An office half the size of their previous one, the fourteen members plus combat drone of Task Force Thirty One crammed into the enclosed space through the machinations of some distant logistics assignment officer.
Located on the artificial gravity ring of Lunar Anchorage, the repurposed administrative center was sandwiched between one of the dorm styled common rooms and a tertiary atmospheric recycling facility. From aged soundproofed walls the low hum of machinery vibrates the flooring below, tables and chairs bolted down against movement in a fluctuating gravitational environment.
Pens and pencils stuck onto tables, nine work stations currently unoccupied as Marines, Flag Officer, and Combat Drone sit in idle downtime.
“She’s not normally this late.” Lieutenant Keys observes as he continues to watch his phone’s screen. “And I don’t think a broken coolant line could be this bad.”
Mercier counters him, an argument justified from communication. “Captain Perez said she and crew would be coming late.”
“It’s an all hands on deck situation down there. You can’t pause a coolant replacement mid-way through.” Admiral Tucker shrugs. “Either way, we got around twenty minutes or so before they…”
Thick doors slide open in interruption of idle conversation, the battered nine man crew of the Rubicon stumbling into the cramped space.
The sickly sweet scent of drying reactor coolant on uniforms and evaporating sweat permeates recycled air immediately, half worn fatigues adjusted and statutes pulling to attention in the arrival of personnel.
Phone away, Lieutenant Keys immediately opens his mouth to quip out a statement before Captain Perez stares him down. “Keys, don’t.”
“I was just going to ask how it went…” The Combat Engineer defends, rolling his eyes. “How’d it go?”
“Don’t ask.” The Chief Engineer of the Rubicon answers him, her body plastering itself into her designated chair.
An entire naval crew bringing themselves into dock, a full minute of downtime used in the recovery of minds. Snippets of conversation heralded between sips of packaged water, Marines taking a moment to awkwardly glance between one another in the reorientation to tasks to come.
“I assume this will be in the inevitable maintenance report.” Admiral Tucker finishes as he clears his throat, an uncanny seriousness bringing the Task Force back to attention. “Now, is everyone ready?”
Faceless nods from the thirteen task force members alongside the Combat Drone in the corner of the room giving a motion up with one of its two limbs. A full complement in focus, the projector at the center of the room activated as the Flag Officer connects his tablet into the system.
A single slide presents itself in the initiation of the Task Force wide briefing, the orbital lines of earth surrounding a homeworld wreathed in olive branches. Blue as the sky, of unification across the stars.
“Best way to get back into it.” Lieutenant Keys claps. “Another one of Admiral Tucker’s world famous briefings.”
A few chuckles sounded at the joke, the Admiral pausing to find the correct response. Whit retained, the aged voice chuckles. “This one will be much more informal than the ‘end times’ briefing from last time. In fact, I think this operation will be a good segway to any other future assignments we decide to take on.”
A pause as the old man taps his foot against the padded floor.
“Hopefully everyone’s been keeping themselves informed.” The Flag Officer begins. “With the current events going on I’m certain many of you have at least some idea of what this operation is going to entail. Any questions before we begin?”
Silence and shaken heads; relative assurance in application. Thirteen soldiers watch as the slidedeck shifts as commanded.
From a familiar unitarian logo to a more nationalized icon, a bald eagle of the United States represented with the accuracy of digital rendition. Blinded by a hawker’s hood and clutching a shield and bundle of arrows, the latin text across its base is left untranslated.
English read across the circular pattern surrounding the seal, gold against blue: FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION.
“Oh boy…” Lieutenant Keys sighs under his breath, leaning backwards in anticipation.
“All the information I’m about to present has been collected by the United State’s F.B.I. and provided to us for this initial briefing. T.A.C. processed a majority of it, so this will be a much more compressed version of what got sent to us. Thank you T.A.C.”
The Combat Drone answers him, a voice replicating satisfaction. “Any time Admiral.”
Continuing, the old man takes a long glance at his subordinates. A pause for effect, a tipped bit of news to ruin neutral expressions. From behind him the next image is shown, seconds of processing required for human minds to quantify the location.
Crisp satellite imagery upscaled and enhanced by artificial intelligence, the projector at the end of the tiny office allowing for a minimization of resolution decay.
A surface of scattered gray, the lunar regolith cut in half by a massive thirty meter wide path of smoothed rock. Maintenance roads surrounding a single unbroken line, a sealed maglev line snaking its way upwards towards annihilation.
The crater is visible, a blast pattern scattering debris across a cold, airless surface. Marked in red, a small number of hand drawn notes point towards possible pieces of major wreckage, emotionless motions of investigative intelligence given from high above.
Admiral Tucker begins the report. “On February 14th, at precisely 9:03 hours UTC, a bomb was detonated on board a scheduled lunar maglev train on the Armstrong - Mond-One line. In total, the United States estimates five hundred twenty seven individuals were aboard. No survivors.”
Silence from the task force, atmospheric recyclers humming away in a low drone between thoughtful gazes.
One event, one device.
More casualties than over a month of fighting against the Java Treaty between four superpowers earth side, over five years in the jungles of South America by the U.N. peacekeeping corps, over every single orbital skirmish in the past twenty years of the System Defense Force.
Death and destruction on an unimaginable scale.
The Flag Officer continues. “The Space Liberation Front has claimed partial responsibility for this action.”
Corporal Mercier voices the question at the confusing term. “Partial responsibility?”
Admiral Tucker points towards the Combat Drone, who answers the Marksman’s question. “The Space Liberation Front has claimed the weapon was detonated early. Its intended target was the Lunar Development Concern’s Extraction Site Juliet Seven. Specifically the mining infrastructure located there.”
Lieutenant Keys scoffs. “And we believe them? Four kilos of C4 equivalent is at least twice as much as you need to blast out a mining crawler, but just enough for something like this.”
The Admiral clears his throat. “The FBI is not making any assumptions as of yet. But we can safely assume that this is confirmation of the Space Liberation Front’s continued escalation of terrorist activities after the failure of Station Four. This is also why we’re here.”
The next slide is dominated by text, the Admiral dictating out the lettering in his usual casual, cold fashion. “For those of you unfamiliar with the operational procedures of the United States: Camp Armstrong is underneath Federal jurisdiction. By extension, and due to the terroristic nature of this incident, the Federal Bureau of Investigation is in charge of this case.”
A minor note of confusion, questions raised by the majority of the Task Force silenced by Captain Perez’s own political insight. “Basically the President of the United States controls how this goes?”
“It’s more of an indirect influence.” The Admiral answers her from political experience.
One of the three Americans in the Task Force raises her hand, Chief Engineer Ano of the Rubicon supplementing her commanding officer’s question. “Isn’t Cooper super hardline anti-terrorist now? I’d think he’d at least boost the funding for this whole thing.”
Lieutenant Keys scoffs. “Really Ano? We’re doing politics?”
“Hey, it's relevant.” Ano insists on her counterpart.
“It is.” The Admiral interrupts the side conversation. “President Cooper’s political party has seen significant backing after our little fiasco on Station Four. Turns out, killing two world leaders on a livestream and saving the world brings you more clout than ever. Congress just gave the first hundred trillion defense budget in US history a green light, so we’re indirectly involved in its usage.”
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Lieutenant Keys barely holds in a sarcastic laugh. “This is the American Labor Party unleashed. Question though: how much of that’s going into the System Defense Force?”
All heads turn to the Combat Drone, a quick search of the internet returns an answer from the machine. “That is a separate budget expenditure as funding is international, but political analysts believe the American contribution will increase by a minimum of fifteen precent for 2075.”
“That doesn’t include what we’re here for.” The Admiral waves his hand, motioning for attention from the distracted conversation.
“We are going to destroy the Space Liberation Front.” Master Sergeant Ling speaks up with his educated guess.
The Flag Officer nods quietly, a short smile pulling on his aging features. “That’s the end goal. However, it’s going to be a bit more difficult than that.”
“Why is that?” The Marine continues.
Captain Perez answers her partner, leaning back into her chair as she gives her own statement. “The Space Liberation Front is split up into cells; textbook compartmentalization of operations. We take down a cell, the rest can work without it. It’s a hydra, except with much more heads.”
“So the Fighters we killed at Station Four…”
“... was just one cell.” The Captain finishes, turning back to the Admiral. “So I assume this assignment has something to do with the Selene Cell.”
“The Selene Cell?” Lieutenant Keys asks with a laugh. “What kind of marketing firm did the Space Liberation Front hire for this brand?”
Corporal Mercier points out the projected image of the crater, of the destruction. “It has worked. The marketing has worked.”
T.A.C. clears his synthetic throat. “Selene is the codename the United States has used to classify the Space Liberation Front’s active cell on the lunar surface. Though, it is unknown if this is inclusive of multiple cells.”
“But to answer your question, Captain.” The Admiral reorients, “Yes, the Selene cell will be the focal point of our operation.”
A slide deck to a new point, a task in the midst of planning.
“I understand Lunar Operations may be a bit out of our area of expertise. Has anyone here had experience on the moon before?” Admiral Tucker asks lightly. “Specifically anyone from Marauder.”
One hand is nervously raised from the infantry squad, the singular Solar System Defense Force Combat Engineer allotting out his own personal training within a corps of seven.
“In any case that won’t be too much of an issue.” The old man casually dismisses, turning back to quickly scan over the current slide’s text.
Issuance of objectives, a primary task laid out in even font.
“Marauder Team will be assigned in an advisory role. Since we as the Solar System Defense Force have significant experience in dealing with armed terrorism in hostile exo-atmospheric environments, we will be providing support to the FBI’s field office in Camp Armstrong.”
At least ten seconds pass, each member of the Task Force taking in the news.
“Ugh, this is some legal crap isn’t it?” Keys first raises. “Something about jurisdictions.”
“What do you mean jurisdiction?” Ling asks his friend.
A snap of his fingers turning to a pointed finger gun, T.A.C. set on the bullseye by the Combat Engineer. Answering quickly, the Combat Drone produces the requested information. “As Camp Armstrong is under national control, specifically as a special Federal governance area, the System Defense Force is not allowed to engage in its usual peacekeeping activities.”
The Admiral simplifies the legality down. “Basically, since Camp Armstrong is American territory; we’ll have to go with no shooting, no arresting, and…” the gaze rests on just one single individual, the Combat Engineer the target of the next word, “no blowing things up.”
An even longer silence this time, each of the Task Force taking a moment to break up into quiet whispers. A solution to an obvious question unfounded, violence dealt without action incomprehensible to orbital warfare.
Task Force Thirty One’s one single mastery, now rendered null.
“We are supposed to kill the Space Liberation Front, with no shooting?” The Squad Leader questions. “So what are we doing there?”
“Advisement.” The Flag Officer continues to brief. “In essence, you’ll be toured around most of the hard checkpoints, emergency shelters, the like. You’ll be seeing if there’s any way to improve the security for their positions. Maybe help them run a bit of training, if there’s time for that.”
“Ok, so this is just a giant waste of our time right?” Lieutenant Keys concludes, turning to the rest of his compatriots. “I mean come on, what are we going to do? Tell them to add more guns and bodies to the scanners or something?”
“That is what we did on stations…” Master Sergeant Ling answers straight.
Keys rolls his eyes. “Not the point dude.”
“It has worked.” Ling continues. “That could be just the advice we give.”
Captain Perez snaps her fingers, pointing out towards the briefing Flag Officer. “Admiral, all due respect but I don’t suppose this information session is just you telling us bad news?”
The Old Man scoffs at the statement, turning back to the currently projected slide. “I do have a bit of a primer to what we’re up against.”
Current image transitioned away into a facial reconstruction of a young woman. An immediacy to recognition, the familiar features across every single network. Black hair, freckled face; vibrant eyes despite the boringness of a corporate identity.
Admiral Issac Tucker delivers the information without emotion. “The weapon was carried, and detonated by this individual: Emily Matthews. Age: twenty-four, she was born and raised in Aurora, Colorado in the United States. Attended University of Iowa, graduated with a degree in Civil Construction. Employed by Lunar Developments underneath the Orbital Development Corporation; this was her first employment cycle on the Moon.”
The usually quiet squad medic speaks up, Cherny asking with a hint of concern. “Any previous psykologic problem?”
T.A.C. answers him, pre-parsed information augmented by intelligence software. “According to the case file sent by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Emily Matthews was cleared for exo-planetary work after a psychological evaluation in late 2073.”
“Cherny, what does that mean?” The Master Sergeant asks the medic.
“Mean she did this under own will.” Cherny replies coldly. “Convince self of duty, like us but more bad.”
“I do not like this…” Corporal Mercier whispers.
Lieutenant Keys points outward at the projection, the group’s emotional state condensed down to a single one-liner. “You know it’s always a good sign when the people making a million a year turn to suicide bombing.”
The Flag Officer finishes with a final warning. “Watch your backs down there. Any questions for your side of the OP Marauder?”
“Where will we be living?” The Squad Leader asks. “For time on moon.”
“T.A.C.’s working that out.”
“Any guide person?” Cherny raises next.
“If you mean an American handler, yes. The FBI’s assigning someone to your group.”
“What about us?” Captain Perez inquires coldly, a directed answer placed in her next words. “Detached duty to another task force?”
Admiral Tucker takes a few moments to produce an acceptable answer, diplomatic against an unsavory reality. Deep breath, words even. “We’re docking the Rubicon.”
The nine man crew of the corvette processes the answer, long stares exchanged between them.
Captain Perez is the first to vocially react to the news, a tired tone expressing a shocked disappointment to the Flag Officer. “You’re kidding sir.”
“No I am not.” Admiral Tucker responds with a bored note. “Rubicon’s not going to be a relevant asset for the next two months. No real point in keeping her on active duty.”
“So you’re grounding us?!” The woman continues, tightening her grip on Master Sergeant Ling’s arm. “We’re going to be wasting away up here while these idiots are mucking around on Camp Armstrong?! I can’t believe it.”
“亲...” Master Sergeant Ling wimpers slightly as his fiancee injures both his arm and ego, a death grip upon him released as she realizes her own position.
Lieutenant Keys shrugs at the Captain’s words, turning to the Chief Engineer of the naval asset. “It would be a good time for you to iron out all the technicals with the Rubicon right?”
“I can iron her out in a week and a half.” Chief Engineer Ano snaps back. “Admiral if this is a technical issue I can personally attest…”
“It’s not a technical issue.” Admiral Tucker sighs as he runs his fingers through his hair. “Once Marauder’s on lunar there’s nothing a corvette can do.”
The vessel’s Tactical Officer nods alongside the words, speaking to the rest of his crew in acknowledgement of political reality. “Moon’s all divided up between the nationalities. It’s not like up here where we have a lot of leverage over what we can get away with. No strikes allowed anyway.”
“Commander is correct.” Mercier adds atop her European counterpart. “The only way you can contribute is on ground, which is dangerous.”
“Marauder Squad is a special warfare team, not a group of partial passes.” Captain Perez redirects the argument. “And you’re putting them up as security. This is a waste of time for them.”
“And what you console plebs can handle it?” Lieutenant Keys crosses his arms with a sly glance. “Leave it to us, you guys can have a nice extended vacation.”
“Keys you are a naval officer.” Ling corrects his friend.
“Ok dude that’s a classification technicality based on a carryover restructuring and we’re not talking about it. I carry the guns, I’m basically a marine right?”
The Admiral clears his throat. “The Lieutenant’s point still stands. The only real thing the Rubicon can do while Marauder is beneath the habitation domes is act on standby. So as of now, the Rubicon’s officially off the leash.”
The crew all turn to their Commanding Officer, the eight subordinates each counted as Captain Perez shuts her eyes in thought. “I get the feeling you have stuff for us to do.”
The Admiral nods at her answer, tapping the papers currently situated on the table. “Task Force Thirty One will need an attached intelligence corps.”
“Objection.” The Captain immediately sounds with a bored rise. “You are not putting us in office jobs for this.”
Lieutenant Keys chuckles at the answer. “Come on Captain, it's only about a month you people can handle it.”
The woman ignores the sarcasm, motioning towards the combat drone in their midst. “And we have one of the most advanced intelligence analyst software suites right here. What do you need us for?”
“My intelligence analysis software is intended to augment human analysts, not replace them.” T.A.C. calmly informs her.
“Marauder take a walk please.” Admiral Tucker orders, staring at the naval personnel. “We need to hammer this out. Now.”
“And we are not involved in this?” Master Sergeant Ling asks as he stands from his position.
“We will be if we stay.” Keys chuckles, grabbing the free arm of his squad leader. “Come on dude, let's not deal with your girlfriend and her gang right now.”
A look to kill, Captain Michelle Perez glares at the Combat Engineer as he drags her fiance away from her clutches. Cheesy looks from the rest of the squad, a humor not lost on his face as he winks to the woman. “Sorry Michelle, but the Master Sergeant’s ours.”