by Saxon Keeley
At the head of the table, Alistair is presented with different proposals of how to liberate the city. Arrows and labels indicate strategies and their estimated risks and rewards. With no intel on the Political District, all proposals rely too heavily on hypotheticals.
“Mẫu Thoải, I am so glad to see you again,” Alistair interrupted his generals, egger to take a short break. He places a kiss on her cheek, a strange custom she diplomatically accepts. “I am so sorry to hear about Anh Quốc.”
“Thank you. I am sure Father is just glad that Thuỷ Phủ can offer its support,” said Mẫu Thoải.
“Sir?” one of the generals reminded him of the issue at hand.
As everyone takes their place around the table, the Mẫu Thoải leaves enough room for Wesley to squeeze in besides her.
“The last scouts sent into the Political District did not return,” the general recapped for the sake of the late comers. “So, we have limited intel on the central district, but what we are certain of, is that it is the CERE’s stronghold and base of operation.”
“What does the satellite imagery show?” Mẫu Thoải asked, surprised there is no intelligence whatsoever.
“Nothing more than desolate streets,” informed another.
“Just as…on Maia,” Wesley muttered loud enough for only the Mẫu Thoải to hear.
“We suggest deploying our troops as close to the Political District as possible and launching a direct assault on the district. Sun Ren will organise the resistance around the city, spreading the CERE forces thin,” the first general explained while the map depicts the plan. “Our numbers are not what they were before the revolt, ordinarily I would not suggest using civilians in battle, but most are already fighting.”
“What about the dreadnoughts? We could use the extra fire power to intimidate the CERE,” a third general asked.
“The Sister Ships are not ready yet,” Oscar exhaustedly sighed. “Aglaopheme and Thelxiepeia have come a long way in their construction, all things considered. But I am not confident that either of them could independently traverse the journey to Neo-Shanxi, let alone being shot through an EMR. The Cyclothone should be more than sufficient to transport our forces.”
“Thank you, brother,” said Alistair, appreciating all he has done for both Maia and the efforts to liberate their home. “Does anyone have any objections to the proposed plan of attack?”
They look around the table and all seem to be in agreement, all except one. Wesley raises his hand.
“It will…get us all…killed.”
“For weeks, we have been deliberating over the best course of action. What alternative do we have?” a minster questioned.
“I have…a plan.”
“Just because Sun Tzu is dead, does not mean you assume his position,” the second general reminded Wesley of his station.
“Let Wesley speak. Thuỷ Phủ must know that you have considered all options before committing its military support,” Mẫu Thoải interjected.
Alistair hands over to his brother, intrigued to hear what he has been concocting during his time spent lazing by the canal.
“A direct assault on the…Political District is what…they are expecting. We fell for their…trap before during…the revolt, this is…the same…strategies they used against…us then. With all due respect…even with our newly enlisted…recruits’ Li and I have trained…we simply do not have the numbers to…force victory,” he explained.
“So, what is your suggestion?” the third general asked impatiently.
“I suggest…we lie,” Wesley said cryptically.
“Lie?” a few of them repeated confused.
“The Cyclothone holds more Grey Herons…than we have soldiers…to fill them. Using those spare boats…we can make it look…that our numbers are greater…than they are. On an unsecure…channel we broadcast the names of…eight thousand troops who have…landed on Shanxi. Taking up position around the enemy…we force them to retreat to…the Political District.”
Wesley pauses to rest his throat. Sceptical glances are shared up and down the table. A few ministers whisper to another.
“There is still the matter of the Political District,” the first general comments.
“There will only be…a handful commanding the CERE. By striking fear into the soldiers…those giving the orders…will lose control. Numbers will not be enough…so we must play on their ignorance. A team will escort…Oscar to the TFP and…switch it off.”
“And then what?” asked Alistair.
“We…wait,” Wesley smirked.
An unconvinced silence falls upon the conference room.
The generals, though displeased with the insubordination of their inferior, begin to work out the logistics of the plan. The ministers contemplate the feasibility of such a plan. Seeing the room actively engage with a fresh idea, both the Mẫu Thoải and Oscar give Wesley a subtle nod of encouragement. As much as Wesley, Mẫu Thoải does not wish for more of her people to needlessly die.
“Why would we hold our people prisoner with the enemy?” Alistair asked in a dismissive tone.
“When panic sets in, they will have to go through the Trading District to reach the TFP,” the third general concluded, ignoring Alistair’s concerns. “Enough time can be brought to set up our own trap.”
“Exactly…” Wesley reaffirmed. “I will lead a team…to infiltrate the Political District…from the Imperial Gardens. Heading straight to…the Assembly, where they will…most likely be held up. Any CERE looking to flee…let them.”
“You have done your homework,” Oscar said impressed.
Alistair slams his fist onto the table, knocking everyone’s drinks with the impact. “I cannot authorise such a ludicrous plan. To be sitting idle on the outskirts of the district while our people suffer. There are some of us here who have a family to save.”
The look between the two brothers leaves the room feeling as if they are intruding on a private matter.
“You forget brother…they are my family too and I will do…anything to get them back safe,” Wesley raised to Alistair’s remark.
Just before Wesley can continue, from across the table Oscar gestures to calm down. Equally aggravated by their brother’s outburst, a temperament they have had to live with for their entire time on Maia, Oscar makes his way to Alistair at the head of the table and whispers something into his brother’s ear. Whatever Oscar tells him, cuts deep and Alistair’s bottom lip begins to tremble.
“Generals, ministers, Mẫu Thoải; this session will reconvene later this evening. In the meanwhile, please take the opportunity to carefully reflect on what has been discussed so far,” Oscar explained to the room.
Not having gone the way Wesley had imagined, he is thankful for the intervention. As everyone leaves, the Mẫu Thoải, experienced in the delicacy of negotiation, places her hand on Wesley’s shoulder, indicating he should give them some privacy. Before the door closes, he hears the breakout of the impending argument between his older brothers.
*
Down by the lake, north of the colony, Wesley sits at his father’s grave. The field of red columns grew after people realised there would be no quick return to Shanxi. What at the time seemed like a temporary resting place for all those who lost their lives, is becoming permanent.
Around the graveyard people tend to its beautification. Square slabs are laid down to form paths. Seeds are sprinkled over the soil, hoping that one day the field will be lush with grass. With permission, bodies are moved to give the cemetery structure. Down by the lake, a wall is being built to hold back the rising water levels. As close to the centre as possible, a monument was raised in remembrance for all those who died during the revolt. Buried under the monument is the magpie Wesley found frozen to death in the Foundry, near to where she died.
“I thought I would find you here,” said Li Guang, walking down the path.
Li takes a seat next to him and passes Wesley some leftovers from the kitchen. Toda
y the food being served is Western. Wesley peers into the lunchbox to find a sealed pastry wrap. With a look of indifference, he places the box down by his side.
“It is not as bad as it looks,” Wesley is told. “How did the meeting go?”
“Alistair decided to…behave like himself,” he explained. “How was…training today?”
“Good. The adjustments your brother made to the suits are perfect. I am sure he had better things to do, but it will save a lot of lives,” Li informed. “The recruits are as ready as we were, there is not much more that training can provide them.”
Twisting his silver ring with the character ‘family’ inscribed on the outside, Wesley feels the strain this past year has put on all of them. Not knowing what has happened to the children, his brother’s wives, or his mother is the worst part. Occasionally they hear news of their grandfather, but some of it is too horrific to believe.
“When should we expect Alistair’s decision?” Li asked.
“Tonight…hopefully. Until then…we wait.”
Yellow Sea
XXXXXXXXXX
“So, this our candidate? He barely looks alive. Are we sure he even is?” asked a stern female voice.
“Yes, he will recover quickly,” a male voice reassured her in a typical East Coast American accent.
“What about our other candidates?” asked a Scandinavian voice.
“Dead, or missing in action,” said the East Coast voice.
“How long are we looking at here until he is ready?” enquired another overly professional woman.
“Two months.”
“With the loss of Japan, I do not think we have two months General,” a boisterous unintelligent voice boomed. “My men predict that the West Coast will be lost before then.”
“Mr President, you will not find a more suitable candidate for the operation. There is not a soldier alive that could match his experience or military records. This man is a true patriot and one of the few to make it out of Osaka alive.”
Slipping back into sleep, the soldier dreams of terrible nightmares, that no matter how hard he tries, he cannot wake up from.
*
Chords of an ancient song softly play from a shore too far away to swim to. Above him a vermillion sky radiates an unbearable heat. The golden waves splash his face, cooling him for mere seconds at a time. Knowing he will surly die if he stays above the water, he takes a deep breath and dives deep into the sea.
The deeper he dives, the golden water fades to a murky red. In the depths, strange creatures reside. Sirens bury a sunken continent with pebbles. A single deep-sea fish swims about, hunted by a serpent with three fangs. At the seabed waits a beautiful woman illuminating his path with her lantern. She places a finger over her lips and tells him to listen.
“How long has he been in this condition?” asked a nasally voice.
“Three months,” said the man with the same East Coast accent. “But in the last few days we have seen some promising signs. We predict that in two months we will be able to launch the S.E.L. initiative.”
“General,” the other man said impatiently, “we have waited for long enough, the President is pulling your funds.”
“But…”
“The Chinese are decimating our forces; the West Coast will be lost within days from now. We can no longer continue financing this fantasy you have laying here in the middle of the Yellow Sea. I am sorry that things couldn’t have worked out differently.”
The two voices are carried away by an underwater current. The beautiful woman holds him in close, allowing him to feel her body. As she kisses him, she fills his lungs with air. Floating back to the surface, he drifts off into another dream.
*
“Governments are fragile, nervous little things,” a rasp woman’s voice said to the man. “Our President would sooner press the button and have this war over and done with. But we both know, General, that it would be the end of us all if it ever came to that.”
Cold fingers bush up along the soldier’s arm. He winces at the sudden shock. Her touch feels like death.
“I represent many,” she pauses, mulling over the correct phrase, “interested parties. My clients are willing provide you with the financial support, and anything else you may require, to make this operation successful.”
“Who exactly are these ‘interested parties’?” asked the man.
The weight on the bed shifts as she perches on the end.
“Patriots, General. Patriots like you, me and him, that just want to see this war over, with the least amount of sacrifice,” she said.
*
At first everything is out of focus. It does not take long for him to realises he is in a grey circular ward with many empty beds. The slight swaying indicates they are somewhere out at sea.
As XXXXXXXXXX detaches the sensors monitoring his vitals, he finds a file on the bedside cabinet, waiting for when he wakes up. There is no title. Flicking through, each page has the same watermark, ‘S.E.L.’. It contains directives for a highly-classified mission, clearance given by organisations he didn’t even know existed.
A stocky man stands by the door, his face hidden in the shadows. His uniform is American, but something tells XXXXXXXXXX that is not who he is currently working for.
“Since the fall of Osaka, the Chinese have invaded American soil. We are close to losing this war. The Whitehouse is in disarray. Our President scrambling over contingencies that will ultimately lead to Americas defeat, or worse, surrender,” said the man in that familiar accent. “I have waited for you for a long time. What you have in your hands is how we are going to win. In three weeks’ time, this war will be over, one way or another.”
XXXXXXXXXX scans over the file once more. Catching the mission objective summarised in a single sentence, a smile is brought to his face.
“Count me in.”
Wolf
‘My name is Wolf. Five months ago, a nameless soldier died defending Osaka. My former name, title, rank and citizenship has been erased. I do not exist. I command a squad of ghosts, they too died on the battlefield. Extraordinary soldiers with talents unmatched by any other. At zero-five-hundred hours we are to embark on what is probably our last mission. Deployed a three-day hike away from Beijing, we have one objective…’
He cocks his pistol, getting a feel for the weapon. This is not the sort of gun that would ever become standard issue in the military. Placing it in its holster, Wolf runs one last equipment check. He tugs on the laces of his midnight blue body armour, making sure it is secure. He straightens his armband, embroidered with emblem of a wolf. Finally, he places the gasmask over his head. In the reflection of the mirror, on the other side of the empty locker room, is a monster.
Through the ship’s narrow and dark corridors, Wolf climbs the steps to the deck of the aircraft carrier. The morning sun is yet to rise, but all the commanding officers stand to attention, ready to send them off. Expecting to see fellow America servicemen, the uniform they wear is unfamiliar. The project’s benefactors watch far enough away that their identities are concealed.
Waiting by the drone that will take them to the drop zone is his squad, three soldiers handpicked by himself from an extensive list of largely deceased candidates. Keen to get Wolf physically prepared for the mission, he knows little more about them than what was in their file.
Built like a brick shithouse, Viper was a former South African mercenary, brought by the British Corporate Government to serve along the Eastern European line, an unrelenting front that not even the most twisted and blood-thirsty Russian soldier wishes to be stationed long.
The Japanese nationalist Lynx was a survivor from Osaka and one of the last to evacuate the city, staying behind to offer his medical services to civilians. Though the rest of the board were not convinced by Wolf’s decision to include him in the squad, the threat to leave the project was enough to secure Lynx’s position.
Lastly, Portia, an Iranian sniper whose body count even sends chills dow
n Wolf’s spine. Her death has been reported time and time again, her story becoming a ghost tale amongst the Middle Eastern forces.
A commander, a vanguard, a medic and a sniper; all hope to end this war rest on their shoulders.
The four soldiers with the letters ‘S.E.L.’ inscribed onto their breastplates board the drone. Placing a foot into the unpiloted craft, Wolf catches the name spayed onto the side, ‘Orpheus’. He chuckles to himself, appreciating the humour of the engineer.
The drone’s door slides shut, none of them look back through the closing gap. A click locks the door, sealing them in until they reach their destination. Studying his team, Wolf has little option other than to place his full confidence in them.
‘My name is Wolf. My former name, title, rank and citizenship has been erased. I do not exist. I command a squad of ghosts, we have one objective. To assassinate the Chairman.’
Neo-Shanxi
Sun Ren
The factories that propelled Neo-Shanxi’s industrial commerce stand either barren or do not stand at all. Hollow structures, stripped of anything useful, are the same as the dead that have fallen in the streets. Bricks and concrete piled on top of bodies, bodies piled on top of brick and concrete.
A group of ten CERE soldiers scurry nervously about the grey ruins of the Industrial District. Their commander is young, but born with a vicious soul. The chaos on Delta-Nine seems to suit him fine. There are even murmurings of a promotion at the end of all this for him. He does not know who the soldier’s running things are, but each time he speaks with them they are pleased. If only he could get his squad in line.
The clanking of glass startles him. He turns his head to find his men squabbling over a crate of bottled water. Supplies have been low for months and since the resistance took out the water treatment facility plant, all the taps run dry and drinking water has become scarce. Despite his own thirst, the commander is weary of the attention his men are bringing on themselves, let alone the convenience of finding bottled water out in the open.
