Chapter 98: Hmm, New Tactic?

Inside the underground command bunker beneath the island base, the atmosphere was completely still.

Rows of green computer monitors lit up the dimly lit room. On the large concrete wall at the front, a giant screen showed a live satellite feed of Port Solis. The golden dome called the Aegis was still glowing brightly over the harbor. It looked like a massive, translucent glass bowl turned upside down over the entire city and the bay.

Under the barrier, eighty imperial war galleons were still tied safely to the stone docks. Red target boxes from the targeting computer were still locked onto their wooden hulls. High up in the sky, nothing was destroyed. The thirty-two Tomahawk cruise missiles had exploded harmlessly against the top of the dome, and the strange magic shield had stopped every single shockwave.

The radar technicians and tactical officers sat frozen in their seats, staring at the screen in disbelief.

"All thirty-two warheads confirmed detonated," a technician reported, his voice tight and bewildered. "Damage assessment on the target grid is... zero. Sir, the missiles didn’t hit stone or steel. They hit a solid energy wall fifty feet in the air."

"An energy wall?" an analyst muttered, shaking his head as his fingers tapped rapidly on his keyboard. "We have no telemetry records for anything like this. It completely absorbed over sixteen tons of high explosives without budging."

Beside John, Elenore stood silently, observing the monitors with her hands folded behind her back. She did not speak. She was a native of this world, but ancient imperial high-magic was outside her experience.

John stared at the glowing circle on the satellite feed. He was surprised, but his expression remained calm and controlled. He set his coffee cup down on the console rail.

"So their goddess can put up a force field," John said, his voice level. "Good to know. It proves they aren’t completely helpless."

"Commander, dropping conventional bombs or firing our naval railguns from the air will likely yield the same result," the operations director said, turning to him with a worried look. "If that dome can absorb thirty-two cruise missiles without a scratch, high-altitude bombardment is just wasting ordnance."

"Every wall has an edge," John replied calmly. "A dome is a half-sphere. It covers the sky and sits on the ground. The question is: how does it interact with the sea?"

John pressed a key on the central console.

The drone picture shifted, replaced by a detailed 3D depth map of Port Solis harbor. The map displayed the seabed contour lines, the stone breakwaters, and the deep underwater trench ships used to enter the bay.

"Our radar and cameras show the shield seals along the shoreline and rests on the stone breakwaters," John said, looking down at the naval operators in the operations pit. "What does it look like beneath the surface of the water?"

A naval intelligence officer wearing a headset spun around in his chair. "Sir, we ran active sonar sweeps and depth-soundings from the Global Hawk. Look at the water density readouts right at the harbor mouth. Water is eight hundred times denser than air. Projecting a solid energy wall through moving ocean brine is physically very difficult compared to projecting it through thin air."

"Explain," John ordered.

"The barrier appears anchored to the bedrock of the outer breakwater," the officer said, pointing at the depth map. "To keep the harbor functional, ships need to sail in and out, and the tide has to flow. If the magical shield went all the way to the sea floor like a solid stone wall, the harbor would turn into a stagnant pond within days, and silt would block the channel. It’s highly probable the ward terminates right at the waterline to allow water circulation."

"Then we test that theory right now," John said. "If the sky is closed, we go under it."

He leaned over the railing and looked at the operations director. "What maritime assets do we have on station near the imperial border?"

"A Lockheed P-3C Orion, callsign Trident Seven, is on patrol sixty miles off the imperial coast," the director answered immediately. "They’ve been conducting maritime surveillance and dropping sonar buoys since dawn."

John pressed the radio switch on the console rail. "Patch me through to Trident Seven’s flight deck."

A click echoed over the room’s speakers, followed by the deep, rhythmic hum of four turboprop engines and the faint hiss of an open radio line.

"Trident Seven, this is Eagle Actual," John said clearly. "How copy?"

"Eagle Actual, this is Trident Seven. Reading you loud and clear," a pilot’s voice responded over the radio. "Lieutenant Commander Miller speaking."

"Commander Miller, your mission has changed," John said. "Our high-altitude missile strike failed to penetrate an unexpected energy dome over the harbor. We are shifting to a subsurface vector. Confirm your ordnance."

"Payload confirmed, Eagle Actual," Miller replied from the cockpit. "We have four Mark 54 lightweight torpedoes in the internal bomb bay. All systems show green."

"Good," John said. "Your target is the mouth of the Port Solis shipping channel. Ingress at low altitude and drop two Mark 54s. Set their search patterns to run shallow and track straight through the breakwater gap. Let’s see if their magic dome extends to the seabed."

"Copy that, Eagle Actual. Trident Seven is turning toward attack vector Alpha. Descending to five hundred feet. Weapons away in eight minutes."

"Eagle out."

Sixty miles away from the imperial coast, the P-3C Orion banked sharply to the east.

The large gray aircraft cut through the overcast morning clouds. Its four large propellers hummed with a heavy vibration as the pilot pushed the control yoke forward, sending the heavy plane down toward the rolling gray ocean swells below.

Inside the rear cabin of the plane, rows of computer consoles glowed with amber lights.

"Descending through one thousand feet," the copilot announced, checking the dials. "Airspeed two hundred twenty knots. Radar altimeter active. Leveling off at five hundred feet."

The aircraft leveled out just above the waves. Ocean spray misted against the lower fuselage as the water rushed past underneath at over two hundred miles per hour.

In the middle of the cabin, the tactical coordinator, Lieutenant Henderson, rested his hand on his headset. He looked at the green screen in front of him.

"TACCO to cockpit," Henderson called out over the crew intercom. "The Port Solis channel is marked on our tactical grid. Bearing zero-eight-five. Distance eighteen miles. The gap between the two stone breakwaters is about three hundred yards wide. The channel trench is over one hundred feet deep."

"Understood, TACCO," Miller replied from the flight deck. "What’s the wind doing?"

"Wind from the northeast at twelve knots," Henderson said. "The water is relatively calm. The torpedo sonar should pick up the channel walls without issue once they enter the search cone."

"Acoustic station, what do you hear?" Miller asked.

A few feet away, the sonar operator looked at his screen, listening to the hydrophone feeds. "Water is clear, sir. No movement. Just waves and the tide moving into the bay. The channel is wide open."

"Alright, crew, get ready," Miller said. "We stay low under their horizon until the last two miles. Then we pop up slightly, open the belly doors, drop two Mark 54s, and break hard west. Their watchtowers might spot our silhouette when we turn, but they won’t have time to react. Master arm on."

"Master arm confirmed hot," the weapons technician in the rear called out. "Stations three and four selected. Torpedo presets locked: acoustic homing mode active, running depth set to fifteen feet, search floor set to forty feet."

"Twelve miles out," Henderson said, watching the range counter drop on his display. "Ten miles. Approaching the drop point."

Through the cockpit windshield, the hazy silhouette of the imperial coast grew larger. The high cliffs of Port Solis rose above the horizon, capped by ancient stone watchtowers. Even from ten miles away, the faint golden shimmer of the Aegis of the Sun was visible, glowing quietly in the morning air.

Inside the port, imperial soldiers were still celebrating.

To them, the attack from earlier that morning had been an easy victory. The strange flying iron spears of the western barbarians had hit the golden barrier of Goddess Viona and exploded into harmless black smoke. Priests walked along the docks swinging pots of incense, chanting holy prayers, while sailors rolled kegs of ale onto the decks of the galleons. They believed the magic dome made them completely untouchable.

Not a single person saw the low gray plane skimming just above the waves miles away.

"Five miles out," Henderson called out sharply. "Drop in thirty seconds."

"Copy," Miller said, pulling back slightly on the yoke. "Opening bomb bay doors."

A mechanical hum ran through the plane as the heavy metal doors under the belly swung open into the cold wind. The airframe trembled slightly from the extra drag.

"Bay doors open. Lights show green," the copilot reported.

"Target channel locked," Henderson said, watching the distance count down. "Five... four... three... two... one... drop!"

He pressed the release buttons on his panel.

Inside the open belly of the plane, two gray Mark 54 torpedoes fell from their metal suspension racks.

The eight-foot-long weapons dropped cleanly into the rushing air. A split second later, small white parachutes popped open from their tail cones. The little chutes caught the wind, stabilizing the torpedoes and pointing their noses straight down toward the water.

Splash! Splash!

The torpedoes struck the rolling waves at a clean angle, three miles outside the mouth of the harbor.

The moment they submerged, the parachutes disconnected and floated away on the surface. Seawater flooded the nose cones, instantly activating the thermal batteries inside. The small propellers at the back began spinning at high speed with a quiet, high-pitched whine.

"Clean separation on both units!" the weapons tech yelled.

"Bay doors closing," Miller said, banking the heavy plane into a hard left turn. "Full throttle on all four engines. Let’s get out of here before they spot us."

The four turboprop engines roared, pulling the patrol plane into a steep climb as it headed back toward the safety of the open western sea.