After piercing through the intense high-altitude air currents, the ship continued to climb in a disconcerting shudder until it reached an altitude of 2,400 meters. Only then did the violent turbulence subside.
Augustus and his soldiers were strapped tightly to their seats by thick safety harnesses. Aside from Harnack and Josephine, who were chatting idly, everyone else silently counted down the time displayed on the HUD screen.
The transport ship had no portholes; the blue emergency lighting was the only source of illumination inside the troop compartment. About twenty minutes after takeoff, the ship began to jolt again, swaying wildly like a leaf caught in a storm.
"Comm code Beta 2-4-7-2: We've encountered a wounded Kel-Morian Hellhound fighter..." The pilot's voice came through Augustus's helmet.
"Modern Girl is descending—2,100 meters—1,800 meters... hatches opening... Hallelujah, good luck!"
The reinforced side hatches of the ship slowly opened, and howling winds rushed into the previously sealed compartment. Augustus and his soldiers unbuckled their safety harnesses and stood up amid the roaring wind.
Through the open doors, Augustus could see a Kel-Morian camp nestled between the hills. Four rectangular barrack-style tents stood side by side, aligned east to west. The prison walls were made of spliced sheets of Bore-Steel, covered by a layer of white tent fabric.
To the east of the camp stood a metallic water tower, its drainage system connected by interlocking metal pipes.
On the other hill, thick black smoke rose into the sky. An AOPD-33 transport aircraft had grazed the top of a bunker and crashed somewhere beyond Augustus's line of sight.
They were about 15 meters from the ground now. Below the ship, figures were running everywhere—some Kel-Morians were firing up at the sky.
"Third and Fourth Squads jump first—move, move, move!" Augustus shouted into the comms, standing at the howling doorway and personally pushing one Marine after another into the drop.
The most dangerous moment in an airdrop was the jump and landing. The lower the jump altitude, the shorter the hang time, and the faster they could reach the ground safely. Augustus needed to watch every one of his soldiers land safely.
Meanwhile, the hovering transport ship could be hit at any moment by Kel-Morian anti-aircraft fire. Every extra minute they lingered onboard increased their danger. In training, Augustus was always the first to jump—but now, he would be the last in the platoon to go.
"See you on the ground, sir," said Lisa, the last medic to jump.
Just then, an anti-air missile struck the ship's auxiliary thrusters, causing it to lurch violently. Amid the pilot's furious cursing, Augustus grabbed his newly issued AGR-14 electromagnetic rifle and hurled himself into the open air.
The wind howled around Augustus's helmet. The servos in his powered armor groaned as his arms and legs shifted against the turbulence. With a jet-assisted burst from his backpack, Augustus arrested his fall just before hitting the ground, propelling himself another dozen meters forward.
His powered boots slammed into the sandy soil, sending up a spray of grit.
"Feet on the ground."
[Clang! Clang! Clang—]
About a dozen nails and copper bullets clanged off Augustus's powered armor, leaving white scratches across his faceplate. Several Kel-Morian soldiers, hidden behind the camp structures, were opening fire on him.
These enemy soldiers weren't equipped with powered armor—just makeshift kinetic plating worn like vests and greaves, along with dark green goggles and helmets.
"Machine gunner!" Augustus barked into the channel.
Without needing to look back, Augustus heard the roar of at least two heavy machine guns firing behind him. Twin streams of golden rounds swept across the ground, shredding the Kel-Morians who had tried to resist into bloody tatters.
"Stick to the plan—each squad, head to different prison barracks and free the prisoners! Fourth Squad, secure the weapon crates!" Augustus waved his hand. "First Squad, with me!"
Inside the 34th internment camp, fighter jets roared overhead. Explosions and gunfire echoed everywhere. A glance around revealed nothing but blood, corpses, craters, and flames.
As Augustus charged toward the gate of military prison C-11, about a squad's worth of Kel-Morian soldiers collided with them at a corner. Because the distance between the two sides was so close, the clash instantly devolved into brutal hand-to-hand combat.
Among the Kel-Morian soldiers, only two, who appeared to be squad leaders, wore powered armor. However, their suits were far cruder compared to those of the Federal Marines.
The Kel-Morian powered armor used fusion cores manufactured by the Federation, but the armor plates were made of lower-grade Bore-Steel. Apart from the joints, the armor pieces had almost no curvature—almost as if Kel-Morian mechanics had simply grabbed pre-cut sheets off a production line and bolted them into shape.
Leading the charge, Augustus smashed the skull of an oncoming Kel-Morian soldier with a single blow from his rifle's buttstock. Immediately behind him, Raynor and Harnack opened fire.
Raynor, holding his electromagnetic rifle, delivered precise bursts at close range, showcasing his dramatically improved marksmanship as he dropped several enemy soldiers.
From Harnack's flamethrower surged a wave of heat so intense it warped the air, setting two Kel-Morian warriors ablaze in an instant.
Augustus barreled straight toward one of the Kel-Morian leaders clad in powered armor. Both men raised their rifles across their chests like charging bulls, slamming into each other in a contest of raw strength.
Yet Augustus found himself at a disadvantage—the Kel-Morian leaders were among the strongest brutes of their guild. With a triumphant grunt, the Kel-Morian squad leader forced Augustus back several steps, laughing in smug satisfaction.
But that laughter was cut short. Ryk Kydd, the sniper stationed behind Augustus, had already locked onto the enemy's helmet. A spinning .50-caliber round turned the laughing Kel-Morian's head into a burst of gore, like a watermelon shattering apart.
As Augustus regained his footing, Tychus lunged forward from his left. Slinging his electromagnetic rifle onto his back, he crouched low and barreled into the legs of the second Kel-Morian leader, seizing both ankles and yanking hard to throw him off balance.
Tychus straddled the fallen leader's neck and, gripping his Gauss rifle, began smashing its buttstock repeatedly into the enemy's faceplate.
Although the Kel-Morian faceplates weren't built to Federation standards, they could still withstand rifle rounds. But under Tychus's relentless, axe-like strikes, the visor gradually spiderwebbed with cracks.
After a dozen brutal blows, with a sound like an eggshell shattering, the mask—and the life behind it—gave way. The scream never even had a chance to escape.
Watching all this unfold, Augustus thought to himself: whatever his character flaws, Tychus Findlay was undeniably a fierce warrior.
Stepping over the littered corpses, Augustus led First Squad to the military prison gate. Ward planted explosives and blasted the doors open, and the Marines filed in behind Augustus.
Inside the prison were rows of sealed compartments. Augustus's team dragged the two Kel-Morian leaders' bodies to the scanners, using their retinal patterns and blood to unlock the gene-sealed doors.
Upon opening the first cell, they found six gaunt prisoners huddled in a corner, lifting their vacant eyes to stare at Augustus and his soldiers.
Then, almost immediately, unrestrained joy lit up every single face.
"Am I dreaming?" someone sobbed with happiness. "I can't believe you're real..."
"Are you angels, summoned from heaven by God?"
"No," Augustus replied.
"We are many things."
"Just not angels."
...
Augustus opened cell after cell, each one partitioned by steel plates or iron grilles. In the dim rooms lacking proper lighting, the prisoners—emaciated, skeletal, and in some cases tortured beyond recognition—resembled walking corpses. Only those who had been imprisoned for a short time still had the strength to stagger to their feet.
The Kel-Morian Combine had once claimed that prisoners of the Federation would receive the most humane treatment and three meals a day in their detention facilities. Reality, however, was clearly otherwise. Of course, the Kel-Morian prisoners held in Federation prisons weren't faring much better.
"We are the Federal Marine Corps," Augustus said to each prisoner he encountered. "If you can still fight, stand up and pick up a weapon."
"Blood for blood."
The prisoners still wore the clothes from when they were captured, now little more than filthy rags clinging to their bodies, carrying a pungent stench. In the barren wilderness where the 34th Detention Center was located, water was scarce—prisoners often went a week or longer without a chance to bathe.
Yet when these prisoners, now indistinguishable from vagrants, crowded around Augustus and his Marines, a surge of anger and hatred burst forth from their seemingly frail bodies.
At this moment, chaos reigned within the detention center. Other units from Warfield's First Company had already seized two hills, and another unit—a regiment of re-socialized soldiers supported by two Arc tanks—was advancing from three directions. The Kel-Morian forces inside quickly realized they had no way out.
As the crowd, escorted by a few Marines, rushed out of the compound toward the landing zone, Fourth Squad under Augustus's command was guarding crates upon crates of airdropped weapons and ammunition. Electromagnetic rifles and bandoliers, slung over the shoulder, were quickly distributed to everyone.
The prisoners were reorganized into a single battalion under unified command, tasked with following Fourth Squad to capture and destroy the Kel-Morian bunkers and the energized Presteel walls between Hills A and C.
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