Citadel City - High Command

  The display winked out. Aurelian waited several seconds, then several more before becoming concerned. The horizontal display table before him had been showing the Foxhounds of the airborne forces converging on Persephone's location like a swarm of angry hornets. There came a single-word transmission from the on-scene commander: "Engage." Followed by static.

  Aurelian looked around the room. The same was happening everywhere. Vanguard forces the world over, engaged in countless operations, suddenly lost contact. Technicians and operators immediately scrambled around the room, attempting to find the fault in their systems.

  "What's happening?!" Kincade demanded to know, having been in the middle of briefing Ground Commander Reinstead and turning over the operation to Phase 3 when the screen went black. The Vanguard didn't exactly pay for its equipment, but what would have amounted to hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of equipment suddenly ceased to function.

  "We don't know, sir," a senior tech called out. "Comms network is down. Total system failure."

  "At least the lights are still on," Aurelian muttered.

  "How is this possible?" Kincade demanded.

  "I don't know, sir. Everything was operating fine. I have power, and the computers aren't malfunctioning. I've never seen anything like it. It's an OS-level failure," the tech said, blaming the computer's operating system.

  "Island comms are down too," Aurelian observed when he saw several of the security personnel shaking their radios, trying to get them to work.

  Kincade didn't have time for this. He pointed to a corner in the far recesses of the room. "Runner!"

  A surprised junior rifleman came running.

  "Contingency Twelve Tac Red. Pass to all stations verbally," he ordered. 12-Red was the code to activate emergency communications measures. It meant falling back to traditional UHF/VHF and even shortwave systems. Unreliable by Vanguard standards.

  The runner saluted and ran off, followed by several others. They would literally run and/or drive around the island and spread the word. At least everyone island-side would know what's going on. Unfortunately, the island would remain cut off from units deployed worldwide until tertiary communications systems could be brought online.

  Aurelian glanced back down at the blank display. He silenced the worrying voice in the back of his head. There was nothing he could do for the Storm Riders anyway. Their success had been entirely in their hands from the beginning. Still, it was maddening being cut off from live data; like being denied water in a desert.

  Washington D.C.

  Shattered drywall, dust and wood splinters exploded from walls and overturned furnishings as a firefight raged in the Oval Office itself. The seat of power of the world's sole superpower had been turned into a frantic CQC gunfight, as had other parts of the White House and the entire Capitol.

  Rounds embedded themselves in the thick wooden surface of the overturned Roosevelt desk and other stacked furniture that created a makeshift barricade in the center of the office. Secret Service agents and Marine guards exchanged fire with pistols and PDWs against assailants attempting to enter the office to kill the President or take him hostage. No one knew which, but it hardly mattered. They fought viciously to protect their charge—even from those who had been considered allies mere minutes before.

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  Behind the Roosevelt desk, the Secretary of Agriculture, his lunch meeting with POTUS rudely interrupted by vampiric cultists laying siege to Capitol Hill, shrank behind cover. The bureaucrat cradled a 9mm pistol in his hands, unsure what to do with the unfamiliar weapon.

  "Sir, are we in a coup?" he asked, struggling to comprehend the life-or-death situation.

  "Well, if we are, they're doing a bad job," President Constantine answered with more confidence than his advisor. "I'm still alive."

  The President clutched a 12-gauge shotgun with purpose. He poked out of cover to take a potshot, only for a very exasperated Secret Service agent to pull him out of the line of fire.

  "Mister President, get down!"

  It was not the first time the cavalier President had insisted on putting himself in harm's way.

  Beyond the grand windows of the office, the wrecked airframe of Marine One burned on the South Lawn.

  An agent slapped a fresh magazine into the top of his P90.

  "Last mag!" he called out to his compatriots, who found themselves in similarly dire positions.

  Airspace over D.C.

  Federov looked out over the pilot's shoulder as the transport came in low over Washington. It was still midday, and a clear sky with light clouds greeted them. The pleasant weather was marred by columns of smoke rising skyward over a capital in chaos.

  "Anything?" Federov asked the pilots.

  "Still nothing," the captain reported.. "They've established multiple TFRs over this airspace, but we haven't been challenged by ATC or interceptors. No one's answering our hails either. This airspace is completely undefended."

  Federov crossed his arms. That meant whatever was happening here was affecting the military as well. Total paralysis of state functions. This was not good.

  "Have you been able to get into contact with the Leader Commander?" he asked.

  "No joy. Comm network won't even accept the uplink. I don't have communication with any Vanguard stations," the pilot reported.

  The commander's jaw clenched tightly at the frightening news. But he could not focus on it; he had a mission. He had to trust the rest of his colleagues to sort the issue while he handled his own.

  On the lowered back ramp, Rifles were treated to a similar view.

  "Shit, it looks like Atlanta," Milo said, comparing the situation to General Sherman's burning of the Georgian city. "Who's the bad guys down there?"

  Perelli sucked in a breath. "We don't know. ROE will be strict. Do not engage unless you are fired upon, and even then you should think twice. We've got unarmed rioters mixed in with gunfights in all sectors. Factions aren't clear. But if it doesn't breathe, kill it."

  "Can do," Milo affirmed.

  Tora huffed. "This is going to be a clusterfuck."

  "Cluster munitions are not advised in urban battle zones," Tetsu added, oblivious to Tora's meaning.

  The Rifles of the three elements formed up on either side of the cargo bay, performing final checks on their parachutes. They were briefed over comms.

  "Three elements. Codenames: Cobra, Kantai, and Wolf." Federov's voice was all business. "I will lead Cobra with the INTERPOL team and a machine gun team attached. We will perform hostage rescue of the President. Kantai will be under Ensign Perelli. You will escort your asset directly to the media room in the West Wing of the White House and prepare an emergency broadcast. Wolf will be under Lieutenant Olsen. You will link up with friendly auxiliaries and secure the South Lawn for extraction. Distract the enemy so that Kantai and Cobra do not get bogged down," he laid out their assignments.

  "Everybody," he addressed the entire hold, "the goal is not to hold land. We are not here to stay. The goal here is to kill the enemy and secure precious cargo. We land, we execute our objectives, and we leave. That. Is. It."

  "Exfil, sir?" Olsen asked.

  "The Leader Commander's jet will provide evac directly from the South Lawn once we're done."

  Perelli checked Vespera's chute. The vampire was still in chains to prevent her from escaping via her troublesome teleportation powers.

  "Try anything beyond what we agreed to down there, and I will execute you faster than you can blink," Perelli warned her.

  Vespera sneered. "You had better watch yourself, Ensign. I won't be pulling you to safety if you get shot."

  The overhead lights turned red. The loadmaster shouted over the intercom, "Ten minutes! Get ready!"

  The vampire shifted to a smirk, "Being quite thorough in packing my parachute."

  Perelli frowned. "A team looks out for its members and covers them to give the greatest chance of survival and mission success. Not that a vampire would know anything about that. But believe me, if you smash your head open on the pavement, I won't shed a tear."

  Milo piped up, "You'd shed a tear for me, right, sir?"

  This elicited low chuckles from the waiting Rifles.

  Perelli repressed a smile. "For you, I think I'd breathe a sigh of relief," he said sarcastically. More laughs.

  "One minute!" the loadmaster called out.