The area around the camp was strictly controlled. They were obviously worried that the refugees might try to steal the vehicle.

The {{user}} stood in line and waited for his turn. The sergeant in charge of the search repeated mechanically. When the {{user}}'s turn arrived, a burly sergeant, nonchalantly chewing gum, eyed him with an evident disdain. "Does this guy get support?" he scoffed.

"It's not mandatory," came the reply from a fellow sergeant who seemed more familiar with the {{user}}'s background. The grumbling sergeant threw a sidelong glance at the {{user}}, continuing his examination.

"He's someone Lieutenant RoboCop seems to trust. The kid volunteered, says he wants to help people," the familiar sergeant added, skepticism lacing his tone.

"How can you believe that?" the first sergeant retorted.

The answer was succinct. "No affiliations. Speaks English, and has recently picked up bits of Japanese and Chinese. Useful for controlling applicants."

The nickname "RoboCop" belonged to Lieutenant Robert Capstone, his moniker deriving from the phonetic resemblance of his name. {{user}}'s language skills were hard-earned, acquired for survival in a world where social interactions and communication were critical.

With a grumble, the sergeant signaled for a cursory body search. Once satisfied with the {{user}}'s lack of concealed items, he equipped him with the standard issue—bulletproof vest, gas mask, and a hefty duffel bag.

Though airborne infection transmission was unproven, the sergeant nonetheless sternly warned, "Don't take off your gas mask unless ordered during the mission."

Once through, the {{user}} found himself guided into a temporary barrack by orderly American soldiers. They arranged the volunteers by nationality, leaving the {{user}} amongst fellow Koreans. Muted whispers in their native tongue filled the air, some offering greetings that he acknowledged out of politeness rather than warmth.

As seating concluded, Lieutenant Robert Capstone ascended the platform. With a hand signal to a soldier, his words soon accompanied the projection lighting up a map of San Miguel County for all to see.

“Those whose names have been called, please interpret what I am about to say,” Capstone requested, nodding towards the {{user}} and select others.

Attention captured with a sharp snap of his fingers into the microphone, the lieutenant proceeded, “What you are looking at is a map of San Miguel County, our destination. As you can see, it is not a very large town, having housed about 3,300 people. None remain now. Our first target is the gas station at the Route 101 intersection.”

The map illustrated their plan: one group to secure the gas station while two other teams would branch out towards supply targets. First stop: a church south of the station, once a temporary shelter, promising potential supplies. The second goal, a riskier venture to the mill and restaurant further north on 14th Street, held the promise of food supplies.

“As you all have understood,” Capstone emphasized, “the route to the mill is fraught with more danger. You’ve volunteered with courage for this mission, yet I ask again—who is willing to head toward the mill?”

A solemn hush fell over the crowd, the weight of choice and consequence heavy in the air.

The sky outside the window was gray, heavy with storm clouds. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the dense clouds. Raindrops poured into the Humvee through the turret, leaving {{user}} relatively dry in the front seat, while the machine gunner positioned up top was drenched the entire way.

They were following the road to Atascadero, skirting Paso Robles. Despite a prior mission unit clearing the route, the 40-kilometer journey was painstakingly slow. The road was wrecked in places, scarred by repeated airstrikes, slowing the convoy to a crawl.

As they inched over another dug-up stretch, {{user}} noticed movement in an abandoned field up ahead. A group of infected mutants was chasing a few disoriented horses. Spotting the convoy, they abruptly changed direction, now sprinting across the yellowed pasture toward the vehicles, their arms swinging wildly.

The machine gunner tapped on the roof.

“Two o’clock, approximately 50 meters out. Thirteen normal variants. Engaging now.”

With a quick pull on the lever, the turret rotated with a rough metallic grind.

The heavy machine gun roared to life, joined by two other Humvees unloading a relentless hail of bullets.

The thick rounds left a booming echo distinct from smaller firearms, each shot tearing into the charging mutants. Their bodies shattered with white vapor trailing from the remains—evidence of an enhanced metabolism, likely reacting to the cold air.

“Noise control. Dangso, 331st Mission Unit. Engaging with .50 caliber. Requesting noise cover. Over.”

Ensign Jeffrey’s voice crackled over the radio from the follow-up vehicle. As the senior officer on the mission, he coordinated the team’s movements, knowing heavy weaponry could easily draw a swarm without cover.

Within moments, deep rumbling echoed from three points along the horizon. Newly installed noisemakers activated, redirecting attention away from the convoy, allowing them to finish off the mutants without drawing more.

Once Jeffrey confirmed the end of firing over the radio, silence settled around them once again.

“Damn it!” the driver cursed suddenly.

A mutant had leaped out from the roadside brush at close range.

Boom!

There was no time for the machine gunner to react. The driver floored the accelerator, hitting it head-on. Blood splattered across the Humvee’s windshield.

This one had gone undetected because it was caked in mud and covered in leaves, blending into the surroundings as if it had been lying in wait.

“It could be a Trickster. Stay on high alert.”

Visibility worsened as they approached their destination. Clouds of thick smoke obscured the sunlight.

There were fires everywhere—far more than just one or two. Across the valley, several hills were ablaze. Was this reckless bombing, or the work of the "Tricksters"? {{user}} assumed it was the latter. It was possible that the group who attacked Camp Roberts had joined forces with them. Or maybe they had shared their knowledge.

Either way, it was a dangerous environment for air support.

A helicopter had crashed alongside the road, having descended too quickly to clear the smoke. It had likely been hit by an EMP or "Grumble" projectile. Survivors were improbable; the wreckage was burning, with live ammunition inside detonating sporadically.

The beat of helicopter rotors approached overhead, and covering fire rained down beside the convoy.

With a steady whirring, six-barrel miniguns unleashed a torrent of bullets, producing a sound more like distorted wind than gunfire. The two transport helicopters were clearly loaded with nothing but ammunition. Despite the incredible expenditure, they maintained their fire for an extended period.

The heavy gunfire provided critical cover, lessening the load on the tank and Humvee gunners as waves of mutants charged from every direction.

{{user}} leaned against the window frame, securing their rifle to join in the defense.

As the helicopters departed, the convoy's advance slowed. Despite the thinning density, breaking through the mutants encircling them from all sides proved difficult.

“They’re targeting the rear! Defend the supply vehicles first!”

The company commander’s orders came over the radio, revealing that the rear of the line was under concentrated attack. Only two Humvees were stationed back there, and losing the ammunition trucks and fuel tankers would jeopardize the entire rescue mission.

It was clear now: the mutants were strategizing. They understood human tactics, targeting weaknesses to disrupt their formations.

They also concealed their strong among the weak. Ghouls, enhanced mutants, moved among the ordinary ones. Faster and more agile, they were challenging to pin down, but {{user}} made them a priority.

Whoosh—

From a distant hillside, a tree uprooted and hurled in a high arc. Its trajectory was aimed at the ammunition transport vehicle, missing by a mere five meters.

"Jesus!"

A scream pierced the radio as the vehicle swerved, tilting precariously before regaining balance. It had barely avoided tipping over.

The figure hurling projectiles was surely "Grumble," though its silhouette was blurred by smoke.

At that moment, a tank surged forward.

Weeeeeeeing—

The 60-ton metal beast burst from the convoy's side, its gas turbine roaring, advancing with a zigzag to crush any mutant in its path. Those caught beneath the tracks didn’t stand a chance.

Another tree soared toward the convoy. The tank sped up, positioning itself to shield the transport vehicles. The timing was flawless—the driver's skill, impeccable. The tree struck the tank head-on, rocking it violently.

"Meerkat 3 hit!"

{{user}} braced. The call sign barely registered.

Meerkat 3 responded as expected, rotating its turret to aim at "Grumble." With the tank’s main gun, pinpoint accuracy wasn’t necessary; they simply aimed at the center of the shape and fired.

Flash. Boom! Smoke swirled, dissipating around the muzzle.

Kyaaaaaaa—!

The creature screamed as a blast tore through its right arm. Smoke cleared with a gust, revealing the monster staggering back. Meerkat 1 and 2 fired in rapid succession, shells converging from different angles to shatter "Grumble" entirely.

Lieutenant Durant’s voice came over the radio.

"Grumble down. Good job. Meerkat 1, lead us from now on. Meerkat 2, cover the rear. Meerkat 3 and 4, defend the flanks."

With "Grumble" eliminated, a tank commander emerged from the hatch, wielding a machine gun. Bravo Company, the tank platoon, and the supply unit finally pierced through the mutants' offensive line.

Gunfire and explosions reverberated from their destination. {{user}} gauged the distance between each flash and explosion.

"Three minutes."

It appeared they were about to enter a full-scale battlefield.

A thermal image of the site appeared on the tracker monitor, transmitted by a forward observer. Though choppy from the heat and smoke interference, the feed showed enough to assess the situation.

Friendly forces appeared to be entrenched at a vineyard on a low hill. Judging by the number of civilian trucks among the military vehicles, it was evident that refugees and civilians were mixed in as well. From every direction, mutants were swarming the position.

The U.S. government has officially elevated the status of Camp Roberts. They plan to increase the stationed troops, expand its scale, and improve facilities to create a fortified base.

The treatment of refugees has also changed. Construction has begun on multi-family housing in the refugee area. It is a modular building designed for efficiency rather than aesthetics, but it is superior in every way to tents.

The refugees deployed to the construction site were highly motivated. People of all ages contributed, learning from experienced builders. Their dedication was so intense that even the supervising engineers expressed discontent. The planned construction period was cut in half and continues to decrease in real-time.

“Everyone will be happy because they are building a better tomorrow with their own hands.”

Colonel Capston, the commander of the 3rd Battalion of the 160th Regiment, agreed.

“Hope is essential to life. I believe few things are as unfortunate as learning helplessness. Of course, this era is filled with even greater misfortunes…”

He trailed off, glancing at {{user}}. {{user}} responded with a puzzled expression. The colonel dismissed it as nothing significant and changed the subject.

“There are suspicions that civilian casualties from the last incident were greatly downplayed. Were you aware of this?”

“I had my suspicions. The reported numbers seemed too low considering several bases were wiped off the map.”

Recently, many camps have been lost to attacks by the Swarm led by the Trickster.

“As I thought… What’s the atmosphere among the refugees?”

“Are you worried that this will deepen their distrust of the U.S. military?”

“To be honest, yes. Trust is important, especially in times like this. You never know when another incident like the last one might occur.”

{{user}} responded with a faint smile.

“Don’t worry. For the time being, no one will have the reason or the leisure to think like that.”

“I understand that they lack leisure, but what do you mean by no reason?”

“Think about it. Happiness sometimes emerges from comparative advantage.”

The colonel was no fool. He quickly understood the key point in that remark.

The refugees who had been at Camp Roberts since the camp days had actually stabilized a lot due to this incident. They had navigated the crisis far better than those at other bases.

The stark contrast of the new arrivals and the civilians’ devastated appearances was telling. The original refugees used them as a benchmark to confirm their own good fortune. There were whispers of how many had died elsewhere, and some places had been entirely wiped out. Among such murmurs, feelings of sympathy were rare or absent. Those who expressed concern were merely anxious about their own safety.

The landscape returning to the camp was very different from the past. In the vast nearby land, countless straight lines were drawn in deep brown earth, resembling a giant agricultural field.

The size of the agricultural land was expanding in real-time. Dozens of U.S. military trucks towing planters moved at a slow speed of two miles per hour, making their mark. Of course, they weren’t actually farming. What they were planting was not seeds but landmines. As a large, heavy plow passed, the mines would drop into the deep furrows, and flat metal plates would cover them, filling the trenches with earth.

One dismounted infantryman followed behind at a normal pace, checking visually to see if the mines were properly buried.

“Farmers planting death.”

{{user}} found the absurd metaphor amusing.

How many sparks were waiting to sprout in that vast land?

An automated mine-laying device (M57 ATMDS) could bury 2,300 mines in a single day. Right within sight, there were already over 20,000 buried.

All of them were anti-tank mines, primarily as a means of denying access to the “Grumble.” They could smash tanks and obliterate armored vehicles; no matter how tough the “Grumble,” stepping on one would mean instant death. It would also be threatening to other special variants, which generally weigh more.

In {{user}}'s view, there were pros and cons. On one hand, defense would surely be reinforced. However, on the other hand, escape routes would be limited in an emergency. Though such a scenario was unlikely, it would become quite problematic if the defensive line were breached or if an infection began to spread from within the fortress.

But if a swarm of mutants comes... Mines will be meaningless in the face of quantity. The ominous assumption did not leave {{user}}'s mind.

“Major, the White Nobles are approaching.”

The voice sounded fatigued. Morales was watching the eastern sky through binoculars.

{{user}}, who had been reflecting on the change in the Starchild, resumed the role of Major {{user}} and looked in the same direction. Beyond the clouds pierced by sequoia branches, a small black dot approached. There was no sound yet. It was a peculiar aircraft (V-22) with a giant propeller on each side of its short wings. The duralumin fuselage shimmered in the morning sunlight, escorted by an armed helicopter.

The term “White Nobles” referred to officers from the Health Services Unit. They were technically military personnel but distanced from danger, often ridiculed for ordering around soldiers preoccupied with fighting.

[David, David. This is Hospital Niner. Please confirm the landing zone.]

Schultz fired a smoke grenade. {{user}} responded over the radio.

“From David Actual to Hospital Niner. Do you have eyes on the green smoke?”

[Confirmed.]

“The landing zone is clear. You’re good to come down.”

As the transport approached, it tilted its propellers vertically. It was an aircraft that combined the advantages of both a helicopter and a plane, needing no runway and boasting an extended range.

The strong wind scattered the smoke. Two coyotes, which had been lurking in the bushes for a chance to scavenge corpses, bolted in fright from the roar. The surviving stragglers, rescued last night, awkwardly took up guard. Their guns, freshly unwrapped, still dripped with lubricant.

The transport landed, displacing the humid air, and the rear ramp door opened. The cargo bay, lit by white lights, looked like a compact lab, complete with freezers for specimen preservation, stabilizing shelves, and various unspecified experimental equipment. Everything necessary was packed into the limited space.

“It’s much improved since before,” thought {{user}}.

It was a positive change. The Health Services Unit helicopter seen previously at Atascadero had no special features. Even the Trickster cadaver samples collected were simply bagged and fastened to the cargo bay floor.

Personnel in biochemical protective suits descended from the open door, resembling medical staff in an epidemic zone. Their ostentatious appearance prompted scoffs from the troops. A dachshund wagged its tail at the strangers, prompting Schultz to mutter complaints about the dog’s lack of loyalty.

One of the figures, scanning the surroundings, soon spotted {{user}}. They approached briskly, extending a gloved hand.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Major Han. I’m Major Elijah Campbell. Please, call me Dr. Campbell.”

Though military, his behavior was more civilian. While varying degrees of affiliation exist, this person appeared to be a researcher in military uniform. Campbell introduced other team members, who seemed similar in disposition.

“As you’ve probably been informed, we’re here to acquire samples of the acidic variant for research. Watching the combat footage, I noticed some slight differences from the specimen confirmed off the western Pacific coast.”

{{user}} glanced at the boxes other members were unloading from the cargo bay.

“Shall we see what you’ve brought first?”

Initially, {{user}} assumed they’d be taking soil samples from affected areas, but their demeanor indicated they were after the variant itself. Since the acidic monster explodes when it dies, they wouldn’t have come unprepared.

Campbell nodded.

“Actually, I wanted your input. We brought a variety of capture equipment, but only someone with combat experience can determine what will be useful.”

He opened a weapons case, pulling out a grenade launcher first. A fire-control computer measures the distance to the target, feeding that value to the munition, which then explodes midair to maximize lethality. The barrel diameter seemed larger than what {{user}} was familiar with—likely a prototype.

But beyond the weapon itself, the specialized ammunition stood out. Dr. Campbell held up one of the grenades.

“This is an airburst grenade charged with Quinuclidinyl Benzilate, or a sleeping gas aerosol, to put it simply. It has a small built-in parachute. For a human, it’s a deadly dose, easily LD 50… well, lethal to 50%, though it’s only effective enough to briefly knock out ghouls.”

“Not bad at all.”

“The one with three blue stripes is a liquid nitrogen aerosol, also an airburst type. It was actually a failed design that had been stashed in a warehouse, but considering the small size of the target, it might work. Lowering body temperature brings on enforced metabolic suppression. They won’t awaken until they warm up again.”

As he explained, it was evident that a single grenade’s worth of liquid nitrogen wouldn’t be effective against an entire variant. Multiple shots would be required for capture.

There were also taser cartridges fired from a shotgun. Loaded into the troops’ auto-shotguns, they could fire thirty-two rounds in succession.

Though there were additional tools, {{user}} deemed the sleeping gas grenades and tasers sufficient.

“Are you planning to accompany us in person? We haven’t completely cleared the entire forest yet.”

Despite {{user}}’s warning, Campbell requested to accompany them.

“I wouldn’t want non-experts to overlook anything. According to the pre-mission briefing, the variant threat in this area has significantly diminished. If you refuse, I’ll understand, but I’d prefer to come along. It’s just me.”

After some hesitation, {{user}} slowly agreed, judging that the opportunity to ask a few questions during the trip outweighed the troops' evident reluctance.

“He seems a bit sloppy for someone privy to classified information.”

Even among majors, being in the Health Services Unit meant he likely knew more.

“Alright. It’ll be a bit of a long hike. Schultz, give him a ride in the back. Also, share our radio frequency.”

Private Schultz’s already grim expression grew even darker. Heavy as a horse with a load, Schultz muttered, but Campbell appeared unaffected, seeming used to the resentment.

As the troops moved, the dog trotted along, whimpering as if afraid of being left behind. One of the rescue personnel tasked with guarding the supplies and transport grabbed its leash. The person, weary and somewhat rough, yanked it firmly. Watching until the end, Schultz turned his head and sighed.

Upon passing the bunker wall, the stench became noticeably intense.

[This is… astounding. It’s like Hamburger Hill. How did you kill them all?]

{{user}} replied over the radio to Campbell.

“It was an easy fight once they lost their cohesion. We didn’t have to hunt them down individually—they’d come to us, attracted by the sounds of combat. We had enough ammunition to maintain a barrage throughout the night. I imagine some are still hiding, though.”

Ghouls don’t typically behave like moths to a flame. Now that their trap had failed and the Tricksters were all slaughtered, the rest likely sought cover among nearby groups. If any of the more cunning ones could think beyond immediate survival or spreading infection, they might have already fled.

Alejandro chimed in.

“Even if it resembles it, this is no Hamburger Hill. None of us died here.”

His strong accent carried pride.

At the actual Hamburger Hill, where bodies were stacked like patties, the U.S. suffered heavy losses. The Vietnam War was, in many ways, America’s nightmare.

“We must’ve killed, what, about 10,000 here? Isn’t this Medal of Honor-worthy?” Harper exaggerated their achievements. In truth, the bodies numbered roughly around 800.

Still, there was a strong chance something beyond the usual commendation given to Preventive Scalping operations might be awarded. There had been fights in the forest and significant-sized variant groups lured to the Hammerfall attack.

“We’d appreciate any decoration they’d give. A raise wouldn’t hurt, though there’s nowhere to spend it.”

Morales muttered blandly.

“Maybe so. If the war turns in our favor, we might get a chance to use it sooner or later,” {{user}} replied, then turned to Campbell with a question.

“Doctor, have blood tests shown any issues so far?”

[Blood tests…? Oh, if you mean those, there’s nothing to worry about. Mogellons is a biological weapon that only infects humans. There have been no reported cases of cross-species infection or carriage, so if the rescued soldiers hunted a few pigs for food, they shouldn’t be affected.]

This was {{user}}’s first, relatively light, question.

[FOB (Forward Operating Base) Ollema has already been notified, but it seems you hadn’t been informed, Major Han.]

“No, I’ve been out here since before May.”

With reinforcements presumably arriving, Campbell’s remarks suggested there wouldn’t be a food shortage anytime soon. Reducing food transports and increasing shipments of other supplies would facilitate faster reorganization.

“So, Doctor, do you believe Mogellons is a biological weapon? I thought it was still considered a hypothesis. Has new evidence emerged?”

[Isn’t the fact that its origin is a Chinese missile base evidence enough?]

“That’s not conclusive information either. The government’s official stance is that China, too, is likely a victim.”

[They’d say that to keep Chinese refugees alive. Mogellons couldn’t possibly, under any circumstances, have arisen naturally. The precision is nothing short of human malevolence.]

His voice raised with apparent agitation, betraying a tremor of anger.

"[The base in western China—that's the Tibetan region, right? There have been mass killings and numerous disappearances there for a long time. They probably conducted extensive human experiments. Who knows? Maybe the purpose of developing Mogellons was ethnic cleansing. Or perhaps armed guerrillas raided the Chinese base, causing this disaster...]"

They were all baseless speculations, but Campbell’s heated tone reflected his conviction.

"Silence."

At {{user}}'s signal, the team fell silent. The soldiers focused on all-around vigilance, and Campbell, who had been cursing the Communist Party, clamped his mouth shut. Though they surveyed their surroundings intently, the lack of visible threats seemed only to heighten their tension.

Multiple targets were detected crouching beyond a fallen tree, about 70 meters away. With so many obstacles in the way, it would have been difficult to spot the enemies even with directions unless you were {{user}}.

There were also enemies in the canopy above, where they hadn’t ventured at dawn.

{{user}} raised a grenade launcher loaded with sleeping gas rounds. Aligning the crosshair with the tree trunk, the range was displayed, and the launcher was ready to fire.

Thwump-thwump-thwump-thump!

The effect was immediate. One of the acidic creatures fell and exploded with a soft pop. The others seemed to dangle, unconscious.

"Everyone, put on your gas masks. Just in case."

Though they had taken stimulants, these soldiers had fought all night, and there was a risk they might briefly doze off and fall from even a faint gas.

The ambushing creatures remained quiet. {{user}} switched to a rifle and aimed at the exposed legs and crouching knees under the sequoia trunk. Rat-a-tat-tat! Crack-crack! Rat-a-tat-tat! The controlled burst from the trigger shattered bones and tore through blood vessels and muscle.

The distant scene blurred as a large number of creatures bolted out. A gasp came from the Health Services officer. But the mutated horde was rapidly retreating, none even glancing back, in what appeared to be a full retreat. There were clearly over fifty of them. A distinct growl, heavy with meaning, led the creatures.

"…What on earth are those?"

Morales, baffled, looked on. {{user}} silently adjusted their aim. Among them was one with a different tone, a beta ghoul. Lowering itself and using the regular mutants and terrain as cover, it evaded every opportunity to pull the trigger. Eventually giving up, {{user}} began taking down other targets as they pursued them.

Even in a world matured by plague, spring was still the season when flowers bloomed unfailingly.

{{user}} raced through the fields as April neared its end, oblivious to the light rain that fell at dawn. The humid breeze was filled with the rich scent of grass and wildflowers. The pastures, retreating at his pace, shone in a fresh green soaked in sunlight. Clusters of blooming golden flowers added a scarlet hue. Along the fence, various iris buds burst open, while rosebay and Wisteria mollis intertwined in their individual colors.

The members of the mobile unit, running alongside, pulled out the flags they'd placed in their saddles. An upside-down American flag fluttered in the headwind. Originally, it was a signal for distress in disaster situations. Although there was an international standard SOS signal, it wasn't something typically obtainable by ordinary households.

They discovered wedge-shaped cavalry from the sky. Though unarmed light aircraft (Cessna 182), at this moment, they were symbols of hope. As the aircraft, glimmering silver in the morning sun, turned towards them, Private Alejandro couldn't contain his joy and cheered. Corporal Morales immediately reprimanded him, but he too wore an expansive grin.

"If it weren't for the jamming, we would have made contact several days ago."

From the walkie-talkie set to civilian radio channel 9, familiar yet ominous static flowed. It appeared to be a trickster hunting the remnants of a clear liberation operation. While communication wasn't entirely impossible, they didn't want to expose their location through radio transmissions.

Several days had passed since they first spotted the civilian aircraft. The contrails in the eastern sky increased day by day. Occasionally, the noise of a jet engine sliced through the sky, but most were propeller-driven light aircraft. Officers of Baker Company speculated that the Department of Defense had deployed civilian pilots for survivor searches. Otherwise, they wondered, why would civilian planes fly through restricted airspace?

The flight paths supported this conjecture. As if they were following specific guidelines, they didn't cross imaginary lines, occasionally lowering altitude to dangerous levels. "Dangerous" meant they were within the range of the trickster's electromagnetic shockwave. Even with EMP protection, a momentary engine failure could be fatal.

The aircraft circled above the mobile unit. They reduced their speed and stopped on a low hill. Since no variants were visible within a kilometer, {{user}} reduced the radio's output to attempt communication. Using "Combat Sense" and "Personal Weapon Proficiency," he accurately gauged the distance to the aircraft.

"Pilot of the Cessna above, can you hear me? I am Lieutenant {{user}}, dispatched from the 79th Combat Battalion at Fort Roberts under blockade command. I confirm there are no threats nearby, so please respond."

[Oh? Lieutenant {{user}}? Is it the same Lieutenant {{user}} I know?]

They had likely reduced their output as well, so the signal wasn't very clear. But it was understandable enough. The coarse voice carried a sense of significant time passed.

"That's me."

The mobile unit members chuckled softly at {{user}}'s reply. Private Wesley's hands trembled. They were all in a state of extreme excitement. This time, they might finally acquire ammunition.

[Wow! Is there really such joyful news! Lieutenant, did you know you were declared Missing in Action (MIA) during your operation?]

"This is the first I've heard, but I thought it might be so."

[Ha ha ha! It's hard to believe! God bless America!]

The pilot erupted into hearty laughter for a while. The plane continued to circle.

"May I know your name?"

[Me? Luke Merrill! I'd appreciate it if you called me Luke.]

"Good, Luke. We assumed you were deployed on survivor rescue missions under blockade command. Is that correct?"

[Precisely.]

"Then, do you happen to have any ammunition?"

To this question, Luke laughed heartily once again.

[Amazing! It's remarkable not to hear a cry for help first! It broke my heart hearing the cries from those unable to land! Ha ha ha! Very well! I have three boxes of 5.56mm and one box of 7.62mm in the cargo hold, shall I lower them down for you?]

"Thank you. We were running low on supplies."

The mobile unit members silently exulted. Regardless of rank, their eyes welled with tears. Each box of ammunition, tied with wire, contained two standard-size ammo cans (M2A1). This meant the Cessna's cargo hold contained about 5,000 rounds of standard rifle ammunition (5.56mm) and at least 400 rounds of designated marksman ammunition (7.62mm). More than the total amount of ammunition the company possessed when they escaped from Fort Baker.

As it was, the quantity had dwindled to less than a thousand rounds.

'Considering the number of people, it's insufficient... but it should be fine. Now that contact has been made, we can resupply at any time.'

[Hey, Lieutenant! Could you choose a spot nearby where the ground is in good condition for landing? Or clear a road. The ground is too soft or the grass too dense for a landing. Oh, by the way, having woods nearby is a problem according to regulations! If I don’t keep watch, that’s one thing, but, thinking of my grandson, I need to live long!]

The lush greenery might be hiding variants. If it were a regular variant, it would typically rush after the noise due to hunger, but if even one ghoul were lurking, things changed significantly.

“Understood. Could you wait a moment?”

[Don’t hurry and hurt yourself! There's still plenty of fuel left!]

Luke's aircraft, the Cessna 182, was classified as a bush plane capable of landing in rough terrain. Utilizing this feature, it was often deployed for transport or rescue missions in difficult areas. It would be impossible for a regular military aircraft to take on such tasks, let alone a transport helicopter.

Several bombed roads were not suitable as runways. Morales waved his arms after spotting a firm, low slope. {{user}} personally checked the ground. The sound of hooves clattering while galloping was enough, but to be cautious, they checked about 500 meters together with the team. Even a protruding rock could pose a problem.

{{user}} pressed the transmit button on the receiver.

"Cornelius, come this way."

It wasn’t just the mobile unit that had been dispatched today. Based on the optimistic view that they could secure ammunition, Captain Langford attached a pickup truck and a team of five riflemen.

The truck, having received the radio message, dashed out from hiding. The concealed spot was a small thicket clustered in the middle of the field.

The mobile unit stood in a straight line at wide intervals, holding their flags aloft. The light aircraft glided as slowly as the truck moved on the ground. It was nearly in danger of stalling and crashing. However, the flight was extremely stable. The lowered aircraft landed down the slope.

Thud—perhaps because the ground was not asphalt, the sound of the landing gear hitting the ground was so small it was nearly drowned out by the engine noise. The engine noise diminished in proportion to the speed.

Even a minimal incline was a great help in reducing the landing distance. Surrounding the stationary aircraft, the members of the temporary squad, including the mobile unit, immediately set up a perimeter. Although variant groups were not visible within range, the visibility of a flying aircraft was excessively high. The noise was also an issue. They had to be prepared for the monsters that recognized the landing to swarm in.

“Oh! It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant! How should I express this joy! Ha ha ha!”

Luke, emerging from the cockpit, was much older than expected. As soon as he saw {{user}}, he saluted. {{user}} returned the salute. The old man wore a Vietnam War service medal and an Air Force Cross. Just below the Medal of Honor. {{user}} spoke.

“You're a veteran.”

“I was in the Pararescue. I flew helicopters during my active years.”

The old soldier, armed with a shotgun, proudly puffed out his chest. The "Jolly Green," written on his hat, seemed to be the nickname of his unit. While the Vietnam War is called the most disgraceful war in U.S. history, those who served in the pararescue unit might feel unblemished pride.

Two soldiers quickly unloaded the ammunition boxes while occasionally casting glances in this direction. There was simply too much urgent news. Their eager eyes also revealed a frailty, a desire to escape to a safe place, even if it meant being transported there.

"Luke, time is short, but there’s a lot I’d like to ask.”

“I’m in the same boat! Just a moment. Let’s take some photos first. They might not believe it up there! With all the rumors surrounding the fate of the lieutenant, this needs documentation!”

The old man was cheerful throughout, either due to meeting {{user}} or perhaps it was just his nature.

The camera equipment was the simplest—a helmet camera. Mounting full-fledged reconnaissance equipment on a civilian aircraft would have been extravagant, and likely beyond their means. {{user}} offered an awkward smile.

“A cavalry unit, eh? That stirs some nostalgia! But why are you wearing a combat uniform I’ve never seen before?”

“Well... There's a reason for that. It’s classified, so I can't share much.”

“Classified! Classified is important, indeed!”

The old man agreed boisterously.

The unloading of goods was completed swiftly. Besides the ammunition boxes, there were also three boxes of combat rations and another three boxes of medical supplies, and even that seemed scant. Even after loading everything, the bed of the pickup truck appeared bare.

“If I had known such a rewarding meeting was awaiting me, I would have insisted on bringing more ammo! Such a shame! The junior officers hardly trust us civilian pilots, fearing we might divert the ammunition! Next time I come, or someone else does, I promise to bring satellite phones too!”

The old man’s words made perfect sense. In the process of supplying over ten million troops, civilian market ammunition would likely have become scarce. The public sentiment was uneasy in this world.

The absence of expensive satellite communication terminals followed a similar logic. Whether it was ammunition or a communication device, if they claimed it was hidden and delivered to ground troops, it wouldn't be easy for the blockade command, already lacking control, to verify the facts.

‘Everything is a mess.’

However, simultaneously, {{user}} believed the Department of Defense made the best decision they could.

Deploying civilians in military operations involved significant risk, but it also considered the lives that could be saved as a result. This decision might allow for thousands or tens of thousands more survivors. As long as they maintained strict control.

“How bad is the situation?”

For the first time, the old man’s laughter faded.

“I don't know the details myself. But the prevailing talk is that tens of thousands are waiting for rescue and supply in the Sierra Nevada Mountains and again in the central plains. Our pilots are being deployed intensively there. Actually, we're not supposed to land rashly, even if there aren’t any zombies around; the survivors can sometimes be more dangerous than the plague.”

“That makes sense. Everyone must have lost their sanity.”

The Sierra Nevada Mountains stretch up to a maximum width of 100 kilometers. The highest peak is over 4,000 meters above sea level, a daunting terrain. If tens of thousands of U.S. troops and even more variants were mixed in there, the chaos would be beyond description.

It was already commendable that {{user}}'s temporary squad members were somehow managing to remain calm.

“It’s a familiar tale. It was the same in the wretched jungles of Vietnam. Even when we screamed that we couldn’t take any more aboard, there were comrades who didn’t care at all. Once, a squad leader with wild eyes pointed a gun at my head and threatened me. But I can’t say that person was incompetent.”

As he shared these stories, the old man chuckled softly. He was a pilot who had fought against enemy fire in the sky while battling friends on the ground. His frequent laughter, despite a hard life, was also an effort to protect his spirit.

“Is the lieutenant’s crew all here?”

“No. We came out for reconnaissance since planes regularly pass through this area. The main unit consists of 170 officers and soldiers, plus 11 others, totaling 181.”

“Ha! This is the largest group of survivors I’ve discovered! Where are they now?”

“They’ve set up a base south of Point Reyes Station.”

“Where is that again? Let me check the map!”

The old man gestured towards the cockpit, indicating he wanted to see the navigation device. Upon learning where the company’s garrison was located, Luke was surprised to find it was very close to the coastline.

“With this proximity, the Navy could dispatch a rescue team! If I go back and tell them about the lieutenant's survival, it’ll likely cause a stir all the way to the White House. A helicopter squadron will likely arrive before sunset! The airspace there is restricted, but for whatever reason, it might be ignored. Ha ha!”

At the veteran’s words, {{user}} forced a bitter smile.

“Well, it might be difficult.”

“Huh?”

“Have you ever felt the limitations of search and rescue operations from the sky?”

“Aha. I see. You mean we’ll need ground troops to move?”

“Most likely. I suspect we might be the only unit maintaining some semblance of command structure in this area. The headquarters might feel inclined to act.”

The veteran nodded.

“There’s some truth in that. The high-ranking officials’ minds must be very different from ours. But putting that aside, let’s establish a rendezvous point. I almost forgot something important.”

The rendezvous point refers to a location for future meetings. Initially, it would be the Olema company base, but they needed to designate second and third locations in case they had to abandon it. {{user}}, familiar with the surrounding terrain, pointed out three or four spots in quick succession and entered the corresponding coordinates into the tactical PDA. While doing so, {{user}} asked:

“Was there anything special around? Other survivors, perhaps...?”

“Nothing in particular today.”

Even amidst all this, the static from the radio was gradually growing stronger. The device used biological signals like radar, so it seemed to be approaching an airspace where planes had disappeared. Consequently, the conversation between the old war hero and the young officer became increasingly concise. Food? Obtained through hunting. Hm, that sort of thing.

Luke hastily noted the status of Baker Company in a small notebook. This would greatly assist in the judgments and reports from the blockade headquarters. He also noted other supplies needed for the next resupply.

Among the specific requests was ammunition for the medium machine gun. If the firepower of the Humvee could be revived, tactical options would increase significantly. He also requested grenades and anti-tank rockets.

“It seems you should be heading out soon. It still looks like there’s a way to go until you reach visibility, but it’s safer to be cautious. You’ll need time to throw them off your trail. There’s no guarantee there’s only one Trickster out there. Even if it’s not the ‘Silent One,’ there’s still a possibility of quiet threats.”

The mutants were clever enough to understand the concept of radio silence.

Before leaving, the old veteran requested a handshake. His firm grip was warm and reassuring.

“Even if the times have changed, we are comrades! May God’s blessing be with you! Stay safe! For you! For those who care about you! And for this great country!”

It wasn’t just {{user}}. He expressed gratitude and encouragement to each soldier maintaining their vigilance. He even complained playfully about the noisy static of the radio with a smiling face.

The small aircraft had been running the whole time. It made a flapping sound and generated strong thrust from the propeller. It descended the slope that had caused problems during landing, accelerating for about 300 meters before lifting off with ease. Despite the uneven ground, it only tilted slightly right after takeoff.

After circling once, the aircraft veered off in an unexpected direction. They were trying to deceive the Trickster.

“Let’s take a detour. They’ll know what it means if a plane has landed.”

The soldiers accepted {{user}}’s orders with somewhat sad and regretful expressions.

Still, the boxes of ammunition loaded onto the truck were a great source of hope. Each squad had exhausted most of the remaining live ammunition while conducting survivor rescues over the past few days.

Days preparing for "Clear Liberation" were monotonous, filled with routine tasks to secure routes and stockpile supplies.

Then, one day, an FBI agent sought out {{user}}. The agent greeted {{user}} with a crisp salute and perfect posture.

"Pleasure to meet you. Supervisory Special Agent Joanna Gibson, FBI National Security Division."

Her visit was unexpected. Gibson had requested a private audience with {{user}}, and now they were in a secluded meeting room. Why would the FBI have an interest in {{user}}? Was there something they needed to share or a charge being laid?

This situation was new. {{user}} extended a cautious greeting.

“Nice to meet you, Agent Gibson. Is it okay to call you that? I apologize, I’m not familiar with how your rank compares….”

"That's fine. My rank is roughly equivalent to that of a captain, but the FBI and the Army are separate entities. There’s no real one-to-one comparison. In actual operations, I’d have oversight, but supervision and command are different concepts. Feel free to speak casually."

Her words were clear and direct, prompting {{user}} to ask, “Operations, you say? Does that mean I’ll be involved in the same mission?”

“Yes. The CIA requested your involvement. Before we proceed, could you sign this?”

With a formal smile, she handed over a document—a non-disclosure agreement, stipulating that {{user}} would keep any operational details confidential, even after the mission's conclusion. {{user}} hesitated.

“Do I have the option to decline?”

“No.”

Her response was straightforward, with no hesitation. She took out another document.

“Here, take a look. This is a deployment order from the Department of Defense and Blockade Line Command.”

The document stated that {{user}}, currently assigned to the 160th Regiment "Seventh California," would be temporarily detached to support a CIA operation. Colonel Laughlin, the regimental combat team commander, had signed it.

Decision made for him, {{user}} signed his name in neat script.

"Thank you for your cooperation," she said, tucking away the form. {{user}} took the opportunity to ask:

"You mentioned this is a CIA operation. Will you be participating as well?"

"Yes, that’s protocol. Domestic CIA operations require FBI oversight to ensure national security interests and procedural compliance are maintained. The CIA manages the mission, the Department of Defense assigns you as support, and the FBI ensures that the mission does not jeopardize national interests."

Her smile brightened as she clarified.

"Think of me as the brakes on a car, preventing things from spiraling out of control. I won’t intervene unless absolutely necessary, so no need to worry."

"Could you explain what my assignment will entail?"

“I’ll be able to provide more detail once we’re on the transport, but…”

"How long will it last?"

After a brief pause, she shared what limited information she could.

"I understand your curiosity. I’ll tell you everything I’m permitted. First, the operation's duration is… uncertain. The CIA anticipates a few months, at most.”

"…."

“The operation itself began some time ago. You’ll be the only one joining me directly, but a significant number of personnel are already on-site. The CIA specifically requested you for a particular need.”

If the operation was ongoing, there would have been a previous supervisor. Domestic operations were overseen by the FBI, as she said. Bringing in a new supervisor likely meant the previous one was unable to continue.

“And I’m being brought along, meaning they need combat capability,” {{user}} thought.

It seemed probable the former supervisor had been killed—a clear indication of the mission's danger.

At the end of her brief explanation, Agent Gibson informed him that they’d be departing at 2100.

“I’ve heard you have some people you look out for personally. It might be good to send them a brief message, saying you’ll be away on a special assignment for a while.”

"Thank you for your consideration."

"Please report to the drill yard by 2030. Everything else is taken care of—just bring your gear. If there’s nothing else, I’ll see you then."

Further questions were pointless. {{user}} nodded and rose from his seat.

{{user}} sat beside Joanna Gibson on a transport plane bound for Vandenberg Base. The cargo hold was dimly lit, filled with enough cargo to give a cramped feeling. It wasn’t deployed solely for the two of them.

{{user}} asked, “Is it okay to ask why Intelligence needs me now?”

“Ah.” Joanna Gibson sighed, looking slightly embarrassed before clearing her throat with a few coughs.

“Now that you mention it, I haven’t briefed you on the mission yet. Our objective is to gather intelligence from within San Francisco Bay and eliminate any security threats we encounter there.”

“The Bay Area… is this mission focused on the maritime refugees?”

“Correct. That’s why Intelligence requested your deployment. They need a soldier who meets specific qualifications. First, excellent combat skills. Second, the ability to make quick judgments in unpredictable situations. Third, fluent, native-level Chinese.”

{{user}} asked, “But why me? I don’t quite understand that.”

Gibson shook her head. “There are very few people who have both Special Forces-level combat skills and foreign language fluency. And how many people in the CIA can speak Chinese at a native level? Even fewer, since our Chinese bureau practically disbanded.”

She muttered about how there had been only three Arabic dialect specialists in all of Intelligence at one time. Her voice trailed off as the plane shook again.

“Then let me ask something else. What exactly is the security threat?”

After a pause, she replied. “Nuclear.”

Silence fell. She continued after a moment.

“According to what the Intelligence Service and Navy have identified, there are currently five nuclear submarines lurking inside San Francisco Bay. We have located four of them and can sink them at any time. The problem is the fifth.”

{{user}} asked, “As far as I know, aren’t they surviving on U.S. support? Even if they possess nuclear weapons, they wouldn’t use them, unless they wanted to starve to death.”

She nodded. “That’s a fair point. But even a 1% threat to national security cannot be ignored. Just as our Bureau warned of the worst terror attacks in history, only to be dismissed by every sector.”

Joanna Gibson spoke as if {{user}} should already be familiar with this story, her tone laced with pride. After a moment, she continued, “The situation is exacerbated by the rumors circulating within the bay.”

“Rumors?”

“Yes. You’re probably familiar with the domestic rumors: that the plague was, in fact, a Chinese biochemical weapon. Among the maritime refugees, however, there’s a version that goes even further. They believe Morgellons is an American bioweapon. They think we deployed it to take down China, only for it to spiral out of control.”

“That sounds pretty serious.”

“It is. And even though it’s groundless, it seems that the refugees from China believe it blindly. The Bureau is concerned that the submarine crews are also fanatically drawn to this rumor.”

{{user}} asked, “Is the Bureau expecting me to locate that nuclear submarine? How?”

“As you said, everyone within the bay relies on our U.S. supplies to survive. That includes the submarine crews. Based on intel, Chinese submarines surface at regular intervals to receive supplies from Chinese-flagged vessels. We need you to locate this rendezvous point.”

The refugees relied on U.S. provisions and supplies from distant fishing vessels, which were likely being shared with the military. With time, a pattern of rendezvous points and schedules might have emerged.

“So when you say ‘locate’... am I going to have to infiltrate to find it?”

“Mostly surveillance, but yes, infiltration might be necessary. It’s a bit worrying since you’re well known, but Intelligence will assist with your disguise.”

Joanna Gibson explained, “We restricted the supply amounts deliberately. A nuclear submarine can stay submerged for months on end if fully stocked. It’s a sensible decision by command.”

She acknowledged the White House and Defense Department’s cold calculation—to starve the refugees, reducing the amount of food flowing to a lost fleet. Supply intervals were shortened to force submarines to surface whenever they ran low.

“People become desperate when they’re hungry. Perhaps if they had enough food, they’d be less concerned?”

But she quickly dismissed that point.

“It’s easy to cut supplies, but harder to increase them. As you know, our transport capabilities are stretched thin, and the seas are crawling with pirates. We can’t risk sending supply ships without an escort.”

“Pirates... understood. Makes sense.”

“With the Panama Canal off-limits, ships bound for the west coast must sail around either the Strait of Magellan or Cape Horn—a route of over 25,000 kilometers, and there are far too many pirates. Whole fleets from fallen nations have become pirates, attacking with submarines and destroyers, using cannons and anti-ship missiles.”

“The Navy is already stretched thin maintaining an eastern seaboard blockade. We simply don’t have the resources to spare for escorting supply ships. And consistent shortages breed unrelenting discontent, even if supplies are merely insufficient.”

After a pause, Joanna Gibson seemed partially reassured. Her expression remained calm but showed the weight of her words.

“We’ve arrived. Looks like we’re at Vandenberg Base.”

Through a small window, the ground came into view—a runway lit with minimal guidance lights, revealing an airbase close to the sea.

NOTE: It is recommended to proceed the After Story only after finishing the previous Scenarios.

After Story

{{img::After.BG}} As spring approached, the United States seemed peaceful, as if the chaos of the past had been just a fleeting illusion. The war against the pandemic had effectively ended, and society was settling into a familiar routine. This calm had lasted for more than six months, with no incidents disrupting daily life.

Conflicts surrounding vaccine distribution priorities had also simmered down. While it would still take years for the entire U.S. population to be fully vaccinated, the vaccination rate in high-risk areas had reached over 80%. This meant that a sudden outbreak was virtually impossible. The government emphasized this fact in its messaging, successfully quelling most citizens' discontent.

Of course, some still attempted to trade vaccines illegally. In {{user}}'s view, these were people wrapped in a sense of privilege, or class entitlement.

"People who believe that regardless of society’s rules, they and their families are special."

Yet none of these attempts succeeded. Anne, who occasionally appeared on the news, provided ordinary citizens with a sense of confidence in law enforcement’s power and fairness.

Adding to this, a special law passed with bulldozer-like force by Kramer imposed massive fines on offenders. The public responded with enthusiastic applause, fully supporting the government’s measures.

This peace, hard-won and deeply cherished, was particularly meaningful for Americans who had been pushed to the brink day after day. It was only natural to want to forget troubling issues as the relief settled in. In a way, it was akin to a person who, after an especially exhausting week, simply lies down and stares blankly, doing nothing on a hard-earned weekend.

This was also a reason why mainstream society didn’t raise strong objections to the treatment of Chinese-American citizens, despite the regained stability.

Perhaps the phrase "the weak become wicked" serves as a warning against such complacency.

{{user}} understood the mindset of these citizens. Having gained the upper hand in the battle against the virus, the public was naturally fatigued, feeling as if it was all finally over. {{user}}, who had visited Ground Zero but hadn’t been able to reunite with Anne, could empathize all the more.

"For now, we have to find solace in the hope that the resettlement and rebuilding process will be free of incidents."

This was an outlook shaped by insight. Chinese citizens and refugees facing miserable circumstances would, nevertheless, have a chance to find something beyond despair in their new homes.

One could only imagine the discomfort if there were no certainty that humanity’s spring would also come to this world.

The fact that the immigrants' trials had a definite end, and that life until then would be filled with days of hoping for a better tomorrow, alleviated some of {{user}}'s burden as they prepared for this new chapter.