THE SACRIFICE
The GDI High-Command bunker was a cathedral of cold, blue light.
General McCaffrey stood before the main holographic display, his arms locked behind his back. The screen was not one, but nine, a mosaic of tactical-feeds. The largest, central feed was from a GDI-Reaper UAV, circling at 40,000 feet, its thermal-camera painting the "Green Hell" of the Amazon in ghostly shades of white and black.
The other eight feeds were from the helmets of the ROK "White Tiger" squad.
He was watching them die.
"Sir," Director Ogunsanwo's voice crackled over the secure-comm, a voice of pure, strained-agony from his command-center in Brasília. "We have lost... three... four... General, their heads... the pressure-spikes... this is... this is a massacre! I am ordering the extraction..."
"Negative, Director," McCaffrey said, his voice a flat, dead-monotone. He didn't move. He didn't even blink.
"General! They are our men! They are an Alliance asset! I am...!"
"They are soldiers, Director," McCaffrey cut him off, his voice like iron. "And they are dead. They've been dead since they stepped off the transport. Do not send in an extraction-team. You will not sacrifice a rescue-force for a corpse-retrieval."
On the screen, he watched the tactical-calculus play out. He watched the eight remaining "White Tiger" soldiers form their circle. He saw the new, "shimmering" contacts. The "Predator-cloak."
"Dr. Aris," McCaffrey said to the terrified analyst at the station beside him. "Talk to me."
"Sir," Aris said, his hands flying over his console, "the... the 'shimmer' is... it's a light-refraction-field. A perfect one. It's... it's not 'invisible.' It's bending light. And the 'pressure' attack... it's not... magic... it's... gravity, sir. A localized, high-intensity, gravimetric-pulse. They're... crushing... our soldiers' heads with a gravity-weapon."
"So, no 'magic,'" McCaffrey muttered. "Just... physics... we haven't invented yet. Good to know."
He watched, with a cold, detached, strategic-horror, as the ROK squad was... processed. He watched the "shield" go up. He watched the 7.62mm-rounds ping off it, useless. He watched the chrome-and-white 'Futuristic' soldier glide inside the perimeter.
He watched, as if he was a god, as four-more of his men died... their helmets imploding.
"Sir," Aris whispered, his face pale-green. "This... this is... obscene."
"This is war, Doctor," McCaffrey said.
Then, he watched something... new.
He watched Captain Park, the team-leader, order a charge. He watched the last four men, in a suicidal, glorious, human act of pure, primal-rage... charge.
He watched them pour point-blank, 7.62mm-fire into the shield.
"They're... they're overloading it, sir!" Aris said, his voice a sudden-shock of hope.
"Yes," McCaffrey said. "They are."
He watched the shield die. He watched Park empty his 500-round-backpack into the creature, shredding it.
He watched the other three... uncloak.
He watched Park's helmet-cam feed turn to static.
The UAV feed was all that was left. It showed the three, slender, chrome-and-white 'Futuristic' soldiers standing in a triangle... around the single... smoking, mangled, dead... 'White Tiger' exo-suit.
They were... panicked.
They were looking up. They were gesturing. They knew they'd been seen. They knew their "shield" had failed.
Director Ogunsanwo's voice was a choked-sob of fury. "You... you let them die, McCaffrey. You... used them."
"Yes, I did, Director," McCaffrey said, his voice still flat. "They were a 'fixing-force.' They fixed the enemy in place. They bought us... coordinates."
He turned to Aris. "Dr. Aris. You have the cluster-coordinates for those three... things."
"Y-yes, sir," Aris stammered. "Locked. They're... they're not moving. They're... I think they're trying to retrieve their... their dead."
"Good," McCaffrey said.
He turned to a different console. A red-phone.
"Director Ogunsanwo. Your men. Your artillery. You are 'weapons-hot.' You have my authorization. Protocol: Hammerfall."
A beat of silence. Then, Ogunsanwo's voice, cold as a tomb. "Roger, General. 'Hammerfall' is... go. Fogo-de-bateria... (Fire-for-Effect)."
THE HAMMER
On the UAV feed, the three futuristic-soldiers were panicked. They were fast. They were already bounding... gliding... out of the clearing, their cloaks shimmering.
They were fast.
But artillery is faster.
Ten-kilometers-away, at the Brazilian Força de Reação Rápida's new, hidden-base... the ASTROS 2020 (Mk6) Multiple-Launch-Rocket-Systems... fired.
It was not "twenty shells." It was six-hundred.
A full-salvo from five launch-vehicles. A storm of 127mm high-explosive-incendiary rockets.
On the UAV feed, the jungle... disappeared.
The high-altitude-camera showed a five-hundred-meter-square-grid of the Amazon... erupting. It was not a "bomb." It was a ripple-effect, a sledgehammer... dozens... hundreds... of explosions walking across the landscape, turning triple-S-canopy-jungle, futuristic-soldiers, and the pod itself... into nothing.
A single, massive, rolling fireball.
The thermal-feed went white.
General McCaffrey watched the fire spread. He watched the white-hot-signals... vanish.
"Target... neutralized," Aris whispered, his voice shaking.
McCaffrey just nodded. He picked up his tea, which was now cold, and siððed it.
"Director Ogunsanwo," he said, "send in your men. Hazmat-suits. I want... pieces. I want that pod. I want that armor. I want... anything that's left."
"Yes, General," Ogunsanwo's voice was... hollow. He had just "won."
McCaffrey cut the comm. He was alone with Aris.
"Sir... we... we won," Aris said, trying to find hope.
"It's a temporary victory, Doctor," McCaffrey said, staring at the fire. "It proves our point. We can kill them. But... it raises a problem."
He looked at the analyst.
"We can't give every soldier an artillery-barrage. We can't give them a 20mm-cannon. Our infantry... our soldiers... they are out-gunned. Their rifles... are useless."
He... almost... smiled. A cold, grim, humorless-thing.
"We need... a new kind of 'infantry.' We need... freaks."
He was thinking of a certain, blood-drenched-demon... in a locked-cell, two-floors-down.
THE SCRAMBLE
OMEGA. FOB BEDROCK. 10:45 GST
The "city" was a tomb.
The 11-man "Sentinel" squad had secured the main-hangar, their M4s sweeping the corners. But the awe... was gone. Replaced by a cold, sudden, logistical-dread.
"Sir," Specialist "Edison" Kim said, his voice a low-panic from the COMMAND-module. "I've... I've got a problem."
"What is it, Edison?" Russo said, his helmet-light cutting a white-cone in the dark of the armory.
"The armory-manifest, sir. The... the PLA... they... they stocked us."
"And? 'Thank-you,' I guess..."
"No, sir, you don't understand!" Edison's voice was getting high. "They stocked us with their ammo. It's... it's all 5.8-millimeter. I'm reading thousands of rounds of 5.8... but... no 5.56."
Silence.
The entire squad... just... froze.
"Psycho," Russo said, his voice dangerously-quiet.
"Yeah, Cap?" Psycho said, his voice small.
"Your M249. How many rounds?"
"...What I'm carrying, sir. Four... four-hundred..."
"Edison," Russo said, "get... someone... on the horn. Now. You tell GDI-Command we are... combat-ineffective. We are dry. We are a 12-man-squad... with no-fucking-ammo... in a bunker... on hell-fucking-planet!"
"Sir..." Psycho said, his light landing on the racks... the racks of pristine, new, Chinese-made QBZ-191 rifles... all still in their factory-grease. "The... the Chinks...they left us their guns."
"And you know how to use that, Specialist?" Russo snapped. "You know its ballistics? You know its jams? Its... functionality?"
"No, sir..."
"Then shut up. We are screwed..."
THE DEMON'S TOOLS
"You're not screwed."
The voice... that voice... rumbled from the dark-corner of the hangar, where Harris Brown had been waiting, his back to them, staring at the mangled-kunoichi in the excavator's-drill.
He turned, his blue, glowing, pinprick-eyes finding Russo's.
"You... are loud. And... predictable."
"Brown," Russo growled, his hand on his M17. "You got something to say?"
Harris just... walked past them. He walked into the ARMORY-module, his heavy, methodical-steps clanking on the steel-floor.
Psycho and Russo followed, their M4s... almost... aimed at him.
Harris was... working.
He was in the corner, where he'd stashed... his own gear. He had not come with a standard-Ranger-kit.
He had two, heavy-duty, Pelican-cases.
He opened one.
It wasn't... ammo. It was... magazines. Dozens of them. Magpul PMAGS... for his HK417.
He opened the second case.
The entire squad, now-gathered at the door, went silent.
It was... ammo.
Not... loose. Not in boxes. It was... thousands... of 7.62x51mm-rounds, already linked, in belts, in ammo-cans.
"Holy... shit..." Psycho whispered.
"Where..." Russo started. "Where... did you get...?"
"I'm not on your manifest, Captain," Harris rumbled, not looking up. He'd begun the slow, methodical, hypnotic... process of repacking his magazines.
He'd take a 7.62-belt... delink a round... inspect it... and click it into his PMAG.
Click... click... click...
"He's... he's packing..." Psycho said, his voice full of a new, strange... awe.
Psycho stepped closer. He saw the tips of the bullets Harris was loading.
They were painted black.
"Holy... shit, man..." Psycho breathed, his bravado gone, replaced by... professional-respect. "Are those... are those M61s?"
Harris didn't look up. "Yes."
"M61s..." Psycho explained to the confused-Rangers. "That's... Armor-Piercing. 'AP.' It's... it's for anti-materiel. It'll go through an engine-block. It'll go through... body-armor..."
He looked at Harris. "How the... how the hell did you know we'd need AP-rounds?"
Harris stopped. He'd finished a magazine. He slapped the bottom of it, seating the rounds.
He looked up, his cold, blue, glowing-eyes finding Psycho's.
"The werewolves... tanked 5.56."
He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"I... brought a hammer. You... brought pebbles."
He went back to work. Click... click... click...
The squad was silent. Harris Brown... the freak... the demon... was the only one... who had come prepared.
THE SHADOW OVERHEAD
THUD.
It was not a "boom." It was a thud.
A low, vibrational, heavy-as-a-mountain... THUD.
It came from... above.
The ground, two-hundred-feet underground, shook.
A fine-mist of dust-and-powdered-concrete fell from the 100-foot-high-cavern-ceiling.
"EARTHQUAKE!" Psycho yelled, dropping his SAW.
"NO!" Russo roared, grabbing a hand-hold. "That... that was impact!"
THUD... FWOOOOOOM...
Another one. Closer. The entire FOB groaned... the sound of ten-thousand-tons of pre-stressed-steel bending.
"EDISON!" Russo screamed.
"ON IT!" Edison was already at the COMMAND-console, his fingers flying. "Control... Control, this is Sentinel-1, DO YOU READ?! We... we have something... on us! We have...!"
"SENTINEL-1!" The voice that screamed back was not the calm-analyst. It was a terrified-woman. "WE... WE ARE SCRAMBLING EVERYTHING! The... the Daegu... the Busan... ROK is... launching... they are launching... reinforcements!"
"WHAT IS IT?!" Russo roared, drawing his M17, as if his pistol could do anything.
"The satellites... Sentinel, the satellites... they... they saw it! It's a 'Strain-D'!"
"A 'STRAIN-D'?! WHAT THE FUCK IS A 'STRAIN-D'?! I THOUGHT WE HAD 'K'!"
"IT'S A DRAGON!" the woman shrieked, her professionalism gone, just pure, animal-terror. "A DRAGON! IT'S... IT'S ENORMOUS! IT'S... BIGGER... THAN... THAN THE JERUSALEM-ONES... IT'S... IT'S A... A KILOMETER-LONG, SENTINEL! IT... IT JUST... LANDED!"
THUD.
The sound was... right above them.
"IT'S ON US!" Psycho screamed, his eyes-wide. "IT'S SITTING... ON OUR ROOF!"
"Sentinel!" the GDI-woman sobbed. "We are... we are sending... what... what little... we... we..."
The comm-line went to static.
The FOB was plunged into a new, deafening, silence.
The 11-Rangers stood, frozen, their rifles useless, staring at the ceiling, 200-feet-above...
...at the newly-formed, spider-web-of-cracks... that were spreading from the center.
They were... trapped.
In the armory, Harris Brown slowly, methodically, clicked his last M61-round into his last-magazine.
He didn't look scared.
He just... listened.
"It's not... sitting," he rumbled, his voice a low, cold, promise.
"...It's... hunting."