Well Oil Be Damned

"Must be strange to be back in the desert, sir."

"What?"

"Desert Storm. I know you took part in it."

"Who told you that, lieutenant?"

Battle Commander James Solomon couldn't see the helicopter pilot's eyes behind the sunglasses she wore. Still, he hadn't reached the position he now held through not being able to read the men and women around him. A twitch of the lip, a clench of the fingers…the pilot of the Chinook knew that she'd flown too far afield.

"Read your file, sir."

That didn't stop her from trying to fly back into it.

"I didn't know my file was open for reading."

And failing.

"Oh, well, y'know…rank and privileges, sir."

"And was it rank, q or privilege?"

The lieutenant didn't answer, and Solomon lay back in his seat in the helicopter's cockpit. He was well within his rights to discipline the lieutenant here and now, but while a hard man, he wasn't a petty one. 43 years old, African American, and a former member of the US Army before having transferred into GDI, he'd endured harder slings of outrageous fortune. Some lieutenant who he'd likely never meet again accessing data that wasn't even classified…well, he knew how to pick his battles, whether they be the slurs he'd endured since a child, or on the battlefields of the world.

Iraq, in this case. He didn't want to think about Desert Storm right now, but up here, at 1,200 metres, he could see that while the world was changing, the desert hadn't. Endless sand as far as the eye could see, under the merciless heat of an uncaring sun. A battlefield in Desert Storm, a battlefield in the Iran-Iraq War, a battlefield since the dawn of civilization itself, as one empire after another had conquered, commanded, and inevitably fallen, leaving naught but relics of bygone ages.

But the desert wasn't empty. And at ten o'clock, he could see a column of vehicles making their way down the road. Heading in the direction of Kuwait, yet unlike the war of a decade prior, they weren't an invading force. Given the make of said vehicles, they weren't even a military one.

"Refugees, sir," the pilot said. "Lucky to get out of Iraq when they did."

Solomon remained silent. One year into what the media jackals were calling the Tiberium War, and refugees were a common sight on most continents of the world. People fleeing anywhere and everywhere to escape the tide of steel, and according to some reports, a green tide as well.

"Landing in ten, sir."

But that wasn't his battle to fight. Down below him was Firebase Hotel-27 – a smear of grey in a sea of yellow, and one that the Chinook was en route for. He remained silent as the pilot cleared things with the control tower, and told him to fasten his seatbelt, either ignoring (or not knowing) that he'd never unfastened it.

Seatbelts saved lives. Anyone who claimed they were state overreach was a person he had no time for.

The landing was smooth, and it gave Solomon time to better view the firebase. A mobile construction yard remained in the centre – a self-contained construction factory that could establish an outpost in days rather than weeks. Barracks, an service depot, at which he could see a tank entering for repairs. Military technology had progressed more in the last five years than in the last fifteen, partly dictated by need, mostly allowed for by the arrival of tiberium on Earth, its energy output allowing technology to progress with it. A godsend according to some, a disaster according to others.

Solomon supposed it depended on where you lived in the world, and where your priorities lay. Still, as a battle commander of the Global Defence Initiative, his priorities were simple – defeat the Brotherhood of Nod using any and all means given to him by the United Nations. Simple. He grunted as he unfastened his seatbelt under the fading sound of the helicopter's blades. He'd served in the military since he was sixteen. War, life itself, was never simple, no matter how many wished it so.

He got out of his seat and entered the Chinook's bay – the rear hatch had already descended, and the fresh meat were already jogging out in desert camo with rucksacks over their backs, enduring the beratement of the master sergeant ushering them along. It was a sight he was familiar with, and not just because of the environs.

"Commander Solomon?"

He emerged from the Chinook sans the rucksack and headed to a woman wearing a captain's bars. She saluted, and he returned it.

"Commander Solomon, I'm Captain Gadot. If you'll follow me…"

He tried to get a fix on her accent – Israeli, maybe? Only a year ago, it had been standard practice for GDI forces to operate like UN Peacekeepers – to wear shoulder patches that gave their country of origin. Now, the only insignia she and anyone else carried was that of the Global Defence Initiative itself – a bird of prey sweeping down, ready to pluck the proverbial scorpion and rip out its intestines.

"Carry on, captain."

Supposedly, the shoulder patch decision had been made to improve troop cohesion, and that, Solomon couldn't fault. Still, there was no shortage of loonies who claimed that GDI was nothing more than the iron hand of the UN, the precursor to a one world government that was either fascist or communist, depending on what ideology the theorist hated more. While he had no time for those kinds of people, there were still plenty of concerns in the US military, and indeed, most of NATO. Most of GDI was backed by the West, but they were operating under the auspices of the UN rather than their own governments.

"Needs must," he murmured, as Gadot led him on. Past jitneys, past troopers on an afternoon run in 39 degree heat. Up ahead, a pair of fighter jets cut through the air, and somewhere in the firebase was the rat-tat-tat of rifle fire on a firing range.

"You'll be billeted in the command post, personal quarters," the captain said. "But Major al-Abbas wanted to see you as soon as you landed."

Solomon nodded. Really, he had no desire to engage in small talk, but having been a major himself until six months ago, when the role/rank of battle commander was thrust upon him, he understood the value of getting acquainted with the men. Or women, as the case was.

"How's life treating you, Captain?"

"Sir?"

"Out here in the suck."

"Oh. Um, fine, sir. It's…completely fine."

Solomon smirked. "You can speak freely, Captain."

"Yes sir. Sorry sir. It's just, well, y'know…"

"What do I know?"

"Whole bloody world's at war, and we're out here in the desert."

The conversation didn't go any further than that as they entered the command post – a dust-encrusted building that belied the sterility of its interior. They passed through a retinal scan, then a palm scan, then he gave his ID to a security guard, flanked by two other troopers with sub-machine guns. To Solomon, the process was nothing new, but he couldn't shake the feeling he'd stepped into the future. He remembered the first time he'd seen Star Wars, how it had felt like he'd stepped into a whole new world. With the speckless corridors, the hum of energy generation, and the terminals and readouts that looked like computers of a new century, he felt like he'd stepped into the future.

But then, feelings weren't always to be trusted. So as an Iraqi man with a major's bars turned to him, feelings were pushed to the ground. They'd been enemies a decade ago, now, they were in a new war, on the cusp of a new millennium.

Strange bedfellows indeed.

The two men saluted before he spoke. "Battle Commander Solomon. I'm Major Ibrahim al-Abbas."

Former Iraqi Army, Solomon wondered?

"I'm going to cut through the shit, as you Americans say it. A decade ago, we were on opposite sides. I was a captain then, I led Iraqi forces into Kuwait, I led them out of Kuwait, and I saw good men die around me. Before that, my father was among those sent to invade Iran."

"A military family then?"

"Yes, though we've lately been on the losing side. Right now, I intend to break that losing streak."

His English was perfect, Solomon noted. He'd picked up some Arabic for Desert Storm, but for better or worse, English was the world's lingua franca, and certainly that of GDI.

Al-Abbas gestured Solomon to walk over. The two men looked at a tactical map of the world, showing GDI and friendly troop deployments, and concentrations of Nod activity. So far, most of the fighting was contained in eastern Europe and Africa. To Solomon's dismay, Nod was continuing to make inroads on the latter continent.

But that was beside the point right now, as Al-Abbas shifted the tactical display to the Middle East. There was little of either colour here, but rather, little specks of grey. Militia groups popping up everywhere, Iraq included.

"Nod barely has a foothold in Iraq," Al-Abbas said. "But like Saudi Arabia, the country's collapsing."

"That fast? Why?"

"Why is it collapsing, or why is it collapsing so fast?" Al-Abbas asked. Not getting an answer, he said, "Tiberium landed on Earth five years ago, and it took less than three for the entire world economy to shift. What coal was to the nineteenth century, oil was to the twentieth, and all projections were that would remain the twenty-first. And now?"

"Now there's an even denser energy source," Solomon murmured. "Denser than uranium, easier to mine…"

"The world needs oil, but until recently, the petrodollar was king," Al-Abbas said. "Now, the entire region is experiencing oil shocks. Less revenue, less stability. Less stability, more opportunities for Nod and other groups."

"Our mandate's only for Nod," Solomon murmured, though he was loathe to say it. He knew what destabilization could do to a country. With the death of Stalin at the end of the Second World War, and consequent breakup of the USSR, the world had still been reeling four decades later. Four decades in which groups like Nod had been able to thrive, and where groups like Black Ops 9 had been formed to counter them.

"I know," said Al-Abbas, showing the same disdain for GDI's mandate that Solomon had, if not necessarily for the same reasons. "I have no illusions that once this op is done, you'll be deployed to fairer, wealthier battlefields, and me and mine will have to pick up the pieces ourselves."

Solomon didn't doubt it. But he wasn't here to play politics.

"EVA, bring Battle Commander Solomon up to speed."

"Affirmative."

The image on the tac-map shifted from the world to this part of Iraq. The display was basic – sprite-like, even. A two-dimensional battlefield that showed the location of Firebase Hotel-27, an endless, featureless desert, and to the east, an oilfield. One protected by red sprites that EVA promptly identified.

"Nod forces have taken over Al-Fakkah Oilfield. They have-have-have-have-"

Al-Abbas kicked the table.

"…set up SAM sites, and are further accompanied by light armour and infantry. GDI Command has ordered Commander, Solomon, J., to engage at-at-at-at zero-six-thirty hours."

That's less than eighteen hours from now.

"Good luck and wel-wel-wel-"

Al-Abbas swore in Arabic, and talked to an officer in the same language, who in turn got on the radio, as the major kept swearing.

"Trouble, Major?"

"Forgive me sir, but these EVAs are pieces of…um, what's that word?"

"Crap?"

"Shit. Or crap. Or piss. Some English word."

"Some would say you're behind the time. A hundred years ago, aircraft weren't even used as weapons of war."

"And until fifty years ago, nuclear weapons hadn't even been developed," Al-Abbas said, the unspoken fear of Nod having access to WMDs shining in his eyes. "But-"

"EVA online. Welcome back, com-com-commander."

"And lo and behold, the virgin mother speaks," Al-Abbas sneered.

Electronic video agents weren't mothers or virgins, Solomon knew. Instead, they were incredibly sophisticated lines of code designed to process battle data, inform battle commanders, and in turn relay their orders to troops in the field. Their designers had assured people (mainly in an attempt to placate them) that while EVAs were capable of passing the Turing test, they weren't genuine artificial intelligence, and that an AI that was the equivalent of the human brain was completely impossible.

Solomon didn't know if he believed them. But again, it didn't matter. He had his target, he had his mandate, and he had less than twenty-four hours in which to formulate a battle plan.

"So there you have it," said Al-Abbas. "The brass wants Nod taken out. And I'm at your pleasure to make that happen."

Solomon almost answered "and then?" However, he already knew the answer. He'd be sent to another battlefield, people like Al-Abbas would try and stabilize the Middle East. A region that had been in shambles since the collapse of the Ottomon Empire, and the further disintegration of its European counterparts after the Soviet invasion in the fifties.

"Is this all Nod's really here for?" Solomon asked. "Oil?"

"You tell me," Al-Abbas said. "Tiberium doesn't grow well in desert. Don't know if you've followed Doctor Moebius, but far as I'm aware, the stuff thrives when it's got biomass to absorb. Leeches everything from the soil to feed itself."

Solomon was barely listening. Instead, he was studying the tactical display, with a rough approximation of Nod's forces, as well as his own.

Taking them out would be easy in of itself, but he was left to wonder how many lives it would cost. The SAM sites would make an air attack costly. Far better to send in armoured forces, but while GDI had superior armour, Nod would have the defenders' advantage.

And then there were the oilfields themselves. In the Gulf War, Iraqi forces had set oilfields ablaze. He'd literally stood under black rain, pouring down from a black sky. There was little doubt in his mind that Nod would utilize similar tactics and worse, if it came down to it.

Nod was everywhere, and had proven over the last year that the distinction between military and civilian targets was one that didn't exist in their memories.

Still, he had a job to do.

And with the help of Al-Abbas and the EVA, he got right to it.

The battle was a disaster or a triumph, depending on who you asked.

GDI forces moved out at 0630 hours – a line of tanks that pummelled the Nod forces from up to two klicks away, while light armour and APCs zoomed forward. Solomon's plan was to go in hard and fast – take out Nod's defenders quickly, including their SAM sites in order to allow air support and the dispatch of reinforcements, and to prevent them from setting fire to the oil field.

Most of those things were accomplished easily. M1 Abrams tanks formed a firing line and pummelled Nod from afar. Outside the SAMs' range, A-10 Warthogs strafed Nod vehicles either heading to the oilfield to reinforce it, or take out vehicles fleeing from it – everything from armour to oil tankers. From the tac-room, the EVA helped him coordinate his forces, allowing them to move at a speed previously unheard of. If all the world was a stage, the sprite-like representations of his forces were his 16-bit players.

But as far as preventing Nod from setting the oilfield afire, that objective wasn't accomplished. The tac-display couldn't capture the details, but the EVA informed him that his troopers were engaged in firefights with Nod all over the complex – fanatics who refused to surrender. Men whose armaments ranged from old Soviet Kalashnikovs to black-armoured soldiers wielding flamethrowers. Immolating more than one GDI trooper, and quite happy to burn themselves in their flames.

Eventually, Solomon had to see it for himself, as did Al-Abbas. The two men set off in a Humvee, as the skies darkened above them. As if Hell itself had been unleashed on the Earth, and Man, for all his sins, had to pay the price of darkened rain.

"Saw this once myself," Al-Abbas murmured, as they approached the remains of the facility. "Though I was going away from the oilfields, not towards them."

Solomon didn't say anything. He got out of the Humvee and greeted the field captain, who walked him through the complex. The haze clouded his vision, and his lungs felt like there was a writhing snake inside them. A sense of slowly being choked, but so slowly the victim would barely notice.

The captain showed him the prisoners they'd manage to take – the few who'd surrendered willingly, the fewer who'd been captured before blowing themselves up or shooting themselves. Most of them were Arabic, and Solomon began to realize what Al-Abbas had meant about resources. Unstable countries made for unstable men, and unstable men made for good recruits in the Brotherhood.

One of them, a boy of fifteen, spat at Solomon as he walked past. Began babbling in Arabic.

"He says that you're imperialists," Al-Abbas translated. "That there is only one prophet, and his name is Kane."

The boy turned to Al-Abbas, and with the same vigour, began cursing as well.

"He says that I am a lapdog. That Kane is the last prophet. That revelation is nigh, that tiberium will transform the Earth."

Transform the Earth? Solomon wondered. Right now, under a burning sky, that seemed hard to believe. From what he'd seen, tiberium had transformed parts of Earth, but he needed more than the word of a deranged lunatic serving an even more deranged lunatic to believe it.

But clearly, the boy did. Him, and every other Nod trooper – men in grey fatigues, chanting. Praying, even, but not to any god Solomon recognized.

"What makes a man serve a maniac like Kane?" he asked Al-Abbas as they walked to the facility's perimeter.

"Madmen serving madder men? One might say that's the history of the world."

Solomon silently conceded the point. From Alexander to Genghis Khan, from Stalin to Romanov, the human race didn't lack for tyrants.

Al-Abbas got off the radio. "Crews are being sent from Kuwait," he said. "ETA, three hours."

Solomon said nothing. He looked up at the sky. Sure enough, it was beginning to rain black gold.

"Maybe tiberium replacing oil wouldn't be so bad," he murmured.

"Maybe. But what would it change? Blood has been spilt over every other resource, why would tiberium? If oil is blood many, would we cut ourselves less on green stone?"

"A poet," Solomon murmured.

"Only in my free time."

In silence, the two men stood there, as the oilfield continued to burn.

As did the entire world.