Hey, peeps~! Here's the next chapter of The Phoenix Rising. I hope you guys are ready for what's coming next here. ;) Investigations underway, sabotage being carried out, and even forbidden history finally revealed. ;)
Review replies:
- Greymon Leader Batx flashpoint: Glad ya like this. :) I've been wanting to do this for some time! XD
- Spiceracksargent001: I'm happy you enjoyed it. :) I did want to include some new machines for the Atlantians to use. ;) And yes, the Black Knights do have an extremely long recharge time. About two days before their batteries are fully charged. So they have to be used wisely.
- operation meteor: Hey, thanks! :) I'm glad ya think I did a good job, although I will be honest in that it your battles are better written than mine. :P I'm gonna try to reach that level of writing one day. :) And yeah, the whole music I selected just fit. ;)
- CT7567Rules: Glad ya liked that one! XD As the resistance doesn't have a navy as of this moment, they need to... liberate... older ships for use in said capacity. And the New Jersey is close to where Big U is docked right now, so... why not throw her in as well? XD As for Enterprise... well, let's just say the world's fastest ocean liner will be attaining the nickname that the Big E once had! XD
(A small light is shown flickering before it flares across the screen, fading to show the Strike Dagger S, Spray sitting on its shoulder, his trench coat fluttering in the breeze)
START MIKAKUNIN HIKOUSEN BY TAKAYOSHI TANIMOTO
(The camera pivots to show the mobile suit outside the main base of the resistance on Earth in Denver, the door open to show the interior of the warehouse with several shapes before the cylinders)
Oh yeah! Be strong, jump on, and become the wind (The camera zooms in on them to show President Eisenhower, Dr. Keith Martinez, Dr. Klaus Brand, Warren Thompson, and Marcus Wolcott with Turbine behind the warehouse itself)
Pass the orbit beyond the sky (The camera pivots away from them and out to show the resistance forces mobilizing to attack a camp in the desert, guards arming their rifles)
I can't hold back this rushing speed (The leading machine speeds in front, showing a NEMO armed with a clay bazooka, its pilot being shown to be a woman, her hazel eyes hard as she aims the gun and fires at a Destroy)
A familiar town becomes a diorama (The Destroy is hit by the explosive round, the flames engulfing the camera before it fades to show the camp in ruins)
Burst through the unclear skies (The camera pivots away to show another explosion as a Murasame blasts past, bearing an unfamiliar emblem)
Blow away your worries and discontent (The camera zooms in on the wolf head emblem before it starts to flutter as a flag, panning down to show the leader of Sicario, Arnold Franken, on the screen)
Who needs a journey that's by the book? (The commander of the mercenaries waves his hand and three mobile suits blast overhead, their pilots shown with their emblems behind them)
Even if you're lost or trembling, raise the altitude (The three engage a number of shadowy mobile suits before a beam engulfs the camera before fading to show Stella being held by Shinn in her agony)
Oh yeah! Show off, mess up, and stand back up (The boy is glaring as images of the Extended march past him, his eyes hidden in shadow before he looks up, his eyes in SEED Mode)
I'll watch the unknown horizon with you (The camera pans away to show the captain of the Archangel and Heero standing beside one another, their hands entwining)
Now be strong, jump on, and become the wind (The two look at one another before a mobile suit flies past, panning up to show the Strike Dagger with a new Striker Pack resembling phoenix wings)
Use the sun that lights tomorrow as a guide (A dark shadow looms behind the machine, its hand grasping for the image of the Earth as a ship is shown flying away, its name glinting in the light)
Fly off to the glorious world of freedom! (The image shows the resistance ship and their allies facing down the dark shadow, Djibril's face behind it as he looms over them)
GUNDAM WING: THE PHOENIX RISING
Let justice be done, though the heavens may fall
- Steven Jackson 'Spray' Krane
CHAPTER XXVII: Reflective Resistance
December 12th, CE 0073
FBI Headquarters Basement Level
The news of the attacks on the bases flooded the airwaves across the Atlantian Reich.
People were baffled, confused, and in some cases, downright terrified.
And for many, it was a reasonable fear. After all, if Terminal could strike at their bases in San Diego and Pearl Harbor, it only made sense to reason that they could also strike at any other bases across the country. Which meant that the former nation of Great Britain wasn't safe, either.
The strikes in particular roiled the political elite, making them terrified of what was really happening abroad. That, however, only served to make them stamp down harder on any possible political dissidence and rebellion. That in turn forced many to go underground, which only served to bolster the resistance's numbers, and as well as making more people aware of what was going on behind the scenes and who was really in charge of the Atlantian Reich.
So this was playing perfectly into Eisenhower's hands, Director Gerro mused.
His face was dead serious as he observed these new developments with a critical gaze.
His fingers were clasped as he narrowed his eyes. 'I can't believe how easily this plays into her hands...' he thought. 'That woman... she's one hell of a strategist. Hell, if I didn't know any better, her abilities would dwarf those of the Wolf of the Far East and the Desert Tiger combined. But then again, unless she goes against them, it's only speculation. Still, the fact that she's already making moves for a new operation after Merlin indicates that she wants to trap the rest of LOGOs' forces at home for the revolution...'
That alone was a disaster waiting to strike, he knew, if she didn't plan ahead for it.
It wasn't that he doubted her. Oh, no. Her abilities were not in doubt. It was how she would react to rapid changes on the battlefield that worried him.
If there was one thing that he had learned about Eisenhower, was that despite her brilliant planning with tactics and strategy, it was that she couldn't adapt as swiftly to changing battlefield conditions as well as he had hoped. That was why she had to rely on her wide-reaching intelligence network to plan out the battles in a way that could work in her favor.
Her abilities were truly second to none in some respects.
And he had to admit her making moves like this was something he had wanted her to wait on. But it seemed like she wanted to get the jump on anyone who wanted to go for LOGOs' leadership. It actually made sense to him. Since no one could touch the men, the only way to get them was to force them to split up and head out to their estates in their section of the Reich. From there, it would be easier to snatch them and have them transported to Alcatraz where they would be held until the end of the war, when they would be tried by the United Nations and the United States and her allies for their crimes.
He had to admit her operation was a good one.
"Three moves in one..." he muttered. "One to strike at the shipping industry... one to strike at the camp in the desert..." His eyes fixed onto the city of New York, now the new feudal capital of the Atlantian Reich. "...and one to stir up trouble..."
"Sir?" The director turned as he heard the voice of one of his agents.
"What?" he asked.
"Is this even really happening?" she asked.
Gerro closed his eyes and sighed. "Helena... it's going to happen whether we want it to or not. The fact that we even made this move against the Devonport base... it's our first overt act. And an unofficial declaration of war."
Helena Twain shifted in her seat. "I'm just not sure it's even the right time," she admitted. "Isn't there still a lot that we have to do?"
Gerro nodded. "We do have a lot to do." He then opened his eyes. "Which is why we should start making our own moves next."
With that said, Helena knew what Gerro meant. Her eyes widened a bit in realization. "You mean the Headhunters, right?" she asked.
The director gave a grim smile. "Yes. I hope you have the information?"
The agent nodded, holding up the flash drive. "Task Force Narrative just delivered it hours ago."
What no one knew, aside from the FBI, was that Task Force Narrative had another purpose as well. To act as an intelligence gathering source for the resistance in certain areas of the country. That alone went a long way for making up the deficiency in agents that the CIA had at their disposal. As such, it had fallen to them to sniff around for information about the Headhunter Division. Seeing how many families had lost their spouses to the Court of Owls, it made sense they'd start to drop little tidbits of juicy stories to lure in the hawks, which in this case was Task Force Narrative. And already the stories being spread were starting to get people to question the agents they had seen rounding up dissidents... or whom the agents thought were dissidents.
The FBI had long been working to get the resistance's people into key positions of power. And that strategy had started as soon as Copeland came into power five years ago. It was only by sheer luck that one of his agents had been recruited into the slowly burgeoning movement. And it was due to this connection that he was able to get information on the growing force. As such, he was able to make his own moves to assist them. With the sharp crackdown during the First Bloody Valentine War, he had started working swiftly to place resistance operatives and agents in key positions of power within the Atlantian economy, such as at shipyards, factories, military bases, banks, etc. Of course, he also relied on his agency's key database of LOGOs personnel they were supposed to guard to terminate them. And through some doctoring of records, it was easy to make them seem like they had been the dissidents instead of the rebels.
The resistance still had no idea of who had secretly aided them this whole time, although only Eisenhower knew of it. And she was wisely keeping it quiet, save for amongst the top leadership of the movement. No doubt word would soon start to filter down, but for now, it was kept under wraps. And that was the one thing he had hoped for.
For the risks his actions posed, it was in the end worth it, he felt. Not only because he was delivering a massive blow to LOGOs, but also because he was doing something he knew was right. He was standing up for justice, and he knew it. And so did everyone else under his command.
It was also key to get the information on the Headhunters out to the public.
But as to how, that was something he was trying to figure out. How to get that information out would also spell whether or not he was going to be exposed as a traitor, along with the rest of the FBI who were on his side. And that was something he wanted to avoid for as long as possible.
After all, if the revolution got under way now, then who knew what could happen?
"Helena, I want that information to be released slowly over the next several weeks," he instructed her. "Leak it to the press, as well as to normal civilians. The more people start to learn about the Headhunters, the better a chance we have to isolate their support amongst the CIA's radical faction."
"Yes, sir," Helena said with a salute.
"Also, one last thing. I need you to try and get in touch with any of the underground police syndicates. They may be able to help by spreading information through the criminal underworld," he told her.
"Are you sure that's wise, sir?" she asked, doubtful of his move.
Gerro pursed his lips as he closed his eyes and nodded. "Yes. I'm sure," he remarked. "If anything, it may yield some clues as to whom have evaded our reach."
The director was keen to eliminate any and all Headhunters within his agency, as well as within the CIA. The CIA's top leadership was fortunate to be the ones to assist the resistance in limited international information gathering. But that was all they needed for right now. It also helped because the intelligence service was able to note what resources were being devoted to the entire war in sniffing out Coordinators, which he felt was a gross misuse of the national security apparatus. It was... wrong... to use it for something so petty, as it isolated the nation from possible spies and saboteurs within their own boundaries.
With that firmly in his mind, he knew that the CIA would have to be completely rebuilt from the ground up to be what it once was. Agents would have to be vetted, veterans would have to be recruited to train these new agents and they'd have to be put through a crash course on international relations and culture to make up for the losses they'd suffer. They would also have to be highly trained in what they once were mostly used for: counterterrorism. And in his mind, the President of the United States Resistance was the perfect person to train them, as she had extensive experience in sniffing out and taking down anti-Governmental cells prior to her forming the resistance. Plus, with her abilities in terms of strategy and tactics, she would be able to train these new recruits in best how to use said tactics and strategies effectively.
"I'll get on it," Helena remarked.
Gerro nodded and turned back to his computer as the agent left.
Now he could finally focus on what to do next.
His eyes flicked over the computer monitor screens on his desk, taking in the recent events with a keen gaze.
The most recent was the attack on Devonport, which had basically leveled the entire base, save for a few remaining structures that barely stood.
It was something he had been expecting, but not on this scale.
Some part of him wondered if they had been planning to detonate the Funka as well, but the rest of him doubted it. The oil tanker exploding had just been a fluke, he guessed. But then again, it made sense, given how the name meant 'eruption' in Japanese. And the sheer scale of the column of smoke was enough to make him grimace. That was something that would be contaminating the air for some time.
However, that was furthest from his mind as he shifted his gaze to the next event, showing the burning remnants of a large structure in the Canadian tundra.
Oh, he knew about the ship the resistance had created.
And he was glad they got it off of the planet.
The door behind him slid open and he turned, his gaze landing on his liaison to the resistance.
"Ah. Terrance," he noted.
Terrance Rendall gave a firm salute as he came to a stop. "Sir!"
At five foot ten, Terrance wasn't very imposing, and he actually looked fairly average. With short brown hair and grey eyes, he was fairly nondescript in appearance, with a decent build and a nice looking face. His career was also average, but it was the connections he had with the criminal underworld that made him so valuable. As a field agent in New York, he had made a number of contacts with the criminal element of society, and along with Ellen Dupre, was able to make links to the League of the Batmen underground police syndicate as well as a few others in the city.
It was Terrance's responsibility to keep the resistance in contact with the underground police syndicates to be aware of the locations of any kidnapped or sold children.
And it had been a smart move on his part.
"What's going on?" Gerro asked as he turned to face the liaison.
The man dropped his salute. "Sir, we just got word. The League has managed to acquire some of the data pertaining to the Copernicus bombing," he relayed. "Ellen just told me to tell you."
"I see." Gerro leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. "That's good news. Did you tell the resistance?"
Terrance gave a nod. "Yes, sir. And they told me to ask you to send it to them."
"Then do so. I need to see this as well, to be honest," Gerro instructed.
"Yes, sir." The resistance liaison turned and headed out, leaving him to his next act of business.
Once he was alone, he closed his eyes and began to think about how to expose the Headhunters.
Already a few ideas were brewing in his head, but he did have to admit it was not as good as what Eisenhower could do.
'Maybe I'll have to bounce this to her,' he mused. 'She may have an idea for it...'
However, he paused, then shook his head. 'No. I'm going to be the one to do it. But maybe I should bide my time a bit more until some more damage has been dealt to LOGOs politically. Yeah. That'll definitely work...'
For what it was worth, he was good at anticipating the domestic aspect. But when it came to political maneuvering, that was something out of his league. That didn't mean he was incompetent when it came to reading the political game. That was something he was good at. It was how to play the game that he lacked at.
But this time, he was about to take his first foray into the political game itself.
And he wasn't sure if he'd even survive it.
. . .
New York City
New York Resistance Base
Brian was surprised at the request from the commissioner.
"You gotta be kidding..." he whispered.
"I assure you we're not joking," Tim remarked. "The SecState and FBI both want this done."
"But to hack into LOGOs' databases to find that information... It's close to suicide!" Brian blurted. "Hell, we don't even know if they have anything on it!"
"The SecState seems to think otherwise," the man stated. His eyes narrowed as the screen flickered momentarily. "And I'm inclined to agree with her. There is just too little that was told to the public. And she wants that information to be shown to them."
"Okay, I get where she's coming from. But it's still considered suicide to carry out such an operation after we got that intel on Djibril's past," Brian countered. His eyes narrowed as well. "They're already trying to find the hacker who broke into their classified files documents."
"I can understand, but rest assured we have that part covered," Tim reassured him. "It pays to have connections in the criminal underworld at this stage of the game. We can have them off your back in less than a day."
"I sure hope you know what you're doing..." the computer engineer muttered.
"I do," Tim told the younger man. "Just lay low until tomorrow evening. Then go nuts. My guys will cover your tracks."
The computer engineer sighed. "All right. But I don't like it."
"Trust me, I feel the same way. But if this is to get some information out to the public, then so be it." Tim's voice was hard as he leaned back in his seat. "And for what it's worth, it just may help to get some more people on our side. Right now, the numbers are fairly even. There are still a lot of fence sitters, but at least it's better than the numbers we started with when the First BV War was beginning."
Brian understood where the commissioner was coming from, and it did make sense.
Back during the CE 50s, the resistance had been only confined to small, isolated cells that were slowly eliminated one by one by Atlantian forces. The smarter cells had been the covert ones, but due to this, they couldn't act lest they be outed. That drastically limited their operations in every capacity possible. And since none of them had known of the other cells, it meant that there was nothing that could be done in any capacity until they were unified under one banner. And every attempt had been shut down for fear of being discovered.
In some ways, Brian couldn't blame them. The fear of being outed was any resistance fighter's worst nightmare. The most telling example had been the death of Seigel Clyne during the First BV War when a mole for the radicals had outed them. And that was why the resistance took great pains to keep themselves hidden at all costs. And with the offer of better wages for the technical communications industrial complex workers, it was a huge turnaround.
Previously, LOGOs had been the ones with the better communications and the encrypted phones. The resistance had had to make do with only outdated computers and a haphazardly assembled server room. LOGOs had always been one step ahead through their use of encryption. The resistance's efforts at encryption had been futile at best.
But now...
Now things were different.
LOGOs had lost its encryption.
They had lost their communications experts.
And they had lost all means of keeping in touch with one another to great effect.
The resistance could now interfere with their communiques at will and read them as effortlessly as the Allies had once read the Enigma codes during World War II.
The resistance had the servers that were heavily encrypted, and they had created the TORN through the use of the old onion router concept. The Hub was proof of concept in action.
And he couldn't help but feel some sense of satisfaction at seeing LOGOs scrambling to keep ahead of their new adversaries.
But that mattered little when it came to the technical industrial complex's own plans.
Their plan?
To break down all isolated networks and reconnect them through the World Wide Web once more.
Brian had to admit it was an ambitious gamble. It would not only reconnect the world's countries, but it would also expose them to cyber attacks. It was a risk that was well worth it, though, as it would expose people to new viewpoints and ideas instead of just those of their 'tribe'. After all, a united planet was a big threat to people like Djibril and the rest of LOGOs. A united planet that also included Coordinators.
Not just Naturals.
In short, a united human race was what they feared.
"Brian?" The computer expert was torn from his thoughts as he heard Tim's voice.
"Oh, sorry. I was thinking," he said.
"It's all right. Anyway, as I was saying, Project Artemis should get the fence sitters to join us once this information goes public," Tim repeated. "That should help boost our numbers to where we have somewhat of an edge against LOGOs' minions and thugs."
"What about in the military?" Brian asked.
"That's something that's being explored as well," Tim told him. "From what I heard, after the losses at Moscow, there were a ton of units that just about mutinied when they were told they were going to be sent overseas. Of course, given the circumstances that happened close to two months ago with the attacks on the bases of Pearl Harbor and San Diego, I can't blame people for being pissed off."
"Can we get those units on our side?" the computer expert asked.
Tim just shrugged. "That's not my department. But if I had to hazard a guess, then I would assume that the President and her Cabinet are working on it even as we speak."
"I sure hope that's the case," Brian admitted.
The ex-cop nodded. "Same here." His eyes then narrowed. "But that aside, be ready for when we need you to delve into their databases again."
The computer engineer nodded once. "You got it, Tim."
The COMM went dark and Brian flexed his fingers before cracking them and settling in for what was to be a busy day compiling data.
For his part, Darrien looked over at his computer expert.
"So, what did he have to say?" he asked.
Brian was hesitant to admit it, but he knew Darrien well enough to know he could trust his opinion on things.
"He wants me to dig deeper into the files covering the Copernicus bombing," he admitted. "And... that's paramount to suicide right now, given the recent hacking I did."
Darrien huffed. "Figured as much..." he muttered as he took a bite of a chicken wing. He held out the bucket to the other man. "Wing?"
Brian took one and started to chow down.
"Look. I'm not a big fan of you doing such hacking again so soon," Darrien stated. "But the fact is, you're the best when it comes to this. Plus, you got the contacts to back that up. So..." He jabbed a chicken bone at him. "You'd better be ready by tomorrow evening."
"I did say I would be," Brian countered.
"Good. Because we'll be doing what we can to back you up," Darrien stated as he tossed the chicken bone into the bucket.
Brian gave a nod and turned back to the computer. "Let's just hope we can find something..." he muttered.
. . .
New York Underground Police Headquarters
Tim glanced at the terminal displaying the attacks on the naval bases of the Atlantian Reich and he had to suppress the urge to sneer.
The very idea that the world's most brutal superpower was now under attack from both forces abroad and at home was enough to satisfy the anger in his chest, but he knew that it would only be a matter of time until it reared its ugly head. And he wanted to be prepared for that day.
Already he could see that a number of people within the other countries fighting against the EA and ZAFT were speculating about what was really happening within the Atlantian Reich, particularly in the Mideast and even Africa, especially given the most recent attempts during the First Bloody Valentine War to conquer them. It was a complete turnaround, and rumors of the resistance's existence were starting to surface.
The newscasters of the global news agencies were already guessing as to what was going on, but they were still far from the mark as to the sheer scale of what was happening.
At least it was a start, he mused.
To see this happening was the biggest gift he could have asked for.
Back in the past, America had always used its military technological prowess, superior industrial might, and their very values to fight for. Not child soldiers, barbaric tactics or outright savagery. Slaughters had been kept to a bare minimum. War criminals were charged and discharged from the armed forces. Women and minorities in the armed forces had added diversity and competence unlike anything else. Church and state were kept separate by the Constitution. And the country, for all its flaws, had been a solid mark of democracy for generations.
After World War II, the country had dominated global affairs for close to a century, only for that influence to wane with the collapse of the Soviet Union and the rise of China as a rival power. But when the Ukraine war erupted in early 2022 AD, the country had found its calling once again and stood against the imperialist ambitions of Russia's dictator, bolstering allies once more with their incredible technological might and industrial resources. After the war came to an end, American influence once more experienced a resurgence and rights were solidified once more.
And now he was seeing speculation of a possible resurgence coming to the fore.
He couldn't help it.
Tim Drake sneered and chuckled darkly. "Oh, Djibril has no idea what's happening under his nose..."
And he was right.
Thanks to the cunning of the resistance leadership, and the technical communications industrial complex, they were able to remain hidden and well out of sight.
The rumors of the President's brilliance in strategy and tactics did not do her justice.
She was a downright beast when it came to that kind of warfare. She knew how to play the enemy for a fool, and she knew how to read them thanks to her vast intelligence network. Deception and counterintelligence were key here, and she used them to their full potential. Hiding the resistance fighters in plain sight was the best way to avoid detection, and to use separate clubs for men and women as cover for both genders to train in combat was downright devious. The best part was that no one of the Atlantian Reich even knew of this.
Only those who were aligned with America knew, and it was just plain insane how well she was doing this.
Eisenhower's tendrils reached into every facet of Atlantian life and economy, including the nobility and Government. And she was much more cunning about it than Azrael or Djibril ever were.
He could recall a single quote from her after his recent introduction to her.
"Just as the shadows hide the darkest of hearts, the light often conceals the brightest of ambitions."
And it was true.
Her ambitions were bright, and she used the shadows of the war to hide the light.
She was akin to a ninja warlord, or even a shogun.
The comparison was downright eerie, and he had to suppress a shudder as he heard his terminal beeping. He pressed the communications button and the images of the news faded to show one of his fellow commissioners, but for the Seattle Spooks instead.
"Ah. Damian. What's going on in Seattle?" he asked.
Damian Wayne shifted in his seat as he leaned forward. "About time you got back to me," he joked, a smile crossing his boyish features.
Tim had to resist the urge to groan at the younger man's joke. "Enough with the jokes," he muttered. "You wouldn't call just to joke with me, you know."
Damian's face grew serious as he leaned back, clasping his hands on his desk. "You're right on that one, Tim," he remarked. His brown eyes narrowed as some of his black bangs fell over his face partially, making him seem younger than his mid-thirties. "We got some information that could be of use."
"Does it have to do with Project: Artemis?" Tim asked.
The other commissioner nodded. "It does," he admitted. "But it's heavily encrypted. The only reason we knew it had to do with the Copernicus attack was because it was marked with the subject."
"You gonna send it out?" the older man inquired.
Damian was silent before he shook his head. "Not yet. I want to run it by one of the tech guys from the TCID. If they can hack it, then we'll send it up the chain. SecState will get it though, I can assure you that."
"Those techies may be good, but I doubt they could hack this kind of stuff," Tim cautioned.
"You never know until you try," Damian countered. "I think this guy will be able to do it, though. His wife's suffering from breast cancer and she won't be able to get treatment at a normal hospital."
"Dammit...! They need to pay for medical negligence!" the commissioner of the League of the Batmen muttered.
"I know. It's sick, really," Damian growled. "And all because she's Asian."
"Okay." Tim leaned forward, cupping a hand under his chin. "I think I can get her into one of the hospitals close by to Seattle. But he has to get that information decrypted as soon as she is."
A look of relief crossed the other officer's face and he sighed, his muscular frame seeming to deflate at that. "Thank you, old friend..." he muttered.
Tim gave a nod as he leaned back in his seat. "Keep me informed once you get the information decrypted."
"You got it." The screen went dark and he focused his attention on the recent events happening up in Canada.
His eyes narrowed as he watched the single column of smoke arcing skyward, fire at its tip.
'So... it's finally happening...' he thought.
'After all this time... we're finally going to make our move.'
. . .
Zephyr
Atlantic Ocean
Phantom Pain had greatly expanded in the aftermath of the First Bloody Valentine War.
The numbers were nothing to sniff at, that was for sure.
But while they had expanded, the fact remained that they were a mere organization compared to what was brewing beneath the surface back home.
And as befitting an organization of their stature and caliber, they had not only the grunt pilots, but also a number of elite units held in reserve for dealing with the most dangerous of threats to their power abroad...
As well as domestically.
Fitting in with the theme of the organization's name, these elite units were referred to as Ghost Squadrons, and they were selected from the manliest of manly men for not just their ideological purity, but also for their skill. These men were combat veterans, each and every one of them having survived the massacre of Panama or the Battle of GENESIS. And on top of that, their families had ties to Blue Cosmos or LOGOs in some cases. The Ghost Squadrons were a good way to intimidate the common folk as well as those in the military who dared to rebel against their new nobility and overlords.
But it was not just for intimidation or prestige that these units existed.
They were highly skilled in battling their Eurasian and regular counterparts.
The names of all these units fit in with the supernatural theme of the organization's overall name, ranging from the sinister like Gargoyle Unit to the most ridiculous like the Cullen Team.
Out of all these units, the most notorious, and the most dangerous, was the unit known only as Ghoul Squadron.
Ghoul Squadron was not just the oldest unit, but also the most experienced.
Deployed to Eurasia during the invasion of the country, they took up positions in the northern section of what had once been France and launched their campaign to root out any Eurasian military members. The entire area had been cleared by the time the failed Operation: Suzerainty was launched, and their skill only enhanced their already formidable reputation. But it was not just because of their skill. It was their sheer brutality that led to them being nicknamed "Hell's Ghouls" by their victims. A lot of survivors never returned home the same after the attacks by the Ghoul Squadron.
In fact, many never returned at all. Those that did, only did so by sheer luck or because the squadron commander wanted their victims to spread the tale of their terror. And it worked, because resistance died up within weeks of their arrival. Terror was the ultimate weapon of these guys, and they made damned sure that the victims of their attacks knew it as well.
For what it was worth, the sudden recall back to the Atlantian mainland was both a disappointment and a boon for the Ghoul Squadron.
Recent activity abroad had led many of the ruling elite to suspect that something was brewing beneath the surface of their host body country. The riots that erupted after the declaration of the forming of the Kingdom of Gilead were one thing, but the sudden breakout of fighting in the Quebec Slums was another. The rebels in the slums were so far beating back their overseer's forces, and also claiming key points along the walls. With people scrambling to try and beat the rebels back, it was proving to be a lot easier said than done as the slums were littered with all kinds of passages and rooms that made it impossible to catch the residents. And the sudden attack down in Mexico was another thing that caught the attention of many of the elite.
For Bruno Zabiarov, that meant one thing.
There were rebels afoot.
And not just a small group of them.
This was a well-trained, well organized force that went beyond a handful of cells across the country.
This was an entire network of resistance cells that covered the entire area.
And by that, he meant the entire country.
He was not about to ignore the potential threat this posed to his superiors and his own fellow pilots.
The fact that he was being called back to help quell the resistance was a disappointment, but at the same time it was something he was also looking forward to. Mostly because the Eurasians hadn't put up much of a fight once he and his men launched their terror campaign. These rebels, on the other hand, had fought against two Destroys and damaged them, but at the cost of their own base, and then they had taken over Dr. Guo Sung's lab and captured the man himself.
They were more than just rebels, he figured. Guerrilla units like the Desert Dawn and Desert Wind never had the industrial capacity or financial capital to build or even create their own mobile suits from scratch. These guys were clearly allied with what remaining businesses Djibril and his other superiors hadn't been able to get under their control. But where were they getting the financial capital from? All the banks, he knew, were under the head of one of the other LOGOs members.
He shrugged and brushed it aside. It wasn't his area of expertise, anyway.
At an imposing six foot four, Commander Bruno Zabiarov cut a menacing figure in his black Phantom Pain uniform. His thick blonde hair was a mess and he had a grizzled face with a precisely trimmed mustache and beard combination. His right eye was covered with an eyepatch, having lost it in the hellhole that had been the Battle of GENESIS back during the First Bloody Valentine War. However, he had not been one to let that keep him down. After getting back planetside and recovering from his other injuries, he went and got a cybernetic eye installed in the socket of his old right eye. His left eye was a deep green color and his right eye, when not covered by the eyepatch, revealed a bloodred iris and black sclera, a stark contrast to his good eye. It only added to his imposing stature, and he often exposed it in the darkness to terrify his lesser adversaries.
A lifelong career soldier, he had been bullied in his youth by a pair of Coordinators for being a lesser lifeform than them. Although his teacher had punished the kids, it was far too late for him to have his mind changed on them. He saw them as a major threat to humanity and so, when he graduated high school, he went into the military and applied for special forces training. He proved to be an excellent candidate and he graduated from the special forces school with high marks. When the Bloody Valentine War rolled around, he had attained a high enough rank to be selected for the first of their mobile suit pilots. He proved to be an exceptional pilot, with a high spatial awareness for the field around him, and he achieved a new promotion during the Second Battle of JOSH-A when he killed over two hundred Coordinators in less than two hours.
His brutality led to him earning the nickname The Ghoul because of how he carved up their machines and even impaled them like on a cross. The idea was enough to catch the eye of Lord Djibril who saw him as the leader of a new unit, one that was to perform duties off the books of the regular forces. The Phantom Pain organization was one he took great pride in being a part of, as it allowed him and his unit to perform their duties to the creed of Blue Cosmos with such zeal. The units selected for these tasks were called Ghost Squadrons, and the Ghoul Squadron was one of their top units.
After being recalled from northern France to the carrier Zephyr, the Ghouls were briefed on what was going on, and he had to suppress a sneer at the thought of one-upping the rear admiral herself.
While she was good at what she did, the fact remained that she was still a woman, and therefore unable to complete the task at hand, which was the removal of an entire cell of resistance fighters. He scoffed at the thought of her efforts and he turned his gaze back to the direction of home.
"You eager for combat?" the voice of the Zephyr's captain asked.
"Given the situation back home, of course," Bruno remarked with a roll of his eye.
The carrier's captain was silent as he approached, standing beside the squad commander.
"How did it come to this?" he asked. "After all we have done to secure our power... how can there be such a resistance network underneath our noses?"
"The only ones who know are those who created it," Bruno muttered. His eye narrowed. "And I for one want to know as well. So if we can capture the leader... well... all the better for us."
"You mean all the better for Phantom Pain," the captain countered.
"Whatever suits you, Captain Bryce," Bruno retorted.
Captain Duncan Bryce didn't even respond to the comment. He just kept his gaze fixed on the horizon.
For a moment, silence filled the space between the two men. Then, Bryce spoke again.
"What do you think of this resistance?" he asked.
Zabiarov had to sneer at that. "Hell, I'd fight them gladly!" he remarked. "Those Eurasians were nothing but chumps compared to what those rebel scum pulled off!"
"Yes," Bryce conceded, "but that's beside the point. What I'm asking is, what do you think of them personally?"
"How should I know?" Bruno countered. He shrugged. "After all, we just learned of them after that attack in our southern sector went down the shitter."
"Yes, I will admit that. But in terms of their capabilities, what do you think of them?" Bryce asked again.
Now Bruno understood what he was asking. "Oh... I see. You're wondering about what I think of their abilities," he mused.
The captain nodded. "Yes."
"Well, to be honest, it's something of a surprise," Bruno stated. "The resistance movements we've dealt with in the past and in Eurasia have been nothing but scoundrels scavenging for supplies and using outdated technology. But this... this movement is far more organized than even I thought possible. Especially after the Deteria was sunk off Devonport by an old naval tub."
"Huh." Captain Bryce frowned before he scowled. "Oh, yeah. I remember seeing the video feed from the Black Knights."
Bruno blinked. "So, you know what ship did them in?"
The carrier's captain nodded. "Yep." His eyes narrowed as he gazed at the sea. "You ever hear of the old battleships?"
"Who hasn't?" Bruno asked. "They're nothing but historical curiosities these days. No ships like them are needed in the age of the mobile suit."
"Well..." Bryce's eyes hardened. "They brought one of them back... and sunk the Deteria and Gunther."
"Hold on! You mean Master Goose Militia lost a carrier?!" Bruno blurted.
Bryce gave a grim smile. "Hard to believe, isn't it?" he noted.
To Bruno, it was hard to believe. No one in their right mind was capable of using those old ships, especially since the ones who had built them were long deceased, their remains left to rot in graves unmarked and forgotten. But to hear that the resistance had managed to reactivate one of them?
"How did they do it...?" he muttered. "How could they reactivate one of those old things?"
Bryce had no answer.
He merely shrugged.
Bruno narrowed his eyes as he recalled seeing the old battleships at dock in the Atlantic Federation. He could remember the history of them, and he had to admit that while they had been formidable back in the AD era, that was no longer the case. The advent of beam weapons and mobile suits had rendered them obsolete. A beam saber could easily cleave one of them in half. A spacecraft was far more mobile and durable than an old tub of a sea-going warship.
And yet the rebels had made skillful and excellent use of the old battleship, the USS New Jersey.
This was something that would have to be addressed.
But first, the rebels had to be exterminated.
And he could already see their base in his mind.
A sneer crossed his face as he folded his arms across his chest.
He was going to enjoy this for sure, he knew.
And those rebels would pay for making Phantom Pain seem weak.
Oh, he had no idea as to how wrong he truly was...
. . .
Devonport Ruins
Frederic Bunuel groaned as he pushed some of the debris aside, his face streaked with sweat and soot from the fires.
The civilian had been at this for the last forty-five minutes, pushing aside debris and rubble to try and rescue as many of the soldiers and sailors as he could.
After all, the resistance was not one to let soldiers die for no reason like the Atlantians did.
He grunted as he lifted part of a steel beam, and, using the momentum and angle, heaved it off the last slab of rubble from one of the hangar buildings. He collapsed to his hands and knees, panting as he gazed out at the debris from the ships surrounding the base, most notably the Halifax and Funka.
The two ships were nothing but burning husks now, and he felt a bit of gratitude that the resistance had done their part. Without those ships sending ammo and supplies to the front in Europe, that meant that the civilians could now focus on their livelihoods again: a stark contrast to what they had been doing before in making them offload the supplies for the invasion.
An invasion that was illegal and against the laws of warfare.
He gritted his teeth, forcing aside the pain and exhaustion creeping up on him as he staggered to his feet. His hand lashed out and he grabbed onto the slab of rubble, blood dripping from his soft, smooth palm. He was no manual laborer; he was an office worker. And yet he had decided to assist those who were dead and dying. The dead needed to be collected and sent back home to their families. The dying needed to be treated and at least allowed to pass in comfortable, humane conditions.
His grandfather had told him stories of the past, and he was influenced by them.
He panted a bit before nausea surged through him and he clapped a hand to his mouth before he leaned over just as his stomach lurched. He felt the taste of bile rush up his throat and he vomited onto the pavement, ignoring the nasty smell of cooking vomit in the heat.
"Hey! You okay?!" a voice called.
Frederic looked up, his eyes locking onto the speaker as they rushed forward.
A man clad in a black and yellow uniform, with a heavy-duty oxygen tank on his back and a helmet with a glass visor in front of it.
One of the city's firefighters had arrived.
The office worker gave a nod as he staggered to his feet, still holding a hand to his mouth.
The firefighter rushed over as quickly as he could, putting an arm around the other man's shoulders and guiding him to safety. "What were you even doing in this hellhole?" he asked.
"T-Trying to help people..." he muttered. "I...no one needs to die..."
The firefighter glanced back at the ruins of Devonport and frowned. "You wanted to help all those people by yourself?" he asked in disbelief.
Frederic nodded. "Y-Yes..." he gasped.
The firefighter scowled as he helped the office worker sit down. "That's admirable, but it's just a hellhole in there now. So why do it?"
"Because... it's what... we would do..." he whispered. "Isn't it?"
The firefighter pursed his lips as he looked back at the remains of the base, closing his eyes. There was no way anyone could save everyone in those ruins alone. And although he was a firefighter, it would require heavy equipment to move some of that debris. And no one was willing to help.
At least until he heard something that sounded familiar.
The sound of treads crackling some of the debris under them.
He glanced up, and his eyes widened as he saw a large backhoe coming onto the scene. The driver glanced down, concern on his face. "Hey! What happened here?" he called.
"The base was destroyed," the firefighter responded. "And this man was trying to help people out from under the rubble all by himself." He gestured to Frederic who nodded.
The driver of the backhoe leapt off it and ran over to the office worker. "What the hell?! You crazy, man?!" he blurted.
"I... I couldn't stand by and do nothing..." he gasped. "All these people... I can't let them die alone like this..."
"But why do it?" the driver exclaimed.
Here, Frederic glanced up, gazing into the other men's eyes. "Because... it's what we used to do... Isn't it?"
The two men looked at one another, then back at the office worker who had a determined look in his brown eyes. His thinning red hair was streaked in sweat, the palms of his hands were bloody, and his entire face was covered in soot and dirt. His shirt was torn at the edges of the sleeves, and his pants were marred with oil and other fluids he had waded through. But he held himself in a way that was different than what they knew.
He seemed to be more of a soldier than a mere office drone.
He was panting, but he didn't let his gaze waver.
"Please... help me..." he rasped, starting to stagger to his feet. "I can't..." He coughed a few times before he stood up straighter. "I can't do this alone... I want those who have died to be sent back to their families... and I want to save the dying from suffering alone... like the army did in Europe!"
The driver of the backhoe glanced to his companion, who looked to his fire axe in his belt. Then they glanced to the office worker who stood with a fierce gaze in his eyes.
The firefighter then nodded. "All right. I'll see about getting some more backup."
Frederic gave a weak grin before the driver of the backhoe spoke up. He jerked a thumb to the vehicle. "Where do you want me most?" he asked, a smile crossing his face.
The office worker laughed in relief.
. . .
The efforts started out small.
But slowly, as the driver of the backhoe and the firefighter worked to help clear some of the debris, more people came out of their homes or businesses and started to ask questions. Many thought it was futile, often trying to discourage those who were helping first and foremost. Men and women of differing professions came out to do what they could, but seeing as how the Atlantians had given up on the base, there were those who refused to help.
And yet, they still came.
A team of heavy-duty construction vehicles were called in by the driver of the backhoe, and with their efforts, debris and rubble were cleared to allow rescue workers to be called in to save those who could be saved. Many men and women worked to try and reach them, leading to even the resistance getting involved. The rebels provided much needed medical equipment and supplies, giving treatment to the wounded and administering relief to the dying.
All in all, it was a change that convinced many of England's citizens to join the movement for freedom.
. . .
CIA Headquarters
The entire room was filled with tension as the Garfield Hartfelt sat before some of the others who made up the moderate faction within the CIA.
It was by pure luck they had even managed to get this room for an impromptu meeting at this stage of the game.
With the resistance having made their attack on Devonport and with new operations possibly looming in the future, they had to be extra careful to avoid being ousted by the radicals. As it was, keeping their real ties a secret was even more dangerous now these days.
The main monitor on the wall displayed the news, and the images of the attack on the base, coupled with the assault on the lab in Mexico and the collapse of the rebel base down there played out before them. Garfield wasn't too thrilled about the fact they were starting to move so soon, but he did see the need for it. And with the possibilities opening up before them, it was only a matter of time before they too were outed.
He glanced to one of his fellow agents and she turned to look at him.
"They took a big risk," she noted.
"Yes, but one that was worth it," he told her. "This is only the first step in their operations."
"As well as ours," another man muttered. "To think that this was all due to their vast reach..."
"The President is, in a way, kind of scary..." the woman remarked with a shudder. "How is it she's so skilled at this kind of warfare?"
"Her career as a Marine, Martha," Garfield mused. "She served in the Mideast for a while before she was brought back to help deal with the anti-Governmental forces cropping up all over the place." He looked down at the file on Marie Lenneth Eisenhower, her eyes showing that keen intellect in the photograph beside the records. "She earned a reputation for being a rebel breaker. Her MO was to infiltrate them undercover and then slowly learn about them and their tactics. Then she left on supposed missions, when in reality she was reporting back to her superiors. It also says she developed a tendency to use their own tactics against them. And some of the contacts she made during her infiltrations were spared due to their own connections. Kind of interesting how she was able to take advantage of that despite not being a political player."
"I see," Martha Levingston murmured.
"Just one question I got," the second man remarked.
"Shoot away, Bassam," Garfield remarked.
Bassam Nagi nodded as he sat back in his seat. "They declared war, didn't they?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.
Garfield wasn't too sure if it was even a real declaration of war, in all honesty. But the more he thought about it, the more likely it was a declaration of war, even if it wasn't stated outright. The mere fact they had even struck at the major naval bases in England alongside Terminal and the Eurasians was a sign that things were starting to escalate.
And that worried him to no end.
"Honestly, I'm not entirely sure," he told him. "But... with the way it was carried out, and the fact it was alongside Terminal and the EF? I can only guess that it is a declaration, even if it wasn't outright stated."
That made Martha hum as she leaned back, crossing her arms over her ample chest. "So then with war declared, we'll be needing to start our own operations," she stated.
Garfield nodded, knowing where she was coming from.
As it stood, while their positions kept them from sending too many people out on efforts to hunt down Coordinators, they couldn't keep everyone off that waste of manpower and resources. To be fair, the CIA had devoted most of its resources to said witch hunt, and only kept a token minority of people to handle intelligence gathering of other nations, which put the country at severe risk.
And that was something this group of people was determined to correct.
Sylvester Lanett grunted. "That means we'll have to leave," he mused.
"All the better for it," Garfield countered. "We're wasting time and resources to hunt down those who were genetically enhanced, which is a gross misuse of our personnel and budget. And to be frank, it's completely disgusting what they're doing."
"Well, you're not the only one who feels that way," Sylvester noted.
"Same here," Martha remarked. She looked back to the news feed and had to suppress a grin as she saw the two Destroys collapse after fleeing the former rebel stronghold. "And for what it's worth, it's a satisfying sight to see those things be demolished."
Garfield grinned in response, only for it to fade as he sighed. "So, we have our moves planned?"
His three friends nodded.
"Good. Once we begin the revolution, we leave at once and take all our personnel with us," he said seriously.
Martha, Bassam, and Sylvester nodded as one.
Time was now of the essence.
And he knew it, as did his friends.
. . .
Concentration Camp B-243
American Desert, Arizona
The desert was not a hospitable place by any means.
The Sahara Desert of Africa was the most notable example of such a vast, lifeless wilderness of sand, with the way the wind blew the dust around like so much water, forming cresting dunes and troughs that could conceal many a pitfall if one was not careful. Only the hardiest of people and animals could thrive there, using what little water they could find and scrounge up to stay alive.
History was made in these places, such as at El Alamein in World War II when the famous British Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery defeated the Nazi Field Marshal Erwin Rommel. There was also the Alamo, in the North American Deserts, where American soldiers made a last stand that saw them all cut down by Mexican troops after a futile effort at defeating them.
But it was also here in the North American desert that new livelihoods were being held at bay.
The rise of the Atlantian Reich after the First Bloody Valentine War, and even before then, had seen new facilities constructed out in these remote parts, hidden well from prying eyes. These facilities were nothing like luxury resorts or even new towns. These buildings took a page from a bloody era in history, during which many people were seen as undesirable and chosen for extermination instead of detention. Not wanting to repeat the follies of exterminating a slave population, the Atlantians instead opted for merely holding and confining potential slaves for the new ruling elite, with extermination reserved instead for particularly troubling slaves, and including the dreaded Coordinator menace.
These structures were none other than concentration camps, isolated from one another and kept separate by barriers and miles of defenses that ran in a network across the unforgiving desert. And out of these camps, only one was held in reserve for Coordinator extermination.
It was here at this particular camp that there was trouble beginning to brew.
It was subtle, and for what it was worth, the NSA agents assigned to guard this place were not too thrilled about the conditions in which they lived while the slaves suffered. It was a stark contrast to what they had learned about and grown up with, and to see it being carried out here made them sick to their stomachs. A few who chose to protest were threatened with being thrown in with the slave populace unless they complied with the rules, of which there were many.
Despite this, however, a number of people tried to make the suffering of their captives more bearable, providing limited food and water, sometimes sneaking fruit juices and cocktails in to give the prisoners some better nutrition. It was not easy, and to hide these activities was downright difficult, but they somehow made it work. It helped that the man in charge of the security cameras was a lazy asshole who only buried his face in porno magazines ten hours a day.
The main issue was the medical care of the prisoners here. With beatings and infections running rampant, the prisoners were not given any medical attention, and those who succumbed to their wounds or disease were often dumped in a mass grave out back with no way to bury the decomposing bodies. So the NSA personnel often snuck some bodies away for cremation out in the desert, but even then their efforts were not enough to block out the smell. In fact, they had to wear gas masks while the prisoners did not. And with an open roof, the stink filled every inch of the facility.
Just a reminder of how much they wanted these people to suffer inhumanely.
To Brenda Marliese, it was horrific beyond words.
It took all her willpower to refrain from shooting the camp commandant in the kneecaps and then leaving him in that muck of former human bodies out back.
She glanced to her right, and she saw fellow guard Vincent Darby as he narrowed his eyes at one of the other camp guards down below. The woman shot them a glance and she gave a subtle nod.
It was their turn to dump the bodies out in the desert for cremation.
She returned it with a nod of her own before she and Vincent snuck off, relying on two of their comrades to take over their shift for the evening. The NSA guards had worked out a rotating schedule in which some of them would work to remove the most decomposed bodies and throw them into a truck that would take them out and then they would burn the interior of the truck before completely bleach cleaning it from top to bottom with industrial grade cleaners. It was a tedious effort, but one that was worth it. Anything they did to ease the suffering of the prisoners was worth it, she mused as she and Vincent exited the camp's catwalk perimeter and climbed down the ladder.
One of the men in charge of the gate saw them coming and he held out a set of keys.
"Take Truck 22," he cautioned. "Truck 21 is undergoing maintenance."
"Thanks," she whispered back.
Oswald Turner nodded as he went back to observing the gate.
The two guards stood up straight and made their way out, acting like they were going for a perimeter patrol around the edge of the camp. Given the network of defenses however, that was not needed.
But it did make for a convenient excuse.
The gate slid closed behind them and the two scrambled for one of the truck pools close by to the camp. The trucks were heavily armored transport vehicles, designed to transport slaves to the estate of the ruler in this part of the nation. And they also made for good body removal vehicles.
Vincent looked over to their designated truck for such a task, and he scowled. Mechanics were indeed working on the vehicle, poring over its brakes and examining the back of the transport. No doubt trying to figure out why it stank of industrial grade cleaners, he mused as he turned to Brenda. "Let's move," he muttered.
Brenda nodded and they both walked over to Truck 22, which had been designated as the backup for their grisly task.
The two got in and Brenda started the vehicle, supposedly getting ready for heading out on patrol.
She cast her gaze around the area, and much to their relief, the mechanics were not even paying attention to them.
With that knowledge in mind, she turned the steering wheel and the vehicle drove out of the parking slot, just in time for another vehicle marked with the same number to pull in and take its place for this night.
It paid to have connections to other camps, she thought with a grim smile. Some of them had too many trucks it was easy to miss one or two that were stolen.
The two drove the vehicle around to the body pit out back of the camp and already Brenda could smell the stink of death, even through the gas mask she wore. She had to fight back the urge to strip it off and vomit, it was that bad. She pulled up alongside the pit and parked the truck while Vincent hauled the ladder out from underneath it. He pulled it close to the edge and jabbed the twin rod anchors into the edge of the pit, letting the ladder fall down into position through gravity alone.
He glanced back at her and gave the thumbs up.
"Good. Now let's get to work!" Brenda said.
"Also, this is good because it gives us a chance to actually talk without censoring our words," Vincent remarked as he began to climb down the ladder.
"Yeah? Like those attacks on the three British naval bases?" she asked.
Vincent gave a nod. "Yep. The one and only. Heard about the ones down in Mexico, too. That was very ballsy of them to attack the lab like that."
Brenda merely shook her head as she followed him down into the pit. "Not really," she admitted. "They saw it and took their chance to seize it."
"Well, whatever the case, it puts a damper on their Extended project, which means it could be halted," Vincent said as he glanced up at her. "After all, having that bastard held captive? Hell, they're not going to let him go after this."
"Not really the point," Brenda countered. "It may halt it, but only for a time before someone else takes over. They have plenty of mad scientists at other labs across this sham of a country, and that includes Los Alamos."
"Sure wish the resistance would just nuke the place and be done with it," the NSA agent growled. "What they did to it is a complete disgrace."
"They won't due to its historical significance," Brenda stated. "It's too important."
"Yeah, I know, I know," Vincent muttered as he reached the first platform in the pit. He reached down and slipped his arms under a badly decomposing body and hauled it out of the pile, taking care to try and keep it as intact as possible. "Geez... Sure wish we could use an excavator..."
"Too bad we can't, or else we'll be spotted, remember?" Brenda reminded her colleague.
Vincent sighed as he shook his head. "Yeah, I know. But seriously, those guys are ballsy as hell. Taking out the base at Devonport like that? That was brutal."
"And in sync with Terminal and Eurasia," Brenda remarked. She had a grin on beneath her gas mask; although her companion couldn't see it, the way her eyes sparkled told him she was grinning. "A first step towards reforming our country from the ashes."
"More like reclaiming it from within," Vincent added as he chuckled. "Djibril has no clue what we got planned."
And it was true, too.
Through the clever use of encrypted messaging apps that two of the NSA agents at another camp had developed, the entire NSA had striven to craft a plan that would completely expose the use of illegal concentration camps and the rebirth of modern slavery. However, the details were kept highly classified and held close to the chest in case someone squealed. They never mentioned it except when in private or off duty back at their homes or in barracks they themselves had built; that last one ensured that no bugs were planted inside them. It was a mark of supposed trust the commandants had in them that they didn't bug their homes, either.
After all, they were supposedly keeping impure elements out of society, weren't they?
If only the commandants knew the whole truth...
. . .
Satellite City, Mexico
Keith frowned as he observed this with narrowed eyes.
The recent attacks on Devonport, Clyde, and Portsmouth were one new step towards open warfare.
True the Battle of the Chihuahuan Desert had been a victory for the rebels, but now...
Now things were starting to change.
And it didn't help matters that the attack on Dr. Sung's lab had been caught on its security cameras.
But it was worth the risk, he knew. Because now people were starting to get suspicious about what was really happening within the Atlantian Reich. And that right there was something that was a big relief for the computer expert.
Still, there was a risk that now they had unofficially declared war, they could be outed before they were ready.
But something told him that the President had made plans for such a thing, and he didn't doubt it. After all, she was far too cunning to let someone like Djibril and even Nazara outmatch her. When it came to tactics and strategies, no one on the entire planet could match her capabilities.
And it showed, especially as how she had orchestrated the entire sequence of events leading to the alliance with Terminal, and by extension, the PLANTs and Orb Union, along with Eurasia. While she was not as skilled as others in playing the political game, she was still able to execute a coherent foreign policy dedicated to reforming the United Nations.
Ans it was working very well.
He leaned back, his eyes closing as he pondered his next move.
Only for the COMM attached to his terminal to beep. He opened his eyes and touched it. "What is it, Jen?" he asked.
Jen's concerned face flickered into view. "Keith, it's Dr. Sung. He wants to talk to you again," she said worriedly.
The acting commander pursed his lips. "Dammit... why can't he just leave me alone?" he muttered as he got up from his desk. "I'll be right there."
Jen nodded and the screen went dark as he turned and headed out of his office, making his way to the elevator that would take him down to the cell barracks deep underground. As he walked, his eyes hardened as he recalled the deranged man's cryptic message to him. 'What exactly did he mean?' he thought to himself as he frowned. His hand drifted to the pistol he carried, but then thought better of it and stopped before making his way to the armory.
He needed something better.
Keith arrived at the armory not even ten minutes later, stopping just before the guards. The first guard held out her machine gun to bar him from entering. "ID please."
The AI expert reached into his lab coat and pulled out the ID card and handed it to her before stepping back. She held it up and examined it, comparing his facial features to those on the card's picture. She finally gestured and he stepped closer before she handed it back. "Whatcha need?" she asked.
"I need something better than the M1911," he admitted.
The second guard frowned. "Why? That not good enough for you?"
Keith shook his head. "Not when dealing with that man down in the cell blocks."
The guard's eyes narrowed as he held out a hand and pressed it to the scanner on the side of the armory door. The device read his palm before it flashed and the door slid open. "Sasha will guide you to the heavier stuff. But you do need to hand in the old one."
"I plan on it," Keith answered.
The two entered the vast armory and the door slid shut. Sasha Petrov nodded as she waved a hand. "C'mon."
Keith followed her as she led him through the vast array of weapons, ranging from machine guns to rocket launchers, including artillery that could be deployed from a hangar deeper within. She guided him to where the pistols were and held out her hand. Keith handed over the M1911 and she put it back in the racks. "What do you need?" she asked.
The AI expert didn't even hesitate. "The Desert Eagle."
Her eyes flew wide. "Why that?" she asked as she walked over to pick it off the shelf.
"Just for ease and for some heavier kick should it come down to it," Keith admitted. "I don't like the idea of being left with the mere M1911 when dealing with that man."
Sasha checked the gun over before nodding and handing it to Keith, grip first. "Here. You need ammo for it, too."
"Give me a mag, too," Keith said.
The guard nodded and reached over to the drawers for the ammo in the cabinet. She unlocked it with a key and opened it, reaching in and pulling out the mag in question. "Just one?"
Keith nodded. "Just the one."
She nodded and handed it to him, allowing him to load the gun before putting it in the assigned holster she handed to him. He took off the old one and passed it back to her before she replaced it on the shelf and guided him out of the armory.
Now armed with a better handgun and with more confidence in his ability to hold his own should it come down to it, he made his way back to the elevator and pressed the button for the cell blocks.
The elevator door slid open, and Keith stepped inside. Once inside, he pressed the most bottom button, and the elevator slid shut before it shuddered as it began to descend. His eyes hardened as he considered just what Dr. Sung had mentioned.
'What did he mean?' he thought, gritting his teeth. 'How does Blue Cosmos' ideology tie into debugging a computer? I mean, sure there could be some similarities, but it doesn't make much sense otherwise.'
The trip down to the cell blocks was uneventful, and when the elevator shuddered to a halt, he gripped the Desert Eagle beneath his lab coat and felt a bit more sure of himself. He had trained in the use of pistols during his time in the army, and while he was good with them, he wasn't as good as some others. In fact, it was his preference to use the Desert Eagle because of its kick and power.
So to have a gun he was familiar with was enough to boost his confidence.
The elevator door hissed open and Keith stepped out into the hallway, spotting Jen as she stood off to the side. "Keith!"
"Jen!" Keith ran over and embraced her. "What's Dr. Sung saying this time?" he asked, trying to calm her down. To be in the presence as the same man was enough to make anyone sick, and Jen was no exception to the rule.
"It's not what he's saying to me, per say. But he kept asking if you figured out his message yet," she said, looking up from where she had buried her face in his chest.
The AI expert frowned. "All right," he muttered. "I'm gonna get some answers out of him today."
"How though?" Jen asked, concerned.
Keith didn't answer at first. He was silent for a moment before he finally spoke.
"I'll think of something..."
. . .
Keith's eyes were dark as he approached Dr. Sung's cell.
The neurologist was sitting back on his cot, a beatific smile on his face. His legs were crossed and his hands were clasped before him as if in meditation.
His eyes slowly opened as he heard Keith's footsteps on the cold concrete.
"Ah. Dr. Martinez." He sat up straight, but remained seated on his cot. "It is good to see you again. It gets rather dreary down here with no one to talk to but the guards, after all."
"Shut the crap and just tell me why you called me down here!" Keith growled, his eyes narrowing dangerously.
"Oh, I just wanted to ask you if you even figured out my message yet," the former neurologist said cheerfully.
"Like hell I have!" Keith spat. "I don't even get it!"
"Oh, please. You're a brilliant man, Dr. Martinez," Dr. Sung replied. "I know you figured it out."
"Hardly!" Keith snarled. "I don't even fully understand how the ideology of Blue Cosmos could tie into debugging a computer!"
Dr. Sung's beatific grin never left his face as he shook his head. "Such a foolish ideology, really," he mused. "After all, if one removes a vital part of a program, it does not work. And the same can be applied to us as well."
"Shut up and talk!" Keith shouted, finally pulling out the Desert Eagle and aiming the gun through the bars. In his mind's eye, he saw the light-brown seed-like jewel falling before it hit the water and shattered, a red ring of light surrounding the explosion. In the real world, his eyes changed, his irises becoming larger and the pupil becoming dilated and his eyes taking on a glazed look. "I have had enough of your head games! Just tell me what you mean and I'll let you walk away with a mere scratch!"
The deranged neurologist opened his eyes fully and found himself staring right into Keith's SEED Mode eyes. His own eyes widened as he froze, a sense of dread filling his gut.
The AI expert was not fooling around anymore.
Dr. Sung's smile left his face and he sighed, closing his eyes. "It seems you were telling the truth," he muttered. "You could not decipher my meaning."
"No!" Keith hissed. "Now spill! What did you mean?!"
The Atlantian looked up, taking on a more somber, and dejected, expression. "It's simple, Dr. Martinez. It is as I said. They see humanity as a tainted bug in the programming of our planet. Particularly ever since the Coordinators came about." He paused. "Think about their catchphrase. "For the preservation of our pure and blue world.' The first part is quite simple enough to deduce. They are still trying to preserve the world. But the second part... Now doesn't it seem strange they would declare that?"
"I'm still not following," Keith muttered lowly, his eyes narrowing.
"Ah, but it is right there in their ideology and catchphrase," Dr. Sung remarked. "But... to put it simply, to preserve this world, they seek to remove Coordinators from the programming of humanity. However... therein lies the problem. Coordinators have been around for years now, yes?"
"Yeah. But I didn't come here for a history lesson!" the AI expert growled.
"Ah, but history plays a big part in this tale," Dr. Sung argued. "Because since the First Coordinator, many more have been engineered, and some of them have even traveled abroad, mixing and mingling with the other pure humans of this world. And if you recall, I did say they would have to test every single human on Earth, which is impossible to do in practicality."
Then his beatific smile returned. "Because if they did succeed in testing all of humanity, including themselves, they'd be found to have some Coordinator DNA in their genomes," he stated, making Keith gasp in shock.
"What?!" he blurted, lowering his gun.
"It's true, Dr. Martinez," the Atlantian said. "They are dooming themselves, and humanity as a whole, to extinction with their ideology. It's hypocrisy at its finest." He then turned his gaze to the AI expert again. "In short, to them, extermination of the human race is the way to go to render Coordinators extinct."
Keith was stunned.
"So that's their endgame?!" he blurted, shocked.
Dr. Sung nodded. "Yes. That is where the rebooting of a computer system comes into play. A clean world. A clean system. Similar, is it not?"
Now Keith understood.
And he was horrified beyond belief.
. . .
Resistance Headquarters
This was it.
Eisenhower had to suppress a grin as she watched the enemy scrambling, trying to find answers to who had launched the attack on Devonport.
To say it was amusing to see them running around like blinded chickens was one thing.
But to say it was a sign of the progress they were making was another.
And that reminded her of the next project she had to focus on.
Her gaze drifted over to where she could see Benjamin Carson working in his office in NYC, checked on by a camera feed the resistance tapped into. It was a good thing, too, she mused as she watched the hired goons of Djibril patrolling the perimeter.
Tekkadan, on the other hand, was watching those thugs with the eyes of a hawk.
The PMC made up of former child soldiers was the only line of defense he had against those men. And it was getting to the point of tension between the two groups. It was only a matter of time before they broke into all out conflict.
The Atlantian thugs were, according to Carson, distrustful of the PMC, seeing them as a means to keep them from their duty of watching over their lord. And that led to Carson distrusting them instead. It was a total subversion of trust and faith, something Eisenhower could understand. After all, they were mere thugs under the command of Lord Djibril, not Carson himself.
And for what it was worth, Eisenhower hoped he had a plan in place to evacuate the city if he was found out to be a mole.
As she turned her gaze away from the monitor, her eyes landed on the single trailer playing out before her, a lie designed to lead people into the movie theaters to unlock them from the chains binding them to the cause of LOGOs. And this... was going to be the literal icebreaker.
And she had to admit, the name was quite fitting.
A smirk crossed her lips as she tented her fingers in front of her mouth.
"Operation: Icebreaker... a fitting name indeed..." she muttered.
A fitting name indeed.
And one she was not about to ignore.
Especially since this would reveal everything about the Extended program... and discredit LOGOs' claims about respecting children entirely.