Atlantis

Book One: Phoenix Rising

Written by Brandon Krupczak

Wellie Delmer as Holly Dayne

Emma Reifenberger as Scarlett Miller

Brandon Krupczak as Matthew Kenderson

Stephen Borrelli as Jack Stephens

Phoenix Rising: Chapter 1

Hello, visitors to this site! Welcome! You may have accidentally stumbled upon a book that is under way currently. If you're here on purpose, then thank you for visiting my book-site! Below is a random chapter from the book that I display here on the front page. The link above brings you to the page that the chapter is actually housed at. If you scroll down to the very bottom, you'll find my work in progress section, where I write the next section/chapter of the book. Because I start writing completely fresh chapters, the work in progress section might end in a fragment of thought, or there might not be anything displayed there.

Please also note that none of my writing here is completed and I go back numerous times to a piece to improve it. The chapter below will be changed multiple times and improved upon, so if you read it now you might wanna check back every now and again to see if I changed anything.

Atlantis Teaser

14:40 Hours, Military Clock, April 9, 2015, St. Augustine, Florida, USA

"Hit the dirt!"

Every soldier within hearing distance instantly obeyed the strained cry. Captain Matthew Kenderson gave no thought to throwing himself on the ground immediately, and just in time. As he grabbed a face-full of dirt, an enormous explosion tore through the wall, and carried away chunks of spongy sea-shell material. Two unfortunate soldiers were caught in the blast, and they flew backwards as if in slow motion off the edge of the platform before landing below. One staggered immediately back to his feet; the other did not.

Matt rolled back to his feet and opened a trio of shots out into the gray mist of the rain-drenched terrain. Answering fire dug into the walls: the St. Augustine Fort was made partly of sea-shell material that absorbed impacts. However, it hadn't been made to withstand modern military artillery. The last shell had dug out part of the upper-level wall.

Before he knew what was happening, Matt was on the ground again, a dull aching throb in his shoulder. Although it still hurt like crap, his armor had saved him the real pain of being hit by a 7.62mm Armor-Piercing bullet.

Matt took another second to thank Stephens for his miracle design. His Olive Drab Mk. III Tactical Battle Armor, part of the Future Force Warrior design, had multiple layers and elements against attack.

The main feature of the armor was the hard, bullet-proof ceramic plating torso shell with similar gauntlet, upper arm, thigh, and lower leg pieces. Set in between layers of the plating were impact-deforming gel layers that absorbed impact, making a bullet hit softer. The gauntlet piece had a slot that contained a potently lethal double-edged serrated combat knife, which could be either ejected and retracted rapidly on a mechanism or be removed and fought with manually.

The plating was coated in a thin but effective layer of "Shear-Thickening Liquid" that hardened upon ballistic impact. A special bullet-proof weave of M5 Fiber, an updated and advanced Kevlar-like material, made up the non-plating area of the armor.

The helmet had an integrated Heads-up Display (HUD) for mission parameters, map, and other functions, a built in military grade auto-scrambler/descrambler comm. system, Friend or Foe distinction system (FOF), and the Global Access Command Board (GACB) that linked the individual soldier to the rest of the neighboring units within comm. range. This board allowed officers to issue commands, and lower-ranking soldiers to view in more detail their mission parameters and constantly changing battle data, also listing air, ground, and Naval support options.

Along with a host of other functions and technologies, it was one heckuva piece of equipment.

In short; survival. The military had been under increasing pressure to increase single-unit survivability. The reasoning was, besides the warm fuzzies that came with keeping people alive, more surviving units meant greater flexibility and long-lasting power. The more units staying alive, the larger the strike force. And the cost-effectiveness looked especially good on paper.

So it was with only a shallow ache that Matt got back to his feet and clicked on a Infrared/Thermal/Low-light hybrid image setting on his visor plate, watching the dense fog suddenly lift and peel away from his line of vision, just in time to see one of the 105mm shell-spewing artillery cannon situated next to him open fire. The explosive shell struck Russian armor, incredibly clanging off and exploding two feet above the vehicle. Dang Russian engineers.

The explosion still caused moderate damage, but not disabling; the Russian Main Battle Tank (MBT) rocked back and forth momentarily, then opened fire with an answering 99mm shell that blew another divot into the fort.

Matt ducked against the cover of one of the protective battlements, then leaned out to pick off a Russian that was causing significant damage with one of their Fire and Forget missile launchers.

The man fell, the launcher remained, and another Russian took it up and didn't wait for the lock-on to fire a 102mm shaped-charge rocket at full speed, carving a chunk out of the rock by Matt's head.

Americans returned fire, their standard-issue M8 carbines proving useful for the 200 meter stretch from the wall to the enemy trenches. The laser-sighting cut through mist like butter, and the powerful 6.8mm hollow-point bullets dug into the targets mercilessly.

The Russian Frigate stationed in the bay gave a full broadside, and more Americans fell away from the walls.

"Get that Apache in the air!" Matt screamed, and his comm. microphone instantly relayed his voice command to the pilot. "Bravo, suppressing fire! Target enemy AA emplacements. We need that gunship!"

In response, a third of the assembled forces turned and immediately began spraying fire from their carbines, and the lone Apache gunship started its rotor.

Another voice hit the comm; Captain Holly Dayne, commanding Alpha units. "Alpha, hit the gun emplacements! We're not going anywhere till our ships can land."

Out of the 90 men and women at the fort, Holly controlled the thirty Alpha, Matt commanded thirty Bravo, Captain Scarlett Miller; the last thirty Delta. "Somebody get me a line to Naval command, we need support, now. And where's my AT? I got plenty of targets out here, boys!" She called to Delta, but as Matt and Holly were Captains, the feed was automatically extended to them.

"They're making a break for the walls! Captain, their coming for the gate!" A hoarse voice called, and Matt instantly saw fresh danger; a column of MBTs were guiding several Russian Armored Personnel Carriers (APCs) to the gates, meaning to break them down.

"Alpha one this is Serpent, weapons primed for armor removal. Requesting permission to engage." The slick voice of the Apache pilot came as a relief, and Holly immediately transmitted the attack coordinates. The large helo lifted up, unhampered by the scattered small-arms fire that ineffectually attempted to drill through the enhanced armor plating of the hull. As it lifted off, an artillery shell narrowly missed it, and the Apache answered with a duo of missiles that detonated in the middle of the armor convoy. It ripped to shreds anything close enough and turned several vehicles onto their sides.

"Alright!" Holly crowed. "Serpent, this is Alpha-one, continue to engage targets at will. Watch that AA, over."

"Roger that Alpha-one. Search and Destroy."

The Apache circled off and around to come in from the flanks, Matt returned his attention back to the battle.

Scar came in, radioing the news. "I got Naval on the line, they've got some heat of their own, its a little hairy, but they've sent in a pair of fighters. New F-35s, vet pilots."

"We could sure as heck use them." Holly responded, then, "What's the word on the column down at the beachhead? That armor was supposed to be here two hours ago."

"Ran into stiff urban resistance passing through the town. Nothing they can't handle, but they've been delayed. At current pace they expect to arrive in another three-quarters hour.

Matt cursed. "Any other news?"

"Relief aerial divisions are on the way, thirty minutes out. They need it down at the carrier, though. As for us, we've got two Frig's heading our way, they shouldn't have a problem. Mostly we're on our own. Predator and Sea Hawk UCAVs charged up and ready to go."

"When our Frigates hit theirs in the bay, it's not gonna be pretty. I'm gonna need to get out there." Matt called again

"I hear ya. We'll spread around some fire, keep 'em occupied. Shouldn't be too hard." Holly assured him. "Take a squad with you, you'll need it. We've got some C4 in the armory, no use here, if you want it."

"I think I can find a use for it." Matt said.

He was interrupted by another explosion that blasted away the artillery next to him. The Apache turned and sprayed bullets at the offender, but it was out of missiles. Seconds later it was out of bullets, too, and it returned to the fort to re-arm.

"Get going now! We'll hold 'em. I'll make the first break with you and get out around them, to come in from the side." Holly yelled. Matt quickly called out his five best soldiers and had them all prepare for a boarding action.

"Bravo-Five, secure the C4 and load it into something. We'll need it at the Russian Frig. Everyone else, grab what you need, grab yourself a thruster attachment, and meet me at the North Tower!" He immediately sprinted to the chosen tower, meeting up with his five team members.

Holly arrived a moment later with ten more of her men. "How's the party over on your end?" She asked.

"That artillery's throwing some heat around. Lost a couple men. You might wanna hit those first, then take out their AA. I hear those F-35 pilots prefer to enter unannounced."

"Good plan. Now lets blow this joint." She replied, and they both ran and dove over the battlements, landing in a roll to break the fall. Matt was up instantly and charging for the water; Holly followed him to the edge and broke off, using the mangroves to cover her advance, closely followed by her squad. Matt wove in and out of the line of fire, ducking under bullets a second before they were fired, diving through explosions that hit in front of him. Eventually he made it to the surf pounding the shore.

In the midst of the storm, the water was warm and welcoming. As Matt made his way through the chest-deep water, his squad following behind, one suddenly threw his arms up and went flying through the air, as result of an explosion. He was almost certainly dead.

Matt slogged in a little further, then dove, putting his head under. As he did so he reached into a pocket of his utility belt, bringing out a small, metallic re-breather. He slid it into his mouth, holding it between clenched teeth like a snorkel, and activated the thruster-pack he had shrugged on. The pack was another of Stephens' ingenious designs. The regular, general purpose Tactical Battle Armor (TBA) could be upgraded and changed out for different pieces, allowing for specific elemental advantage. The latest hydro-thruster pack strapped to his back would propel him at just under 10 knots through the water. The re-breather could supply him with recycled air for 90 minutes.

He launched himself towards the Russian Frigate stationed in the water. The Frig's powerful 105 and 40mm cannon were chewing the crap out of the fort. His plan was to blow a hole in the side of the Frig and sabotage whatever he could get his hands on, before their Frigs arrived.

It wasn't gonna be a cake-walk.

Meanwhile, Holly had gotten completely around the assembled Russians and their entrenchments. She called the team's sniper, having him target a fixed gun emplacement, while several other soldiers unslung ZUES-MPAR single-shot disposable rocket launchers and aimed them silently at the artillery emplacements. "Fire on my command," She whispered.

Scar was literally holding down the fort. More artillery shells hit and detonated against the walls, bringing down more chunks of sea-shell.

"Delta 11! Get me a line to those JSF pilots!" She called. JSF was a military acronym for Joint Strike Fighter, or the F-35s.

"Yes mam!" Delta Eleven replied, and patched her a link.

"Delta One this is Raptor, requesting attack vectors, over."

"Roger that Raptor One. Uploading friendly positions to your Tacmap. Confirm smoke color." Scar said, and Delta 11 launched a couple of cans of red smoke into the mass of Russian trenches.

"Roger that, red smoke on the horizon."

"Attack direction South, clear and hot. Recommend Bunker Buster missiles for maximum lethality." Scarlett advised.

"Bunker Buster missiles, engaging!" The pilot called, and Scar saw two phantom shadows in the distance, drawing closer. The Russians on the ground were frantically trying to kick the cans away from their position, but to no avail. The red smoke had already mixed with the thinner mist, so it appeared to be a light red-orange color.

The two phantoms gradually resolved into a pair of F-35 JSFs, coming from the North, missiles at the ready. As Scar watched, a shrill alarm sounded the lock-on, and the missiles launched. She prepared herself for some fireworks.

Holly held position, listening to the exchange between the Raptor pilots and Scarlett. "Wait for my signal. Hit them when those fighters launch, that way they won't know where its coming from." She called softly to her troops.

"Aye, mam. Locked on and ready to fire." Alpha 2 reported.

"On my mark... Fire!" Holly ordered, quietly but forcefully. At the same moment that her soldiers launched, the F-35 pilots opened up a devastating wall of bullets and missiles. The hail tore holes into the terrain, the shots mildly explosive, and making tatters out of armor. The missiles burrowed into the dirt as well, and three thumps reverberated before they exploded, blowing up from below, casting dirt and pebbles everywhere, as well as bodies from the entrenchments.

Her own missiles struck artillery, detonating and exploding the caches of shells. Six out of six of the artillery platforms went up in flames and wreathed in smoke.

"Good call." One of the soldiers whispered, watching the Russian lines scramble in confusion.

"Alright. Phase two, capture a trench and hold it until reinforcements arrive. Two and Three, move straight in and up. Distract and destroy. Four, Five, and Six, flank left. Seven, Eight, Nine, flank right. Ten stays here and provides cover, then moves up on my signal. Go!" Holly ordered, watching with satisfaction as the soldiers scrambled to obey. She moved up with Two and Three, acting as a distraction.

One Russian spotted the distraction group a fraction earlier than Holly had expected. He called out to his comrades, and soon half the trench was facing them. Ironically, although it was the ultimate goal, it now put the attackers in an awkward position, with no cover. Advancing would only get them killed.

"Hit the dirt!" Holly yelled, throwing herself down. A man-portable artillery platform, an advanced mortar, launched from the enemy lines. The shell landed and detonated, casting Black Napalm on the ground, crisping the previously neatly manicured lawn. After all, the fort was a tourist attraction.

Alpha Three was caught in the explosive fire. His TBA thermal insulation protected him against the heat for an instant before he was overwhelmed by flame. He screamed hideously, a cry of pure agony. He convulsed, twisting and writhing, before Holly lined up a shot and put a bullet in his face rather than let him die slowly, painfully. The screams mercifully cut out.

Alpha Two dove to the ground behind the flames, momentarily shielded. The roaring maw continued to consume the prickly green grass, spreading and threatening to destroy the entire fort. That wasn't a smart move on the Russian's part.

Holly felt a surge of energy as she accessed the power. She felt it spread down her arms, pooling at her hands of its own accord. She had never felt so alive, with this much energy and adrenaline pumping through her system. It felt good.

NO! She thought despairingly, tearing back the power as if it were on a leash. I'm never going to do that AGAIN!!

But the power was too strong for her to control anymore, and they needed it. Truth be told, Holly wanted to let it out. The power clamped and locked on this thought greedily, as if it had a mind of its own, and gradually forced the energy down Holly's limbs again, pooling at her fingertips, a deep emerald green.

She forced the power out of her body, directing it at the flaming lawn, and watched as gradually the flames withered and died. Her head set to pain, a steady throbbing, but the power still wasn't gone. She still had too much, and the Russians were beginning to get apprehensive. The flames had just died before their eyes, and here this American was with emerald at her fingers, doing who knew what. Several took up aim.

They squeezed their triggers at the same moment that Holly acted. An earthen mound rose out of nowhere, the bullets impacted, and then the hill was gone. The hill reappeared in the middle of the Russian lines, casting bodies into the air and breaking various legs and ankles. She let the twenty foot wall of earth stand for a moment, then pulled it back into the ground with a wave of her hands. The collapsing hill caused a minor but devastating earthquake that shook the nearby terrain and caused ominous ripples in the harbor. The lines were devastated; trenches collapsed, earthworks tumbled, and vehicles ripped themselves to pieces. Pandemonium.

Holly collapsed to the ground, her head in her hands. Alpha Two rushed over to her, picked her up bodily and ran, carrying her over his shoulder, to the nearest trench. Meanwhile, the others of their squad moved up and opened fire on the remaining enemies. More shots rang out from the battlements of the fort, Scarlett and her expanded forces taking advantage of the confusion. Russians fell from two directions.

Holly was set down gently at the bottom of a Russian trench, her head feeling like it was about to explode in her hands. The price, always a price for it. Always a price. Now, she was feeling pain. But agony would come in about six hours, so great that finally it would force her to unconsciousness. She would wake up, her head would be throbbing. And it would steadily deteriorate until she felt like herself. But for now, all she could do was hold her head and hope that her brain didn't splatter over the inside of the earthen defense. She typed a series of commands into her gauntlet and the liquefied Performance-Enhancing Gel in a slim insulated pouch at her back fed its contents into her armor ports. From their the potent pain-killer/antibody/glucose/steroid-like injection worked its way into her bloodstream.

Sometimes this whole power thing sucked.

Matt saw the ghostly figure of the Russian frigate materialize out of the hazy harbor water. Using hand gestures, he chose a particularly rusty-looking patch on the hull, and set B/2 to lay the charge there. He adjusted his buoyancy device, sinking to the silt at the bottom. A moment later Bravo two signaled the all-clear, himself sinking to the bottom. Matt gave him five seconds, then detonated the explosive with the oversize red button on his gauntlet. A resonant BOOM! shook the harbor, and a massive jet of water spurted to the surface. The water immediately around the destroyed hull boiled instantly.

Liquid gushed into the hole, and the frigate listed badly to port. The ocean rushed in and in, spreading in along the path of least resistance, swarming in against the metal, until it leveled out against a bulkhead in the floor. With the water over the top of the hole, no more came in. However, four heavily armed elite American soldiers squeezed through the opening. Already the welcome mat was rolling out; three Russians were descending the flooded staircase. Matt directed two men to neutralize the targets. They could fire their guns underwater, but the bullets would do close to nothing. Instead they advanced with gauntlets at the ready, using their thruster packs for speed. The Russians weren't equipped to fight; much less, all they had on them were sidearms. Engineer crew, probably.

The engineers backed up so only their thighs were in water, drawing their sidearms. They fired randomly into the roiling salt water, but it was too murky to see anything. They quickly exhausted their twelve round clips and reloaded. A pair of lucky shots pinged off B/3's armor, casting a dulled ringing sound through the water that was quickly silenced. The three Russians heard and called to one another.

B/4, meanwhile, flanked right, as much as he could on a narrow staircase, and caught the first engineer by surprise. He sprang forward, fist clenched, but instead of a blunt strike, he flicked a mechanism in his gauntlet and a double-edged pointed combat knife sprang out on a metal rod, burying itself in the engineer's Kevlar vest that was his only armor. The Russian cried out as he was pierced with the blade, but he wasn't dead. Four drew back his other fist and rammed it home, five times, before the engineer collapsed onto the floor.

His two buddies retreated, still firing. Bullets pinged off armor, Four answering with his SMG, and another engineer dropped. Matt's squad advanced out of the water like wraiths, dripping and sodden. Three had taken a bullet in the arm, Four a bullet in the leg, other than that they were fine. Three's and Four's TBA automatically dispensed doses of liquefied P-EG , while Two patched up their injuries.

"Alright people, split up, plant your bombs, and rendezvous at the bridge. Our Frigs are gonna get here in twenty minutes, so be ready by then. Unless you like sleeping with the fishies." Matt said.

"Sir, message from Alpha One. Says they need some assistance."

"Patch me through."

"Bravo One this is Alpha. Requesting assistance." Holly yelled above the background explosions and screams.

"Roger Alpha One. We're aboard the ship and are attempting to plant explosives as we speak."

"Glad to hear it, Bravo One. If you could do us a little favor, the artillery on the ship is whittling us to pieces out here. There's not gonna be anything left for our guys to save if you don't take it out, pronto."

"Got it. I'll see what I can d- hang on, incoming priority call from Fleet Command." Matt said as a beeping tone interrupted him. He answered the call from the Carrier's Admiral that was stationed just outside the harbor. A Grey-haired man of 43, Admiral Dawson still insisted on being in the thick of the action, so it was no surprise when the comm. screen displayed his face posted on a smoke-and-fire-bleached background. The screen immediately split into three, as the comm. call was answered by Holly and Scarlett both.

"Captains, we've got a snag. Our position out here has become untenable. They ambushed us, came in from the coastline and caught us with our pants down. The fleet's been decimated, and we can't hold out much longer. They just keep throwing out ships with no pause. We're retreating, repeat, retreating into the harbor. I understand the Russians have a Frigate down their, and we need you to take it out before we're shot to pieces." The admiral swore, then relayed; "They got the Cherokee! Get the boats out!"

"We understand sir. We're doing everything we can, but there's only so much we can do. Rest assured, we'll take out the Frigate." Holly said.

"Roger that, Captain. Get it done." The Admiral's comm. line cut out.

"Matt, I'm coming in to help. Take out their air defenses and we'll make a pass in the Osprey."

"Fine, just try not to get shot to pieces. Scar, same goes for you. Hold the fort, don't die." Matt answered. They had an Osprey? Since when? "Okay, troops. New plan. You three take out the AA batteries and light artillery. I go to the bridge and convey to the captain just how important it is for us, and him, to cease fire on the fort. Then we hold out and wait for backup to take the ship. All clear?"

It sounded clear enough, but then, how easy could it be for four men to crawl around on the deck of a hostile Frigate and destroy a bunch of heavy guns?

Five minutes later, Matt was making his way down a dark stainless-steel corridor on the ship when a three-man Search and Destroy team rounded the corner ahead.

Without thinking, Matt tucked his Pulse R71 SMG into the hollow of his shoulder and fired off a burst, simultaneously strafing along the corridor until he found a bulkhead door. The surprised Russian at the corner jerked back as a trio of bullets shattered and ricocheted off the corner wall. As he pulled his nose back behind cover, his buddies rolled out from cover and opened fire as well.

By this time Matt had found a bulkhead and had rammed his boot into the door. Three things happened. One, his nerves sent a jolt of pain through his leg into his brain, which he promptly ignored. Two, a large dent appeared in the door. And three, the sound of tortured, twisting metal filled the air. Bullets impacted on both sides of the door frame as the two Russians opened fire, but they missed, partly because they were raw recruits and this was their first firefight, and partly because firing from the hip only works in movies, video games, and really bad novels.

Matt planted his feet firmly and bashed the door again with the stock plate of the SMG and one hinge broke off the door, causing it to sag wide. Another hit, downward to the final hinge, caused the door to crash to the ground, and Matt dove into the room. He had chosen this room, a washer-dryer room, because the door had smelled of rust, probably from a combination of the added humidity from the washer and poor ship service.

The two Russians dashed forward, eager for the kill, to find Matt at the door with a knife in one hand and a metal pipe about an inch thick and three feet long in the other, which he had torn from the washer machine. The first Russian had his knee taken out with a kick, followed by a grisly snap as it broke, and was dispatched with a blunt blow to the head from the pipe. The second one raised his gun to fire, but too late, and Matt jumped out and pounced with the blade, severing the Carotid artery.

The third Russian had been advancing at a more cautious pace, he shouldered his weapon and fired off a full-auto stream while retreating to the safety of the corner. Matt ducked into another room, this door luckily unlocked, to avoid the hail. As soon as it petered out to a stop, he poked his head around the door. The Russian had thrown his SMG to the ground and was reaching for his sidearm. Matt sprayed an answering full-auto burst that startled the recruit into dropping his gun and the clip, which both scattered across the floor. He dove after his gun, but Matt quickly darted forward and kicked the clip away, using the butt of his gun as a club and swinging a wide arc to the Russian's head. It connected with the soft spot in the temple, causing a fracture and blood.

Matt scanned the dark hallways for more enemies, breathing heavily. Finding none, he dropped the clip in his gun and reloaded, then continued for the bridge.

Holly ducked as a massive explosion tore chunks out of the earth in front of her. Huddled against the side of the captured trench, she was relatively protected against the heavy gunfire, and after the reverberations stopped she gave her ears a moment to stop ringing, then stood and fired off a few rounds.

Two out of twelve found targets. It wasn't like in the games, where almost every shot hit. In real life, people died when they were hit.

Neither of the two rounds penetrated armor, but they cut the Russian down to size as one struck him between the legs. Holly winced. That musta' hurt.

Then one of his buddies was up and spraying rounds from his assault rifle, before Holly took him out as well. One shot in the arm, one in the chest, two in the neck. The Russians were less concerned over their foot soldier's armoring than their vehicle armor, and even then their engineers didn't focus on survivability, but really big bullets fired out of really big guns. So the Russian dropped dead to the ground.

In response, another shell struck in front of the American trench, and another American cast up his arms as a flying chunk of rock hit him in the neck, causing him to gurgle sickeningly on the way down. More shells reverberated, and Holly ducked back down. Next to her, one of the squad's special MMG team setup shop at the lip of the trench, the wide-bore .50 cal posing a serious threat on the battlefield.

It opened fire, drowning out the sound of the rain hammering on the soldiers' helmets. Mud splatters kicked up over the terrain as the bullets hit puddles. Soldiers fell, not all of them regained their feet. Holly gave quick commands, synchronizing a countdown clock. Time to take the next entrenchment, a series of sand-bag bunkers which were really more just wider areas in trenches connected by narrower corridors.

"Hit it, people!" Holly yelled, and four MMG teams opened heavy suppressive fire as twelve elite rangers vaulted up and out, towards the next entrenchment.

"Dig dig dig!" Someone yelled hoarsely, and everyone put their backs into sprinting all-out for the next piece of cover. The bullets whizzed under their legs, startlingly, uncomfortably close. One man was hit in the chest; he stopped dead, coughing blood, but the bullet hadn't penetrated, and another man behind him grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him over his shoulder, running again for the trench. The few Russians in the trench were cowering under the heavy fire, and the few that peaked up to get a shot off were taken full in whatever body part was exposed.

The suppressive fire cut out right as the team reached the lip of the trench, and they all jumped in. Twenty Russian infantry versus eight Elite Rangers. They didn't stand a chance.

Holly took one's gun arm and twisted it around, bringing it in back of him. With a single pull, she popped his arm out of its socket and watched him fall to the ground, not dead by certainly not about to get up anytime soon.

Another soldier came up with a knife in hand. She dodged his first thrust, side-armed the second, and swung a roundhouse punch at his jaw. The soldier jumped back, but he was clipped on the nose, which erupted in blood. He blinked, looking startled, raising a hand to stench the flow. Holly looked at him, saying, "Don't worry, head wounds always bleed a lot," and hit him with a 360 kick to the side of the head. He flew backwards, and another soldier behind her finished him off with his handgun.

The three Russians that were left quickly surrendered, and they were quickly bound with ropes and tossed roughly to the mud to let the rain soak into them for a while as the battle continued.

Holly gazed over the subdued battlefield, the reddish haze of her infrared filter that cut out the gray rainy mist casting an eerie light, her visor panel dyed a transparent crimson. The battles had cut out, mostly, and the entrenchments on this side of the fort were all but gone. A few more Russians held out in one trench, but they would quickly be subdued by the overwhelming forces. A couple of armored vehicles still roamed around, but they posed little threat. The artillery platforms were all but destroyed, and Matt was taking care of the Frigate. Things were looking good.

Then the corporal ran up to her, saying urgently, "Captain Dayne! Captain! Russians are coming in from the North! they're moving in from the town!"

Holly swore. Quickly she ran the odds in her head. Out here, her diminished team of eleven able-bodied men and one injured stood no chance if the Russians decided to hit their side of the fort. She needed to get back inside, but that would mean that everything she had just done would be pointless.

"Alpha, set some charges in the entrenchments. When those Russians come, they'll find the trenches waiting with open arms... and a couple packs of C-4." She called to her troops smugly. "But hurry, we've got five minutes at the most."

Meanwhile, Scarlett was repelling the latest wave from the gates. They should have upgraded the security of this place. The centuries' old shell walls should have been coated in a layer of Shear-thickening liquid and lined with solid titanium, but they hadn't expected a siege of this magnitude. The gates were still the old, rusty wrought-iron penthouse gates, and wouldn't hold up to any sort of vehicle. Or armaments, either. Small-arms fire could probably bring it down.

Luckily the drawbridge had been replaced with solid wood suitable for driving tanks over, and the dry-moat had been mined. The drawbridge was raised, and no vehicle was going to ram its way through. A couple of shells might splinter the drawbridge, but what then? No vehicle would get inside without being blasted and destroying itself trying to roll down the stepped inclines. Infantry were another story.

The foot soldiers were sent ahead to open the drawbridge from the inside. They quickly jumped down into the dry-moat - and received a nasty surprise as the ground blew up beneath their feet. Their were only so many mines, and after a good number of Russians were decimated along one path, the rest followed suit and took the route cleared by the deaths of their comrades. They reached the wall, quickly realizing the lack of handholds on the two-story wall. Grappling hooks were thrown over, to be kicked back down by the American soldiers. All the while the Russians were under fire from American rifles, and as they pressed up against the wall a grenade was lobbed over, with particularly effective results as the grenade chain-reacted and blew up several mines.

A few of the Russians started climbing. After all, it wasn't that high. Several gave each other leg-ups to higher sections. One man with an SMG shot out portions of the wall as handholds, the cost of which he rapidly ate up his ammunition. By the time he had created a series of hand-holds for his fellows to climb, he was out, and he switched to his side-arm.

Scar knocked the first man to climb the wall back to the ground with a solid boot to the middle, but the Russians just kept poring in. It wasn't helping that their MBTs and their Frigate were blasting holes in the damaged walls. All they needed was a lucky shot in a weak point to send a whole section of the wall crumbling.

Scar fed bullets into one man climbing up, he fell, taking three others with him. Another was dispatched with a knock on the head, and three more taken out with various kicks and swings. One unfortunate man was hit once in the groin; he doubled over and staggered around for a second as Scar turned and clocked a different soldier with her fist, then she grabbed the gun and used the stock as a bat and brought it down on the first Russian's helmet. He collapsed, but more just kept on coming.

One young American Sargent strafed laterally to the right, emptying the clip from his assault rifle. Bullets impacted, causing death, injury, and mass hysteria. Every Russian only scrambled all the harder to get up the wall. They seemed to be really focused on this one point for some reason. It was almost as if...

"It's a distraction! They're over here! They're over here!" a private called shrilly. A heavy-set man hoisted a Squad Automatic Weapon (SAW) to the wall and began pouring brass casings. He was shot in the shoulder, which spun back. The bullet had unfortunately hit a weak spot on the armor, and the static gel couldn't compensate. The blow chipped the soldier's collarbone and sent the shoulder guard flying, held on limply by the leather strap. The man grimaced and shrugged his shoulder, then fired the machine gun one-handed, holding his busted shoulder with the other.

Scar weighed the chances of defending two simultaneous insurgents at once. Not likely.

"Fall back! Fall back! Defend the lower levels! Don't let them get through the doors!" Scar yelled, every syllable tasting of defeat. The American lines scrambled back for cover, some vaulting over the landing to the ground level and sprinting to the cover of the rubble-choked archways that made up the storehouses and barracks and other day-to-day rooms of the fort.

Scar focused a wad of energy and converted to Telekinesis (TK), feeling pressure build in her head. After a moment she let it out, focusing and directing it to the grenade pins attached to her combat pack. She used TK to yank the priming pins out after shrugging off her pack, and tossed it directly to an enemy soldier fresh from the climb.

The startled Russian grabbed it out of instinct, which ultimately got him and his surrounding buddies killed. "It's yours," Scar said innocently, quickly reverse-flipping over the walkway and to the ground, where a hail of covering fire picked off any Russian stupid enough to pursue. The grenades detonated, and a sizable portion of the sea-shell blew apart. Not to mention several other objects.

Scar dove head-first into cover, twisting onto her back as she went and firing between her legs, feeling the slipstream of the bullets ripple the M5 bullet-proof fiber of her non-plated-section armor. Although the term, "bullet proof" didn't quite do the situation justice. Sure, it could stop shrapnel and most bullets, but a bullet to your leg with no cushion would still hobble you till your injury healed. She skidded behind a large broken chunk of shell, and strong hands reached down to help her up.

As soon as she was through, several of the bigger Americans hauled armfuls of rubble and sealed up the entrances to their makeshift barrier. This was done all around the fort, and any Russian who was unfortunate enough to be ordered down into the pandemonium was drilled with a 360 degree wall of bullets.

Scar felt the cocking lever on her rifle clack and knew she was out of rounds. She ducked behind cover and smoothly reloaded, surveying the amount of ammo she had left. Only three clips. Not good. "Any units by the armory, give me an inventory. How much have we got left?" Scar yelled into the comm. as if it wasn't whisper sensitive.

"We got plenty of sidearms, Captain," a voice explained. "We've got plenty of rifles, too. Just no one to use 'em. On ammo, we're sitting pretty for assault rifles. SMG's are a different story."

"Roger that. What's the count on explosives?"

"Fresh out of grenades, Captain. We still got some packs of C-4, and I'm sure I saw a remo-deto lying around here somewhere. If we find the detonator and you give me and my boys a minute to rig 'em, I'm sure we can knock together some makeshift grenades. It is a piece of exploding substance still, you know. They're all the same."

"Good work. Or rather, get to work on that. Check with me in five."

"Captain, I've got Alpha-one on the line!" A young lieutenant called.

"Patch 'em through." Scar answered.

"Delta-one this is Alpha. Requesting a sit-rep ASAP."

"Roger that, Alpha-one. We're not doing well over here. We've retreated to the lower levels and have barricaded ourselves in the archways. We can hold out for fifteen, twenty minutes tops before we get seriously low on ammo. We're near to empty on explosives as well. Need immediate support options."

"Okay, hold out for another couple minutes. I'll relay the request to Matt and see if he can't do something about that frigate. I'm not gonna bring my guys to the wall until those cannon are out for the count and we get a little suppressive fire on their armor."

"We'll try. Any word on that division pulling in from the town? We need 'em."

"Not yet. I'll get back to you on tha- what? You've got to be kidding. No, no, wait - Take Cover!" Holly yelled, which was almost immediately followed by a loud explosion. "This is Alpha-one, I've got Russian reinforcements coming from the town! They took out our armor!" A muffled swear, then; "We've got nothing out here. No cover. We need to get inside the fort! Scar, can you open us a way through and make a little diversion?"

"Wait one, Alpha. Delta four, what's the status on the C-4?"

"Finished... now. Repeat, makeshift grenades are ready!"

"Good. Get our best grenadiers and tell them to open a hole in the Russian ranks. Alpha needs to get through and back into the fort. Get a couple guys to lay down some smoke for them too." Scar answered.

"Aye, mam."

"Alpha, wait sixty seconds, then triple time it to the wall. We're taking the fort back."

Sixty seconds later, the twelve soldiers from the Alpha strike team sprinted low to the ground. They reached the wall and started crawling around to the sea-side wall. After another two minutes, Holly found the secret entrance and rapped on the wall three times with her gauntlet. The section of the wall made a hollow, metallic ringing sound, and Scar appeared in the doorway that slid back. The bolt-entrance, in case they needed to make an escape. Now they were using it for the exact opposite reason.

Holly and her team came in, unbeknown to the Russian infantry.

"Good to see you in one piece, Alpha."

"Good to be in one piece, Delta. How's it coming?" Holly asked.

"The Apache is completely destroyed. Took a couple bullets to the tail rotor, and went downhill from there."

"Chute?"

"Negative."

Holly swore quietly, then continued jogging to what used to be the gunpowder room in the old fort. The entrance/exit to the room used to be only four feet tall, because the Spanish had barely been five feet average, but it had recently been enlarged to seven feet. Inside the room were crates and crates of supplies and ammunition. Most of the ammunition was for rifles, some for MGs, and the majority of the remaining boxes were handguns. A few boxes were stacked with shotguns, probably about three boxes of fifteen each.

They came through the opening into the real fort area, where a desperate battle was taking place. The Russians had the advantage of numbers and superior armaments, but the American defenders were entrenched behind cover and were putting up a challenging resistance. Plus, they were fighting not only to win, but fighting to drive out the Russians on their home territory.

Holly instantly grabbed her rifle and slotted a fresh clip into the receiver. Scar didn't hesitate with her FN SCAR-H assault rifle, either, and they jumped back into the fray. They both quickly negotiated positions easy to fire from but hard to hit from the outside, and were quickly dropping enemy soldiers.

That wasn't to say there weren't American casualties. The Russians bombarded the American lines with devastating full-auto fire, and quickly chewed away at some of the lesser cover positions. Americans who were caught in the open were hit and fell as quickly as they came out. Only about a third of the ones dropped actually died; the armor systems were some of the most-protective in the world. Or so Scar thought, until fifteen men fast-roped to the ground in the middle of the fort.

Instantly all perceptions of American armor technologies being the best faded as 360 fire nailed the fifteen men, sinking them to their knees but doing nothing else.

The fifteen men raised portable grenade launchers and opened fire, drilling explosions into tight areas and blasting Americans off their feet. The Mk. III saved most of them, but it couldn't protect against direct explosions.

"Alpha! Our rounds aren't penetrating! Our rounds aren- Ahckk!"

Holly wasn't sure, but she supposed the Ahckk meant that the soldier was dead or incapacitated.

"Delta-one, we need a solution now! Those guys are gonna tear us to pieces!"

"We're loading up the shotguns with explosive slugs right now. We can't do anything else; we're out of grenades ourselves, though it would be interesting to see how they stand up to it in that armor of theirs. It doesn't seem that they can move all that fast; their armor looks ungodly heavy."

"Alright, good. I just wish we could get it done faster...."

"Alpha? You there?"

"Scar, do we have any duct-tape?"

Scar swallowed. Holly had called her by name. "What are you planning?" She asked by way of answer.

"Get anyone you can spare and have them outfit the M8's with the sniper variants."

"Already tried. The bullets don't pierce."

"Not a single bullet. Duct tape two rifles together, load the AT rounds, and issue them to all the units. The double-penetration should at the very least drill a coupl'a bruises."

"Roger that, Alpha-one."

The Russians were unprepared for the latest makeshift innovation. The fifteen heavy infantry units were ordered to advance and try to clear the barricades. They spread out, moving towards the walls as quickly as they could, hitting random areas with their grenades. Their was no return fire; the Americans had apparently scattered and run. They would be trapped and would die.

One heavy soldier had gotten to the lip of a barricade when a single American rolled out from behind an archway. He saw a single raven-colored lock of feminine hair that had come out of the soldier's helmet before he started seeing with tunnel vision, a dark, dull feeling in his gut.

Holly crouched behind the stone archway, waiting for the heavy soldier to come, a shotgun loaded with Frag 12 tucked under her arm. The Heavies, as her soldiers were calling them, launched grenades into the barricades randomly. Holly grinned. They were stupid as well as slow. If the Heavies were smarter, they would have coordinated a systematic search and destroy pattern with their grenades; as it is, they launched at irregular intervals and launched at wherever they felt like shooting.

The grin quickly faded off her face as an explosion detonated by her left arm, throwing shrapnel into her armor and jamming her mouth into her knee. She spat out blood, then readied herself to roll out in front of the Russian.

She heard a rhythmic pounding directly behind her, then a momentary pause as one leg was lifted up onto the waist-high section of barricade. She waited another half-second, then rolled.

As she came up into a half-crouch, a piece of raven-colored hair fell from her helmet, and she blew it away in annoyance. She didn't spare the Russian a second before she cocked the slider, loading a shell of explosive buckshot into the chamber. He heard the clack but apparently it didn't register; he smiled with contempt and brought his gun around insultingly slowly. Holly fired.

The buckshot, it appeared, did indeed penetrate his armor. The tiny rounds all found the same target, exploding on contact and making a meaty mess of the Russian's insides.

He looked at her lethargically, his pupils shrinking to pinholes, then he suddenly pitched forward over the rail and died.

At the same time, fourteen other Heavies prepared to meet their makers as Americans jumped out of seemingly nowhere and fired a variety of guns that somehow pierced or utterly destroyed their armor. Three came to rest as groups of Americans appeared with shotguns in hand, firing solid metal slugs instead of buckshot. The slugs hit the armor and cracked ceramic plating at the point-blank range, splinters driving through and cutting vital body parts not meant to be cut.

Some more met their ends in hand-to-hand combat when they jumped over the barricades. As soon as they were over, fully nine Americans leaped out and pinned each to the ground while one put a spread of rounds under the Heavies' chins.

But most of them fell to the ground after a couple soldiers loaded them with double dosages of sniper rounds to the head at point-blank range from two rifles secured together with duct-tape.

The other Russians couldn't believe what they were seeing. Somehow the Americans had managed to penetrate their heavy soldier's armor, and all fifteen toppled to the ground, dead. Their was a moment of shocked silence, then when multiple regular soldiers also fell from American snipers did they jump into the action again.

Holly surveyed the dead Russian at her feet. In his armor, he was seven feet tall and big as a house. He looked like an oversized hockey player, but with significantly more bullet proof plating and Kevlar pads. Then she turned her attention back to the Russian horde still assembled on the upper section of the fort.

"Take them!" She yelled, and watched with satisfaction as her troops assembled to do just that.

Fifteen minutes later, the fort was theirs again. They had a nice string of Russian POW's cleaning up the mess from the recent battle, and the surviving Russians went back to entrenching themselves and laying siege to the centuries-old castle.

"Getdowngetdowngetdown!" Holly screamed, running along the top of the fort. Seconds after she had thrown herself to the ground, another of the Russian's huge shells detonated against the fort. The explosion was muffled and absorbed by the sea-shell, but not entirely. A reverberation split the air and sent soldiers to their knees, clasping their ears in pain. The sheer force of the explosion took four men who had been standing too near.

"Get me a line to Bravo!" She yelled at a recruit down on the first floor.

"Yes, mam!" He stammered, fumbling with his headset. A moment later Matt's face appeared in the corner of Holly's visor.

"Bravo One this is Alpha. Requesting assistance." Holly yelled above the background explosions and screams.

"Roger Alpha One. We're aboard the ship and are attempting to plant explosives as we speak."

"Glad to hear it, Bravo One. If you could do us a little favor, the artillery on the ship is whittling us to pieces out here. There's not gonna be anything left for our guys to save if you don't take it out, pronto."

"Got it. I'll see what I can d- hang on, incoming priority call from Fleet Command." Matt said, and a beeping tone interrupted them.

"Roger that." Holly said, putting their channel on hold.

The shining face of Admiral Dawson appeared in Holly's visor, replacing Matt's. The call split to all three Captains.

"Captains, we've got a snag. Our position out here has become untenable. They ambushed us, came in from the coastline and caught us with our pants down. The fleet's been decimated, and we can't hold out much longer. They just keep throwing out ships with no pause. We're retreating, repeat, retreating into the harbor. I understand the Russians have a Frigate down their, and we need you to take it out before we're shot to pieces." The admiral swore, then relayed; "They got the Cherokee! Get the boats out!"

"We understand sir. We're doing everything we can, but there's only so much we can do. Rest assured, we'll take out the Frigate." Holly said.

"Roger that, Captain. Get it done." The Admiral's comm. line cut out.

"Matt, I'm coming in to help. Take out their air defenses and we'll make a pass with the Osprey."

"Fine, just try not to get shot to pieces. Scar, same goes for you. Hold the fort, don't die." Matt answered.

The Osprey had conveniently arrived right after Scar and Holly had taken back the fort, dropping off its full complement of thirty soldiers. It was currently circling around the fort and hitting anything that presented itself with the 40mm dual-repeating nose cannon. The chainguns mounted on each door and the tail gun mopped up any infantry stupid enough to show up. Ammo for it was limited though, and in a couple minutes it would run out and only be useful for transport. Holly called it in.

"We've got a new mission, Big Bird," Holly relayed. "I need you to get me and my troops down to the Frigate ASAP."

"The Frigate? I dunno, mam. I mean, we might make it, but-"

"Cut the crap, soldier. We've got a man inside taking out their air defenses. That bird is gonna get me to that Frigate if I have to pilot it myself. Got it, flyboy?"

"Yes mam! Comin' in for a landing."

The Osprey gave a last parting shot from the 40mm, then circled over the fort, making for the courtyard. The heavy rain cut down its visibility, so it was forced to direct its floodlights directly into the storm. It slowly hovered to the ground, and Holly called up a second strike team to go with her and take the Frigate.

The pilot wasn't at all happy with loading his bird down with ten more men than was recommended, but then they never were happy, and 40 soldiers piled into the V-22.

"Punch it," a Sargent said, clutching the headrest of the pilot while the rest of the crew found seats or grabbed holds near the doors. A mechanical BigDog robot lay in the center of the cargo hold with an X-Box 360 controller resting on top of it, encased in bubble-wrap.

"Corporal, get that thing running. Let's see what it'll do." Holly ordered, pointing at the robot. BigDog was the nickname for it. It was a 4-legged, roughly 4 foot tall robot capable of carrying in excess of 400 pounds over rough and uneven surfaces where the older-generation treaded robots like the MULE and SWORDS couldn't go. Soldiers used it to carry their packs so that they were free to fight unencumbered, and to haul excess equipment like portable laptops, spare gear, and other heavy stuff.

A .30 cal shoulder-mounted drum-fed repeating machine gun kept enemy soldiers off it, and it was encased in bullet proof plates of heavy armor that rendered it virtually invulnerable to standard small-arms fire. Originally developed by a company in Boston, it was quickly adapted for military use, especially on Atlantis with the mountainous terrain.

It could 'gallop' at 15 miles an hour without gear stashed on it, and was capable of hopping, ducking, diving, and righting itself after it had turned completely over. A pretty sweet piece of machinery, all in all. And a little creepy, what with the tell-tale buzz of the power outlet on it and the animal-like behavior and ability to regain its balance.

The Corporal grabbed the 360 controller, tearing off the wrapping, and quickly turned the power on for the mechanical beast. The screen plate on its front buzzed to glowing color, and a DNA-acceptance-denial system asked for input. The Sargent leaned over and put in a code, letting the machine scan his fingerprint as a precaution against a petty criminal turning it against its owners.

After the code was accepted, BigDog buzzed up, then put one leg out, righting itself quickly. In moments it stood to its full height, and the machine ran a self-diagnostics. After a moment it spread its four legs out wide to stabilize itself and the articulated gripper arm rose from the top, navigating with the help of cameras mounted in strategic positions on its hull, giving it 360 degrees of awareness.

BigDog moved to the rear door, ready to be deployed. The pilot announced that they were closing on the Osprey. Holly hoped that Matt had gotten the AA. But she was reasonably certain that he would. After all, what could be keeping him? A few hundred angry, irrational Russian crew members. No doubt heavily armed as well. Don't forget heavily armed. Nothing he couldn't handle, right?

Matt's armor had seen better days. It was scuffed and dented over the entire surface, scorch marks and bullet scorings over the chestplate. He had accumulated the multitude of damage in various scrimmages with the Russian S and D teams. Twice he diverted from his path to let groups of thirty men thunder past in response to calls from the endless grunt workers and engineers aboard the vessel. After all, it wasn't designed to be incredibly spacious.

In five minutes Matt had walked stem to stern, and he at last sighted a staircase to the upper deck level. With fifteen Russians guarding it. Crap. What he needed was a distraction.

Matt pressed a hand to his headset, dialing B/2's personal FOF ID. He answered, "Bravo two, reporting. Whats the status?"

"Roger, Bravo two, this is Bravo-one. Where are you, exactly?" Matt whispered.

"Currently approaching the engine room, sir. It's under heavy guard."

"What else is new. The access staircases are guarded as well, I can't make it to the deck. I need a distraction. Something explosive."

"I can do that, sir. When and where?"

"Open your TacMap. See the corridor just off the main crew chamber?"

"Roger that. I got a coupla' grenades left."

"Hit 'em off on my mark, once you're there tell me."

"Wait one, sir." Matt heard a burst of silenced gunfire in the background, then "I'm moving now."

Matt was about to reply, but then a team of three Russians rounded the corner and spotted him. Crap.

The Russians barked orders to each other, then opened fire without waiting for him to come quietly. Their bullets weren't silenced, and cut holes into the metal corridor, some of the stronger ones ricocheting around the hall. Matt felt numerous impacts on his armor, and his suit automatically dumped some of the boiling impact gel in his chestplate that was keeping him alive. He swore and ducked around a corner. The Russians were inexperienced; they didn't call for help, instead rushing straight around the corner. Matt tripped the first with a simple shove and tackled the second, plugging off a few rounds from his sidearm at the third.

The third man clutched his leg to his chest and jumped comically on one foot, screaming in pain from the bullet-hole in his thigh. The first Russian's face collided with the bulkhead. Something broke. Not the bulkhead.

The second Russian crashed to the ground with Matt right on top of him. Matt packed him once with a fist, then turned him over and used the man's shoelace to tie him up and a strip of cloth from the man's fatigues to gag him. He tossed the man quickly into a separate room, slammed the door, and went to take care of the first Russian. The man appeared to be unconscious, but he moaned thinly, and Matt gave a kick to the diaphragm to stop it.

The third Russian was going to be more of a problem. He was limping backwards, shouting and waving while he fired erratic bursts from his assault rifle. The thundering of feet echoed in the hallway. Matt swore twice more, then dragged his butt down the corridor and sprinted all-out away from the source of feet.

The Russians were more experienced and called ahead, and soon their were thirty men after him. But that mean that there would be only a couple guards on the stairway. Matt started coordinating his running, circling gradually back to the staircase. His path was blocked by a Russian equivalent of a Sargent, but Matt ran forward directly at the man, jumping in the air and driving both feet to the man's chin. It snapped back, the man fell, and the path was clear.

Matt paused for half a second to catch his breath, than sprinted on again as more soldiers came out behind him. The stairway was dead ahead.

Matt swung around the final corner and was surprised to see five rifles pointing at him. He recovered instantly and ducked under the swinging stock of one, coming around and clocking another one in the mouth, grabbed his neck and pinned the man's arm behind himself, using the human shield technique that always seemed to work in the movies.

Matt crept backward, silently warning the other Russians not to fire.

"Bravo one this is two, in position,"

"Hit it! Now!" Matt yelled into the headset, and almost instantly muffled explosions detonated throughout the crew chambers.

The Russian soldiers yelled as the ship listed to port, and one of them fell. Matt had braced himself, and he used the distraction to throw his shield at the nearest obstacle. He dove for the staircase and grasped the railing on his way down, swinging himself around to the stairs. He looked up and began to climb, jumping rapidly, taking the steps two at a time. He reached the top of the Frigate, noting the heaving sea and rain-slicked deck would make the Russian advance next to impossible. He sprinted off to the Bridge before he realized that in the poring rain and frenzied water, no one could tell he was American. The Russian armor had about the same color as his own. He slowed his pace down to a jog, like the rest of the men aboard the deck. The massive artillery cannon stood out in harsh relief against the black-gray background.

The first barrel fired its shell, recoiling back into the cannon itself from the force. Then the middle barrel fired, doing the same, and finally the third barrel emptied. Smaller medium cannon pelted the wall with 60mm shells, trying to bring it down. The AA batteries were fixed atop the bridge, and there were SAM sites at either end of the deck.

"Bravo Three, come in. This is One."

"Status, One?"

"Where are you right now?"

"On the deck, moving towards the aft SAM site."

"Alright. Good. I'm heading to wards the bridge to take out the batteries. once you get that SAM site, make your way to the next one and we'll meet there. If you beat me there, destroy it."

"Roger that, Captain."

Matt took up his SMG, tucked it against his shoulder, and kicked in the door to the bridge, weapon leveled.

He met with two targets - Russian Heavies. Crap.

Really not good. Matt swore, fired, and backed out of the landing quickly. They had Heavies guarding the bridge? Not fair. That just wasn't fair. There had to be some kind of war jurisdiction on it.

The Heavies quickly advanced, one behind the other. The only way Matt could do this was hand-to-hand. His bullets wouldn't penetrate. So hand-to-hand it was. Hand-to-hand and maybe a dab of supernatural power.

The first Heavy reached the doorway. Matt stepped sideways, using his momentum to sling-shot the door into the Russian's face. Solid metal colliding with equally solid composite armor at thirty miles an hour. It probably didn't feel great. The Heavy stumbled back, crashed into his partner, and sent them both flying into the stairs. The men above couldn't hear anything through the pouring rain and howling storm.

Matt was on them in seconds, his gauntlet blade already out. The first Heavy was struggling to get up. Matt kicked him in the jaw, then bent and delivered a second blow from his armored fist with a six inch blade protruding from beneath. The blade skittered against the helmet plating, but the kinetic energy still transferred, and the man was sent reeling. Matt fired a couple of shots from his R71 SMG one-handed to keep the man down for a second. Now for the second one. Relatively uninjured.

Matt looked around for a blunt weapon of some kind. If he used his gun, he'd bend or shatter it quickly. The Heavy gripped the staircase guide-rail for support, trying to lift himself up. Matt had a sudden burst of inspiration, planting one foot on the wall and ripping the rail from the steel bulkhead, out from underneath the Heavy, who collapsed. Matt twirled the makeshift staff in the air once, bringing it down between the Heavy's legs. Despite the armoring, it still must have hurt like crap.

The first Heavy struggled back to his feet. Matt arced the metal rod around, snarling and grunting with the weight. It was as thick around as his forearm. The rod connected forcefully with the Russian's head, and for the second time in thirty seconds was hit with a solid metal object traveling at high speed into his face. Matt's blow was powerful enough to crack the face-plate of the Heavy.

Matt turned to the second Heavy. He was on his feet again. How was it possible? He was supposed to take on both of them?

Matt gathered a ball of energy floating around in his body and focused it into a wad, feeling pressure build in his forehead, channeling it through his fingers, directing it past them and at the Russian's head.

The concentrated energy rammed the guy in the face-mask. The energy was focused in a direct blow, and the blow caught him under the chin. The guy was, after all, almost seven feet tall to Matt's 6 feet. Matt heard a grisly snapping as the head flew back, cracking the vertebrae. Matt shuddered, momentarily forgetting about the first Heavy and what needed to be done.

His lapse cost him precious time, and almost death. The Heavy found his weapon; a heavy shotgun, loaded with devastator slugs. Ouch.

The man could barely see through his cracked faceplate! How had he found the gun in the dim half-light with that handicap? This was totally not cool.

WHY ME??? Matt thought. If he backed away, the Russian would turn him into a headless doorMatt.

So Matt did the only thing he could; step in closer. Matt grabbed the guard's wrists, feeling cold gauntlets. The Heavy grasped at him in turn, and Matt felt the cold gauntlets wrap around his head, squeezing his throat.

Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap... Matt thought.

Why did he have to get the big guy?

Matt flailed desperately, lashing out with fists and feet. They connected with various body parts and armor plates, doing almost nothing.

Someone called shrilly in his comm. Or it could have been out loud. He couldn't tell anymore.

Matt only struggled harder as his vision narrowed down to a tunnel dot. He was going to die. He hadn't thought it would be like this. Not like this at all.

Suddenly the immense pressure lifted from his throat. Matt collapsed to the floor, everything a blur.

When he felt like he could stand, he pushed himself to his knees. His vision was still blurry but slightly less so, and he could half-way clearly see the FOF transponder identification on his visor HUD.

"Captain, this is Bravo Five, reporting."

"Not possible. You're dead. I saw you die!" Matt coughed out. "You were hit by that shell!"

"Well, I appreciate the attention, but I guarantee I'm 100% ready to go."

Matt looked to the ground. The Heavy groaned and clutched his head. The piece of railing was at Five's feet. "How'd you survive?"

"I'm not completely sure. I felt the explosion behind me, but it felt like it was on the other side of some semi-physical barrier. I was thrown forward, because apparently the kinetic energy broke through the barrier and I was carried into the harbor. My comm.'s broke and so's my thruster pack, but I'm quite alive."

"Of course, I would have unconsciously lifted a psi-shield when I felt the round coming." Matt said, nodding.

"Whatever the case, sir, I believe we still have two AA batteries to take?"

"Roger that, soldier. Stick close to me."

"This is it!" Holly called to the troops assembled around her. "Either Kenderson took the AA or he didn't. Doesn't matter. We're landing hard and fast. BigDog's going ahead of us, clear a drop zone, and we come down all guns blazing. Clear?"

The men nodded and muttered. Of course it was clear. Drop down, kick enemy butt, secure a few POW's, and disable the artillery before calling for extraction and blowing the ship to the scrapyard.

"Red light!" Someone called as the red drop light came on. Yes, thankyou, we see that, Holly thought.

The soldiers packed in around the three drop points. 40 men coming down three locations, it was going to be a mess unless BigDog could clear the path. It was waiting in the middle of two rows of men at the back of the Osprey, next to the cargo door. It was wired to three static-line parachutes that would deploy automatically, easing it to the deck at a reasonable yet speedy pace. It's normally cargo-holding body had been refit with a swivel-mounted dual .45 cal machine gun, plus the .303 repeating nose cannon, ironically enough, at its tail and forehead.

The rear bay door opened. BigDog ambled forward, filling the crowded deck with it's characteristic buzzing sound. The noise had been known to cause panic among any who had crossed it before. A second later, a green light flashed once, and one of the Osprey crew moved the robot forward with the X-box controller. He was playing a game. Holly shuddered. War had become all fun and games, until one of her soldiers got hurt. Most of the time badly.

BigDog jumped over the side. It flew most of the way to the ground, before it's specialized chute deployed. Since robots didn't have blood, they couldn't black out from G-force, and so were able to fall almost all the way to the ground before their chutes opened and caught them in the air.

BigDog hit the deck. Hard. Its legs gave out and its mechanical body collapsed from the force of gravity. Holly bit her lip. The robot seemed too... human. Even machines weren't perfect, but the way this particular machine reacted to imperfection was eerily Homosapian. She knew Matt and Scar agreed with her. This robot's descendants would take over the world.

BigDog's repeating MG was running its ample mouth even before the robot was completely upright, the operator pulling the right trigger just like on a real X-box. But that was a weird comparison. This was real. Playing X-box was the virtual thing.

The robot quickly cleared a line as it scampered nimbly along lines of boxes, picking off anyone to slow to get out of its way. At one point the operator sent it jumping onto a higher box, hitting another combination of buttons and watching his imagination at work. The robot jumped up on top of the box, landed on two legs, and sprung back up, its swivel MG turning and firing on a group of braver, or stupider Russians. It looked so Matrix.

It landed on four legs and rolled behind another crate as a trio of Russians opened fire. BigDog jumped on top of that crate as well, jumping off again, and hit the ground, rolled, and came up firing. Two Russians fell; the third closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, and held down the trigger of his SMG. He opened his eyes only when he heard a click and felt his gun stop firing. By that point, BigDog had dodged the stream of bullets and maneuvered around to the Russian's side, balancing a little precariously on two legs. The effect was worth it though; a 6 foot long metal monster crouched at your elbow, .45 and .303 machine guns aiming at you. The Russian turned and fled, and with him the rest of the men on deck broke ranks and retreated.

Holly nodded to the pilot. The LZ was clear and mild. The pilot hit a button and the doors slid back. Instantly a cascade of about 20 rounds hit the hull. Holly, first in line, was hit three times, and sent to the ground with an ache in her fourth rib, shoulder, and knee.

Holly scrambled back to her feet, the next man in line helping her up. No, don't think that you were just shot three times and you're still alive. Just don't think about it now, and make a mental note to thank Stephens insistently the next time you see him. Holly thought. The light was green. Holly jumped.

The air whistled as it ran past her, cupping her in the stomach like a physical blow and blowing the few chunks of hair hanging out of her helmet all around. A giddy joy rose in her, insanely.

Holly plummeted faster, each second without a chute accelerating her descent. She sucked air through her oxygen mask, and the lack of carbon-dioxide made her even more giddy. She felt hysteria building up and had to keep herself from laughing out loud. That was all her men needed, their Captain giggling like a girl from elementary school on the comm. lines.

She checked her altimeter. 500 feet, then her chute should deploy.

400.

300.

200.

100, and then - nothing. What? What happened? Holly frantically twisted around, checking for a chute.

"Uh, everything alright, Cap'n?" One of her Sargents asked, noticing her lack of a parachute.

"Negative! No chute! No chute!" Holly screamed above the wind. Everyone on the comm. cursed quietly.

No parachute. The bullets must have damaged the thing. She tried her backup. Nada, nothing.

Why me? Whymewhymewhymewhymewhyme? Holly wondered. She felt strangely calm now. No sense of fierce pride in jumping from an Osprey. No elation at falling really really fast. Not even despair, though even if she hit the water, it'd be like hitting concrete.

Holly heard frantic screaming on the comm.

Holly, your thrusters! Holly thought at first it was another hallucination, but then she realized it was the Sargent on the comm. again.

"Your thruster pack, Captain!" the Sarge yelled. Holly looked down and noticed that she was wearing Stephens' prototype armor again, the one with the built in thruster pack that was made to fire on max burn while jumping so that the user could get twenty feet in the air.

Holly didn't think about whether or not it was going to work. She hit her thruster controls, and sunken jets erupted out of their ports and hit the air with a sharp crack.

Holly closed her eyes, as her perception of movement was a little skewed at the moment. So she was a little surprised when she opened her eyes again, seeing her arms and legs flailing, flame jetting from her back, and she was falling, directly towards the deck of the Frigate. Slower than she had been going, of course, but not slow enough. She needed to hit water. Even then she'd probably black out from the sheer force of the landing. But landing was too gentle a term. Even crash-landing couldn't accurately describe it.

Holly angled her body horizontally, and the jets in her backpack propelled her slightly forward as well as helping to slow her down. She felt like Superman, and she had the crazy notion to extend her arms in front of her as if it would help make her faster. But the jets were running out of juice; she couldn't tell if she'd make it into the water or nail the lip of the deck. She closed her eyes again. When she opened them, she was barely over the water, but she was over water. And only 100 feet from it.

The wind in her face, tugging at her boots, her face stretched to comical proportions by the air. Then training took over, and she crossed her arms and legs, protecting her vital organs, and angled her toes into the water.

The crash was amazing. Like being hit by a truck. It jarred her whole body and she felt like every bone was shattered. The air was knocked out of her, and her vision blacked for a second. Her oxygen masked ripped off; no matter, her diaphragm was so screwed it wouldn't be able to contract for a while. She opened her eyes, and discovered that she was thirty feet underwater with no air in her lungs. She kicked frantically, propelling herself up, but it did almost nothing. Her thruster pack sparked to life for an instant, jetting her fifteen feet forward, before it died; out of fuel.

She kicked and pulled and kicked and pulled, but it wasn't going to be enough. Her lungs cried out for air. The darkness was returning to her vision, coming in at the edges as if a little hesitant. But in a second it would expand and cover her whole field of vision.

Why like this? After everything, why'd she have to die like this?

She couldn't go anymore. Ten feet from the surface, Holly couldn't go anymore. Her muscles just wouldn't respond. Luckily she didn't have to know how much it hurt to suffocate. She blacked out completely, her body giving up and preserving her brain for another couple of minutes after her inevitable death.

Matt still couldn't believe that Bravo Five was alive. He had taken a shell directly beneath his foot. Regardless of any shield, he should have been dead. But he was here, and they were storming the bridge.

Matt put his back to the wall beside the bridge door, and Five quickly negotiated the lock by smashing it and the hinges. Five grabbed the wheel in a vice-like traction-glove assisted grip, and Matt helped him turn the unyielding wheel to the 'open' position.

Matt kicked open the door, movie style. It fell down and crashed to the ground off of its broken hinges. He fired bursts into whatever target exposed itself, and with Five's help all nine of the bridge crew members were either dead or captured and cuffed to various sturdy-looking instruments. Matt left Five on guard, taking an extra helping of C4 explosives, and set off for the two AA batteries located next to the bridge on either side.

Six minutes later, all four AA locations were painted with enough explosives for a Fourth of July celebration for a whole neighborhood. Matt found a big red button on his gauntlet, and slid back a small protective covering. He entered an input code and pressed the button, watching with satisfaction as each piece of equipment exploded in a consecutive line. He tuned in to Alpha's comm. line. They had just sent down BigDog. Matt looked out over the deck and saw it tearing apart squads and formations. He half-smiled to himself as he heard Holly's voice ordering everyone to jump. Then he saw the Osprey and several dots falling from it into open space.

A minute later, almost all the dots had parachutes hanging above their heads. Almost. Not all.

One dot had no chute. Matt knew with sickening certainty that it was Holly's.

Matt moved without thinking, as if in a dream, sprinting all-out to the side of the deck. He jumped down the staircase, past the two Heavies, and jumped over another railing to get to the main deck. He landed in a crouch to absorb the impact of the fall, then sprinted forward again, weaving in and out of crates stacked two-and-three high. He ducked under a Russian's swing, dodged an arc from the butt of a rifle, and jumped clear over BigDog as it galloped forward, one of its photographic receptor eyes swiveling to follow him. Matt watched Holly's dot all the time; she had now jettisoned the chute and was using the built-in prototype thruster pack on her armor to slow her descent.

Matt ran a quick calculation in his head, rounding the numbers, and realized it wasn't going to be enough lift force. Then again, it didn't take a genius to figure that out. Holly was instinctively flailing her arms to maintain balance in the air, but of course it didn't do anything much. Matt reached the edge of the railing in the same moment that Holly crashed through the thin surface of the water. Someone screamed in his comm., sounding urgent. He didn't have time for that.

Matt dove without thinking, automatically assuming a diving position that would cause the least splash. He pinwheeled his arms once for balance, the waves opening to let him slip through. As he hit water, his body surged with an undeniable feeling of power. It was the same thing every time he entered the water. This feeling of grace and power.

Then he was back to worrying about Holly, drowning beneath the waves that were obligingly parting around him.

He kicked on his thruster pack to max burn, jetting through the water at 10 knots. The seconds ticked inexorably away; they seemed to move too quickly as he clung to each one.

A dark shape solidified in the water. Matt cried out in relief, sucked in a breath of air, and dove again, thinking it was Holly.

Five seconds later he was nose-to-nose with a Bull Shark. The things could swim into water up to four feet deep. Usually sharks stayed away from harbors and the shore, because the sand messed with their gills and their was too much activity. This one didn't seem to have that problem, because it was right here, now.

Matt tried to see through the murky water, but now the waves had turned against him. They were aggressively kicking up silt and clouding his vision, and the shark was drawing nearer, curious.

Matt watched in terror as the ocean killer cocked its head to the side and circled him in what looked like a non-threatening pose but was actually the textbook sign of a shark attack. Who was he, to think that he was master of the ocean? He looked like an arrogant, over-confident squid next to this monster.

Matt had no weapons besides the blade on his gauntlet, and that would be pathetic to even attempt attacking the shark. He could do nothing. The shark drew nearer, and Matt could see the feral gleam in its black, heartless eyes. It seemed to be smiling. Its jaws could clamp down with something like 1000 pounds of pressure per square inch. That would most likely pierce his armor. And if it didn't, it would crush him.

The shark disappeared into the murky water. Matt knew that it was going to try to flank him, and come in from the sides or rear. But he couldn't help himself from staring at the hole in the clouded mud that the shark had disappeared into.

Matt shook his head, jetted to the surface, caught a breath, and then dove deep to the bottom. At the surface, the light from above would outline him. The shark was expecting him in about the middle depth. He dove all the way 20 feet to the bottom, holding his breath and snorting to relieve the pressure in his ears. Navy SEALs were trained to hold their breath for six minutes. He'd been under for seven minutes now with only quick stops to replenish his lungs. He could feel his strength waning.

He felt weird with his helmet on underwater, but all the electronics were waterproofed. He called up Holly's vitals on his visor. He didn't like what he saw. Why'd she have to have the malfunctioning parachute? Couldn't he go save someone without the added stress of liking them?

The shark erupted out of nowhere, coming from above. It dove at Matt's head, aiming to have a snack of his face. Matt cried out instinctively, but only bubbles escaped his lips. He lashed the water with his fist without thinking, which connected with the shark's nose. The shark snorted comically, shaking its enormous head, and turned off. Matt knew it wasn't done yet, but he had no intention of waiting for it. He kicked out and cast up a large cloud of silt as a smokescreen, then thrusted off to Holly's splashdown.

The shark tried to follow. Its gills were sand resistant, but not sand-proof. The silt worked its way down its gills and into its open mouth. The bull shark snorted again and peeled off from the chase.

Matt jetted forward, literally. He was back in control. He felt the ocean around him, and it carried him forward.

He was still holding his breath, and about thirty seconds later he saw a dark figure on the bottom of the ocean. He knew it was Holly.

Matt dove to the very bottom, his lungs about to burst from lack of oxygen, scooped up his friend in his arms, and thrust off to the surface.

Could he make it? His head was pounding and his brain was slowly shutting down areas as it ran out of oxygen. His muscles would barely respond. His stomach was roiling and his lungs and heart were working overtime to recycle the oxygen-depleted blood through his body. The surface was right there! He could see the light patterns against the waves. But was that really it? He was beginning to go crazy, his brain playing tricks on him. He could have sworn the bull shark had returned for round two. He saw great, oily tentacles rising up from the silt, millions of suckers big as head coming after him. He couldn't tell if he was really being strafed with gunfire from above and whether or not sonic depth charges were detonating right next to him.

Matt saw the darkness around him close in, eager for the kill. He wouldn't let it. With his final spurt of energy, Matt shoved off, using an ancient form of psi known as Hydrokinesis, and cleared the surface just when he too blacked out, at the mercy of the ocean.

"Scar!!"

The shell hit and detonated three feet to her left. She and two other soldiers were cast like toys into the air, an invisible force punching them in the gut and shrapnel spraying their exposed faces.

Scar sideflipped through the air and came to the ground on her feet, a little shaken and numerous scratches across her face, but otherwise fine. The two others were not so fine. One was on the ground, wheezing from a projectile that had lodged in his chestplate, and the other one was clutching a hand to his side, blood welling up beneath. Scar called for a medic, but the armor system was already dispensing painkillers. As the medic arrived, he took out a small, frozen gel pack.

Another of Stephens' great designs, the packs acted as a Vitamin E/platelet enhancer when frozen, accelerating tissue regrowth, and a combination pain-killer and antiseptic-antibody when liquefied.

Scar covered the medic while he helped the two soldiers down to the sick bay, loosing blasts from her FN SCAR-H assault rifle. An armored transport pulled up; Scar hit it with a 40mm from the grenade launcher attached to the barrel. It bounced off, up into the air, but had no propulsion to keep it there, so it fell back down before exploding. The APC was torn apart on one side, the explosion rocking the entire thing on it's axles, but men were already starting to climb to their feet around the damaged vehicle.

Scar layed down the rest of the clip, feeling the powerful 7.62mm rounds as they escaped from the rifle. She ducked back and slotted a fresh magazine into the receiver.

Retaliatory fire chipped off blocks by her head, and Scar lobbed a C4 charge over the wall. With the frantic yelling, Scar popped up again and strafed their lines with her 20-round clip, and when the bullets stopped flying she hit the oversized red button on her gauntlet after targeting the C4 charge she had thrown on her HUD. Her vital-sign monitors showed a flare in her heartbeat as the explosion flew up, a great roiling cloud of flame. The sonics blasted against her eardrums and the shock wave cast her back and down half a step. A tank withstood the blast for half a second before the flames melted the armor and found the fuel, casting another explosion and broken hulk to the ground.

She looked up, and saw Holly's Osprey hovering over the Frigate. Good. That would buy them a little reprieve. They might even win this battle.

Specks that were people began falling from the distant Osprey, and all of them deployed chutes. Except one.

Scar muttered a curse, then yelled to her Sargent. "Get a boat out there! I don't care if you've gotta lash logs together, just get something that floats and send it out now!"

She called up Matt's comm. on her visor, but he wouldn't respond. She called up his helmet-camera on her screen and saw that he was running, sprinting, to the edge of the deck. He was going to jump!

Matt hit the railing and dove, pinwheeling his arms, and splashed into the water. Scar's concentration was disrupted as a three-round burst impacted against her back-plate, and she fell forward. Two of her men dove forward, assault rifles pumping in covering fire. Scar shook her head, clenched her teeth against the pain, and stood.

Fury washed over her, a kind of unstoppable... Rage took hold, and she raised her left arm, no longer in control...

Pressure built in her head. A hazy red clouded her vision. She sighted a phalanx of enemy soldiers taking cover behind the destroyed hulks of two tanks, and pointed to them with all the authority of fate.

The two soldiers had been kneeling behind cover, blasting away before they were blasted at. They saw their Captain take three rounds in the back; that had to hurt. Delta nine took the initiative and dove forward, covering his officer, while Delta Eighteen rose and sprayed a barrage of lethal fire from his Squad Automatic. The Russians who had been firing pressed the attack; thee of them ran forward under cover of the battlements and began setting up plastic explosives. Delta nine leaned over and tossed a frag, which the Russians kicked away.

Then Scar got up. "Captain Miller," one asked. "Are you alright?"

She didn't answer, no longer herself. She set her jaw, trembling with power. The two soldiers looked at each other, slowly backing away from Scar. Red haze clouded her vision, and she pointed out the phalanx of Russians taking cover behind the tank. Her targets. Another moment and the tanks abruptly, inexplicably burst into flame. Almost completely solid metal. Spontaneous Combustion. The tanks melted, and the men behind them screamed, consumed by the enormous heat. Some of them jumped away as the metal became way more than scalding-hot; most were not so lucky. As the metal conducted the flame's energy, they were flash-fried, glued to the tanks. They died before they realized what happened.

Scar still wasn't done. She flipped over the battlements, and the men who were attempting to set up the plastic explosives cowered against the stone. One stood strong, presumably the Sargent, and stared Scar down. Scar raised her arms, crackling with energy, and loosed flames to either side of the three men. The Sargent squinted and backed half a step, his two men dove behind him. Scar stepped forward and socked the Sargent solidly in the mouth; the man fell with two less teeth than he had. The two cowards, Scar kicked each in the jaw, then bound their arms and legs with cord from her webbing gear. Quickly, expertly, Scar tied the Sargent and hauled them next to the wall.

The red distortion lifted from her vision, and she growled to herself, disappointed. She wanted to destroy them all.

Then she shook herself and returned to normal, then jumped with the assistance of the thruster pack wired into her armor and hit the battlements. She climbed over, panting slightly, both from fatigue and the recent psi. Lances of pain shot behind her eyes, and her face contorted as she silently struggled to remain conscious. Always a price...

Matt cleared the surface at twenty miles an hour.

He rose several feet in the air before gravity re-asserted control over his body. Matt sucked great draughts of air out of the sky. He splashed back down a couple seconds later after flailing about in the air. He coughed wetly, once, twice, then a final time, clearing his lungs of liquid. His thoughts were once again lucid and clear.

Then he remembered the girl laying in his arms, and he adjusted his thruster pack so that it would keep him floating at his hip-level, which was just enough for him to reach into his med-kit.

"Hang in there. We'll be fine." Matt said, starting his work of reviving Holly, using the energy fed to him by the sea.

Holly awoke just as the inflatable speedboat slowed to a halt. Matt handed her up to the waiting hands of two soldiers, and after they put her down they reached out again for Matt. He grabbed hold of one and strong hands pulled him aboard, exhausted and lethargic. They pulled him aboard, and he saw the rest of his crew that he had left on the Russian frigate. One of his men gave him a thumbs-up, and Matt hit the button on his gauntlet, watching the frigate burst into flames and list to port.

Holly looked over and gave Matt a silent look of thanks.

"Alright people. Mission accomplished. Let's head back to the fort, grab something to eat, and then hit the sack for a while. I think it's safe to say the commies won't be coming back anytime soon." Matt said.

"Amen to that." One responded, and Matt slumped against the side of the boat as he and his team jetted for the shore.

Scar was just tying down the last of the soldiers as a Russian PT boat came rocketing towards shore from the frigate. She scrambled to find cover and called to one of her men, but then a comm. screen opened in her visor and she saw Holly's Sargent grinning back at her. "It's us in the PT boat, ma'am!" He yelled over the clamor of jubilant voices in the background. "Explosives set, and most of the baddies on the ship are out for the count."

"Good work, Sargent. Return to base, grab some z's, then get yourself a shovel and start scooping rubble."

"Sounds like fun, Captain. Wouldn't miss it."

Scar terminated the comm. The cleanup op wouldn't be fun, but it was necessary. The Admiral and his fleet would be coming in to the harbor in about half an hour, and Scar would have to get a team out there to assist in the Navy action. Maybe Holly and Matt would go while she stayed to supervise the cleanup and in case another attack was launched, though it was doubtful. She liked dry ground more.

One thing was certain, though. They had won, driven off the strike, and emerged victorious.

Work In Progress

11:46 Hours, Military Clock, June 18, 2010, Daytona Beach, Florida, USA

Scarlett Miller was bored.

Bored and annoyed. The water was way too cold for June. Even the sun seemed more chilled than usual. June here was supposed to be sweltering. But she had come down anyways. After all, there wasn't much else to do in Daytona, besides a lot of mini-golf courses. She popped the lid on a coke, the can hissing with escaping gas. She glanced over to her right at where Matt Kenderson was sitting, reading a book and drinking a Pepsi.

They had come down together with Holly Dayne and Jack Stephens, four 14-year old adolescent friends on a vacation. Holly was walking a ways down the beach, and Jack was messing around with his laptop on the other side of Matt.

She raised the can to her lips to take a sip right as the two strangers appeared.

In hindsight, the two Suits were good. They were invisible, despite their conspicuous clothing, until they appeared at Matt's shoulder. Scar instantly smelled bad news. No one wore suits to a beach, except for, like, weddings and other stuff like that. Scar wrinkled her nose. This wasn't gonna end well.

Of course Matt didn't realize until half a second later than it happened, being a guy, but the younger Suit started fidgeting with his coat, his fingers brushing the inside of jacket, where a curious bulge protruded from the... oh no.

Scar was already half out of her seat when the older Suit growled, "Come with us. Now."

Matt shook his head, then it suddenly dawned on him that these two schmucks weren't here to give him cookies and milk. He vaulted out of his seat, his Pepsi flying. The Suits tensed and drew handguns from their jackets. They fired at Matt, but their opening shots were wide. Matt's older half brother was now sprinting for the shore, and Scar decided that it was time to act as well when two Suits emerged behind her and let loose two darts of their own. She jumped from the chair like a spring, at the same time catapulting her seat at the two Suits and buying her maybe three seconds to prepare.

Holly came sprinting in from the North, but she was still a ways away and wouldn't arrive for two minutes. By then it would be too late.

Scar ran towards the Suit closest to her, which was also the one with his handgun caught in his jacket. Amateur.

He struggled to bring the weapon around even as his partner fired three more shots, but then Scar was next to him. She was an accomplished Karate student and had a talent for making up techniques on the fly. The government guy had no chance.

Scar spun around, executing a picture-perfect 360 kick, only to find that her lethal blow was caught in the Suit's hand. He had abandoned his gun for now, and was instead about to beat the crap out of her. Probably not her greatest idea.

She back-tracked fast, jumping and kicking with the other foot. It caught the man in his double chin, and he let go out of instinct. She landed on all fours and scrambled away, throwing sand behind her as the second Suit tried to follow.

The Suits came after her, and she realized there really was no way she could win this. If she got in close, they'd go hand-to-hand, and eventually with two on one, they'd win. If she backed off, they'd just draw their handguns and turn her into Swiss Scarlett Cheese.

It might have just been that she was weird, but she opted to have a slight chance, and she dove back into the fray. The Suit who had gotten his gun stuck in his jacket had finally freed it, but by the time he brought it around, Scar was next to him again, and this time she gave no mercy. She lashed out in a straight-regular kick that hit the man between his legs. He gave a funny, ungraceful hop as the foot connected, but Scar felt protective plastic instead of flesh, and the man wrapped her in his enormous bear-arms and started choking her.

Then Jack was next to her and chopped the Suit in the kidney. Holly was struggling with her two Suits as well, but she was cleverly baiting them closer and closer... then she made a break for the road and the hotels, in plain sight of dozens of witnesses and cameras. One of the men dove for her, but they only succeeded in clawing off her jacket.

Scar's Suit let go as Jack took out his knees, but all that accomplished was the second, blond suit charging forward and smacking Jack across the head. Jack fell, and Scar realized she might have to take after Holly and escape into the city. But that would mean leaving Matt behind, which was something she wouldn't do. Not willingly, at least. But she knew what Matt would say, that she was being stupid and that she had a chance to get out and save them both.

So which should she choose? The smart way, or the right way?

Then Matt mentally probed her consciousness. They knew each-other's by heart, and in the car-ride down from Georgia they had practiced their telepathy the whole way. She could feel his anger, anxiety for her and the rest of the crew... but also fear. Matt's mind was tangled and she didn't have the time to sort it all out. Go, I've got something planned, but I need you off the beach. Tell Holly and Jack that we'll meet up at the racetrack once we lose our tails. He spoke in her mind.

Alright, but if you're not there in an hour I'm coming back for you, no matter how many creeps are in the way. Holly and Jack will, too. Scar replied.

With a final anguished glance, Scar spun, kicked the Suit in the diaphragm, and grabbed Jack's shirt collar, yanking him off the beach. He had been right in the middle of a roundhouse punch, and he looked disappointed that he hadn't gotten the chance to deliver it to the creep Suit. Scar agreed.

Jack gave a whine when he saw his laptop sitting in the sand, but it was too late for that now. Scar dragged him to the ramp that led up to their condo. The two Suits fired again and again, chasing after her and Jack, but every round hit either the wooden rail or the concrete behind them.

Scar ducked nevertheless, but then she and Jack made it to the top of the ramp. Startled beach-goers rushed around in utter confusion, and Scar pushed a path to the condo. Jack followed not far behind, but neither did the Suits.

Scar reached the entrance to the parking lot just as three black cars rolled in at each side. Suits piled out, and not far behind them was the inexorable wail of police and SWAT sirens. Jack looked at her, said, "Lose the tails, meet up at the bookstore?"

"Sounds like a plan." Scar answered lightly, all the time staring at the Suits aiming real handguns at them. Scar and Jack split up and ran for cover just as bullets tore up the asphalt at their feet, Jack diving towards the condo, Scar back towards another condo on the opposite side that was under construction. Jack dodged around a car that chased him down and rolled under the parking garage door just as it closed. The black Mercedes didn't stop, but smashed right through the thin aluminum sheet and tilted over too far; the driver misjudged the angle of impact. The car hung in the air for a half-second, then flipped end over end. Jack sprinted for the door to the lobby. It was locked, but with as much adrenaline as he had right now, the simple metal padlock stood no chance.

Jack smashed it with his heel, it clanged and twisted. He grabbed it, yanked, and the metal came right off. The rest of the parking garage was filled with discordant horn-blaring vacationers, all of which attempted to scatter as three Suits climbed out of the damaged car and opened fire. One of them had somehow gotten a rifle out of the burning car, and the deafening three-round burst that followed only hurried Jack on his way. He slammed the door shut behind him and ran for the stairs. In the elevator, they could lock him between floors and flush him out with a single explosive or other gun. So he hustled up the stairs, taking them two at a time. His lungs burned, his legs were on fire, and his head throbbed in rhythm with his pounding heart.

He reached the fifth floor, and saw that the Police had arrived, along with a heavily armed and armored division of SWAT. Good. If he was arrested by the SWAT or Police, they wouldn't be able to do a thing. Once he was in their custody, they'd have to follow the laws and let him loose, because he hadn't knowingly committed a crime. At least, not anything that would draw out as a government offense, and certainly nothing traceable. So what if he'd downloaded a few songs onto his iPhone?

Jack waved, calling out to the Police. In answer, a sniper round dug a chunk out of the wall by his head. They thought he was the badguy!

Just as that realization took him, two Suits burst out onto the balcony where he was standing. Rather than fight them and give the sniper another chance to splatter his brains against the ground, Jack turned and fled around the corner and jumped onto one of the condo balconies. Fortunately vacant.

The two Suits followed, and Jack fled into the condo itself. He hid just around the entrance from the sliding glass door, and took out the first Suit that ran past. One shot to the knee, another to the kidney, and the Suit was on the ground. Jack kicked his face; payback for his laptop. It had all his cool designs on it. He was working on a kind of armor that used hydrostatic impact gel to absorb shock from a bullet-proof ceramic shell. He'd also been working on a kind of thruster pack for his armor, which would give the user a jet-assisted jump 10 feet in the air. It also worked in water.

And now these losers had it.

Jack kicked the next Suit to come in, but this guy was ready, and he caught Jack's leg. Jack wasn't deterred, instead he jumped and clocked the Suit with the other toe. That would teach him not to underestimate a teenager again.

The first Suit had gotten on his feet again, he dove at Jack. Jack sidestepped, but the man had been expecting it. A huge, meaty arm shot out and grabbed Jack's neck, crushing the life from him. Not good. He couldn't win this fight. Jack kicked the man in the face, once, twice, but he refused to let go. Jack twisted the huge hand so it faced him palm-up, and he took a moment to find the nerve-point in the wrist. Jack yelled and smashed his hand against the man's artery. The hand relaxed, and before the other hand could come in, Jack fell to the ground and rolled under it. He kicked the Suit in the small of his back, and fled after the other Suit came back to do some damage.

Jack sprinted through the door to a well-lit, open hallway, the smell of sea air heavy in his face. The Suits followed, one yelling at his wrist for backup. Hidden microphone. Two Suits burst from the elevator doors. Oops. So much for Jack's plan.

The stairs and elevator were blocked, the way he had come was also not an option, so Jack took the only one left.

He bailed over the side.

Five floors up, and Jack fell all of them. The bricks below looked solid. A SWAT helicopter hovered above the building, and six heavily armed SWAT troopers fast-roped on rappel lines. Police cars blockaded the parking lot, which was enclosed on three sides by the hotel itself. More police swarmed the condo complex and started evacuating the people within. Jack realized none of this as he hurtled to the Earth at a million miles an hour, finally landing on the ground below.

The impact nearly killed him.

All air was knocked from his body. His legs were pulverized, and his bones felt like molten iron in his skin. He rolled, but it did nothing to help him. The police swarmed his body and had him in cuffs before he could even moan from the pain.

Things got blurry and fuzzed out for maybe two minutes, but when he woke, more than half the police were gone and the SWAT chopper was nowhere to be seen. He was leaning against the hood of a police cruiser, and two burly officers argued next to him with a collection of maybe four Suits. Jack couldn't tell. Things were still too fuzzy, and his heart raced. His face burned with humiliation. What had he done that was so wrong, these men had felt the need to kill him?

Things fuzzed out again for thirty seconds or so, and when he again awoke the Suits were standing not two feet from the senior police officer. Spittle flew from his heated cheeks and his grayish ginger hair was standing on end like a rooster's. Jack slid to the ground, but no one seemed to notice. The men were screaming at the top of their lungs, but Jack still couldn't hear what they were saying, and the muted yells felt too distant. He hoped his ears weren't permanently damaged. But Jack got an idea from his lack of attention.

His legs still felt like the were on fire. He probably had broken his ankle at the very least. Despite that, he had to get away. Jack felt hot, thick tears at his face as he thought about what might have happened to Scar, Holly, and Matt. That, along with his physical pain, almost destroyed him.

He still had to go on.

Jack sucked in a breath and got ready to ignore a whole lot of pain, cause he was gonna have to hump it all the way to the bookstore, and then to the racetrack. But first he had to escape custody.

As the men argued their inaudible battle, Jack simply collapsed onto the asphalt, subtly inching himself farther and farther under the cruiser. After a minute or two of carefully, painfully slithering, Jack rolled onto his feet and darted forward.

The pain instantly lanced him his left leg, and one of the Suits noticed his escape. He called out to the others, who instantly pushed the police out of the way and gave chase. Yep. Probably dead.

Jack payed them no attention. Not when it was needed elsewhere, namely not tripping on anything. It could mean death if he did.

Yeah, it was gonna be a long stroll.

Scar waited anxiously at the bookstore. She had wanted to stay and help Jack, but three Suits had tailed her, and when she got out into the open a sniper had nearly taken off her head. It just wasn't fair! How come they got rifles and handguns and snipers and helicopters and SWAT backup? What'd she get? Nothing! Only what she could scrounge off the bodies of anyone she'd happened to subdue.

Scar checked that the lone sidearm she'd pulled off one of the guys was still there, tucked into the waistband of her athletic shorts and covered by her swimsuit.

Where was Jack? After she'd lost her tails in the construction block, police had still been waddling around the building Jack had fled to. She hadn't heard anything since they'd split. Her mind was going a million miles an hour, and cold sweat ran down her back. It had nothing to do with temperature.

She cast out with her mind, extending her consciousness into the surrounding parking lot. A rat nibbling on a piece of... something, in a corner, a bird high above, and a couple people in the store behind her. That was it. No Jack, nor Matt, nor even Holly. Just her. She resigned herself to wait. What else was there to do?

After what felt like ages, Jack appeared between two buildings. But her first clue had been the sirens, which had begun screaming five minutes earlier, growing steadily until Jack darted out from behind an alley and sprinted awkwardly for her. He was running at maybe 10 miles an hour, and no cars could follow him through the alley, but the Suits had brought backup. Two slick Mercedes rolled to a stop in front of the alley, followed by a stretch limo.

Scar had the gun in her hand instantly. The gun was molded to fit the average adult's hand, which was nowhere near her size. But it was straightforward enough; point at the target and pull the trigger. Point and shoot.

Suits piled out of the cars. Only, hullo, these weren't the regular Suits. These guys wore sharp black Tuxedos, as if that would be any help in a firefight. They drew weapons, but they weren't the normal handguns. They were shiny silver .50 cal magnums. Who were these Yahoos?

Jack saw the change of equipment and immediately decided he didn't need to find out if what those new magnums shot hurt.

Jack ducked into a doorway, tucking his head into his shoulder and ramming against the wooden frame. The door creaked and gave, and Jack slammed it behind him. One Tux followed, trailed by three Regulars. The rest went to surround the rest of the building. Scar ran forward and pulled the trigger half a dozen times. All she heard were irritating clicks. What was wrong? Was the gun jammed?

No matter, she had to help Jack. She ran and made a rather stupid decision; she attacked the lead Tux.

She ran up from behind, her feet making no noise on the pavement. When she was three feet away, she jumped and used the energy to fuel a flying kick aimed at the base of the Tux's spine.

Uh, but the Tux wasn't their anymore. He had dodged out of the way. The sheer speed of his movements told Scar that she was stuck with an enemy that was way out of her league.

Scar was still clutching the handgun, and her thoughts echoed back to something Matt had said when they were eating lunch, debating weapons with Jack. They'd been talking about something like single or double action shots? And that some handguns had a function where it couldn't be shot until a hammer or something was manually cocked?

Scar's thumb instinctively found the cocking hammer on the Glock modern handgun and pulled it back. The gun gave a metallic, satisfying click as a bullet was fed into the chamber.

The Tux appeared behind her; Scar felt more than saw him. She twisted around and fell back, pulling the trigger as fast as her hand would react. It didn't help, because the handgun was an automatic that held fifteen rounds. One, two, three, four shots jumped out of the gun as she fell, dodging a lethal foot. Two of those rounds hit the Tux. Both in the gut.

The Tux grunted and wheezed, bending over, but gave no other signs of the shot hitting anything. Four Regulars flanked him, and Scar knew she was in trouble.

The Tux darted forward, his pale face blank, and struck Scar in the side of the head. She wheeled around, certain that she was about to die.

Holly wasn't having a great day. It hard started out nice, strolling along the beach and hanging out with her friends. Then the idiot Suits turned up and ruined everything.

Holly dashed in between tables, knocking over heavily-laden waiters and flipping tables, anything to stall the three Suits that trailed her. They'd called for backup, and so Holly took the next right down a side-alley and forced all the pursuing cars to stop and go back around. More Suits trailed her now; at least six.

Holly's lungs burned from constant exercise, and she was drenched in sweat. It was the middle of June. Her head throbbed in unison with her pounding feet, and her flip-flops just weren't cutting it for the kind of running she was doing, so her bare feet ached and stung. On top of all that, she had no idea where she was going or what to do. These guys seemed to be in league with the Police and everything, so she'd be dead anyway she went in that direction. She couldn't run forever. She had to lose these guys, fast.

Without warning, Holly swung a left and disappeared down another alley clothed in darkness. The Suits followed her, but without NVG's they couldn't do much to see her. On the other hand, Holly thought around the pain of stubbing her toe against a dumpster, I can't see much either.

The dim outline of a fire escape ladder came as a welcome relief. She jumped onto the first rung and reached hand-over hand to the next platform.

Two Suits halted at the bottom of the stairs and clicked off shots from their handguns. Not even the wimpy dart-guns, these were real sidearms. They could hurt. They could kill.

Shots rang and struck the metal railing. Dementedly, Holly found herself imagining that she was Neo in the Matrix. The parabolic chase was too coincidental to ignore. Holly reached the top of the top of the building and fled along the top of the roof. Before the Suits reached the top as well, Holly jumped over the side, three stories down. And on top of everything else, she was mildly afraid of heights.

The fall was over as quickly as it had begun, and Holly was thrown into a dumpster full of trash bags. It smelled great.

She buried herself beneath a couple bags, trying not to gag from the smell, and waited while the Suits thundered around, extremely pissed that they had lost her.

A curse echoed around on the building above her. One of the Suits yelled at another guy, screaming that it was all his fault, and if they'd sent in a helicopter like he'd said, they'd live to tell their boss. One of them spit into the dumpster and followed the wad of saliva with a shot from his sidearm, completely accidentally almost hitting Holly, who struggled not to jump in surprise.

Holly lay in the trash bin until the men left, and she waited three minutes to make sure they were really gone before the smell of the trash got the better of her. She vaulted out of the bin.

Five minutes later, she was back on the main road, running towards the sound of sirens. Interestingly, they didn't go off towards the race-track, like she'd thought, but in the general direction of a Borders bookstore that Matt had dragged them all to at least a dozen times before. Sure enough, Holly saw three slick black cars roving off in the direction of the sirens. Only these weren't the Mercedes E500 type, like before. These were stretch limos with heavily tinted windows. The tires looked suspiciously thick for that type of vehicle, but besides that, there were no tell-tale signs of any re-vamped equipment on the car.

Holly chased after it, dumping some poor biker off his wheels. With the borrowed bike, she quickly made her way after the limo, keeping pace, gaining a little ground at every intersection. The limo lacked sirens to part the flow of traffic, but the motorbike could weave in and out between cars. Eventually in one intersection, Holly revved the engine, feeling the throaty hum of the engine, and shot through the crowded space into oncoming traffic, nearly wiping out against an unforgiving hood of a car. The bike was way too large for her, and the constant purring vibration from the motor relaxed her grip slightly despite her best efforts.

By now the limo had to have known that the bike was tailing them. Sure enough, a few moments later, the limo slowed, the sun roof popped open, and a well-dressed man with a gun stood up. He squeezed off a few shots, but with the traffic all around and the limo dancing back and forth, the weaving bike was a hard target to hit.

He emptied the clip at Holly, with each shot getting closer and closer to the mark. He cleanly reloaded, and Holly pounded the handlebars in frustration. She was about to die!

The Suit raised the gun again, and Holly did the only thing she could; popped a back wheelie and raised the front of the bike off the ground, using its protective bulk as cover.

The Suit hesitated, momentarily taken aback, then clicked off shots as fast as the trigger would depress.

Holly's bike shuddered as three rounds found the gas tank.

Most people would think that if a gas tank was shot, it exploded, like in movies. Nope. It took something extra to set the tank alight. Like a spark or something hot.

The result that it did have was that Holly swerved and almost lost balance, her heart racing. She turned and stopped for a moment. Everything depended on the thin hunk of metal between her legs that was jetting forward at 60 miles an hour. Losing her balance would not be a good thing. Also, the gas tank started spilling fuel, creating a huge puddle of flammable liquid under the bike.

Holly took off again, twisting the throttle back as far as it would go.

The Suit reloaded and fired again and again. Holly felt a bullet's slip-stream pass right over her cheek. This was unreal. Was she going to die here, right now, on a stolen motorbike, chasing after a government agent?

A shot found the puddle of gas, and the bullet sparked off the pavement beneath. Traces of flint and other rocks in the gravel created a tiny spark as the bullet hit, and the spark quickly took up life in the puddle of gas.

Flames roared behind Holly, quickly following the trail made by the leaking bike. A glistening inferno swept over crowded markets and office complexes, scattering tourists and sending people running in all directions. A score of alarms and blaring sirens lit up the late-afternoon air. This, Holly thought, is not gonna be a picnic.

Matt's battered body washed up on shore. It was now high noon.

It felt like an age and a half to Matt, but half an hour later, he was groggily on his knees. Not able to do much else, he sat up and retched his guts out. He crawled a ways away, then collapsed again, his muscles trembling.

A steady ache started in his head and built throughout his body, escalating in intensity with every passing second, until Matt felt as though his blood had turned to molten led and his skull was being picked apart with a dull screwdriver. A soundless scream parted his lips, but no air would come. His diaphragm was barely contracting, leaving him short of breath, which only added to his pain.

There was always a price for this. Always a price he paid. Whatever it was, usually water, the pain always came afterward.

Matt didn't know how long he was sitting there, but eventually more sirens split the air. He groaned with the little breath in his body. Couldn't these guys ever give him a break?

He started to drag himself up, trying to remember how to fight, how to swing a punch, to land a kick, but he was just too tired. Scrunching up into a squatting position felt like working a full day as a manual laborer. Why couldn't he do this? Every human was supposed to stand.

As he crouched, a raw wave of agony washed over his brain, shutting down most of his fine motor skills and leaving him trembling in the sand.

He must have blacked out for a moment, because the next thing he knew, Jamie was standing over him, with three paramedics at his back and more police behind them. Regular police. Not Suits. Suits... the word brought back flashes of pain and memory. What had happened with the Suits? There was something about a fight in the sand, frantic scrabbling into the water... but why was he like this?

Jamie helped him to stand even as a new wave of pain assaulted his mind and body. His vision was tinged with red - or was that just the blood oozing from the gash across his forehead?

The paramedics rushed forward with urgent expressions, and Matt decided it probably was blood, and that he was about to collapse. So he went ahead and did that, but he never hit the ground. He just kept falling into a black void.

When he woke later, the pain had receded somewhat, so that he felt as if he could sit up. Which of course meant he was laying down. Without opening his eyes, Matt bolted upright and instantly regretted it. His body screamed out in protest.

Matt ordered his eyes to open. They didn't respond. Was he going blind? That would not be good. How would he help the others-

That thought sparked another memory. Holly. Scar. Jack. His friends. And where was Jamie?

Matt commanded his eyes to open and this time they responded. His eyelids fluttered, cracked, and then flew open as light rushed in to his world of darkness.

He was alone. Completely alone, in a dark hospital room. And extremely thirsty. He couldn't remember having ever been so thirsty. There had always been something to drink in his life. A Pepsi from the fridge, milk in the plastic gallon-jugs, heck, even tap water. But now there only a glass of water sitting on a nightstand three feet away. It might as well have been three miles.

Water. More memories crowded his brain - rushing water, salt stinging his eyes, and an endless, mind-numbing rage that had filled him - that all seemed to point to a dark, flooded memory of tidal fury and water surging all around him.

Where was he? He had to get to the water...

A hand appeared, took hold of the ice-cold glass, and handed it to Matt. His fingers made clearings in the frosted cup. Matt downed the whole thing, one gulp. He coughed back up half of it as it went down the wrong tube, and Matt reached up to discover that he had a pipe reaching down his throat. The plastic tubing seemed to be connected to some machine - of course it would be. He was in a hospital, for crying out loud.

And the reason he felt this way was because the wave had taken everything out of him. It had almost killed him. That much energy and massive water fueled by one fourteen-year-old boy. He should be dead - by all rights, he should have been dead - but he wasn't. He had stared the old Reaper in the face. Either the black-clad figure had decided he didn't want another little boy, or he had let him live to be tormented further.

Whatever the case, Matt knew it was bad news. A voice sounded somewhere off to his right, obviously trying to apologize for the accident with the water. Matt could care less. He sank back down into his dark world of sleep.

Holly bailed off the bike, going maybe 50 miles an hour, and let it run...

... straight into the Limo.

The gas tank lit, blew, and chain-reacted against the limo's tank, blowing them both into the air. The limo was incredibly tough; it took both the explosions and bounced back down onto its reinforced tires. Its armored chassis had withstood both blasts! The Suits that had gotten out of the now-empty car just a moment ago all whirled around. All of them, even the Tuxes, looked a little pissed.

Holly skidded against the ground. If she had only been wearing leather clothing like a biker, or better yet Jack's advanced armor prototype, she might have been okay. As it was, her thin two-piece swimsuit didn't offer much protection from the asphalt. Her back, legs, and arms were scraped raw and hurt like crap. She rolled over and over dizzyingly. When she came to a halt, the Tuxes were screaming into their hands over a hidden radio to send in backup. But on the plus side, she was right next to the bookstore. Scar was on the ground with a sidearm laying next to her hand.

Holly didn't think; everything was happening too fast for that. She snatched the gun up and instinctively pointed it at the nearest Suit, who flinched as he struggled to reload his gun and dropped the clip. She pulled the trigger and gave a startled jump as a burst of three rounds flashed out, strangely loud against the heavy air. She hadn't expected it to be an automatic handgun.

The Suit in front of her collapsed around the bullets that hit him in the chest, the rounds stitching upward from his gut to his sternum in pace with the rising barrel. One bullet hit his diaphragm, and despite the Suit's obviously bullet-proof suit, the shot still knocked his breath away and sent him tumbling to the ground.

"How'd that feel!" Holly yelled at the prone form. Jack burst out of a second-story window and landed awkwardly, followed closely by three Suits. The Tux appeared calmly in the smashed window and took out his Desert Eagle.

Not on my watch, Holly thought, aimed, and pulled the trigger, this time stabilizing the gun against the aggressive kick. She emptied the rest of the clip at the Tux, and eight bullets flew through the air at their target. Two found the Tux, hit him in his perfectly manicured hand. Which, unfortunately for him, was not armored.

For the first time, the Tux's perfect emotional armor cracked, pain and annoyance flashing across his pale face. He growled, a low, warning tone. The Suits looked at him, fear plainly showing on their faces. Holly took an involuntary step back, and Jack took the moment as a diversion and slipped behind one of the Suits.

Jack swung a double-handed blow to the base of the Suit's back, and the Suit collapsed forward. Jack bent and scooped up the Suit's Glock Automatic and two extra magazines, tossing one to Holly, who caught it instinctively. Jack yelled and fired full-auto at the nearest Suit. Although none of the bullets penetrated the armor, each impact hurt like crud and produced bruises the size of quarters. The fifteen-round clip ran dry, and Jack loaded in his spare clip, just like the airsoft guns at Matt's place. Holly fed the magazine into the receiver, cocked the hammer, and dragged both Scar and Jack behind a car. For all of Jack's bravado, one sidearm could not take out a full division of heavily armed, heavily armored, extremely pissed government elites. Bullets sang and pinged against asphalt, the car, anywhere in the general vicinity of the three 14 year-old kids and their cover.

So now the situation was; Holly and Jack both had a sidearm, each with one clip. Five Regulars and three Tuxes still in the picture, one Tux with a shot-up hand. A wall of bullets was beating the crap out of the car they were hiding behind. In short: no way to win. They were dead. The only one missing here was Matt.

～～～ was riding in a SWAT armored car that was flying at 80 miles an hour. he was going to have a fun ride.