by Jim Roberts
Reaching the tree line, Danny unholstered the Overdraw Bow. The weapon was made of a high tensile aircraft-grade aluminum alloy. The limbs of the bow were constructed with heavy composite polymers, capable of extreme tensile force. Yune had told Danny the weapon would be capable−paired with the Whisper suit−to attain a draw weight of over 300 pounds. The force alone would be enough to send a shaft directly through a piece of concrete. As it stood, Danny was only using his natural strength, so the bow would average somewhere in the 60-70 pound range, more than enough to bring down a caribou bull.
The midday sun had disappeared behind a hazy white cloud cover. Gentle flakes of snow had begun to fall on them as they moved through the brush. Danny concentrated his senses, attuning himself with his environment. Every twig crack, every bird flutter, every squirrel skittering was registered clearly in his mind.
And then he saw it. A large, brown bull, about two-hundred yards from them, standing amidst the thickets of trees and brambles. Danny silently held out his arm and gestured Joe to halt and lower himself from view. It took a moment before the novice hunter noticed the bull as well.
The Rangefinder in the Optic Nerve Glasses allowed Danny to calculate the distance between the reindeer and themselves within a few feet. It would have been a doable shot from this distance had they been out in the open tundra. However, the dense bramble and thickets would make a straight shot impossible. He would have to get closer. Danny turned and made a Ranger hand gesture for him to follow close behind. Joe nodded.
It would only take a single twig snapping to spook the caribou. The two men moved like spectres through the foliage, keeping the animal in sight at all times. It was too busy chewing the lichen that formed on the tundra under the snow, to notice the approaching hunters. As they approached within one-hundred yards, Danny slowed and knocked an arrow into the bow. They moved more deliberately now; each step a measured and careful movement.
Within fifty yards, Danny stopped altogether, crouching low behind a snow-covered pine tree. The animal slowly began making its way in their direction. They had approached downwind, and as far as Danny could tell, it was holding fast in that direction. He eased the bow up, sighting out the caribou, aiming small at the animal's vital area on the white pelt of its chest.
The caribou made a snorting noise through its nostrils, a method of breathing where the reindeer would breath in the cold air, warming it through its natural body heat before entering the lungs. It trudged through the underbrush, sifting its magnificent head to and fro through the snow, trying to find lichen.
Come on, just a bit closer. Danny's heart began to pound. The size of the animal was far larger than it looked from a distance, standing nearly six and a half feet in length. At this range, if he missed and the animal chose to charge, unlikely as it was, it could easily kill him with those gigantic antlers.
Aim small, miss small.
Danny was about to release the arrow when the caribou suddenly looked up, its tan-brown head staring right at him. Danny's heart seized in his chest. The animal looked intently at their position, not making a single movement.
He's looking at us.
The caribou continued to stare at the Canadian. Danny felt something loosen in his arm, as if his muscles were giving out. The eyes of the animal met his artificial vision, somehow seeming more real because of it. The dark black orbs pierced him to the soul. Danny's arms began to tremble as a wave of emotion washed over him. The animal moved slower still, but was still unafraid, almost like it understood what Danny had intended.
The Inuit warrior felt a slight touch on his back: Joe, probably wondering what in the hell he was doing. A perfect shot that for some reason, he just couldn't take. The deer's eyes held him glued, his heart racing.
A plethora of emotions poured over him at once−dozens of memories he had tried hard to suppress: the loss of his sight by the blast of napalm, the pain and terror of being drenched in total darkness. He felt the strength and purpose of the Whisper suit, that turned him into a pure soldier of the shadows. He saw the dancing joy of combat burning within Agrippina's eyes, the same fire that raged when she fell from the helicopter into the blazing inferno. Her soul had burned so brightly, it had become part of him, somehow.
All at once, everything just made sense again.
Danny lowered the bow sharply. The movement broke the connection between man and beast and the deer bolted away from them, as fast as lightning. Joe leaped up, far too late to have a chance at getting the animal himself.
"What the hell?" he cried, barely believing what he saw. "What was that all about?"
"She's alive, Joe." Danny said quietly. His arms were shaking, the bow falling to the ground.
"What? Who?"
"Agrippina. I know it. I can feel it."
Joe stared at his friend, dumbfounded. "Are you crazy? I mean...seriously are you going nuts?"
"Joe, you have to understand−"
"Understand what? She tried to kill you. Three times! She almost killed me!"
The small forest echoed back Joe's raised voice.
"I know. But...we have something. A connection−"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"These past few months, ever since Kazinistan, it's been eating away at me. I couldn't focus, breathe, fight properly. For my people, to take a life is to release the aniriq of the person, their spirit, their soul. When Agrippina died, I believed her soul was attacking me−taking its vengeance from beyond the grave. But I was wrong."
"Well...what was it then?" asked Joe, calming down but obviously not believing a word he was saying.
Danny reached up and clasped the Inuit charm around his neck. "I...don't know. But just now I felt it disappear, like a...bad memory. Everything is clear again. She is alive. That I know for certain."
"Danny...look, you know I'm not one to judge a man for his beliefs, but don't you think you're taking this a bit too far?"
"You don't have to believe me Joe. I just know it is true."
Joe sighed, shaking his head in disbelief. "All right, she's alive. What now?"
Danny didn't answer his friend. His heartbeat gradually slowed down and his thoughts began to normalize. His calm returned. How he had been so wrong, Danny just couldn't say. His soul felt alive for the first time since the Olympus fortress.
Agrippina is alive.
He would find her again. And he would find out why his thoughts constantly turned towards her.
But somehow he knew one thing was certain: when he did find her again, his life would never be the same.
Chapter 6
The Cradle of War
Sadoma, Capitol City of Zimbala, November 20th
The weather this time of year in the country of Zimbala was almost tolerable. Its summers were hot and dry, but nearing the winter everything turned humid and dense, with heavy rains drenching much of the country and giving birth to nuclear powered mosquitoes. Malaria was rampant, due to the lack of clean drinking water at the best of times, worse now during the Insurgency.
Titus knew the next few weeks in this shithole would be anything but easy.
But if that was the price he must pay, he would welcome it.
As he marched down the ramp of the lead Hyperion aircraft, he finally surveyed the country firsthand that would hold his destiny.
Zimbala was located on the shore of the Indian Ocean, bordering on Mozambique to the north and South Africa to the south. In fact, the city of Sadoma stood only twenty miles from the border of South Africa. It was a constant concern to the South African government to curtail rampant immigration from the destitute country to the north. But now, with the insurgency in Zimbala becoming all the more fierce, South Africa had put its Armed Forces−the South African Defense Force−on high alert along the border with the contested country.
Thirty years ago, Zimbala had been a symbol of African independence and stable growth to the rest of the continent. Countries like Chad, Somalia, Ethiopia and Uganda had been
wracked with near constant warfare and turmoil throughout the late half of the 20th century. Zimbala had been an exception to the norm; a model to the world that some normalcy could exist on the poorest continent on earth. Its booming exports of oil, uranium and most importantly diamonds, had turned the country into a posh getaway for rich visitors from all around the world and made them the envy of the third world.
What a difference a civil war can make, thought Titus, looking around the large staging ground the Olympus military had staked out in the mammoth parking lot behind the Sadoma Capitol building.
In the early 80s, the country had voted in the David Musabe, a onetime warlord during the guerrilla conflicts of the 60s and now a hardliner Ultra Nationalist. He headed up a group of equally minded individuals calling themselves the African Nationalist Democractic Union (the ANDU). A capitalist at heart, Musabe destroyed his opponents through terror and bribery and put a stranglehold on all economic properties. His generally inept leadership brought a once prosperous and beautiful country to its knees, devaluing its currency and rendering more than half of the country unemployed by the end of the 1980s.
This state of affairs had lasted throughout the 90s and into the 21st century, as Musabe amassed a colossal wealth in diamond shares sold on the black market. The secret police of the President had its full rounding up suspecting dissidents and imprisoning them in the overcrowded incarceration centers. Many simply vanished, reportedly fed to crocodiles in the surrounding lagoons of the country.
Musabe's rule came to a head in 2013, late last year. Lead by a political radical, by the name of Donald Muzenda, a group of well trained guerrillas launched an insurgency against Musabe's rule. For the first few months, fighting was limited to outlying communities, towns and industrial complexes deemed valuable by the freedom fighters. But three months ago, Sadoma had erupted in all out civil war. The city of almost one million people was transformed into a warzone almost overnight.
So far, due to the lack of proper military equipment and munitions, most of the fighting was confined to the lower class areas of the south districts of the city. There, a massive shantytown, known as Hatfield, became the primary staging zone of the opposition, who had by now labelled themselves the United Revolutionary African Front (the URAF), funded mostly by white farmers wanting to regain their stakes stolen by Musabe's crooks in the 90s, as well as international coalitions hoping to gain control of the diamond mines.
The perfect breeding ground for mercenaries like us.
Titus moved amongst the staging area, making sure everything was going according to plan. Tiberius had allowed Titus a full wing of twenty Hyperions, as well as ten Manticore Attack Helicopters, a new addition to the PMC thanks to their primary munitions' suppliers in Russia. The helicopters were state of the art, rivalling the USA's own Bell AH-1Z Viper twin engine attack craft in both maneuverability and armament.
Offloading equipment from the four landed Chinook Helicopters, purchased at great expense from the Italian military, were three platoons of fifty Legionnaires, Olympus light infantry, made up of conscripts from around the world. Tired of fighting for weak, money grubbing PMCs offering nothing but a cold death in a ditch somewhere in Timbuktu, these men had sought out Olympus and pledged themselves to the Imperator, to a cause worth fighting for; honor for the Brotherhood of war itself. Each man was clad in desert camo fatigues, but across their torsos wore obsidian colored flak jackets. Their ensemble was completed by sunglasses and camo helmets.
Four platoons of Centurions marched through the staging area, performing some quick close order before beginning daily operations. Later in the day, they would begin to fortify the government building with sandbags, checkpoints and machinegun emplacements.
Titus had an initial plan for the uprooting of the insurgency, but according to the contract, was forced to run the basic plan by the President. Sharing Olympus tactics with a civilian leader made Titus gag, but if it was in the contract, it was bound in stone.
The Brotherhood honors its agreements.
Beside Titus, Falco chimed up his two cents about the operation, "Fortifying this building will not be easy, my lord. It is just shy of a million square feet, with multiple easy access points of infiltration."
"Have the Cerberus drones been activated yet?" Titus asked.
"The tech team is in the process. We have forty units, over half of Olympus's strength."
"Post two units per side of the complex to act as early warning."
"Yes my Lord." Falco nodded. The man had an excellent memory for orders. Anything he heard, he would not forget.
"Where is Octavia?" Titus asked. They had each traveled in separate aircraft to this desolate bit of hell and he was eager to see her.
"She was one of the first to arrive, my lord. She needed to get here early to begin preparations for Prometheus. She has set up the operation in an abandoned military complex a few blocks from here."
"Inform her I will inspect the site as soon as my meeting with the President is concluded."
Titus knew what his bodyguard thought of his relationship with the beautiful Olympus scientist, and cared not a wit. Octavia was his and his alone. Titus stopped for a moment to direct a unit of Centurions to defend the east section of the HQ barrier. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Falco getting anxious at the delay.
"My lord, President Musabe is waiting for you."
Titus cursed under his breath. He had to stop his walk suddenly as a Cerberus drone trundled past him towards a waiting squadron of Centurions. Shaking his head, Titus marched on towards the Capitol building. It was a remarkably cosmopolitan structure, over twenty stories high, built at the height of Musabe's power at the turn of the century. Featuring sharply defined angles and resembling, to Titus, something akin to a cheese wedge in its general outline, he had to admit Falco had a point: this building would be very difficult to defend. Many of the floors were completely transparent due to the massive windows, which Titus learned later−to his relief−were bulletproof.
But, if all went right with his meeting with the President, defense of this building would not be necessary. Titus would take the battle directly to this upstart insurgency and bring them to their knees. He dusted the tan trench coat he was wearing and withdrew a pair of Oakley's from one of the pockets. Placing them on his face, he made his way towards his first meeting with the much discussed David Musabe.
UPON ENTERING the building, Titus and his armored bodyguard were met by a small collection of President Musabe's private guardsmen. Decently trained, but poorly motivated men dressed in black and dark green suits, each carrying an AKS-74U Kalashnikov carbine assault rifle. A preferred weapon of the mujahedeen of Afghanistan, the weapon was notable for its versatility and use in close quarters. Like most of the general population of Zimbala, the guardsmen were remarkably dark−with striking, night black skin. They greeted the Olympus General curtly, motioning for him to follow them into the elevator that would take him to the top floor of the building. When Falco moved to follow, he was quickly halted by a shout in the guttural language of Ndebele from one of the guardsmen. Falco moved his hand to grip the katana on his back, knowing full well he could dispatch the entire lot of weaklings if they gave him cause.
Titus motioned for his bodyguard to stay behind. Falco sneered at the group of bagmen, but reluctantly lowered his hand. After entering the elevator, it was a brief trip up to the top floor. The bodyguards stayed inside the elevator as Titus disembarked and looked around. The office resembled a conservatory rather than a simple office. Besides the elevator at the opposite end, the entire floor was completely surrounded by high-density glass, giving an occupant the feeling they were hardly inside a building at all. The glass was slanted perpendicular to the office below. If one stood at the edge of the glass, they could look down the forty-five degree slope all the way down the building. It was a marvel of design that only a rich bastard like Musabe could have afforded in a country this corrupt and destitute.
&
nbsp; The elevator doors were located at the far end of the massive floor. Directly in front of him, almost one hundred feet directly ahead, was the mahogany desk of the President, situated near a massive landscape view of the city to the south.
As Titus walked along the intricately marbled floor, his eyes fixated on the figure sitting in the chair behind the ridiculously expensive desk.
President David Musabe.
The authoritarian leader was busy with a phone call, talking angrily to the party on the other line.
"−I do not care what they think! No you listen!" The president stood up from the desk in an angry huff, shouting loudly into the receiver. Titus noted that the man still used an old fashioned corded phone to speak with his subordinates.
"These traitors will not impose anything upon me or my government. They will heed my word or face the consequences."
The other voice on the phone spoke for a moment. Titus slowed his walk as he approached the desk. Flanking the president were two more of his armed bodyguards, staying perfectly at attention while their boss raged into his telephone like an angry car salesman.
"No! No no no! That is not good enough! The African Nationalist Democractic Union won the last election fairly and legally. There will be no re-election!"
The president slammed the receiver down so hard, the phone broke. Musabe looked at the mangled gadget woefully for a moment before addressing his visitor.
"Please excuse that interruption. Current circumstances have made me rather short with those in my employ."
Titus nodded, but said nothing.
"Well, in any case, it is good to finally meet you, Triboon Titus is it? I must admit...you are younger than I expected for one in your position to be."
The President made his way from behind the desk to greet the Olympus Commander. David Musabe was fairly short, clearing maybe five-and-a-half feet. He was in his late forties, but looked much older. Massive wrinkles covered his face around the eyes, giving him a perpetually tired look.
