“NOBODY FUCKING MOVE!” Admiral Tucker roars out to the Assembly as the microphone amplifies volume, the handgun pressed further into the President’s skull. “I SAID NOBODY FUCKING MOVE!”

Utter pandemonium as Assembly Members scream in panic, unacclimated security personnel attempting to line up shots slamming into one another in the confusion of microgravity movement.

“Put the gun down!” An American Secret Service Agent yells out from the far edge of the hall, the freckled face showing ice cold determination.

“Anyone makes a move and I blow his FUCKING BRAINS OUT!” The Admiral yells back as he channels a remembered anime villain. “You hear me?! Anyone even moves and I kill him!”

Across the communication channels of the United States’ security consulate the voice reaches out, dreaded words heard by servicemen. “Stardust is compromised, repeat, Stardust is compromised. Do not trust System Defense Force, repeat, the System Defense Force is kilo-bravo.”

There is no warning.

Across tactical helmets the Rubicon’s crew hears the weapons lock alarm, a shrill tone blaring as a radar system homes on the arrowhead shape of the orbital combat corvette.

The Alaska moves, maneuvering thrusters engaged as the massive hundred meter long vessel begins to turn towards an intended target at a lethargic pace.

The Tactical Officer turns from his station. “Alaska’s locking onto us!”

A communication arrives from the American Cruiser, the stern voice of the vessel’s Commanding Officer resounding across helmets. “Rubicon, stand down all stations and prepare to be boarded.”

“MIERDA. Admiral you piece of shit!” Captain Perez swears as she pulls away the live feed of G40’s assembly hall from her heads up display, the picture replaced by a tactical map of close quarters battlespace. “Evasive maneuvers! Hold to fire, take out those coilguns only!”

“Roger!” Both the Helmsman and Tactical Officer yell out in response.

The tiny corvette accelerates across a starscape, bodies pushed into chairs as black edges fold into visual ranges. Blood constricted into heads as G-suits automatically compress limbs, a consciousness prevailed as the Alaska’s form is scanned through fire control systems.

Two turret mounted coilguns fold outward from her cylindrical hull, the massive things futilely attempting to track the raw velocity of the accelerating Rubicon.

The corvette’s fusion reactor roars, capacitors drawing immense amounts of power as the vessel’s main weapon spools up.

Super-cooled electromagnetics coming alive, a potential power reeled in as fire control reorganizes for engagement. Tactical updates the crew. “Hostile coilguns are fragile, twenty millimeters non-armored plating!”

“Gunnery, switch: AP-sabot!” Captain Perez grunts against gravities of force, adjusting weapon payloads under advisement.

“Gunnery AP-sabot!” Tactical confirms aloud. “Six rounds, AP-Sabot twenty percent.”

Autoloaders spin, munitions belts switched. Radar lock engaged, distances calculated by automated systems. Targeting camera stabilized on target, the enlisted Gunner of the Rubicon painting the targeted weapon systems.

Within the relatively huge C.I.C. of the Alaska, the Operations Officer reports out through blaring alarms. “We’re locked!”

The Captain slams his console. “Get a solution on the hostile now!”

“Negative, she’s too fast!” The Tactical Officer screams back.

The Bridge alarm automatically switches to a shrill warning. Computerized voice echoes automated orders. “INCOMING INCOMING INCOMING.”

Captain Perez grits her teeth as ranges align, the order barked out. “Clear to fire!”

“On the way!”

Airless vacuum consumes ear shattering noise, the projectile within the nose mounted railgun accelerated to neck breaking speeds in milliseconds. Solid tungsten sabot nearly invisible against black space, a shot power reeled back towards naval vessels.

In the cold void standard combat vessels were built with two hulls: an outer layer of whipple armor plating and ordinance protecting an inner flesh of crew and life support. Distinct designs allowing for superior protection and operational capacity, a fact exploited by the Rubicon for a non-lethal takedown.

The kinetic sabot crashes into the Alaska’s secondary hull, one of the vessel’s huge coilguns ripped off from its remote controlled turret mounting in a splash of sparks.

“Good hit!” Tactical reports.

Operation’s priority voice overrides the communication channel, a shrill tone echoing behind it. “Missile lock on us, relative degrees two hundred-dash-forty-dash-seventy-nine.”

Chinese and Russian orbital combat frigates move to protect an allied vessel, the Liu Bei and Lioness working in tandem as captains organize firing solutions against a now confirmed hostile System Defense Force Asset.

“Shit…”

Utter carnage within Station Four’s Promenade.

Cafes and parks riddled with bullet holes, shattered safety glass and organic plant matter drifting across fields of fire. Complete destruction from still ongoing fighting, Marauder Team falling back as the Java Treaty Force continues to pour in.

Ammunition expended in fully automatic untrained bursts with salvaged rifles, short-range logistics pushed to its absolute limit as more munitions are unloaded from the repurposed storage tanks of the hostile helium freighter; Marauder’s response of cached weapons found as floor paneling is removed and stashes retrieved.

A crate of full magazines stacked alongside EMU fuel tanks, replacement barrels for GSW type weapons stowed away in case of overheating. Several bottles of emergency suit sealant snuggled next to plates of ceramic armor inserts, organization haphazard as a few float unsecured within the crate.

Marauder Leader takes a moment of respite as he rearms atop the hastily set up firebase, spent magazines tossed away and fresh ones placed back into tactical holsters. Directly behind him the Combat Engineer fills tanks in the Marine’s EMU, a fully resupply done as the rest of the squad keeps hostiles down.

Contextual communications, the private line between Marauder Lead and Two spoken to. “We are doing ok, 不錯 不錯.”

“If you say so dude.” The Combat Engineer bites. “This is the longest fucking firefight I’ve ever been in up here!”

Slapping the topped up maneuvering unit with a gloved hand, Lieutenant Keys confirms the status through visual diagnostics. “You’re good Ling!”

A thumbs up from the Marine, the form accelerating back into angles of fire.

Fast hands work on the next order, the Combat Engineering utility drone idling next to the crate suddenly stacked with more supplies. Improvised bandolier created from cargo straps and a slightly bullet ridden Hungarian flag now filled with anti-material rounds, kalashnikov style magazines, and heavy ceramic plating.

“Lieutenant Keys.” T.A.C. calls out casually. “I am informing you that ‘number three’ has had its triggering conditions met.”

“ALRIGHT ALRIGHT.” The Combat Engineer bites as he stops digging through the crate.

Multi-channel explosive detonator recovered from his chest carrier, the tiny device modified for usage alongside bulky combat space suits. A solid red mechanical safety prevents accidental usage, a dial upon the trigger listing out numbers between one and twelve.

Adjusted to number three, Lieutenant Keys glances over at its respective mark within the combat area.

A solid red personal marker hanging above pieces of abandoned cover, the space now occupied by a fire-team of five Space Liberation Front fighters and one Java Treaty medic.

Throwing suppressing fire out of the nearly perfect position the team is caught up in the pitch of combat. The medic saves a wounded fighter, a torn suit from impacting flechette bleeding gas and blood alongside his comrades who fire mercilessly towards assumed enemy positions. A solid white mass of clay-like material plastered onto the wall completely missed at first inspection, the mistake punished at the cost of lives.

Trigger pressed, the coded signal received by a radio receiver planted within the half pound of malleable plastic explosives.

A booby trap of evil machination, scrapped bits of metal stuffed onto the surface of the thing for the application of lethal shrapnel. Unnoticed until its moment of reckoning.

Silent explosion marked with the flashing of light, the resultant effects observed from cover.

Fragmentary shards are sent, scrounged layers of armor upon suited bodies able to stop a majority of the projectiles, with the exception of one.

The Java Treaty Medic’s visor is caught in the cone of fire, polymer chains of shatter-proof glass cracking as pieces of metalloids continue unabated. Skull broken, brain mass shredded by nearly two dozen separate pieces of metal.

Death instantaneous, a fate merciful compared to the shockwave that follows.

Civilian grade space suits lacking anti-kinetic gel layers, the power of the explosion unobstructed as waves of lethal force transfer into human bodies. Organs shattered, lives ended choking on lifeblood as suited forms are thrown like ragdolls across the promenade.

“Six hostiles down.” T.A.C. informs.

“Thanks for the reminder!” Marauder Two manages to appreciate, reholstering his detonator and returning to the crate.

A full package strapped onto the drone, a control system slaved to tactical links as the Combat Engineer formulates a plan of action. Squadmates in different positions, a destination acquired by flight control software.

Bursts of propellant send the packed material across the promenade, delivery finished as Marauder Three and Four take note of the small creature.

“Thank you Keys!” The Medic grunts out as he unstraps the cargo, a resupply completed as the drone quickly skirts back to its master.

“Well thank you for THANKING ME!” The Lieutenant barks back.

The Squad Leader speaks up, a hostile push formulating against his own position. “Keys, I need your fire on me!”

A floating rifle grabbed, the Combat Engineer reequips armaments for direct combat. “I’M COMING LING, HANG ON!”

The Alaska’s shape rolls in a desperate defensive maneuver as the Rubicon tears across open space, an attempt to find a firing solution now threatened by incoming projectiles.

A roaring alarm turns shrill as radar locks from the Chinese and Russian frigates find their target, Operations reporting. “Incoming count two missiles, IR track.”

“I see the bastards!” Tactical grimaces coldly through g-forces. “You got ‘em?!”

From deployment bays anti-ship missiles launch; exploding solid fuel ejecting behind them as each lethal shape accelerates to insane velocities, maneuvering thrusters across their thin bodies bursting out propellant in micro-course corrections as their target vessel is honed in.

“Yeah I do!” The Assistant Gunner grunts back.

Close-in weapon systems come online, refracting mirrors on gyroscopic motors tracking the two incoming projectiles. Five hardpoints are chosen by tactical algorithms, aisles of capacitors dumping power as pulsed lances of concentrated ultraviolet photons are fired at incoming targets.

A gap crossed at light speed, invisible lasers melting guidance systems and ablating away explosive material. Silicone minds destroyed, each of lethal shapes screams past their target as the Corvette easily counters hostile fire.

“We’re getting overheated!” The Chief Engineer reports as she quantifies a dozen readouts. “Thirty seconds of burn time remaining!”

Another burst of acceleration, nearly six gravities of force pushing bodies against chairs for two entire seconds as the corvette breaks a radar lock from the two frigates. Captain Perez gives the order. “Focus on the Alaska, finish this now!”

“Five shots AP-sabot, twenty percent. Clear to fire.” Tactical confirms.

The Rubicon’s Helmsman swears, a hand gripping control sticks and feet adjusting foot pedals pitching the heavy craft back down towards the targeted vessel. “I’m bringing us in, hang on!”

Like bringing a sniper rifle to a knife fight; the bulky, lumbering design of the deep space combat cruiser made to fight in interplanetary battles measured in days was completely outclassed in the vicious close quarters of fast, reactionary orbital warfare.

Rubicon screams across combat space in vicious acceleration, a railgun ready for another shot as its turret perfectly tracks the cruiser’s movements.

“I need three more degrees on relative starboard!” Gunnery reports as they strain bodily systems against incredible force. “Nënë-qim!”

“I’m giving it!” The Helmsman yells back. “Hang on!”

A mind racing as the entire corvette snaps sideways, main engines vectoring thrust as maneuvering thrusters send propellant spiraling across the void. Auto-stabilizers bridging human ingenuity, a single misinput in a universe of pre-firing tactical computers punished with annihilation as the Alaska attempts a counter burn.

“Coming in now!” The Helmsman calls to the Gunner. “Get ready!”

“On the way!”

The sightline clears for a second as the Rubicon’s computer fires her main weapon automatically against insane relative velocities, a guaranteed blow at knife fighting range.

The final coilgun splashes off the Alaska’s hull as sabots completely tear through turret housing, the lethal cruiser detoothed with two surgical strikes.

More alarms, the shrill tone of locked on ordnance entering helmet systems. Operations barely has time to catch their breath before the next wave arrives. “Incoming count four missiles, mixed track.”

“Going evasive!” The Helmsman reports.

“Deploying countermeasures!” Tactical adds alongside him.

Burning flares launched from flush hulls, decoys blaring out heat and infrared adding chaos to carnage. Three threats remain as one goes for the bait, a final line of defense activated once again.

CIWS systems calculate impossible trajectories in milliseconds, all hardpoints burning as targeting computers effortlessly take down incoming projectiles.

Seven gravities pushing her against the chair, Captain Perez swears to herself in pure frustration. “Nav, Get us an angle on Station Four!”

“Moving!”

“Ops get me all channels!” The woman continues to order as the vessel’s entire velocity shifts, the craft headed now directly towards the station.

“You’re on ma’am!”

“All ships this is Rubicon Actual, cease fire or I will destroy Station Four! Repeat, cease fire or I will destroy Station Four! STAND DOWN NOW.”

It takes a few seconds for the captains of the respective vessels to process the situation, consequences weighed beneath insane accelerations.

Alarms silenced as radar locks against the corvette are disengaged, a mercy given without response.

Blood flow is restored to bodies as the Helmsman disengages from combat, pulling the Rubicon to a holding station three kilometers away from Station Four. A pause, Captain Perez catching labored breaths as she pulls up the news feed from G40 once again. Watching the situation unfold, she grits her teeth in rage. “Admiral you son of a fuck!”

An audience of six billion captivated in under five minutes, nearly half of the global population watching a crisis unfold in Low Earth Orbit. The biennial G40 Conference, a pariah of global economic meetings, suddenly overwhelmed from media coverage.

Nightly news in eastern Asia carries broadcasts as daytime anchors work overtime, regular sleeping schedules tossed aside in the reporting of international history.

A calm European afternoon interrupted by wailing air raid alarms, a terrible memory triggered from still living history. Almost forty countries completely shut down, television news and phones updated with a single order: the people following as lines of vehicles from the evacuated stream from urban centers.

Americans at work and school glued to computer and phone screens, slews of daily tasks left forgotten as classrooms and office buildings sit in absolute silence. Citizens watch as their entire world is held at gunpoint, a single mechanical motion enough to end an era of humankind.

Through digital platforms the Council calls in an emergency session.

Hushed voices bent towards one another, a seemingly impossible betrayal from one of their inner circle discussed with incredible suspicion.

“The Old Man’s finally gone crazy.” One of the Admirals outright states as she watches the news feeds, the Russian accent arriving with a few seconds delay as the signal is routed from Camp Armstrong on the Lunar Surface.

“No, he’s always got a card up his sleeve.” Another motions, a north American cultural origin echoing across the grouped call in deep consideration. “There’s something more to this, Tucker isn’t one to throw everything away.”

The rebuttal arrives. “That’s what you say.”

“I know him.” The response counters. “However, we should be preparing for the fallout of this mess.”

“Agreed.”

“We need Admiral Markov’s touch, see if any of you have people in San Francisco who can track him down. I believe Admiral Myuki, part of your task force is in the area?”

Nobody in the Assembly Hall dares to breathe.

Nearly five tense minutes passing, National Security managing to secure themselves across the periphery of the spacious room. Guns drawn, angles of fire confirmed. Quick hushes of intermediate planning spoken between each other in an international effort.

The realization of locked doors, of a fate sealed. Diplomatic staff and Global Leaders huddled behind thin plastic tables.

President Cooper feels a bead of sweat form on his forehead, eyes darting to the barely perceived face of the gunman. A question whispered, privacy implicit. “Issac… what’s going on…?”

A pause as the Admiral’s voice lowers to a similar volume. “Jack, you need to trust me. I’m trying to make a plan right now…”

A small nervous chuckle. “Well, you’ve got a gun to my head… so let’s just say I’m not in a trusting mood.”

One Secret Service agent maneuvers himself forward, crossing the third row of chairs as he attempts to close the gap. Admiral Tucker stares right at the man. “YOU! ONE MORE METER AND HE EATS IT!”

The agent throws himself backwards, a perimeter held.

Vocal cords sore from yelling, the old man tunes his volume down as he continues the private conversation. “I can explain.”

President Cooper glances through the delegation, eyes met with his security force. Buying time for a plan, he answers the Gunman. “Try to.”

“There’s a weapon here Jack.” The Admiral begins to explain.

“Well it looks like I’ve found it.” The President replies quickly with a spot of humor.

Ignoring him, Admiral Tucker continues. “I know your people are trying to figure out what they were doing with that Nuke. Well, we know what they’re using it for.”

An interest peaked, the President replying with a question. “Which is what exactly?”

“Remember the intel about Project Boundary I sent to the D.o.D. in September?”

“You mean the Java Treaty having nukes in orbit?” President Cooper scoffs. “That’s impossible.”

“You know that wasn’t a solar storm.” The Admiral pushes the gun into his friend’s face as he continues, scaring off a few incursions into the arbitrary security perimeter. “If they could get that thing up there, imagine what else they could’ve gotten.”

“It's a little hard to imagine right now.” President Cooper admits sarcastically.

“Jack…” Issac begins. “You need to trust me. This is…”

“Well, I did trust you until a few minutes ago.” The President interrupts.

A sigh, tragedy held within the Old Man’s voice. “You know me Jack. Please, just listen.”

The silence is deafening, both souls watching as a team of Security Personnel attempt to force the main door to the Assembly hall open. President Jack Cooper makes the choice. “Tell me everything you know, I’ll make that decision myself.”

A relief, the Admiral speaks forth. “Thank you.”

Marauder Three catches sight of the ordnance first, a priority voice scattering the squad channel muffled by French pronunciation. “Incoming rocket!”

In mechanical minds the weapon is identified, a distinctive shape caught as the Space Liberation Front Fighter brings out heavy ordnance. Decision executed in nanoseconds, T.A.C. shifting firing positions as another warfare package is selected.

//WEAPON DETECTED: RPG-7V3

//PROJECTILE: OG-9V4

//SEARCHING COUNTERMEASURE DATABASE…

//…

//…

//WARNING: PREEMPTIVE COUNTERMEASURES NEGATED

//APPLYING IMMEDIATE COUNTERMEASURES

A flush of rocket fuel, the recoilless launcher sending forth a fragmentation warhead towards two members of Marauder Team.

Vectors calculated in proprietary software; algorithms crushing data from the point defense package as an optimal interception point is discovered and tracked.

In the milliseconds of reaction the left limb loads the round; a forty millimeter buckshot shell shoved into the chamber by autoloaders, an electronic firing pin striking the primers as travel times are accounted for.

System Defense Force Marines pull themselves into cover as the warning hits suit speakers, a cloud of intercepting steel-shot impacting the incoming fragmentation warhead.

A silent explosion, the rocket detonation sending shrapnel cleaving across Station Four. T.A.C.’s exposed body eats fragments, shards scattering into sparks atop monumental armor plating.

“Interception complete.” The Machine happily updates.

“EVERY TIME, why am I the RPG magnet huh!?” Marauder Two yells across the squad channel. “Also thank you T.A.C.!”

“You’re welcome!”

Marauder Lead’s rifle coughs out its final rounds, a magazine automatically ejected from its position. Two more on his tactical belt, a question asked to his partner in crime. “Keys, how much ammo is in the crate?”

“Please don’t tell me you’re out dude.” The Combat Engineer groans as he sends a burst down towards a hostile position. “And yes, we’re out.”

“Ok ok.” The Squad Leader turns over as he slams a fresh thirty five rounds into the XA-77. “Marauder prepare to fall back into new position!”

Green checkmarks from all five members of the squad, a confirmation of a retreat received and processed.

Stowing away his weapon, the Marine switches to the E.M.U. mounted pylons; a single bit of actionable utility found within the forty millimeter launcher, the magazine of grenades operating as a temporary solution to retreating personnel.

Distance measured via. tactical links and transferred to proximity fuses, the trigger pulled as the Marine peaks slightly out of cover. “Using smoke, get ready!”

Four rounds spiraling towards hostile positions, a two second flight time ended by self-destroying fuses.

Thick clouds of infrared blocking smoke scatter across Station Four’s promenade, a temporary bit of cover provided.

Marauder Team leaps backwards, E.M.U.s blasting out propellant as they fall back to predetermined positions. Weapons flaring suppressing fire, a covered retreat finished as ground is lost to hostiles.

A handful of Java Treaty Fighters peak through the now dispersing cloud of smoke, their forms eviscerated as new fighting positions are established.

“Keys, get more ammo!” The Squad Leader orders. “T.A.C., cover the main field of fire with Mercier. I need Cherny to be on my position!”

Friendly forces move as they follow orders, a tactical savant repositioning assets in the counter to conventional Java Treaty tactics. Increasing pressure on heavily armored breaching squads through both overwhelming fields of fire and anti-material rounds, forcing supporting riflemen and medics to engage in direct combat with far better equipped Marines.

A message arrives on tactical networks, a mildly distracting ping from naval assets in an updating of situations. Captain Perez’s voice plays out in helmet speakers, a high priority command channel against actual combat situations. “Marauder this is Rubicon Actual what’s your status?”

“We are in a firefight!” Marauder Leader bites back as he sprays flechettes towards a peaking hostile, the Java Treaty Rifleman annihilated as their helmet visor shatters underneath rounds. “What is the status of the Admiral?!”

Not even a single pause as the woman formulates the answer. “He’s holding the United States’ President hostage.”

It takes a moment for the Squad Leader to process the words. “Ok. What is your status?”

The woman’s eyes check tactical readouts, national space force vessels moving above the rotating earth beneath them as they try to plan for contingencies against her vessel. A deep sigh before she replies. “Just disarmed the Alaska, holding next to the station. Advised; naval support is offline for now, will keep you guys updated. Rubicon out.”

The Combat Engineer breaks open another primary cache of ordnance, a full spread of ammunition, utility resupplies, and even explosives accessed by the starved System Defense Force Team. Tossing a bundle of magazines towards the Marine and Medic, Lieutenant Keys speaks up. “Ling, pretty sure we need your girlfriend’s help right now.”

“She is busy.” The Squad Leader replies. “Keep up the fire, do not give up!”

President Jack Cooper stops, Admiral Tucker finishing the briefing at gunpoint. The President vocalizes the reaction, words picked up by the microphone. “Shit…”

“I know there’s not a lot of evidence on me right now…” The Admiral continues quietly. “But one of the triggermen is here.”

There’s a pause of disbelief, President Cooper scoffing. “I’ve always thought you were crazy, but nothing like this before.”

“If you don’t believe me you can say it.” Admiral Tucker pushes.

“I don’t not believe you.” Cooper specifies. “I just can’t find any holes in what you’re saying.”

“Jack, when have I ever tried to deceive you?”

“My fiftieth birthday?” The President immediately recalls.

Tucker tries not to laugh. “I was under orders from Ingrid, so my point still stands. If the triggerman detonates the weapon you’ll be presiding over the greatest economic crisis in American history. It’ll make Covid look like a market correction. Do you want to be that president?!”

“Fuck…” The short man swears, gazing out towards the group. “So one of the Java Treaty delegation?”

“More than one, possibly.” The Admiral corrects. “I’ve narrowed it down to five; the major ministers. Cuizon, Rashid, Saxana…”

“I know who they are.” Cooper stammers out. “What do you want me to do about it?!”

Admiral Tucker thinks for a moment, attempting to soften the blow of the favor. “I’ve got a gun in my right pants pocket. GSW-PDP, twenty rounds.”

“You’re not saying…”

Admiral Tucker presses the weapon further into his friend’s face, turning towards some of the delegates as they attempt to reach for personal electronic devices. “HEY, NO PHONES! I WANT TO SEE YOUR HANDS!”

An order followed as Security Officers glare over towards infracting politicians.

Admiral Tucker lowers his voice again. “I need you to be the gunman.”

The President of the United States doesn’t reply.

“Jack…”

“You’re asking a head of state to assassinate another head of state… at G40?” Cooper whispers back. “You know how much fucking political blowback this’ll cause?!”

Pointing outward towards the back of the sealed off observation deck the Admiral bites his words. “There’s eighty Java Treaty Astro-operators outside those bulkheads, what the fuck do you think they’re here to do?! You don’t stop this now, everyone in this room who’s not Java Treaty is fucking dead.”

“Fuck…” A hand carefully feeling down the Admiral’s outer thigh, the familiar form of a handgun identified with tactile sense. “You’re serious.”

“Are you with me?” The Admiral asks the final question.

Silence before he answers. “I’ve stuck out my neck for you before…”

“Well I’m literally sticking my neck out for you, right now.” Tucker interrupts. “And if that’s not enough, I’m cashing in ALL my favors.”

Jack sighs as he grips the handgun within his friend’s pocket, eyes gathering the faces of the five major suspects. “I don’t want to shoot the wrong one.”

“Just shoot the ones that go for their briefcases.” Issac informs, pausing at a snag in his plan. “Really quick, can you grab my phone? I need to send a message, the thing's on my left side.”

The President sighs, reaching down as he finds the device. Pulling it out the entire delegation reels back in shock.

Admiral Tucker screams out his own report in response. “RELAX I’M JUST CALLING SOMEONE!”

The messages atop the now opened screen fold outward, combat reports sent real time to the Admiral as Marauder Team engages Infantry and the Rubicon against naval assets.

“Shit…” Cooper blinks.

“Call Captain Perez.” Admiral Tucker orders. “She’s the only one that can get us out of this mess.”

Contact found, President Cooper brings the device to the Admiral’s ear.

Immediately connected through local networks, the Captain speaks up first. “Admiral…”

“When I tell you to, I need a full spectrum jammer.” The Flag Officer orders sternly. “Nothing goes in or out. Understood?”

A pause, the woman answering with cold words. “Yes sir.”

“Issac what the fuck are you gonna do?” The President asks.

“After I say the line, just grab the gun and pick your targets. Tell me when you got them.” The Admiral begins. “Ready?”

Targets identified:

President Cuizon, the dark skinned woman staring at the hostage situation in cold analysis.

Minister Rashid, the short body readying for something, glances exchanged between him and the Java Treaty security delegation.

Prime Minister Saxana is completely motionless, a form sitting in inhuman silence as a blank look betrays internalized meditation.

The pair of Minister Dung Nguyen and President Duy Nguyen are found three rows away sitting right next to one another, the retired Space Force Soldier taking note of a possible crossfire incident in case of a mutually exclusive targeting scenario.

“Among Us all, you’re the craziest.” President Cooper comments as he grips the cold gun. “Ready.”

“LISTEN UP: ANYONE TAKES OUT THEIR BRIEFCASES AND I'LL SHOOT HIM!” Admiral Tucker orders the assembly, turning to the phone at his ear. “Jam it now.”

Captain Perez turns to the Tactical Officer, the man’s control console igniting as electronic countermeasures burn. The Rubicon broadcasts insanity to the airwaves, lines of communications cut as live feeds across the world burn out to static.

A phone speaker blaring out white noise, the confirmation of a severed link arriving in the Assembly Hall.

The Admiral turns and faces the group of Java Treaty Leaders, reaching down towards the podium microphone. A voice broadcast across the entire interior, information classified to just fourteen souls sent out in a public service announcement to the governments of forty countries. “PROJECT BOUNDARY IS A NETWORK OF SATELITE BOMBS THAT WILL SPREAD DEBRIS ACROSS EARTH ORBIT WHEN DETONATED, COMPELTELY DESTROYING MANKIND’S ABILITY TO OPERATE IN SPACE. I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TRYING TO DO! YEAH, DEONATE IT I DARE YOU!”

Dumbfounded confusion across the faces of more than two hundred total personnel, words nothing more than the meaningless ramblings of a terrorist. The remaining glances from the Java Treaty Officials however are sent towards two individuals, each grabbing for something hidden beneath tables.

President Jack Cooper speaks the words as he confirms targets. “Go.”

“I SURRENDER, I SURRENDER!” Admiral Tucker throws his weapon aside, hands raised as high as possible as he releases his friend from captivity.

National Security Personnel pull weapons back in the sudden change of plans, a moment of confusion exploited by their primary objective.

The President leaps off the stage, a handgun drawn from his friend’s pocket. An ergonomic shape lethally familiar to the old warrior, the mechanism’s safety switch instinctively switched to semi-auto as he finds the targets within iron sights.

Gunfire deafens unprotected ears in-atmosphere, delegates instinctively covering faces against blinding flashes and the snap of caseless flechettes passing over them.

The Mozambique drill executed in pairs, six rounds total finding their targets in near perfect execution. Gore scatters out as President Cuizon and Prime Minister Saxana are hit, death instantaneous as bodies stiffen against flayed nerves.

Retired Technical Sergeant Jack Cooper of the United States Space Force barks out orders, buttery voice now used in the giving of screamed orders to hostile personnel. “HANDS IN THE AIR NOW!!!”