Hot, dry, barren—filthy and chaotic—no one vacations here; this is pure torment!
Simmons stepped wearily onto this land after a long voyage.
The aircraft carrier had been hidden by special means, ensuring satellites couldn't find it.
For now the carrier was safe, but upkeep cost a fortune and skilled crew were scarce.
Fewer than two hundred had followed Simmons here; most who balked at betraying the Western Federation were executed on his order.
Inside the town a Black officer welcomed Simmons, quartering the newcomers.
"Sir, is something wrong?" the Black officer asked meekly, already brainwashed into a slave.
"Assemble everyone. Operation Divine Assault!" Simmons barked between ravenous bites, the dominant parasite inside driving him to refuel.
The officer's eyes lit up. "Understood, sir. I'll handle everything!"
Operation Divine Assault meant total commitment—no rear guard, the town left empty.
Launch a no-holds-barred bioterror strike on a chosen region—real violence, real vengeance!
The Western Federation's families had cast Simmons aside; today he would strike back and show those old dogs—and Benford—how stupid it was to treat him as expendable.
Chapter 617: Times Have Changed, Sir
The Western Federation wasn't alone—every major region on Earth suffered simultaneous bioterror attacks, each losing huge numbers of citizens and assets.
Vast tracts of land were contaminated; citizens turned into wandering zombies, spreading outward as if secretly controlled.
The BSAA scrambled. Piers led the Silver Blade Squad, detouring to see Chris first.
Chris merely hesitated. "Go. If it turns ugly, pull out. This isn't simple. OBrien's been removed; command's now packed with connections and idiots. I won't die for those fools."
Piers didn't know how to answer. "You could still change things!"
Chris lifted a bottle and laughed. "Don't you get it? The BSAA's changed—commercialized, politicized. Many come just to pad résumés. I'm not going back, not now, not yet."
The implication: Chris might return—under certain conditions.
Piers sighed. "We're off to the Middle East—Leban. Three cities hit with gas missiles; nearly two million turned to zombies."
Chris paused mid-drink, thinking. "You're just marching to your deaths; you won't affect the outcome."
"Are we supposed to do nothing? It's an order!" Piers insisted.
Chris snorted. "Times change, Piers. Remember why we founded the BSAA? To fight bioweapons smartly, not blindly throw lives away."
'Blindly throw lives away'?" Piers frowned.
"A dozen of you against a million zombies—that's suicide. You're my protégé—have you forgotten basic tactics? That's exactly suicide."
Piers had been groomed as Chris's successor, but this test showed poor judgment—Chris's frustration stemmed from that.
Seeing Claire settled with family, Chris wavered.
Maybe it was time to retire; bioweapons only multiplied the longer you fought them.
Chris felt disgust—pointless fatigue. Better to quit while ahead.
Still, he'd arrange proper handover: Piers, his chosen combat foreman, so the BSAA wouldn't collapse without him.
They parted on bad terms. Piers led the team onward; even without his idol, he'd finish the mission.
After Eddie enjoyed himself, Western Federation assets were loaded onto cargo ships bound for Mediterranean HQ.
Spokeswoman Kelly stayed behind; once her pregnancy was confirmed she'd be sent to the Med for rest—her arrogance repaid with childbirth.
Two days later, on Goddess Island, Alex and Alexia guided their simulation craft home.
The original plan—near-light speed—had failed; current science couldn't manage it.
Still, they achieved supersonic thrust—about half light speed.
Resource recycling worked; space travel could be self-sufficient.
Suzuki Yoko and her daughter had marked a distant planet for future visits.
The distance ruled out drones or radio; they'd have to go in person.
While the wives prepared at home, Eddie played outside to his heart's content.
Ground forces drew a cordon hundreds of kilometers long, penning monsters in the hot zone.
Few BSAA teams came out alive; Claire's TerraSave had to escort survivors or none would return.
Within five days the once-vanguard BSAA fighters disintegrated; mass resignations followed.
Media splashed headlines: command's idiocy sacrificed frontline fighters for profit.
The world realized the BSAA—once on bioterror's front line—had rotted; its elite scattered.
No organization could be relied on; none withstood time's test.
Official bodies faltered; people could only count on themselves.
Eddie lounged Local tycoon-style on a sofa while spokeswoman Kelly peeled him oranges.
News showed unknown armed factions exploiting the global attacks, hitting regional officials, aiming to replace them.
Every region had them; no one could track the mastermind behind the strikes.
As for the obvious scapegoat Simmons? Everyone knew he was the fall guy.
Kelly knitted her brows; these days were the worst of her life. Even the Middle Ages sounded better.
Resistance was impossible; even mild protest forbidden.
Kelly swallowed her anger, obeying men's orders: resign when told, pregnant when told—no alternative.
"A plane comes tomorrow; report to HQ." Eddie ate an orange like a villainous landlord.
Kelly felt humiliated. Still, she kept up appearances. "Understood. I'll comply."
Eddie knew she wasn't sincere—so much the better; defiance made the game fun.
Progress of the Mold
Each virus weirder than the last—self-destruction in motion. Eddie wanted no part; he planned to skip town and leave the world behind.