Full Metal Panic! Volume 4 Read online

  Prologue

  There was a red kei-car parked behind the north school building: a cheap-looking domestic model from four or five years back. Its tires were worn, its body was peppered in dents; its hood and roof were also dirty from the last few days of rain, which gave it a seedy vibe.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that car before...” Chidori Kaname said, peering down at the kei-car from a second-floor hall window.

  “Oh, yeah?” her classmate Tokiwa Kyoko asked from behind her.

  They were on their way back to their classroom, after returning some library books. It was lunchtime, but there were none of the usual students fooling around behind the school building. It was the day before second term midterms began, meaning most students were presently huddled in the classrooms, doing battle with their textbooks and lecture notes.

  “It’s a weird place to put it, too,” Kaname mused. “It’s not like that’s a parking lot...”

  “You think we have a visitor?” Kyoko wondered in speculation.

  “Maybe?”

  “Anyway, we’d better get back to class. Test’s tomorrow, you know?”

  “Hmm...” Abandoning their interest, Kaname and Kyoko returned to classroom 2-4. They opened their textbooks and spent some time quizzing each other on the chapters covered by tomorrow’s test.

  Soon after, the school intercom chimed: “Testing, testing. This is a student council aide speaking.” It was the voice of Sagara Sousuke, their classmate. Kaname looked around; she hadn’t even noticed he was missing. “Whoever parked the red kei-car behind the north school building, please contact the student council room at once. I repeat: Whoever parked the red kei-car behind the northern school building, please contact the student council at once. The number is Tama-50—” After repeating the number three times just in case, the voice over the speakers went silent. It was the kind of “your vehicle is parked in a loading zone” announcement you’d typically hear in a department store.

  “It’s about that car we saw,” Kaname mused.

  “What is Sagara-kun doing?” Kyoko wondered.

  “Who knows?” Kaname said with a shrug. She didn’t, certainly, but the announcement should be audible in the principal’s and teachers’ offices; the owner of the car would hear it and get in touch with Sousuke right away. In other words, it wasn’t an issue.

  Kaname and Kyoko spent the next thirty minutes quizzing each other.

  “Okay, what does ‘in spite of’ mean?” Kaname asked.

  She had pulled the English phrase right out of their textbook, but it seemed to catch Kyoko flat-footed. “Uh, how should I know? Where did that come from?”

  “Page 88.”

  “Page 88... Oh, that’s chapter 10,” Kyoko said. “Chapter 10’s not on the test.”

  “Huh?” Kaname blinked. “Sure it is.”

  “Is not,” Kyoko argued. “Ms. Kagurazaka didn’t mention it.”

  “Huh? Yes she did.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did so!”

  “Did not!”

  After a brief but fierce exchange, they concluded that they should just ask their English teacher, Kagurazaka Eri, directly. They left the classroom and headed for the teachers’ office.

  Test preparation in progress. No students allowed! read the sign on the door, so they called to her from outside. “Excuse us! Ms. Kagurazaka!”

  “What is it?” came the response from just behind them.

  Kaname turned to see Kagurazaka Eri standing there, holding a white plastic bag. “Oh, hey, Ms. Kagurazaka. Were you out?”

  “Yes, I was at a discount store in the shopping district.” She pulled a tin of wax and some auto cleaning supplies from the bag.

  “What’s that stuff for?” Kaname asked.

  “I just got my license,” Eri said with a bright smile, “so I drove to work for the first time today. I wanted to use the hose behind the school to give my car a nice wash later.” She must have been out of the school during lunch break.

  Kaname stared at her dumbly. “Um... did you hear that announcement before?”

  The teacher tilted her head. “What announcement?”

  “Forget all that!” Kyoko interrupted. “Ms. Kagurazaka, tell Kana-chan that chapter 10 won’t be on the test!”

  “She’s right,” Ms. Kagurazaka said. “Chapter 10 isn’t on the test.”

  “See? I told you!” Kyoko beamed in triumph.

  “Ugh, fine. I’m sorry.” Kaname admitted defeat, but then immediately took off.

  “Kana-chan?” Kyoko called after her in astonishment.

  “Sorry, there’s something I gotta check. I’ll eat my crow later, okay?”

  Leaving Kyoko behind, Kaname strode swiftly away from the teachers’ office. She was heading for the northern building, and though she couldn’t fully explain why, her stomach was churning. She walked down the stairs to the first floor and took an emergency exit that led behind the school to the place where she’d seen the car before.

  When she arrived there, she stared in shock: strewn around before her were the gruesome remains of the dissected kei-car. Its tires lay flat on the ground, the hood was leaned against the fence, and the faux leather seats were lined up in rows. Nuts, bolts, and engine parts were piled up everywhere. Even the doors had been removed.

  “S-Sousuke?!” she spluttered.

  Sagara Sousuke turned as he heard his name called. He had a large sensor of some kind in his hands, which he was running carefully over one of the seats he’d just removed. “Stay back, Chidori!” he barked at her. “It isn’t safe yet. If someone needs to die here, let it be limited to me.” His gaze was dead serious. He continued his work, greasy sweat rising from his temples.

  “D-Do you not know whose car that is?!” she squeaked.

  “I do not,” Sousuke confirmed. “It’s an unidentified vehicle, suspiciously parked; hence, the need to search it.”

  “Search it for what?!”

  “Car bombs,” Sousuke replied, with utmost sincerity. “A car like this, mounted with plastic explosives, can easily be transformed into a deadly weapon. Think back to Lebanon, 1983—a Hezbollah truck performed a kamikaze attack on a US Armed Forces base. Do you know how many people died in that one act of terrorism?”

  “How would I know?!” Kaname exploded.

  “Two-hundred and forty-one! All those brave Marines, dead in an instant!” Sousuke said defensively. “We have no way of knowing that a similar tragedy could never befall this place, as well!”

  “The hell we don’t!” said Kaname, stalking forward to push him over.

  Sousuke hit the asphalt, scattering his sensor and tools all around. “Chidori, what are you—”

  “That was Ms. Kagurazaka’s car!” Kaname wailed. “She was just on cloud nine about the thought of cleaning it! How could you do this to her?!”

  “But high explosives—”

  “—are not present here!!” Kaname bellowed. Sousuke tried to stand up, but she kicked him down again. “Put it back the way it was! Right now! She’s going to tear your throat out if she finds this— No, knowing her, she’ll probably faint dead on the spot! Which is actually way worse!”

  “Is it... Is it really Ms. Kagurazaka’s car?” Sousuke asked nervously.

  “Why would I lie about that?!” Kaname yelled.

  “Urgh...” Sousuke’s gaze hardened as he stared at the piles of kei-car parts around him. “That’s a problem. The restoration will be time-consuming.”

  “You should’ve thought about that before you took it apart!”

  Sousuke was still on the ground, when an electronic trill sounded out from his chest. Bi-bi-beep. Bi-bi-beep. “Hmm...” He quickly pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket, turned it on, and spoke in hushed English. “Uruz-7 here. I see, but... 2 and 6? ...Understood. Yes, I will. I’ll head for the scene via Route 10. Yes. Understood.” After a few minutes of that, he shut the phone off and began gathering his tools in a hurry.

  “Um, what’s going on?” Kaname asked.

  “An urgent task has come up,” Sousuke told her tersely. “I need to leave school early.”

  “Again?” She paused for a minute. “Wait, what are you gonna do about the car?!”

  “Given my priorities...” Sousuke looked down at the parts, showing genuine distress. “I’m afraid I’ll have to abandon the car. Please don’t tell Ms. Kagurazaka,” Sousuke said, and then ran off with his bag.

  “Sousuke! Hey! Are you crazy?! Did you forget we start midterms tomorrow?! And... he’s gone. Darn it.” Kaname clicked her tongue as she watched Sousuke flee the scene. Another ‘job,’ huh? Why do those people have to run him so ragged? While she thought that over with a scowl, she also had a look over the dissected corpse of the kei-car. Guh... guess I’d better beat a strategic retreat, too...

  That’s right, she told herself. It’s not as if I’m obligated to put it back together. It’s not as if I could, even if I wanted to. After a dispiriting attempt to imagine how she would explain this later, she swiftly fled the scene herself.

  Back in the classroom, she could hear the teacher’s distant scream when the bell for fifth period rang, but... Kaname just put her head on the desk and covered her ears. Sorry, Ms. Kagurazaka, she thought miserably. It’s all his fault.

  1: Code of Silence

  13 October, 2052 Hours (West Pacific Standard Time)

  1st Briefing Room, Merida Island Base, West Pacific Ocean

  The round black table was surrounded by Teletha “T
essa” Testarossa and the ghosts of nine men. At least, they looked like ghosts—they were pale and slightly translucent, with veils of static wreathing their vaguely defined forms.

  This was an online conference for Mithril’s high officials from around the world. The need to thoroughly encrypt their holoscreen projections and transmit them through satellite relays required them to stay at this low resolution. Their movements were also jerky, coming in at about five frames per second, in a way that brought to mind old stop-motion animation.

  “In conclusion,” the intelligence official said, after thirty minutes of the droning recitation of his report, “the actions of John Howard Dunnigan and Nguyen Bien Bo were impossible for the intelligence division to foresee. There are hard limits on the degree to which we can assess the character, pasts, and financial statuses of battle group members. The matter thus calls into question the competence of on-site authorities. End of report.”

  Four of the nine high officials present let out noises of outrage. Three were battle group leaders like Tessa, and the fourth was Admiral Jerome Borda, head of the operations division. It was clear why the statement would upset members of the operations division: background checks on Mithril personnel were supposed to be the purview of intelligence, yet here they were, passing the buck to them. They were all eager to tell the man to take his report and shove it.

  Instead, what Admiral Borda said was this: “I’m going to assume that was a joke. Though it’s not much of a punchline for thirty minutes of setup...” He was typically a mild-mannered man, but his tone was currently full of daggers. The other three battle group heads expressed agreement with his opinion.

  “What he said. Can’t you give us a more constructive analysis?”

  “I feel like we got sold a lemon, and now the dealer’s telling us the breakdown is our fault. So what are we supposed to do, walk 100 kilometers without a car?”

  “I’d say it’s worse than that. They want us to strap grenades to our chests with the safety pins already pulled.”

  The intelligence official wilted slightly under the criticism, but his superior, General Amit, remained unfazed. “It is an indisputable fact that there are limits on what we can track,” he said quietly. “This is especially true for SRT personnel, who are preferably experienced and resourceful, as well as intelligent and shrewd—these are, of course, the qualities we demand from them. But this also means that, if one of them gets it into their head to open a secret bank account and take money from a third party, that would be extremely difficult for us to detect.”

  “And we’re asking you to make it work!” Admiral Borda fumed.

  “We cannot simply ‘make it work,’ Admiral,” said the head of intelligence, remaining calm. “Do you want us to monitor your personnel 24 hours a day? Or shall we encourage ‘snitching’ in your ranks? The notion is absurd. No one who would tolerate such treatment would ever be chosen for an SRT.” This comeback hit the Admiral where it hurt. The independence, flexibility, and self-reliance of the operations division’s SRTs—special response teams—was one of the keys to their success.

  “This is a structural problem,” the head of intelligence continued. “Mithril’s very nature as an organization of mercenaries means that loyalty can never be entirely guaranteed. You can offer them the fairest compensation in the world, but if someone else throws enough money at the right person—five million dollars, according to your Sergeant Weber’s report, wasn’t it?—betrayal becomes inevitable. The human heart is a fickle thing.”

  Borda remained silent.

  “And there’s one other thing I’ll ask you to remember: it was the operations division that employed Major Bruno.”

  Major Bruno was the one who had placed Dunnigan and Nguyen with the Tuatha de Danaan. Both intelligence and operations now agreed that he was likely a spy for a hostile organization, and that he had been facilitating the terrorists’ actions. He had fled the operations division immediately after the incident, and Mithril had been forced to change much of their classified data—encryption algorithms, safety procedures, supply routes and safe house locations—as a result. Physical structures like the Merida Island Base couldn’t be moved, of course, so they’d settled for just increasing security—but the process as a whole had proved tremendously expensive.

  “If the TDD-1 had just vanished into the ether—as was their plan—Bruno would never have come under suspicion. He would have remained in our organization— excuse me...” The intelligence chief’s hologram stopped to light a cigarette, and then let out a satisfied plume of smoke. “—Remained in the organization to cause even greater damage.”

  “But that didn’t happen,” Admiral Borda put in, “thanks to Colonel Testarossa.”

  “Indeed, which is why we are not calling her command into question. Is that a problem?” The intelligence chief’s ghostly image cast a glance in Tessa’s direction. She said nothing, simply looking down at her own hands.

  “Don’t you realize the TDD-1 nearly sank?” Admiral Borda snarled. “We nearly lost the amphibious assault submarine that serves as our greatest weapon and greatest asset.”

  “Using a weapon always comes with the risk of losing it. We’ve been taking that risk on for more than a year, haven’t we?” the head of intelligence pointed out. “Since the moment we put it out to sea with a 15-year-old girl in command.”

  Admiral Borda had no comeback for that. He just snorted, and fell back into sullen silence.

  “Are we all finished?” Noticing that nobody else was speaking up, the previously silent figure of Lord Mallory spoke. He was an elderly gentleman, wearing a three-piece suit and a monocle; his posture was ramrod straight despite his advancing years.

  “Good,” he went on. “Then perhaps I might offer my opinion? The structural problems that Mr. Amit so rightly points out were known from the time of our founding. Unlike a national armed force, Mithril has no tribe, religion, or state behind it; we are united only by our belief in the ideal of putting an end to international conflict, and even there, we have differing ideas of how that must be achieved. I assumed you were all aware of this when you joined the cause. Am I wrong?” Lord Mallory cast a glance around to the others, but nobody argued back.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Then let’s have an end to the finger-pointing. That’s not to say I don’t want to see countermeasures; it should be possible to turn a 1% risk into a 0.5% one. That is why I want you to reconsider your current methodologies, and propose realistic ways of preventing such incidents in the future. In addition...” He trailed off for a second, then adjusted his monocle. “Continue investigating this enemy organization. That is all. Good day.” The old man’s image blinked out silently, leaving only the words ‘Connection Closed’ in its place. The other officials took that as a sign that the meeting was over, and disappeared one after another.

  In the end, only Admiral Borda remained. Borda was a man transitioning to old age, with streaks of white in his thick black hair. He carried himself with a dignity appropriate to a man of his years, yet his face and arms were sunburned and toned. He gazed at Tessa with sympathy. “I’m sure you’re not happy about this. You’re the one who lost men, after all.”

  There were, broadly speaking, three divisions of Mithril: operations, intelligence, and research. Their operations division was further divided into four battle groups—the Tuatha de Danaan was one of these—and operations headquarters. The intelligence division, which collected, analyzed, and evaluated the information they needed to conduct their operations, was led by General Amit. It also offered information and advice to various countries’ security forces, to try and help minimize the need for the operations division to take direct action.

  The relationship between operations and intelligence wasn’t exactly an amicable one. It hadn’t reached the level of open hostility, but they certainly weren’t friendly. It seemed to be a daily occurrence that the operations division would shout, “You gave us bad intelligence and we almost died! What are you going to do about it?!” and the intelligence division would lash back, “Do you know how hard we worked to get that much for you?! Give us a break!” Of course, this was a problem faced by most organizations, not just Mithril.

  “But Amit did have a point,” Admiral Borda concluded. “The risk will always be there. And someone will always have to pay for it...”