Post by Joe Fischer on Jul 22, 2017 15:20:46 GMT -6
Joe Fischer, member of the Alliance’s N7 program and its newest Gunnery Sergeant, stood at the back of the briefing room with his team.
Several other teams were in the briefing room, and the air was buzzing with speculation as to the nature of the mission. One team was usually assigned a mission so to have four teams together for a single mission meant something big.
The prevailing theory was a strike against the batarians and he had to admit it made sense; their saber-rattling had stepped up a notch in recent months and they had engaged in a number of provocative actions along the border with Alliance space.
The door opened, and a lean man with a salt-and-pepper flat top strode into the room.
Joe saw the eagle insignia on the man’s collar—a full-bird colonel—and yelled, “OFFICER ON DECK, ATTENTION!”
All talk ceased as each and every N7 snapped to the position of attention.
“Take your seats,” the colonel said. “You’ve been all called in to execute a mission against a high-value target.”
A vidscreen flared to life, showing a man with close-cropped black hair and deep-set brown eyes.
“Frederick Neumann,” the colonel continued, and the room exploded in conversation.
“AT EASE THE NOISE!” Joe roared in a voice that was said could make rocks wet themselves with fear.
The colonel nodded in gratitude at Joe, then resumed his briefing.
“Yes, he was an N7, emphasis on was,” he said. “But remember he turned his back on us and has become the very thing he swore to protect the Alliance against. Peaceful attempts to bring him in have all failed, so you’re going in and the objective is simple: Terminate—with extreme prejudice.”
Unease rippled through the room.
Terminate with extreme prejudice.
That meant the gloves came off.
It meant kill anyone.
Everyone.
But most of all, him.
It meant shooting first and weighing him down with bullets to the point where medical records would be needed to identify the body.
Even though the man had crossed the line, at least half the room—including Joe—knew him personally. They had been to numerous cookouts at his house. They knew the birthdays of his wife and kids. Some had fought, killed and even bled with him.
He was family, and now they were being ordered to kill him.
*****
Anyone who said N7s were nothing but a bunch of stone-cold killers must have only seen them while they were working. Everything they did, they did at 150% intensity: fought, trained, lived, loved—and grieved.
Whenever one of them died in action, the funerals had the biggest displays of crying. Men and women who charged fearlessly into battle unashamedly wept like babies, clinging to each other for support.
The funerals for Frederick Neumann’s wife and three children were no different. They had gone on a day trip to another planet to shop for a surprise birthday party for him. A pirate band had other ideas.
There were no survivors. Physical exams showed his wife and two daughters—both of them under 18—had been violated before they were killed while his son had been emasculated.
The church was filled to overflowing with grieving N7s and their families, the close quarters not a concern; in fact, those with wives and children welcomed the closeness.
Tears flowed freely—except from Frederick Neumann.
Not a single tear fell from his eyes.
*****
Joe waited behind a boulder that was near a waste outflow tunnel leading from Neumann’s hideout. During the preparation phase of the mission, he had studied the man’s tactics; they showed a man who would fight as long as there was a chance to win and had no problem pulling out if things went against him.
He had no desire to face the man but he didn’t have any desire to avoid him either; if the man showed up he would accomplish his mission. He and his comrades in arms were being paid a good amount of credits to put their feelings aside and do what needed to be done.
Not that he needed any incentive. In any military operation, there was always collateral damage, and but when things became personal they rarely became a concern to the person on the quest; they had put blinders on to all the suffering they were causing in an effort to ease their own.
In this case, it had been a nephew to a well-connected politician who all but threatened to bring his considerable influence to bear on ending the N7 program if they did not bring in their rogue operative.
More collateral damage.
A figure stepped out from the tunnel and Joe scanned him; it was Neumann.
He opened up with the Hurricane submachine gun he had requested for the mission, a departure from his usual Typhoon light machine gun.
He didn’t like the Hurricane. While it had one of the fastest fire rates that meant its accuracy suffered, something the builders had not really addressed yet the Alliance had bought them and issued them to its elite warriors.
Upon acquiring one, he had added in stability dampeners and had tweaked his Devastator mode settings to enhance his accuracy; he needed every round on target. He had further swapped out its usual ammunition for disruptor rounds, designed to chew through enemy shields even faster.
He fired the weapon until the heat sink had been expended, swapped in a new one and repeated the process on the target, sending him to the ground.
Joe then drew his Crusader shotgun—he would never swap that out for anything—and fired until its heat sink was expended.
“Scan the target,” he ordered his suit’s VI as he swapped in a new heat sink for his shotgun.
“Target’s vital signs are low and dropping,” it reported. “Death is imminent unless medical attention is rendered. Should medigel be applied?”
“No,” he said as he stepped out of cover and approached his former brother in arms.
Even though it hadn’t even been a year, Neumann seemed to have aged considerably. His full face was now a thin layer of skin stretched tight over his skull and his eyes had retreated deep into his sockets.
Joe stared at the barely recognizable form before removing his helmet.
Recognition crossed Neumann’s face.
“Hey Joe,” he said.
“Hey Freddy,” Joe replied.
“I’m parched,” Neumann said. “Help me out?”
Joe unclipped a canteen from his belt, opened it and offered some to the dying man.
Neumann lifted his head—or at least tried to. His time was growing short.
Joe lifted the man’s head and heard him swallow.
The man let out a sigh and went still.
Joe closed the man’s eyes then put on his helmet and activated its radio.
“This is Delta Seven,” he said. “Target is terminated.”
*****
On the way back no one spoke to him, though plenty of meaningful looks were thrown his way. He understood why they did it and didn’t let it bother him.
He wouldn’t have been good company anyway. He spent most of the journey going over old family pictures.
Several other teams were in the briefing room, and the air was buzzing with speculation as to the nature of the mission. One team was usually assigned a mission so to have four teams together for a single mission meant something big.
The prevailing theory was a strike against the batarians and he had to admit it made sense; their saber-rattling had stepped up a notch in recent months and they had engaged in a number of provocative actions along the border with Alliance space.
The door opened, and a lean man with a salt-and-pepper flat top strode into the room.
Joe saw the eagle insignia on the man’s collar—a full-bird colonel—and yelled, “OFFICER ON DECK, ATTENTION!”
All talk ceased as each and every N7 snapped to the position of attention.
“Take your seats,” the colonel said. “You’ve been all called in to execute a mission against a high-value target.”
A vidscreen flared to life, showing a man with close-cropped black hair and deep-set brown eyes.
“Frederick Neumann,” the colonel continued, and the room exploded in conversation.
“AT EASE THE NOISE!” Joe roared in a voice that was said could make rocks wet themselves with fear.
The colonel nodded in gratitude at Joe, then resumed his briefing.
“Yes, he was an N7, emphasis on was,” he said. “But remember he turned his back on us and has become the very thing he swore to protect the Alliance against. Peaceful attempts to bring him in have all failed, so you’re going in and the objective is simple: Terminate—with extreme prejudice.”
Unease rippled through the room.
Terminate with extreme prejudice.
That meant the gloves came off.
It meant kill anyone.
Everyone.
But most of all, him.
It meant shooting first and weighing him down with bullets to the point where medical records would be needed to identify the body.
Even though the man had crossed the line, at least half the room—including Joe—knew him personally. They had been to numerous cookouts at his house. They knew the birthdays of his wife and kids. Some had fought, killed and even bled with him.
He was family, and now they were being ordered to kill him.
*****
Anyone who said N7s were nothing but a bunch of stone-cold killers must have only seen them while they were working. Everything they did, they did at 150% intensity: fought, trained, lived, loved—and grieved.
Whenever one of them died in action, the funerals had the biggest displays of crying. Men and women who charged fearlessly into battle unashamedly wept like babies, clinging to each other for support.
The funerals for Frederick Neumann’s wife and three children were no different. They had gone on a day trip to another planet to shop for a surprise birthday party for him. A pirate band had other ideas.
There were no survivors. Physical exams showed his wife and two daughters—both of them under 18—had been violated before they were killed while his son had been emasculated.
The church was filled to overflowing with grieving N7s and their families, the close quarters not a concern; in fact, those with wives and children welcomed the closeness.
Tears flowed freely—except from Frederick Neumann.
Not a single tear fell from his eyes.
*****
Joe waited behind a boulder that was near a waste outflow tunnel leading from Neumann’s hideout. During the preparation phase of the mission, he had studied the man’s tactics; they showed a man who would fight as long as there was a chance to win and had no problem pulling out if things went against him.
He had no desire to face the man but he didn’t have any desire to avoid him either; if the man showed up he would accomplish his mission. He and his comrades in arms were being paid a good amount of credits to put their feelings aside and do what needed to be done.
Not that he needed any incentive. In any military operation, there was always collateral damage, and but when things became personal they rarely became a concern to the person on the quest; they had put blinders on to all the suffering they were causing in an effort to ease their own.
In this case, it had been a nephew to a well-connected politician who all but threatened to bring his considerable influence to bear on ending the N7 program if they did not bring in their rogue operative.
More collateral damage.
A figure stepped out from the tunnel and Joe scanned him; it was Neumann.
He opened up with the Hurricane submachine gun he had requested for the mission, a departure from his usual Typhoon light machine gun.
He didn’t like the Hurricane. While it had one of the fastest fire rates that meant its accuracy suffered, something the builders had not really addressed yet the Alliance had bought them and issued them to its elite warriors.
Upon acquiring one, he had added in stability dampeners and had tweaked his Devastator mode settings to enhance his accuracy; he needed every round on target. He had further swapped out its usual ammunition for disruptor rounds, designed to chew through enemy shields even faster.
He fired the weapon until the heat sink had been expended, swapped in a new one and repeated the process on the target, sending him to the ground.
Joe then drew his Crusader shotgun—he would never swap that out for anything—and fired until its heat sink was expended.
“Scan the target,” he ordered his suit’s VI as he swapped in a new heat sink for his shotgun.
“Target’s vital signs are low and dropping,” it reported. “Death is imminent unless medical attention is rendered. Should medigel be applied?”
“No,” he said as he stepped out of cover and approached his former brother in arms.
Even though it hadn’t even been a year, Neumann seemed to have aged considerably. His full face was now a thin layer of skin stretched tight over his skull and his eyes had retreated deep into his sockets.
Joe stared at the barely recognizable form before removing his helmet.
Recognition crossed Neumann’s face.
“Hey Joe,” he said.
“Hey Freddy,” Joe replied.
“I’m parched,” Neumann said. “Help me out?”
Joe unclipped a canteen from his belt, opened it and offered some to the dying man.
Neumann lifted his head—or at least tried to. His time was growing short.
Joe lifted the man’s head and heard him swallow.
The man let out a sigh and went still.
Joe closed the man’s eyes then put on his helmet and activated its radio.
“This is Delta Seven,” he said. “Target is terminated.”
*****
On the way back no one spoke to him, though plenty of meaningful looks were thrown his way. He understood why they did it and didn’t let it bother him.
He wouldn’t have been good company anyway. He spent most of the journey going over old family pictures.