“So, um-” An artificially amplified voice awkwardly stuttered in the dim green cockpit of one of the Apache’s modified by A&R. The Pilot, a former staff sergeant –who’d once called himself ‘luckiest man alive’ when hearing he’d been tapped to fly tests out of A&R– was quite familiar with the extremely twitchy Z variant of his stealth attack helicopter, all the same, his voice quivered as if each gentle eddy sliced by the swirling props might’ve been his last. “Is radio equipment in particularly short supply? I might be missing something, but I don’t understand why we are in such a rush to find a random radio tower.”
Third, from the passenger compartment of the Osprey flying in formation between, buried his face in his palm upon hearing stupidity. Lifting his head, none of the small group met his gaze. With a sigh, he understood he would have to be the one to explain.
“You’re right. You’re missing something.” Captain Oveur remarked before Third had the chance. “Just keep your eyes open.”
“Roger.” The first voice timidly affirmed.
“I told you, my name isn’t Roger.” The Captain chided with mock ire. The joke had been re-used enough that Third had already heard it twice and he barely had contact with the men apart from the occasion flight.
“Ah, sor-”
But before the next setup could even be half delivered, the radio cut out abruptly.
“Oh come on, you’re supposed…” And again this time, before Captain Oveur could finish, his words fell from his slacked jaw.
“President Reynolds, you’ll want to come see this.” Recognizing the pilot’s throaty voice, Third unclasped his seatbelt and raced up the aisle to see what view the cockpit held.
Stepping into the glass domed cockpit, Third saw exactly what caused the shock. Still far in the distance, but easily recognizable due to the trio of flagpoles, was the A&R Marine Shipyard branch out of Boston.
“She was right,” Third chuckled with a feeling of helplessness. “And now she’s gone.”
“Headset!” The co-pilot shouted, pointing to his ear under the headset to indicate his message over the roar of the engines.
Third merely shook his head and ignored him, instead quietly probing his memory as he returned to his seat to reconsider the missing housewife’s comatose dream.
The passengers aside from him were scrambling to catch a view of the oceanfront shipyard with limited success until eventually the point of interest changed.
Third, remembering only then that he hadn’t reattached his headset after the trip, did so and was instantly hammered with a blast of anagrams.
“-GXS or, was it the EMRG SC-22 for Clover? I remember they said they were going to swap but I never heard if it passed or not.”
“It did, same spending bill the gov. shut down over.” Another one of the passenger’s voices answered with barely any added context.
“I’m seeing another one of those stone structures about two klicks up shore as well,” Cpt. Oveur said with hands tightening carefully on his Cyclic control stick. “Hard to see but I’d say safe to assume it’s the aft railgun from Clover. Do we continue, or drop for evasives?”
Third, only realizing he was being asked directly after the pause became noticeable, responded plainly. “No, we keep going. Try to get in contact with them, you guys must have tons of radios and crap, right? Maybe they’re listening.”
“My Co-pilots already on it.”
“Oh! They’re listening alright!” The Co-pilot cackled loud enough to be heard even without the headset. Flipping a pair of flickering switches on his control panel, he then twisted both dials past ten.
Speakers lightly dotting the inside of the airframe quickly began to blare a, staticky, but comprehensible rendition of ‘Flight of The Valkyries. All the while a pair of voices cackled and yowled back and forth incomprehensible in a familiar radio DJ’s tempo.
“Ey, if you boys ahr drahpin’ napalm. All the ‘mportant shit’s in that stinkin’ pile behind tha cah-parhk.”
“You idiot, if they drop napalm there, where you think are all the seagull’s gonna go?”
“Ahg, back to shit-tower? And I just power-washed! Ahright, we’re gonna be back after a shawt break. Keep it tuned to AM 15.5 The Mambo.” The smooth baritone voice of the heavily accented Bostonian gave the familiar cadence of the DJ a dozen extra’s layers of authenticity.
It was almost like one of those things you didn’t realize you had forgotten until face to face with it. A sensation of reminiscence flooded and mixed with the pulsing adrenaline that had already infected them. All they needed now was an NPR station to calm that adrenaline.
“No, what I’m saying is. I like to chew on ice. Right?” The question, stirring from a small radio in a guard post near the shipyard entrance was directed towards none of the listeners present. It was turned on shortly after the helicopters landed and the conversation being had was mostly ignored as Third spoke with Steve Sodemier about all that had happened these past few months.
“No, that’s not-” Another voice from the radio interrupts, but the first shook his head and immediately cuts him off before he could reach his point.
“No, I am an ice chewer, alright? And, like, that’s easy. A boat, getting fucked up by a piece of ice? Come on, that just seems...”
“The Titanic wasn’t made out of teeth.”
Third, now feeling completely lost as each nonsensical line chirped from the radio, glared towards its source with scowl. A quick-thinker took the hint and the noise cut to a lower chatter.
“You’ve handled things well all things considered.” Third finally affirmed to the war-torn union president with a nod of his head as he surveyed the area. “We’re here to do what we can to help.”
“Well, it’s better late than never.” Steve weakly chuckled shifting on his feet as he shoots another look in the direction of the trio of aircraft. Hearing that they weren’t alone had been a massive load off his mind, but when Third explained what had been taking place at the headquarters all this time. A slight resentment inevitably boiled in his heart.
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When Third and the others exhibited shock on hearing about the ‘darts’, a few jeers of outrage even rang out from the shipyard staff. The unfairness that they would have to sleep with one eye open, while their peers at HQ were sleeping soundly watching Bootflix and brewing beer was unbearable.
The crowd, that’d slowly grown the longer the two spoke, felt an uneasy tension as they looked between their leader and the president of their company. What dynamic formed between the two would influence the crowd’s reaction to every bit of news.
“President Reynolds, our union has found its way of survival. And it sounds as if your headquarters found its own as well. But what help can you be really? We have built relationships with Irias, and found supplies and resources. We’ve settled into this uneasy tension and found ways to protect ourselves.”
“Fuel, air-support...” Sophia immediately refuted with a furrowed brow.
Steve shrugged exaggeratedly as he looks around the built-up facilities of the shipyard and then back to the trio of aircraft. “Fuel, certainly we can’t claim to have figured out. But your air support… How much can it be worth if you couldn’t even find us a few thousand miles away.”
“We didn’t even know we were supposed to be looking.” Sophia again offered with a voice filling with indignation. “And besides until recently, we were only flying with electric UAV’s so we could conserve the jet fuel for emergencies.”
“So, your saying now that you can refine kerosene it would be a breeze?”
“See for yourself.” Third nodded, directing his voice more towards the crowd, similarly to how Steve had been. Following the direction of his outstretched finger, a sequence of loud bangs reverberate one after another.
A few from the crowd assumed the railguns had been fired in response to a dart, but those who followed the direction of Third's absent gaze sat agape as they caught glimpse of dozens of aircraft rupturing the sound barrier as they rocketed towards the shipyard.
“Podavani always had a flare for the theatrics.” Steve quietly chuckled only loud enough for Third to catch. “Seems it had the desired effect. Meet me up top once you get settled.”
With that Steve waved his head at a few of the figures he’d brought with him and they followed him away to an old golf cart.
Some in the crowd, took this as an initiative to leave, but many others were fascinated to watch the fleet of planes swirl as they slowly reduced altitude and speed. Eventually, the frontmost plane aligned itself with the cracked asphalt road and ground its rubber wheels as it skidded and howled to a halt.
Third wasn’t alone in not recognizing the model as its door hissed and dislodged. It resembled the angular stealth-stylings of an F-22 or B-21, but it’s airframe was bulkier and triangular-shaped with three narrowing wings jutting from each vertex.
Stepping down from the plane one at a time was the leadership and executives of Arna & Renolds, including both Gary’s—One, clearly a bit more distracted than the other—, Jeff Guntly, Frank Hawkins, Woodrow Klien, and another dozen shareholders and high-ranking staff.
Gary Podavani wore a conflicted expression as he gazed around the facility he thought he’d never see again. The existence of this place complicated things greatly in his mind. Spotting Third after stepping from the final stair he made his way over to the young owner.
“Not even a full day?” Gary asked again over the roar of a plane passing overhead as it positioned to land. “Can’t I get a bit of calm, some normalness?”
“Their making hot dogs here. Isn’t that some refreshing normalness?” Third joked with a broad smile to juxtapose Gary’s worried grimace.
It was true, they’d begun importing pork-like meat and one of the engineers started a small sausage stand. But this wasn’t what Gary was concerned about.
“You don’t get the bigger picture of what this means?” Gary quietly whispered near Third’s ear.
“What?”
“Where’s this Union President Sodemier?” Gary ignored with a shake of his head, too many were present for him to speak further.
“Dock control tower.” Sophia filled in, pointing over to the partially visible tower that oversaw the two largest construction bays.
“Let’s go.” Gary said without another moment’s wait.
Finding an available golf cart they drove between the cramped wood buildings of the old shipyard, dodging old standing sailboats and rusted heaps of scrap. Turning before they’d plummet into a deep empty dry dock, they followed a concrete pathway towards the coast where the control tower rested.
It was clear that Gary was familiar with the area as he smoothly manuevered the vehicle around the dockyard and up towards the central control tower that overlooked the site. His expression, however, was far from reminiscent as he toured the view with his gaze.
Inside the tower, the stale corrosive sea air had stripped chunks of paint from the rusted platforms and stairway leading up to the old, carpeted office at the peak. It didn’t inspire trust, but the group paid no mind and followed a shipyard worker up its flight without a thought.
“Mr. Podavani, once again, it’s a pleasure.” Steve extended a hand in a business-like manner and motioned for the rest of the group to sit.
On his side, four people waited patiently as introductions were made.
Eventually sat quietly across one another as if opponents in some broad game of chess, Third couldn’t help his impatience any longer. “What is with this atmosphere? Why the cloak and dagger and shiftiness all the sudden?”
“Would you like to…” Steve began to ask Gary with a hesitant expression, neither was completely sure enough to say their theory aloud but the more they thought the surer they became.
“Third,” Gary begins to explain, clasping his hands together to stop them from ripping at his hair. “As you must know, Arna & Reynolds has a long history. Your grandfather, broke ground on facilities across the country. Boston, Arlington, Albuquerque, Wallops.”
“Same for your dad,” Steve added, “Combining those up alone, there could be seven other groups just like us somewhere out there.”
“And maybe more.” Gary grimaced, “It’s true, if all the Arna & Reynolds subsidiaries were brought here there could be a hundred thousand people. But if…”
He turned to Third directly as his words fell off. A realization was clearly dawning as the stacks of SEC filings and shareholder quarterly reports he’d always ignored flashed in his mind.
“If instead, all of the Reynold’s Holdings properties were brought here…” Gary again trails off as the number grows beyond his comprehension.
Clearly, the shipyard union reps and even Steve hadn’t considered this possibility either as their eyes mirrored Jeff and Sophia’s on Third’s side.
“So, we have a war brewing against demons, random attacks appearing from thin air. And tens of thousands of people missing in dangerous foreign lands” Steve choked out with a self-deprecating chuckle. “Then, how’s-about we nix this whole power-struggle bit we’re all so eager to play out?”
“What?” Third absently asked, glancing between both parties in confusion.
Their eyes were a mix of relief and anxious guilt. Third hadn’t even considered the position but it all became clear as he looked across the worn expressions of the Shipyard reps. How wouldn’t they become defensive when a sudden authority figure arrived?
And Arna & Reynolds HQ didn’t disappoint in their show of force either. One side of Third was furious all this had played out, but he understood both sides' fear.
“Well, how do you suppose we solve it?” Third asked once the pieces all landed in his mind.
“The Shipbuilders Union will once again cede all future revenue from commercial shipbuilding, but in return we retain operational command of the Navy.” Steve calmly laid out, ignoring the outbursts from around him on both sides.
“I believe that’s not unreasonable,” Gary confirmed after considering the ramifications of turning down the deal. “You’re referring to the USS Clover I assume.”
“Exactly.” Steve nodded with a glance towards Third. “We’ve heard from merchants in Irias that a great alliance is being formed by the powerful nations of the world to strike back against the demons. They’ve already sent out a request for support from the empire. In a few months, they’ll be gathering in a place called Chiport, and we’ll use that opportunity to display Clover’s capabilities to the world.”
Third chuckled as he threw a solemn look out the salt-stained windows. The war he’d already fled from once had found him again.
From just past the corner of his vision out the grimy window, a small orb had appeared and began to drip ominously as another demonic portal formed. Beside it, another began to drip, and then moments later, more.
Four in total attacked that day. The war had found ARMS.