"Those bastards! They want to cut our funding?! Are their heads full of shit?!" Agent Seymour Simmons, one of Sector Seven's senior supervising agents, hurled his phone across the room.
The spirit of national solidarity didn't exist in America. Everyone wanted a bigger slice of the pie and nobody wanted to take a hit.
More money for some departments meant less for others. Simple math.
Sector Seven was classified, sure, but its people still lived on Earth. Agents had wives and kids. They couldn't survive on fresh air and patriotism. They needed paychecks—and working at a godforsaken dam in the middle of nowhere meant those paychecks had to be higher than a regular soldier's, or nobody would sign up.
The White House was planning to slash Sector Seven's budget by more than half and funnel the money elsewhere. That had every agent in the organization—Simmons included—seething.
Simmons spent a solid ten minutes cursing out Megatron—or as he called it, N.B.E.-1—right to its frozen face.
Cursing was cathartic, but the work didn't stop. The earthquake had shaken loose large sections of the ice encasing Megatron, and a full crew was scrambling to reinforce it.
External pressure on Sector Seven was enormous. To prove they weren't just dead weight collecting government paychecks, they'd been scooping up every scrap of alien-related intel they could find. In just over two weeks, they'd lost more than thirty agents and soldiers.
"Sir, we've got reports of a new alien vessel spotted in Arizona!" An agent brought the latest tip. These reports had been pouring in—some legitimate, some just drunk locals telling tall tales.
Legit or not, Sector Seven had to investigate every single one. Their superiors were already looking for excuses to shut them down. Slacking off at home was not an option. At the very least, they had to look diligent enough that no one could call them lazy.
Simmons skimmed the report. Five minutes later, he was leading a team out to Arizona.
Ten minutes after that, another squad rolled out—headed for Utah. Someone had reported seeing more than a dozen surviving aliens, complete with detailed descriptions of their appearances and weapons. Sector Seven had no choice but to follow up.
Three elite teams departed within half a day. The remaining garrison—agents and soldiers combined—numbered fewer than a hundred.
The guards on watch were distracted. News of Sector Seven's impending disbandment had everyone on edge.
Nobody lived in a vacuum. No money? Then why the hell were they still working here?
"What are you going to do after this?" A few soldiers who knew each other swapped plans during their shift.
"Probably head to Pennsylvania. I heard a weapons company called Mars Industries is recruiting soldiers."
His buddy disagreed. "That outfit's supposedly got mob connections. Come to New York with me instead—The Continental hotel chain is hiring, and the pay's excellent."
"That place has a shady background too. You think anyone running a hotel empire in New York is a regular person? Man… nowhere beats Sector Seven for job security. Watch out! Contact!—"
The guard had spotted a flash of white light off to his flank—instinct told him it was a rifle scope's glint. He tackled his companion to the ground. A bullet punched into the spot where he'd been standing a heartbeat before.
Both men were drenched in sweat. Pressed flat against the ground, they peered into the distance and saw dark figures—lots of them—advancing with weapons raised. The attackers moved cautiously, disciplined, not rushing the assault.
The quick-thinking soldier reached back and pulled the alarm. A piercing klaxon tore through the underground base beneath Hoover Dam.
Soldiers and agents dropped whatever they were doing. They were well-drilled—weapons went up fast, defensive positions were manned in orderly sequence. Seeing the sheer number of incoming hostiles, the base commander immediately ordered all scientists and civilian workers to evacuate through a secondary tunnel.
There was no choice. Scientists and workers weren't combatants. Their employment contracts stipulated that in the event of hostilities, their safety took priority.
"Estimated enemy count exceeds two hundred!"
"Their weaponry is extremely advanced! They've got attack helicopters! I'm seeing Russian-made MiG fighters!"
"Get a distress call out—now!"
"Are you asleep? We don't even have a chain of command anymore!"
Personnel flooded into defensive emplacements at impressive speed—clearly the result of regular drills.
But drills and live combat were two very different things.
With a real firefight bearing down on them, fear crept in. The enemy outnumbered them badly, which made it worse.
Many of the soldiers couldn't help but picture the headline: Sector Seven Disbanded. Morale cratered. If they survived, fine. But if they died and the department got axed anyway? No death benefits. No pension. No nothing. Knowing that, who would fight to the last?
Sector Seven's defenders were rattled.
Fortunately, the attackers had—for some unknown reason—not launched a full assault after being detected.
"This is a highly organized enemy force! Their premature exposure disrupted their entire deployment! Stay calm! Agent Simmons is already en route back! Pentagon reinforcements are incoming! We just need to buy some time!"
"Listen to me—if the enemy doesn't advance, we do NOT fire first! Hold your positions!" The base's chief agent projected an air of total confidence, steadily rallying his people.
Privately, looking at the ragtag defenders he had left, his stomach was in knots. All the elites were out on missions. The base was critically undermanned. He was praying the enemy wouldn't actually attack.
Lying prone in a treetop, wearing an invisibility cloak, aiming a sniper rifle—Natasha shared that exact same hope.
She'd never met 006, but right now she felt exactly the way he had on Clone Island: This is absolutely insane.
Aside from herself and the Autobot called Jazz, every single member of this "assault force" was fake. The entire army was a CGI production.
Quentin Beck had taken several big contracts from Bella over the years, upgrading his operation and opening his own special-effects company. Unfortunately—much like Mustache Mace—one earthquake had bankrupted him overnight. He went from boss to employee in a heartbeat. When Bella came to him with a commission to design a convincing assault scenario, he didn't even ask questions before accepting.
The man was a genuine genius. His effects were jaw-droppingly realistic. From Natasha's vantage point, the area around her looked like it was swarming with soldiers.
Beck's CGI formed the foundation. Bella's illusion magic provided the cover. Autobot technology filled in the gaps. Layer all three together and the result was a scene so convincing that even the people inside it could barely tell it wasn't real.