02/08/2025: Revised this chapter to make it leaner and easy to follow.

"How many did we lose?"

Lieutenant General Gregory Haslam, overall commander of the USAF Seventh Air Force, stood with his hands locked behind his back, his expression grim as he stared at the illuminated tactical map before him. His voice was steady, level—but there was a noticeable weight behind it. A thinly veiled anger simmered just beneath the surface.

The man beside him, Lieutenant Colonel Daniel Wilkes, hesitated slightly before answering. "We still don't know specifics yet, sir," he admitted, his voice quieter than he would have liked. "With the AWACS gone, we don't have the overall picture yet and—"

"How many?" Haslam repeated, cutting him off. This time, the restrained anger in his tone was unmistakable.

Wilkes held his gaze for a moment, then sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He had served under Haslam long enough to know when to drop the formalities and just give the unvarnished truth. "Best estimates from Ops put the Fifty-First Fighter Wing at near-total losses," he said heavily. "Both of their squadrons were essentially wiped out. We've only accounted for a fraction of the pilots who went up to intercept, and CSAR has only managed to pull three survivors from the field so far—various degrees of injuries." He hesitated. "And, well… it's been hours now, sir."

Haslam inhaled sharply through his nose, his lips pressing into a hard line.

"Dear God…" he muttered under his breath.

Wilkes continued, though his tone was subdued. "The Eight out of Kunsan took a serious hit as well, though not as bad. Their CO is reporting losses, but nowhere near what the Fifty-First suffered." He swallowed. "Seems like the omnics focused their main assault on Osan's AO. The Eighth got hit hard, but the Fifty-First? They took the brunt of it."

Haslam barely heard him. His mind was already running the numbers.

The 51st Fighter Wing—two operational squadrons, the 25th and 36th Tactical Fighter Squadrons—that was close to fifty frontline aircraft and their pilots. Gone. Not just aircraft, but the men and women who flew them. Good people. Some of the best damn pilots he had.

And just like that, they had been erased in an instant.

For years, the war had been a distant memory. The Omnic Crisis had ended. The rogue Omnics had been reduced to scattered factions, remnants that cropped up from time to time. Nothing like this. They had assumed—wrongly assumed—that they had adapted, that they had mastered the enemy.

But now?

Haslam clenched his jaw. The bitter reality was impossible to ignore: they didn't know jack shit.

The ops center was a storm of activity, the air thick with tension. Officers and enlisted personnel manned their respective workstations, murmuring into comms, analyzing scattered fragments of data, struggling to piece together the aftermath of the battle. The room was bathed in the cool glow of multiple holographic displays, flickering with battle assessments, casualty reports, and incomplete sensor data.

The sheer chaos of it all was palpable.

"Sir, we've been trying to reestablish full situational awareness," another officer reported. "But between losing our AWACS birds and the jamming we were dealing with, we've been mostly flying blind. The omnics hacked into our distress beacon network mid-battle, so even our own pilots' transponders were compromised."

Haslam turned sharply. "They hacked our beacon network?"

The officer nodded grimly. "Yes, sir. Stealth infiltration. We didn't even detect it at first. By the time we realized what was happening, they had already shut down our ability to track and recover our own people."

Haslam's fists clenched behind his back. That explained why CSAR teams had been struggling. The enemy had actively prevented them from recovering their downed pilots, even before the battle was concluded.

"Christ," Wilkes muttered beside him.

"When the AWACS went down, we launched UAVs to try and rebuild our battlespace picture," the officer continued, "but they didn't last long either. We lost all of them within ten minutes. They were hunted down like prey."

Haslam exhaled slowly, barely suppressing the rage bubbling inside him. "So all we have are radio and data uplinks."

"Yes, sir," the officer confirmed. "But even those were jammed to hell during the battle. We only got snippets of pilot comms before they cut out." He shook his head. "Most of it is just static or…" He hesitated.

"Or?" Haslam prompted, his voice sharp.

The officer shifted uncomfortably. "Or it's just… pilots screaming before they go dark."

A heavy silence settled over them.

Haslam closed his eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply before speaking again. "Keep working with what we have. Find those pilots. We don't leave our people behind."

"Yes, sir."

Before anything else could be said, an airman approached Wilkes, whispering something in his ear. The lieutenant colonel frowned before turning back to Haslam.

"Sir. The Overwatch strike team is hailing us."

Haslam's eyes narrowed slightly.

Overwatch.

He wasn't sure how he felt about them yet. Rationally, he knew they had saved a hell of a lot of lives today. If they hadn't intervened, this entire situation would have been a complete catastrophe.

But at the same time…

Something about dealing with them didn't sit right with him. Maybe it was their independence. Their autonomy. Their access to things they shouldn't have access to.

Still, he wasn't about to ignore them.

"Put 'em through."

The main holo-display shifted, the map overlay minimizing as a new image appeared. The face of a grizzled man came into view—long gray hair swept back, a deep scar running vertically across his left eye, which had been replaced by a blind, milky-white orb.

Haslam allowed himself a small, humorless smirk.

"Major Reinhardt Wilhelm."

The legendary Overwatch operative snapped a crisp salute. Haslam returned it half-heartedly.

"Your reputation precedes you, Major."

"As does yours, Generalleutnant Haslam," Wilhelm replied, his German-accented voice rich with formal respect.

"After today," Haslam muttered, rubbing his temple, "it's probably not going to be a good one."

"I wish I were calling under better circumstances," Wilhelm admitted. "But my team has successfully disabled and destroyed the rogue Omnic command node in this sector."

"I can tell," Haslam said dryly. The moment that C2 node went down, every omnic unit in the region had ceased all coordinated movement. The battlefield had gone from pure hell to silent disarray within seconds.

Wilhelm nodded. "We are also contacting you to confirm your operational status."

Haslam scoffed. "I'm pretty sure you already tapped into our comms and datalinks."

Wilhelm chuckled. "We do, actually. But we wish to confirm."

Haslam exhaled sharply. "Fair enough. As you already know, all offensive omnic operations ceased at sixteen-fifty-one local time. Their processing power tanked when you took out that C2 site—so, good work on that."

Wilhelm gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable as he listened.

Haslam continued. "We've got pockets of resistance left. The Koreans are handling cleanup with their MEKA drones, and the Eighth Army is sending in ground forces to mop up the rest. Jamming's mostly gone—we've still got some small-scale interference, but nothing we can't burn through. The real problem is recon. We're completely blind. No AWACS, no UAVs, and we're still trying to locate our own pilots."

Wilhelm folded his arms. "Would reinforcements assist?"

"They're on their way," Haslam confirmed. "But we're talking hours, not minutes. Until then, we're on our own."

Wilhelm nodded, his expression remaining unreadable. "Then perhaps we can speed things up."

Haslam arched an eyebrow. "How?"

"We are sending you a data packet now," Wilhelm stated matter-of-factly. He turned slightly, nodding toward someone offscreen. "Please stand by."

A voice from across the ops center chimed in.

"Sir," an enlisted tech specialist called out, barely able to contain the urgency in his voice. "Incoming data transmission request from an unidentified external source."

Wilkes turned toward Haslam, his brow furrowed. "It's them, sir."

Haslam exhaled sharply. He hated the idea of letting Overwatch rummage around in his networks—even if they had probably already done it—but right now, they needed every ounce of intelligence they could get.

"Do it," he ordered without hesitation. "And put it up on the main holo."

"Roger," the tech replied, fingers flying across the console.

The massive central holoscreen flickered as the tactical map refreshed, the previous incomplete data rapidly transforming before their eyes.

At first, the change was subtle—a few blips appearing, new markers populating the screen.

Then, in the span of mere seconds, the entire battlefield picture lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree.

Every missing detail, every blind spot they had been struggling with for the past several hours was suddenly restored.

A wave of stunned silence fell over the ops center as officers and enlisted alike stared at the display in shock.

"Sir..." one of the intelligence officers breathed, eyes scanning the unfolding information. "This is everything. We're seeing—Jesus—we're seeing real-time telemetry from ground units, downed aircraft, satellite positioning, even encrypted drone feeds from our own goddamn systems."

Wilkes took a step forward, studying the data with visible disbelief. "How the hell did they do this?"

Haslam had no answer. He wasn't even sure he wanted one.

Across the room, a separate comms officer suddenly straightened in his seat, his headset crackling to life.

"CSAR, come in—"

More chatter followed as more comm links unexpectedly reactivated.

"—Repeat, this is Whiskey Six-Niner, we're getting telemetry again! I say again, transponders are live!"

"This is Sierra Two-One, I have visual on downed personnel—requesting immediate extraction!"

"Command, do you copy?! We're still out here!"

One after another, pilots and ground forces previously thought lost were suddenly pinging back into the network.

Haslam clenched his jaw. It was as if Overwatch had reached into the battlefield and flipped a goddamn switch.

He turned toward Wilhelm's feed, eyes narrowing.

"How?" he asked, his voice quieter this time.

Wilhelm's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "We have our ways. Will this suffice in aiding your efforts, Generalleutnant?"

Haslam let out a slow breath. His next words came without hesitation.

"Hell yes."

Then, with renewed vigor, he barked out a fresh set of orders.

"You heard the man! Get to work!" Haslam shouted. "All of you! We're bringing our people home!"

"Yes, sir!" the entire room erupted in unison.

The ops center exploded into a flurry of activity. Officers relayed orders at a rapid-fire pace, intel analysts scrambled to update reports, and CSAR teams rushed to deploy toward newly confirmed pilot locations.

For the first time in hours, they had an actual fighting chance.

Haslam turned back to the screen, eyeing Wilhelm with a measured gaze. The Overwatch commander had just handed him a miracle—but he still wasn't sure how he felt about it.

Still, gratitude won out.

"Thank you, Major." His voice carried a weight it hadn't before. "You have no idea how much you just helped us."

Wilhelm nodded, his expression warm. "Sorge dich nicht, Generalleutnant. In times of distress, it is only natural for us to help one another, is it not?"

Haslam let out a short chuckle. "I guess so." He exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "I'd ask if there's anything I could do to return the favor, but I suppose that would be irrelevant."

Wilhelm's good-natured grin widened slightly.

"Actually, Generalleutnant..."

Haslam arched a brow, but didn't say anything.

Wilhelm turned his head slightly, glancing at someone offscreen. Then, he looked back at Haslam with that same knowing expression.

"We rescued one of your pilots during the battle," Wilhelm said, his tone shifting ever so slightly. "And we were wondering if…"