“Officer Atlas,” he said as he passed. Unlike the others he did not salute and he did not continue on down the hall. Instead, he stood there and waited for a response, only to receive a blank stare. “I’m Captain Aaron Sorenson of Black Sun AnR Unit 10o5.”
Atlas nodded and turned, ignoring him thoroughly. After a few steps, however, the sound of Captain Sorenson’s boots against the concrete floor echoed. He was being followed, much to his chagrin. It wasn’t necessarily that he disliked the Black Sun soldiers, but there was just something which rang out as wildly offensive to him. Perhaps, as he thought about it, it was simply jealousy. When he was the captain of the 5o5 they were never given anything even close to the R5290 combat armor.
“Is there something I can help you with, Captain?” he asked, turning back around to face the man.
The captain, whose face was hidden entirely, looked down for a moment before replying, “I was a corporal in the 915th with you, sir. I did not serve in your unit, but in Ensenada we assaulted the main seven blocks with one another.”
Atlas let out a deep exhale and replied stiffly, “Yes, well I’m quite happy you survived, captain.”
Before he was able to walk off, the captain reached behind his helmet and unhooked the metal fasteners. After a bit of configuring, the piece of metal popped off and he lowered it. For a moment Atlas expected to see a horrible scar or something traumatically repulsive lingering on his face as a constant reminder of the battle. Instead, he was an average looking man without any deformities to speak of.
“Sir,” he continued, “when we were moving through the blockade near the port…” he paused a moment, catching his breath, which seemed to elude him as he retold the story. “We came under heavy fire by the Venezuelan insurgents. They started throwing cocktails and grenades, usually missing or only getting a few of us. Then, when I looked over, I saw you charging through the flank with your men. You killed so many of them that the rest just sort of stood there in awe…”
“Is there an end to this story?” Atlas found himself saying, interrupting the Captain.
“I apologize, sir. Firstly, I must tell you that I thought your strategy was brilliant. However, I must admit that I am uncertain of your current health. Rather, I don’t know how you’re standing here today. I saw you get shot in the abdomen, sir. You fell to the ground and stopped moving. Your men pressed forward, but the corpsmen check on you and left you back there. I saw you die, sir.”
Atlas smiled and left the man where he was standing. Though, as he neared the entrance of the locker room, he thought of that day. With an empathic look on his face he turned and said, “They had to replace a few parts, but I did not die, Captain Sorenson.”
With that, he left the captain standing there in bewilderment. He walked over to one of the lockers which was left closed, signaling the armor inside remained there. Automatically the door unlocked as soon as he stood before it. In regards to the armor itself, the sheer amount of pieces to configure were a headache in its only right, only to become far worse when considering the complicated system of attaching them all.
Firstly, he stripped his jacket and collared shirt, along with his slacks and leather shoes. The first layer was a bodysuit of sorts, which went from the top of his neck, right below his ears, down to his ankles. Over his feet were specially woven socks, which were then covered by a thick set of metal reinforced boots. He covered his legs with a pair of black pants, which fit over the bodysuit, as well as several pieces of leather. Attached to those pieces of leather, which encircled his thighs and lower legs, were darkly painted metal plates.
His upper half, unfortunately, was quite a bit harder, especially with the forty pounds of armor now coating his lower half. First was the leather and metal plates, which were attached to him much as a roman chest plate would have been. He continued up with the shoulder guards, both of which sticking out slightly on each side. Finally, to finish his chest armor, he placed the thick cloth guard, which was about an inch in width, on top. The full weight of the combat armor now circulated above ninety-five pounds, though he knew he was not quite finished yet. His upper arms were strapped with the same sort of protection as his legs, only to go down and hook up to wrist guards placed just before his hand. Over the wrist guards were the specially designed gloves, which fit each soldier according to the size of their hands.
Lastly, after thirty minutes of hard work, he sat there on a bench with his head hanging low. So dearly did he want to complain, but the combat armor wasn’t constrictive even in the slightest. The suit , as well as his vital signs and general health, was continually monitored by the internal central processing unit on the back of his armor. Nevertheless, it wasn’t quite finished yet. He got to his feet once more and found the last piece of armor sitting on a small shelf near the top. The faceplate was silver and shined brilliantly, having only the black lettering of “R5290″ on the bottom half near the mouth. With a last breath as though he would never have one again, Atlas closed his eyes and squeezed his head into the mask.
There was nothing but utter blackness and for a moment he began to try to convince himself to rip it off. With a few deep breaths, however, the screen turned on and his oxygen began to work properly. He could see his vitals near the side of his vision, which was as it would have been without the mask. The only difference was that he could use several devices simply with a feed sent by his C.Eve Unit, allowing him access to maps, his teammates whereabouts, and even their health; it was their HUD. With it all working and the statistics quickly loading, he locked the final metal fastener.
Unlike most of the Black Sun soldiers of the Assault and Recon unit, Atlas, who in all fairness was a step above them in rank and position, used his antique G27. Though, he wasn’t the only officer to use a personal weapon; Helios himself used a CZ 75 SP-01. Then again, as he walked out from the room and placed his sidearm in its holster, he came to the realization he would most certainly be required to shoulder a rifle once more, something he wanted little to do with.
Even during his days as captain of the 5o5, he used a pistol. At the time, however, it was a specially modified Jericho 941. Just as his G27 was, it was an antique. It was as well a gift from his father, who had himself used it during his career in the United Army. It proved to be his best ally and even in situations which required range, he found himself preferring the handgun to a normal rifle.
Soon after he finished equipping himself with the R5290, he made his way to Operation Room San. It was a small office-type room with a table in the middle and about two dozen chairs without a back or sides sitting all around it. The walls were covered in papers and photos; Black Sun never used computers when it came to such sensitive information. “Any child or fool, if you can delineate between them, can hack into your computer,” Helios informed Atlas when he first joined. “Sure, we can update our security, or we can just pass information along the good old fashioned way: ink, paper, and person.”
Atlas took a chair, or rather a stool, and sat down at the end of the long table. The room was immaculate and pallid in all ways, from the crystal-like walls to the milk-colored floors. Though, as he sat there he came to the realization that the entire complex was made in similar fashion. The only flaw in it all was the furniture, which lacked quality to say the least. The tables ends were dented and the legs were bent and had begun to gather a slight bit of a rust.
On the opposite side of the room, as the door shut, Helios walked in, immediately causing every soldier with the exception of Atlas to stand at attention and salute. Unlike the others, Helios had no combat armor or weapon, with the exception of his sidearm. Instead, he wore a tan suit and a white collared shirt without the tie. At times he left people wondering what he truly cared more about, the mission or the way that he dressed. Either way, as he arrived at the table and nodded, the soldiers of the 10o5 sat down.
“The I.O. has obtained information which had led us to believe that the Šero Advent is holding meetings in a large church in Iguala,” he said in a strictly formal fashion. “We have reason to believe that this church is full of Mexican independence sympathizers, all of whom are thought to be male. There are as well Adventists, of course, but they are numbered only in a few.”
“How well are the insurgents armed?” Captain Sorenson asked.
Helios walked over to the wall behind him and grabbed a few photos, tossing them onto the table. Immediately the captain grabbed for them and let out a deep sigh. Whoever it was who had taken the photos, they were able to sneak up close and show the insurgents on their patrols. Easily three dozen men, all armed to the teeth with the antique M4′s, could be seen in each photo.
In regards to their main weapon, the M4, it was quite understandable why they had them. The United Army improved their weaponry after foreign militaries began to use far superior weapons. Instead of selling the weapons to their allies, all of whom used better versions, they decided to dump them in South American, where a large drug war was taking place between Venezuela and Columbia.
After several generations of carbines and rifles, all taking advantage of new technology, it was a far simpler version which came to popularity in the United Army. The NAR 42-50, a light automatic rifle with enough stopping power to cut through every type of armor, with the exception of the R5290. Unfortunately, it was only in the last months of the Southern Front that most soldiers were given the new rifle. Their older yet far more technologically advance rifles, which shot highly specialized ammo, were generally useless compared to the M4′s the Mexican army used.
“How many are there?” the captain asked, this time hoping for an actual answer.
Helios walked back over to the table and shrugged.
