Chapter 18

June 16th, 1636, off the western coast of Feplaria

The dark elf country of Feplaria was, for the most part, rather lacking in distinct features. Picturesque locations were rare and few. Most of the country was the same all over; dull, green forests with tall trees with pointed, long leaves populating stubby, rolling hills and mounds. That, or flat, plain land shrouded with vegetation. That was as far as the variety went.

Such a shame, Varitan thought. These savages had, in all likeliness, never seen something like a desert, or a scenic hill station, with their own eyes. As the car cruised on, he wondered for a moment how they would react were they to ever visit the Inalbelle.

‘Cruised on’ was most likely an exaggeration. The old ‘Garrikwagon’, as it was named, was barely chugging along at five miles per hour. At such slow speeds, he felt miserable. Maybe riding a horse would have been a better idea, he thought.

The Garrikwagon Model 2 was an old lady. A large four-seater tourer built by the Garrik Motor company back in Nyllnoris, it had been converted and modified thoroughly. A new, twenty-horsepower engine, more spacious interior, and a bigger trunk for storing cargo. Wider wheels, stronger suspension, together with a larger fuel tank, made the car a lot more friendly to drive on unpaved roads, at the cost of removing all the luxurious amenities the original manufacturer had awarded it with.

Still, to the young elf, it was slow. Peering out into the bland scenery outside, he wondered whose bright idea this was. The name ‘Garrik’ was no longer in fashion. It was a relic of the past, something he looked at with awe in his eyes back when he was still a twenty-three-year-old toddler. It was akin to fawning over one’s favourite cartoon show on TV during childhood, then forgetting it after growing up. Apparently, the elves had had trouble with the latter.

The Garriks weren’t the only ones. The HEF units had been supplied with a wide variety of old, modified vehicles like this one. The primary line of reasoning had been that these vehicles were a lot less complicated, rugged and easy to maintain than modern ones. Something that was rather important considering Feplaria didn’t have a lot of mechanics or workshops around to service vehicles. Then there was also the psychological factor. The old car was relatable, more familiar. It resembled a horse-drawn carriage more, an object that the poor natives associated with royalty and figures of power. Even more so once a proper narrative had been planted in their minds.

Such a flawed idea, the agent thought. While he couldn’t speak for the latter, the former he could confidently refute. The cars were an absolute menace. These were aged ladies that had been reskinned and put to work long after their optimum working age, and it was already starting to become a problem. Breakdowns were becoming frequent, so much so that each motor convoy needed a team of mechanics and engineers travelling along. Vehicles were never used unless they were travelling in large convoys; the natives’ annoying tendency to crowd the broken vehicles was rather problematic. Nyllnoris wasn’t helping things either. Resupply and logistics were delayed, causing a shortage of spare parts and equipment. Consequently, this delayed work; nobody could get anywhere on time. An annoying cycle that only compounded the problems. Less work, less results. Less results, less priority, less logistic support. Lesser logistic support, lesser work, and even less results.

High command was desperate. Too much money and resources were being sunk in the program, and all they had managed to dig up so far were old trinkets and garbage. For archaeologists and historians, they might have been extremely invaluable evidence of some ancient civilization, but the military planners and the leaders cared little. For them, it was the same as random piece of trash anybody could find in a dustbin or a landfill. They cared little of anything beyond their own world, drowning and thrashing in their own worries and needs, and the means to satiate them. For them, any ‘powerful ancient civilization’ meant little unless it could give them a powerful piece for their puny chessboards of politics and war.

For now, things had been going well, however. The hard-working bureaucrats at HQ had so far, managed to keep the hard-headed planners convinced that the program was going well, and thus funding for Divine Leaf had been flowing steadily, albeit a little turbulent on occasion.

For how long though, was the real question. People in the policy-making pipeline weren’t known to be bright enough to grasp the difficulties associated with such ambitious projects. There was only a matter of time before they ran out of that priceless commodity called patience.

And so here they were. Another site searching mission in the middle of nowhere, again. Based off of most likely either delusion or local folktales that had nothing to do with rationality or reality whatsoever. The jackpot that the previous team had come across was, in Varitan’s eyes, a fluke. One among the many dead-ends they had encountered in their search for something important. For one, Varitan detested the fact that the only source of information about these sites had come from the natives, who only knew how to parrot that which they heard from others. Their unusual reluctance to approach such sites unless accompanied by HEF personnel made things harder. Apparently the sites were cursed; no normal elf fearful for his life would head towards them. The High Elves had no idea why, apart from outlandish and incoherent local folktales. Then again, the elves were cunning enough; twisting the belief in their favour had reinforced their position in the minds of the natives even more.

Varitan leaned back in his seat. The convoy was sluggishly dragging along uneven, unpaved roads, which had probably been untouched for a long time. It was rough, bumpy. The drivers had to be cautious, lest they risked damaging the cars’ aged suspension. As such, the vehicles were packed together, as the lead vehicle tried avoiding every hole and crater it could, and the rest followed in its tracks.

The ride was going to last a while, it seemed. His eyelids felt heavy. There wasn’t anything urgent going on right now. Maybe it would be a nice idea to catch some shut-eye. With that thought, he drifted into a nap.

Varitan woke up with a jerk. Something was off. A magic surge. His hands instinctively clutched his A35 submachine gun. The sub machine gun’s fifty-round drum magazine always felt reassuring. He looked around. The cars had come to a halt, now packed closer. It seemed they had braked suddenly, and the drivers had turned the vehicles away haphazardly in order to avoid a collision.

The feeling had subsided and disappeared altogether by the time Varitan got out of the car. The ground was wet, but not too muddy. Others had already dismounted, and were milling around. He approached another High Elf standing beside a car.

“What happened?”

“We don’t know. You felt that surge right?”

“Yes, I believe I did.”

“It came from up there.” The blonde elf pointed forward. “Rather close.”

Varitan looked around. A stream of elves was already flowing in the direction of the surge. Those that weren’t joining the stream were loading their guns and setting up security near the vehicles. A few clueless ones were trying to make sense of the commotion, just like when he had woken up.

Without much thought, Varitan found himself scurrying along with the crowd. It was close, he realized. The vegetation here was not too thick. It was easy to keep track of others. Sounds of murmuring accompanied the sound of bushes being ruffled and twigs being snapped and broken as the elves finally reached a clearing, giving them a clear view of the cause behind the surge.

June 18th, 1636, off the Western coast of Feplaria

Dr. Horith felt like he would burst. The tension, the slight car-sickness from the bumpy ride, and the fact that all of it seemed to continue forever. He had to be there, and he had to be quick, yet he couldn’t. He peeked out into the dense forest.

“Professor.”

The elf sitting across him in the car’s cramped interior straightened up. Leaning against the modest leather covering that formed the entirety of the car’s roof, he answered. “Yes sir?”

“Are you sure we are headed the right way? I do not remember this barbarian country being too big to travel around with comfort.”

“Apologies, sir, but as you are aware, the path here isn’t that well-trodden. Cars aren’t well suited to ploughing through this much mud and dirt.”

“Yes, that much I know already.” Horith brushed him off. “What I want to know is how long till we reach the godforsaken place.”

“We should be coming up soon sir.”

“We better be.” Horith clicked his tongue, barely hiding his impatience. If he had had his way, he would have personally threatened the Escil’s captain to ferry him there at gunpoint. Too bad the higher ups wanted her elsewhere. Right now, he really wished he could just teleport to the location. If not for the excessive strain on the body, he actually might have had done just that.

Finally, the seemingly never-ending journey seemed to end, as the convoy entered the thickly-forested area. The roads here were curved and bent like loose rope. This was the distinct feature of a path that had otherwise been mostly straight so far. A signal of relief for the tired and impatient souls, that the destination was close at hand.

The road opened up, and the target came into view. A grey wall stretched out in front of him. In the middle was a large gate, where the bumpy road ended. High Elves could be seen milling about the gate, and in a clearing nearby, few vehicles were parked in a haphazard manner. Against the dull colour tone of the scenery, their boxy, red silhouettes were hard to miss.

One by one, the cars lined up with the gate. Before Horith knew, the car passed through the gate. The scenery around changed. Dull-green was replaced by dull-grey, and the trees disappeared. Horith had often wondered how, in the first place, had the mysterious creators of these places constructed structures of such immense scale. There were barely any resources here, neither were there any signs of higher civilization here. At the very least, the natives could have never so much as contributed anything. That much was certain.

The cars stopped. Horith jumped out as soon as the door opened. A bunch of elves were out to meet him, some of them armed. Like most of the High Elves on site, the guards had shed their ceremonial outfits away. Most were dressed in simple trousers and shirts, armed with their standard issue A35 submachine guns. Few had also been issued A11 rifles, slung on their backs.

“Sir.” Sensing the urgency in the way Horith walked, the elf researched decided best to cut to the chase and not bother with the fancy formalities. “This is the biggest discovery we’ve ever made.”

“I need to see it.”

“There’s too much here, sir. We’ve haven’t had enough time to properly study everythin-”

“I said take me to it.”

The elf researcher looked with a difficult expression at the accompanying guards. The group was now following Horith as he strode with urgency further in. The site had not been properly investigated, and even at this moment the elves were discovering new pathways and places as they investigated. There was no way to tell what might transpire should something unforeseen happened.

“As you wish, sir. This way.”

The site was quite different. It seemed fuller. Horith couldn’t tell why, but it seemed that the site was not as empty as previous sites had felt. Elves were still milling about, analysing just about everything they could find. There were more things lying around. Sign boards, trash, barricades. Pairs of curious eyes peered at them, wondering how long had it been since these the last time this place saw the day light.

“This is, by the Heavens, the biggest discovery we’ve ever made. This place is a treasure trove unlike any of us has ever set eyes on.” The elf researcher explained as the group approached a large building. Two armed guards had already been posted at the heavy-looking door. Deftly, they stepped aside, holding the door open for the Elves to enter. It was made of steel, Horith observed. Simple, yet sturdy.

“We haven’t had enough time to study this enigmatic place in enough detail yet. We’re still uncovering things as we speak at this moment. Documents, files, folders, and even artifacts. Just this morning we uncovered what looked like an armoury.”

“What was in it?” Horith’s restlessness was growing, and with every word it became more and more apparent. The cause of his restlessness, however, was seemingly somewhere else.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Small arms of various kinds, it seemed. Most had some sort of damage or malfunction. They look surprisingly less alien than expected, both in appearance and in operation.”

“I shall personally inspect them later. Lead me to it for now.”

The building the group passed through was not by any means small. There were concrete hallways, painted usually in dull white. Wooden doors dotted the walls, some ajar, some shut. In the open ones, Horith could catch a glimpse of the High Elves’s hasty investigation. Writing could be seen on the walls and the doors. Some decipherable, some in the same unknown script that he had seen before. Signs. Horith guessed with some conviction that it was most likely the translation of whatever was written in the common language.

The narrow hallway opened into a wider room. The door was bigger. Horith steadied his breathing, then pushed the door open, stepping inside.

Bright light greeted him, and Horith squinted briefly. His eyes adjusted, and finally began to comprehend what was in front of him. It was a dock. A small dock. Natural rock formations rose up on either side of the dock further to the side. They seemed to form a natural barrier for the dock, creating a small lake in the middle. The rock formation also extended just above the piers, and the entire length of the pier basked under its shade. Two ships sat in the pier. They were grey in colour. Horith approached them. They were unlike any he had seen. Flared hull design, small size. A torpedo boat of some sort? Maybe. But it was longer, larger. Much larger. Large Tube-like structures sat on each side of the superstructure. On the bow and the stern were small, round shapes with two black pipes sticking out. It took only a moment to realize that these were anti-aircraft guns of mysterious make. So strange, he thought. They were too small to fit even one normal human, and he couldn’t see any place from where an operator could use the gun. There were only two guns on each mount, and no gunsights or range-finding equipment. The round shape seemed completely enclosed; there didn’t seem to be any way to enter or exit the gun mount. Were these guns remotely-controlled, Horith wondered. He remembered seeing a working prototype long ago, where the anti-aircraft gun mount was controlled by electric motors. The operator would sit somewhere in the relative safety of the superstructure and control the gun using a wired control mechanism. It was truly amusing contraption, to say the least. Needless to say, the prototype had been rejected. Were these guns the same kind? He couldn’t tell.

Horith walked over to the pier. A handful of Elves were working on the dock, mostly examining various things, but the piers were mostly empty. The ship had an unusually large mast for a torpedo boat. One glance was enough to tell him that these weren’t just radio antennas. They didn’t look like any radio antenna he had seen. They didn’t look like anything he had seen. There was only one mast rising up from the superstructure. At and near the top, it had a series of box-shaped contraptions sticking out. Near the stern was an even more interesting contraption; a spherical-shaped grey object in place of a mast near the stern. These were the most intriguing for Horith. They were not gun director towers, neither did they have any visible rangefinders. Or were the box-shaped contraptions rangefinders of some sort? They could be, Horith realized. They knew so little about these ships, after all.

“We know little of these ships, sir.” Horith heard the Elf researcher approach from behind. “Everything about them eludes us. Their design, purpose, their armament. All we know is that they are warships. At least we suppose they are.”

“That--” Horith pointed at the bow anti-aircraft gun mount. “if that is an anti-aircraft gun, then this thing clearly isn’t something like a cruiser, destroyer or a battleship. The AA battery looks miserably inadequate.”

“That we also deduced, sir.”

“Then about the size.” Horith gazed at the ships, contemplating. Despite sitting here for such a long time, there was not a speck of rust on any of them. “I have my reservations. The only proper classification would be a torpedo boat, but I doubt how any of these could be fast enough to be usable in that role.”

His eyes wandered to the boat’s broadsides. “What might be the deal with those-” Horith pointed at the large tubes. “those tubes?”

“We have not yet inspected the insides of these tubes, sir. Our Elves are busy trying to dig up the site for more information about these boats, so we are at a loss as to what we may be dealing with.”

“Those do not appear to be regular torpedo tubes. They are nowhere near this large. Or..maybe these are some new kind of heavy torpedo?” Horith muttered, lost in thought. Though he may have labelled them as torpedo tubes, he had a hunch that they were most likely not that. For one, they were angled upwards, not level. All the tubes were placed in a manner which made releasing torpedoes aft of the ship into its wake impossible. In fact, unless there was a swivelling mechanism that could rotate the entire tube itself sideways, Horith could not picture this ship being capable of releasing any kind of torpedoes at all. And as far as he could see, there was no visible swivelling mechanism here; the tubes were fixed in their places.

Horith gazed at the superstructure. It had an open top, where he could glimpse what he assumed was the ship’s bridge, sitting on top of an enclosed, boxy cabin with square windows. The superstructure seemed to stretch out further aft of the ship, just before the stern anti-aircraft mount. Frankly, Horith had to admit he was not entirely optimistic of his assumption. Apart from his ignorant deductions, the only thing reinforcing his idea of these ships being a sort of heavy torpedo boat was the open top bridge. He wasn’t a seaman or a naval engineer, after all.

His eyes measured up the entire length of the ships’ hulls. So familiar, yet so alien, he thought. The basic design behind the ships seemed to be the same as their own, yet the ships were so vastly different. Everything above the deck was a novelty to Horith. The peculiar-looking masts, the anti-air mounts, the monstrous tubes housing strange weapons. The way the ships moved, with their large size and what-not. Horith wondered. He was no naval engineer, sure, but he was not entirely ignorant. Only steam propulsion made sense when it came to performance. But steam propulsion on a ship this large meant large smoke stacks. And there were no large smoke stacks in view.

Horith thought. His line of thinking eventually led him to the same conclusion: the ships would have sub optimal performance unless there was another method that eliminated the smoke stacks entirely. Maybe that was what the box-shaped contraptions on the masts were for? They could be. Atleast there was a possibility.

Horith tucked his thoughts at the back of his mind for now. “Has anyone boarded any of these ships?”

“No sir, none of the elves have yet stepped aboard these alien ships. It was agreed upon that collecting more information about them first would be prudent.”

“Hmm. Prudent, indeed.”

Unbeknownst to Horith, there was a quiet buzzing noise. In the distance. Watching. Four small rotors, powered by tiny but powerful brushless DC motors. Hovering. Completely hidden from the High Elves. Small. Silently, it changed course, and exfiltrated the accidentally unveiled site.

June 17th, 2036, 23:40 hours, New Delhi

The room was dark. There was little ambience illumination, except for the dim lights. In the middle of the room sat a projector. The white screen in front was lit up. A man in a suit walked up in front of it.

“Gentlemen, respected Prime Minister Shri Desai, and all the Defence Chiefs, the reason for calling this meeting today at this hour despite your busy schedule is of absolute urgency.”

Nods answered the NSA Sharma as he continued. “The topic is urgent, so I will not bother with anymore unnecessary formalities. Let’s begin.”

The room was full of the top brass of the country. Everyone from all of the defence Chiefs to the Chiefs of every significant intelligence agency in the country was in the room. At the far end of the table was PM Desai himself. Navy admirals and Army Generals, along with Air Force commodores were also present in the meeting, hidden in the darkness of the room, just like every other attendant.

The projector began displaying images as the RAW chief stepped aside. Aerial photographs. First of a forested area, then the images changed. A dock, a port of some sort. Naturally protected. Strangely deserted. Among the participants, the men of the sea could spot two lone boats sitting on the docks.

“This picture, along with the ones before, were taken over the last twenty-four hours.” The projector cycled through more images. Apart from small details, nothing seemed to be amiss. Only a few Admirals seemed to feel that something was off with those boats.

“On its own, this image means nothing. Looks just like some fishing village. Now I want you to look at this.”

The projector changed the image. For a moment, there was silence. Then audible murmurs arose as the attendants began to comprehend exactly what they were seeing.

“This is the exact same port, forty-eight hours earlier. This image was taken while on a reconnaissance mission by one of the Navy’s drones.”

The image showed by the projector, at first glance, looked unremarkable. A mess of various shades of green conflicting with the dull-blue sea, separated by a thin line of the dark-brown rocks. Human brains are rather adept in recognizing patterns, however, and it did not take long to realize that that the landmass in the image was almost identical to the one in the images before. It was as if somebody had draped a green carpet on the ‘fishing village’ from before.

“Twenty-four hours ago, one of our operatives on a recon mission in the area accidentally stumbled upon an anomaly. Attempting to investigate the anomaly resulted in an Unexplained Anomalous Incident - a UAI. The result was what you all just saw.”

Everyone listened with a grim expression on their faces. UAI, or ‘Unexplained Abnormal Incident’, was the new term coined by scientists studying the phenomena of magic, and was used generally wherever any incident involving magic took place. Especially if it involved any Indian.

“Initially, it was hypothesized to be a secret naval base operated by UBS-Alpha entities. Any speculation regarding what could be uncovered about them, however, were blown away when the following images came in.”

The NSA stepped aside as the image on the projector changed, as if giving the audience the climax was coming. And come it did. Everyone tensed up, staring at the screens closely, as if they could not believe their eyes.

“This was a close up shot taken using a drone, as you can see. And this right here…” the NSA pointed to the screen with his finger. “is no ordinary fishing boat.”

“A missile boat.” One of the admirals let out a gasp. Most of the heads in the room towards him. Under the gaze of his superiors and colleagues, the admiral hesitated slightly for a moment – more shocked at his own blurting out than fear - but the Chief of Naval Staff urged him on with a nod.

“That is a Osa II. A Soviet missile boat. A fast attack craft, to be exact. Pretty old, but can still pack a punch. They’re retired, though. Nobody uses them.”

“There is more.” NSA Sharma spoke before anyone else could continue. He panned on the screen with his fingers. The projector zoomed in, focusing on the boats in the image. “See the flag on the ships?”

The air in the room became tense. Hushed murmurs passed among the attendants briefly, who were all looking at the screen with a grave expression on their faces.

“That is the Indian Navy ensign. Our ensign.”

The Chief of Naval Staff spoke. It was evident the old man had more to say than that, but despite that he remained calm and unperturbed for the most part.

“What does this mean, gentlemen,” The NSA spoke as he stepped in front of the projector. “is that these seemingly backward ‘aliens’, have somehow managed to get their hands on old Soviet missile boats now.”

“And the boats are flying Indian colours. Did the operatives get a clear shot of their pennant numbers?” The chief of Directorate of Naval Intelligence (DNI) acquired. His tone was business-like, emotionally detached from the subject matter. So was his attire – a fashionable, clean, black suit. Defining features seen in all intelligence chiefs of every intelligence agency of the country.

“As of making this presentation, no. With the way the boats are positioned, it is difficult to get a clear picture as of now. That includes their hulls and anything on them.”

“If these are indeed our boats,” The CNS spoke. “that would mean what we are looking at are Chamak class missile boats.”

“How can we say with certainty that those are our boats?” The chief of DNI spoke.

“Pardon?”

“I’m saying that how can we say for sure that the boats seen in the picture belong to the Indian Navy? As far as official records go, all Chamak class boats had been retired and decommissioned by 2005. None of the boats were ever lost in combat or in accidents.”

“So all missile boats had been accounted for?”

“Naturally.”

“Then,” the FOCINC, West spoke. “that makes the situation even more confusing. If those aren’t our boats but still flying our ensign, that raises even more questions. Why, and how. How did they get these boats, and why did they put our ensign on them?”

“It could be a plot of some sort. Though I don’t understand what they might use them for, other than directly hitting us with old Styx missiles, like they tried with that gunboat.”

“That is also a probability. There is not much stopping them from simply walking up to us and emptying the boats’ entire magazine at us. We might be making them look more clever than they actually are.”

“Do they have reloads? Do they have the equipment needed to reload? Or the ammo to reload? If they do, where do they store it? The pier looks rather deserted.” An officer enquired.

The discussion continued. Conjectures and theories flew in the air in quiet, cautious voices, followed sometimes with rebuttals. Only the Prime Minister sat at the far end of the table, unmoving, unperturbed. Hands clasped, elbows resting on the table. Whether he was thinking or listening intently, nobody knew.

The NSA was the only other participant in the discussion not actively speaking. His indecipherable face had the latent satisfaction of having done his part. His job was to gather intelligence first and foremost. How it should be interpreted and what should be done about it, that was up to the leadership to decide. This was how it was supposed to be. Ideally, at least. All he needed to do now was wait and watch.

The discussion was slowly starting to revolve around in circles, and with every word the volume inched higher. Any observer watching the meeting from an outside perspective with pure objectivity in mind would come to the same conclusion: there simply wasn’t enough information. Discarded and already rejected theories came up again and again. There was even a theory that somebody from India itself had, through some means, provided the pointy-ears with the boats. That, coupled with the general chaos of the situation, derailed the entire discussion altogether. Now theories about possible conspirators and how they could affect the conflict joined in.

Prime Minister Desai tapped the desk. The discussion ceased. Everybody turned to look at him. The expression on his face was unreadable, stoic. The creases on his forehead hid within them evidence of deep contemplation and thought, disguised as the signs of age. A gentleman with good hearing sitting in the room would have most likely heard him exhale faintly just a moment before.

PM Desai held his words briefly, running his gaze over everybody. Once he was sure his words would have the maximum effect, he began.

“Establish a commission for investigating the current status of all decommissioned Chamak class boats, and what happened after and during their service. How long will it take?”

“Seven days, sir.”

“Three days.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Find out if there was any contact or attempt to contact with UBS-Alpha entities outside the Indian mainland. If so, where and when, and why. Bhatt sahab?”

“Yes sir.” The Chief of Naval Staff answered in a firm voice.

“Increase surveillance near the new eastern coast of the country. Keep eyes and ears on anything that travels near those waters, Indian or otherwise. Commit as many assets you feel you need for this mission. If you feel you need more, feel free to request support from other branches.”

“What exactly are we supposed to be looking for, sir?”

“Anything.”

The CNS contemplated for a moment. ‘Anything’ was not going to be very helpful considering the situation. Part of him could already sense just how much of a headache this was going to become. “Understood, sir.”

The Prime Minister turned towards the NSA. His expression was still the same. Internally, though, he was satisfied with the PM’s response. A good approach, he thought.

“NSA Sharma, your men are awarded the liberty to utilize whatever means they need to collect concrete and reliable intelligence regarding these anomalies barring the overt use of force. Find everything you can about these boats., and their plans for them.”