The storm was gone. And the sky was clear again, the sea had returned to its former calm. The fleet was moving in formation.
From the bridge of the Resolute, Captain Shepard watched an island loom larger and larger on the horizon. Sharp cliffs rose straight out of the sea, their edges crashing into the blue sky. Beyond them, dark green slopes climbed inland.
"Range?" Shepard asked.
"Five nautical miles, sir. No radar reflections except terrain," the navigator replied.
"Depth?"
"Consistent with coastal shelf. No reefs within our approach lane."
Shepard nodded.
"Maintain five knots. Maintain a distance of two thousand meters from the shore."
The bridge was silent except for the hum of the systems and the faint hiss of the sea against the ship's hull. The crew spoke in hushed voices, still tense from the storm.
"Communications?" Shepard asked.
"Still nothing from Command," the comms officer said.
"Satlink is out. Local channels only."
Shepard frowned.
"That's three hours since the clear skies. We should have reconnected by then."
Ortega, standing next to him, glanced at his console.
"The weather interference should have cleared as well, sir. This sector should have full coverage."
Shepard didn't have time to answer. He looked back at the horizon. The island was close enough now to see the details—rough shoreline, broken trees near the cliff base, and a strip of pale beach near the western edge.
"Launch a drone," he ordered.
"Low altitude, short range. Maintain line-of-sight."
"Yes, sir."
A few minutes later, the deck crew readied the small UAV on the launch rail. The drone shot into the air, climbing steadily and banking toward the island. The bridge display came to life on a solid video feed.
"The visual was clear," Ortega reported.
"Switched to infrared sweep… nothing unusual. The land appeared to be untouched."
The drone passed along the shore. White sand, driftwood, a few scattered rocks. No sign of structures, no smoke, no movement.
"Looks clean," Ortega said.
Shepard folded his arms. "Then we'll confirm it the old way."
He turned toward the intercom.
"Prepare a shore team. I want eyes on land within the hour. Standard recon procedure. Stay armed, stay cautious."
"Aye, Captain."
Down on the hangar deck, boots hit metal as sailors moved to ready the landing craft. Some spoke quietly while loading gear — mostly about the storm, but a few about the island.
"Never seen that on any map," one said.
"Yeah," another replied, tightening a strap on his rifle.
"Guess we'll find out what's hiding there."
Back on the bridge, Shepard lowered his binoculars. The sun caught the cliffs, casting long shadows over the beach.
The order came down the comms: "Landing team, move out."
In the hangar bay, crews moved with quiet precision. Engines rumbled as the landing craft powered up, their hulls rocking gently in the cradle. The smell of fuel and salt filled the air.
Inside one of the craft, the squad waited — helmets on, rifles secured between their knees. No one spoke for a while. The storm had drained the humor out of everyone.
"Feels weird, doesn't it?" one marine finally said.
"Storm throws us halfway across the sea, and the first thing we see is a damn postcard island."
The sergeant checked his wrist display, not looking up.
"Keep your head straight. Pretty places tend to hide ugly things."
The craft's intercom buzzed.
"This is Eagle-One. Two hundred meters to shore. No visual contact. Beach looks clear."
Shepard's voice came over the channel a moment later, calm and steady.
"Copy, Eagle-One. Proceed and establish perimeter."
The bridge crew watched the landing markers blink across the tactical display. Shepard leaned on the console, eyes fixed on the approaching shoreline.
"Put the drone feed on screen two," he said.
A new window flickered to life — grainy visuals of white sand and scattered driftwood. No signs of movement. No structures. No signals.
The captain exhaled through his nose. "All right… let's see what's waiting for us."
"Captain," Ortega called from the sensor station, "we're getting a transmission from Titan."
Shepard turned. "Put it through."
The bridge speakers crackled with static before a voice came on — calm, deep, and clipped.
"This is Titan, reporting from grid seven-one-charlie. We've resumed sonar sweeps. Still no contact with Command or any allied transponders."
"Understood, Titan. What's your current reading?" Shepard asked.
A short pause, then:
"Odd results, sir. The seabed here doesn't match charted data. Depth is off by nearly three hundred meters. Terrain's rough — ridges, trenches, and what looks like… debris fields."
Ortega glanced up. "Debris? As in wrecks?"
"Possibly,"
Titan's captain replied.
"Metallic returns, but inconsistent. Could be old ship hulks or rock formations. Hard to tell without closer scans."
Shepard folded his arms.
"Any sign of activity down there?"
"Negative. The ocean's dead quiet. No engine noise, no prop signatures, nothing. Like the whole sea's asleep."
For a moment, no one spoke. The steady hum of the bridge systems was the only sound.
"Continue your sweep, Titan," Shepard said finally.
"Stay submerged and maintain silent running. Report if anything changes."
"Aye, sir. Titan out."
The line went silent. Ortega looked uneasy.
"Three hundred meters off-depth… sir, that's not a small mapping error."
Shepard's gaze stayed on the display. The island filled the screen now, its coastline sharp under the midday light.
"No," he said quietly. "It isn't."
The call ended, and silence settled over the bridge. Only the low hum of the engines and the rhythmic tap of the radar echoed through the room.
"Ground team just reached the beach, sir," Ortega reported. "Telemetry is stable. No contact so far."
"Put them through," Shepard said.
The main display switched to the bodycam feed of Eagle-One. The camera showed white sand, shallow surf, and dense green vegetation beyond the shoreline. The wind carried faint sounds of waves and insects — nothing else.
"Command, this is Eagle-One. Beach is secure. No hostiles, no structures, no signals. Starting inland sweep."
"Copy that," Shepard replied. "Keep visual open and report anything unusual."
The marines advanced carefully up the beach, boots crunching over shells and driftwood. The sand gave way to firm soil as they neared the treeline. Sunlight filtered through tall palms and thick undergrowth.
"Feels like no one's been here in years," one marine said, brushing aside a hanging vine.
Another crouched, running a hand along the ground.
"Animal tracks. Looks like wild boar… and something else. Can't tell what."
The sergeant raised his fist, signaling halt.
"Fan out, twenty-meter spread. Stay sharp."
They pushed deeper, the noise of the ocean fading behind them. The forest grew darker, heavier. Leaves rustled overhead, but there was no wind strong enough to move them.
Back on the Resolute, Ortega studied the live feed.
"No human-made structures. No power signatures. It's like the island's completely off the grid."
"Keep an eye on their vitals," Shepard said.
"No one wanders out of formation."
On the ground, Eagle-One broke into a small clearing. In the center lay a broken wooden cart half-buried in mud, its frame rotted and covered in moss.
The sergeant knelt beside it, inspecting the wheel hub. "Old craftsmanship," he muttered.
"No sign of rust—this isn't recent."
"Could it be one of ours?" a marine asked.
He shook his head. "Not with wood this rough. Looks handmade."
Static buzzed briefly in their comms. The sergeant glanced up. "Command, do you copy?"
A faint delay. Then Shepard's voice: "We read you, Eagle-One. You're breaking up, say again?"
The marine checked his gear. "Signal's fading. Must be interference."
Shepard's voice returned, more faint this time. "Understood. Pull back to the shore if—"
The transmission cut off.
The sergeant scanned the treeline. Everything was still. Too still.
"Alright," he said quietly. "We regroup at the beach. Now."
The squad turned back toward the coast — unaware that far out to sea, the fleet's radar had just picked up a faint contact on the horizon.
"Contact," Ortega said suddenly. His voice cut through the quiet bridge.
"Picking up multiple returns, bearing two-one-zero."
Shepard turned sharply.
"How many?"
"Hard to say. Signal's faint—low speed, no transponder, no radar signature type."
Ortega adjusted the filters.
"Range… thirty kilometers and closing."
"Visual feed?"
"Working on it."
The main screen flickered to life, the camera zooming toward the horizon. At first, there was nothing but a shimmer of sea and sky. Then faint outlines began to form—dark shapes, low on the water, moving in formation.
"Those look like sails," one of the officers said under his breath.
Ortega frowned.
"Impossible. Must be interference or a projection error."
The zoom tightened. Cloth sails caught the sunlight—cream, red, and black banners snapping in the wind. Hulls of wood, oars cutting the waves beneath them.
Everyone on the bridge froze.
Shepard lowered his binoculars slowly.
"Ortega… confirm this."
"Already did, sir," Ortega said quietly.
"They're real."
The radar filled with blips. Dozens of ships. A fleet.
No radio pings, no IFF, no power signatures. Just wooden ships advancing in near-perfect formation.
"Shepard," the comms officer said, voice tight, "they're heading straight for us."
The captain didn't answer right away. He just stared at the horizon—those sails catching the wind, gliding across the sea like ghosts from another age.
Then he spoke, steady and cold.
"All ships, battle stations."
The alarm echoed through the fleet as the island wind carried the distant creak of wooden masts across the water.