On the hastily cleared landing zone of Fort Howe's landing platform, an APOD-33 Gladiator transport ship descended onto the blood-stained asphalt runway, guided by signal lights. As its engines shifted into vertical thrust mode, a wave of searing heat with the scent of ozone swept outward. The frost that had formed on the stabilizer fins at the rear of the transport instantly melted, and the resulting white steam was quickly dispersed by the frigid dawn winds of Turaxis II.
A squad of paratroopers clad in white powered armor filed down the lowered ramp, with their commanding officer, Major Edmund Duke, bringing up the rear. Following them, a pure white-painted Goliath combat mech emerged from a compartment beneath the transport's fuselage.
"The 33rd Assault Division—well, well, an old acquaintance. This isn't our first meeting, Horace Warfield. The last time I saw you was on Onuru Sigma. Back then, you were still a 'private third class' under Mengsk."
Major Duke gave no orders to attack. Instead, he strolled toward Warfield with a deliberate calm. Augustus stood directly behind Warfield, clearly positioned as his adjutant.
Major Duke was a big man—broad shoulders, barrel-chested, powerfully built. The thick, reinforced powered armor wrapped around him made him appear even more imposing. His stride was firm and energetic, but with the exaggerated swinging of his muscular arms, his gait resembled that of an enraged silverback gorilla more than that of a dignified Federal officer.
"Being a fireman isn't easy, huh? Without Alpha Squadron here to change your diapers, you'd be wailing in a crib."
Duke's helmet slowly retracted to reveal a gaunt, wrinkled face. Deep-set eyes lay beneath sharply angular cheekbones, and a narrow jaw with thin lips completed the picture.
"What's up with that Marine behind you? Is that a Sea Dragon?"
Duke had quickly noticed the unusual paint scheme on Augustus's armor.
"No, they're all bona fide Federal soldiers. And I have no obligation to explain the details to you," Warfield replied coldly, not even bothering to lower his faceplate. "It's been a while, the famous Major Edmund Duke—a rising star of the Duke family of Tarsonis, and only forty years old."
"Word is, Alpha Squadron's Duke never loses a battle—has more medals and commendations than any general currently serving. But on Sigma, your troops kept getting thrashed."
Warfield didn't hold back.
"Three years ago, you and Arcturus were both still lieutenants. Now he's already a colonel."
"Rubbish. Fleet and Marine promotion systems aren't the same. That's enough—I won't stoop to your level. We've got nothing more to discuss."
Major Duke's nose twisted in irritation. He no longer cared about the unusual paint job on Augustus's armor.
"My troops will be ready for combat shortly. Where are yours? We need to retake this fortress immediately."
"That year, in Noranda, I subdued two terrorists with one hand. Then, I was surrounded by rioters ten times my number, each one armed with a shotgun."
Flustered by how things were going, Duke shifted to bragging about his early days in the Marines.
"I remember you saying it was five last time," Warfield muttered with a frown.
"That time, it was on a satellite of the A1977 marsh gas planet."
"You're talking about Noranda."
"You're mistaken," Duke said flatly. He'd come here intending to mock Warfield, but things weren't going according to plan.
Warfield had no interest in hearing more of Duke's boasts.
"Let's talk business. My men have already secured the landing platform of Fort Howe, but the rest of the area has fallen into the hands of the Sea Dragon Legion. We've captured a few prisoners, and according to them, there are still around 200 Sea Dragon soldiers in the fortress. Setting aside the wounded, those capable of continuing to fight number even fewer."
"Here's my attack plan," Warfield continued. "Fort Howe is divided into five distinct zones. We should start by retaking the command center."
"Enough. I don't have time to listen to you ramble on."
Duke crossed his arms over his chest, eyes narrowed in disdain. "Who do you think you are? One of those babbling clowns from the General Staff?"
"In my view, there's only one way to win—and that's by charging forward without hesitation."
When Augustus looked at him, the arrogance on the Alpha Squadron major's face was plain as day.
"The Federal army is a force straight out of hell, and I've proven time and time again that the Kel-Morian people are nothing but gutless cowards—a bunch of country bumpkins digging in the mud for shiny rocks with their asses in the air."
"Any so-called 'strategic deployment' that accomplishes nothing is just a waste of time. We have two paratrooper companies and four Goliath combat mechs. We don't even need a plan to stomp a bunch of ants. We advance. Crush everything in our path. Kill every last Kel-Morian."
"Alpha Squadron doesn't accept surrenders. And we don't need prisoners!"
Duke scowled, visibly annoyed.
"If you're scared, Warfield, you can stay here with your Marines."
"My men were up at three in the morning. We didn't even get a decent cup of hot coffee before rushing to this frozen hellhole to clean up your mess. If we're lucky and wrap this up quickly, maybe we'll get a nap in later."
"Alpha Squadron, assemble!" he ordered.
"Marines! What's our motto?"
"First in, first out! We are the Blood Hawks!"
With a whirr of servos, Duke's faceplate sealed shut. He led Alpha Squadron eastward along the road Augustus had arrived by. The thunderous advance of the hundreds-strong force quickly disappeared from Augustus and Warfield's view.
"Is he always that confident?"
Augustus asked as he stood watching Alpha Squadron march away.
"Edmund's always been like that," Warfield replied.
"That reckless approach has gotten him burned more than a few times, but he never changes. Back on Sigma, your brother and I already knew him."
"What do you think of him?" Warfield asked.
"Arrogant, rude, and brutal," Augustus replied.
"You've got a sharp eye," Warfield said, turning to look at him.
"What does Arcturus think of him?" Augustus asked.
"Hmm... A silverback gorilla rampaging through its tiny jungle, constantly furious because its brain is too small to process anything else," Warfield said.
"Sounds about right." Augustus nodded in agreement.
"The metaphors from the Mengsk family are always something else."
As he spoke, Warfield saw a flicker of Arcturus in Augustus. There were many similarities between them—but deep down, they were entirely different.
"All right, little Mengsk, it's about time we caught up to them."
"We can afford to wait a little longer," Augustus said. "Duke's obsessed with victory and insists on charging ahead. Let Alpha Squadron do the charging and dying."
...
Augustus and Warfield spread out a map of Fort Howe's interior and began discussing their next move, while the remaining soldiers of First Company gathered around to listen. Unconsciously, Warfield had already come to view Augustus as his deputy. Aside from Third Platoon, only three squad leaders and platoon leaders remained.
"Alpha Squadron may be lousy at brawling, but they've always been known for their aggressive and unrelenting combat style. No matter what, they're still an elite unit. They should be able to retake most of the key facilities and buildings in this fortress fairly quickly," said Augustus.
"But Duke's forces are running wild with no clear objective. Even a single fortified tower could tie them down for quite some time."
"Exactly. That's why we need to seize the armory first. We can't let the Kel-Morian bastards clean it out," Warfield said. "Form up, First Company! We've still got a tough fight ahead. Get those APCs moving—whatever we can still drive!"
Although the soldiers of the company had been on edge and fighting nonstop all night, utterly exhausted, they still obeyed Warfield's orders without hesitation. They quickly regrouped, checking their weapons as they waited for the next command. Platoon Leader Reagan of Third Platoon led a group off to search for the vehicles Warfield had requested.
...
"I've been to the armory. The walls were lined with brand-new CMC-300 power armor suits, and the floor was stacked with crates of 20-round combat shotguns and Ripper rifle ammo. There were about two truckloads of palm-sized Spider Mines imported from Umoja—top-tier stuff. Supposedly, they can automatically identify enemies, so there's little risk of friendly fire."
"If we can secure or recover that gear, I guarantee the Department of Military Affairs will be tripping over themselves to pin medals on our chests," Augustus said.
"Umojans? I thought the Umojans were on the Kel-Morian Combine's side," said Raynor over Squad One's comm channel. "Haven't they been condemning the Terran Confederacy's shameless invasion of Kel-Morian territory in their 'local' media this whole time?"
"Money talks," Tychus cut in. "Who's gonna say no to more credits?"
"Let's go. By the time we reach the armory, Edmund's people might've already driven the Sea Dragon Legion out of Fort Howe," Warfield said.
"Wait—where's Vanderspool?" Augustus scanned the assembled Marines, but couldn't spot the pristine power armor worn by Lieutenant Colonel Vanderspool—even after an entire night of brutal combat, that man's suit always looked like it had just come out of the factory.
"Anyone seen him?"
The Marines exchanged glances.
"That coward Vanderspool always hides behind us during combat, sending his men to catch the bullets. He's just a damn turtle—bet he's curled up somewhere, trembling in his shell!" one surviving Marine from First Platoon shouted. The others, clearly in agreement, burst out laughing.
"Can anyone here guarantee that Vanderspool is curled up and trembling in his cozy little shell right now?" Augustus's sharp tone cut through the laughter like a blade, and the noise died instantly.
"No one?"
"This isn't right," Augustus said, his expression turning grim. "Lundstein—you. Take everyone from Fire Team Three and bring a heavy machine gun with you. Head to the ground-level hangar and find Vanderspool. If he's not there, search the entire landing platform. Report back to me via radio."
"Understood." Without hesitation or complaint, Lundstein moved to carry out the order.
"Mount up!" Warfield barked. Dozens of Marines climbed into the APCs that Reagan had brought over, heading for the armory.
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