NationStates Jolt Archive

Though the depression was coming to a close, people of Siriusa were still dirt poor. Despite the falling unemployment rate, most Siriusans were working for slave wages to large corporations; nearly 80% of the population was still below the pre-depression poverty line. The economy was finally returning, but it wasn’t fast enough for the people. To make matters worse, many of the foreign corporations still present in Siriusa. Every night there were protests outside the capitol building, the foreign embassies, the large foreign factories.

Ezaltian Embassy
Tenarius, Siriusa
7:26 PM

The crowd was getting unruly. Signs saying, “Ezaltians, go home,” “Stop holding us back,” and “We stand strong, we stand proud, we stand alone,” dotted the mob. As the numbers in the mob reached 200 strong, the police began to gather a safe distance away, preparing for the worst.

The police force, now about 150 men strong, slowly approached the crowd in a line, beating their shields to scare the rioters. The police in the ranks behind the front line loaded their rifles with rubber bullets. Then, without any warning whatsoever, a riot erupted. Gunfire left and right, screams filled the night.

The crowd turned on the police and started firing, taking the riot squad aback. The ferocity and organization of the riot was quite unusual. Fire from old H&K assault rifles battered the policemen’s shields, halting advancement of the line. The police opened fire with their rifles, shooting plastic and rubber bullets at the rioters. In the back, the squads were preparing to fire tear gas from mortars and several large tanks with water cannons were advancing. Even so, the police were outnumbered and quite possibly outgunned.

And then, as if from heaven, five CH-47 Chinook military helicopters landed behind the police, each deploying 20 men of the SAA (Siriusan Army Arm) and an M30 mortar. However, the police’s relief turned to terror as the army opened fire not upon the rioters, but upon the riot control.

What started as a protest against the Ezaltians ended up as a massacre of the police. With only a few dozen rioters injured and barely any of the army wounded, the entire police force present was ferociously butchered by the enraged rioters and the turncoat military.

With the police force out of the way, the rioters turned toward, the embassy and charged the doors like a herd of bulls, determined to destroy everything in their way. A few people slipped on the street, now slick with the dark red blood of the policemen, and were trampled underfoot by the riot.

The military stayed back behind the rioters, preparing to bombard the embassy from afar with the mortars as the helicopters headed back for reinforcements.

Small units of men in Legionnaires and Avenger (or Defender) SAMs patrolled the city around the area, making sure no civilians or members of the press got close. Plenty of planning had gone into this attack, and it wasn’t about to go awry.

Color Sergeant Victor Wellington had withdrawn his men to inside the embassy when the first shots had rang out against the police. Scattered gunfire bounced off the walls of the embassy and broke a few windows, sending the diplomats and staff scrambling for cover. Wellington flicked the safety off of his G-36 assault rifle and crouched under one of the shattered windows, taking a deep breath. The walkie-talkie on his belt hissed, and then "The staff are secure. We're in place, Sarge."

"10-4," Wellington replied, as he knew the team on the second story was in place. Reports placed the amount of roiters at nearly 200, most of them armed and with military assistance. Wellington's security squad numbered only a dozen men, armed with a motley assortment of G-36s, MP5s, and Glock 17s. They had fished out several sets of riot armor from the basement, but they were still sorely outnumbered and outgunned. Wellington's fingers wiggled on the pistol grip of his rifle, and then he reached for his walkie-talkie again. "On three."

"One."

"Two."

"THREE!"

Wellington raised the folding stock to his shoulder, bringing the optical sights to bear on a rioter's chest. His gloved finger squeezed the trigger smoothly, and the rifle kicked as three 5.56x45mm NATO bullets were emptied into the rioter's chest. Three bright red dots appeared on his yellow T-shirt and his rigor mortis made the Uzi he was holding empty its clip into the ground. Wellington's fellow guards followed suit, opening fire on the rioters closest to the embassy. They wouldn't defeat the crowd, but perhaps they could down enough to make them think twice about messing the Ezaltian property.

With the embassy guards inside, the rioters blindly charged the doors, still firing at the building, screaming whenever someone's head popped up. Those in the first ranks were easily cut down by the guards inside; it was hard to miss in such a huge mass of bodies. They fell near the top of the steps up to the building, blood cascading down the stairs like small, dark red waterfalls. The rioters scrambled up the steps, only to find themselves slipping in their comdares' blood. Some fell, but they were trampled to death, their face, chest, and legs pushed onto the sharp edges of the steps as the rest of the mob trampled over them.

Those in the back screamed to charge the embassy, burn it to the ground. But those in the front, raped by gunfire, screamed to run away. The back ranks shoved and pushed, and the screaming front row was slammed into the embassy doors,some of them impaled on the wickedly pointed handles.

The private next to Wellington fell, a bullet piercing his riot helmet and sending blood and brains spashing to the marble floor. Bodies lined the streets and embassy garden, but the riots incessantly pressed forward. Several of Welllington's men were dead, their bodies disgracefully, but necessarily looted for ammo by the other guards.

The heavy oak doors buckled inwards slightly from the unrelenting press of the mob, and then again, and again. "Fall back to the barricades!" Wellington cried, referring to the two mounds of sandbags and upturned tables a few dozen yards behind the doors. The guards pumed a few last bursts into the crowd and then drew back, inserting new magazines and sharing sips from a canteen. "Fix bayonets," Wellington whispered as he inserted the heavy blade onto the end of his rifle. He then inserted a fresh magazine into his G-36, working the bolt to load the first round. Apart from the creaking of the doors and gunfire from the crowd and second floor, it was eerily quiet.

The defense of the embassy was well though-out. The barricades were positioned on either side of the lobby, so the anyone making it past the door would be caught in a deadly crossfire. A request for reinforcements had already been sent out, but Wellington knew that it was too late. A private next to him propped his submachine gun onto the barricade, one hand on the pistol grip, and other wrapped in a rosary. Pray for us all, son, Wellington thought as a hinge popped loose on the door. Don't cry for me, Alice.

The mob pressed harder against the door, bending the oak nearly to a breaking point. The men in the front row screamed as they were squeezed so hard their ribs started to snap, causing some to scream louder and others to stop screaming and start coughing blood.

A few of the rioters formulated their own plan. each of them grabbed a dead body and, very carefully, crept up to the window. And then, using the bodies as shields, they jumped in. The ferocity of the Ezaltian retaliation was unexpected, some of the body shields (and the rioters) were nearly torn to pieces. Blood spilled across the white speckled floor of the embassy.

Nearly a kilometer behind the mob, the army's five mortars began to fire on the embassy, not caring whether they hit the embassy or the mob. At their calculations, the embassy would not last much longer against the mob and bombardment.

About three kilometers away, a trio of Behemoth II Main Battle Tanks approached the riot. above them in the skies, the five helicopters returned with a fresh delivery of men and mortars.

With a resounding crunch, the doors burst open, followed by a massive wave of rioters, weapons blazing away. The Ezaltians, distracted by the windows, were not coordinated in their counterfire. Rioters swarmed the barricades from three sides, gunfire taking down several of the guards before they closed in. Then it was a hot, desparate melee, with bayonets, knives, and fists taking the place of firearms. The Siriusans overwhelmed the guards, their dogpiling them and beating them into a gruesome pulp.

Sergeant Wellington's rifle was torn from his hands, and then a flashing knife came down, puncturing his chest one, twice, thrice. Blood poured from his wounds as he collapsed. He felt his pistol being yanked from his belt, and then a flash of light, and another, and another. The gunshots sounded strangely muted to him, but then darkness engulfed everything.

The mortars crashed down in a scattered area on the embassy and in the crowd. The guards scattered as a section of the roof collapsed, sending debris flying everywhere. The guards pulled back from the windows and took up positions facing the main stairway, training their weapons to gun down any rioter that started climbing. For good measure, and knowing that the downstairs guards were already dead, a pair of grenades was thrown the stairs the try and thin the herd.

The army had a word for the way the riot was going. Easy. The downstairs was already taken, which meant the battle was virtually over. Only a small amount of guards upstairs, nothing a crazed mob couldn't handle.

Inside, a pair of grenades came clattering down the stairs and into a mass of rioters trying to climb the stairs. Ba-bang! Suddenly, the stairs, walls, a ceiling were covered and dripping with blood. The barely recognizable remains of a few bodies lay strewn around the blast, as if trying to warn the rest of the crowd to not go up the stairs. Of course, the rioters paid no heed and charged up the stairs, slipping and trampling others all of the way, thirsty for Ezaltian blood.

Outside, Colonel Jenson watched the embassy from a distance. He knew it would not be long before he would have to quell the crazed beast and assume control of the situation himself.

He spoke a few select words into his radio. "Artillery, hold fire."

Immediately the bombardment stopped.

"SAA, prepare yourselves." He ordered and pulled out a bullhorn. Once all of the guards inside were dead, he would have to end the riot.

The guards emptied their weapons into the incoming tide, desperately trying to stem the flow of crazed rioters. For every Siriusan they dropped, though, one immediately took his place, and then the Ezaltians ran out of ammo. The guards were smothered by the sheer mass of rioters, and the same gruesome scene was recreated as the guards were, in some cases, literally torn apart. They had fought valiantly, but the embassy was now under Siriusan control.

Two floors below, Michelle Scott huddled against the wall, her blonde hair askew and her pantsuit disheveled and dirty. At only 26, she was rather young for a diplomat, but had graduated top of her class at the University of Orielle with a major in International Relations. All around the dark basement room, her fellow diplomats and Siriusan staff sat against the walls, listening nervously to the gunfire above. It cut off abruptly, and then scattered cheers and whoops took its place. Many of the people around the room suddenly started sobbing, fearing what would happen when the rioters made their way downstairs.

Harry Monsman, a twenty-six year old man with a mohawk, studded leather vest, no shirt, black pants, army boots, and bad attitude, and a couple of his new buddies explored the embassy. He hefted a H&K G3 while he stepped over the dead bodies littering the floor. He felt very confident.

Andready the mob was exploring the embassy, everyone trying to her his hands on something valuable. And Harry was just like the rest of them.

He wandered down a corridor and was met with a untouched door. So, being the kind of guy he was, he kicked it, crunching the wood satisfyingly under his feet.

He poked his head into the dark room and fumbled with his head for a lightswitch. He flicked it on, illuminating a staircase, at the bottom of which was another door.

He walked down the stairs and kicked in the door again. Ahhh, that was a good one, he thought as the wood splintered. He pushed the door open, and surveyed the scene before him.

Close to 25 people sat huddled in the small grey room of concrete. He looked around, finding pleasure at the terror on the people's faces. Lifting his gun, he looked around. "Any good, loyal, Siriusans in here?" he asked loudly.

One shivering man stood up. "I a-a-am, sir," he stuttered.

Harry unloaded three quick bursts into the man’s chest, throwing him backward. “Any loyalist scum are as bad as the Ezaltians. This is a fuckin’ revolution, it’s out with the old, in with the new.” He pointed at them with his rifle. “Now. All of you line up, and I’ll send you up top one by one.”

They did as they were told.

Harry inspected them one by one as they passed, then pushed them up the stairs to the mob above. At the last person he stopped.

“Hello-o-o there,” he said, smiling evilly at the blond diplomat. “You can just go sit back down,” he told her as he started to undo his pants. “What’s your name, pretty girl?”

Michelle screamed as the man tackled her, pinning her against the wall and wrenching her clothes off. "Shut the fuck up," the man growled as he drove himself into her again and again. His tatooed hand covered her mouth, silencing her screams to mere whimpers. After ten minutes that seemed like ten centuries, the man finally groaned with satisfaction and pushed her towards the door. "Go with your friends."

Sobbing, Michelle began to pick up her clothes from the floor, but the man belted her across the face. "Go!"

Clad only in her underwear, Michelle stumbled up the stairs and walked through the lobby, painfully aware of the jeers and catcalls of the rioters. On the lawn, the rest of the staff and her fellow diplomats were lined up on their knees, awaiting their fate. A gloved hand grabbed her shoulder and drove her down at the end of the line, joining the rest of them and pondering her fate.

Quelling the riot had not been a problem. It had only taken a few minutes to pry the prisoners out of the rioters' hands, and then less than a minute to round them all up.

Colonel Jenson spoke loudly and clearly through the bullhorn.

"I want every Siriusan lined up against the side of that building."

The crowd slowly began shuffling toward the building, like a small boy who knew he did something bad and was going to get punished.

The colonel took out his pistol and discharged a shot into the mass of people. There was a scream, and suddenly the crowd moved a lot more quickly. Sometimes people just needed a little persuasion.

He turned toward the embassy staff and walked up to them. "Are any of you Siriusan? Don't worry, we will not harm you."

A few tentatively stood, looking around nervously.

"To whom are you loyal? Ezaltia, or Siriusa?"

"I'm loyal to mighty Siriusa and her great Prince Jacob," one quickly replied, looking hopeful.

"Wrong answer." The colonel pulled his trigger, propelling a round through the mans head which exploded in a mass of blood, bone, brains, and goo.

"Ezaltia," another piped up, quickly using the process of elimination in his head.

"Wrong again." Three rounds went into the man's stomach. He would die more slowly than the other. "You all only have one answer left. Choose carefully."

"You said you wouldn't harm us!" one man cried indignantly.

"Indeed. And this doesn't hurt. You won't feel a thing." He lashed out with a foot and smashed the man's nose into his face, driving the bone up into the brain and killing him instantly. "Unfortunately, that was the wrong answer. That means that all of your chances are up, which is too bad." He stepped back behind the line of marines. "Kill them."

A second of chattering gunfire, and all was silent.

"Now you," he said, speaking to the Ezaltians, "will be treated much more kidly than this. We will let you live, we will feed you once a day, we might even let you send the occasional ransom video home to your government." Ten marines stepped behind the Ezaltians and handcuffed them. "As of now, you are in the care of the New Government of Siriusa, and we hope you enjoy your stay." The colonel grinned wickedly.

"What about the lawbreakers?" an Ezaltian man asked.

"What lawbreakers?" the colonel asked with a glint in his eye. "Nothing happened here."

The line of marines advanced closer to the embassy, towards the line of the rioters. As one, the marines lifted their rifles, took aim, and fired. Those who weren't hit or killed by the first round tried to run, but they were inevitably shot by the second, third, or fourth. Blood stained the walls of the embassy, a stain that wouldn't likely be removed.

"And now, if you'll pardon the interruption, I'll show you your rooms," the colonel finished, and walked off. The marines behind the kneeling prisoners yanked up on the cuffs, focring them to their feet.

"Now, march."

OOC: will post more later. This is only half-done. And Vontanas, I'm getting to you next.

Jenson led the prisoners to the nearest Siriusan police station.

"There's a swivel door, which means a chance they can get out," Jenson informed his men. "I need half of you to come inside with me, and the other half to wait here."

He turned and walked through the doors, followed by twenty-five of his marines. He walked up to the front desk where a pretty receptionist was waiting.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her eyes looking down at the computer monitor in front of her.

"Yes, we need a few separate cells to be used by the military indefinitely."

She looked up, surprised. "I'm sorry sir, I think I'd have to ask my superior about that."

"No need," the colonel said cheerfully, "If you could just direct us to where the cells are and where the chief is, we'll be on our way."

She pointed down the hall. "There's the cells, and," she pointed up the stairs, "the chief is up the stairs and down the hall. Do you have an appointment?"

"We do now," Jenson said and unloaded a round into the pretty girl's forehead.

Alarms went off all over the building.

He turned around to face his men. "Tell the men outside they can start sending in the Ezaltians," he said to one marine. "The rest of you, get ready for a little more excitement."

Cries of "What the hell?" "Who the fuck set off the alarm?" and "What happened?" filled the police station as the officers came running out of their offices, only to be met by gunfire from the military. A few officers managed to squeeze off a few shots of their own in the direction of the marines, but they were quickly cut down.

"Right," the colonel said after the smoke cleared. "On we go."

He walked down the hallway, followed by the Ezaltian prisoners and his small army of marines.

"Here we go, he said, stopping at one of the cells. He looked inside at the man sitting in the corner in a business suit. "I have a few quick questions for you. Who are you, what are you, why are you here, and when do you get out?"

He man looked surprised. "I'm Fred MacMellan, a stockbroker. They put me in here for a few days because I had a lot of unpaid tickets, and I get out two days from now."

"Nice to know," Jenson said, then he shot the man in the belly. The man screamed. Jenson unlocked the door and pointed to the first in line of the prisoners, a pretty blonde who was wearing close to nothing. "You. Inside. Now."

She did as she was told. He closed the door and locked it after her. "Now you enjoy your time with your new cellmate, what little time he has left." He did the same routine for the rest of the prisoners, shooting the person already in the cell then shoving the Ezaltian inside, to huddle in a corner as the injured man or woman writhed on the ground in pain before he or she died.

Colonel Jenson walked back to the front desk, humming to himself. He walked behind the receptionist's desk and flipped a switch. The alarms turned off. Easier than taking candy from a baby, Jenson thought as he reached for the phone and dialed his boss.


--[Encrypted Message]--
To: The Prince of Ezaltia
From: Siriusan Military Arm

As it may have come to your attention, the Ezaltian embassy was recently overtaken. As it were, we now have the Ezaltian staff from your embassy held hostage. We are not asking for ransom, no, we are merely requesting you stay out of Siriusa's affairs for the next two years, after which we will return the hostages.

If, however, you do not agree to these terms, the hostages will be beaten, tortured, raped, and have whatever other cruel treatments we think of performed upon them.

We thank you for your time.
--[/Encrypted Message]--

Michelle, still clad in only her bare essantials, knelt over the dying Fred. The front of his suit was soaked red, and his face was going white from the blood loss. Michelle hoisted the man up slightly to remove his jacket, shirt and tie, using them to try and staunch the bloodflow. Fred groaned, still more blood trickling from his mouth. "Thank you," he said thickly, and then coughed, splattering more blood on his face.

"Lay still," Michelle said softly, taking the pillow from the bed and supporting his head with it. "We'll get a doctor."

The man took an hour to die, a miserable, excrutiating hour. The entire prison wing stank of sweat and blood and cordite and shit. Scattered sobs of the hostages and groans from the dying echoed throughout the stark hallways, returned by laughter from the revolutionary guards.

Satine, Ezaltia

Captain Bruce Armitage of the Ezaltian Special Air Service stood with the rest of his twenty-man strike team in the armory, all of them donning their battle gear. Grey-and-black mottled urban combat fatigues were underlaid with a synthetic spider silk mesh, and more vulnerable areas were supplemented by Kevlar and ceramic plates.

Armitage slid an 11-round magazine into each of his SP-45 pistols, and then thrusted them into their holsters. It was an old tradition that Ezaltian officers carried two pistols onto the field, dating back to the old matchlock firearms. The SAS captain then clipped two thirty-round magazines together and loaded one into his DR-87 carbine, complete with silencer, pistol grip, and optical sight. A small camera mounted on one side, connected to his HUD, permitted him to see around corners without exposing himself to fire. Most of his men were outfitted the same way he was, but many carried light machine guns and sniper rifles instead of assult carbines.

The team then made their way out to the landing strip, where two V-22 Osprey VTOL choppers waited to take them to Tenarius. Ten troopers went onto each, and then they were off.

The Siriusans would never know what hit them.

Offical Communiqué

The Imperial Kingdom of Ezaltia does not negotiate with terrorists. Release the hostages, immediately. This is our last message to you.

See you in hell.

"What a shame," Jenson said after having reviewed the Ezaltian communiqué. "I actually hoped we wouldn't have to do this," he sighed.

They had been in control of the police station for nearly an hour. The whole operation had gone rather well, up to this point.

He picked up his video camera and set it on the desk in front of him.

"Hello, Ezaltia," he said, tipping an invisible hat. "This is Colonel Jenson of Siriusa. Upon reviewing your proposition of a rendez-vous in hell, we must say that we prefer our method of diplomacy much more."

He flipped the video camera off and got up from the desk. He pointed to two of his men. "You two. Pick one prisoner and meet me outside."

They saluted and ran off to the cells to pick some poor unlucky soul.

Outside, Colonel Jenson turned the camera on again and pointed it at the station as the two soldiers escorted a small, middle-aged Ezaltian man out.

The colonel pointed at the Ezaltian. "What's your name, and do you have any message to send home?"

The man wore a once-nice Armani suit, however, it was now splattered with bloodstains from his former cellmate. "I'm Chester Martin. I... just want to tell my wife Claire and my daughter Lily that I love them... more than anything in the world."

His face contorted, as if about to cry, but then he yelled, "Vivat, crescat, floreat!"

Jenson sighed. The proud stubbon idiot. "I guess we can edit that part out later," he said, then nodded to the two marines on either side of Martin.

The one on the right smashed the butt of his rifle into the back of Martin's head while the other brought his boot up and kicked him in the face. They knocked him to the ground and started to savagely beat him, kicking and hitting whatever they could reach.

Five minutes into the beating, Jenson pulled both men back. "That's enough of that. Cuff his hands behind his back and follow me."

He walked over to the back of a Humvee and pulled out another pair of handcuffs. He motioned the marines to bring Martin over to him. He pointed the camera at Martin's swollen face. With a sharp tug, With one hand he clipped one of the cuffs around Martin's left wrist and the other around a bar on the back of the Humvee.

"Now," Jenson said, turning back to the two marines, "you two go take a ride through the country. I'll expect you back here in half an hour." The two marines saluted.

"Have fun," Colonel Jenson said wickedly, more to Martin than the marines.

Tenarius, Siriusa

The two SAS choppers encountered no resistance as they flew across the city. Scattered fires and littered the city as they apporached the police station where the most recent intel placed the hostages. "Captain," Armitage's earpeice chirped, "There are several guards scattered on the roof and around the building. Permission to terminate?"

"Granted," Armitage replied, flicking the safety off of his rifle with a small click. The other chopper circled around a bit as his hovered above the building, opening the back hatch and lowering several long ziplines. The guards scrambled for cover, sending potshots at the hovering V-22. In return, two SAS sharpshooters dropped to a crouch inside the chopper and returned fire with brutal accuracy, picking them off with precise headshots.

"Let's go!" Armitage called, slinging his rifle across his back and grabbing the rope. His feet touched the roof lightly before he let go and brought his carbine to his shoulder. Another Siriusan emerged from a door leading downstairs, but two hollowpoint 6.7x53mm rounds planted slightly above his right eye sent his blood and brains splattered across the roof. The rest of the team landed behind Armitage as he surged forward, descending the stairs and gunning down any Siriusan that got in the way.

The team met only scattered resistance on the second floor, although the unlucky Corporal Grimes caught a bullet in his ceramic breastplate. They took another flight of stairs downwards, stopping in front of a door that said Lobby. Armitage drew a small snake-camera from his belt and inserted it under the door, watching the picture through his HUD.

"What's that!" Private Nicola said, looking up suddenly.

"It's BS is what it is!" yelled his friend, Private Brown. He was referring to his friend's royal flush which was now scattered on the receptionist's desk.

"No, did you hear that sound?"

"No..." Brown replied slowly looking around.

"Did you guys hear it?" Nicola asked another group of marines sitting in chairs and huddled around the coffee table in the waiting area. They were playing cards too. They slowly shook their heads.

Then there came a sound, much clearer this time.

"There!" Nicola yelled. "Did you hear that?"

"It sounded like someone shooting," one marine said, getting to his feet.

"Shit," Brown said, "we were supposed to be paying better attention! Go get the guards down by the cells, tell them something's wrong here."

As all 48 marines in the complex put themselves back on the alert, Nicola picked up the phone and dialed. "Sir, there's a problem."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the countryside, a safe distance from the embassy and police station, the two marines stopped the Humvee and climbed out to look at what they had brought with them.

"He's a sad sight," one remarked, looking down on the mutilated corpse of the Ezaltian. It was barely recognizable as human, much less Ezaltian.

"Yeah, what a terrible way to go," the other nodded.

They both looked at each other for a moment, and then pulled out their cell phones and snapped pictures of the corpse and forwarded them to their friends.

The second V-22 circled the police station, depositing snipers on several adjacent rooftops. They trained their rifles on windows and doors, waiting for a Siriusan head to appear.

Meanwhile, Captain Armitage withdrew his snake-cam and turned to the rest of his men, quietly assigning them to clear various parts of the lobby. "Moore, Brosnan, Connery, you take left. Bauer, Myers, Almeida, you take right. The rest, on me. Ready flashbangs."

A demolitions specialist applied plastic explosives to the door, while another trooper stodd to one side, his carbine in one hand, a flashbang grenade in the other. Armitage nodded. "Fire in the hole."

The explosives detonated, practically disentigrating the door and eliminating any Siriusan soldiers standing too close. The other trooper tossed his grenade. Everybody in the lobby would be looking at the door after the big explosion, and thus every eye would be exposed to the blinding flash 7 times brighter than the sun. The concussive sound blast completed their disorientation, and then the troopers moved in, quick, precise two-round bursts tearing through Siriusan heads and hearts.

One man with a large mohawk and a black punk outfit caught no less than six hollowpoint rounds in the face simultaniously from three troopers, blood and brains and bits of skull splattered across the wall. The only part of his head that remained was the rock-solid hairdo, which dropped to the tile floor with a surprisingly loud thunk.

The marines standing in the lobby were virtually blinded and deafened by the flash-bangs. Many of them, already crouched behind various objects for cover, simply dropped the rest of the way and remained -for the moment - safely out of Ezaltia's reach. The others, who weren't so lucky, were caught by gunfire. A few managed to fire shots in the direction of the explosion, but they were all eventually cut down.

Nicola had dropped down below the receptionist's desk. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit, he thought as bullets whizzed by overhead, one smashing the lamp not six inches above his head and another firmly planting itself in the telephone. He had been covering one ear and had the phone firmly planted in the other and his eyes had been on a pad of paper when the flashbang went off, so he was more or less able to see and hear.

At five feet tall, Nicola often felt like being small was a disadvantage, but not anymore. He successfully tucked himself into the weapons safe below the receptionists desk. Previously, they had removed all of the weapons and now it was empty, providing the perfect hiding spot. Nobody would find him in there, he would simply wait until everything calmed down.


In the back of the station by the cells, another twenty or so marines were waiting. They definitely heard the flashbang go off, but thankfully it wasn't loud enough the damage their hearing all the way back there.

At their Major's command, they waited for the firefight in the lobby to end. The Ezaltians wouldn't be expecting them there and they most likely would not be able to kill twenty armed Siriusan marines.

The marines had taken whatever cover was necessary. Some even hid in the cells with the prisoners after having them bound and gagged. If it came to it, they would use the hostages as cover and hope that the Ezaltians wouldn't be stupid enough to shoot their own people.

"Remind me to buy stock in Kevlar," Armitage laughed, looking at the two bullets embedded in his breastplate. He flipped his double magazine over and reloaded his carbine as the rest of his squad briefly searched the lobby for Siriusan survivors. Finding none, they continued on towards the cell hallway.

They approached the hallway perpedicularly, coming to an open door. Armitage poked his rifle around the doorway, the camera streaming the image to his HUD. The first glance showed nothing, but then he switched to thermal vision. About ten or so orange human profiles are crouched behind the upturned tables and desks, arms crooked in a way that undeniably showed them carrying rifles. Several other profiles, albiet much dimmer, were in the actual cells, although it was hard to tell who was a soldier and who was a hostage. One marine was standing behind the open door, less than a yard away from the SAS troopers.

Armitage drew a smoke grenade from a belt pouch as he coordinated his troopers with silent hand signals. They then donned thermal goggles so they could all see clearly where their enemies were.

The grenade sailed into the middle of the hallway, quickly filling it with dense, dark smoke. Armitage raised his rifle and pumped two shots through the open door, killing or wounding the man behind it. The rest of his troopers opened fire down the hallway, their bullets pumping through the Siriusan's cover. They moved in quickly, fanning out to face the cells and prevent the marines from either jumping them or shooting the hostages.

"Throw!" Major Faugh yelled as the first gunshots rent the air. The marines crouching behind the tables tossed their grenades towards the Ezaltian SAS team. It might not kill all of them, but it certainly would make their task much more difficult.

The tables splintered as the Ezaltian shots blew through them and the soldiers behind them. A few were merely wounded, not killed, including Major Faugh, who was hit in the leg and shoulder. He fell prone, playing dead and hoping the Ezaltians wouldn't find him.

Behind the door, the man grunted as bullets pounded into his armor. It had been the major's idea to take the police chief's bulletproof door and prop it up behind the door to protect the man standing behind it. Luckily it has slowed the bullets just enough that it didn't kill him, but it did feel like a few ribs were shattered. Even so, he slumped like he had practiced, so it would look like he were dead. He would just wait for the Ezaltians to run through, then he would shoot at the backs of the enemy.

Those in the cells held the prisoners - either Ezaltian or just regular jailed Siriusans - closely in front of them to protect from enemy fire. Once they saw a silhouette through the bars, they would fire away. Hopefully the Siriusans would remember to announce their presence before wandering out into the hall.

"Grenades!" came the call over every trooper's comlink. They scattered, retreating back into the hallway to protect themselves from the blast and shrapnel. But one trooper, the relatively new Lance Corporal Jack Kesey, saw a grenade bounce on the floor. Without thinking, he grabbed it and threw it back towards the marines. His heroics cost him his lfie, though, as another grenade detonated a foot to his left.

After the explosions were finished, the troopers entered the hallway again, obscured from the Siriusans by additional smoke from the grenades. Three bullets hit Sergeant Bauer from behind, knocking him to the floor. Armitage whirled around to see the man behind the door, obviously not dead. Another two rounds, this time not blocked by the door, finished the job.

Bauer, however, had fallen near one of the cells. With their impaired vision, the Siriusans in there probably thought he was dead. There were two of them and one hostage, a rather portly man by the look of his silhouette. Bauer fired twice at each orange soldier, knocking them down but not certainly killed. The SAS trooper raised to a crouch and fired again at each prone soldier to ensure their deaths before standing again and joining the rest of his team.

Several other soldiers were wounded by gunfire from the cells, but their comrades returned the favor quickly and accurately. At one point, they were forced to shoot through a hostage's arm for a headshot on a marine. Soon, there were no Siriusans left standing. Most were dead, but there were several wounded and dying. "How do you open these bloody cells?" Myers asked.

"Over there," Armitage pointed towards the door at the end of the hall, where a pale orange silhouette seemed to be sitting at a chair. "Moore!"

The explosives specialist hurried over and inspected the door. It was titanium-coated iron, stronger than on most secure vaults. The trooper sighed. "Sorry, sir, no bloody way in hell I can open this one."

"All right," said Armitage, frowning. He had an idea, but it was rather frowned upon by standard laws of war. Hell with it, he though. "Bring me a marine."

"Yes, sir," Moore nodded, and quickly returned with a Siriusan, a major by the looks of him. Armitage drew one of his pistols. "What's your name?"

The man had gunshot wounds on his shoulder and leg, but said proudly, "Major Nancy Faugh, Siriusan Marines, serial number 772890."

"All right," Armitage nodded, and then pulled him in in front of himself and pressed the pistol against his head. "You can see us on camera in there. Open the door or he dies."

Faugh looked up into the camera. "If you open that door, Second Lieutenant, I will personally beat your ass so fucking bad, you'd fit into a bag of MREs when I'm done with you."

Inside, Second Lieutenant George Hobbins stared up at the camera with terror. They had captured the major and they wanted the door open, but the major didn't. He stopped to consider his options. Either he opens the door and Major Faugh eats him alive and shits him into an assault rifle magazine to shoot at the Ezaltians, or he leaves it closed and the Ezaltians kill the Major. He remembered all of the horrible times in boot camp and what would happen to him if he let the major die on his watch.

"Just a moment," he said hurridly over the intercom. "It needs a password to open, I had it somewhere here..." and he switched it off.

Of course, he knew what the password was. He used the little time he had to use the telephone to call Colonel Jenson. "Sir?"

"This had better be really fucking important," Jenson growled. "You're interrupting my conversation with our commander."

"The Ezaltians got in," Hobbins said hurridly in a hushed voice. The door was virtually soundproof, but he wasn't going to take any risks. "Send backup, they have Major Faugh and almost everyone else is dead. They want the hostages."

There was silence for a moment. Then, "Damn."

Click, Buzzzzzzzzzzzzz, went the line.

Hobbins turned back to the intercom. "Found it," he said nervously, and punched the code into the little number pad next to the door. It wooshed open.

Armitage dropped the major roughly, drew his second pistol, and entered the control room, training both his weapons on Lieutenant Hobbins. "Open the doors. NOW."

The Siriusan hit a series of red buttons, opening the cells one by one. The Ezaltian soldiers ushered the hostages out, and Captain Armitage dragged Hobbins outside and sat him down next to the major. "Ezaltians, are you all okay?"

A muttering of confirmation replied, except for the poor man who'd been shot in the arm. One woman was clad only in her underwear. "Here you go," Armitage drew a thick blanket from a supply cupboard and handed it to her. "Ezaltians, come with us. Everybody else...well, you just got a 'get out of jail free' card. You'd better haul ass."

The SAS troopers surrounded the hostages and hurried them outside, where the two V-22s had landed and were waiting for pickup. The hostages and wounded all went on one, and the able troopers boarded the other. Mission accomplished.

Calvin Vanderbilt was shocked when, not five days from his arrest, he was set free. He never would have thought that this could have happened to him, considering that he was arrested on sixteen counts of murder, eighteen of rape, over twenty-five of child abuse and pedophilia (he had lost count), and a record-breaking count of thirty four kidnappings. He skipped off, whistling "Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah" and thinking of what he'd do to the next little girl he got his hands on...


Major Faugh was not happy with Hobbins. "I am going to shove my boot so deep up your ass," he growled, "it will take King Arthur to pull it out."

Hobbins gulped and scooted away, but Faugh only scooted closer.

"Stop it, you two," an Ezaltian said to them over his shoulder.


Colonel Jenson led a small platoon of soldiers to the police station. When they got to the main door, the first rank dropped to a crouch and raised their guns, but something wasn't right.

"Someone break down that door," Jenson commanded.

A brave young soul walked up to the revolving door. He pulled the pin out of a grenade and gently tossed it inside before running back to the line of men.

The glass shattered when the grenade went off, but the men didn't move.

Out of the smoke, a figure appeared with his hands held high. It was Private Nicola.

Jenson walked up to Nicola and grabbed him by the collar of his uniform. "What the hell happened?" he screamed, spittle flying from his mouth.

"They came in and killed everyone, and they took Major Faugh and another guy, I didn't see who it was, but I could tell it was the major because he was yelling all the way."

"Fuck," the colonel cursed under his breath. "How did they get away?"

"I heard a chopper taking off, that must be how their did it."

Jenson mouthed the word incompetent to himself. They couldn't afford to launch a plane from an airfield and fly it over Siriusa, it would be much too suspicious, especially if it was going at the speed it would need to be going for it to catch up to the Ezaltians.

He took out his phone and dialed. "Send out a message to all of the airports in Siriusa. Tell them there has just been a terrorist threat and we feel it is necessary to close down air travel."


Just a little north of Siriusa, in the Bay of Biscay, something stirred under the water. An old Poseidon Class Submarine Aircraft Carrier, now obselete thanks to the bigger Derelict Class, it was nevertheless useful for short stealth missions. It surfaced, with it some twenty-five aircraft, but only one was to be used for this mission.

Equipped with the minimum fuel needed and with only four of the eight possible hardpoints taken, an F-44 Interceptor was readying for takeoff. It cruised at mach 3.6 and, if the pilot felt it was really necessary, the afterburners could push it to speeds past mach 4.

With a roar as the engines started, the light aircraaft lumbered forward for a second, then shot off like a bullet, rising into the air. In little or no time at all, it would cross the path of the Ezaltian SAS team.

Michelle Scott was the odd one out. There was no more room in the hostages and wounded chopper, so she had to ride with the active team. The captain...Arthur? Was that his name? passed out bottled water to his fellow troopers and then sat down next to Michelle, giving her a bottle as well. "You all right?"

"Yeah," Michelle nodded, gratefully taking a sip of water. "Thanks for rescuing me."

The captain grinned wryly. "Just part of the job. Bruce Armitage," he held out a hand.

"Michelle Scott," the diplomat replied, shaking it. He wasn't bad looking, besides the fact that the area around his eyes not formerly covered by the balaclava was painted mottled black.

They rode in silence for a few minutes before the cry came from the cockpit, "Unknown bogey, vector zero-niner-zero, approaching fast."

"Siriusan?" Armitage jumped up and opened the cockpit door, looking over the pilots' shoulders.

"Most likely," the pilot replied. "Strap yourselves in."

40,000 feet over the North Sea
0045 hours

A brilliant full moon shone over the clouds, illuminating them eerily and making the whole scene very surreal to First Lieutenant Jack Renteria, snug in the cockpit of his F-119 Banshee interceptor. His wingman cruised slightly behind and under him on their standard air patrol in southern Ezaltia. It was another patrol just like the thousand others Jack had flown in his career, but soon something made it quite different.

"Attention, all friendly aircraft in the area. This is Pigeon 1-1, coordinates **** ******. We have a bogey closing in from the east, likely hostile. Requesting assistance."

"Roger, Pigeon 1-1, this is Halo 1-1. Moving to intercept now."

The two Banshees banked as their wing tucked in close to their bodies, allowing their massive pulse detonation engines to rocket the plane at Mach 4.1. Renteria had had no knowledge of Ezaltian craft in Siriusa, but then, he was just a dumb pilot. What did anybody tell him?

"Turn around now," the F-44 pilot spoke into his radio, to the two helicopters. He drastically slowed down, but he was still going nearly twice as fast as they were. "By order of the SMA, you are to turn around and land immediately. You are suspected of harboring fugitives and lawbreakers as well as illegally holding two citizens of Siriusa."

He flipped the radio to a different frequency and said, "They have been warned. Requesting backup, over."

A voice crackled over the radio. "Roger. Sending backup. A pair of Stanzas are on their way to your position."

Back at an airforce base in northern Siriusa, a pair of F/A-103 Stanza fighters were taking off. Stanzas pilots were considered the best in Siriusa, and among the best in the world. the limited number of these planes meant that only the best flew. Cruising at Mach 1.9, they would hopefully reach the F-44 and helicopters before they made it out over the open ocean. At that point, things would get sticky.

"Negative, Siriusan craft, you are interfering on an offical Ezaltian mission. You are ordered to stand down or you will be fired upon."

Renteria's wingman came in on a private channel. "Just got word from Command. They can't tell us exactly what's going on but orders are to protect those choppers at all costs."

"Roger," the first pilot sighed. At least they knew what to do now.

"This is your last warning," the pilot said into the radio. "You are in Siriusan airspace and are kidnapping unwilling citizens of Siriusa. Turn around or we will open fire."

The pilot switched his radio over to the Siriusan channel. "I'm not picking up any sign of backup on my radar. Where-" he started, but stopped. two dots were approaching from behind. He silently sighed with relief.

"Land now. You have thirty seconds to comply with our orders before we open fire," the pilot said. The he realized he had no idea on which helicopter the Siriusan prisoners were located. "Fuck," he said to himself, then switched the radio over to the Siriusan channel. "Stanzas, do not shoot to kill, just disable. We want to prevent them from leaving the country."

"Roger," two voices said in unison as the planes on either side of the F-44 pointed their guns at the helicopters.

"Keep going!" Armitage yelled to the pilot of his V-22. "If we land, we're done for."

Renteria flipped on his weapon systems and pointedly drew a AMRAAM lock on the Siriusan interceptor. "Clear out of our way, Siriusan, or I pull the trigger. Last warning."

"Time is running out. You have ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three-" the pilot stopped, distracted by the missile trained on his aircraft. He stopped counting down, pushed down as hard as he could, and hit the afterburners. Down, down, down he willed his fighter. If he went under the missile he would be safe.

The last thing he saw was the front of an AMRAAM bearing down into the front of his plane.

"Damn," the first F/A-103 pilot said. Into the radio he said, "Ezaltians, you have shot down a plane from the Royal Siriusan Air Force of the Military Arm. We have now been authorized to use force." Without another word, he fired a pair of Sidewinder missiles at the Banshee. If it didn't destroy the Ezaltian plane, at least it would drive it off.

The other Stanza pilot now had a bead on one of the V-22s. Rather than firing a missile, he let off a few dozen rounds from his 23mm cannons, aimed at the blades, wings, and fuselage. It would probably be enough to damage the helicopter.

"Halo 1, break! Break!"

Renteria pulled back on the stick with all his might, pressing his finger against the little button reading "COUNTERMEASURES." A string of flares popped out the back of the Banshee, and the two Sidewinders exploded behind him. A few bits of shrapnel pinged off his fuselage, but otherwise, there was no damage. "Jack, are you alright?"

"Yeah," Renteria replied, shaken but unharmed. "I'm fine."

The same could not be said for Pigeon 1-2. The line of bullets had all but shredded the starboard engine. "Pigeon 2, what's your status?"

The reply came back through the thick haze of static: "We'll make it back to Satine with the right tailwind, but we're sitting ducks out here."

"Roger that," Armitage sighed.