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The Other War by houseoftang
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THOSE Rebels: The Other War, Part I
Date: 31 March 2006, 3:53 am
Author's Note:
When I first started this story in March 2006, I intended to finish it quickly. That didn't happen. But I didn't give up on the story, either–I just developed the characters in my own way. Now I'm making time to finish it. The formatting was awful at first, but that's been fixed, and hopefully the story is a lot more readable. Please do leave your honest comments, opinions, and suggestions–no matter how honest–because I want to make this a story worth reading.
The Other War
Part I: THOSE Rebels
Captain Langer proceeded along the walkway in a half-crouch, scanning the area in front of him with one eye, while concentrating on his tactical heads-up display with the other. In practice, this meant he relied on his peripheral vision for almost everything except aiming his M7SDS3. When he found it necessary to do that, it took the entirety of his right eye and an insubstantial part of his concentration. The team's light amplification gear had malfunctioned an hour after insertion. The area was twilight-dark, however, he did not use the attached flashlight, even in infrared mode, which the display in his HUD could display like visible light.
These particular rebels would likely be able to see the IR light, as well, and it acted like bouncy monkey carrying a flag to announce his presence. These particular rebels would probably hear his nigh-silent footsteps, but he tried not to think about that. Reaching the end of the raised path, he scanned both sides of the intersecting walkway, and then keyed his helmet radio. Even the radio should have been off-limits, but the rebels knew that the ODSTs had arrived, and the radio, unlike the flashlight, was both encrypted and nearly impossible to locate in transmission mode. Even these rebels wouldn't have the equipment to locate him via his radio broadcast.
"Red three to Red one, path is clear for m—"
Langer's transmission was cut off in mid-sentence as three 7.62 mm rounds punched through his neck. One round bounced into his helmet and ricocheted twice before exiting via his visor. Rebel First Lieutenant Jonas approached the corpse even more cautiously than the Captain had approached him, and quickly appropriated the late officer's submachine gun, ammunition, and flash-bang grenades. He left one frag grenade under the corpse, wired to the dead man's belt, ready to blow if the corpse were moved more than a few inches. Slinging the ancient HMG-38, he moved away, still facing the direction the ODST had come from, ducking back behind a crate of agricultural equipment. Ditching the M7 would be easier--against armored ODST even .30 cal was a bit small--but he was a rebel, after all.
He pulled out a pocket maser and aimed it at a certain point in the ceiling, then heliographed a quick code with the tightbeamed microwaves. The rebel's radios were not nearly as secure as the ODSTs', and would also give away their position. The heliograph would give away Jonas' position as well, if anyone were in a place to receive it. As it happened, an ODST Second Lieutenant was in position to receive it, though not in position to see it, his eyes glazed in death. Behind him, the rebel sniper grinned as she received Jonas' report. If this ODST team were anything like the others they'd encountered, only three would be left. And the part about the frag grenade under the corpse was a good joke, indeed. She hoped he'd left it pressing on the Captain's right kidney. Payback for the hours of boring drivel about his "condition" and whining about his "diet".
Major Oppenheimer, Red One, swore mentally as he heard Red Three's transmission cut off and saw his lifesigns drop to zero on his command HUD. Five and Six had already been removed from the mission in a similar manner; Red Six almost as soon as they had inserted. Indeed, this one (here the Major inserted a few extra words in his internal monologue) group of rebels were the best he'd ever fought against. They always were.
"Red team, report in." he called over the radio, just to be sure.
"Red Two, reporting. I'm within view of the main mechanical section, though I'm waiting for the Velazquez to get here so we can breach the door. Other than that, I'm golden. No one near me."
The radio crackled again: "Red Four, reporting. I ran into a little trouble with a Tango just a few minutes ago. Neutralized him, but it slowed me down, and I took a few hits to my suit. Nothing serious, but I don't think I'm vacuum-tight anymore. I should be at Two's position in . . . oh, three minutes or so."
Oppenheimer scratched his chin. "Red Two, Red Four, we're all that's left. They got Langer just now. If you find him, do not, I repeat, do not touch his body. You know how these rebels like to play tricks with trip-mines and such. I'm going to move down to your position, I'll be there in about five." He mentally added, "I hope."
First Lieutenant Mbaro Mbutu cursed his luck. Everything was not fine. Half his team was down, and he was waiting for the others to rendezvous at his position. Which meant he had to stay in one place. Which meant . . . like an AI-controlled train, the sniper's round arrived right on time. And like an AI-controlled train, at least the ones he grew up with, the round missed its target by a few millimeters. He wondered if perhaps the sniper had hit the target, but the target was some obscure spot on the wall just to the side of his head.
Some rebels were like that. Mbutu rolled, scooted to the left, and looked behind him at the hole the round had left in the wall. The half-centimeter thick steel wall. Having figured out the sniper's approximate location, he zoomed in with his integrated monocular at 5x zoom. There was a glint in the twilight, then a muzzle flash, and another round slammed into a crate, millimeters to the right of his head again. His M7SDS3 would be ineffective at that range, so he ducked back behind the crate and radioed the Major.
"Red One, this is Red Two. We have a sniper playing our position. Up on the third level, on your eight if you're coming straight down the hall I'm in. About where–shit, right where Holmes was supposed to be. I guess that's what happened to him. Permission to engage? I'll have to get closer. This area is clear, and Four'll be here momentarily."
"Green light to engage as soon as Velazquez gets to you. Make sure you police that S2 AM–can't let weapons like that fall into Rebel hands. Let me know when you're in position if you have a chance. Actually, on second thought, cover us from that position."
Two acknowledgment lights clicked red in the team leader's HUD. Major Oppenheimer paused in his steps and listened. Nothing. He continued onward.
"Red Four to Red One, I've rendezvoused with Red Two, and he's moved out. He was right. There's nothing here. Should I start on the lock, or wait for you, sir? If it's anything like the normal rebel crap, I'll be through by the time you get here. Of course, with these rebels, you never know. Maybe they jammed a chair under the doorknob for good measure."
Velazquez sounded relaxed. Again, not a good thing. "Keep your eyes open, Velazquez. Start on that lock, but don't open the door until I get there. If there's a chair, I know where to put it, and how. ETA one minute fifty." Red Four's light blinked once.
Red One continued, then stopped. He had a fleeting contact, which appeared then disappeared. Distance had been thirty meters, and it had been moving away from him. Probably not enough of a threat to engage, what with the importance of the task at hand. Velazquez should be in sight in less than a minute.
ODSTs are not known for being quiet. That's because you never know where the quiet ones are, or that they passed by you at all. Rebel Master Sergeant Ramona Lucente knew exactly where the ODST was, but he had her position slightly off. At least, that's what it looked like, from the position his visor was facing and where the Marine sniper had been positioned originally. What a moron. Why would she take his old position, which would be known to the ODSTs, when there was a better one just a half-dozen meters away, with better cover? The answer was simple: because it would lure half-witted men who weren't thinking with the correct head for the job. Just like a translucent miniskirt.
And she wasn't in the previous sniper's position; she was 70 centimeters to the right, a location better suited for shooting at the jerks about to open the door to the mechanical room, rather than covering them. A clank and muted curse signaled the ODST's approach, then a pause and a spray of 5 mm rounds washed over the inert Second Lieutenant. He would have been pissed if he had been alive. Ramona suppressed a giggle, and sucked in air through her teeth instead, and shifted loudly. Another spray of bullets washed over her presumed position, and she dropped the SRS99C-S2 AM over the edge to the floor below.
The ODST grunted, and then made a series of clacks as he reloaded. "Gotcha, rebel bitch." Then he began to creep toward her.
An SRS99C-S2 makes a very distinctive sound when it drops from three stories onto a steel deck. When Mbutu heard it, he swore again; now he'd have to go down to retrieve it. Best to confirm his kill, do what he'd come to do, report his position and kill, and then retrieve the sniper rifle. The Major had certainly either seen or heard it fall. Slinking up toward the dead rebel, he peeked his head around the corner and saw her feet. Good. They weren't moving, and were covered in blood and riddled with holes. He came around the corner quickly, and sat on her back.
"Thought you could outsmart me, bitch? You're not even an officer. You'd never make it through the academy. Only one thing you're good for." The LT reached out his hand, and then took a second look at the corpse's helmet. It was a standard issue ODST helmet, and rebels didn't wear helmets.
"Aw, Gawd, sorry Holmes!" he whispered loudly, and rolled off. If Holmes was where he was supposed to be, and there wasn't another body, then she must have been elsewhere, but near enough to drop the rifle so it would sound like it was directly below this position.
A faint contact appeared on his motion tracker, and he spun toward it, and took a knife in the thigh The skinsuit he wore should have stopped a 5 mm round, but it didn't stop the knife. Rebels didn't wear helmets, and so there was nothing to impede the stream of lead Mbutu let loose at Lucente's head, turning it into pulp.
"Mmmm. You gonna pay big for that, whore. Hurts like a mutha, but this is gonna hurt worse." Falling to his side, the man began to slide his hand in between a seam in what passed for armor on the dead sniper. He got his hand halfway in toward her chest when he heard a voice speak from his helmet.
"Red Two, report!" He pulled his hand back and opened his mouth to reply, then realized that the voice had been female. And hadn't come from his comm. Then he was dead, three 7.62 mm bullets at point-blank range ripping through his helmet and shattering his skull.
His assailant tripped, and fell with her knee in his crotch. Then she did it again. "Bad idea to play with your food, hon. Have fun when you're not working. Don't think I'll be able to get a court-martial for him, though. Sorry. We need to have a talk later," Rebel Colonel Yi whispered into the dead woman's ear. She re-sealed the Master Sergeant's armor, and pulled her arm out from an awkward angle behind her back, placing it on her stomach.
"You can still be part of the team. Be a good benchrest."
A buzz came from the ODST's helmet, followed by a murmur of vocals: "Red Two, report. Are you in position to cover us? Do you have a weapon to do it with?" Yi tucked her fingers under Mbutu's visor, flipping it up, which she'd never be able to do if it didn't have three holes in it, and keyed the acknowledgement signal twice.
"Good, we're going in." crackled the radio. Taking a moment to scratch her fingernails down what was left of Mbutu's face, she scooped up the M82A3 and dropped the barrel across Lucente's arm, which lay across her stomach. Through the 10x scope, she sighted on the Major's head, and waited.
Velazquez grimaced, then tapped a few buttons on his spoofer. The status light cycled from red to green, and he nodded to Major Oppenheimer. Moving to either side of the door and shouldering their weapons, they crouched, and First Lieutenant Velazquez opened the door. A fireball roared through the opening, along with a rather large quantity of fast-moving scrap metal. The ODSTs were pelted with ricochets, but their skinsuits prevented any real damage. When Oppenheimer signaled, Velazquez used a mirror to peek through the door. A scorched chair sat a meter from the opening. Oppenheimer watched through Velazquez's video feed, and then motioned him in.
"Assholes," the senior officer commented. As Velazquez stepped through the doorway, his upper torso fell off. The remaining portion, a wedge-shaped slice of abdomen on legs, finished the step and then dropped forward. Apparently, the rebels had strung an EVA line across the doorway, from the upper right-hand corner to the lower left; while the "string" was only about a hundred carbon atoms thick, it had boasted incredible tensile strength per pound, and was readily available to most space-farers. Including these rebels, who used them for other purposes.
"OK! You've got me! I'm FUBAR, I know someone has a bead on me, and I can't blow the main panel without the equipment you cut in half in Velazquez's pack. I'm done," yelled the Major. He looked around him, then glanced toward Mbutu's position, and made a gesture with his hand which meant "cover me while I do something crazy."
Instead of an acknowledgment light, however, the radio crackled. "Sir! We've got hostiles here! They're onboard the Pelican! They–AAAAGH!"
Oppenheimer drove his fist into the wall. "Idiots! The pilots aren't even part of the team! They're AI-generated! And they won't shoot at you unless you try to get us on insertion or extraction! What the fu–"
A voice as smooth as velvet and cool as ice cut him off. "Thoroughness, Major. Something you would do well to emulate. I'll give you one last chance to redeem yourself. Duck." He did, and Colonel Yi put a .50 caliber anti-materiel round through his head when it dropped into her cross-hairs. A gut shot would have been equally lethal, but might look like a miss on the post-op stats.
"You shouldn't break character until the sim is over, Joe. Bad form."
"Hey, the sim isn't over until the lights come up!" retorted Oppenheimer, as the lights came up. "But . . . Mbutu! How? Did you manage to hack our systems, too? You–"
As the Major began to rant, Yi cut him off again. "Ah, First Lieutenant Mbaro Mbutu. I'm using his comm right now. He doesn't have his helmet on. Have anything to say, Mbutu?"
A series of choked sobs came through the radio, and then the Colonel's cold voice returned. "Why don't you take a look at this video feed before I send it to the General for a board of inquiry? It's from three minutes ago. I think you'll recognize Mr. Mbutu. This is the third time he's tried this sort of thing, you know. The third. Notice where his hands are. That's Master Sergeant Lucente, not Second Lieutenant Holmes on the ground."
After twenty seconds of silence had passed, the Major grunted. "Damn. That's gotta hurt. OOOOH. Twice? That doesn't look like an accident."
Yi shook her head, though the Major couldn't see the gesture. "The floor was slippery–lots of blood. Transmitting. Ares, please route that through to the General."
"You know he'll just give him a slap on the wrist, don't you? They're not going to court-martial him for something stupid like that. We need his skills. And we don't have much contact with your team, anyway. I won't let it happen again."
"Damn right it won't happen again, but I know it won't be your, ahem, watchful eyes stopping him. If I see Mbutu within five meters of her again, I'm going to terminate him with extreme prejudice." Yi stood up and helped Ramona to her feet; the bulky sim-suits made such movements difficult when they were releasing the stasis locks.
"That's not extreme prejudice? A knee in the crotch twice?" asked Major Oppenheimer.
"No, Joe. I mean terminate." snapped Yi.
The Major sputtered. "Y-you can't do that! If–"
A third time, Colonel Yi cut him off in mid-sentence. "Of course I can, Major. It's what they trained us and pay us to do. Ridding the galaxy of scum and vermin, most especially the kind that calls itself human. I'll see you at the debrief."
Throwing the helmet down at the still-prone First Lieutenant, the members of the Blue Team made their way down toward the exit, leaving Second Lieutenant Bob Holmes with First Lieutenant Mbutu.
"What the hell was that about? Were you trying to cop a feel or something? You'd think you'd learn sometime."
Mbutu finally managed a coherent word: "Shaddup."
First Lieutenant Vazquez flexed his shoulders, then jumped onto his feet from the sprawl he had been laying in for the past few minutes.
From behind him, First Lieutenant Grigory Ydrionis said "Bang." Vazquez spun and threw a kick at his head, which Ydrionis caught, twisting Vazquez's foot.
"I'll say. That was a hell of an IED. What did you use, captured C-12?" Vazquez replied, shifting his weight and then springing into the air with a spinning kick with his free leg, hitting Ydrionis on the side of his head, glancingly. Ydrionis let go, and Vazquez landed.
"Ow. No, fertilizer and tractor fuel. Old tech. We were rebels, remember? And this was an agricultural storage facility. What'd you think of the surprise in the door?"
Stretching his legs and flexing his ankles, Vazquez thought for a moment. "If you mean the chair, then I think you'd better not hog all the pretty girls at the bar this time. Otherwise I'll slip you a Mickey and make off with them. But if you meant whatever it was that killed me, I think you gotta show me how you did that. Didn't hurt a bit, by the way. Thanks."
The two LTs shook hands, and then Ydrionis pointed to the doorway. "EVA line. I locked one end to the top corner of the door, and rigged it to shoot the other end toward the bottom on a diagonal as soon as the explosion had cleared a bit. Colonel Yi loves those things. Hey, meet you over at Orbits after the debrief. No sense wasting any time–you're buying, after all. The chair was the trigger for the EVA line."
Vazquez hung his head for a moment. "Yeah, see you in the South Side. Damn chairs."
1650 Hours, March 17, 2552 (Military Calendar) / Sol System, Chawla Base, planet Earth, City of Boston
The female locker room was empty except for the two women from Blue Team. As they untangled themselves from the clingy VR simsuits, Lucente addressed Yi. "Ma'am, permission to speak candidly."
The Colonel looked at the enlisted soldier. "Ramona, we're not in a combat situation, and there's no one else around. You don't need to ask."
The Master Sergeant sighed. "Julie, please, don't push things with Mbutu. It's just going to make it worse. I won't let it happen again. Really, I don't mind."
Pursing her lips as she thought for a moment, Yi shook her head. "Do you mean that you don't mind enough to stand up to him? Or do you mean you like it? If you and he consented to what happened, I'll have to cite both of you. This facility isn't a necrophiliac make-out room. But it would be a lighter charge for him that way. I don't think you meant that you like it, though."
Ramona's eyes filled with anger. "You're not my mother, Julie! It's not your job to look after me. If I don't want any trouble from this, for him or for me, then you shouldn't push it."
Again, Yi shook her head, more slowly this time. "I'm not your mother, I know that. And if it were just a matter of you, you'd be right. But there's more to it than that. Do you think you're the first woman he's tried that sort of thing to? Do you think you'll be the last? Even a court-martial wouldn't stop him, but it might calm him down for a while, and maybe they'd put him out on the Covenant front. He wouldn't have much chance for that kind of crap out there. They'd frag him if he tried it."
The Colonel sighed deeply. "Look, I'm not your mother, but I'm almost old enough to be, and I am your CO. So I have the right to say my piece. Men have been using the kind of mentality you have to abuse women for thousands of years. Maybe since as long as we've been human. Part of the reason they've been able to do it is because women say things like 'I don't mind' when they really mean 'I'm afraid to say no.' Sometimes 'no' doesn't stop a man, but most of the time it will. If you don't use that one little word, you're just encouraging that kind of behavior, and you're helping him do it to someone else.
"Ramona, how about this: I won't push the issue, and you don't have to press charges, as long as you promise me you'll tell Mbutu not to do that again. It doesn't matter that he outranks you. You have the right. Tell him you'll push for a court-martial if he tries anything to you again. Don't show any weakness, but let him off the hook. Promise?"
The women looked one another in the eye, and Ramona conceded. "OK. I promise. Thanks, Julie. For . . . everything." After a few minutes of silence, the younger woman spoke again.
"Julie, are you doing anything tonight? I figured we might as well have a girl's night out, while we're away from Coral for a while. I know how hard it is to get away from Sophie and your husband. . ."
But the older woman shook her head. "No rest for the wicked. I have to go over the mission in preparation for the debrief tomorrow. But have a good time. We're meeting at 0900 sharp," she said, ending the sentence on an uncertain note, barely remembering to hold back the advice. "So be there or be square," the Colonel ended, lamely.
Ramona laughed. "The only way you could sound more like Mom is if you told me not to drink too much after the bars close."
We're not rebels, we just play them on TV: The Other War, Part 1 1/2
Date: 19 January 2007, 12:48 pm
Author's Note:
Yes, I realize this is short, and has barely anything happening. Aside from advancing the plot, this is a little character development and a little clarification for the first chapter, which I had meant it to be a part of. No, we haven't met any actual rebels yet, yes, both Blue and Red Teams are ODST, and yes, they were just practicing in virtual reality. Don't worry, we'll get to the fun stuff soon enough.
The Other War
Part 1 1/2: We're not rebels,we just play them on TV
0900 Hours, March 18, 2552 (Military Calendar) / Sol System, Chawla Base, planet Earth, City of Boston
The two teams reassembled on Chawla base in a conference room the next morning; all the seats were filled by 0858. Ramona had dark circles under her eyes, and squinted as though trying to block out the light. Vazquez slouched ever so little, and Ydrionis held his hand to his brow, keeping one eye shut. Major General Nordstrom was waiting in the debriefing room, along with a display showing a hologram of Ares, the training facility's AI. Mbaro Mbutu switched seats with Captain Langer to sit further away from the two women, and Yi gave him a look that could freeze an Unggoy solid.
The General began. "Good morning, Marines. I'd like to congratulate you all on walking in on your own power today–" Here the General gave a quick look at Mbutu, "Given that it was Saint Patrick's Day yesterday, and every bar in Boston was serving discount green beer. I don't touch the stuff myself. Ares, if you'll proceed with the items you highlighted, please."
Suddenly springing to life, the image of the chiseled-marble statue on the pedestal began to speak, emphasizing points with one hand while leaning on a javelin with the other.
"I'll begin with your choice of insertion points, Major Oppenheimer. While the point you chose served well for your entrance to the simulated rebel base, it allowed the capture of your insertion vehicle by the opposing team. A better choice might have been here." On one of the view screens which hung in the front of the room, a topographical map of the simulated exercise area appeared, with a red arrow pointing to a valley.
Two hours and twenty-three minutes later, Ares had exhaustively covered over two dozen tactical "mistakes" made by both sides, although more than two thirds had been attributed to Red Team. While many of Ares' points were quite clear cut, such as Red Team's failure to use their passive IR vision, several were open to discussion.
"Colonel, that bit with the aircraft was a bit excessive. Your mission should have been to protect the mechanics room, and/or eliminate the Red Team. My pilots were coincidental to your task. Or–were you trying to capture the Pelican?" The AI paused, probably for dramatic effect. "You were, weren't you. Thinking like a true rebel. You scare me sometimes, Colonel."
Ares shook his helmeted head, making the plume ripple–an odd effect in simulated marble. "And that's saying a lot, for a military AI."
Yi smirked. "Of course I was after the Pelican. A full load of 12.7 mm x 99 mm ammo? And an M82 to use it with, not to mention the nose guns. What rebel wouldn't go after it? Never mind the value of a mint-condition bird like that to an operation like ours. I've seen rebels do crazier things. A life for three M7's? They see it as a tactical decision. An acceptable tactical loss. Aside from which, it would also strand UNSC personnel on the surface, where they could be captured and interrogated."
Captain Langer weighed in: "We've never seen rebels attempt to capture an insertion craft on any of our missions. It seems unlikely, given the firepower they'd be facing, that real rebels would try something like that."
But General Nordstrom put an end to the discussion with his opinion. "While we haven't seen rebels do that sort of thing in the past, their strength is their flexibility. Hardly a mission goes by where we aren't given some sort of surprise. Perhaps it's only the overwhelming firepower that our Pelicans boast that has kept a rebel from capturing one thus far. Who is to say they haven't tried? We can't ask them when they're dead."
After Ares' checklist, Nordstrom brought up a few more point, including several submitted by each team leader in their reports. These mostly dealt with broader issues of a strategic nature, rather than point-by-point tactical decisions. Major Oppenheimer was splitting up his team more than he should have been; Yi could have allowed a little more independent operation on Blue Team's part. She had visited each of the locations, including the Pelican's landing site, crisscrossing the compound numerous times, increasing the danger both to herself the rest of the team each time.
"It is such a fine line between giving enough guidance and giving enough freedom to your team, and it varies with every situation. I have confidence that both of you–" he indicated Yi and Oppenheimer, "Can find the most effective, happy medium. It certainly hasn't prevented you from doing your jobs out there in the field."
General Nordstrom finished with a bit of a pep talk. "I'd like to finish by thanking all of you for your splendid work, recently and always. I really do have to say that the two of you have done a better job than the Spartans' Blue Team ever did, and with increasingly difficult conditions. We really are pushing the rebels closer and closer to eradication or surrender. Preferably the latter, of course–God knows we need every single man and woman to face the Covenant. Red Team, you are dismissed. Blue team, please sync up and download the data for your next mission."
Colonel Yi waited until Oppenheimer's team was out the door. "Do we really need two weeks to review the data, sir?"
The General suppressed a smile–suppressed it with every ounce of will he had. Julie Yi didn't make even a mistake that small very often, but she'd kill him if he rubbed her face in it. That, or find some way to make him very, very sorry. He chose the high road, or as high a road as he could take at this point.
"You don't have two weeks, Colonel. You ship out in two hours."
Most other officers Nordstrom had worked with would have gaped open-mouthed for a moment. Blue Team had been promised leave immediately following this training exercise. Blue Team was used to getting what they wanted–they were one of two teams willing to fight the "Other War", or at least one of two who were both willing and able. The few soldiers who could do the things Yi and Oppenheimer were asked to do cracked after a few missions against other humans. Fighting the Covenant had made human life unspeakably precious–even murders on the street were down by an order of magnitude since the events at Harvest.
Blue Team got what they asked for, and Col. Julie Yi was good at asking. Nordstrom imagined that the owners of the vending carts in the marketplaces of Coral were terrified of her bargaining ability. Rumor had it that she had managed to make a vendor or two pay her to carry away their wares, and that without resorting to violence or the threat of it. The few seconds it took Yi to make her offer could have been the time it took for Blue Team to reach a telepathic consensus on the terms.
"Double the leave time. On double pay. And we'll need the checks before we take the leave, sir." She sounded like a lawyer who was giving a client a discount.
A proper bargain would mean at least one counteroffer. To simply accept her offer would say something about how badly Nordstrom needed them to pull this off. It would be the exact opposite of the way it was supposed to work in the UNSCMC. And it was exactly the statement Nordstrom wanted to make. He nodded acquiescence to the Colonel's requests.
"As your mission briefings state, just today we intercepted a transmission from the surface of the planet Windfall, in the Delta Pavonis system. It appears to be of rebel origin. . ." began the General.
The long and short of it was that a destroyer on a routine patrol route of the system had drifted into the path of a tightbeamed transmission from the surface early in the morning. It was highly irregular in every way, from format to frequency, typical of rebel communications. Because the transmission, or at least the intercepted portion, consisted of encoded data suggestive of navigational coordinates, the AI analysts who had processed and partially decoded the information decided that the full, unencrypted transmission would give away the location of a number of important rebel assets, perhaps even rebel colonies and bases.
Copies of the transmission existed, of course, on the ship which was intended to receive it, and probably somewhere on the surface of the planet Windfall, in some hitherto unknown rebel facility. The rest of the information was data about Windfall itself. Retrieving the information in that broadcastwas Blue Team's primary mission–retrieving the information with absolutely no traces of incursion, so it would remain relevant. If the rebels thought they had been discovered, the entire network would disappear and reorganize. Secondarily, they would of course mark the bases' location for surveillance and eventual assault.
Windfall was considered an Outer Colony, though it was close enough to Earth that it could have been an Inner Colony if not for the late colonization date. It was an incredibly fertile ball of dirt, and supplied many of the Inner Colonies with food. There wasn't much on Windfall except for farms, which would make the mission easier, at least on infiltration and exfiltration. A population of a few hundred thousand left a lot of space between small habitations with some estates spanning thousands of square kilometers. The AI analysts had located a number of likely locations for a rebel base, one of which was near the transmission's origin.
"I'm afraid we don't have ready access to many of the. . . specialized weapons your team prefers to work with, Colonel, and there isn't time to access Lt. Jonas' armory on Coral. . ." the General trailed off, with studied awkwardness.
"We'll work with what we have, General, as usual. If we have to use our weapons at all the mission is a failure, so it hardly matters what we bring. Is that everything?" replied Colonel Yi. The General was a terrible actor.
"Yes, Colonel. Gear up and head to Hangar C–we'll feed you en route. By this time tomorrow you should be on Windfall. Unless there are further questions, you are dismissed."
Chief Warrant Officer Ryder, the unofficial "transportation" specialist, piped up. "Righto, sir. What's for dinner?"
"Whatever you want, Chief Warrant Officer. It's the least we can do." chuckled the General. The air of vague anger at the change of orders broke with the CWO5's question. He was good for that sort of thing, too.
Smoke and Mirrors: The Other War: Part II
Date: 19 January 2007, 12:55 pm
Author's Note:
This is another example of what deadlines will do to you. Yes, the ending is abrupt, but it's better than a cliffhanger, no? The actual mission will be up soon, so leave your much-appreciated comments and check back in a couple weeks to see if I've managed to post it by then.
The Other War
Part 2: Smoke and Mirrors
0915 hours, March 19, 2552 (Military Calendar) / Delta Pavonis System, planet Windfall, City of Fortune
Infiltration had been, perhaps, the easiest they'd ever had. Arriving in-system via the stealthed corvette Capaq Nan, they had simply transferred to the frigate Chinatown and taken a routine Pelican flight to one of the space elevators, like crew going on shore leave. They had all brought and donned the street clothes they had worn in Boston. On the ground, they had rented a hotel room with a newly-issued credit card in the name of a day-old corporation, dumped the majority of their gear there, and gone shopping. They picked up a set of business clothes each, a few briefcases and other accessories. Lucente, the sniper and unofficial fasion expert of Blue Team, had needed to make a few suggestions.
Jonas was the first to require a little guidance. He had grabbed the first suit hanging on the rack nearest the door and walked toward the register.
"Aren't you going to try it on first, sir? It looks a little small for you," one of the salesmen had cautioned, but Jonas ignored him.
Yi and Lucente were chatting by the register while the men selected their clothes; the women had made their purchases first, and with the efficiency of trained professionals. The Colonel had also managed to secure a 20% discount; apparently a sale had ended the day before, but the management was willing to give some leeway to a potentially significant customer.
"That won't work, Jonas." Yi stated it bluntly.
"We make it work, den," he replied.
"Only if you brought your sewing kit. That suit must be five sizes too small for you, and the style. . . ." She held the youth-sized jacket up to Jonas' 1.83m-tall frame and shook her head. Lucente eyed it with equal suspicion.
"It jus' de clothing," Jonas protested in his thick "Caribbean" accent. They had never gotten a definitive answer about his planet of origin, but it certainly wasn't Earth.
"And we have a part to play. Costume is important. Wearing that would be like going on recovery op in your bathrobe," advised Yi, quietly. "Let Ramona find something better for you. I need you to lead Fire Team Omega on the recon, and this is an important part."
The large man huffed something affirmative and followed Lucente back onto the shop floor.
"Shall I measure you, sir?" asked the salesman who had spoken to Jonas before.
Lucente answered for him. "That would be a good idea."
Chief Warrant Officer Banken, the communications and computer specialist, had taken the most time selecting his suit.
"I can't decide," Banken declared as he exited the dressing room. "This one feels better, but I like the pattern on the first one. . . . Ramona, what do you think?"
Lucente had been waiting for him as he came out for the fifth time. "That one, Tor. It's you."
"Really? The other one looked better. . ." he said, uncertainly.
Suppressing a glance at her watch, Lucente answered decisively. "The other one looked like the kind of thing some old man would wear. It's the Fifties now, not the Twenties. Go with that one."
"Well, I guess so. Thanks, Ramona." The two headed toward the register, where the other four members of Blue Team were waiting anxiously.
"Is that everything, Ramona?" the team leader asked.
"I think so. Wait." The younger woman chose a pair of sunglasses from a display near the register. "For you, Tor."
As the clerk rang up their purchases, she glanced at the credit card Yi had given her. "Yang Enterprises? Looks like you're starting a new business."
"Yes, we are," answered Yi.
"May I ask what type of corporation Yang Enterprises is? If you'd like to leave a few business cards here, we have many kinds of clients who come through every day," the clerk offered.
"Yang Enterprises is a real-estate investment firm. We choose our clients according to our own criteria." Yi decided to change the subject. "I did happen to find a copy of your advertisement earlier. I believe it had a coupon for 15% off the entire purchase. . ."
1423 hours, March 19, 2552 (Military Calendar) / Delta Pavonis System, planet Windfall, en route to the Hawkins farm
Yet another monstrous pothole in the dirt road caused the Hog2 to bottom out.
"Ryder, slow it down a bit," ordered Colonel Yi, sternly. "Damage to the rental car would create a paper trail, not to mention the cost. They'd remember us."
"Almost there, anyway. Thought this ute'd be a right pearler for bush bashing. Being a Hog an' all. Shoulda just bought a farm truck," he commented. His accent got thicker when he was irritated.
"And I thought he was Rodgers. John Rodgers. Bad form to break character until you're done. . ." Lucente grinned for a moment at the inside joke, and then adjusted her suit slightly, flattening out Yi's lapel after she was through. "I guess we get to keep these? I'd prefer a skirt, though, not pants."
"That could draw attention, too. Especially the kind of thing you usually wear, and especially when it's you that's wearing it. But you're right, I don't think I'll be wearing this particular outfit very often. The dress uniform works for any occasion I've been to for the past ten years. At least anything this would do for."
Ramona snorted. "For what you need it to do. Nothing chases away the boys faster than campaign ribbons. Except maybe the Gold Comet."
"That's exactly why I like it."
"Works just the other way for a bloke. This one time, I was on the pull on Gilgamesh. . ." Ryder's story fell flat, as it was obvious the women weren't interested in it, and probably wouldn't believe it even if they were.
After a minute of awkward silence, Lucente spoke up. "Queen's Closet had a nice selection," she mused. "You can't find anything like that at the bodegas on Coral."
Yi thought for a moment. "No, not ready-made. But the seamstress on that side-street by the fountain off Canton Ave could make anything they had on the racks. Cheaper, too, and it'd fit perfectly."
"Which one is that? The blonde woman who always has the skirts in the window?"
"No, I mean the one next to the baker with the little dog. Across from the tea shop."
Ramona smiled at the reference. "The bubble tea there. . ." It was inexpressible. "That's near the knife maker, right? What's his name?"
"Raja Kami. Now that's something you'll never find in a strip mall. It's hard enough to find decent kitchen knives on these commercialized worlds."
A skeptical look crossed Lucente's face. "I've never given it much thought–almost anything works for cutting vegetables."
"No, once you've used a real tool for a bit, you never want to go back to the toys."
"Well, that's just what it was on Gilgamesh, right? It was me and a bunch of ground-pounders. . ."
Ryder paused before he continued his story, and a driveway appeared around the curve of the road. A battered sign which read Hawkins was nailed to a tree. "Ah, well, maybe later. Looks like this is it."
The driveway was more of a tiny dirt road that wound on for a kilometer before a farmhouse appeared on the right side. It continued on, toward a grain silo that was visible in the distance. Chickens were scratching at the dirt in the front yard, and they squawked and flapped away from the unfamiliar vehicle as Ryder parked in the wheel ruts, next to a battered Warthog pickup truck.
Ryder jerked his head toward the old truck next to them. "Looks like a retiree, not surplus. Probably older than any of us. They made 'em better then, not like this bucket of scrap.
"We're in character as of now. We don't want to be remembered," Yi reminded him.
"Dunno what you're talking about, Ms. Yang. Lemme get your door, ma'am," he replied, exiting the vehicle. He donned sunglasses and walked around the front of the vehicle to hold Yi's door open. The Colonel stepped out of the vehicle, took a moment to look around, and then proceeded toward the pathway at a fast walk, leaving Ryder to carry the briefcase she'd left on the back seat, next to Lucente. Lucente was already on the way with her own briefcase in hand, following Yi.
Lucente's briefcase contained little in the way of documents. She toted an M6D, a few spare clips, and a compact surveillance device especially designed for finding enemy encampments. Mainly it monitored electromagnetic signals. Four of them had been in long-term storage at Chawla Base for the past half-century, forgotten. Ryder carried a navigational positioning computer which would record their movements and reference it to a topographical map of the area, an M7, and a spare clip among his peripherals. In her tiny purse, Yi carried a "FUBAR stick", commonly known as a panic button, which could have passed for a cigarette lighter or a tube of lipstick in a passing examination. The latter was standard issue for covert ops units–two programmable buttons, one of which could send a signal through a quarter kilometer of solid concrete. Only the latter button was programmed, and it would bring the local police and nearby UNSC forces in at a dead run. Aside from that, she carried an EVA line to serve as an emergency weapon.
Yi waited for Ryder to catch up before she knocked on the door. There wasn't a doorbell. After about thirty seconds, Yi knocked again, impatiently.
A young man's voice shouted from inside. "Coming! I got it, Mom!"
Something fell with a thump and a shatter, and a woman called something scolding from a distant room.
"Sorry, Mom!" The door opened without the sound of any locks cycling other than the doorknob itself, revealing a massive young man with his hand on the knob. He looked surprised to see well-dressed people on the doorstep. The door-to-door religious groups had a hard time on Windfall, just because of the distances between each house. "Uh–hi. Can I help you?"
"Yes, we're from Yang Enterprises, a real-estate investment firm. May we take a look at your property?" Yi had just the right balance of pushiness and politeness for a real-estate scam artist. "We'll need to speak with the property owner, please."
The youth was taken aback for a moment. "Um, well, Pa's in the North Field running the tractor. What do you need him for?"
"We'd like to discuss the possibility of future investments. A number of our clients have expressed interest in properties in this area." Yi tried to walk a very fine line between sounding interesting enough to get a tour of the property, but not interesting enough to be the talk of the town.
Ryder knew better–they would likely be dismissed as a bunch of crazy off-world folk, but talked about for years to come. The real key was to seem innocuous enough that no one said anything except over a tumbler of whiskey."Y'understand, we're not draggin' in suitcases of money here, it'll take years if it happens at all. Don't let your old man think he's gonna send you through college on this deal, mate."
"Oh, I wasn't planning on going to college, sir. I'm going to join the Marines right after I graduate. If you want to go see Pa, I can take you out there, but it's probably better if we take my truck. I don't think yours would hold up too well."
The four piled into the older Warthog, with the women in back and Ryder in the passenger seat. Yi gave a feigned look of distaste at the vehicle before climbing in and sitting on the side of the cargo bed.
"I'd hold on tight if I were you, ladies, it's gonna be a pretty bumpy ride," called the young man, who then spun the vehicle around and headed at a frightening pace down the rudimentary dirt road. It was ten minutes of bouncing and shaking before the Warthog passed anything other than row after row of crops. Ryder passed the time in lighthearted conversation with the youth, Mike Hawkins, mainly making small talk about trucks and the many modifications Mike Hawkins made to the M12 LRV they were riding in. Lucente and Yi kept a sharp lookout for anything unusual, searching for even minute details.
Their efforts were unnecessary. When they turned onto a dirt road which ran along a wire fence, the quality of the road suddenly changed from poor to good, though it was still hard-packed earth. Both women looked up suddenly as the crops gave way to an overgrown field and the fence dead-ended into a similar barrier perpendicular to it. The road branched off, one leg going straight through a gate in the fence and the other following along the near side of the barrier. Hawkins made a right and followed the new fence.
Squinting a little, Lucente saw what looked like a satellite dish in the distance beyond the fence, and entered a command into her handheld computer.
Trying to sound casually interested, Yi spoke up. "Does this fence mark the edge of your property?"
"Yeah, kind of. The one in back is on the far side of the Peterson's farm–they're a big commercial operation. Over on the left is the new one, belongs to the Science Facility over there. It turns again up ahead a bit–they bought forty-two acres from us and fenced it off. I think they bought about the same from Peterson's." The young man waved with his left hand to point out what he was referring to.
"A science facility? UNSC, or a private corporation? And what are they studying there?" The story sounded more than a little weak.
"Government, yeah. They told us what they were doing once, hydro-dyno-thermo-something. I'm not good with science. Just they said it wouldn't bother the cattle or the crops, and it hasn't, not that I've seen, and they've been there five years. That dish they have out there gets hit by lightning almost every storm, though, I don't know why they don't shield it or something. The fence, too, that's why we've always used wood for ours."
Lucente thought of something. "Do they have their own generators, or do they tap off your power?"
"They dug up a big trench right through the barley field and up along that road of theirs when they bought the property, and I remember them laying down all kinds of wires there. I'm pretty sure they tap off ours." Amazingly, the Warthog didn't swerve at all when the young man gestured. As he'd stated, the fence turned after a few hundred meters, and the road branched off again. The texture and ride quality went from smooth to shaky again as they continued straight ahead.
Soon they turned off among the rows of tall crops, keeping to the rough paths among them, and came up on a sturdy older man cursing at a tractor, with a spraying machine in tow behind it. He had the cover off the tractor's engine and was apparently engaged in a field repair, without much luck. The man looked up as the Warthog pulled up and wiped his greasy hands on his overalls.
"Hey, Mike, tractor's broke again. Keeps stalling, an' no matter how I goose the throttle she won't catch for more'n a minute. They done sold us a lemon." The visitors climbed out of the Warthog as the young man pulled a hefty tool box from the cargo bed and carried it effortlessly to the side of the tractor, putting it down with a crash of loose wrenches.
Mike cocked his head for a moment, looking at the engine, and then tried to start the tractor. It caught, sputtered, and stalled, as the farmer had said. The smell of gasahol filled the air. "Pa, could you try the ignition for me, I wanna see what's going on under the hood there," requested the young man.
The older man complied, and the young man frowned as the engine repeated its performance. Then he grabbed a nearby pair of pliers, pushed a few loose wires into connectors, and picked up a screwdriver. "Try it again, Pa." This time the engine caught, and ran for a bit, but roughly.
"The choke," offered Ryder.
But the young man was ahead of him, turning a screw one way, then another, and finally dialing it in so the engine sounded right. He put the tools away in his father's small tool box, and took out a roll of electrical tape. The youth hadn't even needed to touch his own tools. After he had secured the wires which had come loose, he commented, "I think that'll be the last time that happens, Pa."
Yi cleared her throat, impatiently, as the older man made to climb into the tractor without acknowledging them.
"Oh, yeah! Pa, these folks here wanted to talk to you about real estate I guess."
Before the older man could get further into the tractor, Yi introduced the character she was playing. "I'm Julie Yang, of Yang Enterprises. We're a real estate investment firm, and we'd like to explore the possibility of purchasing a portion of your property for investment purposes. I understand that you recently sold a small parcel already?" She had to raise her voice to be heard over the rumble of the tractor.
"D'ya mean those Science Facility folks?" The older man seemed to shout naturally, poised on the side of the tractor.
"Yes, Mr. Hawkins. Do–" Hawkins the elder cut in before Yi could even start the sentence.
"Naw, they didn't buy. They rent it. They like to keep it easy, they don't bother with paperwork. Suits me just fine–if the Guv'ment don't wanna tax me on money they're givin' me, I ain't gonna complain."
Yi paused, thinking for a moment. This wasn't quite where she wanted the conversation to go. "Do they pay you separately for the utilities? I understand they tap into your electricity."
"Ayuh, we rigged 'em up a meter an' all. Jus' tell 'em how much it is, an' they pay, no argument. Good folks. You lookin' for sometin' along those lines?" Mr. Hawkins began to fiddle with the controls of the tractor, but he didn't climb all the way in yet.
"We're more interested in buying than renting, sir, but we can discuss the possibility." It was time to end the conversation; they'd gotten all the information they needed, and every minute was now a minute which could stick in the Hawkins' memory, or a minute the rebels, likely based at the "science facility" could figure out who they really were.
"I s'pose you'd be wantin' to build condy-miniums, too?" It was quite clear the farmer didn't care for the idea any more than he cared for livestock diseases.
"More than likely, but–"
"Thought so." Mr. Hawkins climbed the last few steps into the tractor and put it into gear. The interview was over.
As the farmer drove away, his son started the Warthog. "Sorry about Pa, he's not very talkative. I guess he wants to keep the land around for me someday." He sounded genuinely apologetic.
"Would you mind taking us back to the house a different way than we came out? I'd like to see what these farms are like," Yi asked, as she and Lucente climbed into the cargo bed again.
The youth acknowledged with a thumbs-up.
"So you're lookin' to be a farmer, are ya, mate?" Ryder asked Mike.
"Maybe, but not for a bit. I'm planning to join the Marines when the fall comes. I'll do my four years, maybe take a few courses over at the University, and then come back to the farm." It was clear that he enjoyed his lifestyle.
"I hope it works that way, Mike, I hope it does," commented Ryder, as they turned onto the dirt road again. He looked up at the clouds moving in from the west. "Gonna get dirty tonight, I'd say."
"A little water never hurt anyone," commented Yi, with a tiny smile.
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