She was eager to know the current status of the U.S. naval base in Naples, Italy. The Mediterranean theater had only one sky battleship assigned to it, and although five fortress-class combat robots were deployed there, the number of gene-enhanced warriors allocated was the smallest among all fronts.
The mission in the Mediterranean wasn't to destroy, but to capture and seize. Until Latveria's controlled nuclear fusion plant was fully assembled, the country needed to barter the ships of the Mediterranean Fleet with Russia in exchange for oil and gas supplies. This deal had already been finalized with the Russian fleet, and the political implications far outweighed the military objectives.
The most powerful firepower—the sky destroyer—had been dispatched to the Arctic theater, commanded by Sisterhood officer Tita, along with combat sisters and fortress-class combat robots. The Sovereign made no attempt to conceal his favoritism for the Sisterhood's suspiciously beautiful girls. They didn't even need to board enemy ships—just launching their missiles was enough.
To this day, Victoria Hand still didn't know where those girls came from. Even though the Arctic theater needed fewer personnel due to its overwhelming firepower, the Sisterhood still brought ample combat strength. Victoria believed that, given such capability, the Arctic operation might even end quicker than her own.
According to the intel she received, her Sovereign seemed to have charged alone—on horseback—into the U.S. naval base. She couldn't fathom what kind of horse could carry a three-meter-tall giant in golden power armor unless it was the same white Pegasus that appeared during the Battle of New York. Too many unbelievable things had happened around Solomon. A horse was hardly surprising anymore. Charging at a main battle tank with a lance? Not unusual in the slightest.
"Miss Hand." Konstantin's voice came through the encrypted comms.
"It's done," he said.
"It's done?" she repeated.
"Yes." Konstantin stood over the ship's captain, who was cowering in the hold. A massive explosive rifle was aimed at the man's head. The air reeked of propellant, chainblade exhaust, and burning debris. They had been cautious during the assault, careful not to trigger ammunition explosions. "Initiate disengagement and loading protocols," he ordered, signaling the gene-enhanced warriors to place remote charges. A total of 85 carrier-based aircraft on the hangar deck and flight deck were now war spoils—but Konstantin had no intention of transferring them. "We've secured enough prisoners and data. It's time to scuttle the ship."
Compared to the Arctic and Atlantic theaters, Solomon's assignment in the Mediterranean was significantly easier. Each theater employed different tactics, and in the Mediterranean, the focus was on individual combat ability. Thus, he personally led the assault. But first, he needed to capture his prize and cripple the enemy's command chain.
Victoria Hand's intel wasn't wrong—he had indeed ridden Pegasus into the Naples naval support facility. Located south of Naples International Airport, the base was extremely well-equipped. Though its primary function was to provide logistical and administrative support for NATO units in the Mediterranean, the naval base itself occupied only a small portion of the southern zone. It looked more like a two-story office complex than a military installation—less impressive, even, than the nearby Naples Navy Lodge, which was connected to a laundromat and a chapel. To the east were a general hospital, convenience store, housing services center, maintenance office, and a KFC—all appearing more like a business park than a military post.
Although he wasn't thrilled about it, Solomon had to strike here first due to the base's intelligence operations role before targeting the Mediterranean Fleet itself. Thanks to prior surveillance, Solomon was now waiting for current Vice Admiral Frank Craig Pandolfe to enter the office building. Whether Pandolfe had always served another master or simply failed his loyalty, General Hale showed no hesitation in betraying him.
Vice Admiral Frank C. Pandolfe, Commander of the Sixth Fleet, had graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in 1980 and earned a doctorate from Tufts University's Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy. From 1999 to 2001, he commanded the USS Mitscher (DDG-57), earning three commendations. He had served in the Afghanistan War and held posts at the Navy Operations Office, Joint Chiefs of Staff, and even the White House. He had close ties to a Republican-backed firm and intended to take a high-level position there post-retirement through the "revolving door."
Because of Latveria's sudden rise, the soon-to-retire admiral had no choice but to rush to Naples for a critical meeting. The meeting had been called by none other than General Hale herself, who conveniently arrived late under a fabricated excuse, avoiding suspicion and the impending attack. She advocated for a hardline stance on Latveria—calling for the consolidation of the Mediterranean Fleet and a strategic bombing campaign reminiscent of the strikes on Yugoslavia. The first part of her proposal was adopted. The second was shelved, pending CIA assessment of Latveria's capabilities. Behind this proposal were the Council on Foreign Relations' Gideon Malick and the Eternal City's War Council strategic division. Malick had lobbied Democratic senators and used his influence with retiring President Obama and candidate Hillary Clinton to push for tighter control over Southeast Europe.
There was another crucial motive: many businesses in Southeast Europe, including Hungary, were owned by foreign tycoons, and quite a few had stakes held by Western politicians. Their children often served as nominal executives in these companies, funneling bribes under the guise of salaries. These executives, in turn, were linked to domestic politicians and liberal parties. Latveria's decapitation strikes and intelligence capabilities had effectively severed these money streams.
Predictably, the Democrats took the bait, gathering the Mediterranean Fleet to pass through the Strait of Gibraltar for a military campaign. This had nothing to do with values—only money. That was the lesson learned after the fall of the Knights Templar: even the mightiest capital could not stand against a king who held the military. To survive, capital had to become the power behind the throne.
The White House's decision aligned perfectly with the Eternal City's interests. The Eternal City needed the Mediterranean, Atlantic, and Arctic fleets to consolidate so they could be crushed all at once. An unbreakable fortress can only be destroyed from within. With the aid of financial coercion and Hydra operatives, the Eternal City's strategic decision-making always ran faster than the White House's—even guiding it, to a certain extent.
Solomon stopped at a barbecue bar called BRP Café, just five minutes from the base, and ordered food. Using illusion magic, no one noticed he was three meters tall and wearing dazzling golden power armor. He even chatted pleasantly with the bartender while waiting. All the while, he monitored feeds from drones circling overhead—transmitted to his data pad.
One such drone was a golden mechanical eagle with ruby-red eyes, crafted from gears, motors, and ivory—an upgrade of the silver dove he once gifted Father Moru. Agile as a true bird of prey, it flew through the skies with lifelike grace. It housed a low-level AI, into which Solomon had uploaded the digitized soul of an actual eagle, then enhanced it. It hunted small animals, groomed its gilded alloy feathers, and behaved like a living creature—only incapable of eating.
He looked up and winked at the surveillance camera above the bar counter.
This was also the final piece of intelligence Natasha Romanoff handed to Steve Rogers regarding the Naples Naval Base assault. While TV networks reported "fires" aboard the U.S. carrier strike groups, Rogers knew the truth—that "fire" meant sunk. From the Arctic to the Mediterranean, the U.S. Navy had suffered its worst losses since WWII. It wasn't until two hours after all three carrier strike groups vanished that the Navy Operations Office ordered satellite recon. By the time they confirmed the losses were real, the news had been delayed repeatedly—before it finally reached the top.
Three nuclear-powered Nimitz-class carrier groups had been utterly destroyed. The Mediterranean group had partially disappeared—no wreckage was found beneath the waves. The Russian Black Sea Fleet had suddenly made a move. Tensions in the Mediterranean spiked.
All of it traced back to the man in the video chatting with the bartender.
"I took the surveillance footage. No one else knows he was ever near the naval base," Natasha Romanoff said, lips tight. It wasn't a hard mission, but it hadn't been simple either. She'd had to shake Defense Department tails and fly a Quinjet to Italy. When she retrieved the hard drive, she found a sealed letter inside the rarely opened PC case—addressed to her by Solomon. As if he had foreseen her exact actions.
But she didn't tell anyone about it.
It had been more than a day since the U.S. carrier strike groups were attacked by unknown forces. Secretary of State Ross and Secretary of Defense Ashton Carter had no time to pressure the Avengers into signing the accords. Even so, Steve Rogers remained distracted. First, it was Crossbones mentioning Bucky. Then came news that Peggy Carter was on her deathbed. His thoughts were consumed by those two people—he had little mental space left to think about the Sokovia Accords.
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