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Submitted for the "You're Doing It Write" contest
March 13, 2502, 1345 Hours (Military Calendar)
Epsilon Indi System, Harvest, Vigrond, Grid 34 x 65
Corporal Avery Johnson snapped to attention as the troop transport slowed, slid on the slippery surface of the cemented two-way street, and shook to a boisterous halt amid the abandoned neighborhood. Along the street, fire-burned apartment buildings and half-torn barracks swarmed with homeless civilians, ripped posters and commercial signs still wiggling in the fresh breeze of the Vigrond Sea.
He looked to the midsection of the Warthog, cleared his eyes, and yawned comfortably as the driver turned toward the troop bay. On his right, Charlie One – Sergeant Roberts, dressed in a fine uniform of camouflaged fatigues – examined his customized assault rifle's scope, magazine prop, and barrel tip, an anxious glance noticeable behind his helmet's eye patch.
On the bench in front of him, Charlie-Three and Charlie-Four touched their wristwatches, and scanned the neighboring buildings.
The Corporal would need one of these men the most, however. To his mind, the rest of them – including Charlie-One – were expendable assets. His experience in combat drills among them had made that clear. Charlie-Four was the important pawn - and key - to carrying out the team's objective.
Johnson tensed his muscles, recovering from the effects of his deep slumber. Straining his eyes, he looked at the driver, grasping his assault rifle in his gloved hands.
The driver's expression was unpleasantly easygoing as he glared at the Sergeant, even for a team of ORION riflemen.
"We're here, sir." He reported, struggling to eye the Sergeant's glance through the netting of safe-bars in the back of the driver's seat.
The Sergeant slammed the butt of his rifle onto the transport's deck. "Extraction commences at 1415 hours. Get out of sight, soldier." He ordered with a steel tone, gesturing to a remote alley a few blocks away.
The driver nodded back, saluting swiftly. "Understood, sir."
Johnson paid no mind to the discussion. Instead, he rose to his feet, grabbed a long wooden crate off the deck, and removed its hood. A cutting stench of freshly-painted, recently-packed and assembled anti-material rifle hit his sinuses. He breathed and exhaled rapidly. He'd never known the true smell of an effective weapon until now. Excitement washed over his mind for a few seconds.
He stooped, hefted the rifle's handle, and wiped the residues of plastic softeners off its elongated barrel. The M99 Special Applications Scoped Rifle was never issued to a strike team without a good reason. A special mission and a special package awaited him, one that could very well decide the outcome of the bloody civil war that still waged on Harvest.
Recent ONI reports indicated that the Vigrond Sea had seen a number of insurgent activities over the course of the last six years – all tied to one group. Overconfidently named the "People's Occupation Government"—or "Secessionist Union—, these insurrectionists appeared to be quite different from other rebel cells on Harvest and in the Outer Colonies. From what ONI had gathered, their ideology drew its roots from an old communist movement. Though their structure was still fairly unknown even to Section One, their network of outposts had been capable of driving Military Police out of the abandoned city sections of Vigrond.
Their leader, Jerald Mulkey Ander, was the team's target.
For a few moments, the Corporal scrutinized the M99's casing: no cracks, no dents. He let out a sigh of relief, fingered the ammunition pouches locked to his lower torso, and sprang to the ground.
The neighborhood seemed less eerie to him as he darted between the surrounding buildings and zipped his jacket, his boots squeaking on the wet road. Sergeant Roberts jumped off the Warthog's rear end, the other two riflemen following behind him.
The Sergeant looked at Johnson, and gestured toward one of the ruined barracks on the right side of the road. Behind him, the Warthog squealed, accelerated, and sped out of sight in the thick fog, a fine cloud of smoke lifting in the wake of its burning tires.
Johnson turned, scanned the barracks for a few seconds, and nodded. He didn't like the Sergeant's coolness. Despite his flawless combat record, the man's attitude greatly surpassed him. He'd even been reported to have started numerous bar fights with the famed Helljumpers. Gossip had reached Johnson's ears too, and every time he looked at the Sergeant, an image of a Marine-ODST struggle materialized in his mind. The ODST often won, though.
The rain had stopped, but the team needed some kind of phonic distortion to drown their movements. Occasional thunder strikes resonated over the stirring sea, its agitated waves smashing into the city's outdated dam – that was the best sonic cover the weather could provide, and they had to make the best of it.
The Sergeant signaled for the team to proceed. Ahead of them, a creaking noise resounded from the wooden barracks' rusty, water-swollen doors. The building was three stories high, its walls covered with shattered windows, torn layers of antiquated cement, and brutish graffiti paintings almost glittering in the relative darkness of the storm.
Johnson pondered over the tactical situation, however. This building was occupied by Ander's guards which, though poorly armed, could easily outnumber his team. That led to a different problem; synchronizing with Ander's vehicle.
The team had to clear a path into the barracks and establish a base of fire roughly five kilometers north of Ander's traveling route. Johnson had to plan his approach in advance, and calculate the time it would take the bullet to reach Ander's convoy. He'd never been a fan of technical planning. His methods usually involved pure force – and if that didn't work, aggressive behavior.
The Corporal hung the M99 over his back, sneaking one last peek behind him. Charlie Two and Charlie Three moved ahead, stopped against the sides of the opened wooden door, and leaned over its edges.
Johnson followed, tapping the flashlight on his left shoulder. The bright yellow light flooded the darkness inside what seemed to be the building's lobby.
"Lobby" was an overstatement – it resembled a century-old abandoned shelter for war prisoners and refugees, their household items still lying on the dusty carpeting. Wind gusts hissed through the broken windows, scattering papers across the large room.
It seemed appropriate for the rebels to take control of this barracks, but its conditions were nowhere near acceptable. Their never-ending lust for risks and ideological obsessions could easily determine a UNSC Marine to think twice about assaulting a rebel-held city section. Three Marine squads should know; they never made it out of this section in one piece.
Johnson set his thoughts aside. He was here for a job – and for the money.
He stepped inside the room. The readings on his eye-display didn't change as he advanced inward, though. The Friend-Or-Foe corner pulsed and buzzed softly, but the lobby was empty apart from a pack of rodent-like creatures scouring for food under tables and chairs.
The Sergeant paced beside him, head lowered, the light green patches on his uniform slightly shimmering. Aside from the sunlight lighting the room through the cracked windows, the Sergeant's uniform was the only thing that glimmered in the dark.
Johnson looked down. There were no traces of footsteps. No signs that the wooden floor had sustained the full weight of an armed, uniformed soldier. And no noise.
Odd that the building appeared to be abandoned - Ander's patrols were thorough in investigating each part of their territory. They didn't usually leave an outpost unguarded unless emergencies arose elsewhere.
"It could be a setup." Johnson remarked, turning toward the Sergeant. "Lure us into a dump while the package travels through an alternative route. We should have seen this coming."
He didn't mind his tone. The man he was talking to was twice as light-minded as he was.
The Sergeant waved his hand dismissively. "That's not it." He replied simply. "They're here. We just can't see them." Children's logic.
The others turned shaking their heads, exchanging gazes, confused by the Sergeant's nonsensical response. Why would the rebels abandon a building overlooking Ander's pathway? Were they attempting to rig his assassination in order to place a new leader among their groups?
It did make sense in the end, but the team couldn't pull out. They had to follow the rebels' rules, or face much harsher consequences in the face of ORION's ruthless scrutiny. The delivery still had to be carried out.
Distant lightning booms sounded, engulfing the room in a series of flickering lights, momentarily outlining the paintings hung on the walls.
The Sergeant motioned for the stairwell in front of them. Strangely enough, the flight of stairs seemed to be the only part of the house still in working order, the dark-orange wood shining in the path of the few patches of light from outside.
It was far from comforting, though. Johnson liked risks, but going face to face with anger-driven rebels in an outdated apartment building seemed a little too ballsy. He wished he would have thought twice before applying for the Project. His family hadn't given him a choice. They needed the money.
He reflexively checked his ammo pouches. If the shit went bad, at least he wouldn't worry about getting captured. He'd end it himself – that's what ORION taught him countless other youngsters in the Corps.
The team moved, approached the stairwell, and looked around the room once more. No threats to their rear.
Johnson paced, gripping the railing to his right. His flashlight gloomed the corridor on the first floor. Dust rose, and then settled back down on the furniture as he stepped inside the hallway. In front of him, a half-opened door led to a balcony. Clothes and footwear lay on the floor.
He covered his nose; the stale air combined with the thick, hovering layer of dust could clog his nostrils, damage his lungs, and most of all, affect his vision.
The Sergeant didn't have that problem, though. His body was clothed inside a tight, leather camouflage suit - perfectly safe from sand in a desert storm.
So much for equal props, Johnson thought, casting a quick glance behind him.
Charlie-Three moved ahead, fluttering his right hand through the dust cloud. The floor creaked, squealed, and wined as the weight of the four Marines covered the space between the stairwell and the balcony. A network of cracks and scratches dominated the concrete walls, traces of dried blood noticeable on the yellow lime.
On the second floor, voices resonated, catching Johnson's attention. They seemed to speak in patterns – one person after another, an intermittent, rugged voice querying the others.
Johnson stopped, held up his right hand, and turned to the Sergeant, his body half-crouching. The voices kept echoing. That was good – they hadn't been detected yet.
"I think I can hear four guys upstairs." He reported, eyes locked into the Sergeant's black goggles. His reflection twisted off the spectacles into two symmetrical bodies. He chuckled amusedly at the sight.
The Sergeant looked up, pulled his backpack over his shoulder, and retrieved a reconnaissance probe from its plastic container. He handed it to Johnson. "Use this." He suggested, pointing to the device's small camera.
The Corporal nodded eagerly, tied the probe's cable around its casing several times, and steadied himself up the stairwell. His boots still creaked on the surface of the stairs. Attentively, he pulled the camera buffer away from the probe and reached for the floor. He rested the device against the parquet. On the monitor, three soldiers strolled around the corridor, rifles hung over their shoulders.
One of them unpinned a water bottle, swiftly gulped down on the liquid, and threw the empty flask over the stairwell. The bottle flew a few inches away from Johnson.
He instinctively ducked, and watched as the bottle hit the ground below him. He exhaled, his lungs feeling like they'd released half of the tobacco he'd smoked this morning.
It was close, and the Corporal couldn't help but feel that it was some kind of warning. He set the thought aside, and continued recording the rebels' movements on the display.
The guard that had thrown the water bottle settled down on a chair beside a round table. He removed his hat, closed his eyes and set his head against the wall. The other two soldiers gathered around a window.
It was perfect – one of them was comfortably asleep, and the others had left their rear unguarded.
Johnson withdrew the probe and placed it back in its case. He checked his ammo belt - in situations like this, the first assault had to be silent. He touched his SMG, pulled it out of its lock, and steadied it in his right hand.
The Sergeant and the other riflemen approached the lower steps of the stairwell. Apprehensively, Charlie-Three gripped the railing and shook its joints, anxious to know what Johnson's probe had recorded.
Charlie-Three's anxiousness was discomforting. He'd always followed orders to the very letters, but his loyalty grew obnoxiously problematic as the drills got harder, and his energy quickly turned into a matter of being spotted by the opposing teams.
It had happened several times in the past. Only this time, if the Sergeant couldn't set Three straight, Johnson wouldn't hesitate to do it himself.
On the other side of the corridor, the two rebels coughed, looked around, and turned back to the window. Outside, scattered raindrops fell to the ground. The timing was fortunate – if the team's uniforms got wet, their boots would have produced a much louder sound as they advanced.
Johnson raised his hand, stretched three fingers and pointed his thumb toward the corridor: the signal to proceed.
The others swapped a last series of glances, nodded back to the Corporal, and began climbing up the stairwell. Their boots slogged the fine wooden surface of the stairs. The sound resonated, and reached the upper floor, hollow booms echoing through the hallway.
They stepped on the floor, heads lowered, and fired. Suppressed gunshots pierced the walls, impacted the slumbering rebel's body, and arced across the hallway, paintings smashed out of their locks.
Behind the other two guards, the window burst, chunks of glass tumbling to the courtyard below as the bullets stroke their body armor, and sliced through the plastic material. Their bodies slowly tilted over their backs, their arms and legs still moving.
The dead guards landed on the window's ledge. The grey berets fell off their heads, their lower torsos pinned against the sharpened remains of the window's broken frame.
The raindrops outside moistened the rebels' skin, and slowly dripped off their submachine guns.
Johnson smiled; a sadistic habit he'd developed in training, and he realized he couldn't restrain from doing it in live engagements as well. It wasn't a pretty a gesture – not even for a suicidal faction of secessionists.
Blood trickled on the walls, dripped down along the edges of the carpeting, and assembled into large puddles. Johnson moved his hands through one of the dead bodies' uniforms. There had been reported encounters of insurgents strapping explosives onto their clothes. Once the soldier fell, his surroundings would fall along with him – it had become a tradition for the past decade.
Johnson withdrew his hands, satisfied that the rebel posed no further threat. He didn't take his sight off the body, though. The rebel's shoulder patch attracted his attention for a moment.
He reached for the man's clothing, pulled on his sleeve, and fingered the emblem's rough, woolen material: three armed soldiers were flanked by two red sickles, the words "For the people" stenciled above the logo itself. In the apparent background, five light rays emerged from what seemed to be a small forest.
He'd seen complicated emblems, but nothing like this. If the insurgents wouldn't succeed in their civil war, they'd leave some complicated pieces of artwork behind.
The UNSC underestimated the insurgents' structure. ORION wasn't even sure if this operation would slow down their progress. Countless former UNSC colonial militiamen had volunteered to serve in the People's Government, and the rebels could easily learn and twist the Corps' tactics. The skirmishes in Vigrond's northern quarters had made that clear.
There was one asset the insurgents had over the UNSC. Their people were expendable, which was hard to say about the Marine Corps. If one of their leaders died, there'd be swarms of eager teenagers and youngsters piling on top of one another for the job.
Which made Johnson question why they'd been sent here. It was an irrational situation, and Sergeant Roberts knew it as well. They could have used all this time to train on the sharpshooting grounds at Reach and practice their aerial insertion methods. They were behind schedule in almost every field.
Johnson concentrated on their next objective: the roof. Above them, a short, metallic staircase led up to the vent, its lower end almost touching a patch of cement on the floor.
The Sergeant stepped in front of the stairs, jostled them with his right hand, and nodded to the others. The staircase looked intact, though its bars were slightly rusted.
"Corporal, lead the way." Sergeant Roberts said, waving a hand gesture toward the staircase.
Black men first. That's fair, I guess, if he's never read the Emancipation Proclamation. Johnson thought, throwing his hands up the stairs' vertical bars, clutching them with his full arm strength. He pulled his body up the handles, slowly coordinating his arms and legs to move at the same time.
He reached the vent door, pushed it upward and peeked through the opening. This time, their luck had left them.
Three guards were seated on the roof's elevated edge, watching casually as two of their comrades wrestled, and exchanged soft punches on one another.
Idiotic behavior, but maybe it was another one of their traditions. Wrestle your friends before you die.
Johnson shook his head, the sight disgruntling him. He wondered why the UNSC was so afraid of these people. They acted like complete idiots when they thought they weren't being monitored.
The Sergeant climbed up the stairs and pulled on Johnson's trousers. "Corporal, cut the sightseeing. What's up there?" He queried, tone growing impatient.
Johnson struggled to look down at the Sergeant. He looked at his wristwatch: three minutes before Ander's convoy passed by the killzone.
"We've got five contacts." He replied, glancing back at the two struggling guards. "Two of them are … busy kicking each other's asses."
The Sergeant chuckled involuntarily. "They don't need to do that. We'll do it for them." He patted Johnson's right foot. "Move in, Corporal."
Johnson didn't bother to reply. Swinging his right fist backwards, the momentum allowed him to breach through the vent door. He climbed up on the roof's surface. Assault rifles and sidearms lay on the ground, some of them stacked against a crate of food and beverages.
The Corporal swung his assault rifle around his arm. Sergeant Roberts and Charlie-Three steadied their footsteps on the roof.
In front of them, the three guards snapped to attention. The other two rebels finally moved away from each other, facing a new set of soldiers to tackle. In unison, the rebels reached for their weapons, almost tripping over one another's legs as they came to their feet.
Johnson crouched, leveled his rifle and targeted the guards. MA5 rifles crackled, Sergeant Roberts and Charlie-Three advancing through the fire. Two rebels fell, and behind them, the other gunmen reloaded their weapons.
Clicks and bangs resonated.
Johnson aimed for their heads, but they were moving around too rapidly, covering one another in zigzagging patterns.
One of the guards reached for his belt, unpinned a fragmentation grenade, and hurled it toward the team. The grenade flew, slowed down and finally bounced to a stop beside the vent door. The Marines rolled away from the projectile's firing range, but Charile-Four was still near the door, working his way through the crossfire.
The grenade exploded. Fierce, painful screaming and roaring resonated from the explosion's general direction. A thump followed as Charlie-Four's burned body fell to the ground.
Sergeant Roberts still fired, oblivious to Four's injuries. One of the rebels received several shots to his chest. The other two scattered around the roof, searching for better firing angles.
Johnson followed the guards' paths, and along with Charlie-Three, pinned the rebels against one of the roof's thresholds. Bullets raced through their bodies, blood spattering against the short, concrete wall. The impact spun their bodies over the threshold, sending them crashing on the building's adjacent street.
The large Sergeant and Johnson finally stood straight, and almost at the same time, exhaled and breathed again.
But something was still wrong. Charlie-Four was down.
Johnson raced for the Marine. He grabbed his neck, and holstered his head in an upward stance. The Marine's face was burned, his eyes bleeding, and his mouth blackened by the grenade's smoke. His clothes had been torn, exposing his lower body, arms and legs to the toxic fire. Shrapnel from the grenade's casing pierced his skin.
They'd come this far, but they didn't expect a loss. Not with their training experience. Charlie-Four fell behind, and it had certainly cost him his life.
ORION had just lost one conscript.
Sweat moistened Johnson's forehead. Softly, he hung on to Four's arms and pulled him beside one of the food crates.
"There's nothing you can do, Corporal." Sergeant Roberts explained, throwing nervous glances over his shoulders. "Set up that M99." He gestured to the long-barreled scoped rifle on Johnson's back, and then to the downed Marine. "We'll carry him back to the Warthog as soon as we're done."
Johnson looked back the Sergeant. For a few seconds, he pictured the Sergeant being in Four's place. It had been his fault, after all. As the acting squad leader, he should have made sure that no one fell behind. Especially during a firefight.
Sergeant Roberts' gaze hardened. "Do I need to say it again? Move it, Corporal!" He barked, shaking his head to emphasize his order.
Damned white sissy. I swear, if he shouts at me one more time—
Nodding, Johnson snapped out of his trance. He tried to forget about the "should" and focused on the "must". He fingered the M99 on his back, clutched its handle and set it on the floor. It felt like he'd carried a fellow soldier all this time. His back ached, but he was satisfied to rest for a while.
He carried the weapon near a corner on the opposite side of the roof, a wooden table set next to the ledge. Charlie-Three followed behind him, retrieving a small laptop from his backpack. He'd serve as Johnson's spotter and target designator as Ander's truck comes into the M99's view.
The panorama from the rooftop was special. Two of Vigrond's bridges were visible to Johnson's left, and the Vigrond Sea hummed and stirred to his right, skyscrapers cutting the sky.
He checked his wristwatch one more time before he settled the M99 over the ledge: less than fifty seconds for the delivery to commence.
Charlie-Three sat down beside Johnson, his laptop synchronizing with the Corporal's rifle. Its software began coordinating the weapon's trajectory and round velocity, as well as the current distance of their target.
"A hundred meters." Charlie-Three reported, tapping a series of commands on the computer's keyboard.
"Fifty meters."
Johnson blinked through the weapon's scope, momentarily surveying the surrounding apartment blocks.
"Thirty meters."
His grip on the M99's handle increased, the tips of his fingers whitening.
"Ten meters." Charlie-Three reported for the last time.
Three vehicles moved into Johnson's view, driving steadily through a small backstreet. The one in the middle seated the man they were looking for.
He aimed the scope at the jeep. On the right side of the weapon's inner-display, metric data flowed. He ignored it, breathed, and strained his eyes. He fired. A buzzing noise unlike anything he'd ever heard moved away from the weapon and sped toward the truck.
For a heartbeat, the neighborhood went silent.
March 13, 2502, 1356 Hours (Military Calendar)
Epsilon Indi System, Harvest, Vigrond, Grid 14 x 67
Jerald Mulkey Ander stepped outside of his courtyard, his bright brown hair shining in the temporary sunlight. Turning, he cast one last short glance at his mansion. Childhood memories flashed in his mind involuntarily.
He'd spent most of his life here. Leaving his home seemed to be the worst decision he'd ever made in his lifetime, and he couldn't quite come to fully accept it. He felt like everything he knew and loved was going to disappear in a few short moments—not even enough to go back inside again and ponder over his decision, more intensely than he'd done the first time.
He stepped over the small staircase that crossed his court. In front of him, three trucks maneuvered past a series of holes in the driveway and parked beside the mansion's wall. Two of them were standard, light reconnaissance vehicles, and he'd seen them on a daily basis around this section of the city. The other one was different: it had only two front seats, its lower bumpers were much more elevated and its windshield was only half as tall as the others'.
If he wouldn't have paid much attention he could have mistaken the strange vehicle for an old Earth jeep.
Apparently, his officers had something special in mind. Day to day transits between strongholds in Vigrond were never planned this far in advance. Their resources granted them the possibility to improvise, though, which brought Ander's thoughts to the skirmishes with the Marines: he'd sent so many young volunteers on the frontier that he almost lost count of them.
He didn't let the feeling overwhelm him. The city was crawling with Marine patrols, and he had to focus on keeping his movement alive.
One ill-fated grin, smile or grunt in front of his officers, and the Union's structure would suffer tremendously. He understood that the moment the first uprising against him took place several years ago. He'd planned his actions twice as carefully since then, and to his surprise, the movement held together a lot better.
Cramming the memories of his youth into a corner of his mind, Ander continued his stroll past the thick, reinforced concrete wall of his mansion, and stopped in front of the gate. Two officers dressed in black and red outfits approached him, rifles hung around their backs, plastic caps appearing to flutter in the stirring sea winds—the soldiers Ander dreamed of creating. Tall, well-built, determined and dedicated to his beliefs.
One of the officers stood in front of him and saluted, smiling slightly as he lifted his arm. Beneath the silky layer of his jacket, the rough material of a bullet-proof vest stretched well below the man's torso.
Ander glanced down at the soldier's vest for few seconds. He then lifted his gaze back upward.
Suspicious. His men never wore ballistic armor unless specifically ordered. Ander couldn't remember issuing such an order, though. Was there someone else acting on his behalf? To the best of his knowledge, there were no inside leaks or cracks.
He'd gotten old. Times might have changed.
"Sir, the truck's waiting." The officer said, an agitated tone dominating his words. Slowly, he gestured toward the bulkier vehicle parked beside the walkway. Two other riflemen patrolled the trucks, fingers pushed against the trigger holes of their weapons. Constantly alert, some of them puffing on cheap tobacco.
The winds began sweeping through the street more rapidly than before. The Vigrond Sea had grown increasingly active the last few weeks, growing to the point where a large number of local residents decided to move to more peaceful places on Harvest.
It was for the better, after all. It offered Ander another advantage against the Marines: abandoned apartment blocks to hide his militias.
Throwing impatient glances at his officers, Ander closed in on the truck. Again, its antique design intrigued him.
He opened the door, patted the dust off the front seat's clothing, and rested his back against the chair, clenching the lower part of his coat in his fist.
"Thought we were riding in style." He looked around the interior, and then directed his gaze to the young driver. "This looks like a chump jeep to me." His gaze hardened. "Do I look like a chump to you?" He said mockingly.
The Corporal fussed in his seat. Nervous. Ander knew his soldiers well enough to determine when they were genuinely scared. This was nothing more than practice.
"No sir. It's simply what the technicians at the factory had to offer today." The young Corporal answered. "I apologize for any—"
"It's quite alright, boy." Ander cut him short, tightening his coat around his thigh. "Just drive. It'll be a lot more uncomfortable where we're going." He said, tucking his hands inside his woolen sleeves. The temperature outside had dropped considerably—an unusual phenomenon for March.
Behind Ander, one of the two customized Warthogs drove beside the truck's left side. Swiftly, he threw a short glance to the Warthog's direction: he hadn't seen the two soldiers inside before. New staff, he was sure.
It surprised him how much he'd missed out on. The fighting had caused him to virtually lose contact with most of his advisers. He had a lot to catch up on, and this patrol wasn't helping him.
The two Warthogs pulled off the walkway, and chatter began rumbling in the truck's INTERCOM. Ander watched his mansion shrink in size as the vehicle drove past apartment buildings and warehouses. Along the wide boulevard, narrow back alleys linked to the buildings' entrances.
No one in this section still lived here; the entire district had been repeatedly bombarded by UNSC air strikes. Craters, holes, and torn barracks made a decent living here impossible.
The Union had waited for something like this to happen. Now, this section served as its central command platform.
As the vehicles slalomed clear of the holes in the street, two children ran along the boulevard's walkway, following the convoy's direction, a pair of rocks in their hands.
Ander cast a glance at the children—a little boy and girl, their faces muddied and dirty, ragged clothes hanging from their bodies. In a moment, the children hurled their rocks at the truck.
Rambling and crashing resounded as the rocks hit the vehicle's rear plates.
Ander snapped slightly from his seat, surprised by the sudden attack. The driver didn't budge, though.
"We get this all the time, sir." The Corporal explained. "Ever since we've laid our hands on this part of the city everyone's been aggressive to our likes. Even the children."
"I can see that." Ander acknowledged, resting against the back of the chair again. "Take my house away and I'll probably throw rocks at you too."
The Corporal chuckled momentarily.
In front of the convoy, a network of barbed wire fences and gatehouses spanned beneath the distant city skyline: the Union-controlled territory's frontier point. Officers patrolled the clustered perimeter, constantly sighting the adjacent streets through their binoculars, flags erected on the top of the buildings flapping in the wind.
This was where the Union's militiamen had fallen in the face of the UNSC. Ander thought about it for a moment, fondling the sidearm attached to his belt.
Was their battle worth dying for in the first place? Not every Harvester would embrace their ideology—but the worker class on the planet was large enough to support them. They'd see their dream come true if they won, but it wouldn't last long. Revolts were unavoidable.
He knew the cause he was fighting for, but he came to question it.
"Keep driving, Corporal." Ander advised, waving to the guards on the rooftops. "They know we're coming."
The driver nodded absently, slamming his foot on the gas pedal. The truck began growling louder than before, passing by the lifted roadblock in front of them. The guards on the perimeter still eyed the convoy as it sped past the frontier point.
They'd drive several miles through civilian sections before they reached their destination: one of the few remaining barracks the Union still held on neutral territory.
Recent encounters with Marines had rendered Union barracks practically crippled. Ander was about to find out why their largest urban fortress had been overrun.
A suicide mission—if there were any remaining Marines in position, he'd be in a lot of trouble. He'd considered the option of sending a spokesman in his place, but it wouldn't do his men's morale any good.
The convoy took a right turn, finally moving away from Vigrond's central boulevard. The warm light of Epsilon Indi struck Ander's left cheek as the truck drove along the sea's defense dike.
He looked to his left, his glance meeting the sun's reflection on the restless sea. A few minutes remained until he'd likely get killed. He wanted to make the best of them.
Inside the vehicle, the INTERCOM began hissing repeated patterns of a human voice, breaking the relative silence of the transit. Gradually, the voice cleared into a scream.
Ander eyed the device attentively, tapping its silver casing. It was one of their fire squads, but through the speaker's hissing and the engine's murmur he couldn't isolate the actual voice. He picked up the hand-sized receiver and pushed it against his ear.
"What is that, sir?" The Corporal asked, shooting intermittent glances to Ander.
Silence followed in the speaker for a second. Then, the sound crackled back clearer than last time. The voice was screaming, gunfire roaring in the background.
Ander pushed the receiver to his ear again.
"To all nearby units, we require immediate assistance. UNSC task force—suppressing fire—"
The sound broke in and out. Strange. The militias were stationed fairly close-by to his position, and the transmission should have been clean.
But something else bothered Ander: the apparent Marine onslaught. His men were being killed, and it was the first time he heard it through an up-link. It was a different feeling than seeing someone die in a firefight. This time, he couldn't see his men dying—which uncomforted him.
So much for getting out of there alive.
The firing in the background intensified as the voice continued screaming, crackling rifles cutting through the sound waves. Other voices resounded, barking orders.
He recognized the sounds of the weapons: MA5 series assault rifles. Standard UNSC Marine issue, carried in every type of engagement. Effective, but noisy.
Static followed the gunfire. Ander removed the receiver from his ear, slid it back in its prop and gazed at the sea waves hitting the dike. For a moment, he pondered over the concept of upgrading the militias' weaponry. They'd been doing fine so far against the UNSC's MA3 rifles, but once the newer MA5 models got dragged on Harvest, their ordnance lost its efficiency.
The Warthog behind Ander's truck slowed down as the convoy drove into Vigrond's western district. In a few moments, the two escorting vehicles moved away from the truck, the one behind skidding to a sudden stop in the middle of the road.
Ander looked around the truck's sides. Something wasn't right; the Warthogs wouldn't abandon the truck without a good reason. They'd left Ander undefended in UNSC territory.
"What the hell are those idiots doing?" He demanded, risking a glance at the Corporal.
The young soldier didn't reply, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead of them. His hands trembled.
"I asked you a question, boy!" Ander's voice resounded, thicker and more aggressive. His heart pounded rhythmically, sweat dripping down the back of his neck. He suddenly felt his forehead burn: the usual symptoms of a panic attack.
He settled back in his seat. Trying to regain control of his heart rate, he looked at his wristwatch. 1409 Hours.
The string of numbers on the watch's display hit 1410—the last thing he saw.
March 13, 2502, 1410 Hours (Military Calendar)
Epsilon Indi System, Harvest, Vigrond, Grid 34 x 65
Johnson counted the seconds ticking on the rifle's display. The truck came into view, no longer escorted by the two Warthogs. That was good. It meant that Ander's officers wouldn't see what was about to happen.
No more fighting. No more children dying on the streets and in the public hospitals. And no more insurrections and so-called "social reforms". One push of a trigger could stop the civil war.
Charlie-Three patted Johnson on the shoulder in a brotherly gesture: two more seconds until the vehicle entered the kill zone.
Johnson pulled the trigger, a soft clanking sound vibrating through the rifle's casing. He watched the truck through the scope: a dense cloud of white smoke engulfed what remained of the vehicle, blood and limbs splattering over the street as the two men's bodies disintegrated in the explosion.
There were no bystanders on the sidewalks. Perfect.
He watched the bodies settle on the concrete. Immobile, blood flowed out of the severed body parts, little pieces of debris sticking to their skin. Resting his mind, Johnson evaluated the mission. One casualty on their side—an almost insignificant price paid to restore peace on Harvest.
Johnson looked around the roof. The Sergeant crouched beside Charlie-Four, untying the weapon locks around the dead Marine's torso. Next to him, Charlie-Three came to his feet, removed the cable links from his laptop and touched his assault rifle.
It was up to ONI to monitor the Union's activity even further. If another leader rose to continue Ander's work, ORION would deploy them again.
He hoped it wouldn't be the case.
The Sergeant walked by Johnson's side, gazing over the ledge of the roof in the direction of the degraded truck. "Sniper Team Alpha. Kill confirmed." He spoke inside his helmet.
"Your transmission is five-by-five. Return to extraction point." The controller's response sounded back softly in Johnson's earphones.
They were headed home.
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