Ch-22
June 5th 1995
Major Gerd Zoransky cursed as he stared at the enemy armor moving through the wheatfield through the cupola. Hidden in the 3s, alongside his own, were 4 other Mammoth Tanks, the last of the few that were pre-war stock and were sent here.
"Sir... you think command just gave us a big F you?" Joli, his gunner, poked her head up from below.
"Giving sass, are we?" Gerd responded, his gruff voice cutting through the tension in the tank.
Joli shrugged, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I prefer my old position on a Kpz 70."
Gerd chuckled, despite the dire circumstances. "Well, sweetheart, the Mammoth has its own charm. Let's focus on that hostile armor for now."
oli smirked at Gerd from her gunner's station. "Aw, don't be like that sir. You know I love this old girl." She patted the hull affectionately.
Gerd sighed. "Just focus up Joli, we've got hostiles incoming." He turned to the driver. "Yegor, see any targets with that scope of yours?"
"Da, Major," replied Yegor in his thick East Ulraznavian accent. "I see three of big enemy tanks approaching from northwest, about two klicks out."
Joli peered through her optics. "big bastards alright. Triple barrels on the main gun? What kind of abomination is that?"
"Load HEAT, let's soften them up before they get close," ordered Gerd.
Joli slammed a round into the breach. "Firing!" The mammoth gave a shudder as the massive 120mm shell exploded from the gun. "Adjust 50 left... fire!" Another shot boomed out.
Gerd watched the impacts through binoculars. "Good hits, you knocked tracks off that lead tank. One more should finish it."
An explosion suddenly rocked their tank. "Incoming!" shouted Yegor. Gerd braced as the treads rumbled, absorbing the impact.
"Those other fuckers are shooting back!" yelled Joli. "Let me return the favor, sir."
Gerd nodded. "Take them out, gunner. Then we'll pick off the stranded one." He gripped his hatch as Joli's deadly aim barked the Mammoth's main gun once more. Through the dust and smoke, one enemy melted under a torrent of shells.
"Target destroyed!" crowed Joli. "Two left, and I'm just getting warmed up."
"Joli, load HE rounds. Let's give these hostiles a warm welcome."
The gunner nodded, a grin forming on her face as she prepared the rounds. "You got it, Major. Let's make these ETs regret crossing our path."
The Mammoth's massive cannons roared to life, sending high-explosive rounds toward the enemy armor. Explosions echoed through the wheatfield as the hostiles tried to reposition under the sudden assault.
"Beautiful shot, Joli. Keep it up," Gerd praised, his eyes scanning the battlefield.
"Always, Major. These ETs won't know what hit 'em," she replied, her fingers dancing over the controls. "Sir, we're drawing quite a bit of attention," Joli noted, a hint of excitement in her voice.
"Let them come. We've got the Mammoth on our side," Gerd declared. The Mammoth's turrets swiveled to engage a group of Imperial tanks attempting to flank them. Joli unleashed a barrage of shells, creating a chaotic scene of smoke and explosions. The Mammoth's heavy armor absorbed enemy fire, and Gerd knew that every second they held their ground was a second gained for the defenders.
"Sir, I'm loving this! These ETs are no match for the Mammoth's might," Joli exclaimed, her laughter mixing with the sounds of battle.
The Mammoth Tank pressed forward, clearing a path through the enemy tanks. Gerd's eyes remained focused on the battlefield, gauging the ebb and flow of the fight.
"Sir, we've got more hostiles incoming. They're sending their big guns," Joli warned, her tone shifting to a more serious note.
Gerd nodded, a steely resolve in his gaze. "We'll give 'em a taste of our own. Load AP rounds, Joli. It's time to show these ETs the true power of the Mammoth."
Imperial Baneblade Command Tank "Creed"
Surface of Nova Arcadia.
Major Leopold Arvin of the Cadian 19th ducked as another Russ Tank exploded in the distance. The battlefield was a chaotic scene of destruction, with the screams of gunfire and the rumble of engines filling the air. His Cadian regiment had been on the front lines since the beginning of the conflict, facing an enemy they referred to as rebels, still unaware of the invaders' true identity.
Leopold's vox-caster crackled to life, transmitting urgent reports from the front. "Major Arvin, this is Lieutenant Drexler. We've encountered a new enemy tank, sir. Massive, heavily armored. It's tearing through our ranks like a battering ram."
Leopold frowned, his eyes narrowing as he processed the information. "Describe the tank, Lieutenant. We need to know what we're dealing with."
"It's not like anything we've seen before, sir. It's not a superheavy, but it's packing a punch. Twin cannons, robust armor. Our Russes are struggling to pierce it," Drexler reported, the urgency in his voice evident.
Leopold's mind raced as he considered the implications. A new enemy tank on the battlefield could tip the scales further against the Imperium. The Cadian 19th had faced countless challenges in the past days, but this development added another layer of complexity to their already dire situation.
"Understood, Lieutenant. Keep your distance and focus on its weak points. We can't afford to let it break through our lines. Emperor protect us," Leopold ordered, his voice firm despite the mounting pressure.
Unknown Location.
Sous-Lieutenant Aguillard
The dimly lit room was filled with an air of tension as Sous-Lieutenant Aguillard groggily regained consciousness. His head throbbed with pain, and the sterile scent of a medical facility hung in the air. Blinking away the disorientation, he realized he was strapped to a cold, metallic table. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut – he was a captive.
As his senses sharpened, Aguillard noticed the low hum of electronic equipment and the soft footsteps of uniformed soldiers. The stark reality of his situation settled in – captured by unknown forces, separated from his squad, and facing an uncertain fate.
A uniformed officer entered the room, his demeanor stern and authoritative. Aguillard's eyes darted around the unfamiliar surroundings, searching for any clues about his captors. The officer, adorned in an intricate uniform, seemed to radiate a cold determination.
The officer sat down on a chair and took out a sketch book.
"Leon Auguillard, Sous-Lieutenant, Francovian Army" Aguillard grinned, there was nothing these invaders were getting from him. The officer opened his sketchbook and started drawing. He drew a sun with rays extending from it, followed by more intricate symbols that meant nothing to Aguillard.
Aguillard just stared blankly, refusing to give any clue that he understood. After a few more drawings met without response, the officer's brow furrowed in frustration. He underlined the sun image forcefully, as if demanding recognition.
When Aguillard still didn't react, the officer sighed and flipped to a fresh page. Here he drew a simple outline of a man holding a weapon, firing at approaching figures. Below this, he sketched the base perimeter and the battle Aguillard had witnessed.
This time, Aguillard couldn't deny the officer had correctly interpreted events. A flash of surprise crossed his face before he steeled his expression once more. The officer met his eyes intently, as if asking for confirmation.
Aguillard remained silent. He would not give these invaders any satisfaction so easily. The officer's stern demeanor cracked slightly to reveal an underlying desperation - he needed information to fulfill his duties, as dictated by his faith in the Emperor.
Drawing further proved futile. The officer closed the book in frustration, mind racing to find another way to break the defiant prisoner's will. But Aguillard was resolved not to break, to deny his captors any advantage in this battle of wills. Neither man was willing to back down from what they believed was right.
Pvt Galina Kyle
23rd Syrasha Sterncowls
Galina jabbed her lasgun at the man who was laughing, her sister's killer, he seemed cheerful.
"You think you're hot shit?" she asked grumpily as she guided him to the cells-where hopefully he would spend the rest of his existence.
Galina jabbed her lasgun into the prisoner's back, shoving him down the sterile hallway. "Move it, asshole," she growled.
The man stumbled along, his hands bound painfully tight. But still he grinned, infuriating Galina further. "What's so fuckin' funny, huh?"
He didn't respond, just chuckling quietly to himself. Galina dug the lasgun harder into his spine. "I said what's so funny, shithead? Think you're tough just 'cause you killed my sister?"
Her voice cracked slightly at the end. Dammit, she wouldn't give this bastard the satisfaction of seeing her tears. Not after what he did.
They arrived at the holding cells. Galina shoved the man forcefully inside and slammed the energy barrier on. "There, I hope you rot in there," she spat.
To her surprise, the prisoner finally spoke up in an unfamiliar tongue. His tone was calm, almost reassuring. Like he was trying to explain himself.
But Galina just heard mocking in his gibberish. "Save it, scumbag," she hissed. "I hope the Inquisitors have fun with you. Maybe you'll learn some respect then."
She turned on her heel and stormed off, fists balled in fury. That man would pay for every molecule of sorrow and anger churning inside her grieving heart.
She marched up the stairs to the upper floors, outside the window, she could see seaborne vessels, as she turned a corner sho found a few of her comrades had bottles of red liquid.
Marching up the stairs, Galina glimpsed seaborne vessels through tall windows. Strange contraptions, unlike any ships back home. As she turned a corner, she stopped short.
Borris grinned lopsidedly. "Check it out, we raided the cellar. These locals sure know how to drink!":
"It's wine, found a whole cellar of it downstairs," replied Talik, passing her an open bottle.
Galina eyed it suspiciously. "Wine? Like what the officers drink?" She took a hesitant sip. Her eyes widened - it was strong, but warm and fruity on her tongue. Not like the sour grog back on Vostok.
"Tastes better than those ration bars," joked Ceril, already on his third bottle.
Despite herself, Galina smiled. "Not bad. What're they calling this stuff?"
Dmitri shrugged. "Dunno, there's cases of it down there with weird scribbles. But damn, it puts hair on your chest!"
Galina sat with them by the window, gazing out at the warships riding at anchor. She'd dreamed of sea voyages as a child, never imagining she'd find herself on an alien world surrounded by strange vessels.
Her mind drifted to the prisoner below, still smiling mockingly. She took a large gulp of wine, hoping it would drown her swirling emotions. Why did he have to ruin this moment of discovery?
"You should try to let it go, Gal," said Talik gently, guessing her thoughts. "Revenge won't bring Verochka back."
Galina knew he was right, but the anger still simmered hot in her veins. Some wounds ran too deep to heal so easily. For now, she was content to drink in this new place, pushing her troubles to the back of her mind. Tomorrow would bring new trials; tonight, there was this drink.
Techpriest Domino
Techpriest domino inspected the seaborne vessel as she strode meticulously along the debris-strewn dock, ceramite feet clacking on weathered ferrocrete. A fallen seaborne vessel lay before her, hull cracked open like a drained eggshell.
Extending a mechadendrite, she ran metallic digits over pitted armor plates questing for secrets within. Here was a prize for the Omnissiah - an intact design from these misunderstood humans.
Her augmetic eyes scanned the markings - "FLORÉAL" it declared, with identification codes in an unfamiliar alphabet. Scanning revealed it to be a warship of moderate tonnage. Designation: "Destroyer."
Delicately, Domino pried open an access panel, inserting tendrils to interface directly. Data streamed into her cogitator-flesh, analyzing ship systems, weapons, and the mysteries of its unconventional reactor.
How primitive yet ingenious, these humans! Where the Imperial Navy relied on gellar fields and plasma, this "Floréal" harnessed controlled fusion with an elegance that inspired. There were advancements to be made here for the Glory of the Machine God.
But first, to understand fully this vessel and its place in the greater human whole. Its secrets must be extracted, replicated, improved upon to further the holy work of progress. This was the work of a Tech-priest, an offering of metal flesh in fealty to the Omnissiah.
Domino's mechanical tendrils continued their exploration of the destroyed warship's systems. Pulling herself deeper into the reactor compartment, she interfaced directly with primary control circuits.
Data streamed into her cognitor flesh at extraordinary speeds. The fusion reactor design was ingenious - instead of crude fission, it utilized controlled electromagnetic confinement to heat hydrogen plasma to astonishing temperatures. Output many times greater than promethium, with near-zero waste.
But what truly captured her attention were the "cruise missiles" listed among the ship's armaments. Withdrawing from the reactor, she swung upward and extruded her mechadendrites into a missile magazine. Gently gripping a warhead, Domino interfaced and began decoding guidance and targeting firmware.
How revolutionary - each missile carried its own miniaturized sensors, processors and flight systems. Capable of autonomous navigation at supersonic speeds hundreds of kilometers from launch, with pinpoint accuracy. Their high-explosive payloads rivaled many battle cannons.
Domino's cogitator races as implications computation. With miniature plasma drives and adaptable molecular assemblers, similar systems could be integrated into aircraft, tanks, even infantry. An entire Army capable of sharing a unified sensor network and autonomous logistical chain, coordinated like neurons in a macroscopic intellect.
Fascinating. Such advances would see an end to wasteful feudal tithes and increase Imperial might thousandfold. The Omnissiah's work was far from over, it seemed, even in unlikely places such as these. Domino shuddered in divine inspiration. Greater wonders could still be discovered, and brought to holy progress, for the glory of Mankind!
Nighttime.
June 5th
1995
Lt John Price
Callsign "Bravo 06"
22nd SAS Regiment.
"Invader Occupation Zone of Cologne"
Ulraznavia.
It had was the 2nd night of his excursion into newly invader occupied cologne, and he knew another commando had joined him, alot of the enemy soldiers he was encountering had knives in them, he opened his encrypted headset, "Sgt Simon Riley, you missing a knife?"
"Several" Ghost's voice echoed. Price had to smile.
"When were you inserted Ghost, and where's Soap?"
"Private MacTavish is still at base"
Lt John Price grinned as Ghost's voice crackled over the encrypted comms channel. "Simmon, you bloody menace. How many knives have you filched from these cultist fanatics now?"
"Lost count after a dozen. Their armor's barely better than paper against a good stiletto." Ghost chuckled darkly. "Should see the looks on their faces when they realize death's been riding their flanks all night."
Price could imagine. Ghost was a shadow given form, slipping through enemy lines to turn their own weapons against them. "Glad to have you out here causing mayhem with me, mate. Now where's Soap gotten off to?"
"Still at forward base last I heard," Ghost replied. "The lad needed some shut-eye after that hairy extraction. But don't you worry, he'll be begging to rejoin the fun soon enough."
Ducking down a rubble-strewn alleyway, Price spotted two more zealots patrolling an intersection up ahead. He hefted a grenade suggestively. "Fancy a proper welcome back present for our rookie? I've got an idea..."
A feral grin spread across Ghost's unseen face. "Lead the way, Lieutenant. I'll be your wingman."
They melted into the darkness, two gray shadows coiling to strike. The devout wouldn't know what hit them. But their demise would send a message - the streets of Cologne belonged to Price and his death dealers now. Any who stood against them would face the same gruesome fate.
0554 UTC, 5th June 1995
Aéroport International de Genève
Geneva, Helvetica
Euronia
The wheels of the white and blue Boeing 707 touched down on the runway. Above,a pair of F-15s was orbiting the airport. The pilot of the outdated jet was handed over by tower to the ground frequency, as he taxied to a ramp. Air stairs pulled up to the plane and the actor-turned-Secretary of state stepped out, smiling and waving for the cameras. He climbed into a heavily modified black Cadillac limousine that sported the Presidential Seal.
The limo drove towards the OAUN building. The second he stepped out of his limo, he was surrounded by news crews, and if it weren't for the Secret Service agents and OAUN Guards, he would have been mobbed even more. However, he managed to dodge the reporters and enter the building.
The Secretary General shook his hand, "Good to see you got here in once piece,"
"Well, you get used to it after a while," Carleson said in good humor.
"So, are you ready for this?" the Secretary said moving himself in front of the Concordian president, barring him from entering the convention room.
"I've seen what they can do," Carleson replied, "I can handle this."
The Secretary-General looked unsure, but stepped out of the way, allowing the two OAUN Guards to open the door. Immediately, Carleson walked over to the conference table and took a seat. Along with the secretary general, sat Mikhail Gorbochev, Margaret Nunnely, Li Xiannian and François Mitterrand
So...I assume we all know that we have a massive fleet in orbit? and WW3's occurring since June 2nd." As Carleson addressed the gathered heads of state, strange occurrences were afoot elsewhere in the OAUN building…
Captain Rolf Linkin
Millitarum Tempestus Scions
Rebel gathering area.
"Linkin, eyes on a group of rebel leaders, are we go for insertion?" Rolf Linkin stared at these leaders...no ornamentation, no gaudiness or gold, and this city, Jenevi? Genera? something of that sort, he peered through his magnoculars at the gathering below. The leaders wore plain attire with no ostentation, in stark contrast to the decadence of many worlds they had purged.
"By the Throne, they look almost civilized," he muttered. But experience told him looks could deceive - any who defied the Emperor's light were heretics leading mankind astray.
"Command, this is Tempestus 1-1. Targets acquired in the plaza; no additional combatants observed. Requesting fire mission and insertion approval," he voxed.
"Tempestus 1-1, command confirms rebel VIPs gathered. Latest intel suggests they control several star systems. Eliminate with extreme prejudice. Recall codes Theta-Nine-Seven-Epsilon for fire support and assault."
Rolf grinned tightly. "Understood command, we aim to comply. Tempestus squad, lock and load. Follow my lead on rapid descent."
Secretary of State Carleson
Get down!" an OAUN Guard screamed before the roof exploded. Debris rained down as rubble and flames engulfed the conference room. Carleson could only stare in shock, clutching his bloody arm where shrapnel had grazed him.
Gorbachev, he, and Mitterrand ducked, the Edenite PM and Dao diplomat weren't lucky.
A secret service agent grabbed Carleson, he could see GRU and GIGN guards doing the same for Gorbachev and Mitterrand.
"SecState Secure" the agent said to her radio.
"Holy shit..." Carleson breathed.
he Secret Service agent dragged him down a side passage, Mitterand and Gorbechev close behind with their protective details. Gunfire and shouting echoed from above as aliens swarmed the building.
"We need to evacuate, but the 'copters are too vulnerable," the agent said grimly. "Subway tunnel is our best bet, leads under the lake."
Nods of grim agreement. They hurried through emergency exits as a fiery battle raged overhead. Guards laid covering fire, buying precious moments.
Reaching an access stairwell, they descended into the humid tunnels. Carleson took a last look up at the burning building before the hatch slammed behind them.
Their footfalls echoed in the dark as a dull thudding commenced from above. The enemy was in the tunnels. Carleson stumbled, shrapnel shifting painfully in his wound. An agent steadied him with a whispered "stay strong, sir."
How had it come to this? All he'd wanted was peace. But these invaders showed no mercy, no reason. Only annihilation without cause or conscience.
He had to survive, had to warn the world. If they made it out, what then? How did humanity stand against such senseless hatred? Dark thoughts for dark times...all Carleson knew was the tunnels stretched on, and death pursued behind.
Tempestus-1-1
"Cease fire! Report!" Linkin voxed the squad, he could only see two corpses, a suit clad old woman and a man in a suit.
"Two rebel leaders KIA! sir their klaxons are sounding."
Rolf cursed softly. Two dead - not the bulk of the leadership they'd hoped for. Sirens blaring meant local forces converging fast.
"Tempestus squad, form up! Stay alert for stragglers." The Scions assembled around him in the raging plaza, weapons scanning for contacts.
"Sir, we think most fled via underground access. Heat signatures detected below the vicinity," reported one trooper.
Rolf growled under his breath. Heretics as craven as rats, hiding from righteous judgement. "Then we give chase. No prey escapes the Emperor's wrath!"
He keyed up a sensor ping on his Hot-Shot lasgun. "There - motion trails leading that way. Double time, people, let's not lose them!"
Barking orders brought the squad into rapid pursuit formation. They stormed through smoke and las-fire towards a sturdy hatch left ajar, slamming it behind them.
Emergency lighting cast the tunnel in eerie half-light. Up ahead echoed the pattering of panicked feet and labored breathing. Rolf grinned wolfishly.
"The hunt is on. By fire and blade, the Imperium will have its due!" He took point at a sprint, squadmates fanning out to flush quarry towards his las-sights. Death incarnate pursued the heretics into the subterranean dark. None would escape divine justice this day.
Outside.
The world's leaders navigated the hordes of reporters, escorted by guards who were almost as good at this as they were, on their way to their respective transport vehicles. In the case of Carleson, it was his trusty Cadillac. His destination was the hotel he would be spending the night in, The Marriott.
Fifteen minutes later, his percussion pulled up to the hotel. He walked straight into an elevator and got out at his penthouse suite. He walked over to his bed and sat down, rubbing his face. Two Marines entered the room behind him, He picked up the phone on his nightstand, and requested a secure line.
"Sir, we're going to need to go to REDCON 2 for all of the Marines in the Pacific, and DEFCON 3 for all of our Air Force guys in Hawaii." he informed President Ritson
"Alright Rick," The President said on the other side of the line, "Will that be all?"
Carleson thought for a moment, "Yeah, that should be good."
The president acknowledged and the line went dead.
"Choryt!" Gorbachev cursed in his hotel room, "We're going to need to contact President Narmonov."
One of the officers that stood in the room with him saluted and walked away to make it happen. Then, the balding man turned towards another officer, "We want paras on standby. We can't let this can't go wrong."
The man nodded and followed the other man to a second section of the apartment. Suddenly, a bright flash engulfed the room and Mikhail jumped backward.
He stood up in the damaged hotel room, completely groggy and disoriented from the blast. One of his guards stood up, carrying a AKS-74 Carbine. Alarms were blaring in the room and the sprinkler system was activated. The debris that was once a penthouse suite was now in ruins as the occupants that were now standing up tried to find their way out.
In the doorway a black armoured soldier. His gun lit up, attempting to attack the surviving guards. As the red light from his gun started to suppress down the hall towards the men, a guard leaned out from his cover, pulled the trigger and fired two rounds at the man who fell backwards into a pool of his own blood. The guards proceeded to help Gorbachev out of the building. "Comrade Premier! The other two leaders...should we warn them?" Mikhail nodded as the detail walked out to the lift.
haos reigned in the smoldering hotel ruins. Gorbachev coughed, lungs searing from the acrid smoke as his guards hustled him towards the emergency stairwell.
"Go, warn the others!" he rasped at one man, who nodded and peeled off with his comrade down another corridor. Gunfire continued to echo distantly as scattered firefights broke out.
The remaining guards hurried Gorbachev down the shuddering stairs, supporting his weakened frame. "Almost there, Comrade Premier. Paramedics are outside," one reassured.
Emerging onto the street, they were met with bedlam. Fire trucks and ambulances wailed amidst a milling crowd being herded back by harried police. A military transport idled at the curb with soldiers piling out.
"Premier Gorbachev!" barked their commander, rushing over. "We've clearance to evacuate you to a safehouse. But the others..." He shook his head grimly.
Gorbachev looked to the burning facade above, thinking of his colleagues within. Had any survived? And who was behind this monstrous attack?
His guards bundled him into the waiting vehicle before joining the soldiers rushing back into the maelstrom, determined to pull out as many survivors as possible. But even as medics rushed the wounded to care, billowing flames promised that answers died with the hotel.
All Gorbachev knew was that tonight, peace had been dealt a grievous wound. And in the smoldering ruins lay the seeds of a terrible conflict, one which could consume the entire world...
Rolf Linkin.
"Team 2 Respond! has the rebel HVI been eliminated..." a burst of static came through the Vox, Linkin growled, he'd split the group into 3 teams, they would each go after one leader, he could already see the flames of the building where team 2 was supposed to attack.
"Team 2, respond immediately!" Rolf snarled into his vox. Only static answered his hails.
He broke into a run, heading for the burning hotel in the distance. Something had gone catastrophically wrong. As he neared the scene, he saw emergency vehicles crowding the street and crowds of onlookers being pushed back.
Spotting two of his men shouldering through the melee, he barked "Report!"
The troopers saluted hastily. "Captain, the target escaped amid some sort of bombing. Building's already coming down, too hot to pursue safely."
Rolf seethed inwardly. Their mission was falling to pieces around them. "Casualties?"
The troopers' helms dipped in unison. "Still no word from the rest of Team 2, sir. They went in after the rebel but communications failed."
A grim assessment formed in Rolf's mind. Either those troopers were dead, or had gone rogue to pursue the enemy on their own. Neither option boded well.
He raised his micro-bead. "Command, this is Tempestus 1-1. Primary target has fled, hotel demolition in progress, severe complications. Request immediate extraction and redeployment for follow up strike."
Only static answered. Their Auspex was being jammed, it seemed someone didn't want Imperial forces coordinating. Rolf clenched his fists in fury. The heretics would pay for this treachery, one way or another...
"This is team 3! [explosion in the background] Heavy resistance...around HVI"
Static shrouded Team 3's faint reply, punctuated by muffled detonations in the background. Rolf toggled his vox microphone anxiously.
"Team 3, status report! What is the target's location and your condition?"
More interference drowned out the response. Rolf cursed and swung his auspex array again, but nothing pierced the jamming. Whoever was interfering with Imperial comms was formidable.
A burst of clear audio broke through: "-der heavy fire! Target is-" A shrieking explosion wiped out the rest. When the vox cleared again, only dead air answered Rolf's repeated hails.
He slammed a gauntleted fist onto his pauldron in rage. Two teams down, the primary targets scattered, and now even aerial surveillance was off the table. This op was turning into a disaster.
Rolf deployed a locator beacon and initiated an extraction protocol. At least some of his men could be recovered, the Emperor willing. But the mission objectives were lost in the chaos.
His cold, enhanced gaze swept the burning cityscape. Somewhere out there, rebels coordinated this ambush with skill unseen before. And they held the advantage, at least for now.
But Rolf Linkin did not know defeat. He would hunt the heretics to the depths of hell itself if needed. Retribution was coming, that he swore upon the blood of his fallen comrades. This was far from over.
Secretary Carlson stared at the window in disbelief, the Hilton hotel was burning...that was the Vostokvakian premier's area, had the ET's already hit it? Was Mitterand okay at his hotel? Gunfire broke out at the lower levels of the Marriott...
"sir, this agent Chelsea, we have to go sir" Gunshots rang out from below, far too close for comfort. Carleson was jolted into motion by Agent Chelsea's urgent tugging.
"They're coming, we have to move now!" she said tersely, pistol drawn. Grabbing what little documents he could carry, Carleson followed her at a run towards the emergency stairwell.
As they descended, the sounds of battle intensified - screams and explosions mingling with the staccato bursts of automatic fire. When they reached the ground floor, Chelsea kicked open the fire door with military precision, weapon raised.
The hotel lobby was a charnel house. Bodies lay scattered amidst ornate furnishings, some civilians but mostly hardened security personnel. Flames were spreading rapidly through shattered furniture and drapery.
In the center stood a squad of towering, armored figures engaging the few surviving guards in a lethal firefight. Their weapons crackled with unearthly energy, shredding flesh from bone with casual efficiency.
One turned, featureless visor fixing on Carleson and Chelsea like a targeting laser. It raised an arm and shrieked an electronic command. Two allies broke off to intercept the new targets.
"Run!" Chelsea shoved Carleson ahead of her towards the exit, returning precision fire at their pursuers. He stumbled over the dead, lungs searing from smoke, bullets whining off armored shells behind them.
Rolf Linkin
Rolf Linkin rushed up the stairs as he saw the HVI run. Closing the distance step by grinding step, lasfire singed the walls around Rolf as the agent turned to lay down suppression. He ducked low and returned a precise three-round burst, dropping her limp form mid-stride.
Now only the target remained, and Rolf was gaining. As they burst onto the fifth floor, the man risked a glance back in horror, spurring himself to even greater effort. But Rolf was an unstoppable juggernaut, driven by fanatical purpose.
Rounding the stairwell, Rolf spotted his prey narrowly dodging into a corridor. He dug deep and pushed himself harder, angling to intercept. Boots drumming on tile, he burst around the corner like an avenging comet - only to pull up short, scanning empty hallway in confusion.
A door slammed distantly. Rolf sprinted to investigate, finding only a maintenance exit that had been hastily forced. He swung his gaze about in fury, straining to pick up signs of passage. But the HVI had slipped his noose once again.
Snarling, he activated his communicator. "Captain Linkin to squad, target has evaded capture on the fifth floor. Sweep the area and be advised, he's proven craftier than expected. Loosening teeth sharply, Rolf vowed this animal wouldn't escape the hunt much longer. Next time, blood would be spilled before entry into the Golden Throne's light could be denied. The hunt was still very much on…
Carlson
Carlson's blood pounded in his ears as he pressed himself into the alcove, statue gripped like a weapon. When armored boots strode near, he struck without mercy - slamming the sculpture's finial into the soldier's faceplate.
It spiderwebbed on impact, crumpling inward under the force of Carleson's fear and adrenaline. The giant pitched forward without a sound. Fumbling with shaking hands, Carleson unlatched the fractured helmet and let it fall aside.
His breath caught in horror. Beneath was not the mechanical horror he'd expected, but a man. Young, expression frozen in deathly surprise, cheeks still decorated with boyish stubble. Dark hair flopped over a dented forehead, blood trickling from nostrils and cracked lips.
"Fuck..." Carleson staggered back, statue slipping numbly from loosening fingers. Chelsea grabbed his shoulder in alarm until she saw the fallen soldier's revealed face. Then her grip went slack with shock.
"A goddamn human," she uttered, aghast. "What the hell is this?"
Security forces were swarming the floor now, rounding up the few survivors. Carleson pointed shakily at the corpse, finding his voice.
"Check that one's armor, markings, anything. I need to know who they are, where they came from, why they're attacking us."
His head spun with new questions as guards hurried to comply. How deep did this bizarre conspiracy run, and what did these unknown forces truly want? Humanity itself seemed in graver peril than ever before.