THE GHOST IN THE LEDGER
GDI HIGH-COMMAND, THE AEGIS
ROCK OF GIBRALTAR
14:00 GST
Sir Malcolm Hayes did not like coincidences. In his line of work, a coincidence was usually just a well-executed lie.
He stood in his private office, a glass-walled sanctum suspended above the main operations floor of the Gibraltar facility. Unlike the bustling, chaotic command deck below, his office was a sanctuary of silence and heavy mahogany. The only light came from the massive holographic wall displaying the real-time logistics of the Omega blockade.
Hayes held a datapad in his hand. It displayed a standard, boring logistical report from the United States Space Force Logistics Corps.
SUBJECT: Transport of Commercial SSTV Assets (Class-C).
ORIGIN: Groom Lake Test Facility.
DESTINATION: Vandenberg Space Force Base.
STATUS: Delivered. 03:00 Local Time.
INCIDENT REPORT: None.
It was perfect. It was clean. It was signed, sealed, and digitally authenticated by a Sergeant Miller.
"Artemis," Hayes said to the empty room. The facility's AI woke up, a soft chime echoing in the silence.
"Yes, Sir Malcolm."
"Cross-reference the biometric signature on this delivery report with the duty roster for the Groom Lake transport battalion," Hayes ordered, tapping the screen.
"Processing," the AI replied. "Signature matches Sergeant Thomas Miller. Biometric verification confirmed at delivery point."
Hayes frowned. He walked to the window, looking out at the Mediterranean Sea crashing against the Rock far below. The report said Miller had signed it. The biometrics said Miller had signed it. So why did the back of Hayes's neck prickle with the cold sensation of a knife blade?
"Artemis, pull up the satellite telemetry for the Nevada transit corridor. Specifically Route 375. Timeframe: 02:00 to 04:00."
"Accessing NRO archives," the AI said. "Error. Data corrupted. Solar flare interference recorded in that sector."
Hayes froze.
A solar flare. At night. Localized entirely within a fifty-mile stretch of the Nevada desert.
He turned back to the screen, his eyes narrowing.
"Artemis, show me the orbital path of the Tianwang array over Omega for the next twelve hours."
The hologram shifted. The green sphere of Omega appeared, wrapped in a web of orbital tracks. The Chinese-built spy satellites were the eyes of the Alliance, constantly sweeping the surface.
Hayes traced the lines with his finger. He looked for the gaps. Every net had holes.
He found it.
"There," Hayes whispered.
He pointed to Sector 7, a jagged, volcanic region in the southern hemisphere of Omega. It was a wasteland of sulfur vents and obsidian.
"Artemis, calculate the coverage gap for Sector 7."
"Calculating. Due to orbital realignment for the Sector 5 naval operation, Sector 7 will experience a surveillance blackout of forty-eight minutes. Beginning at 21:00 hours tonight."
Hayes sat down slowly behind his desk.
A corrupted data file on Earth. A signed report that felt too clean. And a forty-eight-minute blind spot opening up on Omega at the exact same time a heavy-lift launch window would open from the northern hemisphere of Earth.
Someone wasn't just stealing trucks. Someone was planning an insertion. And they had the access codes to fake a delivery and predict satellite orbits.
This wasn't a rogue act. This was corporate espionage on a planetary scale.
"Get me General McCaffrey," Hayes said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And initiate a 'Ghost Sweep.' I want the KH-11 recon birds re-tasked. We are going to close that blind eye. I want to see who thinks they can walk through my door without knocking."
THE DEVIL'S PLAYGROUND
ECHO RIDGE AUXILIARY AIRFIELD
NEVADA DESERT (RESTRICTED ZONE)
16:30 LOCAL TIME
The base didn't exist on any map printed after 1985. It was a crumbling collection of concrete hangars and rusted radar dishes, lost in the heat haze of the high desert. It was the kind of place where secrets went to dry out and die.
Today, however, it was alive with the screaming whine of pneumatic drills and the roar of heavy machinery.
Inside the largest hangar, the two stolen Lockheed-Martin 'Starlite' SSTVs were no longer disassembled. They stood upright on mobile launch gantries, gleaming like twin silver bullets amidst the dust and pigeon droppings. They were smaller than the military Atlas, designed for speed and rapid deployment rather than heavy armor.
Captain Mercer stood on the gantry walkway, looking down at his team. The twelve men of "Shadow Company" were busy loading crates into the cargo holds. They weren't wearing the standard Alliance uniforms. They wore high-end, multicam-black fatigues with no flags, no names, and heavy, Level-IV ceramic body armor.
"Careful with that crate, Davies!" Mercer barked. "That's the fusion core initiator. You drop that, and we all become glass."
A black SUV with tinted windows rolled into the hangar, kicking up a cloud of dust. It stopped near the gantries.
The rear door opened.
A woman stepped out. She looked entirely out of place. She wore a tailored white suit that somehow repelled the desert grit, oversized sunglasses, and held a tablet with the indifference of a monarch holding a scepter.
This was Director Sterling (no relation to the SBS commander). She was the Senior Vice President of Special Projects for Vanguard Resources, a conglomerate that owned everything from rare-earth mines in the Congo to private security firms in the Middle East.
Mercer walked down the metal stairs to meet her.
"Director," Mercer said, keeping his voice neutral. "We are on schedule. The birds are fueled."
Sterling lowered her sunglasses, revealing eyes that were sharp and evaluating. "Good. The window is tight, Captain. My sources in Gibraltar tell me that Sir Malcolm Hayes is sniffing around the logistics data. We have exactly forty-eight minutes of darkness over the target zone. If you miss that window, you will be painted by every GDI battery in orbit, and I will deny I ever knew you."
"We won't miss it," Mercer assured her. "But the boys have questions. The briefing was... light."
Sterling smiled. It was a smile that promised wealth, but offered no warmth.
"Walk with me."
She led him to a portable table set up near the landing gear. She tapped her tablet, projecting a small, localized hologram of Omega's Sector 7.
It showed a volcanic caldera, smoking and rugged.
"This," Sterling said, pointing to a glittering vein running through the crater wall, "is Site Omicron."
"Looks like hell," Mercer noted. "Sulfur and lava."
"It looks like the future," Sterling corrected. "Spectroscopic analysis indicates that this region is rich in a hyper-dense crystalline structure. Our geologists are calling it 'Thaumic-Gold.'"
Mercer raised an eyebrow. "Magic gold? That's what we're dying for?"
"It is a room-temperature superconductor that also acts as a mana-capacitor," Sterling explained, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "A single kilogram of this material is worth more than the entire net worth of this mercenary company. It is the key to next-generation energy, computing, and weaponry. And right now, GDI ignores it because they are too busy fighting dragons and building navies."
She looked Mercer in the eye. "Your mission is simple. Insert during the blind spot. Secure the caldera. Establish a mining perimeter. We have automated drone-miners in the cargo hold. You hold the ground for forty-eight hours until the second Vanguard transport arrives with the heavy equipment. Do this, and every man on your team retires to a private island."
The mention of the payout rippled through the nearby soldiers. They stopped working for a second, exchanging glances. Greed was a powerful motivator, far stronger than patriotism. They imagined yachts, villas, and a life without bullets.
"What about the locals?" Mercer asked. "Sector 7 is volcanic. What lives there?"
"Our bio-scans are inconclusive," Sterling admitted dismissively. "Likely Strain-O scavengers or elemental fauna. Nothing a professional kill-squad can't handle. However..."
She signaled to her bodyguard, who brought forward a heavy, reinforced case.
Sterling popped the latches.
Inside, nestled in foam, were thirty sleek, black cylinders. Grenades. But they had digital displays and heavy magnetic shielding.
"GDI has been hoarding these," Sterling said. "Class-A EMP Grenades. Tuned to the frequencies that disrupt magic. If you encounter anything that glows, floats, or chants... throw one of these. It will turn a wizard into a confused old man."
Mercer picked one up. It felt heavy. Expensive.
"Three per man," Mercer calculated. "Standard loadout plus insurance. We'll take them."
"Launch is in one hour, Captain," Sterling said, turning back to her SUV. "Don't disappoint the shareholders. Vanguard Resources does not offer severance packages for failure."
THE ASCENSION
THE HANGAR
17:25 LOCAL TIME
The preparations were complete. The two Starlite vessels—christened The Icarus and The Daedalus by a cynical mechanic—sat humming on the pad. Their engines were warming up, a high-pitched whine that vibrated the teeth.
Inside the troop bay of The Icarus, the twelve men of Shadow Company strapped in.
The interior was not like the military transports. It was stripped bare. No comfort, just crash webbing and cargo nets. The automated mining drones—spider-like machines with diamond-tipped drills—were folded into the corner, looking like dormant metal insects.
"Sound off," Mercer commanded over the comms.
"Alpha-1, green."
"Alpha-2, secure."
"Bravo Team in Daedalus, we are green across the board."
Mercer looked at his men. They were hard men. Veterans of conflicts the news never covered. They weren't here for glory. They were here for the payout.
"Listen up," Mercer said. "This isn't a government op. There's no medevac. There's no QRF. If you get hit, you patch it yourself. If you die, we leave you. We are ghosts. But if we pull this off, we own a piece of a planet. We are the new East India Company. We are the conquistadors. Check your EMPs. Check your seals. We are going to the gold mine."
"Making money," a soldier grinned, racking the bolt of his rifle.
LAUNCH CONTROL (TEMPORARY)
"Satellite gap opening in T-minus two minutes," the Vanguard flight controller announced from his laptop on the tarmac. "Trajectory is plotted. You have a steep ascent profile to avoid NORAD radar coverage."
"Copy that," Mercer replied. "Burn it."
The roof of the hangar slowly retracted, the rusted gears screaming in protest. The blinding Nevada sun poured in, mixed with the heat of the desert afternoon.
"Ignition."
WHOOSH.
There was no countdown broadcast to the world. No cheering crowds. Just the raw, violent ignition of four commercial-grade chemically fueled rockets.
The Icarus and the Daedalus leaped off the gantries.
They didn't rise majestically. They shot upward like bullets. The G-force slammed Mercer into his seat, his vision greying out at the edges.
They tore through the atmosphere, leaving twin pillars of white smoke in the Nevada sky.
Within minutes, the blue sky faded to black. The curve of the Earth appeared below them.
"Main engine cutoff," the pilot announced. "We are ballistic. Transfer orbit injection in five minutes."
Mercer unbuckled and floated to the viewport.
He saw Earth. It looked fragile.
Then he looked out the other side.
Omega hung there. A massive, green-and-purple jewel.
And somewhere down there, in the fire and smoke of Sector 7, was a fortune waiting to be stolen.
"Vanguard Actual," Mercer radioed down to the desert. "We are clear of the atmosphere. Shadow Company is in the black. Next stop... the gold mine."
THE SILENT WITNESS
GIBRALTAR
18:00 GST
"Sir," the sensor officer called out. "We have a launch detection. North American continent. Nevada sector."
Hayes spun around. "Military?"
"Negative. No transponder. Heat signature matches a medium-lift commercial booster. Two of them."
Hayes slammed his hand onto the console. "They launched. They actually launched."
He looked at the orbital map. The blind spot over Sector 7 was active.
"They timed it perfectly," Hayes muttered. "They are slipping right through the crack in the door."
General McCaffrey walked up behind him. "Who is it, Malcolm?"
"Privateers," Hayes spat the word like a curse. "Corporate raiders. They're going for the resources. They think this is the Gold Rush."
"Do we shoot them down?" McCaffrey asked. "We have ASAT batteries online."
Hayes hesitated. He looked at the two tiny dots moving toward Omega.
"If we shoot them down, we reveal we were watching. We reveal the blind spot is closed. And we start a war with the corporations on Earth while we're fighting aliens in space."
Hayes shook his head. "No. Let them land."
He zoomed in on Sector 7. The volcanic wasteland.
"Let them land," Hayes repeated, a dark, cruel smile touching his lips. "They think they are going to a mine. But they don't know what lives in the volcanoes of Omega. Let them test the defenses for us. If they die... it saves us the ammo. If they succeed... we simply confiscate the gold."
"You're using them as canaries," McCaffrey realized.
"I'm using them as bait," Hayes corrected. "Artemis, track them. But do not engage. Let's see what Vanguard Resources just bought with their blood money."
High above the world, the two stolen ships drifted silently into the shadow of the alien planet, carrying twelve greedy men and a cargo hold full of dreams toward a landscape of fire and ash.