Chapter 8-4: Blindside - The Champion of His Nation

Admiral Anning- United Human Faction Assault Navy- Night 70

            The Faction ships blew their way through the Japanese forces quicker than Anning had expected, leaving them with little covering fire from the experienced crews of the former US fleet. Several Faction ships were sunk before the battle had truly begun. Anning stood in his Combat Information Center, watching the readouts and measurements as they were made. He was a hands-on leader, often likening himself to Napoleon, if only in his head.

            “Open fire on the enemy fleet. Ignore the Faction boats. We’re going to win this fight, not hold out until the civilians decide they’ve had enough,” Anning yelled to his crew.

            “You heard their leader, sir. She won’t accept that kind of argument,” a sailor replied, straightening his back.

            “Seaman, do you take orders from her or me?”

            “You, sir!”

            “The Faction doesn't need to know our tactics. Tell our ships to open fire, regardless of range or line of sight. I want to see every ship on this side of the island firing on the enemy. Those on the other side had better be lighting the jungles on fire,” Anning ordered, turning to the leader of his Marine detachment. “Marine, is there a helicopter ready for me?”

            “Sir, we have five transport helicopters fueled and a marine platoon ready to move. One of the helicopters is on the pad.”

            “Get me on one of them, and fly another with a second squad of marines alongside. We’re going to need fighter support on the way to the enemy flagship.”

            “The Faction Regional Commander is on her way to the flagship now. With respect, Admiral, we can’t afford to lose you.”

            “Get me to that ship alive, and I’ll deal with the rest,” Anning said, walking out of the CIC.

            Napoleon sat on his horse and watched his men win his wars. Napoleon’s men lost in the end. Anning refused to lose.

Chapter 8-3: Blindside - Light 'Em Up

Julian- United Human Faction- Night 70

            Julian dismissed his guards before the US helicopter arrived. The enemy couldn’t target him if they couldn’t see him, especially in an area like a school. The men on the other side of the camera would have to see the mask to open fire on someplace there could be innocents. Of course, there were no innocents within a hundred miles of the Faction line. Every man woman and child fought in the streets on the first day of the revolution, regardless of standing. Some, including the man approaching the commander’s tent, had fought harder and more brutally than most.

            Richard entered the tent with his revolver drawn. Julian’s heart skipped a beat as he reached toward the mask, seeking its calming grip. Richard cocked his pistol at the same moment, releasing a held breath as the twisted hammer snapped into place. Julian sat on the matted floor of his tent.

            “Don’t touch the mask. This gun’s got a bullet with your name on it,” Richard whispered, beginning to chuckle.

            Julian stared up terrified, before pulling back his arm.

            “Good boy. Your on my leash now,” Richard said.

            He reached down and picked the mask up himself, pulling on the strap before looking back at the pathetic figure sprawled on the floor below him. The mask would ft just fine when the demagogue was dead. Thinking over the consequences, Julian’s feeling of violation left. He was still invisible in the eyes of those who mattered. The street rat held no sway, especially considering the conversation playing out in Julian’s earpiece.

            “What happens when you kill me Richard? Do you wear the mask? Will people believe that when I’m found dead and the man with your name falls off the face of the Earth? You don’t think they’ll figure it out? Do you think people are that stupid?” the Unmasked Man almost yelled.

            “I’ll take my chances. I’ve changed my name before. Even John doesn’t know who I am!”

            “I know who you are now, freak. I know what I’ve made you! I know you can’t run away anymore,” the leader of the revolution rose to his feet, brushing off his cheap rented suit. “You don’t get to run away anymore, because half the nation knows your face this time. Half the world will be out to kill you to avoid the spread of my plague! You’re my creation! You can’t kill me until you’re already dead.”

            Richard growled, almost throwing Julian off guard, but he kept his new imaginary mask set in place.

            “You walk out of this tent. Watch what they do to you.”

            “The Faction will welcome me. A decisive leader. Someone who’ll lead them to victory, not into the abyss. You’re an anarchist degenerate like I used to kill in the streets. I’m the only one worthy of this mask!”

            “If you really think so, walk out there right now. Test your luck, Campbell. See where it gets you.”

            Julian’s earpiece buzzed with activity. Intercepted US radio transmissions blared, informing the leader of the revolution of their every move.

            “Bushmaster, this is Banshee two. We’re moving toward the enemy encampment now. Requesting permission to engage. Over.”

            “Negative, Banshee. Hold fire unless fired upon.”

            “Roger that. We’re moving in. Cameras on.”

            “Banshee, Bushmaster, Report.”

            “We’ve got fifty plus contacts in the courtyard, more moving out of sight. I estimate thirty moving along the east wall, out of view. Are you seeing this, sir?”

            “Affirmative. You still do not have permission to engage.”

            “I think I see someone with an rpg on the west wall.”

            “Negative, keep scanning for enemy HVT’s in the area.”

            “Oh my God.”

            “What is it Banshee?”

            “Someone just walked out in a mask!”

            “Repeat, Banshee. Did you just say someone is wearing a mask? Over.”

            “Banshee, this is Overwatch. The school has not been cleared. There are civilians in the area. Do not engage. I repeat, do not engage. Out.”

            “Banshee, this is Bushmaster. Repeat last. Over.”

            “We have a single individual with a white mask in the middle of the courtyard. The camera is on him now. Over.”

            “Roger, Banshee. We see him. Priority one target identified. You are cleared for immediate attack.”

            “Bushmaster, Overwatch just ordered us to stand down, over.”

            “Banshee, your orders are to kill the target immediately. Over.”

            “Man, they just said there were civilians. There could be kids in there!”

            “Banshee, Bushmaster. Fire now.”

            “Sir, what should I do?”

            “Light ‘em up, Lieutenant.”

            “Shit. Yes sir, cap’n.”

Chapter 8-2: Blindside - Beginning the Assault

-->

Sharon- United Human Faction- Night 70

            Sharon’s transport boat ripped a divide in the sands of the Big Island, tossing about its crew and leaving behind its formerly onboard motor. The Faction commander threw herself against the bow of the boat, tearing her way into the darkness of war.

            She was surprised by the brightness of the night. Anning’s jets towed bright trails of flame over the top of the volcano, likely showering the opposite ocean with burning hot tracer rounds. Her own men, many of whom had already disembarked, covered the beach with glowing markers and flares as they charged into cover. Some soldiers marked their presence with loud yells, pops, and flashes as they marked the mountainside as their territory and, in many cases, their homeland. Inexperienced civilians test fired their weapons into the distance, some gasping as the weapons protested with force, others breaking down in sobs as the reality of their fates became evident. Those Hawaiians who chose to continue fighting clustered around the experienced Faction troopers, running into the streets and jungles to meet the enemy, and those who did not often looked back toward Maui, watching as Anning’s ships spread molted metal across the horizon. Anning’s own carrier was a true marvel, a mobile weapons platform covered in anti-aircraft machineguns, what Sharon would label as artillery cannons, and the bright, silent railguns of science fiction novels.
          She was distracted, and rightly so, by a raft hovering at the edge of the tide. She waded toward the Admiral’s forces and leapt into the boat. A Faction agent, burn scars covering his once handsome face, accelerated toward the Japanese command ship, ready to give his life for the sake of his brothers. Sharon was not sure she could make the same sacrifice, but understood that, this night, she could die with dignity.

Chapter 8-1: Blindside - Another Favor

-->

John- United Human Faction- Night 70

            A bright flash of yellow bathed the base, followed by a wave of grey concrete dust. The blast threw John from the top bunk onto the floor of the barracks, twisting back his arm and cutting the side of his scalp. Walls blew loose around him, and screams were cut short by further flashes and echoes of explosions. He quickly pulled himself off the ground, cursing as his wounded shoulder popped back into place. A dizzying array of lights arranged themselves over his vision, and the ground began to sway. John closed his eyes and tried to focus on his own balance. He couldn’t lose his composure, not during an attack like this. He wouldn’t let down his brothers.

            John opened his eyes, stabilizing his stance and brining his vision level. American soldiers lay crumpled before him, some with sidearms in hand. The sound of ricocheting bullets began to fill the tight outer corridor, telegraphing the approach of the first wave of Vietnamese foot soldiers.

            “What happened? John help me out!” a civilian yelled from behind.

            John turned to see the reporter assigned to his unit on the ground behind him. The idiot had always been unprepared for combat, but seeing him lying on the floor in what appeared to be a business suit was more appalling than usual.

            “Get on your feet, dumbass. We’re under attack. Korean Bulldozer hit the west wall hard. We got men down,” John yelled back. “Make yourself useful for once!”

            “Not now, God, not now,” the reporter muttered, strikingly unconcerned.

            The man wiped his suit clean and investigated several new holes in his once pristine sports coat. He quietly sighed and ran his fingers through his dirty blonde curls.

            “Fine, if you’re not going to help, I can leave you behind.”

            After checking to make sure the hallway was clear, John sprinted to one of his fallen comrades. Saying a short prayer, he pulled the pistol from the man’s limp grip. The weapon was unfamiliar, definitely not standard issue. It was light and felt flimsy in his hand, had a smaller clip than he was familiar with, and cocked awkwardly. It felt more like the weapons local cops threatened him with when he was a reckless teenager than those he had been trained with before he shipped out.

            “Dammit, John, we can’t have this right now! Snap out of it and lets work out an escape route!” the reporter yelled, slowly walking out into the hallway.

            John was stunned. Where was he? A POW camp? Had he been captured? For how long?

            “We need to get out of here before they blow the whole place to hell. The soldiers will shoot you on sight if I’m not with you,” the reporter yelled over the increasingly frequent sounds of gunfire.

            John turned, noticing that the dead soldier now appeared Korean and that the civilian in the suit was no journalist. His posture, his gait suggested a confidence not found in any amateur journalist. This was a man with experience.

            The experienced man grabbed John by the arm and began dragging him out into the cold. Last John remembered, he had been fighting in the Summer Offensive. He didn't remember trudging through frozen wastes. In fact, he had no recollection of how long he had been detained, or even who had captured him.

            “We can’t go out there, the enemy’ll see us,” John screamed pulling out of the man’s grip and dropping his weapon.

            His confusion grew as he ran back toward the rubble, the ground falling farther from his vision, and his legs moving farther to the side the quicker he ran. Something wet dripped down from his hairline as he fell to his knees, staining the snow red. The impact of a well-polished shoe threw John to the ground. The gash in his head seemed to pull itself open further as it came into contact with the frozen ground.

            “That airstrike wasn’t exactly subtle. Do you really want a war with the Canadians? They’ve got the whole European Union on their side.”

            “Sir, I don’t plan the ops, I just follow my orders.”

            “By that logic, you would have yelled Oppenheimer the second you saw me. That’s my challenge. The reply is Shiva.”

            “Senator Glass, we need to get you out of here now. There are two helicopters a mile north that’re spun up and ready to fly back to DC.”

            “I’m not leaving without my escort. He’s the only person I trust right now.”

            "The one you nailed in the back of the head?"

            "Did you see anyone else with me?"

            “Someone pick that guy up and get him back to the exfil point! We're already late!”

            The ground fell away as the Canadian stars faded into darkness.

Chapter 7-9: Neglected Motion - Friend or Foe Recognition

Julian- United Human Faction- Night 70

            Julian logged on to the Faction Command Network for the first time in a week. The red “spheres of influence” as Paul’s late wife spread across the map like wildfire, combining satellite maps and online resources into a comprehensive record of Faction and “Allied” actions. Karen had never seen the Faction as a force for good. In her mind, Napoleon was a greater destroyer than those who had defeated him. Julian’s mind had begun to change lately.

            Red spots, a mile in diameter each, marked Faction control zones. Across the entirety of the United States, and now small pockets of Eastern Europe and the Middle East, where prior revolutions had already destabilized the classical power structure, were blanketed with the spots. Even Colorado was now represented by the clear revolutionary paint. Julian couldn’t help but smile. His college friends’ pet project had finally become a defining force in the world. He finally stood at the crest of the wave.

            The Faction border was met with a thick blanket of blue. US troops, each assigned numbers and GPS signatures, rushed to the front every day, awaiting their chance to defend the antiquated America of their forefathers. Paul’s doubts had always been justified. It was not entirely Thomas’ fault the East had not followed the lead of the war-torn West. Julian’s thoughts wandered for over an hour. He wondered where Sharon was, who Richard was, how he would be remembered should his face become known post-mortem, and how he would choose to die.

            His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden explosion of color above the northern border. A blip of blue flickered and died in Canada, a nation suddenly engulfed in red. Jeremy Glass was dead. That was the only explanation. And now he would have to reprogram the entire recognition system, if he could figure out how.

            He thought of telling Sharon to make more masks.