by Jim Roberts
There had been no intel that the URAF had access to those types of weapons. As Falco finally got the last of the blood from his eyes, he scowled, leaning back behind the emergency barricade placed on the gantry to halt incoming aircraft on the tarmac. Nothing they'd been told about these rebels had been true. Instead of being a poorly equipped force, they were in fact heavily armed with advanced weapons, smuggled in from Mozambique to the north and South Africa. Instead of being badly trained and of low character, the rebels were highly motivated and almost always fought to the death. The ANDU forces Falco had been assigned had all but fled after the fighting began to get intense.
He took a brief moment to go over the events of the morning. Upon receiving Titus's charge to retake the airport yesterday, Falco had met with the leader of the supposed Zimbala Armed Forces, a Lieutenant Matonga, before heading out. A fidgety, barely adequate looking soldier, Matonga had expressed resentment at having Falco and the PMC at his back for the mission. Falco had remained reasonable and told the Lieutenant he could choose his team's placement in the raid of the airport. The soldier had acquiesced to the request and from there, Falco's two platoons of Centurions had set out to the airport.
After arriving, he discovered it would be nothing like the cakewalk Titus had played it up as. The airport, a rather small, antiquated complex in itself, was hardened by rebels guarding nearly every area, inside and out. URAF snipers, armed with AK-74s were placed on the room, backed up by a man carrying an RPG-7. The Manticore armor was powerful, but even a well placed rocket strike could cause enough damage to crash the vessel. Falco had instead elected a more tactical entrance, approaching the complex from the far runway on foot, moving the Cerberus drones in first on point.
The result had been an all-out fire fight. There were, as far as Falco could count, at least two hundred men guarding the airport, all in fortified positions. The initial charge towards the complex had cost nearly thirty fatalities for Olympus, with intense gunfire cutting down Centurions one by one. The Cerberus drones had been successful in taking out several key sniper positions with their high powered miniguns, but the overall effect was nil.
And now he, and the surviving members of the two platoons of Centurions, were hunkered down amidst debris, airplane fuselage, and anywhere else they could find a wall between them and the concentrated fire of the rebels inside. In front of them was fifty feet of no-man's land, where rebel fire could tear apart anyone dumb enough to pass through it in a matter of seconds.
The old Olympus Warhorse had a tough call to make.
"Everyone pull back from the airport, now!"
The Centurions near Falco looked at him. He could almost see the questioning stares through their implacable helmets.
"Defilade now! Fall back to the baggage carts!" Directly behind Falco, about forty meters away, was a large assortment of various vehicles, carts and airport miscellanea that would make perfect cover and at least buy his unit some time.
Despite the curious order, the Centurions made no objection and began to pull back, firing at the rebel emplacements as they did. One of the rebels nearest to the entrance tossed a smoke grenade several meters from Falco's position. It began belching heavy white smoke as soon as it landed, obscuring the objective.
Fine. If we can't see, they can't either.
As Falco pulled back, he pressed a finger to his ear and activated the comlink attached to his lobe.
"To all Manticore Commanders; requesting low-damage strafing fire on sniper positions on and around airport structure, over!"
One of the Manticore pilots replied over the comm. "Sir, Tribune Titus has ordered that no damage be done to the airp−"
"I know what he said! I am in command here, he is not. Open fire, danger close!"
There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. "Copy sir. Danger close. Beginning strafing run."
From above their position, even over the din of the gunfire coming from the airport, the whoomp whoomp sound of the Manticore rotors could be heard. Falco ducked low behind a luggage trolley, peering over to watch what unfolded. The three Manticores' were soon in view, coming in quickly. As the helos flew over the airport terminal, heavy flashes of flame spat from the aircraft's underbellies. Round after round pelted the rebel sniper locations and machine gun emplacements throughout the terminal. The building was bombarded for nearly a full minute with heavy Vulcan-machine gun fire that reduced entire areas of the terminal to rubble.
Falco could see bodies of the rebels being torn apart by the hail of bullets−their limbs flailing as they were shredded like wheat amidst the onslaught.
They didn't have a chance.
After a minute of sustained fire, the Manticores bugged out, moving back to a hovering position out of firing range. Falco raised his head slowly, squinting his eye to see through the acrid smelling smoke.
The terminal had been reduced to Swiss cheese. Almost every window in the building was destroyed, with heavy damage to the outer structure. All over, laying in various forms of death, were the bodies of about three dozen rebels, slaughtered by the Manticore cannons.
"Everyone up, now! Get in and secure that building!"
The Centurions stood up from their cover and ran full force towards the terminal. Falco clutched his handgun and joined his men in storming the objective.
* * *
IT TOOK another half hour of sweeping the airport terminal until the last rebel was finally put down. All told, they had wiped out nearly eighty-some rebels, all heavily armed and decently trained. As Falco surveyed the central terminal of the airport, he had a sneaking suspicion Titus would find something about this to be annoyed at.
Falco was one of the longest serving Olympus Commanders. He'd fought on six continents, in eight different wars and had ended more lives than cancer. His decision to move from his former position as an Olympus point man and frontline leader to that of glorified wet nurse for Olympus's heir, was a simple decision borne of his innate loyalty. He wanted to make sure the future leader of the PMC, and the Brotherhood Falco loved so much, would be a man he would be honored to serve.
He had practically raised Titus himself, helped train him during his conditioning period. In every way that counted, the young heir was a son to him. He would tell the young boy during quieter moments in his training, simple truths.
"We are mercenaries. We will fight for men and nations without honor. We must have honor enough for everyone."
Of course, a son's love is not always returned.
It didn't matter to the aged warrior. Titus had the ambition and skill to become the leader he needed to be. This war, this contract would be the deciding factor in proving the boy was truly a man capable of one day becoming the Imperator and taking this PMC to the next level.
In the meantime, Titus played the petulant child and Falco his honorable dog.
One of the Centurion squad leaders approached the armor-wearing commander. "My lord, there has been extreme damage to the airport infrastructure. There is no power and most of the computer systems have been destroyed."
"Was it the Manticore attack?" Falco asked, afraid he already knew the answer.
"Umm...some of it sir, but most was caused by the rebels themselves."
"I guess they decided if they couldn't use it, we wouldn't be able to either." Falco placed his hands on the hips of his armored suit.
"Yes sir. What are your orders, my lord?"
"Post watches on all entryways. I will have a platoon of Legionnaires here in fifteen minutes to reinforce you, as well as several Cerberus drones. This airport may be of no use to us, but we will not be giving it back to the rebels without a fight."
Falco saluted the soldier, then turned to leave.
He could already hear his young charge's voice now.
* * *
Olympus Blacksite, Sadoma, Zimbala
"So help me understand this. I send you to retake the airport and you decide to reduce it to rubble."
Titus's lower l
ip was quivering with barely contained rage. Falco stood his ground, used to his young charge's outbursts. They stood in what had two days ago been an abandoned industrial complex, once used for metal pressing. Octavia had declared it perfect to house the Blacksite home for Prometheus while testing continued.
"I have no excuse, my Tribune. We had already lost two squads of Centurions and most of the ANDU soldiers you sent us to help. My only option was to call in the Manticore strike−"
"−and in doing so you destroyed a tactically important location! Our wonderful President has just sworn that he will contact my father if there are any further failures!"
Falco looked the young boy straight in the eyes, bringing all the bearing of his forty years of soldiering into his stature, "My lord, we destroyed the enemy force to the man. In war, one must make difficult decisions quickly." A cut on Falco's forehead began to bleed, forcing him to dab at it angrily, "We won the day, that was what counted."
Titus was momentarily cowed. "Fine. Can any part of the airport be salvaged?"
"In time, my lord. The President has already issued his people to begin cleanup efforts to get it back into working condition. I have given him one regiment of Centurions to aid in guarding the facility."
"Good. If that is everything, you may return to the capital building and oversee the reinforcements."
Falco saluted his young master, then took his leave of the petulant heir.
One day, you will appreciate what I do for you, boy.
IT HAD been almost a week since their landing in Sadoma. It infuriated Titus that it had taken Tiberius that entire time to muster up a single battalion to send as their reinforcement. Olympus currently had operations in over twenty countries. This invasion had already put a major strain on the PMC's resources and, according to Tiberius, a battalion was all he could muster.
So far, things had proceeded well enough. With the aid of Cerberus drones and Hyperions, the URAF forces were gradually being pushed back from the contested central area of the city. Octavia had been monitoring the Centurion capabilities and informed her lover that squad tactical acuity had been unparalleled. The Code implants were working very well so far. The Centurions were winning over eighty percent of engagements, even when vastly outnumbered. Olympus weaponry only bought so much success; when it came down to it, it was a soldier's instincts that gave him the upper hand.
But the true test, the real reason why Olympus was here in this backwards hellhole, was about to begin.
Titus moved through the Blacksite, searching for Octavia. It had taken only two days for Octavia's team to transform the once dilapidated factory into a proper testing facility that could suit their needs. For Octavia, everything had to be perfect in the Blacksite before the test of Prometheus could begin.
At the center of the factory was a structure that resembled a space age MRI tube. Titus understood little of how Prometheus worked and cared even less. All he wanted were the results Octavia had promised.
"Titus!" Octavia called to him from near the odd tube structure. He made his way through the assortment of personnel running here and there to stand in front of the beautiful R+D scientist. Octavia had donned a standard Olympus technical uniform, that of a typical medical jacket over her obsidian black body suit all Field Commanders wore.
"Tell me again what this...thing is? Why does Prometheus require such a device to function?" Titus asked, looking at the monstrously large tube-device. Vapors spewed from ventilation ports surrounding it.
"Prometheus's mind is almost completely controlled by the Code," Octavia answered. She made an adjustment to several mechanical ports on the device. "When he returns, his mind will be exhausted from the exertion put upon it by the billions of variables the Code forces him to calculate during combat. In order to keep his mind regulated and, above all, sane, he must be essentially frozen between operations."
Titus checked his watch, "Are we almost ready for the test? There are reports of a rebel offensive against the downtown district and I will be needed there soon."
"Titus," Octavia said, standing straight and looking at her lover with those coy eyes, "If this test is successful, this war will be over before you know it."
Titus took that as a sign to be silent. Octavia took her place at the central monitoring panel, using the gestural interface to connect herself to the camera feeds placed by spy drones throughout the city. The cameras would provide all of the necessary visual data for the test.
Octavia pulled on a Bluetooth headset and spoke to her fellow technicians, "First positions for Prometheus test. Test will commence in T-minus sixty seconds."
Titus backed away, trying not to be underfoot during the next few critical minutes.
"Where is Prometheus now?" He asked Octavia, hoping she wasn't too busy to answer.
"Three blocks from the downtown core. We have reason to believe a large rebel hideout is located in one of the abandoned buildings there..." she turned and gave him a smoldering glance, "...now be silent and watch."
A faint smile ghosted across Titus's face. The woman knew how to press his buttons. The large transparent monitoring screen began to show an aerial view of what, to Titus, looked like a single man walking amidst the burned out destruction of the downtown core.
One man.
Alone.
Titus mentally crossed his fingers.
Octavia spoke into the comlink, "Begin Project Prometheus. Now."
* * *
Downtown Core, Sadoma
Of all areas of the capitol city of Zimbala that had been affected by the civil war, none had been hit hardest than the downtown district. What once had comprised of several dozen ten to twenty story apartment complexes and business centers had been blasted apart by countless engagements between the ANDU military and the URAF rebels. Corpses of civilians caught amidst the fighting riddled the once lush boulevards, now dilapidated and bombed out; strewn with rubble and endless devastation.
Amidst the carnage, a little girl was taking advantage of the relative quiet of the morning to search once again for her missing sister. Anita, at only six years, had been raised by her older sister Cecil since their parents died. But after the terrible walking machines had moved through the boulevards, firing their powerful weapons at the rebel forces, she had been separated from Cecil. As they fled, Anita was pushed along with a crowd of fleeing civilians trying to reach the south district of Hatfield. She remembered her sister telling her that the rebels were offering protection to any Shona citizens. It had been their destination before the shiny black airships roared through the streets, firing those beams of fire that brought entire buildings down upon the people below.
The boulevard she was making her way through was almost deserted; a few shapes here and there moved amidst the detritus, probably URAF rebels, or maybe people just like her, searching for loved ones long lost in the war. As she padded through the rubble, barely covered by the remains of her brown blouse her sister had made for her, she began to wonder: was Cecil alive?
She had no idea.
But, the more she searched each day, avoiding the troops of armored demons that marched along the streets, she began to lose hope.
As Anita crawled over a large collection of rubble that had once been a private hospital clinic, something caught her eye. She froze, not wanting to draw any attention to herself.
It was a man, she guessed, swaddled head to foot in a brown cloak and cowl. Anita couldn't tell if he saw her, though he was only about fifty feet away from her hiding place. The young Zimbalan girl slowly kneeled down amidst the rubble, trying to make herself as small a target as possible. She never removed her eyes from the tall man.
He walked with hard, powerful strides. Anita squinted and noticed that his boots were strange; made of some sort of metal. They glinted as he walked through the debris. His body was misshapen underneath the cloak; as if he was carrying something on his back. So far, the man hadn't noticed her, or if he had, didn't care.
Near the top
of one of the burned out buildings, straight past the large man, Anita saw more movement. She saw shapes of weapons being carried by men clad in ragged, patched together uniforms.
It was the URAF, as her sister had told her. The rebels. The little girl had seen enough death and destruction this past week to know when a fight was coming. The rebels were going to attack this man. More shapes appeared at the windows in the building to the direct left. Anita froze, terrified. This brown clad man was not supposed to be here and the rebels were going to kill him. She thought she should warn him, but knew better. She lay against the rubble, hoping that she would live.
A voice shouted from within the buildings, a muffled word that Anita had heard many times before.
Shoot!
The entire boulevard seemed to explode in gunfire. Bullets wracked the ground near the brown man, ripping up dust and concrete into a cloud of turmoil, obscuring the man from sight. Anita thought she could see him being pulled off his feet by the indiscriminate fire, his body perforated by the endless hail of bullets.
One of the rebels fired what her sister had called a "flying grenade", that hit the brown man's position perfectly. From fifty feet away, Anita felt the wave of concussive energy the rocket propelled grenade caused. Anita put her hands over her head, protecting herself from the flying debris.
And then, the gunfire ceased.
The little girl gingerly lifted her eyes up from the safety of the ground, looking at where the brown man had once stood. Clouds of smoke and debris moved through the air, swirling up from where he lay.
As the smoke cleared, she saw him laying, his cloak ripped apart by hundreds of bullets. Anita closed her eyes, wondering why the rebels had had to shoot him so many times. He hadn't even done anything to them.
A sound from where he lay made the little girl look up.
