Sealed supply crates and ammunition boxes were piled tightly along the narrow trench. Machine hounds equipped with twin rocket-launcher pods carried cargo containers, while Arasaka SAT vanguard soldiers—burdened with gear, pushing spindle-shaped specialized cargo pods—moved through the filth like amphibious creatures crawling through the city's underbelly.
The deep-layer drainage tunnels, paved with either brick or reinforced concrete, had long since decayed into ruin.
Uneven. Filthy. Clogged.
Accumulated grease, murky sewage, toxic sludge—all manner of ancient refuse blended together. The stench rising from the foul slurry seemed enough to kill a man, even through powered armor.
Of course, David knew it was just psychological.
Modern power armor came standard with fully sealed breathing systems. Onboard odor sensors could isolate and neutralize unpleasant smells entirely.
Clang, clang.
"Damn! This is disgusting as hell." During signal silence—bored and scraping solidified grease from the walls—Suneo muttered, "How long we gotta stay in this stinking hole?"
"Three or four days if we're lucky. Half a month if we're not," David replied as he waded through the foul slurry.
"Heh, guess we're marinating in it, huh?" Suneo clicked his tongue. "Soaked through to the bone."
"Kang Tao has an old saying—'Good things never come easy. The world knows no comfort without hardship.' Wealth must be fought for with one's life. To rise up and reach Arasaka Tower, what else is it but digging through sewers? The alleys of Santo Domingo's slums weren't any cleaner than this."
With that, David said no more, pushing the spindle cargo pod forward as the squad continued deeper into the filth-choked heart of the city.
"Philosophical as ever, huh, David," Suneo muttered, shrugging and keeping pace.
Rumble... Rumble...
Dust and grime trickled from the tunnel walls.
No matter how violently the surface war raged, Martinez's unit pressed onward—each step quieter than the last.
It was impossible to tell how long they'd been moving when they came upon a collapsed junction: a mix of old and new architecture. Beyond the fallen brick walls lay an abandoned subway tunnel—traces of patchwork repairs and expansion evident in the mismatched materials.
Once, this place had probably been busy. But the collapse of Old America had erased it all. By 2077, it was no different from the sewers above—choked with debris and decay.
Neglect had turned the underground network into a reservoir of waste.
After all, Nebraska was a Midwestern agricultural state—vast land, sparse population. Barely a few million people, its economic and developmental power couldn't compare to the coastal states.
Following Old America's disintegration, Nebraska had remained semi-autonomous from Washington for half a century. Only eight years ago, during the Metal Wars, had it returned to the Federation. Reconstruction under federal support had scarcely begun.
And when it finally did, the "Saburo Arasaka Rejuvenation" incident of late 2075 diverted all resources toward war preparation.
Omaha was no exception—only a few subway lines, fortresses, barracks, and ammunition depots had been properly rebuilt. The rest were left to rot, collapsing into filth.
But none of that concerned David. Until they were discovered, external factors were for generals and politicians to worry about. His task was simple: stay hidden until the mission was done.
"Rest. Await further orders."
After receiving a clean status update from the recon drone, David checked the reference map in the mission attachment, then called out to the hundred-plus squad members. He halted, posting both hidden and overt sentries before setting his [Oni 4-B Type] power armor to standby.
At once, the SAT vanguard soldiers—battered by sewage and exhaustion—began whispering in small groups.
Some grumbled, but none complained.
They had been preparing for days, signing every incentive contract available—ready to endure half a month in hell.
If the infiltration ended in three or four days, good. If it dragged on ten or fifteen, so be it. The darkness, stench, claustrophobia, the risk of tunnel collapse or enemy detection—none of it mattered. Even eating and excreting had to be done on the go.
[AI: SCULPTOR (David's codename). Location—Omaha East Sector, 2KM from old Missouri River bed, 4KM from Council Bluffs, Iowa.]
After confirming the coordinates from his power armor's positioning system, David pulled the spindle cargo pod in front of him.
[Hybrid-type Sakuradite Explosive Charge]
Staring through the cargo pod's inspection viewport, David silently studied the smaller-than-standard oil-drum-sized, iron-gray prismatic sub-nuclear bombs stored inside.
He recalled the quartermaster's words before deployment:
If the mission fails, detonation of the Sakuradite Bombs takes highest priority. In open terrain, even by powered armor safety standards, the recommended minimum safe distance is at least 300 meters.
Thinking of that, David's expression hardened as he activated his armor's scanning sensors. His unit alone had been allocated ten spindle-shaped cargo pods.
And that didn't even include Jane Portman's other SAT vanguard squads or the ASDF—Arasaka Ground and Maritime Self-Defense Force—elite special teams, each carrying their own Sakuradite payloads.
A glimpse was enough to imagine the scale of Operation Pangolin's detonation phase.
He sighed softly. Commander Vela's favor isn't easily repaid.
Having survived one war only to be thrown into another before he could even visit home—he had only managed to send a brief message confirming he was alive before diving back into the grinder. This life of servitude was inescapable.
David only hoped that if he truly died this time, his mother wouldn't grieve too long, and that Commander Vela would ensure those office-dwelling corporate dogs honored their compensation promises.
As for that delayed email—the one containing his will, asking his mother to adopt a child to inherit his meager Arasaka savings and connections—he prayed it would never need to be sent. He didn't want to give his mother away to anyone else...
...
Bay Area, Oakland — Arasaka Tower.
Vela sat poised behind the massive marble desk of the temporary presidential office adjacent to the Central War Room.
"I don't understand," said Director Jimmy Warren thoughtfully. "If the Sakuradite Bombs are that vital, relying solely on the soldiers of Operation Pangolin as insurance seems... unwise. Should even one bomb fall into Militech's hands—"
Seeing the cautious look from her trusted aide, Vela set aside her thoughts about how to allocate Yorinobu's second wave of reinforcements—the four full-strength A-Class synthetic divisions.
"There's no need to worry," she replied coolly. "I've made my own arrangements."
Vela reached down to pick up her pet—an albino baby tyrannosaur—and gently stroked its head, speaking softly.
"There's always a remote detonation contingency. But telling the soldiers about it wouldn't help—it would only crush their morale."
At that, Jimmy nodded in understanding and said no more. Handing over the readiness report from the Northern Mobile Army Group, he quietly excused himself.
Night fell.
Finishing her paperwork, Vela's gaze returned to the Omaha battle projection—its digital terrain now awash with the red haze of escalating carnage.
"Myers... it's your move now," she murmured. "Let's see what choice you'll make."