Chapter 132: Wrath of the American Freedom Part 1

Inside the underground command bunker, the silence was deafening.

On the main central monitor, the live optical feed from the MQ-9 Reaper drone played out with crystalline clarity. The high-resolution camera did not blink. It captured every single fraction of a second: Ayanokoji’s black spear ripping through General Phillip’s chest, Kenji’s holy blade bisecting the two forward operators, the boulder crushing the Seahawk into the harbor waves, and Goddess Viona grinding her heel into the bloody surrender papers.

The final frame remained frozen on the screen.

Phillip lay on his back in the center of the stone quay, his chest torn open, his eyes glazed and unblinking beneath the gray clouds. Beside him, his four elite operators lay in butchered pieces.

Standing behind the central tactical table, John Smith did not move.

His knuckles pressed so hard into the steel edge of the console that the metal groaned under the localized strain. His breathing was dead, frozen in his throat. His pupils had shrunk into tiny, needle-sharp points of pure black, fixed completely on the still body of his second-in-command.

Beside him, Colonel Richter slammed his fist into the communications terminal with a roar.

"FUCKING ANIMALS!" Richter screamed, his face turning dark red with rage. "They cut them down under a white flag! They butchered the general on the pier! Delta team is gone!"

Behind them, Elenore staggered back a step, one hand covering her mouth in horror. Tears welled in her eyes as she stared at the screen, her knuckles whitening as her other hand clenched the grip of her assault rifle. "Phillip... they didn’t even give him a chance to speak..."

A low, trembling sound began to vibrate through the concrete bunker.

It wasn’t machinery. It wasn’t the ventilation fans.

It was John.

The young supreme commander slowly raised his head. His face was twisted into an expression of unhinged, murderous fury that no one in the room had ever witnessed before. The calm, detached commander who calculated battlefields with cold mathematical logic was gone. In his place was the boy who had clawed his way out of the monster-filled abyss with raw hatred burning in his chest.

"I gave them a way out," John whispered.

His voice was terrifyingly low, like grinding stones beneath a mountain.

"I gave that arrogant bitch a clean exit," John continued, his voice rising in pitch, shaking with uncontrollable rage. "I spared her city. I held back our bombers from her residential streets. I offered food. I offered medicine. I offered to treat her like a head of state."

John kicked his heavy steel chair.

CLANG!

The chair flew across the room, smashing into the concrete wall and denting the steel frame before crashing to the floor.

"AND SHE BUTCHERED MY GENERAL!" John roared at the top of his lungs, his voice echoing off the blast doors like thunder. "SHE TOOK A WHITE FLAG AND WIPED HER FEET WITH IT!"

The entire room went dead silent. The communications technicians froze, their fingers hovering over keyboards, terrified to even breathe as John’s aura flared wildly with pure, lethal killing intent.

John stepped forward, towering over the central console. His eyes burned with red-hot fury.

He ripped the fleet transmission handset off the wall, slamming the emergency fleet-wide priority override button.

"Donovan!" John bellowed into the receiver.

Five miles offshore, in the Combat Information Center of the USS Gerald R. Ford, Rear Admiral Donovan stood with the receiver pressed to his ear. Behind him, the tactical officers were already staring in grim shock at the same drone feed.

"Eagle Actual, I have the picture," Donovan responded, his voice colder than ice. "We watched the feed. The parley is compromised."

"It’s not compromised, Admiral!" John snarled, his spit flying across the steel desk. "It is an act of total war! Every rule of engagement, every restriction, every humanitarian hold is hereby REVOKED! Do you hear me?! REVOKED!"

"Loud and clear, Commander," Donovan replied steadily. "What are your orders?"

John leaned over the tactical map, his eyes boring into the glowing golden dome of the Aegis over Port Solis. He didn’t know how the damned magic barrier worked. He didn’t care about its magical runes or what ancient spell created it. All he knew was that it had been sitting there blocking his missiles, keeping that psychotic goddess safe while she laughed behind its walls.

"I don’t care how strong that yellow dome thinks it is," John said, his voice dropping into a harsh, venomous hiss. "Everything breaks if you hit it hard enough and long enough! I want saturation fire on that barrier until it shatters like glass! Empty the magazines, Donovan!"

"Sir?" Donovan asked, making sure he understood the gravity of the command.

"You heard me!" John screamed into the radio. "EMPTY THE VLS CELLS! Bring every cruiser and destroyer into line! Call the bomb wings out of the island airstrips! I don’t care about precision anymore! I want continuous, unrelenting SATURATION! Hammer that exact same spot until that shield caves in! I want so much steel in the air that the sky turns black!"

John pointed a shaking finger at the screen, looking right at the smug face of Goddess Viona standing on the bloodsoaked quay.

"Tear that dome out of the sky! Keep pounding it until there’s nothing left! And bury that bitch under fifty thousand tons of American iron! DO IT NOW!"

"Understood, Supreme Commander," Donovan said. "Execute Operation Broken Crown. Weapons free on all naval and air assets."

The line clicked dead.

John slammed the receiver back onto the wall mount, breathing heavily, his chest heaving under his uniform.

He turned around slowly, his burning gaze sweeping over Richter, Elenore, and the rest of the war room staff.

"Richter," John commanded.

"Sir!" Richter snapped to attention, his eyes burning with vengeful resolve.

"Prep your entire assault battalion," John said, his voice cold as a grave. "Armored personnel carriers, mechanized infantry, heavy armor. The moment that golden dome breaks, we are going in. We are not taking prisoners. We are not accepting surrenders. Any imperial soldier who holds a weapon dies where he stands."

"And the goddess, sir?" Richter asked.

John’s lips curled into a terrifying, humorless grin.

"She wants to play gods and mortals?" John said softly. "I’m going to rip that crown off her head with my bare hands and make her watch her holy city burn to ash."