Chapter 95: First Strike

The forty-hour deadline had passed.

Far out in the Eastern Ocean, surrounded by deep blue water, the USS John Paul Jones, an Arleigh Burke-class Aegis guided-missile destroyer, cut through the waves at cruising speed.

Inside the ship’s Combat Information Center (CIC), the lights were dimmed to a soft blue. Dozens of sailors sat in front of glowing multi-function displays, their headsets buzzing with constant communication.

High above the imperial coastline, beyond the reach of human eyes, dragons, or detection magic, an RQ-4 Global Hawk drone circled silently in the upper stratosphere. Its high-resolution synthetic aperture radar and thermal cameras peered straight down into the heart of Port Solis, the primary naval fortress of the Holy Solarian Empire.

On the tactical screens, every key installation was neatly outlined in red target boxes.

The imperial naval docks. The barracks blocks. The main ammunition supply depots. The towering stone dragon pens carved into the sea cliffs where hundreds of winged beasts were being saddled by armor-clad riders. And anchored tightly inside the stone breakwaters, over eighty wooden galleons and iron-reinforced war caravels were packed side by side, waiting for the order to sail.

"Global Hawk has positive lock on all designated surface targets," the tactical action officer reported calmly into his headset. "Coordinates verified and fed into the strike consoles. Firing solutions plotted."

"Command authority verified," the ship’s captain answered from behind the console. "Execute Operation Clean Sweep. Ripple fire Tomahawk strike package."

"Key turned. Missile away in three, two, one..."

On the forward deck of the destroyer, the steel hatches of the Mark 41 Vertical Launching System popped open with sharp mechanical clanks.

A loud, ear-splitting roar tore through the morning air.

Dense plumes of white smoke and orange fire erupted from the vertical tubes. One after another, slender, gray BGM-109 Tomahawk Land Attack Missiles shot straight up into the clear sky. Their solid-fuel boosters burned furiously for several seconds before falling away into the sea. The cruise missiles extended their wings, kicked on their turbofan jet engines, and pitched down, skimming just fifty feet above the rolling ocean waves at five hundred miles per hour.

Thirty-two missiles surged forward in a tight strike wave, carving white wakes across the surface of the water.

Hundreds of miles to the west, deep inside the reinforced underground command bunker beneath the island base, John Smith stood before a massive panoramic digital display.

The room smelled of coffee, filtered air, and humming computer hardware. Dozens of military operators and intelligence analysts sat in tiered rows of consoles below him. Standing directly to his left was Elenore, her tailored suit crisp, her arms crossed over her chest as her amethyst eyes tracked the moving vectors on the screen.

On the large center monitor, thirty-two bright green icons were streaking eastward across the digital ocean grid.

"Missiles are in the terminal ingress phase," a radar officer called out from the floor. "Altitude: fifty feet. Speed: Mach 0.75. GPS telemetry is stable. No hostile interceptors detected. Time on target: two minutes."

John brought a paper cup of black coffee to his lips, taking a slow, calm sip. His eyes were fixed on the green dots closing in on Port Solis.

"The imperial ships haven’t dispersed?" John asked.

"Negative, Supreme Commander," an intelligence specialist replied, tapping away at her keyboard. "Thermal imaging from the Global Hawk shows over eighty naval combatants still moored at the docks. It looks like they were preparing for an inspection or an organized fleet departure. They have no idea what’s coming."

"They don’t have radar," John noted flatly. "To them, an attack only exists when someone is close enough to see with a spyglass. By the time they hear the jet turbines, it’ll already be over."

Elenore tilted her head, watching the timer count down. "If all thirty-two warheads detonate inside the harbor, their entire western fleet will be erased in one strike."

"That’s the doctrine," John said, setting his coffee cup down on the console rail. "Take out their naval mobility, crack their supply depots, and shatter their will to fight before our ground forces ever touch the sand."

On the screen, the digital countdown reached sixty seconds.

At Port Solis, it seemed like any other peaceful morning.

Dockworkers hauled crates of dried fish and fresh fruit onto the wooden piers. Imperial sailors leaned against the polished railings of their galleons, laughing and gambling with bone dice. In the cliffside pens, handlers tossed chunks of raw meat to resting wyverns, their scaled wings tucked away from the warm sun. The decree from the capital had not yet reached the western coast; to the men of the garrison, life carried on without a hint of war.

Then, a strange, high-pitched screech echoed across the bay.

Sailors stopped their games, turning their heads toward the open water. A fisherman pointed an unsteady finger at the horizon.

Skimming just above the rolling waves were dozens of gray metal cylinders, moving faster than any hunting arrow. Before a single alarm bell could ring, the missiles pitched upward, their noses angling straight down toward the packed wooden ships.

Suddenly, the air over the entire harbor cracked with blinding light.

A massive, golden translucent dome snapped into existence. Ancient holy runes flared along its curved surface, pulsing with divine energy that had slept beneath the fortress stones for centuries.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The Tomahawk missiles slammed directly into the magical wall.

Massive orange fireballs and shockwaves blasted outward, churning the sea into foam and shaking the cliffs. Men fell flat on their faces, covering their ears in terror as deafening thunder rolled through the sky. Wyverns shrieked in panic, thrashing against their chains as thick black smoke blanketed the bay.

Yet inside the harbor, not a single wooden hull broke. The golden barrier held firm, absorbing thousands of pounds of high explosives without a scratch.

In the underground bunker, the green icons on the center display blinked out.

"Warheads detonated," the technician reported, his voice tense. "Negative effect on target. It seems that our missile struck some form of a barrier..."

John stared at the glowing feed, entirely unfazed. He slowly crushed his empty paper cup and tossed it into the bin.

"So it won’t be that easy eh?" John muttered.

"This is where I excel," Elenore proudly said. "In order to strike down the Solarians, we have to disable that barrier."