"Hybrid-type Sakuradite Bomb? A new generation of sub-nuclear weapons using high-energy explosives?"
Kawakami Suneo's puzzled voice came through the neural communication interface.
Having just walked out of Rahm Hessman's Omaha Frontline Command, David grunted softly. "Speed up the recovery."
He exhaled, tone turning grave. "I just met with Director Rahm. Commander Vela was there too. She personally assigned us a mission."
[FILE: ENCRYPTED]
Operation Codename: Pangolin.
Execution Units: SAT / CSA (Alliance Forces) / ASDF (Arasaka Ground Self-Defense Force)
Mission Description: A tactical operation aiming to exploit enemy deployment gaps or weaknesses across the Omaha–Council Bluffs–Bellevue–Lincoln area and insert forces into the enemy's depth or rear...
Time: 2077/5/3–∞ [Subject to Omaha Front Command's operational assessment. Must not exceed 21 days.]
...
"Phew!"
After letting out a long breath, David closed the reading frame on his cyber-eye display.
He hurried across the old highway service area, now converted into a temporary military station. Despite the late hour, the roadside motel was still filled with noise and the mechanical roar of engines.
Inside and outside the fortifications, chaos thrived in order—soldiers and machines moved back and forth, busy yet precise.
Deployed combat drones marched silently. Retreated soldiers scrambled to recover their stamina. Engines rumbled in uneven rhythm. Blood-soaked, mangled soldiers were carried back one after another...
Frontline conditions were limited. The wounded were triaged—critical cases prioritized, regular ones treated when possible. Those beyond saving were given a shot of painkillers and hallucinogens before being left aside to await their turn. Those who could endure might be saved later; those who couldn't... well, death took its due.
Nothing to say—it was war. It had always been that way.
Those who had overclocked their cybernetic combat systems to madness—irreversible psychotic cases—were restrained, violently modified, recharged, and reassigned to suicide squads, thrown into the next bloodiest street battle.
A one-stop process: squeeze out the last of their value, then wire their families the compensation. It was wartime—every citizen had propaganda value. Never skimp on the costs of loyalty.
After passing several checkpoints and inspection gates, David finally reached his team's temporary camp.
Sparse Joshua trees and desert ironwood dotted the area.
Powered armor maintenance trucks and support drones stood in neat rows.
"Yo."
Holding a bowl of stewed meat, Suneo waved. "Rare treat tonight. Would be a shame to waste it cold."
He extended a hand.
Chunks of caramelized meat floated in a spicy, fragrant broth, shimmering under the lights.
David didn't know if it was real meat—he hadn't tasted much genuine fat or flesh since childhood.
But he could tell this wasn't standard protein-paste or cat-food-grade synthmeal. Even if it was artificial, it mimicked real muscle fiber texture—premium synth-meat for sure.
Without hesitation, David asked the AI cook drone for a bowl, poured it over synthetic rice, and dug in.
"Farewell feast."
Carrying two bottles of Golden Champagne Paradise, Suneo walked over. "Drink?"
David set down his spoon, nodded, and took one.
Clink.
Gulp. "Whoa, this champagne's not bad. Did they add taste enhancers?"
David smacked his lips.
"Nope. Just expensive—tastes like money."
Suneo chuckled.
"Wonder if we'll make it back this time."
Turning toward the distant red sky, he spoke softly—tone wistful, expression calm. Near-death experiences had a way of shaping people.
David followed his gaze.
Boom... Rumble...
Thirty kilometers away, fire lit up the horizon. The city on the Gobi's edge burned. Gunfire rose and fell in waves, near and far.
Tracer rounds streaked through the air like ribbons. Rocket flares dotted the sky like stars. Each explosion and Mach ring marked a clash between defense and breakthrough. White phosphorus shells, intercepted midair by laser defense arrays, scattered like celestial blossoms.
The hot wind carried faint whiffs of scorched flesh and engine oil.
Since David's arrival in Omaha, both aerial and ground bombardments had never ceased.
Vmmm—
At point-blank range, the sound of vector engines filled the air as several armored hover vehicles, flanked by heavy drones, swept past at low altitude.
David and Suneo exchanged a wary glance, about to speak—
"They're hunting New American or Militech infiltration units," came Katsuo Tanaka's voice. "Relax. There are people in charge of cleaning up that mess."
David smiled faintly at that and stood up.
With a tired face and slicked-back hair, Katsuo approached, arms full of boxes both large and small. "Looks like I'm not late."
He declined Suneo's offer of a meal, taking only a bottle of champagne before swiftly distributing sushi and pork cutlet bowls to the two of them. "Katsudon—it means 'victory bowl' where I'm from. Don't ask for more. I'll just wish you a victorious return."
Then he looked toward the camp—the SAT vanguard troops eating, smoking, drinking, popping stims, watching braindance clips, or writing last letters to their families.
"Not much, but enough for everyone to get a taste of meat. Who's in?"
Tap, tap.
"Victory bowl, huh? Sounds lucky. I'm in."
The first to respond was Jane Portman, whose unit had just arrived from the Oakland clearance zone.
The blonde with a short ponytail, even without power armor, wore a combat suit that clung to her silver-blue cybernetic body—an intimidating, heavily modified femme fatale. She casually took a bottle of champagne from Suneo and downed nearly half of it in one gulp.
Suneo winced at the sight.
Sure, by 2077, most beverages—including alcohol—were cheaper than purified water, and military logistics provided plenty. But this was Golden Champagne Paradise—premium stuff, expensive, meant to be sipped, not chugged like beer.
"Quit whining. Be bold!"
Jane laughed, clapping Suneo's shoulder. "Too bad I didn't bring my Château Piquet reserves."
With that, the atmosphere brightened instantly.
SAT vanguard soldiers gathered around, laughing and shouting.
Champagne and pork cutlets, sushi and stew—soon, plates and bottles were empty.
Soldiers weren't like spooks, much less corporate suits. They had no time for scheming.
Especially frontline soldiers—who had no patience for office politics.
This hearty meal and near-perfect resupply might be called a send-off feast—or less kindly, a death-row meal. Everyone knew what it meant.
There was no refusing. Orders meant it was time to gamble their lives again.
"Cheers!"
Draining the last of his champagne, David smashed the empty bottle against an ammo crate, face solemn as he looked at Katsuo, Suneo, and the others.
Next time they met in such a setting...
It would either be atop Arasaka Tower—or engraved on a memorial wall.
...
Meanwhile, at the Omaha Frontline Command—
"...I've told you the objective. As for the timing, you're on the front line—you know best. I'm not going to sit in the rear, measuring maps with a ruler. I'll give you some freedom, but remember—campaign time waits for no one."
The holographic display lit up, projecting Vela's face amid data streams and tactical overlays across the command center.
Standing before the holographic sand table of Omaha, Rahm Hessman nodded.
"I understand. Then, the central offensive will now enter Phase Two. Awaiting your command."
"Approved," Vela said calmly. "Order: commence the assault."
Beep-beep.
[PROGRAM AUTHORIZED]
Seeing the authorization window in his cybernetic vision, Rahm rubbed his closely shaven scalp and steadied his gaze. "Death Camp, Cyber Tyrant Corps, bionic multi-legged urban assault tanks—coordinate with the assault army groups and allied forces. Launch full-scale offensive."
"No probing. No hesitation. Attack relentlessly."
...
Boom! Boom-boom-boom!!—RUMBLE!!!
Three days later.
Deep beneath Omaha, now under Arasaka's control, lay a vast web of subway tunnels and abandoned drainage systems.
A fully armed elite squad was infiltrating under allied cover.
Amid the roaring explosions above and below, David waded into the sludge in his powered armor—or rather, a foul mix of industrial waste, chemical runoff, and decomposing remains.
The surface rippled loudly, reaching his armor's ankles. Fighting nausea, he pressed forward until his suit was fully submerged.
Once certain the movement wouldn't affect operational function, he opened his mission log.
[Operation Codename: Pangolin] → [David Martinez: Mission Confirmed]