-Operation White Dove-
Falmart Calendar, 1291
Airspace over Fort Harling
Captain John Mitchell, Basilisk Team
The rotors of the CH-47 Chinook began to spin, slowly at first, but quickly building up speed as the engines whined into life. Inside the cockpit, the two 160th SOAR pilots methodically flicked switches, their hands moving over the control panels with practiced precision. Each button pressed, each lever adjusted, brought them a step closer to launching the helicopter into the heart of a mission that would change everything.
"Checklist, complete," one pilot confirmed, his voice calm despite the underlying tension crackling in the air.
"Roger that," the other responded, eyes forward, the steady vibration of the rotors pulsing through the frame of the aircraft. The sound was familiar—almost comforting. It was the hum of power, the rhythm of a machine ready to carry them into whatever awaited.
Behind them, the loadmaster moved methodically down the cramped aisle, checking each person seated inside the helicopter. He tugged on safety belts, ensuring they were secure, his face unreadable as he worked his way through the rows. Special forces operatives, intelligence agents, and soldiers alike sat in silence, helmets on, gear checked, each one preparing in their own way. Their thoughts were heavy with the weight of the mission to come.
"All belts secure! We're ready!" the loadmaster called, giving a final nod as he finished his sweep.
Up front, the pilot raised his hand, giving a thumbs up before keying his comms. "Tower, this is Starlight. We're all green. Ready for takeoff."
A brief pause crackled over the radio before the calm voice of the tower came through. "Starlight, this is Tower. We copy all. Outlaw just gave their okay and are ready for takeoff as well. Takeoff clearance confirmed. Aether Squadron is already in the air and standing by. They'll provide air superiority while Outlaw covers the ground if anything happens. Tower out."
The lead pilot nodded, acknowledging the tower's transmission, and glanced at his co-pilot. "That's our cue. Let's get this bird in the air."
The powerful engines roared, and the Chinook began to lift off the ground, the vibrations intensifying as the massive helicopter slowly ascended. Outside, the darkened horizon stretched ahead, the sky filled with the hum of distant engines as Aether Squadron's jets streaked across the night, already securing the skies above.
Inside the Chinook, the passengers remained silent, their focus unbroken as they gripped their rifles and gear tightly. The hum of the engines and the rhythmic thumping of the rotors filled the air, creating an almost hypnotic atmosphere. Princess Cossette sat quietly, her regal posture betraying none of the inner turmoil she felt. The weight of the mission, the stakes, and the danger ahead sat heavy on her shoulders. Beside her, Special Agent Hudson clenched his fists, the tension in his body a clear indication of his readiness for whatever was to come.
At the rear of the helicopter, the loadmaster moved with practiced efficiency toward the wide-open hatch. The wind whipped through the gap, carrying with it the scent of the earth far below. Mounted on the edge of the hatch was an M-2 Browning machine gun, its polished steel gleaming under the dim lights of the helicopter. The loadmaster reached out, racked the charging handle with a swift motion, and settled into position. His eyes scanned the horizon and the landscape below, the weight of his duty heavy on his mind as he ensured nothing would catch them off guard.
Outside, the distinct whir of rotors signaled the arrival of Outlaw Squadron—four AH-64 Apache E Guardian helicopters, their dark forms cutting through the night as they moved in perfect synchronization. The Apaches caught up to the heavier Chinook with ease, their presence offering a sense of security. Two of the gunships flanked the rear of the Chinook, their cannons and missile pods armed and ready, while the other two took the lead.
In the cockpit of the lead Apache, the female pilot keyed the radio. "Starlight, this is Outlaw 1-1. We've got you covered. Nothing's getting close without us knowing."
"Roger that, Outlaw 1-1," the Chinook pilot responded, glancing at the radar feed. The formation was solid, and with Aether Squadron flying high above for air superiority, the mission was progressing as smoothly as possible.
As they flew through the night, the tension inside the Chinook remained thick. The soldiers and operatives knew that once they reached their destination, everything could change in an instant. Each person on board was prepared for the worst, but hopeful that the mission would go according to plan.
For now, the steady thrum of the helicopters cutting through the air was the only sound, a momentary calm before whatever storm awaited them in Sadera.
"Starlight, this is Longcaster. New orders just came in. You guys make a detour towards FOB Goliath," Longcaster's voice crackled over the radio.
Inside the Chinook, the two 160th SOAR pilots exchanged confused glances before looking back at the loadmaster, who seemed equally puzzled by the sudden change.
"Uhh… Longcaster, this is Starlight. Roger, but what should we do at Italica?" the pilot asked, his voice edged with uncertainty.
"Mission Command just changed some details. The VIPs should carry on via ground victors. They're concerned about reports of a massive dragon lingering somewhere between the Row Stream and the Dumms Mountain range," Longcaster replied, his tone matter-of-fact but tense.
The co-pilot quickly pulled out the folded map they had received from Mission Command. It was a local map purchased in Italica, translated and printed for military use. He spread it over his lap, scanning the terrain, his eyes searching for the two locations Longcaster had mentioned.
"There," he muttered, placing his gloved finger on the thin blue line marked as the Row Stream. "And here," he continued, tapping the mountainous area labeled as the Dumms Mountain range.
"Shit…"
The pilot turned his head slightly. "What is it?"
"This reptile is right on our path. Longcaster's right." The co-pilot's finger traced the path they had been planning to take, but now there was an ominous obstruction—one they hadn't anticipated.
The pilot frowned, adjusting his grip on the controls. "How the hell are we supposed to navigate around something like that?"
"We don't. We land and let the convoy handle it from the ground. It's too risky to fly through that area with a dragon on the loose. We're sitting ducks up here," the co-pilot responded, still staring at the map.
The pilot keyed the comms again. "Longcaster, this is Starlight. Acknowledged on the dragon. We'll divert to FOB Goliath and proceed by ground from there. Out."
The loadmaster, still manning the rear of the Chinook, leaned closer, overhearing the conversation. "You telling me we're grounding this mission because of a dragon?" he asked, half-joking but aware of the serious implications.
"Yeah," the co-pilot muttered. "And not just any dragon. If the reports are accurate, this one's a massive one. We won't risk it in the air."
The pilot straightened in his seat, scanning the horizon ahead as the Chinook began to adjust its course. Outside, the distant silhouettes of Outlaw Squadron's Apaches mirrored their movements, repositioning to flank the heavier helicopter. The mission wasn't over, but it had just become a lot more complicated.
Meanwhile, high in the skies above the clouds, Aether Squadron soared gracefully in tight formation, pulling their hotlaps around Starlight as they awaited further instructions. The distant hum of their jet engines cut through the stillness of the sky, a stark contrast to the tension brewing below.
As the squadron maintained their flight path, a crackling transmission came through their comms, interrupting the rhythm of their routine.
"Aether Squadron, this is Longcaster. New orders. Operation White Dove will continue on the ground, and Golem Squadron has just been scrambled to provide air support."
Trigger, leading Aether Squadron, straightened in his cockpit, eyes narrowing behind his visor as he awaited the rest of the briefing.
"You guys need to divert to the newly designated Area-3, located between the Row Stream and the Dumms Mountain range. Your objective is to ground a massive dragon. Mission Command has designated the target as Lizard-1."
Trigger keyed his mic, glancing to his left and right to his fellow squadmates pulling formation with him. "Roger, Longcaster. Aether-1 copies all. Diverting to Area-3." His voice was calm, but the weight of the mission settled in the pit of his stomach.
A green marker appeared on his HUD as the Area of Operation was marked by Longcaster. "There it is...", He muttered to himself as he folded the wings of his XF/A-22 and engaged the after burner, breaking through the sound barrier.
"Lizard-1, huh?" Jet's voice crackled over the comms, a hint of amusement in his tone. "First time I'm hunting dragons, but hey, first time for everything, right?"
"Cut the chatter, Jet." Skid's voice came through next, firm and focused. "We've got a serious threat ahead. Focus up."
The squadron banked left in unison, their sleek fighter jets slicing through the cloud cover as they adjusted course toward the new target area. Below them, the landscape shifted, revealing the rugged terrain of the Dumms Mountain range and the winding blue streak of the Row Stream cutting through the wilderness. Somewhere down there, lurking between the peaks and valleys, was Lizard-1.
Trigger adjusted his throttle, pushing his craft into formation with the rest of Aether Squadron. "Alright, Aether, let's keep tight and follow protocol. This thing is massive, and we don't know what it's capable of. We ground it hard and fast before it causes damage. White dove is now Golem's problem".
"Roger that, Boss," Stiff replied, his AMRAAMs gleaming as the morning light reflected off the sleek surfaces of the squadron's aircraft. The sun was just starting to rise, casting an orange hue over the horizon, illuminating the squadron as they flew in perfect formation, their jets cutting through the sky with precision and purpose.
While the squadron had trained extensively with the aircraft they now commanded, there were always exceptions. Skid's X-02 Strike Wyvern, for example, was a beast all on its own. Unlike the other planes in the squadron, her aircraft boasted a railgun mounted on its belly—a weapon unlike anything most pilots had the chance to train with.
There hadn't been enough time to fully train with a weapon of this magnitude, especially considering it wasn't your standard missile or cannon. Firing the railgun required a different kind of precision. Aiming wasn't particularly difficult; the reticle was simple enough—a circle with a dot in the middle. Line up the dot with whatever unfortunate target you wanted to erase from the sky, squeeze the trigger, and let physics do the rest. The projectile would scream through the atmosphere at speeds between Mach 8 and Mach 9, giving the enemy no chance to dodge. It was a lethal one-hit kill.
But pulling the trigger was the easy part. Keeping the reticle lined up on a fast-moving target long enough to ensure the shot was on point? That was the challenge. Once the shot was fired, there was a long waiting period while the railgun gathered energy for the next round. In that downtime, Skid would be vulnerable—a risk that made every shot critical. Then there was also the problem that the Railgun had such a massive recoil and making it move to be radar guided would rip it off the plane itself. That's why the gun was fixed and the Pilot had to have a Visual on the target to fire the gun accurately.
Skid smirked under her helmet, eyes narrowing as she mentally prepared herself for what was coming. She had trained for years to hit fast-moving targets with a variety of weapons, but this was different. This time, she was taking down a dragon.
Then there was Crash, flying his CFA-44 Nosferatu—a plane that defied conventional wisdom in the same way its pilot defied standard operating procedure. The Nosferatu had the option to carry a railgun like Skid's Wyvern, but that wasn't its main appeal. No, the true power of Crash's aircraft lay in its hidden arsenal of micro missiles. Tucked away inside the fuselage were three missile pods—two at the back and one beneath the belly—that could remain concealed until they were needed, emerging only when it was time to strike.
The micro missiles were brutal in close-quarters combat, powerhouses of destruction despite their limited range. What they lacked in reach, they more than made up for in sheer volume. A single volley could unleash an overwhelming barrage, turning the sky into a chaotic storm of fire and metal. But using them effectively wasn't as simple as firing off a standard AIM-9 or R-73 missile. Crash had to consider how many missiles to launch and when to launch them. Firing everything at once would deplete his arsenal too quickly, leaving him vulnerable.
Still, for all the challenges in managing the Nosferatu's unique weapon systems, the aircraft had its upsides. Most people assumed that with such a heavy payload, the CFA-44 would be slow and cumbersome in the air, a fat target ripe for enemy fire. And, on paper, that assumption would make sense. After all the plane isn't very small either, with a lengh of over 20 meters and a wingspan of 12.4 meters it was a massive chunk of metal.
But people often forgot one critical detail: the Nosferatu was a Estovakian design. And Estovakians don't make sense. Just like any Nation in the Strangereal world, they make Wars, that's why the Nosferatu wasn't just another fighter jet. It was one of the most capable, agile, and dangerous aircraft in the skies, defying the very expectations its mass and missile loadouts suggested.
"Alright, guys… I think I got something," Cole's voice crackled over the comms, his eyes locked on his radar display. A large, ominous blip had appeared, much bigger than any enemy aircraft they had ever seen.
"Yep… I see it too," Crash muttered, the same massive radar signature lighting up on his own screen. The readings were unmistakable. Whatever it was, it was huge.
Trigger's voice cut in, calm but edged with tension. "Alright, everyone, you know the drill. Prepare for a dogfight with a beast that's as big as a mountain. Let's give this fucker hell."
The squadron tightened their formation, each pilot focused and ready for the battle ahead. Adrenaline surged through their veins as they descended closer to the target zone, the rugged peaks of the Dumms Mountain range looming below them. Somewhere in those crags, Lizard-1 was lurking.
The radar signature grew stronger, and in the distance, the first glint of something massive caught their eye. A shadow stretched across the mountains—a living, breathing titan of flesh and scales, wings spread wide, cutting through the air with terrifying grace.
"There it is…" Stiff muttered, his voice laced with awe and disbelief. "That thing's huge."
Meanwhile with Operation White Dove
The Chinook's rotors slowed as it touched down, dust kicking up in a whirlwind around it. The moment the ramp lowered, all the passengers—except for the pilots and the loadmaster—disembarked swiftly, their boots hitting the dirt with purpose. Without hesitation, the Chinook's engines roared back to life, and the massive bird lifted off again, heading back toward Fort Harling.
Captain Mitchell scanned the area, his mind already racing with questions. He walked up to Hudson, tapping the agent on the shoulder.
"Yo, Agent. What now?" Mitchell asked, his voice filled with curiosity and a hint of impatience.
Hudson didn't reply immediately, only offering a shrug, as if the answer was obvious. Before Mitchell could push for more, a convoy of JLTVs and an armored MRAP rumbled up to the landing zone. The vehicles stopped in formation, their engines growling softly as the driver's doors opened. Osean service members—sharp, precise—jumped out, standing at parade rest and offering crisp salutes.
Hudson turned to Mitchell, a smug grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Does that answer your question?" he asked.
Mitchell stared at the convoy in awe, momentarily speechless. It was more than he had expected—reinforcements, armored transport, and an undeniable show of force. He blinked, realizing that, once again, Hudson had been ahead of the game, orchestrating every step with precision.
"Well… I guess we're not walking," Mitchell muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.
Hudson chuckled. "Nope. We've got wheels, and we've got the firepower to match." He gestured toward the MRAP and the 40mm Mk-19 Granade launching Machine gun. "Mount up, Captain. We've got places to be, and time's not on our side."
Mitchell nodded, still processing the situation as he turned to his team. "Alright, everyone. You heard the man. Let's move! Erusians, Princess, and Hudson inside the MRAP. My squad in the lead JLTV, OIA and you guys mount up in the rest!" He barked out the orders with authority, his voice carrying across the group.
The random Marine unit patrolling inside Italica—the ones Mitchell had referred to as "you guys"—stared at him blankly, clearly uncertain about their new role in this unfolding situation. One of the Marines, a corporal, stepped forward hesitantly. "Sir... I don't think we can leave here," he muttered nervously.
Mitchell's eyes narrowed, and his voice came out like a whip. "I don't care if your legs are broken or your rifles bent. I want your unit in these JLTVs, NOW!" The captain's tone left no room for argument, his commanding presence sending a shockwave through the ranks.
The Marine corporal paled at Mitchell's outburst, flinching slightly as he fumbled for his radio. There was no denying the order now. The Marine keyed his comms, sending through the call to his command and relaying the order to the rest of his unit. Mitchell could see the tension in the corporal's face, but it was clear the message had been received.
Within minutes, the sound of boots on gravel filled the air. Thirty additional Marines marched forward, standing at attention in front of Mitchell and Hudson. Along with them, a Stryker Infantry Carrier Vehicle (ICV) rolled up, its massive form dominating the scene. Mounted on top was a 25mm Bushmaster cannon, the barrel slowly swiveling, a clear show of the firepower that had just joined their convoy.
Mitchell exchanged a glance with Hudson, who smirked slightly. "Well, Captain, looks like you got your reinforcements."
Mitchell couldn't help but grin back. "Looks like it." He turned to the Marines. "Alright, Marines, mount up! You're now part of this mission, so gear up and let's get moving. We don't have time to waste!"
The Marines wasted no time, climbing into the remaining JLTVs with practiced efficiency, the Stryker rolling into position at the center of the convoy. The vehicles hummed with power, engines revving as everyone prepared for the journey ahead.
Mitchell stood by the lead JLTV, surveying the assembled force. It was bigger than what he had expected, and with the Stryker and the extra Marines, they were packing some serious firepower.
Hudson gave a final nod before hopping into the MRAP with the Erusians and Princess Cossette. Mitchell turned to his squad, who were already locked and loaded in the JLTV, and then gave a final look over the convoy.
"Alright, let's roll!" Mitchell called out, hopping into the lead vehicle. The convoy roared to life, engines rumbling as the vehicles began moving out in formation. Dust kicked up behind them as they set out on their new mission, leaving Italica behind.
Some time later, while they were driving, Mitchell's radio suddenly crackled to life. "Uhm... Captain? Here is Corporal Foster. What did we sign up for here?" came the voice of the young Marine, a hint of uncertainty evident.
"Just some asset protection," Mitchell replied nonchalantly, trying to keep things calm and collected.
"Oh... a... alright, Captain. Over," the Corporal replied, ending the brief exchange.
Mitchell nodded to himself, then turned to his team in the lead JLTV. "Alright, listen up, guys," he began, his voice steady but firm. "You know the drill. Normal asset protection. Keep your guns low and smiles wide for the public. We're not here to spook anyone. But if the situation goes sideways, I want you out of the line of fire and along with the VIP immediately."
He paused, glancing at Shepherd for a second longer than the others before continuing, "Take out the HVTs first—RPGs, LMGs—you know the deal. Usual priorities."
The squad nodded in understanding, each one quietly going over their mental checklists, preparing for whatever might come next. The convoy rolled on through the landscape, the tension ever-present, but hidden beneath the surface.
Meanwhile with Cossette and Hudson in the MRAP, the situation was just as tense as with Mitchell.
Cossette didn't had her usual smile on her face. She looked tense and... distant, which made the GIGN operatives scratch their heads, so the lead operative spoke up.
"Votre Altesse, vous vous sentez bien ? Vous semblez… étrange," he said in Erusian, his voice slightly muffled by the black balaclava and helmet visor. Cossette flinched at the sudden attention, while Hudson raised an eyebrow, watching the exchange closely.
"You know I can understand you, right?" Hudson asked the operative directly, his tone neutral but pointed.
The GIGN officer seemed taken aback for a moment but quickly masked his surprise, maintaining a calm facade. "Oui, I know. But I prefer to talk to the Princess in her native tongue," the operative replied, a slight edge creeping into his voice, making it clear he wasn't one to be easily swayed.
Hudson just smirked smugly and leaned back in his seat, raising his hands in a de-escalating manner. "Alright, alright, no need to bear your fangs at me, you tiger you..." he replied, a mocking undertone creeping into his voice.
The GIGN operative's hand instinctively moved toward his sidearm before Cossette quickly intervened, placing a hand on his arm.
"Arrêtez ça ! Ce n'est pas ainsi qu'un Erusien devrait se comporter," she said in a stern tone, her voice cutting through the tension. She then turned sharply toward Hudson. "And you, mister know-it-all and super-strong. Why can't you at least try to like us? Just for five minutes!"
Her frustration was palpable, and even Hudson's smug expression faltered. His face turned serious again as he spoke, his voice colder and more controlled.
"Because one of your drones took away everything I had. It murdered my family… while they were in Oured. They were civilians, and yet that bomb killed them."
The mood inside the MRAP shifted dramatically. The air grew heavy, the tension palpable. The GIGN operatives all looked away, avoiding Hudson's gaze, clearly uncomfortable with the revelation. Cossette's eyes widened in horror as she stared at him, the gravity of his words sinking in.
"You're damn lucky you have something with Captain Preston," Hudson continued, his voice thick with restrained emotion, "because I swear…" His voice faltered, and he couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. The bitterness hung in the air, unfinished, but enough to leave an unspoken warning.
Cossette sat there, frozen by the weight of what she had just heard. The reality of the pain Hudson carried was now starkly visible.
"I know that war is still war and people get killed all the time... but why them?" Hudson continued, his voice still strong and unwavering. "They were noncombatants, no military, hell, they didn't even work for the government. They were just there for vacation."
His gaze remained cold and emotionless, a stark contrast to the turmoil bubbling beneath the surface. It was as though the years of training and experience had built a wall around his emotions, one that kept him functioning but never truly healing. The weight of his loss lingered in every word, though his expression betrayed none of the pain inside.
He paused, eyes locking onto Princess Cossette with a look that felt like it could burn through stone. "Now tell me, Princess," Hudson said, his voice lowering into something almost dangerous, "why should I even pretend to acknowledge you?"
Cossette flinched, taken aback by the directness of his question. The air inside the MRAP grew even heavier, silence stretching in the wake of his words. She opened her mouth to speak, but the weight of the question settled over her, and for a brief moment, she had no answer.
"Yeah. Just what I thought," Hudson muttered, his voice laced with bitter finality. He leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms, the coldness in his expression unchanging. The tension in the MRAP hung thick in the air, the silence following his words feeling oppressive.
Cossette's gaze dropped, her mind racing, but no words came. There was nothing she could say that would ease the raw pain Hudson carried, nothing that could explain away the tragedy that had shaped him. The other passengers shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to break the quiet or if they even should.
Hudson glanced at her again, but this time with less intensity, as though he had already dismissed her from his thoughts. The mission loomed ahead, and there was no room for personal grievances—at least not now.
"Now, let's forget this," Hudson said, his tone hardening as he straightened in his seat. "Because the mission always comes first. Grieving comes later."
His words carried a finality that left no room for argument, a reminder to everyone inside the MRAP that personal pain had no place in the heat of duty. Whatever emotions lingered had to be shoved aside, at least for now. The mission was paramount.
Cossette, still shaken by Hudson's words, nodded slightly, though she couldn't bring herself to speak. The operatives, now on edge, refocused on the task ahead, tension replaced by quiet professionalism. There was no time for distraction.
-Operation White Dove-
Falmart Calendar, 1291
Fort Harling, HQ
Mission Command
At this moment, McKinsey was probably the most stressed-out person on Fort Harling. In his hands lay the safety of not only the most feared agent in all of Osea—now operating in the unpredictable world of Falmart—but also the young, yet undeniably powerful Princess of Erusea, their partner nation. The weight of responsibility bore down on him like a physical force.
If anything were to happen to either of them, McKinsey was sure he wouldn't be around to celebrate his next birthday—and that would be the least of his concerns. The real threat wasn't some political fallout or reprimand from high command. No, it was Trigger. The pilot might not wear a crown, but his influence and presence loomed large. McKinsey shuddered at the thought of what Trigger would do if something were to happen with his unofficial-Official fiancé and unborn Child.
The secret of Cossette's pregnancy had spilled almost immediately across the entire base, and judging by the dark look on the Belkan sitting in the corner of the HQ, it had likely spread to their world as well. Whispers and rumors traveled fast, and while the news of the princess's condition was common knowledge, only a handful of carefully chosen individuals knew the truth behind it—the identity of the father.
McKinsey was one of those few. He could feel the weight of that knowledge sitting heavily on his shoulders, as though every interaction, every glance, had to be carefully measured. The wrong word, a careless slip, and all hell could break loose. The man seated in the corner of the room, Herzog Klaus Ferdinand, had a cold intensity about him that unnerved even the most hardened soldiers. McKinsey could only imagine what would happen if Klaus learned the truth—that the father wasn't some political match, but none other than Osea's infamous ace pilot.
"Give me the feed of UAV-2, I want to know what's ahead of them," McKinsey ordered.
Not a second later, the drone pilot complied and transferred the feed to the large display on the wall. "Seems clear, sir," the operator muttered.
"Yes, I can fucking see that. I have eyes too," McKinsey shot back, sighing afterward. He pinched the bridge of his nose, frustration evident. Looking back up, he barked, "Switch to thermals. Let's see if something's hiding down there."
The tension in the room spiked as the screen flickered, shifting to thermal imaging. Four distinct heat signatures emerged from the bush, strange staff-like objects poking out through the undergrowth.
"What the hell is that?!" McKinsey asked, his voice a mix of confusion and frustration.
"Sir?" The operator hesitated, unsure of how to proceed.
"Drop a 39 on these fucks," McKinsey barked, catching Klaus off guard. The Belkan officer hadn't expected the colonel to be this reckless.
"Sir?" The drone operator's voice wavered with uncertainty.
"Did I fucking stutter?" McKinsey snapped, his frustration boiling over. "All our other operations are on hold, and the only friendlies outside Fort Harling and FOB Goliath are in the capital itself. Now drop this damned bomb already!"
Klaus felt a surge of unease but said nothing. The room fell into an eerie silence, all eyes on the operator as he input the command.
"Bombs armed, laser is locked... and... bombs away," the drone operator confirmed. The footage on the screen trembled slightly as the GBU-39 was released, followed by the closing of the bomb bay doors.
An eerie silence filled the room, the tension thick as everyone watched the screen, waiting for the inevitable impact. Seconds later, the ground in the thermal feed erupted into a cloud of dust, the explosion's heat flaring bright in the infrared image.
"Direct hit," the operator announced. "Threats are no factor."
McKinsey exhaled, his rigid posture relaxing slightly, though a quiet intensity lingered in the room as the dust began to settle on the screen. Slowly, the thermal image cleared, revealing the four figures sprawled on the ground, motionless. Some lay in unnatural positions, limbs torn and scattered across the terrain as the still warm blood of their freshly deceased bodies covered the ground.
McKinsey stared at the screen for a moment longer, his jaw clenched. "Good. Keep scanning for any other signatures in the area. I want to make sure we didn't miss anything."
"Yes, sir," the operator replied, his fingers moving swiftly to follow the command.
Meanwhile with Operation White Dove
The drive through the deserted landscape was a quiet one for Basilisk Team. They cracked a joke here and there, mostly at Elmar's expense, but the team just didn't feel complete without Motorola, even with Shepherd sitting in his place. Mitchell, who usually never missed an opportunity to tease Elmar, was unusually silent, keeping to himself as he stared out the window. The barren landscape blurred by, but Mitchell's thoughts were elsewhere, lost in the absence of their missing teammate. The weight of Motorola's absence was heavy, palpable even in the light-hearted moments that failed to land.
"Uh... Cap, you might want to see this," the driver called from up front, shaking Mitchell from his train of thought.
"What's up?" Mitchell responded, glancing back from his spot.
"Just... just look," the driver advised, a touch of unease in his voice. Mitchell sighed, pushing himself forward to get a better view. His eyes widened briefly as he saw the scene ahead: four bodies lay scattered on the ground, their surroundings scorched with signs of an explosion or intense fire.
Limbs were torn from torsos, suggesting something violent had occurred. Mitchell tapped the driver's shoulder, his gut leaning toward fire, judging by the burns and the positioning of the bodies.
"All Victors, hold," Mitchell ordered into his radio. The response was immediate as the convoy of six vehicles came to a stop, the brakes creaking under the strain of halting the six-ton JLTVs. The tension in the air was palpable as the team waited for further instructions, the eerie stillness of the scene ahead setting everyone on edge.
Mitchell stepped out of the vehicle, his rifle raised and ready. The dry air felt heavier with each cautious step he took toward the grisly scene. Behind him, he heard the distinct sound of another door opening and closing.
A quick glance over his shoulder revealed Hudson, already moving toward him, pistol in hand, his eyes scanning the surroundings with practiced caution.
"What's up, Captain?" Hudson asked as he closed the distance between them.
"See for yourself," Mitchell muttered, stepping aside to give Hudson a clear view of the bodies strewn across the ground. The charred earth and torn limbs told a silent, violent story, one that neither of them could ignore.
Hudson paused for a moment, his face hardening as he took it in. "Damn... looks like they never saw it coming."
Mitchell nodded grimly. "Yeah, and I don't think it was an accident. Something or someone did this deliberately."
"No shit..." Hudson muttered, eyes sweeping the area as he began searching for clues. Mitchell, meanwhile, keyed his PTT, his expression tight as he sought some clarity.
"Mission Command, this is Basilisk. Do you have eyes on us?" he asked.
"Confirming visual on Basilisk and convoy," McKinsey's voice crackled through the radio.
Mitchell kicked at what appeared to be a crude spear lying on the ground. "Did you guys have anything to do with... whatever this is?"
"Affirmative, Basilisk. I ordered the bomb strike on that target. It looked like a threat to the convoy," McKinsey replied nonchalantly, his tone casual as if discussing routine procedure.
Mitchell nodded to himself, dropping to one knee to inspect the bodies closer. One of them wore chainmail—something soldiers in this strange world might wear—but the others looked like civilians, dressed in ordinary, if rough, clothing. It was hard to tell what counted as "normal" in a place like this.
Before Mitchell could dig deeper into his thoughts, Hudson's voice called from the nearby treeline. "Cap! Over here!"
Mitchell stood and moved toward the forest, pushing through the thick brush. "What now?" he muttered, eyes darting around. As he broke through the bush line, he scanned the area, confused.
"Up here!" Hudson's voice called again, this time from above.
Mitchell looked up, raising his rifle instinctively as his gaze followed. What he saw next made him break into laughter. Hudson was dangling four meters above the ground, tangled in a tree trap that had snared him in a net.
"Oh, hey there, Agent," Mitchell grinned, struggling to contain his amusement. "How's it—hanging?" He couldn't hold it in anymore and burst into laughter, doubling over as Hudson sighed, swinging helplessly in the net.
"Very funny, Captain," Hudson muttered, his pride clearly bruised as he attempted to untangle himself.
Mitchell wiped a tear from his eye as he reached for his knife, but the moment he pulled it out, another uncontrollable wave of laughter hit him. The knife slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground. Unable to stop himself, he doubled over, collapsing onto the ground, clutching his stomach as laughter wracked his body.
Hudson, swinging helplessly in the net above, sighed loudly. "Glad to see you're having the time of your life down there, Captain," he muttered, his face more annoyed than anything else.
Mitchell, still gasping for breath between laughs, managed to choke out, "I—I swear… this is the most cliché thing I've seen in this goddamn world!" He lay there for another moment, wiping his eyes, trying to regain composure, though the sight of Hudson stuck in the net continued to send him into fits of laughter.
Hudson rolled his eyes, groaning internally. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Now how about you get serious and get me down from here before the rest of the team shows up and this becomes their favorite story too?"
Mitchell's face lit up with a mischievous grin. "That's actually a great idea!" he said, already reaching for his PTT.
"No, wait—" Hudson called, a hint of panic creeping into his voice, but it was too late. Mitchell had already keyed his radio.
"Yo, Basilisk! Come here real quick. I need some help," Mitchell said, barely able to contain his laughter.
"Really?" Hudson deadpanned, his expression caught somewhere between frustration and resignation.
"Roger, Captain, we're on our way," Nantz's voice crackled over the radio, stern and focused, clearly expecting a serious situation.
Hudson sighed, his shoulders sagging as he dangled in the net. "This is going to haunt me, isn't it?"
Mitchell chuckled, stepping back to get a better view of the situation. "Oh, you bet. This is going straight into Basilisk history." He looked around the quiet forest and added, "Just be glad the wildlife here doesn't seem to care about making a meal out of you while you hang around."
Hudson gave him a tired look, but there was no stopping the inevitable as the rest of the team approached, undoubtedly about to witness his predicament.
As the barrels of the rest of Basilisk broke ghrough the bushes, Mitchell waved them over to him. Sabrina was the first to approache Mitchell, her face turned confused as she saw no immediate threat but just Mitchell grinning widely and looking upwards.
"What's going ooo..." Sabrina began, trailing off as she followed Mitchell's gaze. Her eyes landed on Hudson, swinging helplessly in the net above them. "...ооо okhuyet blyat..." she muttered in Yuktobanian, her expression torn between disbelief and amusement.
Mitchell couldn't help but laugh again, while Hudson gave a deep, exasperated sigh. "Yeah, yeah, get it out of your system."
Sabrina, trying to suppress her laughter, looked at Mitchell. "Did you—?"
Mitchell grinned, holding up his hands. "Wasn't me this time. Our dear Agent here found himself in a classic trap. Couldn't resist sharing the moment."
"Classic is an understatement," Nantz snorted, stepping closer to inspect the trap. "How on earth did you manage to pull this off, Hudson?"
"Let's just say I wasn't looking up," Hudson muttered, his pride clearly bruised.
Elmar shook her head with a smirk. "Well, I guess we're going to need a picture of this for the records. You know, for Basilisk history."
Shepherd, clearly torn between confusion and amusement, tapped Mitchell on the shoulder. "Uh… Captain," she asked, her eyes still glued to the sight of Hudson dangling helplessly in the net, "What exactly is this Basilisk History you're talking about?"
Mitchell chuckled, still grinning. "Oh, you see, Shepherd, Basilisk History is what we call those special moments that we—" he glanced at Hudson with a smirk, "—never let anyone live down. This one's going down as a classic for sure."
Hudson, still trapped above them, let out a resigned sigh. "Great. Just what I needed, my own entry in the history books."
Mitchell turned to Shepherd, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "Think of it like… unofficial team lore. Every embarrassing, awkward, or ridiculous moment gets cataloged for future laughs. Keeps morale up in the field."
Shepherd raised an eyebrow, a small smile forming on her lips. "So, is this how you maintain team unity? By trapping each other in nets?"
Mitchell grinned. "Well, not on purpose, but it's a happy accident when it happens. I'll show you some examples in the JLTV" He gestured toward Hudson. "Besides, it's rare to catch our dear Agent here lacking this much".
"Glad I could help boost morale," Hudson muttered sarcastically, still hanging from the tree.
Mitchell clapped his hands together. "Alright, fun's over. Let's get him down before anyone else shows up and adds more to this 'history.'"
With a swift motion, Henry cut the rope, while Elmar and Nantz held onto it, making sure the net didn't come crashing down and injure Hudson. As the net gently lowered, Hudson finally touched the ground. He dusted himself off, his hands brushing the dirt from his clearly expensive suit, his expression darkening as he turned his gaze to Mitchell.
"I'll get you back for this," Hudson growled, though the slight amusement in his voice betrayed him.
Mitchell grinned, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "You walked into that one all by yourself, Agent. But I'll be waiting for whatever payback you've got planned."
Hudson smirked, shaking his head. "Oh, you can bet on it, Cap. When you least expect it."
The rest of the team chuckled, the earlier tension evaporating with each shared laugh. Mitchell, though fully aware that Hudson's threat of payback wasn't an empty one, was content for now. The brief, lighthearted moment had lifted everyone's spirits.
"Anyway," Hudson said, his tone shifting back to seriousness as he gestured toward a small camp just beyond the clearing. "Take a look at this, Captain."
Mitchell followed his gesture, eyes scanning the campsite. "Yeah, probably their camping site. Nothing special about it," he said, shrugging. The area looked primitive—what he'd expect from locals in this world.
Hudson raised an eyebrow. "Look closer, Captain," he insisted. "I'm not sure these Falmarties have access to military MREs—or Semtex."
Mitchell's eyes narrowed as he took a second glance. Sure enough, there were crumpled MRE packaging scattered on the ground, and, nestled among some crates, unmistakable blocks of Semtex. His heart skipped a beat as his mind raced to catch up with the implications.
"Shit," Mitchell muttered under his breath, kneeling to inspect the supplies more closely. "How the hell did they get their hands on this?"
"Pretty damn sure these guys are some kind of Black Ops, or they got paid off by someone," Mitchell muttered, standing back up and giving Hudson a hard look.
Hudson nodded, his gaze sweeping over the campsite. "Exactly my thought. Civilians don't just stumble across this kind of gear."
Mitchell clenched his jaw. "If someone's pulling strings here, then we've got a bigger problem on our hands than just Sadera and their Knights and bandits."
"These US guys… maybe?" Nantz chimed in from behind them, gesturing to another discarded MRE package, its familiar Stars and Stripes clearly visible.
Mitchell sighed and keyed his PTT. "Mission Command, this is Basilisk, how copy?"
"Basilisk, this is Mission Command. Solid copy, send traffic," McKinsey's voice came through.
"I think these US guys are more involved in the politics of this world than we thought," Mitchell began, glancing around the campsite again. "We just found a camp site—likely from the targets you bombed. They had MREs and military-grade explosives, Semtex. How copy?"
McKinsey's response came swiftly. "Solid, Basilisk. Mission Command had everything. We've gathered intel and are prepping for a major offensive against these targets as we speak. After Operation White Dove is complete, we'll shift to Phase Two—Operation Midnight Thunder."
Mitchell exchanged a look with Hudson. "Operation Midnight Thunder?"
Hudson raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like things are about to get a whole lot more complicated."
Mitchell nodded, his mind racing. "Roger that, Mission Command. Basilisk will continue with White Dove".
Back in the vehicles, the mood had shifted drastically. The lightheartedness of Hudson's earlier accident had evaporated, replaced by a tense, uneasy silence. What they had stumbled upon wasn't just a simple rebel camp—it was something much bigger, and the weight of that realization hung heavy in the air.
Mitchell sat in the front, staring out at the barren landscape as the convoy rumbled onward. He could feel the shift in the team, each of them lost in their own thoughts, processing what they had uncovered. The joke-cracking camaraderie was gone, replaced by quiet determination and the cold understanding that they were now embroiled in something far more dangerous than they'd anticipated.
Hudson settled back into his seat, catching the expectant stares from the GIGN operatives and Cossette. He sighed, feeling the weight of their unspoken questions.
"What is it?!" Hudson snapped, shooting a pointed glare at the Erusians.
Cossette, unfazed, shot back just as sharply. "What happened?"
Hudson ran a hand through his hair, brushing off the remnants of his recent misfortune. "We're probably heading into a war—sooner rather than later—with the other inhabitants of the Gate world," he said, his tone nonchalant, though the gravity of his words was unmistakable.
"What do you mean?" the GIGN operator from earlier asked, his voice steady but weary. He had removed his balaclava and helmet, revealing a middle-aged man with light brown hair and the beginnings of a beard on his chin. "I'm really not in the mood for another war," he added with a resigned sigh.
Hudson chuckled dryly, though the humor didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah, well, not with us this time… although, it's with a nation similar to us. They're called the United States of America. We're them in our world—just, you know, better obviously," he added, clearly trying to lift the mood with a bit of dry humor. But it fell flat in the tense atmosphere, the weight of his words too heavy for any levity to break through.
The GIGN operator frowned, rubbing his jaw. "Another superpower? That's the last thing we need. And if they're anything like us, this won't be simple."
"Yeah... I know," Hudson sighed, wiping his face with his hands, the exhaustion evident in his voice. "God damn it... I'm getting myself entangled in way too many wars lately. One was definitely more than enough… then the Lighthouse War, and now this shit..."
His words hung in the air, the frustration and weariness unmistakable. The weight of each conflict seemed to press down on him, the endless cycle of battle leaving its mark.
The GIGN operator gave a sympathetic nod. "War always finds a way to pull us back in. Doesn't matter how many times you think it's over."
Cossette's eyes softened as she watched Hudson, sensing the toll it had taken on him. "You're not alone in this one," she said quietly. "We all have to face what's coming, but at least this time, we face it together."
Hudson gave her a small, appreciative nod, though the weariness remained. "Yeah, together… let's just hope this one doesn't spiral out of control like the others." He leaned back, staring out of the window, trying to find solace in the passing landscape, though the burden of yet another looming conflict weighed heavily on his mind.
The next couple of hours flew by like a minute, without any other major incidents. As the walls of the Capital City came closer and closer, the Radio's went on and a steady voice crackling through.
"Approaching Vehicles, this is the US Strategic Command of Falmart. State your names and intentions".
"This is Captain John Mitchell of the Osean Marine Corps. Marine Raiders, Basilisk Team. We're here for the Diplomatic Mission. With us we have a detachment of the Osean Marine Corps, and the personal security detail of the Erusian Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise
A/N:
We're getting closer guys... all out War is Approaching, the big ass Dragon is about to get cooked and the US forces will meet Railgun Tanks and Planes, Lasers and Super Planes in the battlefield. Shit's about to get real lads and Lasses.
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