by Jim Roberts
Ascension Island, August 25th
RAIN PELTED against the canopy of the Olympus Hyperion aircraft as it roared over the great blackness of the Atlantic Ocean. Through the foggy glass, Tiberius could finally glimpse the small collection of lights on the Island of Ascension.
All things begin today…
A smile crept across the Olympus Legate’s cruel mouth. It had been a tremendously busy day already and it wasn’t close to being over. In the past two days, Olympus had announced itself on the world stage as more than a simple Private War competitor.
The volcanic island had been under British rule for over two-hundred years. Located square in the middle of the Atlantic, between Brazil and Angola, Africa, it had been the home to a remote airfield used primarily by the RAF. The National Aeronautics and Space Administration operated a telescope on the island for tracking orbital debris. Ascension’s populace mostly inhabited a tiny hamlet called Georgetown. A barely staffed signals intelligence facility and a BBC relay station made up the rest of the island’s amenities.
Ascension was absolutely perfect for Olympus.
Despite his early misgivings, Tiberius was now all for the plan. Project Ascension had been two years in the planning and now, finally, it had been enacted. It was a balls-out initiative that would define the PMC for the next decade, and hopefully longer.
It would all begin here.
The Hyperion pilot eased the aircraft on a descent course toward the tarmac. Once designated ‘Wideawake’ by the British Air Force, the landing field was in dire lack of necessities for this operation. Consisting of a single airstrip and a meager tarmac, it would have to be significantly widened to perform properly for future Olympus operations.
From the RIO seat of the Hyperion, Tiberius spoke in his calm, emotionless voice to the man controlling the aircraft, “What is our ETA, pilot?”
“Exactly thirty seconds, my lord.”
“Good.” Tiberius was pleased. He’d never admit it, but he was looking forward to taking a much-desired rest. He knew he looked every bit his fifty-nine years of age and the constant exertion this operation had required was doing his appearance no favors.
The Hyperion pilot received clearance for landing on the Wideawake tarmac, where Tiberius could spot dozens of Olympus aircraft milling about, unloading equipment and troops.
Olympia finally has its own home.
Tiberius smiled at the thought. The British would certainly put up a fuss over the ‘theft’ of the island. They would swear down the heavens in the UN for Olympus to return it and their property. Tiberius would agree with the latter demand. It was the first mandate of the mission: no indigenous island personnel would be harmed and all equipment was to be returned to the British. Olympus had no use of it anyhow, save for the buildings. Tiberius would do everything possible to mitigate the British’s anger toward this endeavor.
Besides, they had bigger fish to sauté.
The VTOL angled its dragonfly-like bulk directly over the tarmac. As Tiberius peered out the canopy, he saw a large party had been prepared to welcome his arrival.
Falco, I bet. He should know better, Tiberius thought, angrily.
With a jolt, the aircraft touched down. The Olympus Legate undid his belt and stood up. One of the half dozen Centurions of Tiberius’s honor guard opened the side door of the aircraft, allowing the Legate to disembark first, as protocol dictated. Taking a rueful glance at the torrential downpour, Tiberius gripped the side of the craft and stepped out onto the tarmac.
The large floodlights surrounding the airfield lit up the night, allowing the Legate to enjoy the scene of organized chaos in all its splendor. Amidst the pelting rain, C-130 Hercules transports unloaded ordnance and troops. Multiple Hyperion drone aircraft patrolled the perimeter of the island, searching for any civilian stragglers. Within the week, supplies would begin arriving by boat, sent from their contractors in Angola. Not long after, construction would begin on the first phase of what would become the primary headquarters of the Olympus Private Military.
Tiberius wrapped the obsidian black cloak around him in a futile attempt to keep the rain out. Rivulets poured down his neck and into the rynohyde body armor he wore at all times on duty. It bothered him not at all.
He stood a proud warrior, regal and fearless.
A true lord of Olympia.
The crowd of forty Centurions and Legionnaires saluted the traditional sign of respect to their legate. In the front of the greeting party was Tribune Falco, looking as stoic as ever in his advancing age. The old veteran wore similar rynohyde armor to Tiberius’s own, but it seemed ill-fitting on the experienced Olympus warrior. Falco adjusted the black patch over his left eye before moving forward to greet his Legatus. The sound of thunder, rain and overall chaos of the airfield drowned out most of the old Tribune’s greeting.
“My lord Tiberius, welcome to Ascension,” Falco said, saluting his commander.
“This celebration is ill-timed, Falco. Send these men back to work immediately.”
Falco, unsurprised at the order, turned to his men and dismissed them. “Apologies, my lord. Titus’s idea of honoring your arrival.”
“I care little for that whelp’s honor. What’s the status on the radiation?”
“The sabotage worked exactly as Cicero had calculated,” Falco replied, “The nuclear missile dumped only a small amount of radioactive isotopes and the British managed to contain the worst of it before they withdrew. All of our units have been issued potassium iodide pills to mitigate any residual radiation. You have yours, don’t you my lord?”
Tiberius waved off the question, “And do they suspect at all we were behind the missile casing’s failure?”
Falco had to pause as an Olympus Cerberus drone lumbered past them. “No, my lord. As far as we can ascertain, they believe it was a freak accident.”
Tiberius sniffed, enjoying the crispness of the weather now that his body had acclimated to the cold. “That won’t last. They aren’t foolish, the British, despite all evidence to the contrary. They will figure out our part sooner or later. But by then, we’ll have shored up our forces to the point that any threat of force on their part shall be rendered meaningless.”
The two men marched through the rain, inspecting the progress of their troops. Despite the rain, the work was going well. The island would be at full operating capacity in no time.
Falco hesitated before speaking again, “Sir, Titus is awaiting you at the Wideawake operations base. Shall we not meet with—”
“Titus can meet us at the promontory, as was the plan.”
Falco opened his mouth, then closed it again, knowing that arguing with the second most powerful man in the Olympia Brotherhood was a dangerous idea.
“Of course, my lord. I’ll have a transport take us there immediately.”
TIBERIUS SQUINTED through a pair of night-vision binoculars, cursing as the rain poured into his eyes. Two-hundred feet below, waves crashed like mortars against the cliffside as if to ward off those foolish enough to come so close to the island’s edge.
“Where is it? Can you see it yet?”
Falco searched the ocean with his own night vision goggles, his white hair and beard soaked from the rain. “There’s nothing. They must be delayed. The underwater trenches are incredibly dangerous with all the volcanic activity.”
Tiberius lowered the binoculars, an annoyed expression plastered on his face.
He hated to be kept waiting.
The sound of a vehicle pulling up behind them made both men turn. A Humvee—exactly the same as the one that had brought the Olympus bigwigs to the southernmost tip of Ascension Island—drove up to stop just a few meters from the cliffside. The driver left the headlights on, forcing Tiberius and Falco to squint to be able to see.
The passenger door opened and a man stepped out into the downpour.
“I’m not late am I?” He had to shout to be heard over the din of the crashing waves and rain.
“Turn those damn lights off, Titu
s!” Tiberius snarled, holding a hand in front of his eyes.
“Of course.” Titus signaled his driver, who turned off the vehicle, plunging the area back into darkness. “I didn’t mean to hold you up, Legate. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Titus, Secondus of Olympus and sole heir to the Imperator moved across the rain-slick rocks to join his fellow Brotherhood members. Even in the darkness of the night, Tiberius could still make out the bandages covering most of Titus’s head. Having been horribly scarred in the explosion of the Olympus super soldier Prometheus nearly a year ago, Titus had just recently undergone a major plastic surgery to repair the disgusting wounds he’d received that day. Considering the extent of his injuries, Tiberius would be interested to see if the surgeons were successful in restoring even a fraction of Titus’s former handsome self.
Wearing a tightly buttoned trench coat, Titus joined the two Olympus leaders at the cliffside.
I should have left you those months ago, Tiberius thought, as he turned back to look out over the water once more. He’d saved the young brat that day back in Zimbala, thinking it would bring the Imperator’s favor. Tiberius quickly learned how little Titus’s powerful father regarded the young fool when he received nothing for his efforts.
Tiberius raised the binoculars again, searching the dark waters. “Where the hell is—”
“There, my lord,” Falco pointed, excitedly, “About three miles out straight ahead!”
Tiberius adjusted the night vision to where Falco was indicating. It took a moment, but soon he saw what appeared to be a flashing beacon, rising out from the frothing sea. The beacon soon gave way to what was the aft Fairwater plane of Olympus’s greatest feat of engineering.
The Titan.
Like a great sea beast awakening from a long slumber, the massive submersible super-carrier of the Olympus PMC emerged from the ocean depths. With a submerged displacement of nearly 200,000 tons, the nightmare of Olympus craftsmanship was a feat of engineering unparalleled in today’s world militaries. She may be slow as a pregnant whale, but the Titan was capable of housing a full wing of Hyperion gunships, an entire Centurion cohort, and other needed facilities. For the foreseeable future—at least until construction of Ascension was complete—it would remain the primary HQ for the Olympus PMC.
As it continued to rise, the Titan sounded its klaxon—bellowing out its arrival to all on the island.
“Magnificent,” Falco remarked, lowering his binoculars. “Seeing it rise never ceases to amaze.”
Tiberius’s cruel mouth twisted into a smile, “It is not here to amaze, Falco. We shall begin unloading the pre-fab base as soon as this damn storm clears. Get back to Wideawake and contact the Imperator. Tell him everything is on schedule.”
Falco nodded dutifully, “Yes, my Legatus.” The old war dog left to carry out his orders.
Having seen his fill of the spectacle in the sea, Tiberius turned back toward the vehicles. The Legate could sense the young Olympus heir was waiting to speak. “Something on your mind, Titus?”
“It is an extraordinary thing, is it not?”
“What is?” Tiberius asked, not particularly interested in the answer.
Through the surgical wrapping, Titus replied, “What we are planning, of course. To move the world forward in such a way…remarkable isn’t it?”
Tiberius glared at the young heir. The rain continued to pour as the two men regarded each other for a brief, tense moment.
“Olympus is not your plaything, Titus. Once the Imperator has hunted down Leo Lennox and activated the Code of War, then we shall truly have our new world. This is merely the starting point.”
“Yes, my lord. Forgive me.” The mocking tone in Titus’s voice irritated Tiberius to no end.
One day, I will crush you, whelp. You can trust in that.
The Legate turned back toward his vehicle, waiting to return him to the Ascension Airfield.
There was still so much more to be done.
FOR SOME time after Tiberius and Falco left, Titus remained on the cliffside, watching the massive supercarrier in the distance. In his mind, he went over the plot that would make him the undisputed commander of the Olympus PMC.
The past year felt like a strange coma he was only just now waking from. The unimaginable pain he’d suffered after the Zimbalan campaign would soon be a distant memory. As the waves crashed against the rocks far below, a blissful sense of peace washed over the young heir of to the Brotherhood of Olympia.
Can you see me, father? he thought to himself, Soon you shall give me your patronage and with it, I will bring honor back to this military.
Behind his swath of bandages, Titus smiled.
I will destroy Olympus’s enemies. I will find the Code of War…
He turned and walked back to his vehicle, a final thought swimming in his mind.
…And I will kill Joseph Braddock.
Chapter 2
Peacemaking
Russell Senate Office, Washington DC, August 28th
OF ALL the seats in D.C. on this bright summer day, Brigadier General Jackson Walsh knew he had the hot one. Sitting behind a mahogany desk in front of a microphone, being overlooked by a dozen of the most hardnosed Senators in the American government, made the good General wish he were anywhere but there. Leaning into the mic, Walsh summed up every ounce of his fifty years in the United States military to make his answer sound as confident as possible.
“Madam Chairman, I think you need to be clearer with that last question.”
Directly opposite Walsh on the raised platform sat the Appropriations Subcommittee on Defense, led by a woman Walsh had known for much of his career. Darleen Atkins, an iron-willed Democratic Senator from Iowa, had been grilling him for the past half hour. Walsh felt more than well done by now and they still hadn’t broached the important issues yet.
The mid-sixties Senator with the ice-blue eyes stared straight at Walsh. “What I am asking, General, is what you expect to be gained from this increase in funds to your Unit?”
Walsh sighed, careful not to let the mic pick up the sound. The afternoon hadn’t gone well so far. In the seat beside Walsh sat the Peacemaker Unit’s new Second Lieutenant, Alistair ‘Brick’ Reynolds. The two men, both in full uniform, had fielded multiple questions about the lack of results made by the Unit as well as the many unspecified ‘donations’ given from the CIA. By the end, the tension in the room could be sliced by a samurai sword.
“Well, Madam Chairman,” Walsh began, clearing his throat, “I assumed the reason we’ve been talking these past thirty minutes was to explain that very question. You and the other honored members of this council know full well the events of the past few days. My Unit provides overwatch and interdiction against private military companies that align their interests against the American people. Three days ago the largest, most secretive PMC in the world annexed an entire island from the British. The Olympus Private Military presents an extreme danger to the people of the world, not just to Americans. My Unit’s efficiency in dealing with these threats depends entirely on whether or not we are properly supplied.”
There were assorted rumblings from the committee members, not all positive. One of the Senators, a young gentlemen from Vermont, leaned into his microphone to speak.
“I have a question for you, General. Let me start, sir, by saying congratulations on your promotion.”
Walsh nodded, “Thank you.”
“How old are you, General?”
Walsh frowned, “Excuse me?”
“I asked how old you are, sir.”
“Seventy-three.”
There were more scattered murmurs around the room.
The Senator seemed highly amused at the answer, “Forgive me, General, but you don’t look a day over sixty-eight.”
“May I ask your point, Senator?” Walsh asked, even though he knew where this was going. Brick shared a quick glance with the General, his eyes silently telling Walsh to tread carefully.
&nbs
p; The Senator asked, “Am I not correct in pointing out that you are long past mandatory retirement, General?”
Walsh leaned into the mic, “I’ve been given a special extension by the President himself.”
“But this is your last year of service, correct?”
Walsh nodded, “That is correct.”
The Senator continued, “I would have thought, General, that a man of your, shall we say, ill health would be looking forward to enjoying the later years of his life in retirement.”
“The Peacemakers are my life, Senator. It is true my health has been an issue of late, but for the time I have left, I’m preparing my Unit for new leadership. And if the President thinks I still have what it takes to do this job, then I ask you, sir, what is the problem?
A Russian-accented voice from the audience spoke up loudly, “Yeah! That’s the way, General!”
Walsh closed his eyes, inwardly kicking himself for even allowing Krieger to come to the hearing.
“Order!” Senator Atkins said, not impressed by the outburst, “We will have order here!”
Walsh heard Clive Rourke, the former Navy SEAL, hush Krieger and pull him back to his seat.
Another senator, an older gentleman with a nasty comb-over, took up the questioning, “If there are no more interruptions, I have a question for you, General. Don’t you think that due to the actions of your team over the past two years, that there could be some questions raised at the rather, ah, liberal amounts you’re asking for from this committee?”
Walsh’s neutral expression stiffened for a second, “What large questions are you referring to, sir?”
Brick lifted a hand to cover Walsh’s mic as he leaned in to speak quietly, “Careful, guv. I know I’m new to all this, but they’re leading you somewhere, and it’s a trip you don’t want to take.”
Walsh nodded to his Lieutenant, fully prepared for the line of questioning.
The Senator spoke into his mic, an arrogant tone in his voice, “I’m referring to the severe lack of oversight your team has had these past years. I personally find it abhorrent how you and your cowboys have managed to run rampant with taxpayer money. The reports I’ve been reading—the ones that have not been redacted, anyway—seem more at home in a comic book!”
