The flaring of an incoming rocket motor is detected by sensors. A projectile line drawn in a predicted flight path, the RPG round screaming across a hundred meters of battlespace in milliseconds.
//INCOMING TERMINAL PROJECTILE
//PROJECTILE: PG-7VR-II
//NEGATIVE COUNTERMEASURES
Path intersecting directly with the M.U.L.E., anti-tank ordnance makes contact with reactive armor. Electromagnetic wafers activate as the warhead is dissolved into a cloud of brilliant, yet harmless plasma that scatters across a bullet ridden exterior. Deathblow easily deflected, the M.U.L.E. responds with a roaring burst from its turret mounted minigun.
Fifty rounds turns the hostile anti-tank team to gore, automated systems reorienting as friendly reinforcements arrive from behind it.
In the short twenty minutes of combat Alpha Team had fortified their defensive positions under fire; instant foxholes created from inflated concrete and thrown surveillance cameras creating nearly unpushable fighting positions.
Situated right between two warehouses beneath the launch control tower the hostile force was funneled into three distinct fields of fire, each one held by a division of the squad’s fireteams.
Alpha Leader turns back as she spots the seven friendly units jogging towards them, three combatants marked in blue and four rescued hostages in white. A harsh voice through heavy gunfire, she motions for cover. “Fucking hell get your asses down!”
Blue Leader runs over towards their firing position, subordinates engaging as a hostile fireteam advances on their position. A calm voice, circumstances barely considered as the System Defense Force Marine points back towards his own entourage. “We can go now.”
Alpha Leader ignores his words as she speaks. “What the fuck kinda place is this?! They’ve got a whole battalion garrisoned here!”
“Do not ask me, you did recon too.” Blue One blinks.
Full automatic fire erupts as Alpha Team’s machine gunner throws rounds down range, halting an attempted flank by the defenders. “Four hostiles, fifty meters on mark!”
Automatically highlighted, Alpha Four aims his weapon towards the specified location. The thump of an underbarrel grenade launcher echoes between concrete structures as the Grenadier sends deadly ordnance towards the marked position, explosive force eliminating half of the advance in a spray of shrapnel.
Thin moonlight from a waxing moon above is augmented from the fires of burning rocket fuel on the distant launch pad. Dancing lights shadowing a gunfight as the overwhelming sound of fired rounds echoes into the dry desert air.
Without pollution from urban centers, the lights from the lunar settlements burn through the thick atmosphere. Like bundles of optic fiber cable they ignite the darkness of a shadowed moon, interconnected by industrial helium pipelines. Camp Armstrong, now forty thousand souls strong, is the largest of the bunch with brilliant lights from its habitation domes. Branching out from it the square blotches of Gagarin City and Mond-01 blend together with the illuminated sites of industrial helium mining.
“We can go now.” Blue One repeats to Alpha Leader as a burst of rifle fire barely misses their position.
“Yeah tough fucking shit our helos are fucked if they try.” Alpha Leader growls back.
“Then what is the plan?”
“Well you missed out on our planning stage during your little diversion…” The Woman smiles. “We’re handling it.”
“That is it?”
“I’ve got two wounded, I ain’t got fucking time to explain!”
“Ok, I trust you.” Blue One pushes an unseen nod from within his helmet, giving a classical thumbs up. “You are doing good.”
“Whatever, just make yourself useful for fucking once!” Alpha Leader dismisses before pointing out a marker in the battlespace. “And get the hostages over there in cover!”
A small concrete foxhole behind a hardened warehouse was held by Alpha Seven. Painted on his shoulder pauldron and helmet the universal red cross barely visible underneath colored night vision, his two patients lying in relative safety away from the frontline.
Quickly joined by Blue Two and Three along with the four hostages.
“Good to see you people again.” Alpha Team’s medic speaks as he tears open the packaging from an autoinjector.
“Same here.” Blue Two answers, looking down to the wounded. “How bad is it?”
One of the S.E.A.L.s on the ground speaks up, grimacing as sealant foam is pumped into his shoulder wound. Chemicals react, flesh cauterized instantaneously. “I’m fucking fine.”
“Yeah you will be.” Alpha’s medic replies. “You’re good, now put down some fire.”
The second patient on the ground barely moves.
Operator Chernyshevsky kneels down, eyes wide as he assesses the damage. “She is conscious?”
“Yeah she is. Took a fucking frag round right to the chest.” The Medic diagnoses as he cracks open the emergency release of the rifleman’s shattered chestplate, tossing it aside. “Suit diags say internal bleeding.”
“It sure feels like it!” The woman on the ground bites out. “It’s real tight up in my chest… not like it’s not normally like that.”
“No jokes.” Operator Chernyshevsky orders as he motions the medic for hardware. “сука блять… I need sealant, keep lungs empty. Stop bleeding secundary; give sanizer to me.”
“You a medic?” Alpha Team’s medic asks as he hands over the small bottle of rubbing alcohol.
“And Doctor.” Chernyshevsky adds in desperation. “Work with me.”
Without further objection trained hands move to save a life, hands sterilized and soon soaked with blood.
Fifteen meters directly east of their position Blue Three begins to open up with her anti-material rifle. Fire control telemetry synced with sensors aboard the orbiting support drone, the M.U.L.E., and squad members allowing for a near complete visual of the battlefield.
Infantry markers deadly accurate, her weapon blasting out armor piercing rounds that shred through hard cover and into the flesh hidden behind them. Speaking up, she takes note of a seemingly universal trait between them all. “They are not wearing combat helmets.”
“Not a lot of Kevlar on them either.” Alpha Team’s engineer adds as he checks his tablet, the device directly synced to the M.U.L.E.
Fast adjustments to its combat parameters are followed, metal legs cracking concrete as the thing repositions for a better firing angle. The booming of its autocannon sends high explosive shells into the darkness as it clambers back several paces, a handful of responses met as rifle fire ricochets off armor plating.
Across the launch site another air to ground missile strikes earth from the drone above them, the explosion delayed as soundwaves echo past Alpha Team.
“That’s a lot of firepower.” Blue Two comments as he looks up, the blue square above them passing across a starscape as it continues its holding pattern.
“They need it over there.” Alpha’s Engineer replies grimly. “We’ve got two more of those missiles left.”
Across the entire battlefield all com-lines receive the voice of command, cold in the passing of information. “All ground teams this is Checkmate, friendly fast mover is inbound, ETA one minute. Callsign is Felix.”
Voice spoken through a flight helmet, an audible smile as the Pilot within attempts to hide her excitement from the teams on the ground. “This is Felix Zero One, you guys got a danger close international incident arriving in one minute. Keep your heads down.”
Blue One jogs over to the rest of his squad, removing an empty magazine from his assault rifle and slamming a fresh one in. “Fixed wings?!”
Alpha Leader smiles. “Show of force boys and girls, get your fucking asses on the ground!”
The minimaps on helmet displays update with a single blue wireframe aircraft coming directly from the east, insane speed barely visible as it accelerates at low altitude.
Angular form crafted for stealth against all spectrums, black shape invisible against the darkness of the night sky. A single allotted space for artwork on the fuselage dominated by a cartoonish, cat-eared maid carrying a stack of bombs above his head.
From beneath the aircraft a weapons payload extends outward; a trio of missiles armed and ready for lethal consequence.
“Firing.”
A flash of ignition, rocket engines flaring as ordnance is sent towards fast arriving targets.
Silicon chips tear at incoming telemetry, micro-corrections upon aerodynamic canards established as ranges enter terminal distance.
Checkmate speaks. “All units, ten seconds to ordnance impact.”
Alpha Leader yells out in the general channel, raising her voice to all. “GET DOWN NOW!”
“Get down!” Master Sergeant Ling yells to the hostages as well, their confused looks turning to panic as the entire combat force hits the deck.
Instinct takes over as bodies dive onto warm asphalt, seconds passing in dying silence as the sound of gunfire stops for just a moment.
“Splash.”
Explosive yields barely perceivable as each missile makes impact, shockwaves expanding outward in blasts of insane force and fire.
Hostile markers utterly erased, survivors witnesses to the wrath of a god as the jet aircraft shatters the sound barrier above the combat space.
Unprotected souls hold hands to ears, minds deafened in absolute chaos.
“All ground teams this is Felix Zero One, fire mission complete. Good luck down there.”
“FUCKING HELL.” Lieutenant Keys yells as audio limiters reel back the volume to survivable levels.
“It is easy to forget how loud it is in compared to space.” Corporal Mercier notes alongside him.
“All ground units prepare for extraction.” Checkmate updates. “Twenty four minutes to terminal Hammer down, handing it over to sequence.”
“What is happening?!” One of the Operators screams out as ears ring a white hot tone.
“We’re about to level this place like June Ninth!” Blue Two answers. “We need to go!”
Across the squad’s channel another voice echoes forth, the ride home arriving in seconds to come. “Alpha Team, Blue Team, this is Cleric; we’re ETA in five minutes to primary extract point one. Awaiting your call.”
Alpha Leader’s form sprints over from a firing position, pointing down at her wounded squadmate. “Can we move ‘em?”
An emergency valve regulating an overpressured chest cavity, gauze packed penetration points already stemming the bleeding. Two medics on one body bringing a miracle of modern combat medicine, a life saved by inches.
Alpha Team’s medic gives a quick thumbs up. “She’s good.”
“Mr. President, I need to pee…” The patient replies through a haze of painkillers.
Alpha Leader nods. “Copy Cleric, we’re oscar mike. Advised we have wounded!”
A voice broadcast to the rest of the squad, she points outward towards their point of egress. “Get the M.U.L.E. to cover us, get a move on!”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
The walking tank pauses as new orders are received, armor and munitions stomping now to a position between surviving hostiles and friendly units. Bursts of suppressive fire roaring forth from spinning barrels, intermixed with the booming of the coaxial autocannon for killing blows.
A retreat under the snapping of incoming bullets, heavily armored troopers leapfrogging backwards towards an extraction point two hundred meters back.
Two black forms pass overhead as suppressed rotors barely whisper against the chaos of a firefight, heads up displays identifying them with a friendly blue outline. A team of helicopters, one massive tandem rotor heavy lifter alongside a lethally sleek gunship arriving on site.
Rocket pods raze hostile positions as the Gunner within the attack helicopter opens fire, a thirty six millimeter autocannon following up as the nearly invisible beast maneuvers across the night sky.
A distinct Chinese accent, the Pilot misspeaking to the general communication line in the heat of battle. “Bravo, Charlie Team this is Nine-Zero we will cover you for November extract.”
“Copy Nine-Zero!” Charlie Leader yells back.
Above the glow of roaring fuel fires the tandem rotor helicopter drops massive cargo slings onto the ground, infantry below beginning to secure the tonnage of primary objectives.
“You are bringing that with you?” Blue One asks.
“Need that evidence!” A member of Alpha Team answers as they send a short burst of fire towards unseen targets.
Within the private communication channels, T.A.C. speaks up the entirety of Blue Team. “Speaking of evidence, I thought you would like to know that the data transfer has been completed. The Admiral sends his regards, he says there are some interesting finds related to some of the files. He will brief you later.”
“Not a good time T.A.C.” Blue Two informs as he attempts to catch his breath.
Checkmate speaks across the entire channel, voice slightly hurried as he reports the time. “All ground units, ten minutes to terminal Hammer.”
Alpha Leader points over to her squad, voice raised in the giving of orders. “Get the beacon up! Cleric, this is Alpha Team we’re on site and ready to extract!”
Cylinder removed from tactical vests, Alpha Team’s engineer throws the mechanism twenty feet outward from the perimeter fencing.
Infrared core burning under battery power, the object is spotted as within piloting helmets the landing site is marked on the map.
The Co-Pilot points over, Pilot speaking up as he maneuvers the war machine to position. “Copy Alpha Team, Cleric arriving on station.”
Dust kicked up by rotor wash, a black shape coming to rest in the open field away from lines of fire. Against near zero visibility unequipped hostages fumble in darkness, armored gloves grabbing them as Alpha Team drags them towards the creature.
“Get the hostages on board now!” Alpha Leader orders as she kneels down. “Keep security!”
Deep red lighting spreads outward into darkness as cargo doors are slammed open, Cleric’s crew chief waving towards the troopers.
Operator Chernyshevsky and the Medic are in first, heaving the rigid form of the wounded woman into relative safety. A bag of synthetic blood held above the patient mid-transfusion, the Arsenal-Vertigo Contractor reaches with his other hand towards the helicopter’s on-board medical kit. He glances over at the medic who places the patient slightly offset from the point of entrance. “Блять, what is her pulse?”
“Fifty five.” The Medic immediately replies. “O-sat is one twelve.”
“Ok ok, where we going? We need to stabilize?”
“Going back to the Carrier, a two and a half hour flight. We should keep her under, good O2 saturation means that should…”
“Hомер, need to run full valve mask. Saturtion is only for limited time.”
Transfusion bag hung on one of the hooks above him, the Operator digs through the box for the supplies as his fellow hostages are loaded into the vehicle behind him.
A rubber mask hooked up to a silicone bag, a singular valve prosecuting a breathing apparatus. Wrapped over a slack face the mechanism automatically begins to take over staggered breaths.
“Saturtion will lower as transfusion works, keep it working and…”
Processors tear across the compressed time of optical sensors, a fired projectile detected and cataloged by systems. Unguided, the rocket propelled grenade screams towards the landed helicopter with a missed trajectory.
A path drawn in metal minds, the impact site detected to fall directly on infantry units.
In a single second tactical systems respond; cold, emotionless lines of code executed at light speed.
A networked proximity alert sent across channels, events executed in parallel.
Fire control software aboard the M.U.L.E. reorients as the threat enters terminal ranges. Optical sensors calculating possible intercept points in milliseconds, active protection system finding the optimized solution across the nearly straight trajectory of the incoming rocket propelled grenade.
At the exact same time a warning alarm sounds within Blue Two’s heads up display. Eyes spot the brilliant red mark attached to incoming, human instinct sending the body diving towards the ground in the precious slow motion seconds of reaction.
A burst of explosive force from the M.U.L.E. is launched as the projectile crosses the threshold, a miscalculation as the shockwave catches the trailing end of the rocket motor. Anti-tank round sent spiraling, the thing careens off course in a vicious horizontal spin right into the form of Blue Two.
The cylindrical body of the arrow shaped warhead connects with body armor, high explosive detonating in reaction as the lethal tip of molten metal misses the unintended target completely. Layers of ceramic eat the insane point blank kinetic force however, massive plates shattered beneath crushing power. The first line of defense broken, fragments of metal and broken ceramic spall deeper into the combat suit.
Sandwiched between thick sheets of woven thermoplastic polyethylene fibers lies a macroscopical layer of suspended dilatant liquid; an insanely thin two-part blast wall that instantly hardens with raw physical properties. Shear force applied in the suddenness of shrapnel penetration; Kevlar stopping cleaving shards cold as gel-like liquid absorbs lethal kinetic force.
It isn’t enough.
A non-lethal shock wave travels through the body of flesh, air shoved out of lungs and ribs mildly cracked as the sucker punch sends the armored form of Lieutenant Johnathan Keys flying ten feet towards the helicopter.
Nearly two hundred pounds of Solar System Defense Force Marine, shattered armor plating, and now broken weaponry comes to rest on desert dust, a voice groaning in pain as he attempts to breathe.
“操他妈!!!” Ling yells out as he sprints over to the fallen form of his friend. “KEYS!!!”
Weak words spoken, a mind attempting to reorient through shock and adrenaline. “I’m dying, help me.”
Over gunfire Operator Chernyshevsky runs forth from his safe position within the helicopter. In darkness he makes the assessment, a muscular body grabbing the new patient by the arms. “СУКА БЛЯДЬ, help me carry him!”
“IS HE OK?!” Ling yells out as he follows orders, holstering his assault rifle.
“СУКА, JUST GET HIM IN.” The Medic yells back.
A fellow arm grabbed, Lieutenant Keys is dragged towards the vehicle like cargo. Grasping for breath, the man attempts to speak through injuries. “Owww…”
Hands carefully place him into the confines of the helicopter, the rest of Alpha Team filling into the cargo hold one by one as the perimeter collapses in a tactical withdrawal.
On heads up displays the warning is noted, Cleric’s crew chief turning to the occupants of the vehicle as the walking tank saunters towards them. “We’re gonna be overweight with that thing!”
“Yeah don’t worry I’ll fix it.” The Alpha Team’s Engineer replies as he pulls the tablet from its holster.
The M.U.L.E. remains as the final member outside, the combat engineer taking manual control as he commands the war machine for a full defensive retreat. Over a thousand remaining minigun rounds are evacuated towards hostiles in a solid line of overwhelming firepower, the coaxial autocannon booming out its stores of heavy ordnance.
Unnecessary weight shed in the suppressing of positions, the M.U.L.E. rears its head as it marches into the cargo hold of the transport helicopter.
“We’re two hundred pounds over!” The Cargo Chief echoes again.
“I said I’ll fix it!” The engineer yells back as he taps the tablet’s touchscreen.
Nearly the entire backside of the tank is ejected out of the helicopter and into the darkness, the boxy, vestigial battery immediately catching fire as the lithium within burns in an executed self-destruct sequence.
“ALL IN.” Alpha Leader yells out to the channel as she counts off her squad. “GET US OUT OF HERE!”
A green light, checkmark received by the Pilot as he raises the collective of the vehicle. The stacked pair of helicopter blades groan in protest with added weight, a beast of burden lurching skyward. His voice speaks out to the Piloting channel as he spots his comrades nearly five hundred meters out in the display. “Nine Zero this is Cleric we’re dusting off what’s your status.”
“Copy Cleric, we are dusting off too.” The Heavy Lift Helicopter’s Pilot reports as well.
Helicopters rise from the earth, all combat units accounted for within cargo bays.
Operation executed with absolute precision, sensor systems scanning the location for a final reconnaissance check.
Master Sergeant Ling tears off his helmet as he kneels over the form of Lieutenant Keys, Operator Chernyshevsky already pulling the still smoking chestplate off of the patient. A panicked voice reaching out, Chinese accented English cracking in spoken language. “Is he ok?!”
“He’s fine, relax.” Alpha Team’s Medic diagnoses as he quickly runs a suit diagnosis on the wounded Combat Engineer. “No penetration, just got the wind knocked out of him.”
“He is ok, as said.” The Arsenal-Vertigo Operator tosses away the chestplate as he turns back to the more seriously wounded individual behind him.
Keys takes a ragged breath as his respiratory system recovers, a hand reaching out to Ling. “Dude…”
“Do not speak, save energy.” The Master Sergeant replies as he grabs the outstretched limb.
“I just took an RPG to the chest.” The Combat Engineer reiterates as he coughs.
“You did.” Corporal Mercier answers him. “Are you ok?”
“Fuck no, my BBQ ribs.” Keys grunts out. “Fuck is all my stuff still here?”
A pack nearly blasted apart, several items missing from tattered Kevlar fabric. Mercier and Ling exchange a quick glance, a truthful answer decided upon. A good friend decided to deliver bad news, the Master Sergeant attempts to put a positive spin on the loss of material. “Most of it is here.”
“Fuck that’s another resupply kit gone.” Keys shakes his head falling back as pain echoes through his internal system. “Ow it hurts.”
“It will be a good story.” Ling chuckles as he feels the helicopter shift away from a combat area.
“Checkmate this is Cleric, we’re secure and away.” The Pilot reports as he leans the vehicle southward towards friendly waters.
“Checkmate we are also away.” The paired flight follows up. “This is Nine-Zero.”
“Copy flights.” Checkmate replies with a released breath.
The silence of space.
Ten centimeters separates life from airless vacuum, an ancient pair of eyes watching the passing of a world beneath him.
A luxury granted by modular retrofits, the single window in the Rubicon’s new marine deployment bay allows for a breathtaking view of night-time Europe. Berlin and its surrounding suburbs broadcast an entire starfield of light, western Europe still awake as populations watch the closing ceremony of the 2074 Nürnberg Olympics.
Admiral Issac Tucker stares southward, fruitlessly attempting to find the arching lights of the System Defense Force’s GN12 Training Center in the suburbs of Frankfurt.
Botches of cities from below blend together from atmospheric disturbance, the location lost among the urban sprawl of the nation.
A phone to his ear, tactical speech from distant command centers filtered as the singular line towards immense political power is silent. Audible breathing as military commanders wait in bunkered meeting rooms, two major figures awaiting confirmation of execution.
Connected via. video, the leadership of two nations await in the enumeration of battle. Red and gold intermixes with red, white, and blue; two global forces in the cold silence of black warfare.
The awaited words are spoken. “All units this is Checkmate, threshold has been crossed. Greenlight has been given for hammer-down.”
An audible breath is taken on both sides, a crowd releasing held stress from shoulders. One form speaks to the old man with a distinct American accent. A smooth voice, familiar in form through the static of a conference call. “Admiral, it’s on you.”
“Mr. and Ms. Presidents…” Admiral Tucker speaks as he stares down at the world. A sudden memory arrives, of watching the view a dozen years prior. Of another order given, political power plays against enemies now made reality. The sacrifice of lives necessary for security, a secret taken to graves. The old man blinks, speaking the words. “It’s on its way.”
Crossing the orbital horizon satellite object M-93111455 receives new instructions. A metal form molested by a frustrated engineer, its silicone mind torn apart by software scalpels; an original purpose now forgotten under a new master.
Reaction control thrusters burn, the satellite lunging from its orbital trajectory as nearly eighty percent of its fuel is spent in a sudden acceleration towards planetary targets. Almost immediately Earth’s mass grabs it, gravity snatching a trajectory and bending it towards her own body.
Pulling immense force the high explosive core held within a body of scraped tonnage remains in silent consideration, a frame warped by a mishandled reassembly yet purpose still alive within a non-existent machine soul.
The outer form heats up now as minutes pass, rushing air across the hull shearing immense frictional forces. An added heat shield at its relative base begins to burn, inflatable design swallowing insane temperatures as the exterior glows red hot. Added aerodynamics from the conical shape maintains speed, a trajectory predictable as it begins to pass beneath the lower thermosphere.
Through the helicopter’s vibrating bulkheads the voice of command transmits through internal speakers. A celebration halted as Checkmate advises the troops of an incoming apocalypse. “All units be advised, hammer-down in five minutes.”
Almost immediately combat helmets are returned to owners and put back on heads, suit systems reconnecting with the tactical network.
Heads up displays receive data from external cameras, infantry units able to gaze outside armored bulkheads in augmented reality. At low altitude night vision filters out the desert beneath them into a null-colored blur, the stars above providing bright illumination to the world.
Flanking Cleric, the pair of Chinese helicopters match her speed. The lethal shape of the Flight Nine-Zero trails behind her transport counterpart, the nuclear payload strung beneath the tandem rotor monster barely slowing down immense lifting power.
A burning launch facility left behind, the fires slowly disappearing from the horizon as the flight of helicopters continue southbound towards the Arabian Sea.
One blue marker rises above the trio of helicopters, a friendly support drone slowly crawling across the sky as it shadows friendly units soon joined by another asset.
Helmets zoom in as operators narrow their eyes towards the stealthed craft, against the darkness of night the black shape of the multi-role fighter jet was completely invisible. An F-35-IIC at closer inspection of its identifications, a lethally efficient escort craft remaining in a defensible position against any vengeance.
“Hammer down in one minute.”
“Give me my helmet.” Keys groans as he sits up carefully, motioning for the disposed piece of armor now between the legs of Corporal Mercier. “I gotta see this thing come down.”
The young woman tosses the item to her squadmate, the Combat Engineer putting the piece on his head as he regains his bearings in an augmented space.
“There it is!” One of Bravo Team points, placing a virtual marker in the sky as the entire operational force follows his gaze.
A trail of burning debris, molten metal carving a path across the starfield. A velocity still at orbital degrees, the artificial shooting star rips through air with brutal aerodynamics. Silence as troops watch it fall, predictions stopping as reality meets with imagination.
“Ten seconds to impact.”
The remaining store of reaction control fuel within the satellite turned weapon is ejected for the preservation of every single digit of speed, the body of scrapped tonnage and a core of high explosives suddenly remembering its purpose in the lucidity of terminal velocity:
Pure, utter destruction.
“Splash.”
The explosion ignites the darkness, silent impact sending up a plume of debris as forty tons of mass at orbital velocity makes contact with a planetary device. A kinetic projectile utterly annihilating the facility, the initial flame immediately smothered by the massive cloud of expanding sand and concrete dust thrown into the air.
“C'était pour le 9 juin, connards.” Corporal Mercier grits as she curses the damned. “Die terrorist scum.”
Checkmate speaks up as the entire operation watches in silence. “Shockwave impact in three… two… one…”
Through the fading distance the blast wave rocks helicopter hulls lightly, indistinguishable from mild turbulence.
“Operation Shooting Star complete.” Checkmate confirms as he holds in a victorious smirk. “RTB is cleared, we are awaiting your arrival.”
Celebrations break out in distant command rooms. Respectful clapping echoing through phones as military leaders take a moment to decompress.
Admiral Issac Tucker pauses as he listens to congratulations in the distant folds of earthly nations, the awaiting individual on the other phone line switched to.
“Admiral.” T.A.C. pauses as the answer is held from the old man.
The Admiral sighs as he prepares for the words. “What do we have T.A.C.?”
“It’s about Project Boundary.” The voice informs. “You may want to see this.”