providing structure and substance for the C2 facility. Multiple sensor towers—phallic electronic sensor hubs and networked relays—studded the grounds at regular intervals, providing the emergent special operations fighting force with its "eyes"; its "ears" were afforded by discrete boutiques of miniaturized communications arrays adapted for special operations usage.
With Tir Nanog now fully in midday, the bloodshot orb of 36 Aegis had now reached its zenith in Bountiful's lucid skies—the towers and crenellations of Tir Nanog were now illuminated with strident light the color of arterial blood. As Commodore Son fixated his attention on the nearby city from the commanding vista afforded by AOB Steadfast's elevated command facilities, he could only divine an ominous portent from the bloodbathen city and the distant mechanical carrion circling its skies. Of the dozens of terrestrial and hostile worlds his campaigns and sojourns had taken him to, few had stars that provided such sinister illumination as Bountiful's own main sequence star of 36 Aegis.
His facilitator found him on the observation deck, hands clasped behind his back as he perused Tir Nanog's inflamed midday skyline.
"Commodore."
"Yes?"
"The 616th Frontier has not yet completed their deployment orders", said the Master Chief curtly.
Turning from the florid spectacle at the window, Son shook his head tersely. "Put them on the line."
An electronic trill met their ears—combat encrypters securing the channel as the secure link initialized.
"General Murray, this is Son. What's your disposition?"
Major General Murray was the Marine two-star commanded the 616th Frontier Division—in chiaroscuro counterdistinction to the special operations forces of Contingency Strike Force One, the Marines had yet to complete their deployment to their preassigned positions around the target city.
Murray's voice sounded as if forged from machine gun bullets. "1st and 3rd RCTs are surfaceborne and combat effective, as is my ADA battalion."
There was a pause. The electronic background noise—stray rogue electrons—became palpable.
"Do you know what a sieve is?" asked Son idly.
"What?"
"A sieve", Son began, "is a basket—with holes. Twelve hours ago, we discussed the appropriate position of the 616th Frontier's battle positions such that there are sufficiently small combat spacings around Tir Nanog. And in this discussion, we came to the conclusion that all four regimental combat teams must be deployed around the city in order to provide sufficient groundside interdiction capabilities.
"Navy is not in command of this operation!" barked Murray, the cyan 3D scanning lasers in the Tactical Operations Center showing that his corrugated cheeks were now inflamed. "We're still trying to offload the remaining regiments from the CBG."
Perhaps this is the diagnostic feature of incompetence, thought Son—irrational and unprovoked frustration elicited in response to inquiries.
"It doesn't matter if I'm from the Navy, Marines, Intelligence Service, or the Colonial Militia. What matters is that Raynor is in that city—and if his contingent tries to make a run on the ground and your Marines aren't there too—"
"Are you threatening me?"
"Yes", said Son wanly. "Perhaps a clarification of command organization would be in order."
"Yes, that would be welcome", said Murray heatedly—finally articulating the inchoate veins of seething distrust and indignance that had arose over the past few months, with this unbridled Special Forces officer impudently driving the reins on an entire Marine Expeditionary Force and Carrier Battle Group.
"Let us be clear here—Commodore. The last time I checked with Joint Forces Command, I was a O8", he said, referring to the rank of Major General, "and you were a one star."
"I would advise that you check, then, with Mengsk with who has OPCON for this operation", said Son coolly. "—And I wasn't aware that a higher rank was a license for incompetence. Concur or dispute?"
"Fuck you!"
"I want your remaining regimental combat teams deployed immediately", said Son. "If you are unwilling or unable to comply with this order—"
"I don't take orders from you, Admiral!" barked Murray.
"Commodore", interrupted a quiet voice from behind.
Kawika saw Aurora's silhouette in the tactical operations center, and addressed Murray one last time. "Deploy your forces, General."
He terminated the link.
"Master Sergeant", said Son, addressing his newfound visitor.
Aurora was attired in the matte pixilated grey camouflage Mark V hostile environment suit; the au courant attire for Ghost personnel in the Contingency Strike Force. In the dusky lighting of the TOC, the pulses of cyan light running along the length of her armor were outstanding. Her entrance drew ripples of surprise from the operations staff at the TOC—few had seen Ghost personnel deployed in the field, who were by nature and namesake clandestine and their deployments highly classified—and few could ever address the commanding admiral directly without prelude. The coincidence of these two exceptional circumstances made Aurora's entrance outstanding indeed.
Nevertheless, her young features were deformed with a discomfiting intensity—a open ferality. Her inky black hair was disheveled and there was a peculiar energy about her, a singlemindedness of intent and purpose.
"There's a complication", said Aurora bluntly.
Son regarded the Ghost carefully; though self-assured in his own tactical cognition and strategic perception, the psionics afforded a perception that was literally supernatural. Such precognition, combined with their tactical dexterity, had made the Ghost operators some of the most incisive operational extensions of Son himself. Although regarding them as definitive augurs was perhaps farfetched, it would be a non sequitir to heed no credence to the advice of some of the Dominion's most expertly trained operators.
"Yes?"
"There are other whispers."
"Psionic whispers?" asked Son immediately, entraining himself unto the situation with immediate alacrity.
"Yes", replied Aurora. "Here—in Tir Nanog. I can hear them."
There was a pause as the commodore regarded Aurora seriously—such an extravagant warning from such a petite figure.
"Not our own Ghosts?" he asked incredulously.
"No."
"Zerg?"
"No". Aurora shook her head, the motion shifting her obsidian bangs. "They're too—unstructured. Feral. Even psionically, they radiate only a single intention—to consume. If they were here, it'd be impossible to drown out their voices."
She paused.
"I understand that this is not very quantitative—but I'm absolutely certain. I can hear them talking all the time—someone else is clearly here on Tir Nanog, besides us."
"Protoss?" asked Son.
"I'm not sure", admitted Aurora. "I've never been close enough to one before to hear them."
"The zerg have been known to employ shapeshifters—'changelings'—in various reconnaissance capacities recently", said the commodore. "Could one of them masquerade as a terran psionic?"
"Not sure, sir."
There was a peculiar silence as Son stared at the tactical display distantly, rapping his fingers on the tabletop as his nascent thoughts coalesced into something material—uncertain of what to make of this intelligence; whether it was even actionable. Although he had previously received advice from Ghost operators—often concerning the probable locations of targets, he had thought that was more tactical intuition than any extraordinary perception. This was the first time he had even heard that the Ghosts "heard" other things—and this intelligence was obtained through contrivances and biological faculties that weren't even available to him.
"Do you believe that this is actionable?"
There was a pause, and then she curtly answered—"Yes."
"What do Artemis and the rest 'hear'?" he asked, referring to the commanding officer of Phantom Four, the "augmented" detachment of Phantom Troop.
"Quieter for them. But they definitely hear the movement as well. We're not alone here."
In Son's line of work—counterinsurgency and counterterrorism—his colleagues (as did mercenaries and other similar elements) often described a dependence on hunches or intuition; curiously, Son still excelled in his currently capacities with a strict dependence on rule-based logic and definitive rationale. Indeed, when one saw the products of "intuition" enough, one could see that it was simply the mixture of inherent prejudices, various proclivities, and a small dosage of previous field experiences. A rational analysis of the design and composition of the situation had always enabled Son to succeed in his most audacious operations—he had always considered blind action antithetical to his own set of operating rules.
"Is it possible", he asked, "that Raynor's Raiders have their own psionic?"
"The whispers began shortly after the conclusion of the Chenoweth operation and the fall of the majority of the Raider contingent. They came on-planet last night—I didn't hear anything prior to that."
"If there is a foreign agency involved besides the Raiders, then the fundamental operating assumptions of this operation have changed. This is not a kill-capture operation looking for an encircled and immobilized target. And that these 'voices' have not announced themselves publicly to us suggests that they are operating against us."
"That is a reasonable conclusion."
"Jesus Christ", said Son. "There are any number of third parties that could be involved in this—the Protoss, the Confederate Resistance, Kel-Morians, UED remnants—you take your pick of one out of a hundred assorted rebel groups. While the resources of the Raiders are almost certainly depleted, the resources of such agencies are certainly not. While we envisioned this as a fight against a cornered enemy, such parties have the ability to directly engage us at the tactical level and inflict heavy casualties. Indeed, the presence of Raynor here may only be secondary to their intentions. We don't even know if they're here to kill Raynor as well, or to rescue him. For all we know, they could be using our focus on Raynor as a distraction for a tactical or strategic level strike against our forces, and while we're distracted over Raynor, they could strike a heavy blow."
He turned to the commander of the liaison team from the Navy; a full Commander from the Fifth Fleet Combat Command collocated with the Contingency Strike Force tactical operations center. "What is the status of the orbital blockade?"
"CBG25 is fully deployed", replied the liaison. "With one fleet carrier and four heavy cruisers, the blockade cannot be defeated by any force smaller than two combined battle groups. Fifth Fleet has dispatched a second carrier task force that will be arriving by 2120 hours zulu to reinforce the blockade."
"If Fifth Fleet can hold orbit", said Aurora, "we can almost certainly win any surfaceborne engagement of either conventional or unconventional nature."
"Yes. But that's not what concerns me. That there is a third unknown party in this operation disturbs me—and one whose identity, forces, and even intentions are not even known to us. We betrayed our hand by kicking in the front door with an entire division of Marines. If this had been done by CSF procedure, our presence would be clandestine and we could have full operational mobility to strike wherever and whenever we wished."
"The 616th Frontier's presence was a necessary one to provide a public display of force and maintain the current blockade of Tir Nanog. Operational exigencies and the necessity for a counterforce attack dictated an overt entrance-in-force", replied Aurora.
"Nonetheless, the fundamental grounds of our mission have fundamentally changed", said the Commodore. "There is a third party here—and equipped with psionics, whose identity or intentions remain unknown. We have to move quicker."
Esplanade Court, Downtown Tir Nanog
Bountiful, 36 Aegis System, Korprulu Sector
"Nothing here", reported one of the operators. "He's not fuckin' hiding anywhere here."
Ariadne had taken out her concealed sidearm in frustration as her men combed Gardner's quarters—the Esplanade Court was a hotel of sophistication, and obviously their quarry had pilfered some money, probably from the prison, to get himself a room here. Nevertheless, neither Ariadne nor her team members could conceive what his plan had been. To hide out in this hotel room until Dominion Special Forces looked up his name in the guest log and dragged him out of the room?
Because that was what Ariadne had expected of the cravenly academic—yet, Gardner was nowhere to be found within this spacious suite. Her men had searched every visible compartment of the suite and then employed thermals—the man was not here.
And if not here, then where?
There was a frantic crackle over the comm; Ariadne recognized her callsign being hailed—she raised her wrist transceiver to her lips, and spoke quietly.
"Go."
"Jian, this is Kopis. We've been engaged—"
A rising crescendo of syncopated weapons fire background attested to their compromised circumstances.
"Kopis, Jian. Extricate and go dark."
"No!" the speaker shouted fairly as static threatened to subsume his voice over the clandestine low-power radio channel. "You don't understand—the assets are here."
In unison, Ariadne and her men bounded upwards.
"What?"
"Yes—Gardner and Raynor, both of them. They're bolting once the Dominion patrol came. We're holding off the Marines, but they're running away—"
"What's your AO?" Ariadne exclaimed.
"Hardheart Café—downtown."
"We're downtown too. Hold one—we're on the way. Allocate half of your element to maintain your BP, and delegate the other half to pursue the HVTs."
"Roger! Kopis out."
Ariadne was already ahead of them as they strode purposefully from Gardner's suite.
"All elements, all elements, this is Jian", she enunciated clearly over the tactical channel and she strode purposefully to the suite's entrance. "Kopis has eyes on the HVTs but is in heavy contact. Converge on the Hardheart Café, I say again—converge on the Hardheart Café. ROE is weapons free."
Advanced Operating Base Steadfast, High Value Target Unit Complex
Terran Dominion Advanced Special Operations Command
Bountiful, 36 Aegis System, Korprulu Sector
"Nine liner for close air was just thrown down in the city", said Senior Chief Petty Officer Castle, looking up the panoramic array of signals equipment. A pane of crimson light was strobing on the communiqués display—a priority transmission was being broadcast on one of the hundreds of Marine communications channels that the Task Force was monitoring.
"So what?" asked McKnight.
Castle took off his ponderous headset and turned to regard Ives.
"Marine platoon is in heavy contact in the Sprawl—a snoop-and-scoot turned bloody. They're calling for CAS to turn the place into a parking lot."
Ives's habitual response to the Marines' familiarly promiscuous misapplication of firepower—"fuckin' brain panned faggots"—was attenuated when he remembered that two of the four personnel of his personal special reconnaissance team were indeed "resocced" themselves. Shapiro and McKnight were certainly dextrous and decisive—yet the two had not been previously indoctrinated into the Reapers if they had any lack of bloodthirstiness. Castle himself was better—formerly a fire control technician aboard Norad II prior to his SF indoctrination, he obvious had at least a technical education.
Naval Special Warfare Group Six—along with the Marines' Force Reconnaissance—were the best "non-augmented" (read: non-psionic) special operations forces in the service of the Dominion, yet Ives had the increasingly bearing perception that these Special Forces organizations were bereft of much organic intelligence. Many of the personnel within them—"brain panned" convicts such as Shapiro and McKnight—were simply cudgels; albeit highly trained, but merely weapons to be wielded by a higher guiding intelligence. The Ghosts (formally known as Special Task Reconnaissance in the verbiage the military was all too found of) were similar—years of physical, technical, and psionic tutelage undoubtedly made these naturally "augmented" personnel creative assassins, yet they were incapable of autonomous operation. Despite significant rank inflation in all three organizations—for example, Ives holding an O4 title (Lieutenant Commander) for a platoon-level billet—Ives tended to think such rank inflation merely reflected field proficiency and not an inherent intelligence. Direction at anything above the operational level was provided by Commodore Son and his subordinates.
Nevertheless, if this was the disposition of Special Forces, then the "rank and file" Marines were certainly in even more despondent circumstances.
"What do they want to bomb?" asked Ives.
"Looking up the grid reference now", said Castle, referring to the six-digit target grid reference provided in the standard request for CAS.
"A downtown location—the 'Hardheart Café' or something another."
"Fucking idiotic", reflected Ives sourly. An airstrike—probably a Banshee strike—against a pub, café, restaurant, or club—would undoubtedly spark a toxic conflagration throughout the metropolis, the nascent flames of indignant anger being wafted until the entire city was in armed insurrection. The Dominion's reputation for care for collateral damage and civilian casualties was already notorious—on par with the Confederacy's (even when the Confederacy of Man had thermonuclearly sterilized Korhal)—and certainly an airstrike against a civilian bar in midday would only reify again the Dominion's contempt for the lives of the citizens of Bountiful.
Indeed, any rational person would be inflamed to hear that a random bar had been bombed. The operative logic that the Marine ground force commander was operating on was impossible for Ives to even conceive.
"DASC better not fuckin' authenticate this", said Ives, referring to the Direct Air Support Center, the primary agency controlling the Marines' close air support while on surface deployment.
Shapiro grunted, "What goonies did the 'rines run up against, anyhow?"
Castle shrugged indifferently.
"Hear it for yourself."
"Death Head Six, Foxtrot Three-Six. We are in heavy contact at grid eight-six-six-nine-seven-two. Requesting tasking for close air, over."
"—Death Head, this is Foxtrot Three-Six! Do you copy, over?"
"Which maneuver element is Task Force Death Head?" asked Ives.
"616th Frontier, 3rd RCT Armored Infantry, 1st Inf Battalion Reinforced."
"Three-Six, this is Death Head Six. What's your twenty? Over."
"I'm guessing", said Ives, "that the 3rd Armored Infantry is from the Confed's Omega Squadron?"
Castle replied, "Probably."
"Fucking idiots". The Confederate Marine Corps' "Omega Squadron", from which Regimental Combat Team Three drew its heritage and heraldry (Omega's nickname was "Death's Head")—were well known for their "unrelenting savagery".
"Death Head, we are combat ineffective. Multiple friendly KIA! Receiving effective fire from multiple firing points. Estimate a company-sized force."
"Three-Six—soft or armored?"
"No fuckin' clue!" burst the volatile platoon commander. "Three of my sections are already shot to shit—where's the fuckin' air?"
Ives appraised Castle. "Three CMC-protected rifle sections combat effective? It sounds like a fuckin' warzone, not a snoop n' scoot check for IDs. I'm… very curious about what type of fighting force could engage a Marine infantry platoon in full armor head on, and then render them combat ineffective."
"You think it's Raynor?"
The Lieutenant Commander was already reaching for the comm channel that would connect them with the AOB Steadfast tactical operations center.
"Phantom Zero-Three, Phantom One. Over."
"One, Zero-Three. Send, over."
"Ops, I need authorization for a deployment of Phantom One to coordinates to follow—" Ives looked at Castle, and he supplied the necessary coordinates from the Marines' nine-liner, "—map grid eight-six-six-niner-seven-two. I say again, eight-six-six-niner-seven-two. Insertion will be by air assault. Over."
"One, Zero-Three. What for?"
"Troops in heavy contact against unknown forces. Reinforce and reconnoiter. Over."
"Wait one. Over." There was a pause.
"Affirmative. Deployment authorized and seconded to Phantom Six."
Ives was motioning to Castle, the senior noncommissioned officer in charge for Phantom One, to begin mobilizing the platoon for immediate deployment. Around him, Shapiro and McKnight were already standing—the other three special reconnaissance teams of Phantom One were undoubtedly mobilizing elsewhere in the HVT Unit Complex, preparing for the reactionary direct action raid.
While striding towards the flight line, Ives spoke, "Ops, I need two Forays for the air assault. Be advised, Foxtrot Three-Six of Task Force Death Head is in heavy contact downtown, and the Marines are considering a CAS option presently."
"Roger, One. QRF dropships are hot and prepped on the flight line and may be repurposed for you—I'm switching you over to the QRF frequency to brief the pilots for the operation—"
Hardheart Café, Downtown Tir Nanog
Bountiful, 36 Aegis System, Korprulu Sector
From beginning, it was clear to "Kopis" that it was lost—his element was an eight-man plainclothes surveillance unit, trained to conceal and shadow but never for armed combat. The peril of the situation could not be understated—while he and his men were clad in bulletproof vests underneath their various cloaks and jackets of Bountiful clad, opposed to him was entire rifle section of CMC-armored Dominion Marines—who were soon reinforced by three more infantry sections, further accentuating the asymmetries of the extant situation. The majority of his trackers were armed with handguns and submachine guns—light sidearms that could be easily concealed their clothes as weapons in last resort should they be compromised. One of his men, an ex-Special Forces type, had a disassembled sniper rifle in a briefcase that was now made anew and providing accurate suppressive fires. But to call the environment they fought in anymore as the Hardheart Café would've been misleading—the power of the Marines' Impaler gauss rifles was absolutely incredible. Though the majority of the platoon was emplaced in the plaza outside the bar, their rifle spikes punched through the concrete walls effortlessly.
Each salvo of fire was a maelstrom, shredding through concrete, metal, tapestry, and flesh alike, a miniature bombardment going off at perilously close ranges. The Marines' fire was not accurate—it didn't have to be. Each shot was punching through the superstructure of the very building itself, single rounds setting drink dispensers afire or deranging chairs or shredding tables. As the hypersonic gusts of fire tore through the bar, sometimes their silvery streaks connected to flesh—civilians too slow to flee or who were slaughtered en masse even when taking cover; nothing less than neosteel battle plate could afford any protection against even Impaler rounds. Where the hypersonic gauss rifle connected, there were grotesque crimson boutiques as florid blood erupted into the air and organs cavitated under the kinetic energy of the projectiles. If the Dominion platoon was not forced back soon, not only would all of its inhabitants be slaughtered, but the building itself would collapse.
To their credit, not one of Kopis's trackers broke the line—though they were being individually slaughtered as another random gauss rifle shot rang out, their marksmanship was impeccable as they held the line; precise single headshots instantly collapsed lumbering armored Marines with blazing gauss rifles. As the Dominion troops attempted to practice fire movements through the main entrance, armored corpses bent and fell prostrate as they were met with precision fire. Nevertheless, their numbers were far too many—a standard rifle platoon was at least thirty armored Marines as compared to his eight trackers—and they were doubtless to be reinforced soon. And when the Marines flanked through the side entrances and adopted new firing points, he was assured that they'd be slaughtered wholesale.
"Kopis, Jian."
He heard Ariadne's diminutive voice trickle from his earpiece, abated by the overwhelming metallic percussion of the Marines firing from outside.
"Kopis, Jian. Do you read?"
As his clip was emptied and he feverishly ducked underneath a bar—now a twisted conflagration of shattered wood and metal with tongues of fire lapping away—he shouted back over the deafening hail.
"Jian, Kopis here! In heavy contact!"
There was the rattle of some return fire from weapons whose make he was not immediately familiar with—apparently some denizens of the bar had their own personal weapons and were resisting alongside Team Kopis.
"Kopis, where are the HVTs?"
"No fuckin' clue!" he barked. He had dispatched two trackers after Raynor and Gardner at the far end of the bar, but before the entire web of trackers could close on the elusive Raiders and the ex-Dominion convict, the Marine rifle section had interrupted—and Kopis had been forced to engage them.
"What's your ETA, Jian?"
"Five minutes. Hold on."
As soon as the opening shots had fired, there had been a panicked exodus from the Hardheart Café as its occupants—many officer workers, aides, or manual laborers on lunchtime recess or midday break—had fled the sudden and promiscuous crossfire initiated by the Dominion soldiers. Few had escaped the bombardment of gauss rifle rounds—as Raynor dragged him out of the line of fire to the back of the bar and their pre-planned exit route, he saw people tossed about as if ragdolls, the kinetic energy of the hypersonic rounds causing conflagrations of gore at their focal points and deforming their bodies as if pliant plastic. This was undiluted slaughter, in its most quintessential and senseless form.
The Raiders—dressed in discreet miscellanea and all clutching various small arms of various designs—were now deftly fleeing towards their pre-planned escape route towards the flank of the Hardheart Café.
The pace was brutalizing—while Raynor's men, trained with years of military experience, were navigating the labyrinth of doors and hallways with ease, Gardner stumbled upon a loose cord, crumpling to the ground with a pained wince. Four years of exerciseless imprisonment—complexed with the ignomious beating that Pereira had recently administered to him—had broken whatever physical dexterity he had.
"Pereira!" barked Raynor. "Take care of Gardner."
"10-4." The hard-muscled soldier extended him a hand—Gardner looked up distastefully at the face that scarcely twenty minutes ago was gleefully torturing him, and unwillingly accepted his gloved hand and hauled himself up, the exertions coaxing a wheezy heave from his chest.
"Hey", said Gardner as they slipped into the back of the Hardheart—the façade of sophistication had not been installed here, and it was largely shelves of unused foodstuffs and antiquated furniture in bland, drab warehouse-like rooms. "What's the plan?"
"Get the hell outta here", replied Pereira tersely.
"Out of the city or out of the planet?"
"Run out of here first, then think later", said the Major.
The cacophony of gauss rifle fire was becoming muffled as they passed through further, seemingly abandoned backrooms in the Hardheart Café—the twenty-odd party of Raiders was led by several rifle-armed point men who systematically guided them through the rooms and provided vanguard security.
"Hey, Raynor. "Where're we going?" asked Gardner insistently.
"Out of the café." The renegade commander turned around to address him.
"Where to then?"
"Figure it out from there", replied Raynor.
"Are you seriously saying that we're going to run around on the streets of Tir Nanog like this until the Dominion closes in us?"
Peirera looked at him incredulously. "What do you think, Doctor, what we're going to go back into the hotel looking like this, with our guns?"
Gardner ignored him.
"You must seriously have a plan, man."
"Shoot our way out."
"You've gotta be kidding me", said Gardner—amazed at the seeming total ignorance and complete disregard that the firebrand had for their mortally perilous situation. "Is that it? Where are the reinforcements?"
"You're lookin' at them."
A glint of anger flashed in Gardner's eyes. "Are we just going to run outside and get gunned down by the Dominion?"
"What do you want me to do?" snapped Raynor, his brittle temper—tempested by the extraordinary events of the day and yesterday—rising. "Everyone's fuckin' dead as of yesterday evening. Just us now."
"This"—Gardner indicated the troop of fleeing soldiers—"can't be all of Raynor's Raiders, right?"
Raynor turned to stop and look at him with some annoyance.
"Okay. There's one more ship—Leviathan-class."
"A battlecruiser?" asked Gardner.
"Yep. Phoenix's Wing—our only other heavyweight besides Hyperion. Commanded by Rachel. It stayed behind for the Chenoweth operation. Only a few troops aboard, though."
"Have you made contact with her?"
"It's at the rendezvous point—light-years away from 36 Aegis. Last night, when we checked into the motel, we used the extranet and got in touch with them. No way to contact them now, though. The only thing we have now is a military TACSAT capability and an UHF surface-to-air."
"What'd you tell her?"
"To stay the hell away", said Raynor flatly. "There's a goddamn battle group in orbit—one cruiser isn't gonna be able to break through."
Gardner had to no choice but to concur with the fatality of them attempting to extract their party.
"So what now?"
"Get the hell outta Hardheart", said Raynor again. "Run around in downtown for as long as we can. Maybe link up with some local undesirables, get us some refuge."
Gardner's rationality, galvanized by the overbearing pressure of fear, fragmentedly attempted to assert itself over the situation. He tried to still his beating heart, but failed to—his lifetimes' worth of academic training, assurance, and sophistication had completely fled him. As the rifle fire angrily rattled around him and an inexorable pressure viced upon his skull, he found himself utterly incapable of thinking or accessing the mental faculties he had accumulated.
"There's gotta be a plan. What—what about the Colonial Militia? Can they help us? Raynor—weren't you a marshal once?"
Raynor laughed bitterly. "Haven't you heard? The CM is in the pocket of the Dominion now. The Governor wants our heads just as much as Mengsk right now."
"And the populace? Would they help us out?"
"Not like Antiga Prime", said Raynor. "Bountiful's citizens are on good terms with their government—and sure as hell they would've dare lend us a hand when their entire city's been shut down."
"No one else here, Gardner. Just hope we run into enough lucky breaks—just like what happened back there in the café. Enough lucky breaks, and maybe the blockade will fall apart and we'll run outta here. Until then, run."
Gardner many times in his life had felt a certain sense of ineptness—an inability to act, to fight, to survive when juxtaposed with the most perilous of circumstances—perhaps when Danielle first left him, or when he had been arrested by the Dominion. A sickening knowledge that he was committed to one certain dire fate, despite his urge to fight and survive. This was one of these times—and perhaps the most fatal of them all. He realized for once that all the intellect and powers of deductive reasoning that he had were utterly useless when bereft of knowledge. Perhaps with extensive studying of the city's layout, its citizens and their customs, and the disposition of the local Dominion forces, he could have devised a scheme to resist them. Now—running with a pack of twenty rebels, his only belongings his tattered jacket and wetted hair, and a pistol he didn't know or intend to use—he was completely without the understanding or knowledge that could have helped him survive this contingency.
Periera was waving at him.
"Come on. Through this door and we'll be in the alleyway."
Notes Added in Proof: Thank you for the encouraging comments thus far. This chapter is laden of references, and therefore I herein will write an explanation for some of the most outstanding ones.
Probably the most salient one to mention is that the opening quote from The Liberty Manifesto is indeed reproduced word by word from StarCraft: Liberty's Crusade (2002) by Jeff Grubb, which is probably my favorite officially published SC novel.
This chapter's title, "Worlds in Collision", is named after Velinovsky's infamous book of the same name, and also serves to mirror the progression of the plot. The callsigns of the anonymous "tracker" teams, Jian and Kopis, are both the names of various swords, and are in reference to my ongoing collaboration with Actene (The Galactic Era). The callsign of the Ghost commander of Phantom Four, Artemis, is also in reference to a character contained in the same collaboration with Actene. The 616th Marine Division (Frontier) is named after E-616452, a chemical inhibitor of tgf-beta signaling (see Ichida et al., 2009; Cell Stem Cell).
As for the military side, the "9-liner" is indeed the standard format used by U.S. forward air controllers to brief friendly aircraft for close air support (CAS). "Advanced Operating Base" is a type of installation used by a company-sized element of the U.S. Army Special Forces from which an Operational Detachment Bravo (ODB) exercises command and control over a number of ODA field detachments. As per the exclusive usage of AOB Steadfast by the Dominion's special operations forces, to the best of my understanding, real-world AOBs are also restricted to SF usage. Furthermore, the "tactical operations center" (TOC) referenced throughout the story is also a real-world term, and refers to the headquarters of any military installation used by company-level units or above to coordinate operations. Hence, the TOC is what Commodore Son et al. use as their immediate command center in AOB Steadfast.
As an additional note, "Contingency Strike Force One" is not named after a real-world military unit (U.S. or otherwise), but rather is a fictional creation. Nevertheless, "contingency strike force" is a U.S. military term used to describe light, highly mobile units that may rapidly and flexibly deploy in response to contingencies.
For clarification at the end, "air assault" in military parlance refers to an airborne (typically heliborne) troop insertion and not an actual aerial strike. The air assaulting of Phantom One into their target zone (the Hardheart) thus only means that they are using a dropship to insert them there.