by J. L. Lyon
Unbeknownst to the Romans, a sleek metal aircraft descended slowly from the night sky, giving off nothing more than a gentle hum as it approached the roof of the church. The black craft looked more like a bird of prey than a plane or a helicopter, with engines beneath its broad wings that glowed a gentle blue. Brighter engines at the rear of the vessel propelled it forward, while those beneath slowed its descent. Every now and then another smaller flash of blue would flare somewhere on the belly of the craft, helping to correct its course as it swooped in for the kill.
This was the Halo-4 assault craft.
Blue light intensified beneath the wings as the craft came to a halt in midair and hovered a few feet above the roof. The hull of the Halo split to reveal ten black-clad warriors, hoods over their faces and assault rifles at their sides. The red lines of their laser-sights crisscrossed one another, and silencers elongated the barrels of their weapons.
The middle soldier, a colonel by his uniform, motioned with his free hand and the strike team disembarked onto the roof. The engines of the Halo flared again, and with a spark of blue flame it disappeared back into the black sky.
After more hand motions from the colonel, the soldiers split off and headed in two separate directions. One the colonel led himself, and the other he delegated to a subordinate. He put his finger to the place on his masked face where his lips should be in a silent command: quietly. Two soldiers flanked the doorway to the interior as another proceeded forward with a laser key. The colonel stood back a ways, weapon at the ready.
With a quiet clang of metal upon metal, the laser key flipped out. The soldier stuck it in the lock, pressed a small button, and waited. In less than three seconds there was a click. He looked back at the colonel, who nodded. The soldier put away the key and reached for the door handle. It opened with a creak louder than any sound the strike team had made thus far, prompting the soldiers’ grips on their rifles to tighten in anticipation. They filed into the first room, but no guards or sentries had been posted—it was empty.
Fools, the colonel thought to himself. How could the rebels have neglected to secure this area? The answer to that question hit him like a ton of bricks, and he halted the team by raising a closed fist in the air. The colonel peered around the room through his night-vision visor, and sure enough—there they were. Small wires, thinner than sheep’s wool and strung so tight a breath of air might trip them, lined the floor. The room had been secured with explosives—four bombs total.
Speaking in a hushed whisper, the colonel said to his men, “Four explosive devices,” he pointed with his fingers. “Use caution. Disarm them.” He then raised his hand to his mouth and spoke to the inside of his wrist, “Beta team, what’s your status?”
Another hushed voice came back through his earpiece, “Initial entry successful. Room’s empty…proceeding to second doorway…”
“No, wait!” the colonel insisted. But it was too late. A burst of static came through his earpiece and the colonel felt the floor beneath him rumble. He cursed, and at the same time four whispers rose in the room in quick succession, “Disarmed.”
“Ready your weapons, men,” the colonel ordered. “The enemy knows we’re here.”
The colonel heard footsteps and yells in the direction of the blast, confirming his last statement, and he motioned for his men to continue. The strike team used the same method with the interior door, and after the click of the laser key the soldier pushed it open. The team filed out into an empty hallway, fingers poised and prepared to end lives with a twitch.
“Take care of the targets in the dome first,” the colonel ordered. “Then regroup.”
The strike team proceeded swiftly to Beta Team’s entrance point, where several rebels surveyed the wreckage their bombs had wrought on the exterior of the basilica. The sound of silenced gunfire filled the hall, and all the rebels fell to the ground.
“Command,” the colonel said into his wrist. “Confirm all targets in the dome neutralized.”
“Affirmative, Colonel,” came the reply. “Proceed down the stairs and into the portico.”
“Negative,” the colonel protested. “Beta team has been wiped out. This severely dampens our prospects for mission success. We need a new directive, and fast. Get me General Gavin.”
-X-
“General.”
A thin, gray-haired man turned around with haughty annoyance, “Yes, Lieutenant. What could possibly be worthy of interrupting me during the final assault of Domination Crisis Fifteen?”
“My apologies, sir,” the lieutenant replied with a slight tremor. “But we just received an urgent message from Division One. The Ruling Council has issued a directive to the active generals of the Great Army—”
“Lieutenant,” Gavin broke across him. “The colonel is in the basilica waiting for us to come up with a new plan even as you stand there talking about some irrelevant announcement from the Ruling Council! We have bigger fish to fry right now!”
“But sir…” the lieutenant stammered. “It concerns Colonel—”
Gavin held up a hand to silence him, “Thank you. Just give me the message, and I’ll see to it that the Ruling Council receives whatever they require.” The general snatched the message and turned back to the command team. He pointed to the floor plan of Saint Peter’s Basilica and continued, “Initial estimates suggest approximately twenty men patrolling the portico and twenty more at the entrance to the nave. Hundreds more line the nave itself. Without the cover fire of Beta team from above, it is highly unlikely the colonel or his team would survive long enough to penetrate through the nave to apprehend the target. The rebels have set up their command post here in the apse,” he pointed, “right at the foot of the Altar of Saint Peter. That is where the colonel’s team needs to be to capture Justus.”
“Can the colonel alone make it through the nave, if his men provide cover fire?” a major-general asked.
Gavin shook his head, “Infrared shows a cluster that we expect to be the main force gathered around the papal altar. There’s no telling how many men are between him and Justus. He’s good, but no one is that good. Our only choice is to send in the Great Army and end this now, before our men are compromised further.”
“But the grand admiral’s orders are to take Justus alive for questioning.”
“I know,” Gavin frowned. “Which is why I’m going to do what I should have done from the very beginning, and go with the plan the colonel himself proposed.”
The major-general’s eyes widened, “But the odds of that turning out to our advantage—”
“We have no other choice now. Give the order.”
-X-
The colonel waited calmly on the upper floor as his men watched the stairwells in case any more rebels chose to investigate the explosion. Though it had left no fire, he could still feel the heat of it coming down the hall to where they stood, carried to them by the wind.
He couldn’t see their faces, but he could tell from their inability to stand still that his men were anxious. Things had not gone according to plan, and rarely did that bode well for soldiers in the thick of battle. What their commanders would tell them to do next, none could guess. Split up and perform undermanned? Sacrifice yourself and take as many rebels with you as you can?
“Colonel,” the voice spoke into his ear at last. “We have reached a conclusion. Do you read?”
“Yes, Command,” the colonel replied. “What is the general’s order?”
“You have been given the green light on Operation Falling Dove,” the voice replied. “Repeat, Operation Falling Dove is a go.”
The colonel’s heart dropped. He had proposed Falling Dove a few hours before as an option of last resort, more for its daring than for its potential success. The general, he seemed to remember, called it a fool’s errand. If it worked he would certainly be hailed as a hero. But if it didn’t he wouldn’t much care what anyone said about him—he would be dead.
“Colonel,”
the voice said into his ear. “Can you execute the mission or not?”
He hesitated for only one second longer, “Yes. I can.”
-X-
“Sir, we dispatched a team to the upper levels to investigate the explosion, but they have not returned. It also seems that our communications have been jammed. We can no longer contact our men in the portico or further up the apse.”
Charles Aurelius Justus, leader of the rebels of Rome, took this news with relative calm. He spoke in a deep, charismatic voice, “Then the Great Army has penetrated our defenses. Pass the word by messengers that we shall all fight to the death.”
“But what about escape through the grottoes, sir? None of those who remain will survive!”
“The Great Army will have anticipated that,” Justus replied. “And my men do not think only of their own lives.”
“But what will become of Rome if you are killed?”
Justus ran a hand through his jet black, ear-length hair and smiled, “Rome will always be Rome, my friend.”
-X-
The colonel’s strike team made their way back down the hall toward the site of the explosion and continued past it back onto the roof.
“Colonel, where are we going?”
“To accomplish our mission,” he replied. He led them past the place where the Halo had dropped them off to the very back section of the roof. “The apse is just below us now.” He pulled rope from his side, and his men did the same. Now they knew what their new orders were, and they weren’t as calm about it as the colonel.
One even objected, “But sir, Falling Dove was abandoned because of the forces at the Altar of Saint Peter! We’ll be cut to shreds before we even hit the ground!”
The colonel ignored the comment and gave the command, “Get ready, men. We’re going to have to blast our way through some alabaster glass.” The soldiers placed their feet on the ledge and tested each rope’s ability to sustain them. Then the colonel spoke into his wrist, “Command, you may give the all clear for the Great Army to begin their assault. We’ll secure Justus.”
-X-
“The Great Army is marching up the colonnade,” one of the rebels told Justus. “Our men are fighting, but offering little resistance. The basilica will be in the hands of the World System within minutes. Please, sir, let us get you out of here!”
“Flee if you must,” Justus replied. “But I will stay until the end. If I am to become a martyr for freedom—then so be it.”
The rebels standing guard in the nave abandoned their posts and headed for the battle that had erupted in the portico, leaving only a small squad to protect their leader. Justus continued to stand still and calm in the face of certain doom, a great pillar of strength among the men who remained. But all were suddenly startled as gunfire pelted the wall behind them, and just as they turned around the great alabaster window above them shattered into a million pieces. Five black-clad warriors fell to the floor in quick succession, raining down bullets along with the shards of the broken dove.
Bullets from the colonel’s team pierced the rebels not done in by the falling glass, so that every man surrounding Justus soon lay dead around him. The rebel leader, miraculously unscathed, lifted his hands into the air in surrender. He looked down at the red dots of the laser sights on his chest as the colonel ordered in a harsh voice, “Charles Aurelius Justus, kneel and put your hands behind your head!” Justus complied, and the colonel sighed as he pulled off his visor and mask. His dark hair was matted against his forehead with sweat, and his breathing was heavy. “You are under arrest for conspiracy to rebellion and treason against the World System. You will be processed and taken to the prisons of Division Nine where you will be interrogated. If you comply, mercy may be accorded to you.”
“I was under the impression that the MWR took no prisoners,” Justus said snidely.
“Trust me—the greater mercy would be to kill you now,” He spoke into the radio on his wrist. “General Gavin, this is Colonel Derek Blaine. We have him.”
-X-
The battle ended in a matter of minutes—hardly a fitting representation of the hard fought campaign that had been Domination Crisis Fifteen. The Great Army mowed over the Romans with ease, leaving Justus the only known survivor of the insurgent force. Now World System soldiers lined the colonnade, saluting General Gavin as he walked into the square to revel in the victory. Colonel Blaine stood at attention in front of the obelisk, his face still smeared with grime from his stealth mask.
“Well done, Colonel,” Gavin said with a smile. “You exceeded even my own expectations for this mission. I understand that Justus has already been transferred into the custody of the Division Nine prison?”
“Yes, sir,” Blaine nodded. “The interrogations should begin shortly. Within the next few days we will have new goals to pursue.”
“But those goals will not be yours, Colonel.” The statement prompted an inquisitive stare from the colonel, and the general motioned for Blaine to follow him up to the basilica. The two men spoke as they walked. “The Ruling Council has issued a directive to the generals of the Great Army. It seems that some in the highest levels of the government believe Domination Crisis Fifteen may soon be overshadowed by an even greater threat, and are taking extraordinary measures to meet it.”
Derek Blaine said nothing, but followed the general as they ascended the stairs to the interior of the basilica. Soldiers were hard at work cleaning up the carnage left by the battle in the portico. After a moment surveying the damage, Gavin spoke again, “What do you know of Old World history, Colonel?”
“Only what any normal officer of the World System would know,” Blaine said with a sly grin. “Along with a few of my father’s stories, of course. Why, General? Does this threat have something to do with the past?”
“I was speaking more specifically of…this place,” Gavin motioned to the halls of the basilica. “So much history just in this one building. You know, there was a time when this place was considered the center of a major world religion.”
“Catholicism,” Blaine said. “A major sect of Christianity.”
“Indeed,” Gavin said. “What do you know of them, Colonel—these Christians?”
“Religion of any kind is forbidden in the World System,” Blaine responded quickly. “Thus I know very little save that the different sects of Christianity were put down soon after the MWR’s rise to power. The only part of them that remains is a small group on the terror watch list called the Elect.”
“So you do know a bit more than they teach at officer school,” Gavin observed with a smile. “Indeed, the Elect are very connected to the adherents of this old religion. But the history of Christianity is a spotty one at best.”
“What do you mean?”
“Over its many centuries of popularity, Christianity experienced repeated waves of internal hardship and division. Individuals and groups disagreed with one another on a variety of issues—some vital to who they were, others not. At times, when Christendom was at its height, they even fought against one another—killed their supposed brothers, mind you, for issues like whether the common man should be able to read their holy Scripture. Can you imagine? I think that if there is a God, he was not very happy. There are some who say that if the Christians had united—if they had stood together on their common ground in the face of persecution—the World System would never have been able to wipe them out. As it is, however, they fought one another to the very end, so that now the Elect are all that remains of that once vast religion.”
Blaine hesitated for a moment, “No disrespect, sir…but what does this have to do with me?”
Gavin turned and stared at the colonel with a serious look in his eye, “Two days ago the Ruling Council was confident that the Elect were nothing more than a dying breed—an old dog whose bite had long since lost its sting. Today, however, their thoughts on the matter are quite different. It seems that one of their notorious members has returned to Division On
e, and has thrown down the gauntlet of challenge to the MWR himself. After much deliberation, the advisors have decided that this threat is one that requires special attention.”
“Why not just handle it the same as we have done here?” Blaine asked. “Surely there is no force that can reckon with that of the Great Army.”
“The member in question is a man by the name of Jacob Sawyer.”
“Second-in-command of Silent Thunder,” Blaine said. “But that organization was defeated. The World System triumphed.”
“True,” Gavin conceded. “But the reality of the incident wasn’t so black and white. From an objective point of view, Silent Thunder nearly emerged victorious from that conflict. If not for a few strokes of luck, the World System might now exist only in history books.”
“But the rebel leader Jonathan Charity was killed.”
“He sacrificed himself to save his family and friends,” the general replied. “All the power and pressure in the world can’t erase the memory of such a man, though the MWR has tried. But, as I’m sure you know, with his dying breath Charity took with him the legendary task force—”
“Specter,” Blaine finished.
“Ah, so you do know the story,” Gavin said with eyebrows raised. “I wasn’t aware they were teaching that one in officer training.”
“They aren’t,” Blaine smiled. “But every officer knows it, all the same. Like you said, a man like Charity is not easily forgotten, even when history is given a push by the MWR.”
“Blunt and honest, as always,” the general grinned. “The Ruling Council can expect great things from you. We here in Division Nine will be sorry to see you go.”
The two men reached the back of the basilica where Blaine had arrested Justus barely an hour before. There Blaine’s curiosity finally got the best of him, “Where exactly am I going, sir?”
