Surgical Precision

None of the dozen souls inside the metal box dared to make a sound.

Beneath them, the engine growled angrily as it hauled its heavy load towards a predetermined destination. The soldiers within had memorized the route so thoroughly that they could have walked there blindfolded, but command had dictated that doing so would have been a waste of time. The cold metal walls offered little in the ways of comfort, and the thin seats that they occupied shuddered beneath their weight.

The people inside the vehicle were indistinguishable from each other, clad as they were in mottled black and gray armor complete with a face shield that sported a pair of hollow, green openings for eyes to peer out from. Their armor was some of the most advanced ever designed; skin-tight and sturdy, it nevertheless provided excellent protection from blade and bullet while still offering a high degree of movement for the wearer. Few pieces of gear offered so much versatility and protection, making the wearer nigh invincible against conventional weapons.

And it was really, really, really hot in that armor.

One of the figures near the end of the stoic double line shifted in place, a sudden break from the stillness that undoubtedly drew attention. She huffed in irritation, tugging at the place where the collar melded with the helmet in the vain hope of getting just a moment of fresher air. The carbon dioxide scrubbers ensured that each breath was clean and free of pollutants, despite the staleness of each inhale. Another armored figure towards the rear of the vehicle, closest to a set of sealed doors, turned their head to stare at the unauthorized movement. Despite the facelessness of the helmet, the glare was obvious, and the fidgeting ceased immediately. A voice crackled to life over the intercom,

“Five minutes to insertion.”

Their drivers were kind to them, it wasn’t often that they got warned this far ahead of time. Up and down the line, bodies began to stir as the momentary peace was erased by the warning. The figure that had glared at the fidgeting soldier tapped the side of their head, their voice appearing in each of their headsets, “Begin equipment check.”

Quiet, firm, and demanding total compliance, the commander brooked neither incompetence nor failure. At once the soldiers turned to their neighbor to examine each other’s armor and equipment for any signs of fault or misuse. Heart rates climbed as they went through the motions, checking valves and seals, ensuring that armor was properly clamped down and that weapons were ready. Occasionally one would find a misstep or a strap that was not perfectly tied down, a mistake that was quickly put right by their fellows. Their weapons, much like their armor, represented the highest quality found on the continent. Each soldier carried a Mark IV Executioner Rifle, a medium-barreled firearm that delivered depleted uranium rounds to its target at twice the speed of sound. The uranium slugs, created from the refuse of nuclear reactors, could eviscerate flesh and rend metal with ease. On their hips was the standard-issue sidearm, the Mark VII Enforcer, which utilized a miniature reactor carried by the user to irradiate rounds. Any successful hit was considered a death sentence, as the round spread its deadly poison throughout the body of its victim.

Their checks had only just been completed when the drivers once again spoke to them from the cabin, “Two minutes to insertion. Looks like it’s going to be a hot one.” The floor beneath the ensemble surged forward as the drivers accelerated, lending a surge of energy through the waiting troops. Shoulders tensed, heart rates skyrocketed, and fingers eagerly roved over trigger guards. Amidst the growing excitement, the commander had remained perfectly still after the announcement, “Prepare cores.”

The firm command brought the excitement to a momentary halt, as each reached beneath their seats, retrieving heavy boxes lined with lead. Carefully sliding back the covers, they retrieved glowing capsules which were then slotted into the packs that were slung across their backs. The reactors hummed to life, their combined noise being more than enough to deafen them to the rumbling engine. Now they were running against the clock. Once more the intercom blared to life, though this time the voice that came through was frantic,

“Thirty seconds people! Hang on to something!”

The vehicle swerved violently to the side, nearly throwing the passengers off balance, forcing most to grab onto rails welded to the interior. The drivers weaved back and forth, attempting to avoid some unseen danger that threatened to unmake their precarious approach. Beyond the protective walls, they could feel dull thuds from explosions buffeting the armored van, and they were firmly aware that the element of surprise had been lost. The van lurched hard to the right and flew into a skid, the driver’s curses streaming into the cabin over the intercom. Mere seconds later, the van righted itself and a green light flared above their heads. The commander slammed their heel into the heavy doors, sending them flying open. Light streamed into the cabin, and the sounds of screams and explosions shattered the relative calm.

Now was the time for the Internal Security Division to go to work.

The dozen armored soldiers of the EPID jumped from the rear of their armored transport and into a hail of fire. A large warehouse loomed large over a wide industrial complex, its twin smokestacks continuously belching pure white smoke into the afternoon sky. Breaking off into three fire teams of four, the soldiers scattered across the courtyard in search of immediate cover. The fidgeting soldier took immediate command of her fire team, breaking off from the command unit and dashing across open ground towards a set of shipping crates yet to be prepared for transport. One of her seconds flicked a switch on his Executioner and squeezed the trigger, releasing a canister of radioactive smoke in front of them to cover their advance. Holding her breath on instinct, she plunged into the heavy smoke ahead of her squad, ignoring the screams of her internal Geiger counter, and securing the containers with little effort.

The other three members stacked up behind her, their safeties long disengaged. Chaos reigned as the firestorm raged on all sides of the factory. Gritting her teeth, she motioned with her hand to split into two pairs and secure the yard. Moving immediately the rear two separated and made for the opposite end of the container yard. Taking the remaining soldier, a male nearly a foot higher and bulky under his armor, she burst from cover and sighted down the rifle. A figure roughly twenty yards away saw the movement and raised a firearm of his own in her direction. A brief exhale followed by the twitch of her index finger sent a single round the size of her palm slicing through the air.

Headshot.

The figure crumpled, prompting two more to peek from their cover behind piled debris to address the new threat. Two more twitches. Splash two.

Move. Jogging forward at a constant pace, she raised her arm and examined the display built into her gauntlet. A quick scan of the readings indicated that her Executioner was running half a degree hotter than expected. She rolled her eyes beneath the mask. Of course it was running hot, she was the one who had purposefully overclocked it. In her carelessness, she had lapsed in maintaining a periphery. Having barely dropped her arm, something hard slammed into the side of her head, dropping her to one knee. With ringing ears and her eyes swimming with pained tears, she growled angrily as she sighted down the barrel, searching for the impudent fool that had signed his death warrant.

But she was too late, her partner had already wasted the target, leaving a large smear where the chest cavity had been. Shaking her head to clear it, she gave him a nod of thanks. It wasn’t often that she was this close to seeing the grisly effects of a reactor-powered combat shotgun. Thankfully, the burly man was on their side.

They had wasted too much time and were falling behind schedule, and the last thing she needed was an earful from her commander. Picking up the pace, the duo wove their way through the yard, dropping targets as they went as if this were another day at the range. They arrived at the main building twenty-one seconds behind the other half of their squad, a frustrating miscalculation. Nevertheless, they dutifully stacked up on either side of the large, metal doors that separated the packing area with the storage yard. After briefly confirming that the way was barricaded, one of her squad mates came forward, unslinging a satchel at his waist. The other three fanned out with weapons primed, searching for potential targets that might interrupt the delicate work. She found none, but a few loud snaps to her left indicated that some had made their last mistake.

With the breaching charges set, the squad reformed a safe distance back and took cover. Tapping into their comm network, her voice sparked to life inside their helmets,

“Squad Engles, reporting in. Charges set, ready to breach on your orders.”

Barely had the words left her lips did their commander reply, and the irritation was palpable in the response,

“Forty-one seconds behind, Engles. This will show on your report.” Another momentary pause allowed the shame to sink in just enough for the squad to grumble, followed by the absolute command,

“Breach!”

The third squad mate clicked the detonator, and in perfect unison four balls of fire and debris cracked through the air, sending shockwaves blasting across the once-productive grounds. Specialized sacs within their armor inflated, breaking up the ferocious impact enough to prevent their bones from shattering. Grunts of pain and discomfort could be heard as the wave of compressed air crumpled metal and sent debris flying as though shot from a barrel. Their bodies bruised but unbroken, Squad Engles dashed forward into the breach, emerging into a scene of absolute carnage.

Dozens of bodies lay broken across the rent metal and brick structure, pieces of flesh and limbs lay and horrifying angles or even embedded into more solid structures that survived the detonation. Picking their way through the shattered remains, Squad Engles carefully surveyed the damage, seeking out any signs of life, be they friendly or hostile. In short order, they made contact with another squad, designated as Squad Gramsci. Wordlessly, Squad Gramsci fell in line behind Squad Engles as they swept through the lower production floors. Finding neither survivors nor resistance, the two squads ascended a set of stairs that were still intact to the second floor. It was here, after only a brief search, that they came into view of the remaining two squads.

In a large assembly room, likely for workers to commune in, they found a small group of uniformed soldiers in the colors of the Public Policing Division. Upon seeing their squads turn the corner, one man stood up from the desperate assembled, raising a grateful arm,

“Ah! I knew our call for help would be answered! And by the finest our fair people have to offer, no less! You see, lads? I told you everything would –”

Quick, decisive footsteps echoed down the hall. Engles and Gramsci immediately stood at attention and gave way to the figure marching down the hallway. Their commander had at last reached them.

In short order, their commander entered the communal office, and each man within caught their breath. She was the finest warrior the Commonwealth had ever produced, so the rumors went. Tall, slender, and imposing, she was the envy of solider and citizen alike. While on paper still only a platoon commander, her squad designation left little to the imagination as to their importance.

Squad Marx.

Leaving her squad behind, she silently stepped forward towards the man who had stood to greet Engles, drew forth the Enforcer from its holster, and put a round through the man’s temple. The assembled flinched as the body dropped to the ground, but none dared make so much as a sound. The masked helmet scanned the survivors, as if daring them to move. Then, she addressed them,

“Where is your second-in-command?”

On the far side of the room, a bloodied man heaved himself upwards to stand at a lopsided attention, the tattered remains of his right leg doing little to aid his stature. He saluted smartly, though his voice quavered with fear,

“Right here, sir! Comrade Emil, reporting as ordered, sir!”

She looked him up and down, seemingly unimpressed, “Congratulations, Comrade. You have been promoted.”

“Yes sir! Thank you, sir!”

And with the pomp and ceremony completed, the commander of the EPID’s First Division, Evandra Lotz, signaled for her men to withdraw.

Misson accomplished.