Pacific Ocean - West of Hawaii
August 25, 2030 | 8:02 AM (UTC +11)
The morning sun cast long glints off the hull of the USS John Finn, the Arleigh Burke-class destroyer cruising several nautical miles ahead of the USS George Washington's strike group. The sea was steady, the swell calm, but tension pressed down heavier than the humidity clinging to the decks.
Inside the Combat Information Center, the room buzzed with low chatter and electronic hums.
"Five surface contacts. Bearing two-seven-zero, range ten thousand yards." The radar operator's voice was calm, controlled. "They're maintaining line-abreast, drifting slowly on the wind."
The EO/IR operator added, "Infrared shows movement on deck. Looks like... hands loading powder or round shot. Thermal spikes are faint. Could be cannon prep."
The captain—the commanding officer of the ship—moved forward, eyes narrowing. "Do we have visuals?"
The Tactical Action Officer glanced at the EO/IR operator, then turned to the captain. "Affirmative, ma'am," he replied, "they're turning their starboard sides toward us. Classic broadside formation."
"They're establishing a defensive barrier between us and the coast, Ma'am," added an operations specialist from the Warfare Coordinator's station. "They're holding a hard line about eleven nautical miles offshore."
The captain stepped forward near the central table, lips pressed into a tight line. She turned to the CIC watch officer. "Bring us five thousand yards off their line, then stop and maintain station."
The officer nodded, "Aye, ma'am," Keying the sound-powered phone handset to the bridge.
A few minutes passed.
The soft vibration of the propulsion plant subsided as the ship shifted into station-keeping, hull gently stabilized by minor thruster corrections. Monitors were updated with a new range and bearing—five thousand yards, as ordered.
The vessels now loomed larger on the large central screen.
"Range steady at five thousand yards," confirmed the surface tracker.
The captain turned to the watch officer. "Initiate signal of non-hostile intent. One long whistle blast."
"One long blast, aye."
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMP!!!
The low, resonant tone of the ship's horn rolled out across the sea, carrying across five thousand yards of open water to where the five wooden ships waited, still and silent on the waves.
Across the room, everyone waited. Every pair of eyes was locked on their screens—some focused on the large central screen.
"Captain," the TAO spoke softly, "still no response and holding formation."
The captain's jaw tightened. She turned to the communications officer. "Bring out the white flag."
"Aye, Captain."
On the forward mast, just below the American ensign, a sailor hauled up a clean white flag—an unmistakable, universal symbol. The fabric flapped in the breeze above the sleek warship's deck, its meaning clear even across the centuries.
Seconds ticked by like gunshots.
Then, finally, movement.
"Ma'am!" the EO/IR operator called out. "Center ship—activity near the aft rigging!"
All eyes went to the feed.
From the midship of the largest of the five vessels—broader-beamed, higher-decked than the others—a trio of figures moved quickly, hauling something up on a pole.
Then—
"There it is," the TAO breathed. "White flag… raised. They're answering."
Cheers didn't erupt. No one celebrated. But across the room, you could feel the weight ease. The tension that had gripped the room finally gave way to breathe.
The captain finally let out a deep breath, then nodded once. "Good." She turned to the watch officer. "Bring us in to seven hundred yards. Keep speed steady at five knots. I want us holding position just off their starboard quarter."
"Aye, ma'am," The officer replied.
The captain turned to a junior officer. "Get the ambassador ready."
In the ship's ready room, Ambassador Julian Matthews fastened the last clasp on his tailored navy blazer. A tall, silver-streaked Black man in his mid-fifties, he exuded the calm, practiced confidence of someone who had spent decades navigating crises. Once the U.S. Ambassador to the Philippines, Matthews had spent years balancing diplomacy with regional instability, earning a reputation for steadiness under pressure.
His reflection stared back at him from the small wall mirror—measured, composed.
A soft chime sounded. A junior officer stepped inside. "Ambassador, the captain's given the go. Shuttle is ready."
Matthews drew in a deep breath, steadying himself for the biggest step yet.
He looked at the officer, then gave a short nod. "Understood."
He adjusted his collar one last time, then turned and picked up the slim leather briefcase waiting on the table.
He'd once calmed a naval standoff in the West Philippine Sea. Negotiated the release of twenty-seven hostages from a collapsing embassy in Central Asia.
But this? This was something new.
Still, his voice was steady as ever. "Let's make history."
He stepped out toward the launch bay, flanked by two Navy security specialists, one corpsman with a trauma kit, and a communications tech.
Their weapons were non-visible—sidearms holstered beneath their jackets.
"Bridge confirms RHIB ready," came over the intercom.
The captain curled her hand into a fist and pressed it lightly to her mouth, the other arm supporting it. Her expression was tight, eyes fixed ahead. "Launch with overwatch support in place."
Overhead, three sniper-spotter teams from the ship's VBSS unit held position atop the superstructure. Each pair was concealed in staggered intervals. Armed with suppressed M110A2 SDMRs, the snipers maintained loose coverage on the distant vessels. Beside them, spotters tracked movement through stabilized binoculars and laser rangefinders, quietly relaying target data over comms.
Then the small rigid-hull inflatable boat was lowered into the water, carving a narrow white wake as it cruised toward the foreign flagship. Aboard, the team sat in silence and focus, advancing steadily toward the foreign flagship.
The crew from the ships watched in silence. Spyglass tracked every movement. Some figures on deck stepped back in visible confusion, murmuring to one another.
Matthews stood at the front of the boat, hand raised in calm greeting.
The two worlds drew closer, divided by centuries, joined now by the weight of diplomacy.
Back at the CIC, the captain whispered under her breath. "Godspeed, Ambassador."
The boat eased to a halt alongside the central vessel. Its hull was weathered but sturdy, oak planks braced with iron bands, sails dyed a faded ochre. Along the main deck, the crew stood ready. A rope ladder hung over the side, already unfurled.
Ambassador Matthews glanced at his team. Then, slowly, he stepped forward and took the lead. He gripped the ropes and climbed, the wooden rungs rough beneath his polished shoes.
The others followed.
As they stepped up onto the deck, a wall of steel met them.
Two dozen men surrounded them, half in leather hauberks, others in linen tunics with bronze-studded belts. Spears bristled. Bows were drawn. Shields angled forward. The deck smelled of pitch, sweat, and sea salt.
At their center stood a man.
Tall and broad-shouldered. A thick beard spilled down to his chest, silver flecking the edges. He wore a short cuirass over a thick blue mantle, a sheathed sword at his hip. His eyes were fixed and cold as glacier water.
Matthews slowly lifted his hands open. Palms out.
"I am Ambassador Julian Matthews of the United States of America," he said evenly. "We come in peace."
Silence.
The crew looked at one another, confused and tense. They whispered, eyes flicking between the strangers and their captain.
The captain's brow frowned. He stepped forward slowly. His right hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
Matthew's hands were still raised, his voice low. "Okay... I guess that didn't work…"
He reached into his pocket.
But then—
SHHHHHNK!
The captain drew his sword. Pointing it directly at Matthew's head.
Dozens of men shouted in a foreign language. The front rank stepped forward, spears thrusting forward.
Back at the CIC, everyone was locked in silence. Dozens of eyes stared at the main display—shipboard optics zoomed in on the enemy vessel across the water.
Gasps spread through the room as the image shifted.
"Weapons drawn! Weapons drawn!" someone barked.
Another voice. "Multiple contacts moving—forming up behind him!"
The room burst to life—panels lighting up, officers shouting, tension spiking like a shockwave.
Above it all, the spotter was already on comms. "Alpha team to CIC—target in sight. Uniformed, weapon drawn. Confirm—do we have clearance to engage?"
Her face didn't twitch. She stared at the screen for half a second.
Then came her order. "Negative. You do not have clearance. Hold your fire."
A tense pause. "Copy. Holding fire."
Back aboard the wooden ship, Matthews raised his voice quickly, his hands still in the air.
"Wait! Wait! Wait! Please calm down!" he shouted.
The crew got closer with each step, weapons pointed at them, advancing in silence.
Beside him, the team already had their hands inside their jackets, fingers feeling the grips of their sidearms.
Then, softly, Matthews put a hand to his chest, calm as he could make it. "Julian Matthews!"
The crew halted mid-step, still tense.
The captain's eyes narrowed.
Matthews repeated himself, hand still on his chest. "Julian... Matthews…"
Murmurs rippled. Weapons still drawn, but a subtle shift in posture.
The captain stared at him, long and hard.
Then, slowly, the captain tapped his own chest with his left hand. "Andronikos Aetós."
His voice was deep, sonorous.
Matthews's eyes were wide, his mouth half-open, and he nodded.
Then the man spoke again. "Ékphere to ónomá sou."
The Americans didn't understand a word. Matthews still had his hand to his chest, then slowly reached into his pocket and finally grabbed it.
The crew tensed up, eyes locked on his every move.
He moved slowly, holding it up where everyone could see.
It was a compact, matte-black unit about the size of a smartphone, but thicker and more utilitarian. The front featured a small, recessed touchscreen surrounded by a ruggedized casing with reinforced corners.
"Alright, Mr. Ah-eh-tos," he said gently. "Please—again."
The captain looked at him, then at the small black object in his hand. Suspicion flickered—but after a pause, he spoke again.
"Ékphere to ónomá sou."
The device buzzed softly, then voiced in clean English.
"Language identified: Greek. Translation: 'State your name.'"
Matthews glanced at the captain, then back at the device.
"My name is Julian Matthews, Ambassador of the United States of America," he said calmly, slowly stepping forward.
He spoke clearly into the device. After a half-second pause, it repeated his words in a smooth, synthetic voice.
The sentence echoed across the clearing. The crew flinched—some audibly gasping. A few archers began to draw further, but the captain raised his left hand slightly.
"Día tínos skopoû elḗlythas enthádhe?"
The translator buzzed again, processing the new sentence. After a moment, it responded:
"Translation: 'For what purpose have you come here?'"
Matthews kept his voice steady, his hands still slightly raised in a gesture of calm. "We come in peace," he said. "We mean no harm."
All eyes turned to the captain. He studied the foreigners—not just their words, but the people behind them.
Then, slowly, he lowered his sword. "Ipósteile."
The translator captured it. "Stand down."
Around him, the crew lowered their weapons, but the tension remained between the two worlds.
They were no longer enemies. But still not yet allies.
As the sun climbed higher, its light spilled over the anchored ships and the distant shoreline, reaching past olive groves, stone-paved roads, and golden fields. Inland, a fortress-citadel crowned the horizon—a relic of old power, its domes and battlements gleaming faintly beneath the sky.
Within its heart, behind layers of thick stone and bronze-inlaid doors, a chamber lay in quiet. Narrow windows let in slivers of light that cut through dust and shadow, falling upon ancient flagstones and worn wooden beams.
At the center of the room sat a man armored in tempered steel, its polish dulled by age, the sigil upon his breastplate—an eagle with two heads—chipped but proud. His pauldrons bore the greenish sheen of weathered brass; from one shoulder hung a deep sapphire cloak lined in sable fur, fastened with a lion-headed brooch.
Scrolls, inkpots, and wax seals lay scattered on the wide oak table before him. He wrote steadily, the quill whispering across parchment.
Then—distant footsteps.
A crash.
The heavy doors burst open.
A soldier stumbled in, breath ragged, armor dulled by dust and distance. He dropped to one knee, fist to heart in salute.
The armored man rose at once, voice sharp in the high dialect of the court. "What is this disturbance?"
"Despotēs," the soldier said, struggling to catch his breath, "a message from the eastern command. Sealed—by the Nauarchos's own hand. He bade me bring it without delay."
The man stepped forward, frowning. "From the Nauarchos himself? Then speak."
The soldier withdrew a folded letter, the parchment creased and damp with sweat. He held it out with both hands.
The man took it, broke the seal, and opened it. His eyes moved swiftly across the inked lines. Time hung still, like a breath withheld. The only sound was the crackle of parchment.
Then he lowered the letter.
"Summon the Synedrion," he said quietly. "Let none be absent. They are to assemble before the bell tolls again."
The soldier bowed low. "Yes, my lord."
He turned and departed, footsteps echoing into the corridors.
Minutes passed.
Silence settled across the hall. Guards lined the walls, their halberds held upright, crimson banners behind them. A deep maroon carpet led toward a set of high double doors, ribbed with black iron and guarded by sentinels in polished cuirass and full helm.
At a gesture, they opened the doors.
Beyond them: the imperial council chamber.
It was vast, solemn, and filled with light—the sun filtered through arched windows of colored glass, casting mosaics of red, gold, and blue onto the marble floor. Beneath a great domed ceiling, inlaid with images of emperors past, stretched a long table ringed with noble robes: strategoi, clergy, magistrates, and learned men.
At the far end stood the thrones.
Upon the imperial seats sat the basileus and the basilissa—crowned, serene, veiled in the deep silks of empire. Their eyes turned as the armored man entered.
He walked steadily, his every step echoing. At the center of the room, he halted, lowered to one knee, and held up the sealed scroll with reverent formality.
He spoke clearly, but with weight. "Your Majesties. Illustrious council. I bring word from the east—a matter most grave, carried from sea to land, sealed by the Nauarchos's own hand."
The basileus's brow furrowed beneath the golden arc of his diadem. "Speak then. What danger breaks our council's peace?"
The man stood. "A lone vessel, vast in size. Grey, like forged iron. It bears no sail nor oar, yet moves swiftly across the waters. Our fleet sighted it at first light, just off the eastern horizon."
A hushed murmur spread through the room. One senator leaned forward. "How does such a thing move?"
"We do not know," the messenger replied. "It glides—smooth, silent. As if not of water, but of something else."
He raised the scroll again. "They raised no banners of war. No catapult nor bolt was loosed. Instead… they hailed us in peace. And upon its flank was writ a name in a strange tongue: United States of America."
Silence broke into confusion.
"United States of America?" one bishop muttered. "What realm is that?"
"Some hidden isle? A kingdom beyond the steppes?" asked a noble.
The messenger nodded slowly. "None here knows the name. But there is more. They claim—" he hesitated—"they claim they are not of our world."
The chamber erupted.
One lord stood at once, fury in his voice. "Madness!"
Another banged his fist upon the table. "Heresy! Lies from demons!"
A third pointed a shaking hand. "Seize him before he speaks more poison!"
But the man stood unmoving, gaze fixed ahead.
Then the basileus lifted one hand.
At once, all fell silent.
"Let the man speak his full," the basilissa said, voice calm but commanding. "Truth must be heard before it is judged."
The man nodded, then unfurled the rest of the scroll.
"They speak of lands beyond the stars—not across sea, but across worlds. Their words, their garb, their tongue—all foreign beyond reckoning. They claim to have crossed between realities, as we might pass through a doorway."
A quiet voice echoed from a scholar's end. "And yet they brought no steel?"
"They came armed," the man admitted, "but their weapons remained sheathed. Their envoy—if such he was—spoke in solemn tones. Yet their ways are veiled in mystery. We cannot say if truth guides them, or deception."
An old patriarch stroked his beard. "Another world. Hmph. If such is true, it overturns the scrolls of centuries."
Another raised a hand. "Or it is a trick. A ruse to breach our defenses. Peace as a mask for conquest."
A younger voice—nervous, but clear—offered a counter. "But if it be true… and we spurn it, will we invite ruin by pride?"
At last, the basileus's chief advisor leaned forward. "We shall not greet them in blindness. But neither shall we shut our gates in fear. Let them speak. Let them show their purpose. Truth will shine through the veil."
Others nodded.
A magister in robes of white intoned softly. "If their peace is honest, we owe them audience. But should lies fester beneath, we shall answer as the empire must."
The basileus stood.
His voice rolled like a distant storm. "So be it. We shall receive these strangers—not in awe, nor in scorn—but with open eyes and guarded hearts. Let the palace be prepared. We shall meet them tomorrow."
The man bowed low. "It shall be done, Autokrator."
He turned and strode from the chamber. The doors shut behind him like the closing of a chapter.
Inside, the council remained in quiet debate. Minds reeled. Assumptions shattered.
And far to the east, still and waiting in the light of a foreign sun, USS John Finn lingered.
Colorado Springs, Colorado - Peterson Space Force Base
August 24, 2025 | 3:42 PM MDT
The roar of the engines tapered off as the C-17 taxied to a halt on the tarmac, its landing gear hissing against the concrete. The massive rear ramp began to lower, sunlight pouring into the dim cargo bay.
Bryan stood near the edge. His boots hit the ramp.
Waiting just outside was Deputy Director Marrick, holding a black briefcase. He didn't smile, but extended a hand as Bryan approached.
They shook hands. "It's good to see you again, sir," Bryan said.
Marrick's grip was firm. "Likewise, Master Sergeant. Your team is waiting for you."
He gestured toward a line of black SUVs waiting nearby. Men in dark suits stood near the doors. "Shall we?"
Bryan nodded once, and both turned toward the vehicles. An agent opened the rear door of the middle SUV. Marrick stepped in first, and Bryan followed. The doors shut, and without delay, the convoy rolled out from the base.
Inside, Marrick unlatched his briefcase and withdrew a black folder, handing it to Bryan.
"This is your team," he said, "Selected from multiple Tier 1 and Tier 2 units."
Bryan took the folder. The seal read:
TOP SECRET
PROJECT RAVEN (ECHO-1)
He flipped it open, eyes skimming across the first page. He scanned past the timestamps and command chain, then turned the page.
The next page was his own file—full information, past operations, notes even he hadn't seen in previous reviews. He turned to the next few pages.
Faces. Names. Experiences. Detailed summaries.
He didn't say anything, but his eyes lingered. Marrick noticed.
"Something wrong?" he asked.
Bryan closed the folder halfway and shook his head. "No."
The convoy sped along the base perimeter, flanked by rolling hills and hardened facilities. A few minutes passed in silence until a roadside sign appeared ahead:
Cheyenne Mountain Complex – North Gate Access
Two concrete barriers narrowed the road. The lead SUV slowed. Heavily armed guards stepped out from a checkpoint. One scanned IDs, another eyed the windows with a hardened stare.
After a brief exchange, the convoy moved again, through the gate, down a winding path until the mountain itself loomed overhead.
And there it was.
A gaping tunnel bored into solid granite, its mouth reinforced by an arched frame of thick concrete. Above the curve, bold block letters were etched in steel and fixed to the face of the structure: CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN COMPLEX. The entrance to America's most secure command hub.
Not just a relic from the Cold War anymore. Cheyenne Mountain had become the nerve center of continuity.
Marrick glanced at him. "Welcome… to your new base of operations."
They entered the tunnel. The convoy descended deeper into the mountain, headlights cutting through the dim surroundings. The convoy was now fully inside the heart of Cheyenne Mountain.
After a few minutes of travel. The SUVs finally rolled to a stop in front of an offshoot corridor marked by a small steel sign: AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY.
The doors opened. Bryan stepped out. Cool, dry, recycled air hit his face.
Marrick stepped out on the other side. "Follow me."
Two guards stood to the side. One keyed a hidden panel, and a narrow hallway door slid open. Bryan followed.
His boots echoed faintly against the floor as he walked beside Marrick, the straps of his rucksack shifting with every step.
At the far end, the corridor narrowed into a final node. A circular chamber, sleek and metallic.
"Full scan," Marrick said under his breath, not breaking stride.
Bryan stepped into the chamber. The door closed behind him. He stood still.
Then a silent beam swept from head to toe, scanning his body, things, vitals—everything. Then—
Green.
The inner door released with a hydraulic hiss, steam curling at the edges.
Bryan adjusted the strap on his rucksack and stepped forward.
He was inside.
R.A.V.E.N. Ops Center.
Not quite finished.
The corridor ahead was dimly lit, walls lined in raw steel and matte paneling. Wiring still peeked from some corners. A junction box hung open. Only one workstation was live.
Some doors were sealed. Others stood open, showing glimpses of future war rooms—bare desks, crates, even tarps. The deeper he went, the more complete things became.
Until finally, Marrick stopped at a door. A panel slid aside, revealing a small biometric reader. He glanced at Bryan. "Last stop."
Marrick pressed his thumb to the pad, then the door opened.
Bryan stepped in.
And then, five people.
Already inside.
All of them turned as he entered.
Marrick stepped forward and gestured toward them. "Your team."
The woman was the first to meet his gaze—a quiet smile playing on her lips. She stood with her hands neatly clasped behind her back, slim and composed, eyes watching him with calm interest.
Beside her, a massive man loomed like a stone pillar. His shirt strained against his frame, tattoos crawling up thick arms and just visible beneath the collar at his chest. His brow was set in a permanent furrow.
Another sat forward on a metal chair, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. Faint tattoos curled along his forearms. He wore a thick brown beard and an expression unreadable.
Leaning against the far wall was a broad-shouldered man with a heavy build, arms folded tight across his chest. Eyes tracking Bryan with quiet weight.
The last stood apart from the rest—rigid, half-Asian, eyes slightly narrowed, and both hands tucked calmly into his pockets.
Marrick glanced between Bryan and the rest. "You'll get to know each other soon enough. For now, rest. You've got 36 hours. Training begins the moment the clock hits zero."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and left the room.
Elsewhere in the Complex.
President Reynolds sat at the head of the meeting room table, hands clasped, eyes fixed on the large display showing real-time ISR feeds of the USS John Finn and the five wooden ships.
"Alright. Let's walk through it."
Director Holloway responded evenly. "The first contact was a success. There was a tense moment—their captain nearly struck the ambassador during the initial approach."
Every official in the room turned to him at once.
He raised a hand slightly. "It was defused quickly. No escalation. And formal dialogue proceeded without further issue."
He flipped a page in the folder before him. "They introduced themselves as citizens of the kingdom of Myantris. That's the name they gave for their nation."
He looked down again, flipping a page, then met their eyes once more. "Our team successfully captured their initial verbal communications during that first in-person exchange. Ran it through a linguistic mapping device, and the system identified the structure as Greek—an older form, but close enough to reconstruct a baseline for translation. They speak Greek, but make no reference to Greece."
Vice President Colloway furrowed his brow. "Greek? But no ties to Greece? That's a hell of a coincidence."
Director Sanchez tapped a pen gently on her folder. "Which fits. Their societal layout—architecture, governance, energy use—suggests a transition period. Somewhere between late medieval and early Renaissance by our analogs. According to their calendar, it's also August 25th—just the year 1516."
She flipped a page. "Feudal power blocs, heavy religious involvement, dynastic monarchies. But layered in. Some regions exhibit impressive civil infrastructure, including roads, ports, and planning grids. It's not linear, but it's organized."
Holloway added, "Their internal balance reflects something like 15th-century Europe. Church and crown operate in tandem, occasionally in tension. Military structures are pre-industrial. Yet their naval movements are unusually precise, suggesting more advanced navigation."
Reynolds' expression didn't change, but his hands shifted slightly. "Same month and day as ours. That's… interesting."
He let the silence hang for a moment. "Have they formally acknowledged us?"
Holloway checked the report, then met the President's gaze. "They've formally requested a diplomatic meeting, held in one of their cities, Theron—a coastal city near their eastern administrative belt. They're sending an official delegation. Assurances of safety have been made for our personnel."
General Carter, silent until now, spoke up. "Our carrier strike group is holding position just outside visual range. We maintain a neutral posture, but we're fully prepared if the situation changes. ISR assets are maintaining real-time coverage."
Reynolds leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. Then, he leaned forward again, his tone sharper. "Then we meet them. Face to face."
He scanned the room. "We go in steady—I want our delegation briefed to the teeth." He turned to Carter. "Maintain readiness, but keep us invisible."
Then he turned to the room, his voice firm but measured. "This could be the most important first contact in human history. We don't get a second chance at a first impression. Let's get this right."
Each official knew the stakes. They were on the cusp of history, about to make contact with a civilization that might hold the key to understanding their new reality.