Chapter 141: Okay, Landing It Is

Five miles out at sea, the deafening roar of the naval guns finally subsided.

Aboard the flagship USS Gerald R. Ford, the silence that followed the hours of continuous fire was heavy, ringing in the ears of the officers inside the Combat Information Center.

The massive digital holographic table displayed Port Solis in shades of dark red and charcoal gray. The city was completely leveled. The outer defenses, the inner garrisons, the coastal forts, and the grand stone palaces were reduced to flat footprints of pulverized stone.

Rear Admiral Donovan lowered his binoculars on the bridge wing and walked back inside, his face grim and set like iron.

"Report from the overhead Reaper," the tactical action officer announced, his voice steady through the comms headset. "The spatial beacon at the palace coordinates has terminated. High-altitude thermal sensors registered an anomalous energy displacement moving inland at Mach 4 before dissipating past the mountain ridge."

"The target fled," Donovan stated coldly.

"Affirmative, Admiral. Goddess Viona initiated emergency spatial relocation prior to the final salvo impact. She abandoned the theater."

Donovan didn’t show anger. He was a professional naval officer. A fleeing enemy was merely a logistical detail to be tracked and hunted later.

"What about the forward quay? Grid Alpha-Zero?" Donovan asked.

The officer pulled up the ultra-high-resolution optical feed from the drone.

The screen zoomed in through the thinning black smoke. In the center of the shattered stone pier, surrounded by craters and debris, three bodies lay motionless in the mud.

"Thermal imaging confirms three biological signatures on the quay," the officer reported. "Heart rates are faint and erratic. Severe physical trauma detected: compound fractures, blunt-force concussions, and severe internal bleeding. None of them are moving. They appear to be completely neutralized and unconscious."

Donovan leaned over the console, studying the faces on the monitor. "The students. John’s fellow heroes."

"Yes, sir. Spear user, sword master, and the healer."

Donovan pressed the fleet-wide broadcast switch, connecting his line directly to the forward amphibious staging docks.

"Connect me to Eagle Actual."

A split second later, the deep, terrifyingly cold voice of John Smith cut through the radio.

"Donovan."

"The bombardment has ceased, Commander," Donovan reported. "The Aegis is completely gone. Port Solis is pacified. The divine entity has fled westward, and her primary vanguard is down on the forward quay. They are alive, but barely. Unconscious."

On the other end of the line, there was a long pause.

John did not ask about civilian casualties. He did not ask about the glory of the imperial capital. His mind was entirely locked on a cold, unwavering objective.

"Execute Phase Five," John commanded, his tone sharp as a bayonet. "The landing begins now."

"Understood, Supreme Commander," Donovan replied. "All landing craft are green across the board."

Deep in the well decks of the amphibious assault ships USS America and USS San Antonio, sirens wailed in high, rhythmic pulses.

WUUUU-OOOOH! WUUUU-OOOOH!

The massive stern gates of the ships dropped down into the churning green seawater, flooding the internal docking bays with four feet of foaming surf.

Exhaust fans roared into overdrive, venting the thick diesel fumes produced by dozens of idling military engines. The smell of JP-8 fuel, hydraulic oil, and wet metal filled the damp cavernous bays.

Colonel Richter stood atop the command deck of the lead Landing Craft Air Cushion (LCAC), his armored hands resting flat against the steel safety rail.

He was geared in full heavy tactical composite plates, an M4A1 carbine slung tightly across his chest, and dual extra magazine pouches strapped to his thighs. Beside him stood fifty elite special forces operators and combat medics from Delta detachment, their faces masked by ballistic balaclavas, their eyes burning with quiet, lethal focus.

They were not going into Port Solis to explore. They were going to secure the bodies of General Phillip and their slaughtered brothers, and to lock down the combat zone with an iron fist.

"Listen up, Delta!" Richter’s gravelly voice bellowed through the intercom headsets. "The barrier is down, but that doesn’t mean this beach is clean! We do not know what kind of lingering traps, curses, or surviving fanatics are crawling through that rubble! We move with high-ready posture!"

The operators clicked their safeties on and checked their chambered rounds with crisp metallic clatters.

"Medics!" Richter pointed a gloved finger toward the medical extraction team. "Those three targets on the pier are John’s fellow heroes. They are hostile combatants under cognitive contamination. You do not touch them with bare hands! The moment we touch down, you slap localized mana-suppression cuffs on their limbs and sever those cursed black bands on their arms! If they twitch, you sedate them with enough fentanyl to put down an elephant! Am I understood?!"

"HOOAH!" the medics shouted in unison, checking their tactical medical kits, automated bone splints, and pressurized plasma bags.

Beside Richter, Elenore stepped onto the hovercraft’s steel deck.

She wore a lightweight composite plate carrier, her hair tied tightly back beneath a combat helmet, her sidearm resting securely on her hip. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the receiver of her rifle, her eyes fixed firmly toward the open sea door where the ruined coastline of Port Solis lay visible through the spray.

She hadn’t spoken since Phillip’s death. The grief had frozen inside her chest, transforming into a hard, cold resolve.

Behind the hovercraft, the true iron fist of the United States ground forces roared into life.

Four LCACs carrying M1A2 Abrams main battle tanks began their lift engines. The massive rubber skirts inflated with deafening rushing air, lifting the seventy-ton armored behemoths clear of the flooded deck. Behind them, lines of Amphibious Combat Vehicles (ACVs) carrying hundreds of fully armed Marines floated into the surf, their propellers churning the water into white foam.

In the skies above the fleet, the air was dominated entirely by rotary wings.

Six AH-1Z Viper attack helicopters and eight UH-1Y Venoms lifted off the flight decks in tight formation, their twin-blade rotors beating the air in heavy, rhythmic pulses. They formed a protective perimeter around the amphibious wave, their 20mm Gatling cannons swept forward, ready to erase any imperial survivor that raised a spear from the rubble.

On the flight deck of the USS Gerald R. Ford, an armored MH-60S Seahawk touched down on the forward helipad.

The side door slid open with a sharp mechanical clatter.

John Smith stepped out.

He wore dark operational service fatigues, a tactical vest devoid of medals, and a combat sidearm strapped to his right thigh. He did not carry a golden scepter. He did not wear a crown. He walked with heavy, unhurried steps across the windy deck, his eyes fixed on the smoke rising five miles away.

He stopped at the edge of the flight deck, the salt wind whipping through his dark hair.

In his hand, he held General Phillip’s spare silver rank insignia—the twin stars that Phillip had left in the forward command bunker before embarking on his final mission.

John’s fingers tightened around the cold metal stars until the points dug deep into his palm.

"Richter," John spoke calmly into his throat microphone.

"Reading you loud and clear, Eagle Actual," Richter’s voice crackled through the secure channel.

"Land on the quay," John ordered, his voice dropping into a flat, terrifying decree that carried no mercy, no hesitation, and no warmth. "Bring Phillip home. Secure the heroes. And if anything in that city still breathes and dares to fight..."

John looked out across the gray ocean toward the shattered shore.

"Bury it."

"Understood, Commander," Richter replied. "Delta is outbound."

The massive turbine fans of the hovercraft roared to maximum thrust.

With a deafening howl that shook the water, the LCAC shot out of the well deck into the open sea, skipping across the whitecaps at forty knots, leading the armored fleet straight toward the burning graveyard of Port Solis.