"Lincoln..."
Murmuring softly, Vela leaned forward, both hands resting on the edge of the interactive holographic war table. On its surface, a rotating three-dimensional display of the northern Nebraska combat zone projected various army identifiers, data frames, and readings—automatically recalibrating at fixed intervals.
[TZ]Tokyo: 02/18 Los Angeles: 09/18 Berlin: 18/18 New York: 12/18.
The low-intelligence AI equipped with directional behavioral analysis modules zoomed in on the southern section of the Grand Island–Norfolk–Omaha metropolitan belt—where the fiercest battles raged.
Highlighted in red: Lincoln City.
Yes, that Lincoln—the same name as the White House's Lincoln. Currently the capital of Nebraska, it was once called Lancaster, renamed after the assassination of the "greatest president" of old America, Abraham Lincoln.
Naturally, this place carried political symbolism.
Whether for military strategy or political prestige, Myers would never allow Vela to seize Lincoln easily.
By posing a central breakthrough stance and pinning her confidant Rahm Hessman and his SAT Death Camps there, Vela perfectly embodied the principle: attack where they must defend.
Myers, whose regime relied on foreign wars to divert domestic unrest and prolong political life—could she afford to lose Lincoln?
Losing Lincoln meant losing Nebraska. Losing Nebraska meant the gateway to the Great Lakes region lay wide open.
Without the prewar defensive lines, the Midwest was essentially one vast plain—agricultural states with few major cities and no terrain to hold. Beyond Iowa lay the Great Lakes, the New American Federation's industrial heartland.
After struggling to rebuild from the Fourth Corporate War's devastation, the loss of Nebraska would place Chicago—New America's second-largest directly controlled city—face-to-face with Arasaka's spearhead. And to the west loomed the Free States Alliance, bold enough to organize referendums, undermine New America's authority, and establish new dominions on its soil.
Truly, if Myers had the nerve to risk such a massive lure operation, Vela would gladly stake everything to match her.
Feint could become thrust.
If she could break through the central front and push into Iowa, she could completely overturn the established strategic framework—diverting mobile forces from the northern line, redeploying Arasaka reinforcements drawn from across the globe, even committing the reserves to the center.
Without sufficient depth, even if Myers amassed countless troops and reinforced her air power, Vela was confident she could set the entire Great Lakes region ablaze within three months.
Judging by her opponent's nature, she doubted Myers would act so recklessly.
All the more reason for her central offensive to appear grander—more convincing.
As Vela pondered, she moved her fingers lightly—snap!—and the miniature holographic map magnified. She tapped the terrain with a light pen, and beams of light spread across the topographic grid in various widths and hues.
The dried riverbeds of the old Missouri and Platte Rivers, canals, abandoned crude oil and natural gas pipelines, CHOOH2 (ethanol-based) conduits severed during wartime, water mains, underground tunnels...
"With regularity comes order, with surprise comes victory. The formal forces are set—time for the unconventional."
A glint passed through the depths of Vela's indigo eyes.
A surprise attack—worth a try.
Of course, she knew this was a risky move.
Her enemies—Militech and New America—were far from desperate.
The strike might not achieve much.
But without a feint, without exposing calculated openings, how could she misdirect their defenses?
Simply trading blows in rigid attrition would be costly and strategically stagnant.
That would not do.
Arasaka—her Arasaka—had to be preserved.
Myers was no fool. She had clawed her way to power—a true predator, not a showpiece.
And beyond Militech and New America, Arasaka still had to watch for "friendly rivals" among its corporate peers.
"So, we'll arm our boys with sharper tools—unleash new 'decisive weapons' one after another, creating an illusion of overwhelming momentum... Also, has the SAT's Power Armor Synthetic Brigade restructuring been completed?"
Vela continued tracing along the map's pipeline routes, issuing commands as she went.
"Completed, ma'am!"
The liaison officer from the Security Bureau immediately responded—but hesitated for a moment.
"But... some units might still need time to adjust..."
"Adjust?" Vela didn't even turn her head. "You mean that batch of March Elite Recruits, correct?"
"Yes."
"Send them to the central front. Start with mopping-up operations in the rear—let them train through live combat. On paper, they'll fall under Rahm's command. Mapping viable assault routes and masking troop movements will take time anyway. Give them two weeks. They must reach Omaha."
Pressure from the main offensive combined with a sudden strike could draw Myers' attention—perhaps even provoke a miscalculation.
Failure was acceptable. War was never decided by one single blow—Vela always left room for error.
So-called "battles won by few against many" were, in truth, localized victories of strength over weakness, superiority over inferiority—small advantages compounded until one side finally collapsed.
Small victories accumulate into great ones.
Vela had little expectation for the raid's overall results, but even a few disruptions would be worthwhile—to rattle Myers, to shake the frontline.
As the situation evolved, this so-called "surprise force" could itself serve as the cover for the real surprise strike.
After a moment's thought, she shifted the SAT's force markers toward Omaha and Lincoln on the war map.
She did not fear defeat—nor casualties—only total annihilation.
Any organization's greatest nightmare was an encirclement that wiped out its core: losing its veterans not only negated any training effect but erased its foundation entirely. Recruitment would restart from scratch, and before new soldiers could even be molded, they'd be thrown back into the fire—massacred again, over and over.
"Let's see whether the new 'Hammer' will rise... or end here."
"David, I hope you make it through."
To be honest, David had already reached the expectations Vela had for him when they first met. What he lacked now was to walk through the crucible of war—to forge his fear into obedience.
At the mention of David and his squad of wounded soldiers who had recently returned to duty, Vela's eyes hardened slightly as she turned her head. "Have the bonuses and combat injury compensations been distributed properly?"
"They have, ma'am."
"Not enough. Send someone to have Counter-Intelligence verify. If anyone's been skimming funds—or if any family of a fallen soldier has been humiliated because of it—remove the responsible parties. If it can't be handled, report directly to Vice President James Thomas, who's stationed in Night City."
"Yes, ma'am!"
Nodding, Vela turned her gaze back to the holographic war map of North America.
The northern front was locked in stalemate; the central front pushed west while holding east; the southern front advanced east while defending west...
Then she noticed the forces stationed motionless along the western border—the Republic of Texas. Her expression darkened, lips curling with disdain.
"Tch! Those damn profiteering vultures! Parasites!"
Thunderous in words, feeble in action—they were clearly waiting, weighing the price, watching to see whether Arasaka or Militech would win the first major engagement before choosing sides.
Apparently, the whispers from the White House had been persuasive—God knows what promises they'd been offered.
Still, Vela couldn't entirely blame them. It was human nature.
Everyone knew that sending help in the snow meant more than adding flowers to a brocade, but there were always more who chose the latter.
Hah, it was only unfortunate for Kurt Hansen and his Barghest Group.
They had agreed to coordinate efforts—yet one side was getting beaten down.
If not for Vela's timely nuclear strike that crippled the Lazarus Group, causing catastrophic losses to both Lazarus and the NUSA's vanguard, Hansen might have already lost Albuquerque.
"Order the 3rd Marine Division of the 7th Fleet stationed at San Diego Naval Port to mobilize—reinforce Hansen."
"Tell Mizuno Masao to make a detour through Mexico and visit Austin—the Texan capital. Explain the pros and cons in detail."
"Notify all manufacturing department heads in the Americas branches: convene a logistics and equipment supply meeting. Discuss how to further increase armament production capacity."
...
There was war on the front lines—and war behind them as well.
These days, Vela longed to be at the front, leading the charge—but that was nearly impossible.
Even though she was a field veteran, her combat prowess well-known, the moment she showed any intent to personally enter the front lines, not only her aides and retainers but also Arasaka executives in the Bay Area, Free States legislators, and even frontline commanders would do everything in their power to dissuade her.
For she was not only the cohesive force binding Arasaka's flexible integration of the North American Free States Alliance, but also its military commander—the first and ultimate decision-maker. Micromanagement was a minor art; her duties lay in setting grand strategy, ensuring logistics, coordinating allies and headquarters, maintaining morale, processing feedback, enforcing discipline, expanding production capacity, and advancing technology...
All of it fell on her shoulders.
Even Saburo Arasaka himself, were he to return, might not fully replace her in these functions.
Listening to the constant battle reports, Vela responded fluidly and with precision—her tone alternating between stern reprimand, sharp rebuke, and calm assurance.
Depending on the situation, she might offer encouragement before dousing enthusiasm with realism, or issue formal criticism through official channels while privately initiating a video call to discuss the matter personally—offering a touch of corporate-style psychological support and political guidance.
After all, it was war. When asking people to risk their lives, one couldn't remain distant or detached.
As Vela took a sip of tea to soothe her throat—ring-ring-ring.
[Incoming Call: Michiko Arasaka]
Of course—she also had to manage her reconstructed family.
Beep.
"Good afternoon, sister."
Crossing from the war room to the opposite office—her private space—Vela idly tapped her slender fingers on the large silver-white case resting on her desk.
...
And so, another week passed in flames and thunder over the North American continent.
Nebraska—Norfolk.
Sweltering heat. The fury of war had set the air itself ablaze.
Inside and outside the city, brutal close-quarters clashes erupted again and again—merciless and bloody.
"Tch."
Now recovered and back in service, clad in Arasaka's standard-model power armor, Suneo stomped down on the shattered helmet of a Militech trooper, muttering to himself as he stepped over heaps of human and machine corpses: "Damn... I really don't wanna end up like one of them..."
Before he could finish his comment over the squad channel, David's shoulder-mounted plasma cannon had already fired—a surge of crackling blue energy shot from the barrel, detonating within the gaping ruins of a collapsed building.
Amid the surge of dust and debris, flashes of heat-optic camouflage shimmered and glitched.
A Militech power armor unit—lying in wait.
Finally, they had met.
Thrum! The reactor engine roared. Inside the black, heavy armor, David's eyes were focused—steady and fierce.
"Come on," he growled. "This time... I've got power armor too."