The rain on the ballistic-glass window of the GDI High-Command bunker was a relentless, cold drumming. It was the only sound in the office, save for the whisper-quiet hum of the air filtration system.
General McCaffrey, Chairman of the U.S. Joint Chiefs and now, by default, the acting GDI Military Commander, stared out at the Peterson Space Force Base runway. He wasn't seeing the C-17s and F-35s sitting in the downpour. He was seeing ghosts. He was seeing twelve men—six of his, six of theirs—walking onto a transport. He was seeing Sukhoy, the Russian, melt. He was seeing the blood-matted, catatonic face of Specialist Harris Brown, who was currently two floors below in a GDI medical-hold, screaming at voices that weren't there.
His jaw was a solid, unmoving knot of muscle.
The door to his office hissed open. Sir Malcolm Hayes entered without knocking, as he always did. He held a data-tablet, his usual prop.
"You're zoned out, General," Hayes said, his voice a calm, smooth stone in the pond of McCaffrey's brooding. "A penny for your thoughts? Regret, perhaps?"
McCaffrey didn't turn. "Regret is a luxury, Hayes. Sentimentality is a strategic liability." He let out a slow, cold breath that fogged the glass. "It's my own damn fault for being sentimental. I liked those men. That was my mistake."
He turned, his eyes hard. "So. You're not here to pass on condolences. You're here because you have another move. What is it, Chessmaster? What's your new proposal?"
Hayes offered a thin, clinical smile. "Technically, General, it's not my proposal. It's a consensus opinion, delivered this morning from the new Alliance Defense Council."
McCaffrey's eyebrows shot up. The 'Alliance Defense Council' was the tooth-filled new military wing of the UN-GDI, born from Hayes's own "Alliance Cooperation Treaty." It was, in effect, the new global war cabinet.
"The Council?" McCaffrey scoffed, crossing his arms. "That's a surprise. I figured they'd still be arguing about the color of their new letterhead. What's the 'consensus'?"
"They are urging us... to build a Forward Operating Base on Omega."
McCaffrey stared. He didn't move a muscle for a full five seconds. The only sound was the rain.
Then, he laughed.
It was not a sound of humor. It was a sharp, barking, incredulous noise.
"A... a what? A... a FOB?"
"A FOB, General. A beachhead. A permanent, fortified foothold from which we can begin staging counter-operations and planetary analysis."
McCaffrey was "bamboozled." He was utterly, profoundly, bamboozled.
"A camp," he said, his voice dangerously low. "You want to build a camp. In the middle of the zombie-werewolf-magic-elf-princess-murder-jungle. We just sent twelve of the baddest men on planet Earth, a combined Spetsnaz-Ranger kill-team, on a simple recon. One of them came back, and he's currently two floors down trying to eat his own restraints. And you... your 'Council'... wants to build a god-damned summer camp."
"It is a sound, strategic move, General," Hayes said, his calm infuriating. "We cannot fight a war from a distance. We've proven that. We are blind, and our response times are lethal—to our own. We need a presence. We need to establish a perimeter."
"We can't hold a perimeter, Malcolm! We just learned that! A girl with a stick turned one of our men into a charcoal briquette from 300 meters! What are you going to build this 'FOB' out of? Hopes and dreams? We don't have enough Hellfire missiles to win a single firefight!"
"That has been taken into account," Hayes said, unfazed. "The plan is... different. The parties have all voted. The French, the Germans, the Indians... even Director Ivanov, after some... convincing... has agreed. The Russians are tired of being shown up. They want their own victory. The Council has voted 'Aye.' You, General, as the head of the Alliance's primary military arm, are the last signature required to green-light the operation."
McCaffrey stared at him, the political trap laid bare.
"So what does it matter?" he shot back. "Why did you even come to me? Even without my opinion, it was decided. You're just here for the rubber stamp."
"Not at all," Hayes said, his voice softening just a fraction. "I am here because you are the one who has to send the men. And you are the one who will have to answer for it. This isn't a political move, General. It's a military one. And you are the Commander. So I ask, what do you want to do?"
The general walked back to the window. He looked down at the runway again. He thought of Specialist Brown, screaming. He thought of Dimitri Orlov's daughter, Katya, who would grow up without a father.
"Your poker face is good, Chessmaster," McCaffrey said, his voice a low, hard rumble.
Hayes's smile faltered. "General?"
"Don't. Just... don't. You're good, Hayes, but I've been fighting politicians in D.C. for thirty years. You taught me to look for the angle. And the angle here is you."
He turned, his eyes like ice picks.
"The 'Alliance Defense Council.' You mean Director Li? And Minister Sharma? And General Dubois? You're telling me those people... the ones whose entire domestic policy for the last two weeks has been 'Fortress Earth,' 'Secure the Borders,' 'Hoard Resources'... those people... suddenly, in unison, proposed the most aggressive, high-risk, suicidal offensive action in human history?"
McCaffrey took a step toward Hayes.
"Bullshit. They're terrified. They're preoccupied with strengthening their own national defense forces. They're worried about riots in Paris and cults in Mumbai. They wouldn't vote to send a platoon off-world, let alone an entire FOB. They'd be screaming for more garrison troops, more GDI forces on Earth's soil."
He was now inches from Hayes's face.
"This wasn't their proposal. This was your proposal, that you bullied them into agreeing with. This has your fingerprints all over it."
Sir Malcolm Hayes was, for the first time since McCaffrey had met him, visibly... impressed. He wasn't stunned. He wasn't outsmarted. He was found out, and he seemed to almost... relish it.
"You are not, it seems," Hayes said, a genuine, thin smile of respect playing on his lips, "just a brute, General. My apologies."
"Save it," McCaffrey growled. He stalked back to his desk. "So. It's your plan. Again. You're really willing to risk it all... for a pile of dirt on that planet."
"A foothold, General. Not a pile of dirt. A foothold."
McCaffrey slumped into his chair. He hated this. He hated that Hayes was right.
"If we just sit here," he said, echoing his own haunted thoughts, "if we just cower... we're just waiting for them to pick the next battle. Jerusalem, then... what? London? D.C.? Moscow? We're on their timetable. We're fish in a barrel."
"Precisely," Hayes said.
McCaffrey rubbed his face, the picture of a man exhausted to his very soul.
"Is it even possible? You're talking about heavy construction. You're talking about landing... what? Bulldozers? We can't even keep a twelve-man squad alive for thirty minutes."
Hayes abandoned the honorifics. He was all business.
"We're not building a camp on the surface, McCaffrey. That would be suicide. You're a conventional thinker. We have to be asymmetric."
He tapped his data-tablet. A 3D schematic appeared on McCaffrey's desk-screen. It wasn't a bulldozer. It was a drill. A massive, complex, multi-legged machine that looked like a cross between a tunnel-boring machine and a spider.
"ISRO provided the schematics," Hayes said. "They were designing it for a sub-surface lunar colony. We've just... accelerated its production. It's a 'Silent Excavator.' Automated. Self-contained. It's designed to drill, build, and reinforce a sub-surface structure, a 'rabbit-warren,' completely undetected. It's shielded, it runs on a next-gen quiet-core reactor, and it's heavily armored."
McCaffrey leaned in, his strategic mind finally kicking in, a shark smelling blood.
"A 'Hobbit-hole,'" he breathed. "A sub-surface FOB."
"We're calling it 'Operation Deep Hide,'" Hayes said. "We land, covertly. We deploy the excavator. We secure a perimeter just long enough for it to dig its initial 'insertion tunnel' and go sub-surface. Phase 1. Once it's underground, it's on its own. It will autonomously create a bunker large enough for a full company, complete with air filtration and access tunnels. All we have to do is get it in the ground."
"And who," McCaffrey asked, "is 'we' this time? Who are you sacrificing for this one, Malcolm?"
"The Chinese," Hayes said simply. "They've volunteered their 'Sky Sword' Celestial Guard. An entire company. They are... eager... to prove that their soldiers are not as... 'brittle'... as our last team. The Alliance Cooperation Treaty holds. They are providing the muscle. We are providing the logistics."
McCaffrey was silent. A full PLA company. A high-tech mega-drill. A secret night-launch.
It was insane. It was suicidal.
It was the only move on the board.
"I'll talk to the Council," McCaffrey said, his voice flat. "I'll sign the damn papers. Get your new lambs ready for the slaughter, Hayes."
"I already have, General," Hayes said, turning to leave. "I already have."
________________________________________
[TWO DAYS LATER]
[KENNEDY SPACE CENTER, LAUNCH PAD 39C - 03:17 AM]
The night was hot, humid, and starless. The only lights at the new, black-budget GDI pad were the dim, red-filtered security strobes. This was not a launch for the public. This was not a launch for hope. This was a black-ops insertion, and it felt like it.
Two identical spacecraft, the Garuda-2 and Garuda-3, stood on the pad. They were the same ISRO-designed "bus" that had carried Task Force Avenger, but they were painted in a non-reflective, matte-black radar-absorbent coating.
The Garuda-2 was the troop carrier. Its ramp was open, and a line of soldiers was marching, double-time, into its hold. They were not Americans. They were soldiers of the People's Liberation Army. One hundred and twenty of them. The "Sky Sword" Celestial Guard.
They were in sleek, black, next-gen body armor, their helmets featureless, with glowing, single-line red visors. They carried the new QBZ-191 bullpup rifles, their movements silent, economical, and terrifyingly efficient. They looked less like men and more like high-tech terracotta warriors.
The Garuda-3 was a different beast. It was a heavy-lift cargo variant. Its entire side had opened, and a massive, web-like crane was loading the mission's objective.
The "Silent Excavator."
It was a monster of a machine, folded in on itself like a sleeping, 30-ton, metallic tarantula. Its six massive, articulated legs were tucked tight. Its primary drill-head, a mess of diamond-and-adamantium-laced teeth, was pointed skyward as it was loaded.
It was the seed of the new FOB. The first piece of Earth they were going to permanently plant in the heart of the enemy.
An American GDI flight controller, watching from the new, hardened launch-bunker, nervously sipped his coffee.
"Loading complete. Garuda-2, Garuda-3, you are green for pre-flight checklist. T-minus 10 minutes."
A voice, crisp and with a faint Mandarin accent, came over the line. "Roger, Control. Garuda-2 is 'go.' The Mandate of Heaven is in flight."
The controller shivered, though it wasn't cold.
He watched as the hatches sealed, the red lights on the pad turned green, and the two black ships, with no fire, no smoke, just a bone-deep, vibrational hum, lifted silently off the pad.
They rose, two black shadows against a black sky, and vanished, heading for the Second Sky.
Operation Deep Hide was underway.