-Operation Devine Hammer-
Falmart Calendar, 1291
Fort Harling
Airfield
Jet engines roared to life, their deep rumble reverberating through the air as plumes of dust were thrown skyward. The canopies of the various fighter aircraft slowly closed, sealing the pilots in their high-tech cockpits. With a nod of farewell, the ground crews offered a final thumbs-up, their faces etched with a mix of pride and apprehension. The pilots, some grinning beneath their helmets, returned the gesture, acknowledging the bond between them and the crews that had brought these machines to life.
In one of the hangars, the so-called "Wild Weasels" were being prepped with meticulous precision. These specialized aircraft, mostly F/A-18 Super Hornets that had been converted into electronic warfare platforms, now bore the designation of E/A-18 Growlers. Their mission was clear: to be the silent hunters of enemy radar systems, turning the tables on anyone trying to track or target the allied forces.
Instead of the standard air-to-air loadout that most pilots were accustomed to seeing on such jets, these Growlers were bristling with a different kind of firepower. Their hardpoints were packed with advanced sensors, jamming equipment, and electronic warfare systems. Three jamming pods stood out prominently—one mounted beneath the belly and two on the wing pylons. Together, these pods emitted powerful electronic signals, disrupting and jamming enemy radar arrays, rendering them blind to the fighters and bombers streaking toward their targets.
But that wasn't all the Growlers had in their arsenal. Alongside the jamming pods were two AGM-88 HARM missiles, sleek and lethal. These weapons were designed for one purpose: to home in on the radar signals of enemy surface-to-air missile systems and radar sites. As soon as an enemy radar lit up, the HARM missiles locked onto the source with deadly accuracy, turning the tables on the very systems meant to protect the skies.
The loadout made the E/A-18 Growlers a nightmare for any radar operator. The moment they picked up a signal from one of these planes, it was already too late. Their screens would flicker, jammed by an overwhelming flood of electronic interference, and just as they scrambled to respond, the AGM-88s would streak through the sky, zeroing in on their last known position.
The Growler pilots, known for their cool precision, were well aware of the fear their planes inspired in enemy radar crews. As they sat in their cockpits, preparing for whatever mission was thrown at them, they ran through their final systems checks. The hum of their advanced equipment filled the air, a stark reminder of the power at their fingertips.
"All systems green," came the calm voice of one of the Growler pilots over the radio. His jet was a flying fortress of electronic warfare, ready to wreak havoc on the enemy's defenses.
In the adjacent hangars, a flurry of activity surrounded the preparation of the strike aircraft. Ground crews moved with practiced precision, arming F-16Cs, F-15Es, and F-35Bs for the upcoming mission. The metallic clang of tools and the hiss of hydraulic systems echoed through the cavernous spaces as the jets were readied for one of the most critical air strikes of the war.
The F-16Cs, agile and reliable multirole fighters, were being loaded with heavy-duty bombs beneath their bellies and on the wing pylons. GBU-31 JDAMs and Mk-84 general-purpose bombs hung from the sleek aircraft like pendulums of destruction. As the ground crews worked, they carefully removed the bright red safety pins from the ordnance, one by one, ensuring that the weapons were ready to deploy at a moment's notice. The once-quiet fighter jets now bristled with firepower, primed to unleash devastation on the hardened defenses of Sadera.
Next to the F-16s, the F-15E Strike Eagles were receiving a similar treatment. Known for their payload capacity and sheer versatility, the F-15Es were the heavy hitters of the strike package. Multiple GBU-24 Paveway III laser-guided bombs were strapped securely under their wings, accompanied by AIM-120 AMRAAMs for self-defense. The crews knew that the F-15Es were designed to punch through enemy defenses and deliver precision strikes deep within enemy territory, and today, their target was clear: the heart of the enemy's capital.
The F-35Bs, the stealth fighters of the fleet, were being loaded with a mix of JDAMs and GBU-39 small-diameter bombs, their internal bays and external pylons packed for maximum lethality. The F-35B, capable of vertical takeoff and landing, added an extra layer of versatility to the strike force, combining stealth, precision, and firepower. Their cutting-edge technology meant they would be some of the first to infiltrate the enemy's airspace, clearing the path for the heavier jets behind them.
As the final safety pins were pulled from the bombs, one of the ground crew members gave a thumbs-up to the pilots. The air was thick with anticipation. Every aircraft had been armed to the teeth, ready to deliver massive firepower to the enemy. The strike force, now fully prepared, would soon take to the skies with one mission: to cripple the defenses of Sadera and pave the way for the ground assault.
Across the airfield, at the helipads, the powerful rotors of the heavy CH-47 Chinook helicopters began to spin, their engines flaring to life with a mechanical growl. Beside them, AH-6 Little Birds and AH-64 Apache gunships came to life in unison, pilots and gunners working in perfect synchronization as they powered up their systems. The gunners of the AH-64s tested the 30mm chain guns, swinging their heads to direct the turrets, the machine guns responding to the slightest movement with precision, tracking where their gaze fell.
On the ground, Marines performed last-minute checks on their gear and rifles. The sound of magazines being slapped into magwells, charging handles racked with the solid click of readiness, and sidearms being chambered echoed across the staging area. Leaders of various squads gathered inside a large hangar, where a flip chart mounted on a tripod displayed detailed reconnaissance images of Sadera, taken from both UAVs and special operations units that had scouted the enemy capital's towering walls.
"After our flyboys have taken out the air defenses and Wyvern units stationed at Sadera, we're on the move," began OMC Commander Sergeant Major Bradley Harrington, his gravelly voice cutting through the murmurs in the hangar. A seasoned veteran, Harrington was renowned for his strategic prowess, having led the defense of Stonehenge and the Cape Rainy assault. His steady hand pointed to the map, where the 3rd and 5th Osean Armored Divisions were marked in blue rectangles, their positions set to breach the main gate of the city.
"Strike Team Zulu will insert from the southwest via fast rope from the Chinooks," Harrington continued, tracing the path with a red arrow. "Meanwhile, Strike Team Yankee will push through the main gate with the armored divisions. The 120mm cannons on the M1 Abrams should be more than enough to deal with the gates."
The sound of Harrington's voice filled the room as he continued, the mission laid out with military precision. "Once Yankee and Zulu link up, they will move towards Checkpoint Sierra where Special Forces Team 'Joker' will be awaiting them. From there, both teams will push towards 'Castle Alpha' to free the hostages. Fire teams Alpha through Hotel will remain on standby as a Quick Reaction Force for the rescue operation."
Harrington's eyes scanned the room, taking in the stoic expressions of the gathered officers. "Fire teams India through Romeo will engage directly with forces loyal to Falmart, the Japanese, or the U.S., should the situation escalate. In the worst case, all three of them at once. That's why they'll be supported by the 23rd and 51st Erusian Mechanized Infantry Brigades and the 99th Osean and 101st Erusian Armored Regiments."
The commander's voice dropped an octave, signaling the gravity of the next part. "Meanwhile, Erusian GIGN anti-terror units will perform HALO jumps from their NH-90s, landing inside the Emperor's courtyard to assassinate Molt Sol Augustus." A photo of the aging emperor was hung up by a marine standing beside the flip chart, his cold, regal features scrutinized by every officer in the room.
"Any questions?" Harrington asked, his voice booming through the now-bustling hangar. The room remained silent, no one daring to speak. The plan was airtight, and everyone knew the stakes.
"Alright, gentlemen," Harrington said, his tone softening as the moment of action neared. "Godspeed."
The officers all snapped to attention, offering crisp salutes before breaking formation and heading toward their awaiting men and vehicles. Each step they took carried the weight of what was to come.
Across the airfield, the massive hangar doors creaked open, slowly revealing six sleek and alien-looking aircraft. Their engines hummed with a controlled intensity, canopies still open as the pilots of Aether Squadron performed their last checks. Trigger, sitting in the cockpit of Aether-1, felt the tension coiled in his muscles but maintained his steady composure. With a smooth movement, he throttled forward, his aircraft gliding out of the hangar and onto the taxiway.
"Tower, this is Aether-1," Trigger called over the radio, his voice firm but carrying an undercurrent of tension. "All systems checked, all green across the board. We are ready to taxi."
"Roger that, Aether-1," the tower responded. "You are cleared to taxi to Runway 3 Romeo. How copy?"
"3 Romeo, solid copy, tower," Trigger replied as he adjusted the throttle. The other members of Aether Squadron followed in quick succession, confirming their readiness to the tower as they taxied out of the hangar behind him.
Trigger took a deep breath, his eyes darting to the ground crewman who led him out of the hangar. The crewman saluted sharply before flashing the rock 'n' roll hand gesture, a bit of humor and spirit before the storm ahead. Trigger grinned behind his visor and returned the gesture, closing the canopy with a click as he sealed himself inside his cockpit.
With one final glance at the endless sky above, Trigger knew it was time. The mission was clear, the stakes high. All that remained was to take flight—and bring the fight to the enemy.
"All stations, this is Mission Command. You have no clearance to take off! Everyone remain on standby for further orders," McKinsey's voice crackled through the radio, stern and sudden.
Everything stopped immediately.
The roar of engines and the rhythmic chopping of rotor blades died down. Chinooks, Apaches, and Little Birds began to power down, their once-rapid rotors now spinning to a halt. The canopy of Trigger's jet hissed open, allowing the wind and dust from the airfield to swirl into the cockpit, carrying with it a palpable sense of confusion.
Around him, the airfield fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the murmurs and movements of ground crew and pilots, who were just as stunned by the abrupt halt. Jets that had been moments away from taking off now sat idling, their pilots visibly perplexed.
Trigger's frustration bubbled to the surface. His heart was still racing from the tension of nearly launching into one of the war's most significant missions. He clicked on his radio, his voice steady but tinged with annoyance. "Yo, Jet, what the hell's going on?"
Across the tarmac, Aether-2—Jet—turned his head toward Trigger. His visor and oxygen mask hid his face, but the body language said it all. Jet raised his hand, giving a helpless shrug, shaking his head to signal he had no more idea than Trigger did. The uncertainty in his posture mirrored the confusion that was spreading throughout the entire airfield.
Trigger gripped the flight stick tighter, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. This sudden halt felt wrong—disjointed from the tightly coordinated operations they were used to. Ground crews began moving again, some approaching the jets with hesitant waves, unsure whether to proceed with another round of checks or leave the pilots waiting.
Trigger's comms lit up with scattered chatter as other pilots and crew members exchanged their own theories.
"Tower, this is Viper-1. What's going on? Thought we had a green light here?"
"Negative, Viper-1," the control tower responded tersely. "Hold position. All units on standby until further notice."
Trigger exhaled slowly, the tension gnawing at him. He could see Jet's shoulders sag a bit, a mirror of his own frustration. They had been ready, everything prepped, and now... nothing.
"What's the holdup?" Trigger muttered under his breath, unsure if anyone had the answer.
As if on cue, McKinsey's voice crackled through the radios of every soldier and pilot on the airfield, his tone firm but laced with finality.
"All stations, this is Mission Command. Operation Devine Hammer aborted. I say again, Operation Devine Hammer aborted. All aircraft, roll back to your hangars."
The airfield seemed to freeze, the words hanging in the air like a heavy fog. The pilots, ground crew, and soldiers all paused, processing the abrupt cancellation of what had moments before been one of the most crucial operations of the war. The noise—the hum of engines, the spin of rotors, the crackle of radios—faded into a deafening silence.
Trigger sat in his cockpit, gripping the flight stick tightly, staring out at the runway that stretched out before him. The anticipation, the adrenaline, the purpose that had fueled him just seconds earlier seemed to evaporate in an instant. He glanced over at Jet, still sitting in Aether-2, who had slowly leaned back in his seat, shaking his head. Mission aborted? It didn't make sense.
The canopies of the jets began to lift one by one, the ground crew moving toward them with hesitant steps, unsure how to react to the sudden change. The feeling of frustration was palpable in the air as the jets started their slow crawl back to the hangars, engines throttled down, the metallic beasts that had been ready to soar now reduced to taxiing back into standby.
Trigger flipped his comms back on, his voice low. "Jet... you got any idea what the hell's going on?"
Jet's voice came back, equally confused and frustrated. "Not a clue, man. We were ready to hit it, and now... just like that. It's off."
"Roger that," Trigger muttered, shaking his head. He looked out across the airfield as the helicopters, which had moments ago been ready to unleash their fury, now sat still, their rotors coming to a halt. Marines who had been prepared to deploy began to dismount from their vehicles, taking off their helmets, bewildered.
No one said it aloud, but everyone was thinking the same thing. Why?
Trigger let out a long breath and began to taxi his fighter back toward the hangar. The tension and anticipation that had filled the air just minutes earlier had dissipated into a strange, heavy silence. Whatever had caused the abort, it had come from the highest level, and that alone left a sour taste in everyone's mouth.
As Trigger rolled his jet back into its position inside the hangar, he couldn't shake the feeling that something bigger was happening—something no one had told them yet. The mission wasn't just delayed. It had been aborted
And that could only mean one thing: there was something they weren't seeing. Something that could shift the balance of the war in ways they weren't prepared for.
But for now, all they could do was wait.
Once inside the hangar, the ground crew members moved swiftly, opening the hatch on Trigger's XF/A-22 to reveal the retractable ladder. With practiced efficiency, they extended it, allowing Trigger to exit his cockpit. The same was done on Jet's F-15 S/MTD, as both aircraft canopies opened with a hiss, the pressurized air escaping in a slow release. The hangar, once filled with the roar of engines, now fell into an uneasy quiet, only the faint hum of cooling systems and the shuffling of crew members breaking the silence.
"I ain't getting paid enough for this shit," Jet muttered under his breath, climbing out of his cockpit with a groan, stretching his arms as though the weight of the day had settled in his bones.
"Yeah, you can say that loud," Skid grumbled as she stepped down from the last rung of the ladder attached to her X-02 Strike Wyvern, rolling her shoulders in exhaustion.
The three pilots naturally gravitated toward each other, forming a loose huddle in the middle of the hangar. Jet fished out a pack of cigarettes from his flight suit and offered it to Trigger. Without hesitation, Trigger declined, shaking his head. Jet turned to Skid, who accepted one with a grateful nod, her face momentarily lighting up with the flicker of a lighter. They both took long drags, the scent of smoke mingling with the lingering smell of jet fuel and oil.
"What in the world was that?" Jet finally asked, exhaling a cloud of smoke, his brow furrowed in frustration and confusion.
"Hell, if I'd know…" Trigger muttered, kicking an imaginary rock across the floor. The mission had been so close to launching, and then—nothing. The abrupt call-off was still gnawing at him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
As they stood there, trying to make sense of it all, the sound of more jets rolling into the hangar drew their attention. Crash's CFA-44 Nosferatu, Cole's ADFX-01 Morgan, and Stiff's Shinden II taxied in, their engines slowly winding down, filling the space with a low whine that gradually faded to silence. One by one, their canopies opened with a familiar hiss, and the pilots began climbing out.
The group watched as their comrades exited their aircraft, their expressions equally bewildered. Crash gave a nod as he walked over, shaking his head as though he couldn't believe the day's events. Cole looked as stoic as ever, but even he seemed more tense than usual. Stiff removed his helmet, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly frustrated with the sudden halt to the mission.
"Any of you know why we just got benched?" Crash asked as he approached, his voice laced with irritation.
"Nope," Trigger responded, crossing his arms. "Whatever's going on, it's way above our pay grade."
"Figures," Stiff muttered, tossing his helmet into the crook of his arm.
The group stood there for a moment, a collective sense of disappointment hanging in the air. They were ready, trained, and geared up for something big—only to be grounded at the last minute without an explanation.
Jet took another long drag from his cigarette before exhaling, his eyes scanning the hangar. "Well, whatever it is, it better be damn good. We were ready to light things up out there."
Trigger nodded, feeling the same. Whatever had just happened, it wasn't something small. And sooner or later, they'd have to face whatever it was head-on.
As Crash began to take another drag from his cigarette, a familiar figure made his way through the hangar. Trigger recognized him instantly—Staff Sergeant Nantz, one of the Marine Raiders. His presence alone signaled that something was up, and his hurried pace only confirmed it. Nantz's face was set in a serious expression as he approached the group of pilots.
"Yo, guys," Nantz called out, his voice laced with urgency. "McKinsey wants us all in the briefing room."
The casual atmosphere evaporated instantly. The pilots straightened up, sensing that whatever was coming next was important.
"Any idea what's going on?" Skid asked, taking a final drag from her cigarette before tossing it to the ground and grinding it out beneath her boot.
Nantz looked around, then lowered his voice, glancing over his shoulder as if making sure no one else was listening. "OIA is on base again. They're most likely the reason why we got benched all of a sudden."
Trigger exchanged a look with Jet and Crash, who both raised their eyebrows in surprise. OIA visits weren't unusual, but one that could shut down a mission at the last second? That was something different.
"Alright then. Let's see what McKinsey and the pencil pushers want from us," Trigger muttered, falling into step with Nantz as the group moved through the bustling base.
As they made their way toward the briefing room, Trigger's gaze wandered across the organized chaos of the base—Marines rushing to and from hangars, jets being refueled and re-armed, and vehicles rolling in and out. But then something caught his eye, and his stride faltered ever so slightly.
His eyes locked onto Cossette, walking with her security detail, looking calm and composed as always. But beside her, walking just a little too closely for comfort, was Klaus Ferdinand, the Belkan defense contractor, surrounded by his own formidable security team. Trigger's jaw tightened instinctively, the sight of Klaus near Cossette sending a ripple of unease through him.
Cossette was supposed to be his unofficial-official girlfriend, though their relationship was kept under wraps. The proximity of Klaus—her arranged fiancé, no less—was rubbing him the wrong way. Klaus walked with an air of confidence, the kind of man who knew his influence extended far beyond just business. He had money, power, and more importantly, a claim to Cossette that made Trigger's blood boil just to think about it.
Trigger slowed his pace, eyes narrowing as he watched the two of them exchange what appeared to be casual conversation. But he could see it—Klaus's calculated movements, the way he leaned in ever so slightly when speaking to her, the barely hidden smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth. The man knew exactly what he was doing.
"Something wrong?" Nantz asked, noticing Trigger's change in demeanor.
Trigger tore his eyes away from the pair, shaking his head. "No," he lied, though the frustration gnawed at him.
But it wasn't nothing. The sight of Klaus so close to Cossette while they were surrounded by guards, as if they were some kind of couple on official business, made Trigger's gut twist. He had been prepared for moments like this, but seeing it up close hit differently—especially when Klaus had the gall to act like he already had a claim on her.
He clenched his fists, pushing the thoughts aside for now. There was no time to get distracted, not with the mission, McKinsey, and whatever VIP was on base. But as he and Nantz continued toward the briefing room, the image of Klaus and Cossette together stayed with him, a burning irritation that he couldn't shake.
For a brief moment, their eyes met across the bustling base—Trigger's sharp green eyes locking with Cossette's soft blue ones. Time seemed to slow as the noise and chaos of the base faded into the background. In that instant, everything else vanished.
Trigger's earlier frustration melted away as he saw the look in her eyes. It was calm, unwavering, and filled with a quiet reassurance. Her gaze was all he needed to see. There was no doubt, no uncertainty. Just a subtle, but powerful connection that told him everything he had been doubting.
He had nothing to worry about.
The tension in his chest loosened, and the knot of jealousy that had been tightening within him unraveled. Cossette's eyes spoke volumes—far more than words ever could. No matter how close Klaus might have been or what the outside world saw, the bond between them was stronger.
Her eyes lingered on him for just a moment longer, a soft, almost imperceptible smile forming on her lips. Then, as quickly as it happened, she turned back to continue her conversation with Klaus, but the message was clear.
Trigger let out a slow breath, his pulse steadying. Whatever Klaus thought he had, it didn't matter. Cossette's loyalty was with him.
Following the two, Cossette was showing Klaus through the base. "Who was that?" Klaus asked, his voice cutting through the ambient noise as the pilots and the lone Marine Raider moved out of earshot. His gaze was fixed on Cossette, his expression sharp, though he tried to mask his curiosity beneath a veil of casual inquiry.
Cossette, momentarily caught off guard, blinked before recovering her composure. "Who was who?" she replied, her tone light and innocent, though she knew exactly who he was referring to.
"The pilot you exchanged glances with," Klaus pressed, his thick Belkan accent giving every word a weight she couldn't ignore.
Cossette hesitated for a brief moment, but then quickly found her footing. "He's one of the Osean pilots stationed here," she replied matter-of-factly, keeping her tone even. She wasn't about to give Klaus any more than he needed.
"Yes, of course, dear," Klaus responded, his voice dripping with a mixture of charm and persistence, his eyes narrowing slightly as he continued, "but it seems you two share some kind of... bond."
There it was. Klaus wasn't one to let things go easily, especially when it came to anything that piqued his interest—or jealousy. His calculating gaze stayed on her, searching for any sign of discomfort, as if trying to peel back the layers of her response.
Cossette met his gaze calmly, refusing to let his prying words rattle her. "He's an important part of the operations here, like many others," she said, her voice still cool and composed. "We've all worked closely together. Nothing more."
Klaus leaned in slightly, his expression softening but his persistence still palpable. "Is that so?" he asked, his voice a mix of curiosity and something more, something possessive.
Cossette held his gaze, her blue eyes calm and unwavering. "That's so," she replied firmly, her tone leaving no room for further questioning. She wasn't about to indulge Klaus in any speculation, especially when it came to her personal life.
Klaus studied her for another moment, as if weighing whether to push further, but after a beat, he nodded, though his expression didn't entirely lose its edge. "Very well, dear. I trust you," he said, though there was an unmistakable tension beneath his words.
Cossette offered a small, polite smile, keeping her true thoughts hidden behind the mask she had perfected over the years. Klaus may have been persistent, but he wasn't someone she would allow to get under her skin. And certainly, he would never come between her and Trigger.
Back with Trigger and the other pilots, the atmosphere inside the briefing room was thick with tension. The room, filled to the brim with pilots, Marine officers, and base personnel, buzzed with restless energy. Conversations were kept low, but the frustration was palpable.
"I am way too often inside this damned room lately," Harris muttered as he settled into a seat, his gunner, Tarry, silently nodding in agreement. Around them, others were either taking their seats or standing against the walls, the uneasy feeling growing as they waited for whoever was supposed to take the front of the room.
"Who are we waiting for now?" a Marine lieutenant called from the back of the room, his voice carrying the collective impatience of everyone present.
As if on cue, the door burst open, and McKinsey strode in, flanked by two MPs and Special Agent Hudson. Each of them held a folder, their faces grim and tight with tension. The energy in the room shifted, every eye turning toward them as McKinsey made his way to the front, booting up the Holo Table.
McKinsey took a deep breath before addressing the room. "First of all, I want to apologize for the latest incident regarding the operation and its cancellation," he began, his tone attempting to lighten the mood, but the weight of the moment dragged it down. "Things like these usually don't happen, but when your President gives an order, you'd better follow it."
His attempt at humor fell flat, the tension in the room remaining thick as the pilots and Marines exchanged uneasy glances. The operation had been signed off by President Palmer, and then abruptly canceled. Now, they were all left wondering what had changed so drastically.
"Sir, but—" an Erusian officer began to protest, but McKinsey cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand.
"I know what you're all thinking right now," McKinsey said, his voice hardening. "I'm not happy about these circumstances either, but this is above my pay grade. I have no say in this. But what I do have is information. And to explain that, I'm handing things over to Special Agent Hudson."
Hudson stepped forward, his demeanor no-nonsense as he took control of the Holo Table. With a few swift motions, he brought up a detailed map of Sadera, highlighting the courtyard and the castle itself. Everyone leaned in a little closer, eyes locked on the display.
"Alright," Hudson began, his voice low but commanding. "Here's the situation. Everything in this area"—he gestured to the highlighted sections—"is now off-limits to both the Japanese and U.S. forces."
Confusion rippled through the room. The idea of anything being off-limits in this critical operation was baffling, especially considering the magnitude of what was at stake.
"I've reviewed the peace treaty Japan signed with the Saderans when we were about to go through the other Gate, and it seems to be that they haven't changed it," Hudson continued, anticipating the questions forming in the minds of the gathered officers. "It states that Japan can deploy their military there as long as it doesn't interfere with Sadera's interests. That complicates things. We're bound by certain diplomatic constraints, which means we have a window of opportunity—one that doesn't involve a full-scale assault."
He paused, letting that sink in before continuing. "So, here's the deal: instead of going in guns blazing, we could send a diplomatic party over there. If we play our cards right, we might be able to negotiate with them and get our people back without bloodshed."
The room remained silent, but the tension was now mixed with confusion and disbelief. The Marines and pilots had been prepped for combat, ready to launch a mission that had already been signed off by their government. Now, they were being told diplomacy was on the table.
Trigger exchanged glances with Jet and Skid, who both seemed equally baffled by the sudden shift in strategy. They had all been ready for the worst, only to be told the mission could be solved through negotiation.
"The diplomatic party will be led by me," Hudson continued, his voice steady as the holographic display flickered to life, illuminating the names and emblems of the teams involved. "It will consist of Princess Rosa Cossette D'Elise, a team of my best field agents, an Erusian GIGN Anti-Terror unit, and Basilisk Team."
The names and symbols of the selected units filled the screen, each one a reminder of the weight and importance of the mission. The gathered Marines, pilots, and officers watched in tense silence as Hudson laid out the operation, their attention fixed on the details.
"We will have a QRF, ready to strike at a moment's notice," Hudson continued. "The 117th Osean Air Assault Division, along with their helicopters and gunships, will be on standby, prepared to provide immediate support should the situation escalate."
The room buzzed with quiet anticipation as the next emblem flashed onto the display: Aether Squadron.
Trigger's pulse quickened slightly as he saw the familiar emblem appear on the screen. Hudson's voice didn't waver as he continued, "Aether Squadron, along with Tiger Squadron and Golem Squadron, will provide air superiority and strike capabilities if needed. Your role is critical. Should diplomacy fail or we face hostile action, you will be the tip of the spear."
The weight of Hudson's words hung in the air. The idea of sending in a diplomatic team was still jarring, but the presence of the QRF and air support was a clear reminder that, even if they hoped for a peaceful resolution, the situation could spiral into combat at any moment.
Trigger glanced at Jet, who gave a slight nod, and then over to Skid, who exhaled slowly. They had trained for high-stakes situations like this, and now it was about to unfold before them. Diplomacy would be the first attempt, but if it fell apart, they knew exactly where they stood—on the front lines.
Hudson stepped back from the display, his eyes scanning the room. "This mission is delicate, but we have contingencies in place for every possible outcome. The diplomatic route is our best chance to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. But if we're called in, I expect every team, every pilot, and every soldier to be ready. We're balancing on a knife's edge here. There's no room for error."
McKinsey stepped forward, his tone firm. "You all have your assignments. This operation will require coordination at every level, so stay sharp. QRF will remain on standby, air squadrons will maintain patrol patterns until further orders, and the diplomatic party will move in once we've confirmed the path is clear."
With that, the room was silent once again, the full scope of the operation laid bare for everyone to see. The delicate balance between diplomacy and combat was clear—peace was the goal, but they all knew how quickly things could unravel.
Trigger's thoughts raced as he processed the details. This mission had transformed from a straightforward military operation into a high-stakes gamble where diplomacy and force hung in fragile balance. One wrong move, and the world could shift from peace to war in a heartbeat.
A/N:
Hot damn. A whole damn chapter and no cuts... yeah this was a damn mouthfull to do. Not gonna lie, I listened to Victory from Two steps from hell while writing the first half of the chapter. Gave it this little kick I needed lmao. For everyone who expected a massive Air and Ground invasion into Sadear... sorry... a little to early for that brotha
Reviews:
N/A