GORKHA RIFLES FORWARD OPERATING BASE, KUPWARA DISTRICT, KASHMIR
08:17 AM (INDIAN STANDARD TIME)
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The air was thin, cold, and smelled of pine needles and diesel. Rifleman Rakesh Thapa took a long, slow sip from his steaming-hot steel cup, letting the sweet, milky chai burn a welcome path down his throat.
"Aaah," he sighed, his breath a white cloud in the mountain air. "Nothing like it."
His dost, his brother-in-all-but-blood, Rifleman Rahul Gurung, grunted in agreement, his own cup warming his gloved hands. "You said it, bhai. Only thing missing is a hot jalebi."
Between them, on a discarded supply crate, lay the guts of their problem: the disassembled, chaotic mess of a 5.56mm INSAS 1B1 assault rifle. The receiver was cracked, the gas-block was caked in carbon, and the flimsy, black polymer magazine lay next to it like a cheap, broken toy.
"Still... phati padi hai (it's totally fucked)," Rakesh muttered, nudging the broken selector switch with his boot. "Piece of shit."
"Tell that to the Major," Rahul said, finishing his chai. "He's been in a mood since that 'Global Treaty' thing. All leaves cancelled. All drills doubled. And we had to get the one rifle built on a Monday by a blind man."
"It's not our fault," Rakesh argued, setting his cup down. "We're on the range, I put it on teen-gol (three-round-burst). Trak, trak, trak... then trak... then click. The selector just... gir gaya (it fell)... right back to semi-auto. Then, jam. Full-on, bolt-stuck-forward jam."
"And then you broke it in two," Rahul grinned, showing his teeth.
"I was unjamming it, bhai! The manual says 'apply forward pressure to the bolt-handle.' I applied pressure. The handle, and the whole right side of the receiver, decided to separate. How is that my fault?"
"Rakesh! Rahul!"
The voice was a whip-crack. Both men shot to their feet, spilling the dregs of their tea as they snapped to a rigid, if terrified, saavdhaan (attention).
Major Pant, their Company Commander, strode toward them. He was a small, hard man from the Kumaon region, with a mustache that looked like it could stop bullets and eyes that looked like they'd seen it all. He was, to put it mildly, pissed.
He didn't yell. He just... looked. He looked at the two soldiers. He looked at their empty tea cups. He looked at the catastrophic failure of a rifle on the crate.
"So," Major Pant said, his voice dangerously quiet. "A casual cup of tea. While admiring your... handiwork."
"Major Sahib, sir," Rakesh started, "It was a... a parts failure, sir. The selector switch..."
"The selector switch," Major Pant repeated, as if tasting the words. "Did the selector switch tell you to apply 50 kilograms of pressure until you snapped the receiver in half? Do you think these rifles grow on trees? That is a valuable asset of the Indian Army! An asset you two... gadho (donkeys)... have destroyed!"
"Sir, with respect, the rifle was..."
"Was what?" Pant snapped. "Functioning?! You two are the best shots in the company. You are supposed to be the smartest. And you treat your weapon like... like a piece of scrap!"
He pointed a rigid finger, not at them, but at the barracks.
"Toilet duty. Abhi. (Now.) The main latrine block. I want to see my face in the toilets when I inspect them at 1000 hours. Is that clear?"
Their faces ashened. The main latrine block... after a week of double-drills. It was... narak. Hell.
"Sir, haan-ji, sir!" they both barked, their voices a mixture of shame and terror.
"Get out of my sight. Jao! (Go!)"
The two Gorkha Riflemen gloomily grabbed their gear and half-jogged, half-walked toward their punishment.
Major Pant watched them go, his face a mask of iron.
When they were gone, he turned to his Subedar, who was standing nearby.
"Subedar Sahib," Pant said, his voice instantly relaxing.
"Sir?"
Pant nodded at the broken INSAS. "Have someone throw that piece of shit in the garbage."
The smell was... profound.
Rakesh was on his hands and knees, scrubbing a urinal with a fury born of pure frustration. Rahul was miserably mopping the equally-miserable floor.
"Kya narak hai, bhai," Rakesh muttered in Hindi, the scrape of his brush echoing in the tiled room. ("What a hell this is, brother.")
"Aur nahi toh kya," Rahul grumbled, wringing out the mop. "Saala... uss rifle ke liye? Woh plastic ka khilauna? Major Sahib bhi na..." ("What else? ...For that rifle? That plastic toy? The Major is... ")
"Anushasan, bhai," Rakesh said, his voice hollow. "Discipline." ("Discipline, brother.") "Usko anushasan bolte hai. Humne chai piya, humne rifle toda. Ab humko yeh karna hai." ("It's called discipline. We drank tea, we broke a rifle. Now we have to do this.")
"Haan, haan, pata hai..." ("Yeah, yeah, I know...")
A Corporal suddenly burst in, his face pale and sweaty. "Thapa! Gurung! On your feet! Major Sahib wants you! Jaldi! (Quickly!) Briefing room, full-kit, five minutes!"
Rakesh and Rahul looked at each other, confused. From narak... to a full-kit briefing?
"Corporal-ji... hum toh... (but... we are...)" Rakesh started, gesturing to the toilet.
"I don't care if you're swimming in it! Five minutes! GO!"
The briefing room was dark, the air thick with tension. Major Pant was there, along with a GDI liaison officer—a pale-faced American in a crisp, new uniform that had never seen a mountain. The GDI officer was running the holographic display.
"Riflemen," Major Pant said, his voice all business, all his earlier anger gone. "You are here because, despite your talent for breaking rifles, you are the two best guerrilla-warfare specialists I have. You were born in these mountains. You know the trees, you know the mists. Now, you have a new enemy to learn."
The GDI officer took over. "At 0400 this morning, GDI Command received an... anonymous... tip-off. From a civilian source." He looked uncomfortable. "A group of... teenagers... with a modified radio-telescope... somehow, they called in a warning. They had satellite-data—our satellite data, which is another issue—showing an atmospheric insertion. A drop."
The display zoomed in on the Himalayas, on the border between Nepal and the Indian state of Sikkim. A red circle pulsed over the Kanchenjunga massif.
"We thought it was a hoax. A prank," the American continued, his voice tight. "Until, one hour later, we got this."
He hit a key. A static-filled, grainy image appeared. It was from a helmet-cam.
"...Mayday, Mayday! Control, this is... we are under attack! They're... they're in the trees! They're... they're ghosts! Oh God, Ajoy, peechhe... AAGH!"
The feed cut to static.
"That was BSF Patrol 'Kilo-4,' Indian Border Security Force," Major Pant said, his voice like iron. "A similar feed came in from a Nepalese Army patrol ten klicks south. Both patrols... gone. Wiped out."
The display shifted to a single, grainy, long-distance photo. It showed a figure, blurry, clad in black, clinging to the side of a tree.
"The enemy," the GDI officer said, "appears to be... humanoid. Female. And... fast. Preliminary analysis of the sound from the BSF feed... they're using silent weapons. Projectiles. Blades. Survivors, and there were two, called them 'ninjas.' 'Black-clad kunoichi.' We are calling them 'Strain-K,' K for Kanchenjunga."
Rakesh and Rahul looked at each other. Elves. Orcs. Wizards. And now... ninjas. What the hell was this tamasha?
"Your mission," Major Pant said, "is to lead a four-man 'Hunter-Killer' team. You, Rifleman Harka Thapa, and Rifleman Bimal Rai. You are the best trackers in the regiment. You will insert via HALO jump at 2200 hours. You will move into the 'Red Zone.' You will find these 'ninjas.' And you will... capture... one. Alive."
"Capture?" Rahul asked, surprised. "Sir, not... neutralize?"
"GDI wants a prisoner, Rifleman," the American officer said. "They want intel. This is a new, third strain of hostile. We need to know where they're from, what their goal is. You are authorized to use any means necessary to capture two... repeat, two... hostiles. The rest... are expendable."
"Sir, yes sir!" Rakesh said, his mind already working. This was his khel (his game). This was the jungle. This was their home.
NEPAL-SIKKIM BORDER, KANCHENJUNGA NATIONAL PARK
01:30 AM (IST)
The mist was so thick, Rakesh couldn't see Rahul, who was ten feet in front of him. The air was cold enough to make his lungs ache. They were in a dense rhododendron forest, the ground a wet, sucking carpet of moss and mud. They were moving, four ghosts in new, GDI-supplied multi-spectral camouflage, their Tavor X95 rifles held in the low-ready.
Rahul held up a fist. The team froze.
He pointed down.
Rakesh crept forward, his night-vision turning the world a sickly, sharp green.
It was a BSF soldier. Or... what was left of him.
He was pinned to a tree, his arms and legs spread. He wasn't shot. He wasn't stabbed. He was held in place by... shurikens. At least twenty of the black, star-shaped blades were embedded in his joints and torso. His throat had been cut, ear-to-ear, with a single, surgical stroke.
"Devi," Rakesh whispered, making a small sign. "They're... they're toying with them."
A thwip sound, like a branch snapping.
Rahul reacted instantly. "DOWN!"
A black, three-bladed kunai knife embedded itself, quivering, in the tree trunk where Rahul's head had been.
"KONTAKT!" Rakesh roared.
The jungle exploded.
Not with gunfire. With shadows.
They were fast. Impossibly fast. Figures in skin-tight, jet-black suits, wearing white, featureless porcelain masks, dropped from the canopy. They moved with an inhuman, flowing grace, their kodachi (short swords) and daggers flashing in the moonlight.
"Fire and move! Fire and move!" Rakesh screamed, firing a controlled, two-round burst from his Tavor. The 5.56mm rounds hit a black-clad figure in the chest, but it just vanished in a puff of smoke.
"A dhokha (a trick)!" Rahul yelled, grabbing Rakesh. "It's a log! A substitution!"
"Behind you!" Harka screamed, firing his own Tavor. A 'ninja' who had been dropping from a branch above Rakesh, her short-sword aimed at his neck, was hit in mid-air and crumpled to the ground, dead.
"Two on the right!" Bimal yelled.
It was chaos. The Gorkhas, the masters of the jungle, were being... out-hunted. These 'kunoichi' were using their own tactics against them, but with a speed that was not human.
Rakesh got separated in the mist. He was backing up, his rifle scanning the trees. "Rahul! Bimal! Kahan ho? (Where are you?)"
Silence. Just the drip, drip, drip of water from the leaves.
He was alone.
He heard it. A thwip-thwack past his ear. A shuriken.
He dropped to one knee, Tavor up. Nothing. The mist was too thick.
A shadow moved, to his left. He fired. BAP-BAP. He hit nothing but a fern.
A sound behind him.
He spun, dropping his rifle on its single-point sling.
She was there. Not ten feet away. A black-clad ninja, her porcelain mask gleaming, a kodachi in one hand, a long dagger in the other.
She was fast. She lunged.
Rakesh's hand went to his right hip, his hand wrapping around the grooved, sacred horn-handle of his Mark III Khukuri. He drew it with a shiiing, holding it in a low, reverse grip.
The ninja... paused. She recognized the blade. She seemed to smile behind the mask, as if welcoming the challenge. A true duel. A warrior's death.
She lunged, her short-sword a silver blur aimed at his heart.
Rakesh threw the Khukuri.
He didn't throw it at her. He threw it at her feet.
It was a feint. A distraction. A violation of a thousand years of Gorkha tradition.
The ninja's eyes, trained for a knife-fight, instinctively followed the spinning, sacred blade.
For 0.3 seconds.
It was all Rakesh needed.
His other hand was already moving, his thumb snapping the retention-holster of his Glock 17 (the Indian Army's new standard sidearm).
He drew, pointed, and fired.
BAP-BAP-BAP-BAP.
He didn't aim. He used his body, his training. A quadruple-tap to the center-mass.
The four 9mm rounds hit her in the chest like a sledgehammer. Her supernatural speed meant nothing. Her blades meant nothing. She just... stopped.
She looked down at the four, neat holes in her suit. She looked up at Rakesh. She tilted her head, confused. Then she collapsed.
"RAKESH!" Rahul's voice.
He and Bimal burst through the trees. They'd taken one down, too. "You okay, bhai?"
"I'm good," Rakesh panted, holstering his pistol. "Harka...?"
"Down," Bimal said, his voice grim. "Throat cut. He... he never even saw it."
Rakesh cursed, retrieving his Khukuri.
They found the last two, wounded. Two kunoichi, their legs shattered by a burst from Bimal's Tavor. They were crawling, trying to get away.
"We got 'em!" Rahul said, leveling his rifle. "Two of them! Alive!"
As they approached, the two kunoichi stopped. They looked at each other. They nodded.
Then, their hands went to their mouths.
"NO!" Rakesh roared, realizing what was happening. "Suicide pill! Roko unko! (Stop them!)"
He dove, shoulder-tackling one of them, jamming his gloved fingers into her mouth, prying her jaw open. He felt a small, glass vial break against his glove. He roared, punching her in the temple, knocking her unconscious.
Rahul was right behind him, doing the same, smashing the other one's face against the mud. "Got it! Got it! She's out! She's out!"
They'd done it. Two wounded. Four dead. Two captured.
At the cost of one of their own.
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[TWELVE HOURS LATER]
GDI MEDICAL HOLD, PETERSON SFB
The room was dark. The only light came from a wall-mounted TV, its volume low.
"...and in a stunning, if costly, victory," the CNN anchor was saying, "Indian Special Forces, identified as Gorkha Rifles, have successfully captured two of the new 'Strain-K' hostiles on the Nepal border. This marks the first time humanity has successfully captured live Omega hostiles. The two prisoners, confirmed as humanoid females, are being transported to a secure GDI facility..."
The footage showed two unconscious, black-clad figures being loaded onto a Dhruv helicopter.
Harris Brown watched, his face impassive.
No... not his face.
The Mask's face.
The black, chitinous, demonic visage was fused to his skull, a permanent, living thing. His eyes were two, cold, blue-burning dots.
He sat on his cot, unmoving.
He watched them load the prisoners. He watched the world celebrate the capture.
"Prisoners...?" a voice whispered in his mind. It was Miller's. "They're taking... prisoners...?"
"Avenge us, Harris..." Diaz's voice, crying. "Not... not talk to them... KILL THEM..."
The voices, which had been a dull, manageable roar, were screaming now. They were enraged. This was not vengeance. This was... a setback.
Harris—or the thing that was Harris—stood up.
His hands, now tipped with black, chitinous claws, clenched at his sides.
The mask, his new face, contorted.
He was enraged.
This was wrong. It was all wrong.
He looked at the TV, at the footage of the captured ninjas.
"You... don't... get... to... learn," he growled, his dual-layered voice a promise of pure, cold murder. "You only get... to die."
He slammed his clawed fist into the concrete wall of his cell, leaving a web of cracks. The mask demanded it.