Major Gavin Baskerville’s ears were filled with the low hum of powerpacks. Three of the troopers with him were already charging their weapons, following his example. He saw them repeat the process, checking the functionality of the weapon again. False positives happened, and nobody wanted to find that you won that one-in-a-million lottery ticket in the middle of combat. That was the danger of non-lethal weapons, when they failed you’re defenseless. It’s why he ordered his men to carry their rifles too, despite being told that this was a snatch-and-grab mission.

When another two powerpacks came online, the hum began to reverberate within the small cabin. Gavin’s teeth rattled as he fought the urge to shake the feeling in his head loose. This was one of the more frustrating aspects of the non-lethals, the pitch that the electrical packs which caused your skin to crawl and your teeth to tingle. He hated it, wished they could go back tasers. Despite how much the troops hated them, Congress didn’t listen.

Looking around at his men, he saw no visible excitement among them. Each was focused on their assigned task. Those who had finished their assigned duties sat in abject silence, waiting for what was to come. Every mission was like this, fear and nerves of the unknown grating on the soldiers. Mentally preparing themselves to do their sacred duty. Even after over a decade of service, Gavin felt those same nerves, that fear of failing his men and his country.

He had an experienced team, they’d worked together for more than two years with the exception of the new sniper, Corporal Glenn Mallory. The lanky country boy had only joined them two weeks prior, having only completed three training sessions with them. Normally Gavin would prefer a few more live fire training evolutions before bringing a new guy on a real combat operation, but there wasn’t time. Instead, he had to place his faith in the Almighty and focus on the mission ahead. They’d passed the point of no return, it was too late for all of the “should’ve” and “could’ve.”

He was good. Really good. But Gavin had seen enough “good” men and women who couldn’t cut it in the Army’s 173^rd Special Operations Unit. Individualism was not prized among the SOU, it led to dead GIs and folded flags mailed home to Earth. They were informally known as the Gibborim, though nobody could agree where the name came from. The SOU was trained as a team; to perform as a team, to think as a team, and if necessary, to die as a team. There would be no surrender. No Gibborim warrior wanted to spend years of captivity and torture, when death was so easily obtained in battle.

The soldiers in Gavin’s unit had a professionally competent air about them. It was a unit comprised entirely of volunteers, unlike the rest of the Army. The draftees filled the ranks and were universally distrusted by war planners. General officers viewed them as cowardly miscreant’s incapable of anything more useful than becoming grist for the mill while the real warriors wore the wings of the U.S. Imperial Space Force.

The communications specialist, Corporal Willis “Sweets” Sweeney was among the most proficient member of the team. He understood that once an enemy identified him as the comm-o, he had seconds to live. Awakenings like that forced soldiers to grow up fast and encouraged them to push themselves harder. As the comm-o, Sweets had the ability to contact whichever mothership had brought the unit into the battle. He could direct orbital bombardments and request an untold amount of direct support, making him the biggest threat on the battlefield.

Glancing over at his commo specialist, Gavin tried judging Sweeny’s body language. He rarely smiled, hid his emotions well and had one hell of a poker face. There was a vibrant intensity to the ebony skin near his eyes that made Gavin wonder how worried the man was. The mission was going to be dangerous, but Gibborim rarely participated in missions that weren’t. Snatch and grabs deep behind enemy lines were never easy, but when America needed warriors to take down element’s hostile to its existence they called his boys and girls.

“Sweets, you good?” Gavin asked.

The man looked up directly at his commander and cracked a smile. Tilting his head down slightly, Sweets showed something between his teeth. Looking closer, he saw that it was a small, red dot. The translucent, piece of candy was called a “lava drop” by the troops. The face Gavin made caused Sweets laugh. Lava drops were one of the spiciest candies ever invented and the commo specialist loved them. That explains the face he was making, Gavin realized.

Most of the team had been practicing for this mission for over a month. If the intelligence was correct, there was no need to hurry so the decision was made to get it right the first time. The spooks over in the CIA believed that the leader of the Albion Spring, a small but deadly terrorist unit, was at the base they were approaching. If he could be captured – or better yet, killed – the head would be cut off of a terrifyingly dangerous snake. Secretly, Gavin hoped the leader, known as “Fawkes,” resisted.

Reaching into through the open faceplate into his helmet, Gavin fished around for a silver chain. Clasping the small medallion hanging from it, he closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. Despite his closed eyes, he was aware of what was going on around him. Corporal Glenn “Driller” Mallory continued to pretend he was inspecting his M-501 sniper rifle, while surreptitiously watching his new commander. He’d been trained to notice every minute detail, to ignore patterns and look for what was new. Small movements, misapplied camouflage or the stereotypical snapping twig could mean the difference between a successful mission or death.

Unlike snipers, Gavin and other SOU commanders were trained to look for details while pairing them within the bigger picture. Focusing too tightly on any one small detail could create tunnel-vision, leading to mission failure and the deaths of everyone involved. When Driller stopped picking at his rifle and didn’t start wiping it down again, Gavin noticed.

Turning to the man on his left, Driller whispered, “What’s the commander doing?”

Specialist Gordon “Pyro” Winslow looked up from his rifle, leaning forward to see where Driller was pointing. After a moment, he turned back to the sniper with a questioning expression. “What does it look like he’s doing?”

“I don’t know,” Driller said, annoyance tinging his accented voice, “that’s why I’m asking.”

Pyro opened his mouth to respond, only to be interrupted. The other door breacher on the team, Specialist Duke “Nemo” Nguyen, snorted. His intentions needed no further interpretation, he was calling bullshit. Nemo wasn’t the biggest or most intimidating man on the team, but he had a reputation for being willing to fight anyone. That damn Napoleon Complex will get him killed one day, Gavin thought to himself.

Eyeballing the other two for a moment to ensure their silence, Nemo leaned in and whispered his rebuke. “You will show respect.”

It wasn’t a question, Nemo’s forceful tone telling Gavin that the specialist was itching for a fight. He knew that every man handled pre-combat jitters differently but found it odd that Nemo chose to literally fight away his nerves. The two men returned to their tasks without another sound, though he suspected that they’d seek out some good-natured revenge after the mission.

Opening his hand and kissing the medallion, Gavin answered the unspoken question behind the earlier drama to his team. “It’s a trinket from my mother,” he explained. “It’s supposed to represent Saint George. My mother believed in saints, and George was the patron to protect law enforcement and warriors, such as ourselves.

“I don’t know if any of that stuff is real, but what’ve we got to lose in trying? I’ve asked Saint George to protect us during our mission, like I do for every other mission. If my mother was right, we’ll make it out of this one alive. If not, we’ll never know the difference.”

All eyes were on him as he stuffed the medallion back into his combat armor. There were no questions. No comments. Just the sound of the powerpacks completing their discharge into the electric stunner rifles, and then silence.

“Gibborim,” a voice said, coming from the internal speakers on their helmets, “this is the USS Constitution’s mission control. How do you copy?”

“Loud and clear,” Sweets replied after receiving a nod from the other team members.

“Roger that,” the disembodied voice replied. “Mission is on schedule, prepare for immediate deployment. We’ve shifted your launch slightly. The USNS Tinman cargo vessel had engine problems, leaving late. Despite pushing hard they’re not gonna make it. We’ve had to change our launch window. The margins have… become a little slim, but we’ll send you in ourselves with the skipper’s skiff.”

Waiting for his commander to respond, Sweets looked over. When Gavin nodded, he spoke into the comms with his usual clipped proficiency. “Roger that, mission control. Change of plans acknowledged. Thanks for the warning, Gibborim out.”

A chorus of groans as the soldiers locked their weapons into mounts built-in to the gravity seats. They sat near each man’s left leg, often leading to bruising as the soldier was slammed into the holder during the turbulence of orbital insertion. Gavin had even seen broken bones from the poorly placed weapons mount. Seconds after the last soldier had his weapon stored, the lights went out.

Alone with their thoughts, each solder on Gavin’s twelve-man team leaned back in their seats to contemplate their uncertain future. Mechanical clamps attached to hardpoints on each man’s armor, holding everything except his fingers and toes in place. With nothing else to do but endure the ride, soldiers tried to think of happier times and ignore the nagging fear and push aside any reminders of their own mortality. The more seasoned soldiers reviewed the mission briefings, but the one unifying truth was that they all tried not to think of the worst possible scenarios.

As soon as the clamps engaged, each man said their secure code-word command to power-down their armor. The objective was to become a hole in space. To become as invisible as possible, though Gavin knew that that was technically impossible. If the enemy were looking hard enough, in the right place and at the right time, his stealth shuttle would be visible to sensors. The goal was to make it past the outer satellites without being detected, avoiding enemy guns.

“This is gonna hurt,” Nemo moaned.

“Yeah, probably,” Sweets agreed.

“I hope nobody had omelets this morning,” said Specialist Travis “Squint” Kade.

“I had them,” Driller said, his voice a half-octave higher than usual. “Why? Was there--”

The specialist’s words were interrupted by a sudden, violent force hitting the left side of his body. Even with his combat armor, Driller squeaked in surprise, much to the amusement of his buddies. Several soldiers grunted or shouted a less-than-enthusiastic “yee haw,” though Gavin knew that those antics were just for show. Everyone felt the pain of stealthed launches, the sudden application of gee forces onto an inert human body couldn’t be ignored.

When it hit Gavin, his vision blacked out. He felt like he was swimming through the darkness for several seconds, pinpricks of light dotting the far horizon. As he got closer to the stars, the blood from the right side of his brain found its way back to the left. Things slowly resumed their normal equilibrium, and through it all he fought the urge to vomit into his helmet. He succeeded, though only by slim margins gained from years of training with the Gibborim.

There were no sensors in the passenger compartment of their stealth shuttle, just seats and weapon racks. Sensors took a lot of power to run, power that was detectable. Those power signatures lit up enemy sensors like the 4^th of July, ruining the chance of reaching their target undetected. Despite wishing for the information that the high-tech sensors could provide, Gavin knew that they had to come in stealthed; cold, silent, and invisible. He didn’t need the sensors, but he wanted them more than his alcoholic dad craved whiskey. As a member of the Gibborim, he operated in the dark underbelly of the American Empire, and the precious details from those sensors were a life-line to a world bathed in sunlight.

Knowing that they’d be assaulting in the dark, unable to get tactical or technical details once they launched their shuttle, Gavin and his team practiced their assault until his team knew where they were every second from the increased force from their launch. The sensations of movement told his team their speed and sometimes even the angle of their descent relative to the target. He worked hard to breath normally, thinking of his medallion, his mother, and the mission ahead.

Their trajectory would put the skiff between their ballistic vessel and their target, the large moon known as New Europa. From there, the skiff would launch the stealth shuttle for the final rendezvous with their target. With a precision only capable because of the cooperation of the skiff’s captain and the math of the planners, Gavin’s vessel would sail out the other vessel’s cargo hold. From the sensors, they’d look like a routine waste disposal as they shot out the other side. Disguising yourself as shit aint for the faint of heart, he smirked.

Unless someone was peering out of the starboard porthole and was paying attention, it was unlikely anyone would notice the angular black lozenge passing through. If they were wrong, if their timing was off by the slightest margins, the Gibborim was a total team kill. Holding his breath, Gavin waited for the fiery doom that would signal his doom. Two seconds after they should’ve been released by the skiff pilot, he sighed in relief.

Thrilled to be alive, he lifted his eyes to peer into the face across from him. With the soldier’s armor on standby power and the lights out, Gavin couldn’t see the soldier’s expression. This made it difficult for him to read his soldiers body language, but he was glad the soldier couldn’t see his expression either. Gavin was scared. Every mission filled him with foreboding, but something about this one seemed more desperate than their standard operational tempo. While he struggled not to imagine worst case scenarios, he noted a dim glow above his eyebrows.

Looking all the way up, he could see the built-in countdown timer. It drew operated on the armor’s back-up battery that could be re-charged from any ambient light source. The small timer, twenty-two green dots of light, indicated how much time was left until the assault craft made contact with the fourteen-mile-thick ice on New Europa’s surface. When they hit boots on ground, Gavin would manually reset the timer for their extraction. Stop it, he urged himself. It’s not IF we return for extraction, but WHEN. He could’ve muttered into his armor, when it was powered down the comms were off until he proactively keyed the mic. Still, verbalizing the fears gave them weight, he couldn’t let them have that kind of power over him.

His self-chastisement worked, Gavin managed to push his thoughts back to the task ahead. Permanent gates had been installed decades ago to facilitate access to the habitats below the surface. Officially, the colony had seceded, so Gibborim would not be accessing anything official. According to reports, the entire colony on New Europa was under control or influence of the Albion Spring. It was becoming a stronghold for anyone who opposed the occupation of the United States Imperial Forces in other galaxies. For decades, former Earth based political polities had been seeking independence from America. They sought to reconstitute their old sovereign governments, usurping the rightful government of the galaxy. According to intelligence reports, New Europa was where the rebellion of the dissidents would begin.

Checking his timer, Gavin saw that only four minutes remained on the timer. They were coming in faster than they’d planned for. That worried him, but he expected it was the result of their unplanned insertion craft. The Constitution’s skiff didn’t have the engine power for this operation, but he knew it’d been their only option. At their current speed and angle, Gavin calculated that their drill wouldn’t be able to penetrate the ice fast enough. If they came in too quickly, their vessel would smash into the surface. It was unlikely any of them would survive that crash and mission control would have to assault the moon themselves. It would foil any rescue attempts, making that a secondary priority.

“Cockney,” Driller asked over the ship’s voice-powered network, “may I ask you a question?”

The nickname had been awarded by Gavin’s team shortly after the 173rd had been formed. After seeing him pray to Saint George the first time, and because of his English heritage, the team chose a name they thought most fitting. Despite not liking the call sign, preferring to honor his loyalty to the Imperial United States, Gavin knew that military call signs and nicknames had to come from your teammates. Biting his tongue, he grudgingly accepted the moniker until it grew on him.

“Go ahead,” Gavin said, speaking loud enough to transmit his voice through the wires.

“Your mother gave you that Saint-whatever thing?” Driller asked.

“She did, Driller,” Gavin said, disinterested in the line of questioning.

“Must be nice to know your mom. I lost my mother in the Detroit bombing,” Driller said. Though he was speaking loudly, there was a hint of sadness in the man’s voice.

“A lot of people lost a lot of loved ones in Detroit,” Gavin said, layering as much compassion as he could into his voice. After a few seconds, he added, “Was there something else?”

“Yeah,” Driller added, a hint of hesitation in his voice. “You don’t talk about your mother much. Did you lose her? You don’t get along?”

Despite the difference in ranks, the line of questioning wasn’t abnormal for teams who spent so much time together. Many jokingly said that their teammates knew them better than most married couples. The questions weren’t out of line, but they still annoyed him.

“I haven’t seen my mother in more than ten years,” Gavin replied woodenly. “It’s a sore subject, and I’d prefer not to talk about it.”

The timer only had two minutes remaining illuminated on the countdown timer. Knowing he has some time, Gavin didn’t bother bracing himself for impact. In theory that’s what the clamps holding his armor in place were for. It didn’t stop rookie soldiers from bracing themselves at the last minute. When the timer hit one minute, he relaxed. If the landing went belly up, being loose would soften the blow. All Gavin could do now was surrender to the laws of physics and hope for the best.

Still watching the timer, he was ready for the landing so the sudden shrill whine of the micro-fusion power plant coming online didn’t startle him. According to mission parameters, the batteries aboard the assault craft would ignite the pointed tungsten nose of the vessel to several thousand degrees Celsius. The cryo-drill, was often called a planet breacher because it would create brand-new accesses to the planets it assaulted. It was Gibborim’s key into the vast oceans of New Europa and colony beneath the ice.

He wasn’t a scientist, but every member of the SOU was given the Reader’s Digest version of the machine. Their cryo-drill was configured for ice worlds and would create a huge plume of icy steam which was expected to send a jet of icy fog out into space. He wasn’t worried about detection, if the fog escaped the moon’s gravity it’d still take more than an hour before the first satellite would detect it. He knew that by then they’d be in the base, and have Fawkes in their custody. Dead or alive, preferably dead, they’d have their target.

The impact was harder than Gavin had expected, but it was far less violent than he’d feared when he’d felt the angle of their descent shift off kilter. When their stealthed landing craft made contact, his soldiers powered up their armor and began the re-boot sequence. It only took a few seconds, though it felt like an eternity to him. He knew that if they landed to close to enemy sensors, they’d spot the electromagnetic leak from their armor.

Another concern was that the enemy had already detected their stealthed landing craft and its brightly-glowing nose cone. Like all of his pre-combat fears, Gavin pushed that thought from his mind and focused on the task at hand. He could cry later, now he had hostages to rescue and terrorists to exterminate. Today, Gavin vowed to play judge, jury and executioner to the people trying to render the galaxy unstable. Without America, there would be nobody to stand against the storm of communist expansion. He couldn’t let that stand, no matter the costs.

While the soldiers of his team were finalizing their re-boot sequence, the vessel’s artificial intelligence came online. A hollow metallic voice announced that it had successfully rebooted the ship’s computer. After the announcement played over the Gibborim’s comms, a message appeared on each of their HUDs.

After rendering the official report to the team, their AI isolated Gavin for his last-minute mission brief. It must’ve said something funny to the rest of the team, because several soldiers chuckled to express their appreciation. With their armor powered, the comm channel came online too and he heard their laughter over his helmet speakers. Gavin knew that the Gibborim’s always tried to mollify the feelings of their fickle AI, swearing that they’d give it a factory reset when out of hearing. Nobody made any effort to request a new one, too superstitious to risk jinxing their unblemished record.

“Very funny,” Gavin muttered. “I’ll have to make sure to pay someone back for the thoughtful addition to our AI.”

“You can’t, it’ll mess with our mojo,” said Driller, worried that Gavin was serious.

Using a tongue switch to change screens on his HUD displayed, Gavin cycled through several options. When he found the one he was looking for he shared it with his team. Every soldier had their screens overridden by his, showing them the power levels within their vessel. Their AI was consuming energy at the usual rate, leaving plenty of juice for the cryo-drill. Studying it together, the Gibborim looked for any abnormalities which would affect their mission. Gavin verified that the discharge rate of their batteries, and the nose cone temperature, were within acceptable parameters. He watched for several minutes as they bore through the ice towards their objective.

He was brought back to the immediate situation when he felt a sudden weightlessness. Cycling through the rest of the displays, Gavin brought the mission sequence back up for his men to study until they launched out of the craft towards their target; Fawkes.

Fa-thud.

“We’ve penetrated the ice,” Gavin told his men.

Hitting the icy shell of New Europa jarred the craft a bit, but the weightless feeling was disconcerting. He knew that it had been caused when the heavy cryo-drill disconnected from their steal shuttle and began its descent to the ocean floor, but his emotions were all over the place and not listening to reason. With the loss of the weight from the drill, the shuttle’s AI adjusted the buoyancy and deployed short outriggers to compensate.

Checking the readings, Gavin saw that the outriggers hadn’t been damaged, they still ended in magnetic-propulsion drives. The small drives were silent, allowing them to be undetected until they arrived at their objective. Checking the sensor readings, he saw that there was enough traffic in the New Europa ocean to shield them. They’d blend in with the background noise of the oceans while they were under power.

“Deploy sensors,” Gavin ordered the AI.

A soft ding let him know the AI heard his command and was executing it. Given the finnicky nature of their artificial intelligence, it wasn’t a given that his commands would be obeyed. He didn’t start breathing again until he saw the confirmation apply on his HUD. In the rear of the vessel a hatch irised-open and deployed several smooth, teardrop-shaped sensor arrays. The drones were no larger than a man’s hand and were invisible to all but the most sophisticated sensors.

Sensors detect several thousand life forms within range, said the AI over the comm channel. There are also sixteen other vessels. Correction, seventeen. None of the vessels are on an intercept course. None are presenting as hostile. It does not appear that we have been detected.

“Thank you, computer,” Gavin replied.

Switching to the team channel, Gavin addressed his team. “Unbuckle now, it looks like we made it in without detection. Don’t let that make you get lazy, it’ll get us all killed. Assume the worst and be ready to kill everything in sight.”

After his team acknowledged his comments, he continued. “Objective One should be right ahead. We’ll be there in two mikes, get ready.”

Once he’d given his team their orders, Gavin refocused his attention on the mission display. Objective One referred to the entry point where they’d gain access to the colony, where they expected their first contact. The entry point was through a fashionable club that was complete with its own amenities; posh bar, hotel, dance club and a restaurant. The establishment was undergoing renovations, after failing its last health inspection. The failure was a huge boon for them, they were now free to walk right in undetected.

Clank.

Their shuttle docked with their access point, an air dock that was commonly used for local supply deliveries. While they began the elaborate process of achieving a seal, Gavin performed a last-minute function check on his rifle and the stunner they’d been assigned for this mission.

“Welcome to New Philadelphia,” Sweeny said, his voice overly cheerful, “such as it is.”

“Stuff it,” Driller replied, flipping him the bird.

The interchange between the two soldiers coincided with the illumination of the red cabin light. The timing had the entire team laughing, everyone except Gavin. He knew that within a few seconds the light would turn green, and the ramp would open into the enemy colony. From there the mission would quickly get deadly earnest. Several soldiers leaned forward, their rifles slung across their backs and gripping their non-lethal stunners in anticipation of what was to come.

“Easy,” Gavin warned, dragging the word out for effect. “Don’t get jumpy, we can’t afford any accidents.”

When the light turned green they anticipated the opening of their shuttle’s hatch and moved as one into the facility. Two of his soldiers took the lead, clearing the area of the dock immediately in front of them, before then peeling off to either side. The next two did the same, covering the one doorway leading from the white-walled room. Gavin was the last soldier out of the shuttle, allowing him to be tied into the shuttles sophisticated sensors until the last second. He hated it, wanting to be the first through the door, but he reluctantly followed the protocol.

His men didn’t move, so much as they flowed through the space, predators searching for their next meal. They yawned as they moved, stretching their jaws in an attempt to pop their eardrums. Their bodies needed to equalize to the environment from the increased air pressure within the colony. As they moved Gavin slipped a little on the polished synthetic marble but took his position in the stack with his troops. When everyone was positioned on the door, ready to burst through to the next phase of the mission, he waited while the door breachers did their jobs.

The team kept their rifles at the ready, using their non-dominant hands to signal their intentions. They didn’t use the standard signals, Gavin knew those were too commonly known by the enemies of America, so he’d made his own language for his team. They’d practice incessantly, until they could use the new hand gesture language in their sleep. Only Driller had a difficult time understanding, he hadn’t been with the team as long.

Using the unique Gibborim hand signals, Gavin told his team what he wanted them to do next. The sniper watched carefully until he understood what was expected of him and nodded. Driller snuck to the back of the nearby building, one that faced the thick, plasteen dome and grappled his way to the top. From there he’d have a good vantage point to conduct counter sniper operations and provide overwatch to the rest of the team. Threatened by a possible sniper? Send in a sniper.

Once Driller was in place, Gavin gave a nod and sent his troops into motion. It was time to find their contact, collect the intel and bag and tag Fawkes. One way or another, they’d take the traitorous piece off the galactic chess board. Following his lead assault element, Gavin was the third soldier out of the door. This position allowed him to control the operation flow, adjusting his unit as needed. While the team moved, he also paid attention to his surroundings, noting the beauty of the structures. A vacation here was way above his pay grade, he didn’t have the credits to buy a free water from this place, let alone spend a night.

Ahead of them was the target building, though to get to it they had to cross a massive, open field. He knew that they could use stealth, taking their time and sneaking along the edge. It wasn’t a perfect solution, since that route only provided protection along one side. That route would slow them down, which Gavin judged wasn’t good enough when lives were on the line. The team formed a wedge formation and went straight, cutting through the field like the scythe of doom while staying as low to the ground as they could manage. The entire section of this dome was supposed to be abandoned, but there was no way to know for sure.

The overgrown lawn made gentle swishing sounds as their boots pushed through the knee-high grass. The soothing sound was intermixed with the crunching sounds from the dead spots, giving a strange sense of normality to their deadly mission. Despite the serene and tranquil nature of their surroundings, no place Gavin had ever traveled had felt as dangerous to him, and he’d survive the terrorist attack that destroyed Detroit and fought on the desert plains of New Samaria.

What made this mission different was the stakes, if they were attacked by an overwhelming force there was nowhere to run. If the worst-case scenario happened, it was unlikely they could get back to their craft in time. Added to the mix was the need to meticulously time there withdrawal with the Constitution, who wasn’t scheduled to return for another six hours. If Old Glory couldn’t find them, if anything went wrong with the Gibborim’s transponder, the entire team would be dead within twelve hours. Nerve-racking barely described the stress of the movement.

Gliding through the clearing at a clipped pace, they made it around the ornate fountain, toward the main building without incident. Gavin avoided letting the breath he’d held out in a huff, but only barely. If this was a trap, if things were about to go south, he’d learn about it in less than a minute. Though sniping the team while they crossed the bright, open field would have been easiest, setting a bomb in the foyer of the main building would work.

They made it without incident, but they didn’t waste time celebrating reaching their first objective. Upon arriving into the hotel foyer, the breach man pointed to a spot just to the inside of the door from its knob. Looking at the door so he could approve the location, Gavin saw that the door was damaged and there was a boot print. The frame looked off kilter and crooked, the synthetic wood was warped, though someone had tried to repair the damage.

After a quick check, searching for security cameras or other obvious surveillance devices, he returned his attention to the boot print. It was roughly a size fourteen, a man’s shoe. He recognized the make, the distinctive center design on the tread telling him that this was an operator’s calling card.

Damn, Gavin thought, someone’s already been here. Signaling his team to secure the area, he pushed through and sent his breachers to the next door and gave the signal.

The domed city of New Philadelphia was designed as a resort for the wealthy, the buildings were designed for luxurious comfort with little care given to hardening them against assault. The planners figured that their local security forces, combined with being under the oceans was enough to protect them. They didn’t have a reason to suspect that someone might kick doors in. Every citizen in the city could buy their way into any facility, and the serfs were kept in line, enslaved by their addictions.

When the Albion Spring made their move, resistance on New Philadelphia was quickly dealt with. It was easy, there was nowhere for the loyal American citizenry to run. When the criminal traitors made their move, they simply seized the resort hotel that was under construction. The by the book tactical thinking had the CIA convinced that Fawkes was a Spec Ops veteran. Gavin wasn’t so sure; the terrorist’s previous raids had an air of wild abandon to them that seemed out of place for the specialized warfare community.

Having studied the city, Gavin knew that all Fawkes’ had to do was buy off the police and he could conquer the dominos of power, one after another. If the spooks were to be believed, Fawkes already had used this very tactic to capture the city. With raw power and martial law, the terrorists wouldn’t have to bother with winning hearts and minds, they’d already have them by the balls.

Once his men were in place, he gave the order to blow the door of their objective. His breaching expert, Pyro, nodded to the other breacher Nemo who tried the doorknob. Despite what he’d grown up seeing on the holo-vids, Gavin knew it was smartest to see if it was unlocked before wasting time kicking in doors. The door was broken, nearly falling apart in Nemo’s hand. He didn’t flinch, instead he slowly opened his hand, watching the door dangle from its mooring.

Watching as Nemo used one finger to push open the door, Gavin held his breath. This was the do or die moment, if this was a trap he’d be dead. It swung open on silent hinges, without the explosives he’d feared. The team waited a second, listening for the sound of gunfire. When none came, they quickly slid into the room, rifles up scanning for threats. As before, Gavin was the third soldier to enter the room.

After scanning his sector, he gave the hand signal to search for “trailers.” He didn’t want to miss other openings, so they searched them for threats. The foyer had three such openings, all of them doorways. Only the solitary door on the left was ajar. Motioning for Squint to stay behind him and stacked up behind the two breach men. With a nod they entered.

On Gavin’s command, Pyro button hooked to the left and Nemo flowed to the right. The two flowed into the room like a river, a beautiful ballet that hid a deadly current underneath the smooth surface. While they secured the room, Gavin followed them. He scanned the center, nearly tripping on an unseen obstacle. Looking down, Gavin saw their contact… or what was left of him. Their inside man, the spook who was supposed to provide their cover, had been blown. At least his cover had. This revelation was too critical to remain silent, the time for radio silence was over.

“Driller,” Gavin commed.

“Driller here,” he responded.

“Our agent is dead. Any contacts?” Gavin asked.

Pausing for a moment, Driller responded. “Negative, sir. All clear here, nothing in motion.”

He tried to look away, but Gavin found himself staring at the corpse. The man’s face was mostly intact, but most of the other parts were mangled; missing, shredded, burned, or broken. He didn’t have to pull up the man’s dossier, he’d memorized it. The dead man was a local shop-owner who sold trinkets and the like. He’d agreed to become an informant, and eventually a saboteur, only because his business wasn’t doing well. The man’s spook handler had put the screws to him, pushing him to do more. The CIA operative had reminded him that he could soon face something far worse than never being able to recover from his current financial catastrophe, of letting down his wife and ailing mother.

“Clear the rest of the building,” Gavin spat through his simmering rage. Someone heard him, though he hadn’t looked up to see who. He didn’t care. All he could do was stare at the broken form of their contact.

“How fucked are we?” Specialist Nick “Boomer” Cole asked as he began clearing the first floor.

The question interrupted Gavin’s vengeful thoughts of what he was going to do to Fawkes when he found them. Taking a small step back, he tried to take-in the scene. The amount of damage done to the body was extensive, but he forced himself to observe the rest of the scene. He’d never know if the man had talked, but he’d bet that the man hadn’t, because if he had talked the torture would’ve stopped. After he’d given them what they wanted, they’d have killed him and been done with it.

“No,” Gavin said quietly, squatting near the corpse, “you didn’t talk. Wouldn’t talk. You became the hero you thought yourself to be.”

“Crusher, Boomer, Hockey,” Gavin transmitted, “clear and secure the first floor. Don’t worry about the second. We’ll be moving out soon.”

“You found something, eh?” Nathan “Hockey” Pedde asked.

“I think so,” Gavin replied. “Squint, get to the kitchen.”

“I’m here, Boss,” Squint said from behind him.

Shit, Gavin thought. He was standing there the whole time. I allowed myself to get too focused on just one thing and the rest of the world just disappeared. Way to go.

“This man was tortured to death,” Gavin explained. “They wouldn’t have done this much damage if he’d talked. Find the chip.”

Without a word, Squint squatted near the body. Reaching into his pack, he pulled a small, electronic wand and slowly began waving it over the body. While he worked, Gavin caught himself dwelling on the things he would do to Fawkes once they caught up with the murderous bastard. You’ll pay, Fawkes, he assured himself. It took all of his will power, but Gavin shook his murderous thoughts and started doing his job again. He took a step away, turned around and scanned for threats.

“Dammit,” Squint cursed. “I think he swallowed it.”

“Then go get it,” Gavin snapped.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Squint groaned.

Despite struggling to resist the urge, Gavin couldn’t help staring at the mangled body. He fumed at the evidence of the informant’s tortured final moments; burn marks on the naked legs, mutilated genitalia and missing fingernails. Looking closer, he checked the man’s mouth, but there was so much blood he couldn’t tell if any teeth were missing. It wouldn’t have surprised him. He’d undergone it all for America, for the government that’d all but abandoned him. A true patriot, and nobody would ever know.

Clandestine operations conducted by the SOU were secret, and for good reason. The sensitive political nature of their operations wasn’t designed to build meaningful friendly relationships. No, he thought, this patriot’s sacrifice will not be honored anywhere, ever. The thought sobered him, should he die on an Op, he’d receive the same treatment.

“Found it,” Squint said. “It’d gone pretty far. They must’ve had him here for a while.”

“Yeah,” Gavin confirmed. “Let’s make sure his sacrifice wasn’t in vain. Read the data. See if it has what we need.”

Squint loaded the tiny chip into slot on the bracer of his armor and snapped the protective covering closed. He lost his normally boisterous banter, becoming quiet as he studied the data.

The wait dragged on, forcing Gavin to ask, “Is it viable? Did the data survive?”

“It did indeed,” Squint said triumphantly. “I’m pinpointing the signal now. Gimmie a minute -- maybe two.”

“Got it,” Squint shouted as he unscrambled the data packet.

Once the intelligence was decrypted, Squint uploaded it into Gibborim’s network. It appeared on Gavin’s HUD seconds later, allowing him to start sifting through it. The information was vital, Fawkes was known to keep a maintenance robot with her at all times. Fawkes’s bot was reported to perform more than just its repair duties, it had been modified to serve as a bodyguard. The machine was extremely lethal, with capabilities beyond anything the spooks had thought possible. This robot had caused America so much angst, while giving them hope for more autonomous killing machines to aid in the wars that were spreading across the galaxy.

The CIA had learned that Fawkes’s robot was responsible for creating miniature circuitry, a critical component for the creation of nanobombs. Those incendiary devices were quickly deployed by the Albion Spring traitors. Seventeen confirmed assassinations had been carried out by the terrorists using those tiny devices. Twice as many had been foiled, at the expense of several of the best bomb disposal techs in the Army. It was the upgraded robot who would lead them to Fawkes, stopping the problem at the source.

“Signal looks good, Cockney,” Squint said. “Sending the frequency to everyone’s HUD.”

Their contact had added a small circuit to Fawkes’s robot. Now the team could track the bot, there was nowhere on New Europa for the bot to hide from them. The Gibborim hoped that if they knew where the robot was, they’d also know where the Albion Spring’s commander was. The robot would leave a trail of crumbs right to the traitorous Fawkes’s doorstep.

“Any chance the signal is a fake?” Gavin asked. “Any chance the enemy planted that chip?”

Squint took a moment to answer. “There’s a chance, but we don’t have any other leads. What’re your orders, sir?”

“Fortune favors the bold,” Gavin said, trying to convince himself too. “Let’s roll out. Driller, maintain overwatch and keep up. Pyro and Hockey, take point. Everyone else, fall in by fire team. Boomer and Crusher have the rear. Let’s go.”

Traveling through New Philadelphia’s perpetual daylight, without being spotted by the Albion Spring’s militia, was difficult. Needing to remain in out of sight, Gavin and his team stuck to the various servants’ trails that had been built into the city to allow the rich visitors to maintain the illusion that they’d bought paradise or had at least rented it for a little while. Those routes were well patrolled, but the militia were sloppy. They thought the city was pacified and didn’t pay attention to the shadows.

Betting on the militia’s incompetence, Gavin had his unit hide in the darkness. They wove in and around the enemy soldiers, unseen and unheard. He knew they could easily eliminate the enemy, but he worried that they’d be missed. Instead, he’d let them pass and trusted Saint George to protect him.

“Do you see what they’re wearing?” Driller asked, his voice barely audible even with electronic enhancement.

Startled, Gavin had to stare at his HUD for a second. The bright lights of the city effected his abnormally sensitive visual processers. His optic sensors had been calibrated for the extreme darkness where they normally operated, making New Philadelphia especially difficult terrain for the team. Once he’d had to manually recalibrate his visor several times and missed the video that his sniper had sent him. After he adjusted his helmet’s view screen again, he was able to see the feed from Driller’s scope.

The sniper had his crosshairs centered directly on a small, metal pin that sat on a red cross surrounded by a sea of white fabric. Popping his head out from his concealed position, Gavin searched for whoever Driller was looking at. The only person staying still enough to be whom he’d just seen was a woman sitting on a park bench with a little girl. Guessing that Driller was in a building somewhere behind them, that had to be what he was referring too.

When the crosshairs shifted towards the little girl, Gavin began cursing. She was also wearing the emblem of the Albion Spring, the iconic Saint George’s Cross. His stomach dropped, as the operation suddenly got more difficult.

“This could get ugly,” he warned his team. “Looks like the locals are sympathetic with the Albion Spring. They’re wearing pins with the Saint George’s Cross.”

“Or, they’re being forced to wear the pins,” Hockey offered. “Not like someone is pointing a gun at them, except Driller, but peer pressure. I bet only some of them supports the terrorists. But if they didn’t wear the pin and pretend to support it, bad things would happen. Look what they did to our inside man!”

The team was silent for a while, each soldier lost in their own thoughts.

“Let’s hope that’s the case,” Gavin finally said. “Otherwise, when this thing goes down, we’ll have to fight all of them.”

“Triangulation is complete,” Squint said, excitedly ending the conversation. “Our target is in the flat-roofed building to the left -- the one that looks like it’s made of brick. The signal is coming in and out and it’s moving erratically.”

“What does that mean?” Gavin asked.

“It means the transmitter is glued to a mouse trying to work its way through a maze, or the robot is busy doing something,” Squint replied.

“Something like building a bomb?” Driller asked.

“Probably,” Squint confirmed.

A sober mood fell over Gibborim. They all knew that crafting bombs large enough to force Fawkes’s robot to move around meant that it had to be massive. Building one that size here, miles underwater, was stupid. It explained why New Europa had been chosen, nobody would think Fawkes’s was stupid enough to make a device that size here. It was too dangerous, which meant that it was also going to be dangerous to try stopping them.

“I’m in position,” Driller said over the team comms. “Spring-trap set. Ready when you are. No positive confirmation on contacts, it could be anyone. I can’t see anything inside the building, say again, nothing inside the building. The windows, hell the whole structure, has been coated with military grade Faraday paint. I’m not even getting light emissions from underneath the door, the whole damned place is stealthed. Standing by.”

Gavin felt his skin prickle at the mention of a trap, after losing their inside man he worried that his team of hunters might quickly become the prey. He wasn’t close enough to take any damage, but his point men would be eviscerated. They’d be sliced and diced almost instantly, forcing him to abandon the mission to pull his men back. He’d been told that his battle armor could take a hit from a small explosive, but he was cynical. Troops were always lied too by politicians who saw them as expendable cannon fodder. Comforting half-truths made them fearless, and dead soldiers couldn’t complain to their voters.

Taking a deep breath, Gavin decided to commit to the mission. The objective was in sight, and he knew he was as close to Fawkes as anyone had ever gotten. He had to finish this operation, too many lives depended on eliminating this threat to America.

“Driller,” Gavin ordered, “give me an update.”

“Nothing from the target building,” Driller replied. “We’d be going in blind. Confirmation on two guards outside. They’re wearing baggy clothing and likely armed. No idea with what. The entrance is… stand by.”

There were several seconds of silence before he spoke again.

“Incoming! Police!” Driller excitedly screamed into the comms. “You’ve been spotted, get out of there! They’re headed your way at your one-o-clock! I have the shot. I can drop both of them before--”

“Belay that!” Gavin hissed. “We will not be shooting police if we can help it. They might still be loyal to the American Empire. Back off to secondary, I have them if they try anything.”

Once his team confirmed his orders, they began moving towards the secondary entry point. He walked to the doorway of the abandoned building he’d been hiding in and stared at the target’s ceiling. After performing quick mental calculations, Gavin activated the magnetic clamping system on the back of his armor and jumped. He hit a little harder than he’d intended, but the steel ceiling joist held. He knew that the impact sound might be an issue, but there was nothing that could be done about that now.

Regaining his footing, Gavin stood and stretched his legs to work out the throbbing pain in his knees. He held his rifle across his chest, safety off, and waited for the blinding pain to pass. When he could walk, he slipped through the roof access and slipped into the top floor of the building he’d just landed on. Safely out of sight, he resumed stretching, knowing he couldn’t afford to hobble around when the action started.

Scanning the building he’d just entered, Gavin assessed his new tactical situation. Anyone walking along the streets would have to look straight up to see him, and the elevator and stairs were down a long hall and around a corner. He knew he had a few moments to recover from the jump now, he was relatively safe for the moment. Gavin was pretty sure he’d catch anyone who saw him before they had time to activate any alarms or report his presence to their superiors.

Unfortunately, if he had to eliminate any targets their absence would be noticed. That act would start the countdown on their inevitable discovery. He re-attached his rifle to his combat armor and pulled out a small non-lethal device that he inserted into a slot on his left gauntlet. He could hear the cautious footsteps of the police, eliciting a curse from Gavin. The noise was confined by his suit, but he knew his landing had been discovered. He’d only get one shot at this, and two targets were tougher than one.

“Mission first,” Gavin muttered to himself as he readied himself.

The first cop entered the room, his body lose. Despite the pistol in his hand as he swept the room, he didn’t have any situational awareness. The second police officer was right behind the first one. After a perfunctory search of the upper floor, both officers relaxed and began talking.

“Maybe it was a false alarm?” asked the first officer.

“Maybe,” the second officer mused, “Probably, because it makes our jobs easier. I told Fawkes that she shouldn't have bought the cheapest security system.”

“It had to be untraceable,” replied the first officer.

“Yeah, I know,” the first officer said, resignation in his voice.

Hearing them admit that they worked with traitors to the American Empire, Gavin no longer felt bad about what he was about to do. A quick flick of his tongue signaled his suit’s AI to deactivate the magnetic clamp holding him to the ceiling. The first cop didn’t even have time to turn around when his partner cried out in pain. The overweight officer dropped to the floor, as massive volts of electricity stunned him into submission while a fresh dose of dimethylmercury headed straight for his brain.

The first cop had time to see begin his turn and see his buddy dead. He’d turned his head a few more degrees before he got the same treatment. Gavi hit the man on the right side of his neck, just under the jaw. His gauntlet with the non-lethal device still attached, shocked the officer. It then injected the man with the powerful drug known simply as “metal” on the street. It would stay in the man’s system for more than a week, if he lived.

“What have we got here?” Gavin asked himself, as he squatted next to the downed police officers.

He rummaged through their gear, looking for anything useful, but he found no actionable intelligence. Gavin was about to stand back up from his crouch over the cop when he noticed it. He opened his mouth to alert his team about what he’d found, a camera attached to the front of the officer’s uniform when a new alert sounded from his HUD.

“Subsonic alarm!” Driller shouted. “Coming from the target zone, they’re on to us!”

Confirming that his battle armor had also detected the low-frequency pulses was easy, but it was infinitely more difficult to determine if the enemy had detected the signal. The alarm could travel miles through ground or water and would be completely undetectable by humans. He knew that the jig was up, it was time to move.

“Sweets, Pyro, you have a non-lethal priority!” Gavin ordered. “Leapfrog to the target! By the numbers! Go!”

As Gavin stood back up, two terrorists emerged through the front doors. The enemy moved cautiously, advancing in a low crouched position. They were heavily-armed, but their tradecraft told Gavin that they’d learned from Hollywood. Not cautious enough, thought Gavin as brought his rifle to bear on the moving terrorists. He knew he could’ve merely stunned them, but armed targets weren’t stun priority targets. Each militia member went down with a shot to the head. Driller, their sniper, took down one from his vantage point across the street. The other militiamen was killed by Sweets, who’d taken point on the assault on the building.

Relaxing, Gavin was about to lower his weapon and continue the mission. He moved swiftly towards the stairwell next to the elevator, when a third Albion Spring traitor opened the door. She seemed startled by what was happening and ducked back into the closing elevator booth. While his team continued to leapfrog forward below, Gavin fired a single shot into the woman’s face at point black range. He saw her corpse slump to the floor as the door closed and rushed to the door.

Switching to Driller’s visual feed, Gavin saw a civilian run towards his men from an alley. She brandished a crude club like a madwoman, before she was shot by Squint. He hit the young woman, a clean center-mass shot that dropped her like a rock. The report of that shot echoed, bouncing between the buildings. The woman’s face bounced off the concrete as she fell, until she slid to a halt against the curb.

Gavin had to close his eyes for a second, as Driller quickly searched for another target. It appeared that the rest of the civilians decided they needed to be somewhere else, fleeing the streets. The team’s momentum paused, as they became convinced that there were now targets hiding behind every shadow. Each Gibborim team member searched nearby windows and doorways for targets.

“Seems the civilian devotion to the Albion Spring fell a little short of Fawkes’s expectations,” Nemo quipped.

“Stay frosty!” Gavin reminded his men, cutting off the revelry.

He couldn’t disagree with Nemo’s assessment, though. After checking the door to the stairwell, Gavin searched the windows, roofs and alleyways he could see from his position on the top floor of the target building. Satisfied that his men were safe, he cut the feed from Driller and opened the stairwell door. The explosion threw him onto his ass, though his armor shielded him from the worst of it. It knocked him several feet to his right, away from the door into the stairwell.

Combat armor in the special operations was top notch, including anti-comma drugs that helped him retain consciousness. Those drugs allowed Gavin to stay in the fight, he jumped up and rushed to the window to check on their target. She lay dead on the ground, a nearby explosion killing her and the young girl next to her. Enhancing his vision, his HUD allowed him to zoom into to assess the scene. When she’d been blown up, it had destroyed any electronics she’d had on her.

Cursing, he checked for the signal for Fawkes’s robot. It was now four floors below him, somehow the woman on the bench had held a signal cloner. At that moment, gunfire erupted from the target building, peppering the ground around his troops. One of his fire team leaders, Sweets, took a round through his faceplate and dropped. His body rolled away, and Gavin’s checked his HUD. His life signs flatlined, he’d just lost one of his Joes.

“Driller, light ‘em up! Kill anything that moves!” Gavin shouted, unaware that he was shouting.

Fighting through the effects of his concussion, Gavin skimmed through the status of his soldiers. They’d only lost Sweets, and he wanted to ensure that the rest of his command made it home. He didn’t have to ask if they were returning fire. Their rifle sounds were distinct: a pop-hiss before the click of the next steel slug being loaded into position. There were too many pops, too many hisses. Even at this distance, he could tell that they were panicked. They were burning through their ammo.

“Calm down!” Gavin ordered. “Fire discipline!”

Heading back to the stairwell, Gavin looked down and saw that the explosion had collapsed that avenue of approach. The elevator was out as well, he assumed the enemy had found the dead officer. It would be boobytrapped, he was trapped. He could stay on the upper floor or jump back down to rejoin his soldiers.

Stepping back, Gavin started running towards the window and kept going until he ran through it. He fought the urge to flail, maintaining his combat insertion drop position like he’d been trained. Activating his jump jets at the last minute, he landed with a heavy thud among his men. His knee crumpling underneath him, eliciting a cry of pain. Letting his momentum carry him, Gavin leaned in and executed a combat roll. He landed in the alley where some of his troops were hunkered down, giving them the thumbs up to say he was okay.

Groaning, he scrambled forward on his hands and knees and stuck his head out into the street to take a look. He was rewarded with a glancing shot off his helmet. Shaking his head, he was shocked that the impact hadn’t hurt and patted himself down to ensure he was in one piece.

“Toss your frags!” he ordered.

Two seconds later, a spinning arc of fragmentation grenades soared through the air. Two seconds after that, the distinct popping sound registered. The primary blasting cap ignited, starting the chemical process that turned the lightweight putty filled metal baseballs into such deadly instruments of war. Enemy screams announced that the tosses had been true, the secondary explosions alerting Gavin to the news that they’d managed to hit something critical.

He waited a few seconds more, before bursting to his feet and charged towards the enemy occupied building. His rifle was raised as he scanned for targets. All of his team were on their feet in an instant, except for Hockey. The burly man took a bit longer to stand. Checking his HUD, Gavin saw that he’d been injured in the brief exchange of gunfire. Flipping through display screens as he ran, he noticed that Hockey had been shot to the wrist. The man’s rifle was stowed, but he held his pistol. Good man, he thought approvingly as he ran, fighting through his own pain.

They quickly crossed the open area, getting closer to the target building. Gavin scanned the corners as they approached, looking for movement. He thought he saw someone peeking around the left corner, but his sensors didn’t alert him to any threats. He watched for a second, long enough for something to happen, but when the boogey man failed to appear he continued his advance.

Cha-thud.

The sound seemed unreal; wet, and dull. It registered in the subconscious depths of his mind, and he turned around before he could fully process why he was doing it. Spinning, rifle up and ready to shoot, Gavin found a body. Blood was everywhere, but that wasn’t what shocked him the most. There was thick pulpy gore where the head should’ve been. Whoever had hit him and used one of their explosive anti-vehicle rounds. Technically, that was a war crime, but Gavin had more pressing concerns.

The dead man was morbidly obese and clothed in the same red and white track pant outfit that passed as a uniform for the Albion Spring militiamen. The black leaping mountain lion logo stood out against the garishly bright clothing. Someone had crudely sewn a Saint George’s Cross onto the outfit, conveniently placed on the breast pocket. His trained marksmen couldn’t miss this add on to their attire. It was what was on the ground next to the dead traitor that caused him to break out into a cold sweat. It was a hand-held plasma torch, that could’ve opened his armor in a second.

Shaking his head in surprise, he turned towards where his HUD indicated Driller was hiding. He casually offered a quick salute of thanks, before returning to the task at hand. Another target popped his head out from behind the barricaded doorway into their objective. Quickly brining his weapon up, he prepared to shoot the brightly clad man when his head exploded. He was about to thank Driller over the comms when he heard the distant sound of a mortar round. Looking up, he saw that it’d taken out the building his sniper was on. Someone else had found his sniper and his team was too far away to help.

“We’ve been made!” Nemo shouted into the comms.

“Hockey, smoke grenades out,” Gavin ordered. “Everyone else, storm the entryway on my cue.”

When the smoke had obscured enough of the street, Gavin launched one of his grenades into the open door. He hoped he’d managed to get behind the barricade that was just out of sight, eliminating the opposition. Saying a quick prayer, and begging his body to cooperate, he charged across the street firing as he went. He wasn’t aiming, merely hoping that he kept their heads down long enough for him to get in close enough to kill them. He wasn’t sure that his grenade had killed anyone, but it’d succeeded in preventing incoming fire on his advancing troops.

Upon reaching the door into the foyer of the abandoned building, Gavin didn’t slow down. He didn’t stack against the door or follow any of the other breach protocols, instead praying that his shock and awe assault tactics had done the job. He knew that if they slow down, there was a chance that Fawkes would get away and his men would’ve died for nothing. When he entered the confined space, he found several bodies that had been eviscerated by his anti-personnel grenade.

Not wanting to slow down, he hopped over the sandbag barricade continued on into the building. The metallic clumping on the expensive tile floors told him that his team had followed him, so he kept going. Gavin took the lead through the building, worried that it was a trap. It appeared to have been hastily abandoned, which wasn’t how Albion Spring normally operated. They never gave up the field without a fight, those terrorists are too fanatical, he told himself.

While he pushed from one empty room to another, his armor identified objects in the dark rooms that might have intelligence value. There were floor to ceiling shelves stretched in neat rows, on them were trays of parts. It appeared that some of them were partly assembled. Bomb-making supplies, he realized. Enough for hundreds, maybe thousands of them. We got here just in time.

“Watch your fire,” Gavin warned his men. “We’ve got bomb supplies. Assume that there’s explosives.”

After his men had flashed their icons on his HUD, acknowledging his warning, he continued. “Anyone got eyes on target?”

“We got nothing,” Hockey replied. “I’ll release my last spider-drone and see if I can’t get under the door.”

After they’d cleared the last room they’d unsuccessfully searched for the stairwell, but it caved in and none of it was accessible. All that was left to search was behind a heavy steel door that blocked access to the back quarter of the building. It wasn’t air tight, Gavin could see light coming from underneath it, so he knew that the drone would easily penetrate the room. Once it’d scurried into the room, it sent a grainy video feed back to them.

Cursing, Hockey jumped onto the squad comms channel. “Sorry, the Faraday paint is jamming us inside the building too. Damned stealth paint, it was abandoned for a reason… it’s omnidirectional for crying out loud!”

Waiting impatiently, Gavin knew they could access the feed when the drone returned to its handler. They could manually upload its memory banks into their comms and share the video, giving them real-time intelligence of their target, if with a slight lag time. Fawkes was behind the heavy, steel door. Frustratingly close, he couldn’t see her in the video, but her distinctive robot was hard to miss. The door had some kind of push-bar on the inside, but without a handle on the outside.

At Gavin’s order, the team stacked-up outside the door and prepared to die. “Check to see if it’s unlocked Nemo.”

Holding his breath, Gavin watched as Nemo reached his hand out and used the tips of his gauntleted fingers to pry at the door. When he it didn’t budge, he poured a potent corrosive chemical onto the hinges of the door and gently pushed on it again. It began to swing open instantly.

BANG!

Nemo yanked his hand back. Gavin inched forward and examined the damaged gauntlet of his soldier, and then inspected the door. His hand had been hit, but hadn’t penetrated Nemo’s armor. The door hadn’t escaped unscathed, a hole now mushroomed through where it had been hit. The tiny crater was as wide as Gavin’s thumb, exposing the hollow core of the faux steel door. Shoddy construction, I can work with that, Gavin thought as he began adjusting their battle plans around the new information.

Before Gavin could finalize his adaptation of the battle plan, the door flew open and slammed against the wall in front of him. It struck with enough force to shatter the synthetic wooden wall behind it, spraying shards of the wood in every direction. The maintenance robot, almost five-feet tall, burst through the opening on its rubber tracks. Its compact size made it less threatening, but Gavin knew how deadly the thing could be.

Diving out of the way, he avoided the first burst from the guns mounted on the robotic arms. Using the momentum of his dive, he rolled towards the rear of the robot firing as he went. His shots flew wildly, though the automatic aim feature on his HUD prevented him from hitting his own men. The rest of his team having done the same, avoiding the robot and continuing to put rounds into it. Each shot plinked off the armored machine but did little damage. The continued firing, burning through ammo and staying out of the bot’s line of sight.

Ducking behind a piece of furniture, he stayed on the move. He wasn’t silly enough to think the furniture would stop a bullet, he was merely praying he could confuse the firing system in the robot. The machine hadn’t been made for war, there was a chance that the trick would foil its aim long enough to eliminate it. When he’d switched to his second magazine, he knew that they needed to end the battle before Fawkes got away.

Ripping the door of the remaining hinge, Gavin charged the bot. He used the door like a battering ram, knocking the machine onto its side. While it struggled to return to an upright position, Nemo grabbed another vile of the corrosive compound and poured it onto its central processor. The lights went out on the robot’s faceplate, and further movement stopped.

Reloading his rifle again, Gavin checked the icon that flashed on his HUD. It warned him that it detected Fawkes nearby. Sling his rifle, he grabbed his non-lethal stunner and gestured for his team to do the same. Knowing he was up against the clock, Gavin activated his armor’s external speakers, wanting to end the stand-off.

“Fawkes, this is Major Gavin Baskerville!” he shouted. “By order of the Imperial United States, I order you to surrender and hereby place you under arrest. Stand down or we’ll be forced to use lethal force!”

Ther silence drug on for several long seconds before a dark, synthesized voice spoke. “Gavin Baskerville?”

Glancing across the open doorway, Gavin looked over at Nemo. His senior specialist shrugged, leaving the decision up to him. “That’s correct, I’m here to coordinate your surrender. You could also choose death, I don’t mind bringing home your body instead.”

Another intentionally drawn out silence followed his statement. “Step around the corner, Major. I want to see you,” Fawkes’s computer-generated voice replied.

Another glance, another shrug from Nemo. Gavin took a deep breath, he knew this was well and truly his decision to make. If he was wrong, he’d be to dead to regret it.

“I assure you, Major,” Fawkes’s tinny voice said, “I am quite unarmed. It wouldn’t do to have an errant round penetrate the trigger mechanism. I have no desire to blow myself up unnecessarily, it’d interrupt my tea time.”

How amusing, Gavin thought bitterly. This bastard killed my men and wants to talk about tea like we’re in some drawing room in London. He was in a mood to talk.

“No, I suppose that would do,” Gavin said, his voice devoid of emotion. “But I have a better idea. Why don’t you come to me, your hands raised straight up in the air? Nobody else needs to get hurt.”

He anticipated the wait this time, recognizing it as an attempt at a power play by Fawkes. Gavin recognized it as the last gasp for the traitor, they had to know they were finished. “Do you still have it, Gavin? Do you still have the pendant? Do you carry it with you?”

“What the hell?” Nemo asked.

“Holy shit!” Hockey shouted.

“How do you know about that?” he whispered through his external speakers. There were no thoughts filling his mind, only the coldness of his dreadful realization.

“Because I gave it to you,” was the answer.

“Bullshit!” Gavin roared an instant before boldly entering the room, rifle to his shoulder. The moment he entered the room he had his targeting reticle centered on the masked terrorist’s forehead, looking for a reason to pull the trigger.

Fawkes wore the red tracksuit uniform that the rest of Albion Spring wore, with the same patch sew over the breast. The traitorous woman’s patch was neater than the others, the stitching done with care by experienced hands. The traitor also wore a mask and goggles, which looked ridiculous when paired with the rest of her attire. Looking closer, Gavin saw that one of the traitor’s hands held a black cylinder. In the other, he saw what appeared to be a fully-assembled bomb.

He never took his weapon off the target, but Gavin scanned the room looking for additional threats while he waited to see what Fawkes’s next play would be. The room was barely ten feet on each side and there was only one entrance. The traitor was cornered. The rest of his team followed him in, with Hockey spearheading a detachment to stay behind and guard their exit. They all watched in horror as Fawkes used a thumb to press the button on top of the cylinder.

“We’ve got a problem,” Nemo said cautiously. “Some of the parts were assembled. We’ve got active bombs out here.”

“Foam them, now!” Gavin ordered, his weapon never leaving his target.

Two of the troops from outside left their guard positions and began deploying small canisters of foam. They sprayed the chemical compound directly into the concealed bombs, effectively disarming them.

“What do you mean you gave me the pendant?” Gavin hissed.

“He’s just trying to get into your head,” Nemo said, sliding to the left, clearing their lanes of fire.

“What I mean is, I personally gave you the pendant of Saint George,” Fawkes said. “To keep you safe. Seems like it worked, son.”

His rifle dipped for a moment. “Remove your mask,” Gavin ordered.

Obeying his command, Fawkes removed the mask covering their face. He staggered into the wall behind him, shocked. The rest of his team took a half-step forward, ready to protect their commander and end the situation. But none fired, Gavin had trained them too well for that. They all stared in shock at the unmasked traitor. The resemblance was uncanny, down to the shape of the eyes and the petulant way they both frowned.

“But Mum,” Gavin whispered, “why?”

She didn’t laugh, as he’d expected. Instead, she frowned at him like she’d done when he’d been a disobedient child growing up in Plaistow, London. She had the same matronly frown that used to convince him that the devil himself was to afraid to anger his mum. It was so dark and threatening, it seemed to Gavin that every happy memory might flee his soul and leave it a dry, brittle husk. He didn’t breathe. He wasn’t sure if he could.

“I didn’t raise you to fall in line like some lemming,” she said, her voice flat.

Gavin watched her in shock. Gone was the woman who’d raised him, in her place a lady whose features were unmoving and lifeless. Years of hate had drained the very humanity out of her pours, he’d seen it before while fighting the PRPC. He couldn’t dismiss her though, her thumb still held the button on the firing mechanism for the bombs that lined this room. He watched as her hand shook, anticipation causing her to shiver. He knew the signs, though he didn’t want to admit it, not even to himself. She’d made her decision already.

“I raised you to think for yourself, to be self-sufficient,” Fawkes said bitterly. “When I gave you that medallion, it wasn’t to encourage you to become a drone, a pawn of the government. It was to protect you when you threw off your chains and fought back!”

The mad woman’s shouting caused the other troops to take another half-step forward.

“Back off!” Fawkes ordered. “If you shoot me, the bomb in my hand will detonate! All of the bombs out there will detonate! I have soldiers throughout the colony ready to die for our cause. If you don’t surrender and lay down your weapons, you’ll cause the death of thousands of innocent civilians.

“There’s enough explosives in this building to take the roof off the dome. I have more throughout the building, the cascading explosion will crack the very ice sheet above us. There aren’t enough government safety protocols to protect the population from that catastrophe. Just like everything else, the United States has failed their imperial citizens.”

“How much longer?” Gavin asked the team desperately trying to disarm the bombs.

“Just two left,” the soldier replied. A few seconds later he said, “Done. Bombs disarmed. But I’m still detecting more in the room with you, boss. I can’t find them, but my sensors say they’re there.”

“Understood,” Gavin said.

“Surrender,” Fawkes said, her voice eerily calm, “and I will guarantee your safety, son. As for the others, I’ll have to decide later what to do with them.”

Tzing.

They all watched in shock, Fawkes had pulled a small pistol from her pocket and shot her own son. At the extreme close range, the round punched through Gavin’s armor and struck him in his chest.

“But Mom,” Gavin said in shock, dropping his rifle from his numb hands.

The clatter of metal against metal caused Nemo to flinch, he put a round through Fawkes’s jaw, removing the side of her head, cleaving her from between her cheekbone and neck. Gavin crawled to her, coughing up blood as he tried to grab the detonator, but she’d brought it to her breast and held it tight with both hands.

“Run,” she said through the blood gurgling in her throat.

Staring at his mom, her eyes were full of tears, Gavin froze for a second. Shaking his head, fighting through the shock, he repeated the order to his men. They didn’t verbally acknowledge him, merely turning and springing from the room.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Gavin coughed.

Turning, he staggered away from her prone form, leaving his rifle where it lay. He left the room a moment before the bomb detonated, hearing his mother shriek four words.

“God save the Queen!”

The pounding in Sergeant Alexis Monroe’s head was matched by the sound of boots marching across the tarmac of Homey Airport. The outside world called the place Area 51, but to Alexis, it’s where the military sent her to disappear. Shifting her duty belt, which was digging into her hips, Alexis trudged through another day at her new command. On loan from the Army, she felt detached from the sea of Air Force personnel.

Alexis was proud of her service in the Army. A pioneer, she was one of the first women through the elite Army Infantry School. She’d idealistically enlisted into the Army after graduating college, seeking to strike a blow for female empowerment. Her quest for glory hadn’t turned out how she expected.

Every phase of Alexis’s journey was marred by political correctness and cries of sexual bias from her peers. She believed, beyond doubt, that when she graduated at the top of her class she would garner an assignment that would bring her validation. Alexis had been sent to jump school, then to the Non-Commissioned Officer Academy. Her next step should have been orders to lead from the front. Instead, she was given duty as a rent-a-cop guarding a sprawling warehouse complex.

Alexis swallowed her disappointment at night and chased it with whiskey. Every morning, hung over, she swore to go dry. She couldn’t seem to keep that promise. Her sunglasses became an unofficial part of her uniform, and none of her superiors cared enough to object.

First, she’d been tasked with checking IDs at the dining facility. Then, she checked IDs at the gate. Now, she was assigned to check IDs at an old hangar that was turned into a warehouse. She’d been told not to look inside the warehouse, not to ask questions, and simply keep the stuff inside, inside, and those outside, outside.

Her domain was the guard shack. Two doors, a tiny desk, an uncomfortable chair, an old rotary dial phone, and a legal pad were her only companions. The phone never rang, and she never had to log a name in the legal pad. In the month she had stood this watch station, no one had ever stopped by her post to gain entry. While boring, this did allow Alexis to covertly sneak a drink from the flask in her cargo pocket.

Alexis had become bolder. Usually, she only took a sip or two once her twelve-hour watch was starting to wind a close. Today, she had started early. The more swigs she swallowed, the more interesting the forbidden door became.

“No entry. Authorized personnel only,” said Alexis.

She’d never actually said it to a living person. This time, she was saying it aloud to herself. With a chuckle, she locked the door leading into the guard shack and turned to the entry door into the warehouse.

“Sergeant Alexis Monroe, respectfully requesting permission to enter this stupid warehouse,” she said aloud. With a quick pivoting action, she responded to her own request. “Permission granted!”

That was a preview of Final Objective. To read the rest purchase the book.

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