Preface: This is the sequel to my Rainbow Six: Siege fic "Freedom Day". Like its predecessor, "Zero Protocol" is an action-thriller told from the perspective of Team Rainbow and the White Masks, but this time I have included the point of view of civilians as well. As before, there will be other references to military-themed games, movies, and whatnot, and any semblance of my original characters to real-life people are completely not intended blah blah blah.

I sincerely hope you'll enjoy reading this as I do making it. Please feel free to leave a review or constructive criticism. Thank you and enjoy! :)

PROLOGUE

…

On his final tour of duty, Delta Force sniper Ethan Mallory took part in one last job with the CIA. His handler, Emily Jacobsen, had captured a rogue chemist working with terrorists in the Middle East. But before they could return to America, the CIA team was ambushed and nearly wiped out. Their prisoner had escaped. Ethan was left for dead. He thought he had seen the worst of it, until a group of white masked-terrorists used a chemical weapon to wreak havoc back at home, several months later. Their target was Bartlett University…

Enter Team Rainbow, a top-secret UN-NATO counter-terror force led by Director "Six". Ethan joined their ranks to redeem himself, fighting the White Masks with a vengeance, and hunting down his old quarry. But it soon became clear that this new enemy was ambitious, resourceful, and deceptive. The White Masks had an inscrutable agenda, their attacks designed to force the American government into taking certain steps. Their biggest attack would happen on the Global Security Summit in New York, held on 'Freedom Day', the day America ended slavery.

And their best weapon was treachery. Emily, whom Ethan considered more than a friend, was revealed a traitor, a White Mask infiltrator - the architect of his botched mission.

Rainbow rushed to face the brunt of the Freedom Day attacks in New York. Emily's cohorts were successfully subdued, but the damage had been done. At key places across the world, the White Masks simultaneously struck at American assets, rattling the country to its core. Faced with mounting pressure from within, America enacted the "Saint-Claire Law", a law that would force the country to be a slave to self-preservation. It was as if the threat was over...

A year later, many questions remained. The White Masks had not been defeated. Their agenda was still a mystery, their whereabouts uncertain. Their failed campaign of terror had inspired other madmen to come to the fore, forcing Rainbow to remain on the defense. While his comrades faced new foes, Ethan remained vigilant. Deep down, he knew the worst was yet to come. The coming storm would not be stopped, unless he could uncover the truth in time.

Alas, the truth was never simple...

…

"For the great enemy of the truth is very often not the lie - deliberate, contrived and dishonest - but the myth - persistent, persuasive and unrealistic."

- John F. Kennedy

...

Winter 1969
Worthington, Minnesota

…

A bright, sunny morning. A good enough end to an otherwise uneventful trip from the airport, enough for "Robin" to thank the bus driver with a smile and a thumbs up. He limped off the door in high spirits. As the hulking vehicle drove away to its next stop, the young man looked for a bench to sit on, somewhere in the snow-packed suburbia. He set his brown seabag behind his heels, careful not to touch the wound in his calf that had not yet fully healed. He took out a pack of Camels from his pocket and placed one between his lips. He was tired. There were only a few people up and about this time of the day, so hardly anybody would bother him.

Of course they wouldn't. On the outside, he looked just like another young man, fresh from halfway across the world. Short black hair, hazel eyes, and a freshly-trimmed stubble hiding the war within. A pair of spectacles, blue jeans and a brown jacket completed the casual, hip look. He smoked a cigarette like any other 20-year-old would. The people walking past his bench didn't even bother to greet him. Perhaps it's because they realized he was a 'tourist', a newcomer in town. The lack of gloves and winter boots were dead giveaways too.

It didn't dawn on Robin they actually saw the Screaming Eagle patch on his left shoulder. That told them they didn't want to do anything with him.

But alas, ignorance was bliss. The young man tapped his foot as the minutes crawled, sitting alone on the side of the street and enjoying the smoke. He was tempted to close his eyes and rest his mind, but he didn't want to go back to that… 'place' at the back of his head. Flame-charred bodies, dead-eyed corpses of friends and foes, a slice of paradise turned into a hellish nightmare. Sometimes, he swore he could also see himself, a soul detached from his body, as his leg was perforated with the bullets meant for Private Mickey. They both got out. They were the lucky ones. Robin clenched his hands, trying his damnedest not to recall the terrible memories again. He ignored the well-wishing of an aged man in a checkered shirt who walked past his bench, a rude gesture in these parts.

Robin was indeed a tourist. If he hadn't told Chuck that he'd be coming back to the States this week, he would've just taken the bus to Iowa instead, back to his mother's place. But as thick as blood might be, it tasted far less sweet than water; it only felt right for the young man to spend his first week at home with the very people he went through hell with. A sardonic smile came to mind. 'Hell' would be a soft word to describe what the Orient had in store for him...

As he let out another puff of smoke, he heard a van pull up beside the road. Robin looked up, and saw at least four people ahead of him, sitting behind rolled down windows and doors. Driver, passenger, and a couple of women on the back. They were youngsters, long shaggy hair with beads wrapped around their necks, clothes that looked like hodgepodges of different fabrics. All of them had faces strewn with mockery and jeering smiles. They reeked of familiar scents that Robin never thought he'd smell in such a peaceful town. Cigarettes, sweat, weed… and shit.

"Heeeey buddy! Catch!"

One of the girls tossed him a large paper bag. It landed on Robin's lap, startling him from his seat. Almost immediately, his nose recognized the foul stench. Its contents reeked and oozed from the thin bag, creating a small stain on his jeans.

"Fuck!"

"Hahahaha! See you around, baby killer!"

The van started to speed away, with passengers giggling with mockery while they flipped him the bird. Enraged, Robin picked up the bag of feces and tossed it back, splattering into one of the van's doors. But the kids only laughed all the more, cheering all the way as the tires skid across the icy road. The next thing Robin knew, he was limping towards them with a scowl on his face, his hands were ready to tear them apart. His cold, misty breath was filled with fire. Before he could give chase, however, the van was well on its way down the road.

It was over. Robin looked at his jeans again, disgusted by the foul-smelling stain. He looked for something to wipe it off, but he didn't want to ruin his one good handkerchief for it. He was at a loss, defeated, and went back to his spot. He was ready to let loose a flurry of cusses out of rage. He wanted to hit something, maybe even toss the bench with all his strength. Not a single person bothered to ask him if he was alright.

*Car horn*

Another vehicle pulled up from behind a few minutes later. Robin turned around expecting to see another band of harassers. Instead, there was a slick red Buick, polished and rumbling, with only one man behind the wheel. Ginger tresses, a dark, well-kept scruff, and a pair of piercing eyes, hazel like his. They stared at each other for a bit, then the other guy got off from his ride. That was when the bespectacled young man smiled for the first time today. He could recognize that mullet anywhere.

"L-T!", he called out.

"Rob…"

The driver rushed to his side and locked him into a brotherly embrace. Two comrades-in-arms exchanged pats to the back. The ginger-head pulled away first, who immediately noticed the smell.

"…What the hell? What happened to your pants?"

"*sigh* Hippies."

"Sonnuva… Where the fuck did they go!?"

"They already drove off, Chuck. Didn't know your town had them too."

Chuck sighed and shook his head, muttering an inaudible cuss. He wished he had been there with his friend. This morning was an affront, an embarrassing welcome to Worthington, but it was the thought that mattered to Robin. His rage had finally begun to simmer and subside.

"Hide your patch, brother.", the driver bid him. "I don't wanna make you a target downtown."

"Why? What's going on?"

"Jesus, don't they have a TV in Da Nang? It's almost like you were in a coma or something..."

You should tell that to the other guy I was with.

"…Come on. Get in.", Chuck continued. "I'll tell you about it along the way."

The words brought up a few questions in Robin's head. Far more than what he had anticipated. But those could be saved for later. For now, he picked up his bag from the bench and limped towards the Buick. From the corner of his eye, he could see a few people glaring at him, then turning away. They had seen everything. They didn't want to be involved. This was not the homecoming that the young man had in mind.

…

A good ten minutes later, the two friends had arrived to their destination.

'Penny's Place'. Leather upholsteries, waxed floor tiles, and laminated walls with typical country music playing in the air. It was quite unremarkable for a snack bar, but nonetheless a safe enough refuge from the cold outside. Robin sat at the furthest table, away from the couple of other customers minding their own business. He had a pack of baby wipes that Chuck bought along the way, a fruitless effort to completely rub off the reeking, brown stain on his pants. Little progress so far. He tried his best not to agitate his wobbly leg, pain still fresh.

As he tended to the mess, his eyes ran across the newspaper splayed on his table. It told more about the story his friend shared during the ride.

There was a picture, unlike the young man had ever seen in any front-page story before. People, face down by the road side, lying down motionless with arms and legs wrapped together. Old men with beards, women with disheveled hair, and children with simple shirts… all motionless on the ground, eyes closed. His stomach churned. This was worse than the charred bodies and lifeless faces in his dreams. The picture's caption was unfamiliar. 'Peachville', the reporter wrote the name of the place where it happened. It had only been a year, but the news was only published last week.

Chuck, meanwhile, was right outside the door, talking to a couple of cops. Their voices were muffled behind the bar's glass windows. An astute-enough mind would gleam that his buddy was telling the officers to find the guys who accosted them earlier. Faces all frowning and serious, like this wasn't the kind of mess that usually happened in Worthington. A few seconds later, the cops got back to their patrol car and drove away, with Chuck scratching the back of his head. He went back inside with a dissatisfied look on his mug, which quickly vanished when he saw Robin had been watching him the whole time.

The kid had already taken off his shoulder patch, just as he advised.

"You okay, Robin? Did they hit you anywhere bad?"

"Nah, I'm good L-T."

"*chuckles* You don't have to call me that anymore, Corporal. We're civilians now."

Ain't that the truth. Take away the scant marks of military-life from their clothes, the two men looked like ordinary kids. Gullible but brave, misguided but determined, just like that gang of hippies from earlier.

Chuck didn't seem to be too bothered by them. Of course he wouldn't be. Always cool under fire. Always tough enough to take the bad things in stride, unless it was one of his own boys being pestered. The young man was four years older than Robin, but he was more like the platoon's big brother than their commanding officer. Even today, without wearing the uniform, he still had a mind to look out for his people, doting over them like a parent would. Could've made the Army his career, but that whole mess with Captain Barnes got him the boot, disbarred from the military for life. While Chuck had missed Hamburger Hill, nobody in the platoon thought less of the lucky bastard. Robin would still lay down his life for him, as would the rest of the guys.

"Hey, Chuck.", he started. "I still can't wrap my head around this… thing."

Two pairs of eyes stared at the newspaper on the table. One scorching with conviction, the other despondent and defeated.

"*sigh* What's left to tell?", Chuck spoke softly. "Men, women, and children murdered by GIs. Army guys too; could you believe that?"

"The 101st wasn't anywhere near that shit!"

"Doesn't matter, man. As far as folks back here are concerned, every grunt over there is guilty. Everyone coming home is a 'baby killer'."

Robin couldn't believe what he just learned. He didn't hear anything about from the nurses in Da Nang. 'Baby killer', the word rang painfully in his head.

"But we didn't do it!", he raised his voice. "Most of us weren't even in 'Nam when it happened!"

"Makes no difference, man. The papers already chewed the story up; people are still furious. Hmph, probably best if you heard nothing in Da Nang after all."

The young man put away his glasses; he could feel some redness in his eyes. He placed fingers to cover them up, while his head struggled with a torrent of emotions. 'Baby killer'. What the hippies said suddenly made more sense. The words had been their real weapon; the bag of shit was just the thing that made their disdain known. He was unwelcome. In their eyes, he and many others like him had been a disgrace to the flag they all fought for.

Robin clenched his fists tighter, picturing his heart being crushed by the death-grip. He couldn't speak the same to the rest of the Screaming Eagles, but he still vouched for the rest of his friends. They weren't goddamn monsters. They were heroes. They were victims too. But the people, it seemed, didn't care. They couldn't tell the difference, as if they didn't even bother to even try. His former CO saw where their talk was headed; he immediately changed the subject by offering a warm cup of chocolate.

"By the way, I heard you got dinged in the leg.", Chuck spoke heartily.

"Huh?"

"Mickey, up on Hamburger Hill. The boys wrote me how you got shot while saving him."

Hearing the name again gave Robin a pang in his chest. But he smiled nonetheless, to keep up with appearances.

"Nah, I only got a few plates and screws in here.", he pointed to where he was shot. "As long as I don't run too much, my leg's gonna be fine…"

He actually had more than a dozen titanium bits. One last "gift from the gooks", courtesy of the North Vietnamese. Robin's platoon was among the ones who charged up Hamburger Hill. Hill 937. Private "Mickey" Jones was hit during the first push, and Robin and another Corporal quickly leaped into action to drag him out, through the mud and blood. Bullets whizzed past Robin's head. Grenades went off in the distance, sprays of shrapnel missing him by inches. Then, a Kalashnikov drilled a hole through his right calf, just as when he got Mickey out of dodge. The next thing he knew, he had collapsed onto the ground, gunfire all over the place. He was bleeding out, everything going black, until he heard the sound of the medevac's rotor blades. It had only been six months after the fact, but it felt like a lifetime ago.

He had gotten off easy. The other Corporal with him took a bullet to the head later that day.

"You oughta get a Bronze Star for that, brother. I'll see if I can still talk with the-"

"Save it. I don't care anymore."

The ginger-head was stunned to hear those words, quickly backpedaling. It was clear that the young kid from Iowa had heard enough. Faced with dishonor from the hippies and the indifference of passersby, he only wanted answers. 'Why'.

"What did we do wrong, huh? They shouldn't be treating us like this!"

Again, Chuck couldn't help but acquiesce. He sighed and turned his eyes away, sharing the burden of shame.

"The war's gone to shit, Robin. Nothing but... bad news and dead boys."

"But why us!? Why are they blaming us!?"

"…"

"Kennedy said the war was just! So did LBJ! Now what? We hit a few snags, kill the wrong people, and suddenly we are the bad guys!?"

The politics was a lot more complicated than that, but Robin didn't care. Out of reflex, he stood up from his seat and slammed his hands on the desk. It attracted gazes from the few who had remained in the snack bar. He was creating a scene, but he didn't care. He was raising his voice, but it didn't matter. As far as he knew, there was only one pair of ears willing to listen to him.

"At least the goddamn gooks knew the score. The Vietcong even had their kids to help them kick us out of their country! But what about our own, huh?!"

"…"

"You, me, Mickey... we went through the muck and shit for a whole fucking year, and this is what we get!?"

He gestured to the hideous stain on his pants, as tears formed from his eyes. Then he sat down to gather himself, fighting a grueling battle to keep up some semblance of soldierly pride. He heard Chuck mumble something, likely allaying the fears of the other patrons. Luckily for the two paratroopers, everyone else at Penny's Place were more than happy to leave them alone. The remaining customers pulled from their seats and went out of the door, whispering to each other like a bunch of gossiping hens. Even one of the waitresses spoke to her coworkers in hushed tones, flabbergasted by the outburst they just witnessed. Anybody else would've calmed down at this point, but Robin just couldn't help but blabber. Such was one of his greatest weaknesses. Again, he didn't care what his tongue would cost him.

"Maybe we should let the Commies win, huh!", he vented. "Yeah! Let's bring 'em aaaaall here, then everyone would-"

"Hey! Knock off with that shit!", Chuck berated him, who was about to have his fill.

For a second time, he offered the warm cup of chocolate to his comrade. It was Robin's last chance to save his hide, or else the people here would sic the coppers on him and drag him out. Robin, to his credit, knew that he had just said something he shouldn't have. Too late to take back the words, but it wasn't yet too late to restrain himself from doing worse. Good thing, too, since his buddy was already tempted to take him outside to the freezing streets, see if he would still be angry then.

"Look, we can't change what people think right now. Best we can do is look out for each other…", Chuck spoke wisdom. "…Just hold on, okay? Things will get better. One day."

Robin couldn't bear to look at him in the eye. Shame started to gnaw at the poor kid, and an apology was stuck on his throat. It was about time he changed his tune.

"I hope you're right, L-T. This ain't the people I bled for."

"*sigh* Yeah. Yeah, I hear ya…"

He was lucky he could still count his CO as a good friend. This time, the offer of a warm drink was accepted. Robin took a sip, let the sweet liquid warm his throat and gullet. Chuck was content with a cup of coffee, but more so now that his friend had finally come to his senses. The sweet drinks matched well with the bright, snowy morning, good enough to create a better ending compared to what they started with.

Robin closed eyes. His head was once again filled with the same visions of horror, of the stench that he coped with for more than a year. Burns, blood, and bile, in all grotesque forms imaginable. What he had seen in Vietnam would never leave his soul. But what he had felt here, today, in Worthington, had been worse. He never expected a hero's welcome when he came back home, but neither did he asked to be shamed in the streets. Yet, it seemed his kind were no longer welcome, anywhere. His kind were monsters in the eyes of this people. They would call them 'scum' or 'traitor', even though the words could also be tossed the other way around. Robin knew his place. He was a soldier, nay, a servant of the people. How dare anyone would decry him for something his country ordered him to do?

Head still filled with angry thoughts, he pulled out the Screaming Eagle patch from his pocket and slapped it onto his shoulder. Why should he be ashamed for something he thought was true?

…

"Here, I got you something.", Chuck slid something across the table.

"What's that?"

It was a white, rectangular card. Printed with letters and numbers that the kid's addled mind took a while to decipher. It was an address to an office floor in Minneapolis. On the upper left corner of card was a strange, circular emblem with a fancy name written in a different style.

'Ithaca'.

"You know about my dad's construction company, right?", Chuck continued. "They're still hiring. Well, we are."

Construction. Back-breaking work. Robin was stunned to hear it come from the horse's mouth – a job offer? He never thought about landing one so soon after his discharge. Come to think of it, he didn't actually have any plans for the weeks to come. He was content on becoming a freeloader at home, back to being a measly farmhand from before he shipped off. But just like that, a proposal was dangled to his face. A chance to keep himself busy and earn a few bucks along the way. As if Lady Luck wanted to make amends for what happened earlier- or maybe prove that he was still her plaything.

"Seriously L-T?"

"You bet your ass. You know how to fill sand bags and pull levers. Those skills are kinda in short supply in Minnesota right now."

Robin frowned. There was probably a joke in that sentence that he missed. He looked at the card again, puzzled.

"I… I don't know…"

"Think about it: six bucks an hour, plus you'll be working with someone you know."

"You're gonna be my boss again?"

"Hell yeah.", Chuck laughed. "You gotta find your own place in Minneapolis though… Somewhere dirty, like the good old days."

The grin in Robin's face brightened even more, until he too couldn't also help but snicker like an idiot. It would be like the old days again. The dashing, handsome officer leading the charge while his trusted gopher with the glasses following behind him. Robin carrying his CO's radio, relaying orders to the front and back to the ears of some guy on the rearguard. Accepting the card meant becoming a go-getter for a second time. But he would not have it any other way. For a change of pace, he took the card with utmost glee in his heart, hidden by another stoic face. And as a gesture of friendship, he brought out his pack of Camels and offered one stick.

The company had an odd name. 'Ithaca'. But it was a second chance, nonetheless. Minneapolis was quite a drive away from Iowa though, but perhaps it was high time Robin left the barn for good. Ithaca. A golden opportunity to make something out of the horror he had just left, halfway across the world. He should seize the opportunity while he had the chance.

Ithaca. Indeed, it was a fresh start.

…

"Lieutenant.", a woman spoke.

Robin and Chuck turned their eyes to the side. They saw a beautiful girl, probably no more than 18 years old, standing near their table with a tray of Irish custard slices. Her eyes were as dark as her raven hair, her skin was slightly less fair than the two young men's. Her waitress outfit was as chirpy as it was practical, quite unlike the dress-code in almost every other reputable establishment. Her smile was beaming, as it was genuine.

"You really should stop calling me that, Trish.", Chuck smiled back to her.

"Yeah, I should.", she smirked. "But I won't…"

She leaned over to hand over the treats to the former soldiers. Her next words brought a tinge of pride to Robin's shattered heart.

"…This one's on the house. Thank you for your service."

She walked away, gracefully but without a strut. She was sincere in her generosity, enough for at least one man to feel slightly more welcome in this town. 'Thank you.' Those words meant a great deal for anyone who sacrificed too much. Sacrificed for a war they thought was just, but not about what it would cost. Certainly her words were better than 'baby killer'. 'Baby killer'. The term didn't anger Robin, for now, but he knew it was still a disservice to the boys. All of them, either stupid or unlucky but brave all the same, should be honored for what they'd done for this country. It was bad enough to send them halfway across the world to die. America was supposed to be better than this. Today had been an epiphany the young man would certainly not soon forget.

'Baby killer'. They all deserved more, and one day they would get it. One day, things would change. They all just needed to hold on, like Chuck said.

One day…

...

Present Day
"The Outback", Somewhere in Central Australia

…

As the saying went, the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

A grassy field in a dry and orange desert, the sun raised in the middle of a blue sky. It was about forty minutes before noon, but it felt like the day had been going on forever. The humid heat and idle boredom were starting to grate on his nerves. And this was quite telling, since Ethan "Ace" Mallory was no stranger to long stakeouts himself. A deep ditch, a large, dusty camo net above his head, and a sound-suppressed rifle. The Rangers had been like this. So did Delta, and the CIA. Now, Team Rainbow was putting him through the same wringer. Could've been worse, in all respects, as he could be back at the range in England, testing nameless new recruits as usual.

Then again, anything would be preferable compared to the shit he went through last year.

"Triangulation complete. Sat-feed is up.", his radio buzzed with a female voice.

From a prone position, he reached up a hand to press the call button on his MOPP suit's radio, his other hand rested on the pistol grip of a camouflaged H&K 417. The chirpy voice he heard could only belong to a certain blonde from California.

"About time, Valkyrie.", Ethan complained. "I was about to catch some Zs here."

"Well we can't have that.", Meghan Castellano laughed back. "Twitch said you'd snap her pictures of koalas for her Instagram."

"*sigh* I told her I was kidding. Koalas don't live in the Outback."

"You know that because...?"

"I went to Yalgoo when I was six. Grandpa introduced me and my dad to an Aussie he served with in Vietnam."

"Don't clog the comms, you two." , said another man, who was lying prone beside Ethan.

Erik "Maverick" Thorn, on loan from Rainbow's Urban Tac Team, was running the show, running it tighter than his ass on a saddle playing Buzkashi. The ex-Delta officer with a sunny scruff was also wearing a MOPP suit, so it was probably the heat that was responsible for his sudden, bitter mood. Of course, Ethan didn't mind his finger-wagging, as it was just enough of a distraction to break the levity. Soon it was back to the dull-waiting: two former SOCOM guys lying prone in a grassy desert, with a makeshift canopy to hide them from wandering eyes and the bright sun up above.

Behind them was Hanley's Roadhouse, some 500 meters away. It had already been evacuated, thanks to Erik's insistence and extra manpower from the Australian Federal Police. The evac had been a hasty affair though, as there were still quite a few cars and trucks parked outside, to the dismay of their hesitant owners.

It was the only sign of civilization for hundreds of miles; beyond that, he, Ethan, and the rest of Rainbow were practically in the middle of nowhere. The MOPP suit, designed to help them survive in hazardous environments, was like a portable sauna under these conditions. Ethan had his helmet and gas mask off while he laid flat on his belly, letting his face breathe. As if that could help him, given the ghillie netting above his head. He felt the lethargy starting to claim him. If he closed his eyes long enough and leave his mind blank, he would fall asleep on the spot. As precaution, he held the scoped H&K 417 across his chest. That way, if his body decided to doze off on its own, he would tip over thanks to the rifle's weight, instantly waking him up. An all too familiar scenario for experienced counter-terror operatives.

Again, the more things change the more they stayed the same. Hard to believe that it had only been a year since the whole mess with the White Masks started. Before, Team Rainbow had been on a permanent state of readiness, on-call 24/7 at the slightest sign of trouble, anywhere on the world. Now? They were still on a permanent state of readiness, on-call 24/7, etc. etc... The only change this time was that they no longer had the full might of Uncle Sam on their side. 'Changing of the Guard', that sort of thing. Kicked out of the Pentagon, his boss, Director Six, was 'promoted' from one cushy office to another. In her place was someone from her inner circle, a shrink with an Indian name and the fashion-sense of a nerd.

Whatever. Ethan Mallory didn't care much for the particulars, only for how the missions had to be delegated. He was still doing good work, working with good people, getting paid along the way. In the end, that was all that really mattered to him. And at least today, he wasn't at Hereford running the recruits through another marksmanship test. Only the Aussies would save him from this morning's dull tedium.

Damn. What's taking 'em so long?

...

"Hey, Ace. We're still on the clock." Erik lightly smacked his head.

"I'm meditating, Maverick."

"My ass. Keep your head on the swivel. Ram Leader's gonna call us any time now."

Ethan sighed, not wanting to be reminded of the obvious. For about a month now, Team Rainbow had been working closely with the Australian Secret Intelligence Service in Canberra. The SIS requested their assistance to crack down on a group of eco-terrorists operating on their soil: "Earth's Hope". Unlike psycho patriots and fanatics back home, Earth's Hope were an idealistic and determined lot, ones who were quite eager to indulge in madness for the sake of their cause. "Save the Earth from Mankind". Their philosophy was the familiar, run-of-the-mill granola rhetoric that even the likes of Green Peace and PETA found extreme.

Not that any of this mattered to a seasoned Operator; a tango was still a tango. Ethan had always found it easier to vilify the bad guys than to see the humanity behind them. Always better to dismiss their principles as hogwash and mad ravings, than to even stop to think about their validity. That way, he wouldn't feel guilty looking into the crosshairs of a scope. He would know. He'd seen, felt, and suffered through the consequences of giving a face to the enemy. All it took was one night, a few glasses of wine, and a sudden lust. He would be lying if he said that the memory no longer sent chills crawl up his spine…

No. Never again.

Before he could check on his 417, Ethan's earpiece rang aloud one more time. There was another female voice calling him, someone with a rough-and-tumble accent, not too out of place in the Outback.

"Rainbow, are ya there? This is Ram Leader, do you read?"

The volume was high enough to slake off the drowsiness in his head. On the other end of the line was one Tori Tallyo-Fairous. Big Army girl, stout gearhead, nicknamed 'Gridlock' by the Special Air Service Regiment.

"Lima Charlie (Loud and clear), Ram Leader.", Erik acknowledged her message. "Send it."

"We're about to cross Phase Line Red from the east! ETA five minutes! Be advised, we're comin' in hot!"

The last sentence raised the stakes - shots had been fired. Ethan wanted to question her message, until he started to hear the distant snaps of automatic arms fire, somewhere over the horizon. Sounded like submachine guns. It wouldn't be long until the noise would be louder. He looked at Erik, whose blue eyes gave away that he was thinking the same thing. The message was their cue. In response, the sniper propped up his silenced rifle and extended its bipod, while the leader reached up a hand to his radio again.

"Valkyrie, Ram Leader will be on our pos in five mikes. All Elements still have a clear LOS on the road. Requesting sit-rep, over."

In response, Meghan gave everyone the latest info from her satellite feeds.

"Affirmative. Target is a hijacked road-train, headed westbound. Two red tractor units, carrying white trailers. SASR have thermal confirmation of at least thirteen, one-three, tangos with weapons. Small arms and one heavy machinegun."

"You'll see it comin'! One B-triple and one B-double!", went Tori, who had been listening the whole time. "They also got a fucking minigun!"

In other words, the enemy had hijacked two heavy-duty haulers, one of which had three trailers strapped to its tail, while another only had two. That, and a six-barreled M134 that the tangos somehow had gotten their hands on. The B-triple, as the Aussies insisted on calling it, presumably had the stolen cargo; the second one was probably an escort. The intel from the SIS had been quite spot on so far, but everything could still change in a heartbeat.

"Copy. How do you want to play this, Ram Leader?"

"Shoot to immobilize! We'll drive 'em straight to your crosshairs! Whatever happens, you need to stop the lead truck!"

"Got it.", Erik replied again. "All Elements, target convoy is entering our sector in five mikes. Safeties off, mission is a go."

At long last, the nod was given. Ethan wiped the sweat from his brow and peered into his rifle's scope, scanning the horizon for anything amiss. It was nothing but the same desert and grass that he had been looking at these past few hours. He aimed his rifle a few degrees to the west, onto the long, narrow dirt road in the distance from where the target would come from. He steadied his breathing to relax himself. All his training was put into motion; he established a clear line of sight, he noted any minute changes in the wind, he steadied his trigger finger, awaiting the signal to fire. One step closer to finishing the mission and being back home to England.

"Ram Leader to Knife Leader.", radioed Tori. "I'm still waitin' on ya to take out that minigun!"

The reply came within seconds, from an exasperated Max "Mozzie" Goose. He was heading up the SASR's secondary pursuit team, who were all on motorbikes. One needed only to hear the roar of their engines and the small explosions in the background.

"What the fuck you think we're doing, Grid?! They're throwin' IEDs at us!"

"Get in close with your three-seven-mil! Give the bastards something else to shoot at, over!"

"Easy for you to say! You're inside a fuckin' armored car!"

So much for radio discipline...

While the Operators continued with their preparations, the SASR chatter still went on. From the sounds of it, the chase was not going all according to plan. The distant gunfire was soon melded with distinct 'blooping' from a grenade launcher, presumably owned by a guy from Mozzie's Knife Team. Spliced between the sounds were quick, earth-shaking rumblings that could only come from a pack of C4. IEDs, as the Aussie reported - Ethan could only imagine the sheer chaos that was ensuing. He hoped that none of their allies had been hurt, hounding the hijacked convoy into Rainbow's lines of sight. For all their tenacity, the Special Air Service were ultimately a distraction, tasked with preoccupying the tangos long enough for Rainbow to land the decisive blow and end this chaos. There was very little room for error. Ethan looked into his scope, while his partner gazed into his binoculars. Presumably, the rest of their guys were doing the same from the safety of their canopies, dotting the desert and bristling with other rifles.

"Visual confirmed.", Erik radioed. "Two heavy freight haulers, coming in from the east. Clocking in at 65 miles per hour."

Ethan acknowledged the call-out. He, too, saw the trucks just beyond the crest of a slope where the road ended, driving way above the speed limit. They were being hounded by two Australian Army M-ATVs and a bunch of troopers on motorbikes. The goons from Earth's Hope were mostly out of view, but there were scant glimpses of them all throughout the road train. They were wearing white overalls, mixed with tactical webbing or bulletproof vests. Gunfire flashed all around them, most of which came from the commandos trying their damnedest to keep the tangos distracted. The rattling got louder and louder as the convoy neared Team Rainbow's perimeter. Luckily for the Operators, they were well away from the shooting to worry about an errant bullet landing on top of their canopies.

From the rifle optic, Ethan saw one of the motorbikes suddenly hang back to the SASR vehicles. The rider held out an arm to the driver, who reciprocated by producing a canister of... something. The radio conversation that followed provided much needed context, though the volume could use some tuning down.

"Mozzie! MOZZIE!", Tori yelled. "Take the Trax Stinger and set it up ahead of the trucks!"

"I'm on it!"

What the hell is a Trax Stinger?

The rider sped away clutching his mystery package, dodging streams of bullets like an expert off-roader. Whatever it was that Tori gave him, it sounded like extra insurance to put an end to the chase. Soon enough he was out of Ethan's point of view, presumably setting up near the roadhouse as instructed, several hundred meters away. It need not come to that. The convoy could be stopped by a well-executed crossfire. Rainbow's reputation as a decisive force was on the line, but what mattered more was stopping the tangos as expediently as possible.

Springing the trap would be a cakewalk, if only the tangos' minigun was put out of the commission. The weapon in question was mounted at the rear trailer of B-double, spraying wildly at the motorbikes that were hot on their heels. Whoever the gunner was, he clearly had zero training on how to handle that much firepower, judging by how virtually none of his shots were meeting their mark. The SASR had no trouble bobbing and weaving on their bikes, but that didn't mean that they were not in danger. One lucky hit would turn any of the commandos into Swiss cheese. Seeing that they themselves were having trouble returning fire, the SASR's best hope would be their friends from afar, hiding in makeshift holes with sniper rifles at the ready.

Team Rainbow. They could not afford to have any missed shots nor second guesses, if they wanted to wrap up this job on a good note. Erik replaced his binocs with a rangefinder, which he pulled up from within his canopy, while Ethan kept his scope zeroed into the unfolding scene. The other Elements did the same. They would work in tandem with each other, putting holes on the trucks' most sensitive spots to force it to stop. A risky proposition, given the nature of the cargo they were carrying; the yellow markings on the trailers said it all: 'Nuclear hazard'. All the more reason to make sure that Earth's Hope would not run off with it.

"Ace. Target vehicle: three-trailer truck, 350 meters. Wind speed at quarter value, west to east... Lead your shot into the driver's side."

The windshield was tinted, so Ethan had to make an approximation.

"Got tally."

"Hold fire.", Erik ordered him, then turned to his radio again. "All Elements, Alpha has a bead on the lead vehicle. Confirm your targets, over."

"Bravo has the lead truck's mid-section. Ready to take out the tires, over."

"Charlie here. We have crosshairs on the last truck, over."

"Copy all. Prep for synch-shot. On my mark..."

It was time. Ethan took another deep breath and relaxed his fingers a second time. His grey eyes fixated on his prey, his crosshairs rested on the white trailer-truck's tinted windscreen, approximately to where the driver should be. He flicked the 417's safety off with his thumb. With a jerk from his finger, he would apply just enough trigger pressure to make his kill. Calculations ran throughout his head.

Weeks of hard work was about to pay off. This might be a routine op for the rest of the Team, but Ethan knew better. This was another step in a long chain of events, started more than a year ago in that wretched desert on the other side of the world. The deaths of Gabe, Omar, and the others. The whole deal with Mohandes. The emergence of the White Masks. The attacks on Freedom Day. All the chaos and carnage wrought by a group of fanatics. By Emily…

Ethan shook his head, trying his best not to break concentration.

"Oh… shit.", Erik muttered.

"What's wrong?"

"The driver..."

Puzzled by his teammate's response, Ethan viewed his scope again. At first he saw nothing behind the tinted glass, until a quick ray of sunlight gave him a clearer view. The person manning the wheel was quite nondescript. Donning only a maskless hazmat suit and a tactical vest, soon the rest of the features were bare to see.

"…It's a woman."

"So? I got her in my sights."

The blonde man didn't respond, and instead called to the radio again.

"Valkyrie, this is Alpha-One. I have a visual on the lead vehicle's driver. Female Caucasian, athletic build, early to mid-thirties, short black hair…"

"*sigh* Check that. Goddammit, what's she doing in there?"

Something was amiss. Team Rainbow's chance to spring the trip was nearing, but then a new order came.

"All Elements, this is Valkyrie. Our ROE has changed. Driver at the lead vehicle is a VIP; she must not be harmed. All other targets are valid, how copy?"

That raised another question mark in the sniper's head. Something was up with Rainbow's Intel people, something the grunts on the ground were not fully aware of. Ethan glanced at his partner accusingly, then resumed looking into his scope. Presumably, the rest of his comrades felt the same, judging by their trite responses over the radio. All of which became white noise.

"Ace, aim at the engine."

"What?"

"Just do it, man."

Erik's instruction didn't satisfy his curiosity in the slightest. But the reason for the tight lips was clear: operational security. It was the same thing that the Rangers imposed. Then Delta. Then the CIA, then Team Rainbow. Acknowledging the new order, Ethan adjusted his aim, ensuring that the bullet would hit a different target under the conditions previously confirmed. Wind blowing at half strength from west to east. The white truck was about 290 meters away at this point. A few seconds afterwards, it would be 285, then 280…

"…Hold… Hold…", Erik muttered into the radio.

280. 275. The targets were still well within their weapons' effective range. But distance wasn't the crucial factor. Precision was key to ensure the trap's success. All three targets must be simultaneously hit so as to rattle the tangos' resolve and leave themselves vulnerable to the SASR's takedown. Seconds went by, but the snipers remained still. Excited breaths soon gave way to slow, controlled respiration, calming their muscles in anticipation of the inevitable strike. The targets were 270 meters away. Then, 265. 260…

…

"Three, two, one, mark!"

A switch flicked off in everyone's heads. Muscle memory claimed their next action, as three individual trigger fingers squeezed in unison, releasing three muffled bullets from their weapons. Their aim was true and well-practiced, as each shot had found their target. Bravo tore into the tires of the truck's middle trailer, popping three of them with a loud burst. The trailer instantly shifted its weight to one side, having lost significant traction from its wheels. Charlie had a better result: they shot at the driver's compartment, which was sprayed with blood from within. It continued to drive, presumably from a passenger desperately trying to keep their hands on the wheel. This caused the truck to slow down, allowing for the SASR bikes to close in on the minigun at the rear trailer and take out its gunner with a few, well-placed SMG bursts. The endless shooting that Tori had been complaining earlier had finally grown quiet.

"Good hits, good hits."

However, there was a problem.

The lead truck was still on the move. Ethan was puzzled why his first shot didn't connect. He had just sent a rifle round into the truck's front grills, but it didn't halt. He shot at it again, this time aiming at a different area on the engine block, but the effect was the same. Flabbergasted, he reared to fire off a third round, only this time it would be followed-up by a few more shots to the same spot, all in an effort to make a dent on the damn thing. All throughout, the driver herself remained unfazed, like she didn't even realize that her vehicle was being shot at.

"Negative hit on the lead truck. Target is still rolling."

The vehicle resisted all attempts to put be out of commission. There could only be one explanation.

"The engine block's armored!", Ethan exclaimed.

"Are ya shittin' me?! They also made the truck bulletproof?!", Tori yelled back on the radio.

The tangos must have chopped up the truck somewhere, fitted it with titanium plates just for this chase. What a stretch it would be if proven true - a portent of their enemy's hidden cunning. Everyone watched helplessly as the long, segmented road train stayed the course, speeding across the road with nothing to stop it. In less than a minute, the trucks would be crossing Phase Line Red, beyond Rainbow's line of sight. The tangos would be home free.

"Now what?"

There was still hope.

"Knife Leader to Ram Leader.", Mozzie radioed. "Trax Stinger's set 100 meters ahead of ya, over."

"About fuckin' time!", Tori exclaimed. "Clear the path! They're headed your way now!"

Ethan wanted to know what they were talking about. Realizing there was no use hiding anymore, he removed the camouflaged canopy over his head and sat upright. He had a good view of the trucks they just shot at, which were wobbling rather violently. The road was strewn with bits of torn rubber and dark skid marks. Just as it seemed that all hope was lost, that was when the Trax Stingers made their much-needed debut. The mystery item from Tori was actually a portable spike trap.

*Pop! Pop! Pop!*

Instantly, the truck's front tires disintegrated into a shredded heap, forcing the long vehicle to swerve uncontrollably. This also caused the second vehicle to swerve to the side, almost losing control, until it too fell to the same trap. Both trucks now had lost their most important wheels, and they could do nothing but drive straight into one direction. It should have been a home run.

The plan had a fatal flaw. Rather than slow to a halt, the first truck simply kept driving, knocking aside brushes, signages, and roadside posts. It swerved into a ditch, but it didn't stop dead, and instead caused its precious cargo to bounce into the road. This distracted the other truck behind, forcing it dodge the containers and enter into its own horrible cycle of violent swerves, all in an attempt to maintain. They had both lost their balance, and perhaps their brakes as well. Not a single commando dared to drive near them and force them to stop. And without any interference, the trucks were free to change direction without their drivers' prompting, at the mercy of inertia and Newton's laws. They were now headed straight to the one place they were not supposed to be.

Hanley's Roadhouse. Even though the commandos had set up well ahead of the place, the hijacked trucks still managed to reach all the way to the one place where they could do damage. The radio quickly filled with panicked shouts from the SASR, trying to come up with something to keep their quarry on course. Alas, their efforts had only led their would-be targets directly into harm's way. Two runaway trucks, one of which had a haul of dangerous, radioactive cargo on its back. They careened to the direction of the roadhouse, off the asphalt and into the Outback's orange-crusted desert, honking to no avail. They smashed through barbed-wire fences, one after the other. And all that Ethan could do was to watch the denouement from a distance.

"Holy shit!"

The crash was inevitable.

…