Aboard Blackhawk, 1,000 feet above Semnan
June 11, 2030 | 10:53 PM IRST
The desert below was a sheet of black velvet, broken only by jagged ridgelines. The helicopter skimmed low over the terrain, rotor wash kicking dust into the night. Inside, red cabin lights bathed the team in a soft, bloody glow—six silhouettes packed tight in the troop bay, weapons hugged close, armor clicking softly with every bump of turbulence.
Bryan sat near the ramp, sweat trickling down his temple despite the cool airflow hissing through his vented headset. He wiped it away absently with a gloved hand. His rifle rested against his leg, muzzle down, safetied, but ready.
Beside him, strapped in with a casual sprawl, was Brass—his best friend and habitual pain-in-the-ass since their first deployment. Brass had his head leaned back against the bulkhead, eyes shut beneath the edge of his helmet.
Bryan keyed his comms, voice crackling through the team net. "You good?"
Brass didn't open his eyes. "Oh, I'm chillin'. Only thing bothering me is I forgot to leave a letter for my girl."
Bryan blinked. "You don't have a girl."
Brass opened his eyes, then glanced at Bryan. "Exactly. Thought it might make me seem more…" He paused, squinting at the ceiling like he was thinking hard, then gave Bryan a crooked grin. "Emotionally complex."
Across from them, Stitch—the team medic—snorted into his mic. "Emotionally complex? You cried for a week when your wife left you."
"Hey, you keep your mouth shut, alright?" Brass fired back, grinning.
Laughter buzzed through the net. Even Juno, the comms operator next to Stitch, cracked a smile while leaning back, eyes closed.
Juno's voice was smooth, lazy. "Can't blame her. You were probably horrible in bed. Made her want someone else…"
He opened his eyes with a slow, smug grin curling at his lips, then glanced at Brass. "…like me."
"Hey fuck you, man," Brass said flatly. "With that mouth of yours, no wonder your father left you."
Another ripple of laughter broke the tension.
Even the guy next to Brass—Beef, their demolitions expert, who hadn't said a word since takeoff, "Jesus, are ya'll a buncha kids or what?" he said.
Mice—their pointman, chewed gum slowly and loudly, came in next. "Brass, you ever get tired of runnin' your mouth just to hide how scared you are?"
Brass turned his head toward him. "At least I'm not the one tangled up with someone else's wife."
Mice scoffed. "Oh yeah? At least she likes me, the husband? Not really."
The net lit up with more laughter, quiet, contained. The kind that stayed under control even in flight.
It didn't erase the mission. But for a few minutes, it reminded them who they were—brothers, not just operators.
Then the comms crackled through all their ears. "Spectre-One, two mikes to drop-zone. Confirm green on your end."
Bryan keyed up. "Spectre-One copies. Green and ready."
Instantly, the laughter died.
Helmets tapped twice. Safety checks. Plates adjusted. Gloves tugged tight. The troop bay shifted from levity to lethal.
Bryan sat up straighter. His voice came through the team channel, calm and clear.
"Alright, listen up. Drop point's two klicks west of the relay shack. Beef and I take point on breach, while Juno sets up the uplink. Rest of you set outer." He paused. "Juno handles the handshake. Once the loop's live, we get real-time feeds. Comms stay tight. Stack clean. No hero shit."
He glanced across the cabin at each of them, eyes sweeping left to right. "Last chance to back out, ladies."
No one moved. No one spoke.
Smirks flickered—not from arrogance, but from that worn-in calm that only came from years of doing the hard, quiet work. They were already locked in.
"Thirty seconds."
The crew chief's voice cut through, this time louder over the rotor wash as the aircraft dipped lower.
"Rope's hot in ten… Stand by…"
The chopper slowed, dipping low over a black expanse of rock and silence. The belly of the bird vibrated as the hover locked in, steady at sixty feet.
"Green light! Go! go! go!"
The side door slammed open as cold air rushed in.
Bryan grabbed the thick, braided fast rope hanging from the open bay and dropped.
Boots landed, then he crouched immediately, rifle up, scanning the perimeter with a smooth sweep of motion. The night was dead quiet. His breath fogged slightly as the wind kissed through the valley.
Brass landed a second later. One by one, the rest followed. Beef. Stitch. Juno. Mice. They fanned out, silent shapes becoming shadows on the rocks.
The chopper peeled off, vanishing into the night like it had never even been there. Dust settled slowly around them.
Bryan reached up, lowered his night vision goggles. The green world snapped into view, the landscape suddenly alive with a lightless form.
A few hundred meters ahead sat the comms shack—one of several dotted along the infrastructure vein feeding the facility. It was small. Remote. Guarded by a single surveillance camera, infrared motion nodes, and a buried fiber trunkline.
Bryan held a closed fist. The team froze. He pointed forward, two fingers slicing toward a low gully to the west.
They moved silently, using the terrain's folds as cover. The wind whispered across the plain, masking the soft crunch of boots against loose stone. No chatter. Just movement.
The camera above the shack rotated in a slow arc. Bryan timed it, watching the blind spot—a narrow wedge behind a drainage trench.
He signaled. One by one, they moved through the dead zone, staying low.
Beef crept along the shack's northern edge. He dropped to a knee beside the IR node—an egg-sized sensor mounted low near the base panel. From a side pouch, he pulled a compact, dual-band override unit—designed to spoof both thermal and RF signatures. He pressed it flat against the casing.
A soft chirp.
The LED blinked green.
The sensor stayed idle. To the system, everything read normal.
Juno gave a subtle nod to Bryan.
He slipped beside the door panel. A few seconds of bypass—then click. The door eased open.
Inside, racks of blinking hardware and conduit terminals hummed softly, fans spinning in sync with processor load.
Juno unrolled a fiber injector device—custom CIA build. Tethered it into the shack's trunkline access—multi-mode optic, laser split-ready. He connected his wrist unit and crouched low by the rack.
"Langley uplink initiating…" he muttered.
Bryan stood watch at the door, rifle angled across his chest, scanning the darkness beyond.
Juno's screen lit up. A progress bar ticked forward—1%… 12%… 47%...
He let out a quiet breath, eyes locked on the data stream.
Then into his mic. "Spectre-One, uplink green."
Bryan gave a sharp nod.
Juno checked the spoof module. "Node spoofing held. No pingback from the loop."
Bryan nodded, then turned slightly. "Move out."
They slipped back out into the dark, shadows against stone, cutting fast across the ridge, straight toward the main facility.
As they approached, its shadow loomed larger with every silent step. Then Bryan raised a clenched fist, halting them mid-stride.
Everyone dropped to a knee.
A lone military 4x4 moved along the outer road. Dust trailed behind it. Two guards inside, AKs propped in the cabin.
Bryan's hand went horizontal—Hold.
They froze.
The truck slowed near a security gate, then paused. One of the guards leaned out, scanned the fence line with a flashlight. It flicked once toward the rocks.
The beam passed within yards of Stitch.
Not a breath. Not even a twitch.
The light turned away. The truck idled forward, then vanished behind the next bend.
Bryan gave the signal. Forward.
They moved again, cutting wide across the ridgeline, ducking through terrain folds and dry creek beds until the perimeter fence came into view. Eight feet tall. Razor coil. Concrete posts spaced every fifteen. Thermal cameras are mounted high.
A patrol passed by the north segment—three soldiers on foot, rifles slung.
Bryan dropped low. The others mirrored him.
The patrol passed—too slow for comfort. One of the guards laughed, slapped another on the shoulder.
Bryan waited and waited… then he moved.
They sprinted in bursts, taking cover behind outcrops and sandbags left half-buried.
He pointed two fingers at Beef, then at the fence's sensor node.
Beef moved in, grabbing his RF jammer, then pressed it to the casing. Then a green blink.
He took out his cutters.
As he snipped, the other five watched every angle.
The wire peeled free. Bryan slipped through first, then Brass. Stitch. Mice. Juno. Last came Beef—he sealed the cut with a blackout patch to hide the breach.
Inside, they hugged the concrete wall, staying tucked in the one stretch untouched by the floodlights. Vents rattled overhead. Pipes wept rust near the base.
Then—a bark.
A guard dog, tethered, barked once from a rooftop above. The chain rattled. A voice followed in Farsi. Shouting. Laughter.
Bryan's fist clenched. They froze again, backs to the wall.
The dog quieted.
He pointed forward.
The tension coiled in their limbs. Every step was calculated. Every glance rehearsed.
Bryan spotted the hatch. Sand had buried half of it. A low panel beneath a vent stack. Almost hidden.
He tapped the side of his helmet twice.
Stitch moved in. Checked it—no tripwires, no IR sweep. Just an old bolt lock.
Bryan twisted. The hatch groaned. Then it gave.
They slipped inside, one by one. The shaft closed behind them.
The air inside the shaft was thick. Dust hung suspended, the kind that clung to sweat and choked the breath. The metal walls echoed faintly with every movement—gear brushing rock, boots scraping steel.
They moved single file. Red lights off. NVGs down. The world turned green and silent. The shaft angled sharply, descending deeper with every cautious step. Rusted brackets ran along the walls, remnants of old conduit systems. Some were snapped. Others buzzed faintly with residual power.
Fifty meters in, the shaft forked.
Left: collapsed. Rocks and dust.
Right: reinforced concrete and the faint glow of lights. Bryan raised a fist. The team froze. He pointed two fingers right.
Juno whispered, "Subsurface corridor. Two levels below the current. This route threads under the utility core. Blind spot for thermal."
They stacked up and moved.
The corridor narrowed. Every footstep was controlled. Silent. Tension vibrated like a wire pulled taut.
Juno paused mid-step. He raised a hand, then touched the side of his headset.
"Three-man patrol ahead. Thirty meters. Static position. South-facing. Bypass on the left—maintenance duct."
Bryan nodded. He motioned for Stitch and Mice. They peeled left, slipping into the tight duct space, crawling low. The others held.
A light flickered above. Fluorescent, buzzing like an old wasp.
The guards didn't move. Smoking. Chatting. One leaned against a valve pipe. Bryan waited. Counted. Listened.
Juno whispered again. "Move."
They slipped past within meters. Every rifle raised. Every finger was tense on the trigger.
The hallway gave way to an internal stairwell—a claustrophobic spiral descending another two floors. It smelled of oil, hot concrete, and years of recycled air.
"Cooling plant sublevel up ahead. Two guards posted. One moving. One stationary."
They moved fast. A burst across the hallway, taking cover behind stackable chemical barrels. Juno's wrist screen flickered.
"Left door leads to isotope storage access junction. It's shielded. Multiple layers."
Bryan tapped Beef. He nodded and dropped his ruck. Shaped thermite, low-vibration breaching units—gear designed for internal sabotage.
But before the first charge was even planted—
CLANG!
Metal screamed. A storage crate dropped from the scaffolding above. A shout followed.
"CONTACT!" Mice screamed.
Shouts in Farsi echoed from both ends of the corridor.
Automatic fire lit up the dark. The team ducked behind a series of reinforced pillars.
Mice returned fire first. Tight bursts. Controlled. Stitch moved next, dropping a target with two rounds center mass.
Bryan shouted, "On the left! Push wide!"
Guards poured from a side hallway. Beef pivoted, rifle barking as he suppressed them long enough for Juno to yank Bryan into cover.
Rounds punched through the metal behind them.
Then—CRACK!
Concrete exploded. Rebar snapped, and a pipe ruptured. Shrapnel flew, then a massive chunk of the ceiling dropped straight down.
Brass had just started to move.
The debris clipped him clean across the throat and chest, knocking him back like a ragdoll.
He hit the floor hard, gasping, arms flailing, eyes wide.
"BRASS!" Bryan screamed, already scrambling across the floor.
Rounds zipped past, snapping into concrete and ricocheting near his boots. Stitch fired from behind a pillar, shouting for cover. The corridor roared with muzzle flashes and echoing screams in Farsi.
Bryan dropped beside Brass, boots skidding on blood. He slid an arm under Brass's shoulders and pressed hard against his neck with his free hand—blood pumped out in steady pulses, hot and thick between his fingers.
"You ain't dying here," he muttered. "Not in this shithole, man."
Brass's eyes fluttered, unfocused. His lips moved, but no words came—just a wet, rattled gurgle. His hand clamped weakly onto Bryan's sleeve.
Bryan kept pressure on the wound. His face twisted, but he forced a grin anyway. "You're alright. You'll be fine." He said. "Chicks dig scars, right? Don't worry—girls'll still wanna kiss you." He half-laughed.
Brass didn't smile. His eyes just stayed locked on Bryan's.
Then Stitch skidded in beside them, medkit already out. He dropped to his knees, hands moving fast, practiced.
But the moment he saw the wound, he hesitated. Just for a second. His fingers froze.
Bryan saw it. The change in Stitch's face. That flicker in his eyes.
The smile slipped from Bryan's mouth.
Slowly, he lifted both hands, gloves soaked, glistening red from fingertip to forearm.
Stitch swallowed hard. "We need to—Jesus—" He shook himself, grabbed gauze, and went to work.
"Grim! Multiple contacts inbound—east corridor! Move now!" Juno shouted from the far end of the corridor. The staccato rhythm of suppressed rifles never stopped.
Beef tossed a flashbang down the southern hall—
BANG!
A white-hot pulse of light detonated in an instant, flooding the corridor with a blinding flash and a deafening crack.
Screams followed. Movement. The firefight was shifting, sliding into something worse.
Bryan didn't hear any of it.
His team screamed at him—Mice yelling his name, Juno barking updates, Stitch cursing under his breath—but it all came through like it was underwater. Everything seemed to slow down.
His breath shortened. Tunnel vision set in, and his ears rang.
Darkness crept at the edges of his vision. The lights in the hallway felt farther away, warping. Everything pulled inward—tight and suffocating.
And then—
GASP.
He jolted upright, breath ragged—then froze. He was in a bed, naked. Sheets tangled around his legs. His chest heaved, lungs dragging in air like he'd been drowning.
The room was familiar and quiet.
It was the present day, and he was home—back in Walnut Hills. But for a moment, he wasn't.
He turned his head.
Jane lay beside him, naked, stretched out on her stomach. The sheets draped her waist, her back bare where a shaft of early sunlight caught in her hair.
Bryan exhaled—slow, ragged. His throat burned, and his eyes stung. Then he slid carefully off the bed.
He crouched by the edge, found his boxer tangled near the leg of the nightstand, and pulled them on.
He walked toward the bathroom. Stepped inside and turned the tap. Cold water sputtered out.
He leaned down and splashed his face.
Water streamed down his cheeks, dripping from his chin.
Then he looked up.
The mirror met him and just stood there, staring in silence.
He splashed his face once more, rubbing the water into his skin like it might wash it all away.
Then he heard it.
Sounds from downstairs.
He grabbed a towel, wiped his face, and tossed it aside. He picked up the shorts from the floor, pulled on a shirt, and put them all on before heading out of the bedroom.
As he moved down the hall, he caught the scent—subtle at first, then unmistakable. Pancakes. Warm. Buttery. Familiar.
He went down quietly.
In the kitchen, Ellie stood at the stove, flipping another pancake onto a growing stack. The sunlight through the window caught her hair, her silhouette moving in rhythm with the morning.
She turned, mid-reach for the spatula, and noticed him.
"Oh, good morning," she said, voice light but warm.
Bryan blinked, then nodded once. "Morning."
"You want coffee?"
He hesitated a second, then gave a faint smile. "Yeah… I'd like that."
She turned back to the counter. He pulled out a stool at the kitchen island and sat.
Ellie reached for the coffee pot, pouring the rich, dark brew into a white ceramic mug. The scent curled into the air.
She handed it to him with a gentle clink against the counter. "Here," she said.
Bryan took it. "Thanks," he said.
Ellie gave him a soft smile, then turned back to the stove. She flipped a pancake, the sound of sizzling batter filling the silence for a moment.
"Where's Jane?" she asked without turning.
Bryan sipped the coffee. "Still sleeping."
He paused, then glanced toward the window. "Where's Adam?"
Ellie kept her eyes on the pan. "Outside. Trimming the grass," she said. "Told him to wait until the sun was higher." She let out a quiet sigh. "I swear that man is gonna give himself a heatstroke one of these days."
Bryan chuckled.
There was a pause. The spatula hovered over the pan. Then she glanced back at him. "You alright?"
He didn't answer immediately. Just stared into the mug like it might answer for him.
"Yeah." He said, his voice low.
Ellie studied him for a moment longer. Something in the way his shoulders sat, tense, like coiled wire. But she let it go. She turned back, stacking another pancake onto the plate.
Bryan took another sip.
"What time will you be leaving?" she asked.
He exhaled. "Afternoon."
Ellie didn't respond right away.
"I wish we could've spent more time together."
Bryan smiled faintly, eyes still on his coffee. "Yeah. Me too."
Another flip.
"Are you sure you want to go back?"
He looked up. "Yeah…" he said softly. "I've made my peace with it."
"Besides, I have to." He added.
Ellie gave a half-laugh, shaking her head as she plated the last pancake. "Very responsible of you," she said in a mock-chiding tone.
Bryan snorted. "I try."
"Oh sure," she said, turning around, one hand on her hip. "Sergeant Voss. Do you pick up your socks? Noooo. Do you rinse your dishes before putting them in the sink? Absolutely not."
Bryan smirked. "I'm defending the free world. I don't have time for socks."
"Oh really? Is that what they teach you?"
"They teach us all kinds of secrets," he deadpanned.
"Clearly not laundry-based ones."
He chuckled into his coffee.
Ellie grinned, leaning against the counter, arms folded. "You know, if you weren't my son-in-law, I'd make you do a boot camp of chores before you shipped out."
"Pretty sure that's a war crime."
"Not yet, but I'm working on it. Geneva's been too quiet lately."
He laughed, a real one this time—low and short, but full.
Then silence settled again. Gentle. Not heavy, just… present.
"Thanks," he said after a moment, quieter now. "For always being there for me."
Ellie's expression softened. Her posture eased.
She stepped over and placed a hand gently on his shoulder.
He'd been staring quietly into his coffee, the swirl of steam rising between his hands. Then he looked up at her.
"Of course," she said, voice quiet but warm. "That's what mothers do. And I'm sure that's what your mom would've done too."
A faint, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Even without a mother of his own growing up, he'd had her.
He could still remember the little things—the way she'd shake her head and sigh when he came in from the yard, covered in mud and scraped knees. How she'd sit him on the porch steps, gently dabbing at his cuts with peroxide while muttering, "One of these days, Bryan, you're gonna learn what 'don't climb that fence' means."
She never said it like she was mad. Just like a mother who cared.
Then his eyes flicked just past her, brow lifting.
Ellie caught it too—her nose twitched. Her eyes widened. "Ah crap—!"
She spun around and rushed to the stove, spatula already in hand. "Whoops!"
The pancake she'd just flipped was already edged in charcoal, the bottom a crisp black ring. She sighed, lifting it with a grimace and flopping it onto a plate like a defeated soldier.
Bryan let out a low chuckle. "Looks tactical."
Ellie shot him a look over her shoulder. "Don't start, Sergeant. You'll eat it with a smile."
"I've eaten worse," he shrugged.
They both laughed, echoing through the warm kitchen.
Then came a soft thump from the stairs.
Bryan turned toward the sound just as a small figure appeared in the hallway—Natalie, wearing a wrinkled nightshirt and rubbing her eyes with one fist while hugging her teddy bear with the other.
She paused halfway into the room, sniffed the air, and blinked sleepily. "I smell pancakes," she mumbled.
Bryan smiled as Ellie turned, her face softening instantly.
Natalie walked toward them, still fighting to keep her eyes open. Ellie crouched down, and Natalie wrapped her arms lazily around her waist.
"Morning, sweetpea," Ellie said, kissing the top of her head.
Bryan leaned his arms on the counter, watching them with quiet warmth.
In that moment, the weight in his chest eased—not because it was gone, but because this made it worth carrying.
Hours passed.
The sun climbed high above Walnut Hills, casting soft golden light over the quiet neighborhood. The laughter and warmth of the morning had faded into a slow, heavy calm.
Now, outside the house, a black SUV waited at the curb. Government plates. Tinted windows. Two agents stood near it—suited, sharp, professional—one already reaching to open the rear door.
Bryan stepped out onto the walkway with his rucksack slung over one shoulder, boots laced tight, wearing a dark tactical jacket, durable field pants, watch snug on his wrist.
Jane was right behind him, holding Natalie against her hip. The little girl's legs were wrapped around her waist, arms locked around her mother's neck. Her face was buried into Jane's shoulder.
Bryan stopped. Set his bag down by the SUV. He turned back to them, reaching out gently.
Natalie peeked up, her eyes puffy. "I told you to play with me more, Daddy…" she whispered, voice thick with tears.
Bryan crouched, brushing a stray hair from her face. "I know, sweetpea," he said softly, switching to that gentle, silly tone only a dad could pull off. "But Daddy's gotta go be Superman again."
She sniffed. "Real Superman doesn't leave."
He smiled, kissing her cheek. "Tell you what. I'll make you a deal. I bring you back lots of chocolate, you keep being Mommy's little hero while I'm gone, okay?"
Natalie hesitated, then gave a small nod. "Promise?"
"Pinkie promise."
He held out his pinkie. She wrapped hers around his.
Then he stood.
Jane moved closer, and Bryan wrapped one arm around her waist. Pulling her in, then kissed her. Firm, slow. Like he wasn't sure how long it would have to last.
Behind them, Natalie wrinkled her nose and groaned, "Yuuuck!"
They both broke the kiss and laughed.
Jane looked into his eyes, still smiling, though a trace of worry flickered beneath. "Be careful out there… I love you."
Bryan smiled gently, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I will. I love you, too."
On the porch, Ellie and Adam watched in silence.
"Take care and be careful," Ellie called gently. "Be safe, please."
Adam added, "Don't! So I can have all the snacks for myself!"
Ellie turned and gave him a smack on the back of the head. "Can you ever just shut up?"
"Ow!" Adam flinched. "It was a joke!"
Bryan laughed. So did Jane and even Natalie.
He turned and walked over to the car.
Then he picked up his rucksack.
He paused at the edge of the curb, glanced back one more time.
Jane stood with Natalie, resting against her chest, one hand gently brushing through her daughter's hair.
Ellie leaned into Adam's shoulder. Adam had his arm around her.
All of them were watching him.
Bryan raised a hand, fingers splayed.
A final wave.
They all waved back.
He turned and stepped into the SUV. The agent closed the door behind him.
Inside, the hum of the engine replaced the silence.
Bryan settled into the seat, placed his bag beside him, and clicked his seatbelt into place. Through the tinted window, he saw them one last time—Jane, holding Natalie close, both waving; Ellie and Adam just behind them.
Bryan raised his hand again—one last time.
Then the SUV pulled forward.
Behind him, home faded into the distance.
But it never left him. Not really.
Pacific Ocean
August 25, 2030 | 0713 Zulu (UTC +12)
Almost a week had passed since the discovery of the three major civilizations. In that time, the United States had observed, analyzed, and debated its next steps. Now, with the decision made, the first move was in motion.
The Pacific stretched endlessly beneath the fleet, its steel-gray waters reflecting the weight of history in the making. The world was shifting, and soon, so would the balance of power.
Cutting through the waves, a carrier strike group—led by the USSGeorge Washington and flanked by destroyers.
The journey had been long. Even at full speed, the vast ocean demanded time. But every hour brought them closer to a moment that would alter the course of history.
Back in Colorado, President Reynolds leaned forward in the meeting room, eyes locked on the live feed from a reconnaissance drone. "What's the status?"
Director Holloway adjusted his earpiece. "Five ships in formation, armed with early cannons."
Vice President Colloway nodded. "Best case, they spot us and hold formation, waiting to assess our intentions. Worst case… they mistake us for a threat."
Reynolds exhaled, then placed his elbows on the table. "Then let's hope they don't mistake diplomacy for invasion."