The treads crushed the scorched earth, raising a cloud of dust.
Zzz—Bang! Gunfire echoed.
A tungsten nail round, supercharged with kinetic energy, tore through a blurry silhouette struggling in the muddy ruins. Filth and sparks burst forth, flesh and steel ripping apart as the figure collapsed, twitched twice, then went still.
Then came bang, bang—short, controlled bursts to confirm the kill.
David, confirming the area was cleared, sent a thought command. The [Oni 4-B Type] ACPA's integrity alarm synchronized with its extended sensory array, feeding the data to the AR interface that filled his cockpit view. In the lower right corner, the MapGIS (Geographical Information System) panel displayed no remaining hostile signatures within range.
In other words—both the onboard sensors and radar showed no detected threats.
Friendly and allied signals surged in from the west, spreading across the perimeter to take over control of the area.
"Whew..." Watching a shape emerge from behind rubble—a friendly transforming quadruped tank that smashed aside a ruined Militech Behemoth APC—David finally let out a long sigh of relief.
Joder! (Fuck!)
This damned Operation Pangolin... finally over.
"SAT-6, SCULPTOR."
Just as David began tallying his squad's casualties, an Arasaka officer clad in a communication-commander-type specialized ACPA approached. He moved his power armor to salute and said, "Director Rahm orders: mission complete. You're authorized to withdraw and rest. Someone from higher up will see you shortly."
"Copy that, SCULPTOR," David replied, nodding in return.
"Well done, soldier. Turns out our costly, relentless assaults were all to set the stage for you guys to pound those New American bastards into dust."
With his duty as messenger complete, the officer's tone relaxed. "...Medals, bonuses, and leave await you." Scanning the battered SAT-6 troops, he added, "My team will assist with casualty evacuation." He patted David's armored forearm before leaving.
Although they knew little of Operation Pangolin's full picture, knowing that David's team were participants in the Omaha detonation was more than enough to earn their respect.
That alone commanded admiration.
"David, tally's done," Suneo reported, limping over with his heavily damaged armor. "Out of 106, we've got 24 dead, 47 wounded, 11 missing, and too many lightly injured to count."
His right arm was useless again—the melted edge resembled dripping candle wax suddenly hardened, likely scorched by a thermal cannon.
David sighed.
Flanking maneuvers... were never simple.
Behind this great victory, the "plumbers" who only looked like demolition or sabotage specialists had paid a heavy price.
Security was strict, but not to the point of throwing them away as expendable assets. After planting the Sakuradite bombs, they had to survive—waiting underground wasn't an option.
Yet the New American and Militech joint forces around the Omaha–Council Bluffs area weren't some disorganized rabble. They had solid command structures, full equipment, and ample logistics. The moment David's team broke stealth and made a run for it, they were spotted.
Then came a storm of fire and steel.
Had it not been for the chain detonation from the simulated phased-array bombs—powerful enough to collapse the New American command network in O-C.B.—and Arasaka's rapid counterattack, their escape would've been impossible.
The New American front line collapsed utterly.
Those sent to hunt down David's squad—the few NUSA soldiers lucky enough to have survived the initial blast—soon lost all morale. Their will to fight shattered instantly.
And so began a strange, double-sided retreat: one side fleeing west, the other east.
David's squad crossed through hell itself, losing over half their number to make it out alive.
Over an hour later, the remaining survivors of SAT-6, still breathing but barely, were accounted for. Those buried alive in tunnels during the bombardment were dug out. As for the missing—most were beyond recovery, their bodies likely swept into Missouri River tributaries, buried under toxic sludge and debris. The blast's aftershock had scattered them beyond reach.
"David."
While retreating west along the river, David—having removed his power armor—heard a familiar voice call his name. Turning, he saw someone climbing onto the transport truck.
"Miss Portman?"
It was Jane Portman, who had taken a different route under the same mission.
Tap, tap.
"Just call me Jane," she said, exhaustion showing in her eyes and movements. Her cheeks and armor bore visible scrapes and bullet marks. "Quentin's dead."
David fell silent.
Like him, Quentin had also been one of those Saint Fe campaign veterans personally rebuilt by Vela herself.
No one expected him to fall so soon.
But that was war—cruel, inevitable.
"He had bad luck," Jane explained briefly. "Ran into part of a mechanized infantry division stationed as reserves at Council Bluffs. Almost total wipeout. But the army already avenged him—hundreds of us took down tens of thousands. Fair trade."
"Fair, maybe," David said after a pause, "but I'd still rather live."
Jane blinked, then chuckled softly. "You really are greedy, aren't you..."
Silence fell between them for a while as they stared at the ruined sinkholes that used to be Omaha.
The mopping-up operation had long since ended. Both cities were now riddled with nested craters carved by dozens—hundreds—of buried Sakuradite bombs. The very rivers and terrain had been reshaped.
Everywhere, the ground shifted in height by over ten meters, scattered with human limbs and machine debris. The stench of blood, steel, polymers, and roasted flesh hung thick in the air.
Some craters had turned into foul, murky pools—backflow from ruptured water mains and underground sewage systems.
Columns of armored vehicles and machinery now diverted around them, forming winding iron rivers of retreat and redeployment.
Vrrr—Vrrr—
The roar of anti-grav engines snapped them from their thoughts.
Both David and Jane looked up. Five armored hovercraft swept across the sky, rapidly descending toward a section of the ruins ahead.
That was their destination.
The two exchanged a glance. What now?
Moments later, they found out.
After passing through multiple checkpoints and guard lines—watched by the cold, red scanners of the cybernetic tyrants and Scorpion-class heavy drones—David, Jane, and the other heroes of Operation Pangolin were finally cleared into the secured perimeter.
"...Don't think you can earn praise from me. My army does not execute captured officers. Your lives rest in the hands of President Myers and CEO Harford."
The voice was crisp, commanding.
Before them stood a striking woman with silver-golden hair and indigo eyes—Vela Adelheid Russell—her elegant civilization cane resting lightly in her hand as she addressed a battered NUSA officer whose face was bruised and cybernetic limbs locked down.
The silver eagle insignia gleamed faintly on his collar—an unmistakable colonel.
A captured regimental commander, or perhaps a deputy brigade commander.
Standing at attention, awaiting debrief, David's thoughts briefly wandered.
Vela and the crippled colonel locked eyes. She tapped his chest lightly with her cane and said, "If you ever meet them again, pass along a message. Within one week, Arasaka's forces will march into the Great Lakes region."
"..." The colonel remained expressionless, silent.
"You may leave now."
Vela didn't seem offended. She turned as if to depart—but then glanced back, her tone loud and clear. "However, Colonel, I hope you don't surrender twice. A brave officer should take his own life before becoming a prisoner again."
"Spare me your false courtesy, Vela Adelheid Russell!" the colonel suddenly shouted. "If I hadn't been knocked out by the blast in my command vehicle, you think you could've captured me?!"
Vela only smiled faintly. "Yet here you are, captured—and your brigade annihilated. Am I wrong, Colonel?"
She turned away, ignoring him as his defiance fell silent again.
Two Arasaka soldiers stepped forward to escort him away.
As for his fate—Vela didn't care.
It was all just theater for propaganda.
Standing nearby, a Foreign Affairs officer gave Vela a nod—recording complete.
Acknowledging with a nod of her own, Vela turned her gaze to David and the assembled troops.
"'SCULPTOR'—impressive callsign, David. Is it because your name brings to mind sculpture?"
"Jane, good to see you again."
...
"You've done well. I'm proud of you all."
After a few polite, formulaic lines, Vela got straight to the point.
"Medals and bonuses will be distributed after official review. Additionally, I'm granting you three days of paid leave. Once you've had a short rest, you may return home to visit your families. Your leave will begin once you arrive in your home city."
Even before she finished speaking, she could feel the restrained cheers and burning excitement behind the soldiers' stoic faces.
As for the few who didn't care—orphans abandoned in childhood, drifters with no one left to visit, or the likes of Adam Smasher, born without empathy—they were hers all the same.
Her soldiers.
And she treated them all equally.
Of course, Vela couldn't say something like "for those with no family to visit." Instead, she spoke tactfully: "Naturally, if you have other preferences, I'll respect your individual choices."
"Whether you wish to remain on the front line or rest in the rear, or if you'd like to apply for specialized cyberware, exoskeletons, power armor, Quinques, braindance privileges, or to resolve personal matters—submit a report. A designated officer will assist you."
"Well then, I'll leave you to it," Vela said warmly. "You've earned this. Enjoy yourselves."
"Yes, ma'am!" × N
Some bowed, others saluted, joy showing clearly on every face.
Vela returned the gesture.
With the award ceremony for Operation Pangolin's heroes concluded, she went on to inspect the ruins at Council Bluffs before proceeding to the interstate highway where Arasaka's units were conducting rolling pursuit operations against the retreating New American remnants.
...
Two days passed.
In Washington, President Rosalind Myers delivered a fiery public address from the White House following the exposure of the catastrophic Omaha defeat. "Arm yourselves—arm to the utmost, without restriction! Arm until none dare stand against us!"
Across the West Coast, official reports of Vela's inspection of the Omaha frontlines were broadcast. In Europe, the endless political squabbling continued.
...
Tokyo, Chiyoda Ward.
After completing the matchmaking itinerary personally arranged by Saburo Arasaka, Yorinobu returned to his luxurious estate, visibly exhausted.
[Miss Fujiwara]
[Miss Yokoi]
[Miss Kailes]
In his private quarters, he glanced at his contact list—new names of refined noblewomen—and his expression immediately turned blank as he closed the screen.
Women didn't slow his sword draw, but emotions surely did.
Still, this charade served its purpose—fooling that old monster Saburo. The patriarch was currently preoccupied negotiating with EuroBank and Orbital Air over orbital warfare and lunar colony affairs. Perfect timing for Yorinobu to act under cover.
He had waited long enough for this moment.
Beep-beep.
An encrypted message appeared.
"Lord Yorinobu, routes through the Relic Bioengineering Laboratory and the Sonnentreppe Bio-Research Center have been secured. The transport craft is ready."
"For the Empire's unity! For the nation's rebirth! The fate of the world rests on this battle!"
The first half was proper. The latter, however, made Yorinobu's face darken as though he'd swallowed something vile.
I'll endure it, he thought grimly. For now, he still needed the strength of these relic loyalists.
After confirming the timing, routes, and contingencies, Yorinobu changed into a white shirt with faint crimson sheen—its shoulders patterned with fish-scale tails—and stepped out the door.
[Operation Commence: Codename—Steel Dragon]