Season 1 chapter 12
The Calculated Probability
They burst into the Dean's office. Varek looked up, hope and terror warring on his face.
"We found it," Malesh said, slamming the map of the DI'an Ocean onto the mahogany desk. He pointed to the coordinate: LN-5728, the location they had dubbed Hulush, known to the terrorists as The Black Tooth.
"But don't get your hopes up yet," Kniya added, leaning over the desk with a cold stare. "We're playing a probability game here, Mr. Varek. There's a chance this is just a refueling station for another cell, or that Suleikh Ul Muleikh is using it as a decoy. Your daughter might not be there. It's a gamble."
Varek stared at the map, his fingers tracing the void in the ocean. "You found a submerged pier and a phonetic cipher in less than twenty-four hours. No one else has ever come this close." He looked up, his eyes burning with a new resolve. "The gamble is all I have. I'm going all in."
The Shadow Army
The Dean didn't reach for the school's telephone; he reached for a private, encrypted telegraph line in his desk drawer. "The official DI Army is too slow, but I have contacts in the DI'an Special Operations Unit. These are men who operate in the 'Grey Zones.' They don't need a declaration of war; they just need a target."
Within an hour, the Dean had secured the logistics. Because this wasn't an "official" military action, they were bypassing the bureaucracy entirely.
The General's Briefing (Solo Ops)
Dean Varek hung up the encrypted telegraph receiver, his face pale but his eyes hard with borrowed authority. He turned to Malesh and Kniya, placing a heavy, stamped military manifest on the desk.
"I just finished the call with the General of the Special Operations Unit," Varek said, his voice steady. "They are treating this as a 'Ghost Op.' That means no official military presence. No 'Legendary Guards.' No rescue team if things go south."
He looked Kniya in the eye. "You two are the only ones going. The General was impressed by your intel, but he isn't willing to risk a diplomatic incident by sending active-duty soldiers into the Southern DI'an Ocean. You are the architects of this mission, and you will be the executioners."
The Hardware (R52 and JS3)
Varek walked over to the map, tapping a section marked 'Logistics.' "Since you are going in alone, the General has authorized the release of the highest-tier hardware available to ensure you have a fighting chance."
"First, the weaponry," Varek explained. "You are getting the R52 Max-Miles. It's a heavy-caliber, steam-assisted semi-automatic rifle. It has an effective range of 1,200 meters and can punch through light vehicle armor. If there are guards on that island, they will be dead before they hear the shot."
He then slid a blueprint across the desk. It showed a sleek, aggressive aircraft with swept wings and massive rear thrusters.
"For insertion to the naval perimeter, we are using the JS3 (Jet-Steam 3) Fighter," Varek continued. "Here are the specs:"
· Stealth: The hull is coated in a radar-absorbent matte finish.
· Payload: It is a two-seater variant modified for covert insertion drops.
The Logistics of the Long-Haul
"The logistics are pushing the limits of our endurance," Varek said, tracing the route on the map which stretched off the edge of the standard paper. "Because of the sensitive nature of this operation, the carrier DNV-77 has been moved to a deep-water holding pattern in the Dead Zone of the DI'an Ocean. It is sitting in the absolute middle of nowhere."
Malesh raised an eyebrow, looking at the distance. "That's not a standard patrol route. How are we supposed to reach that without refueling?"
"You aren't taking a standard transport," Varek replied, sliding a weathered blueprint across the desk. It showed a rugged, angular aircraft with massive rear thrusters and reinforced riveting along the fuselage. "You are taking the JS3 (Jet-Steam 3) 'Iron-Lung'. It is a Third-Generation interceptor, a relic from the Era of Ash."
"The JS3?" Kniya leaned in, recognizing the silhouette. "I thought these were decommissioned. Didn't they use these for deep-strike sorties during the Alphono Wars? My grandfather used to talk about how loud they were."
"They are loud, they are uncomfortable, and they vibrate like a jackhammer," Varek admitted. "But they are the only aircraft with the fuel efficiency and the durability to make this flight. This specific bird has flown over a hundred combat missions and never failed to return. It's built for survival, not comfort."
JS3 Specifications:
· Generation: 3rd Gen Long-Range Steam Interceptor.
· History: A veteran of the Continental Conflicts, known for its ability to fly on dirty fuel and take heavy damage.
· Endurance: Modified external tanks allow for 18 hours of continuous flight.
"You will take a private charter flight from Seistain to the Swongwa Airbase in SDC," Varek continued, tapping a large region on the southern map. "SDC is... unique. It's a state swallowed by ancient forests but choked by industrial smokestacks. It's where the Republic hides its biggest secrets."
"From Swongwa, you board the JS3," Varek said grimly. "It will be a 15-hour flight to the DNV-77. Fifteen hours of high-altitude steam-jet travel. It will test your resolve before you even see the island."
The Discipline of Rest
"The flight to SDC is scheduled for the morning," Dean Varek ordered, snapping the pocket watch on his vest shut. "Once you strap into that JS3, you will be locked in a pressurized cockpit for nearly a full day. The vibration alone exhausts seasoned pilots. You cannot do this tired."
He looked at them sternly, his fatherly desperation bleeding into a commander's tone. "You have eight hours. Sleep. That is not a suggestion; it is a mission parameter. If you hallucinate from exhaustion over the ocean, you die."
They returned to the soundproofed basement. The reality of the 15-hour journey weighed heavily on the room.
Kniya paced the floor for twenty minutes, his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone. He kept checking the map, tracing the immense, empty blue space they had to cross. "Fifteen hours in a tin can," he muttered, lighting a match just to watch it burn. "I hope the AC works."
Malesh, however, didn't hesitate. He drank a glass of water, set his mechanical internal alarm, and lay down on his cot. He didn't worry about the turbulence or the history of the plane. He knew that efficiency wasn't just about machines; it was about the mind. If he was going to endure a marathon flight to breach a fortress, he needed a fully recharged battery.
Within sixty seconds, his breathing evened out. Eight hours later, they woke up. Sharp. Cold. Ready to cross the void.
The Forest of Iron (Swongwa Airbase)
The private charter flight began its descent into the SDC, and the view from the window was like looking at a war between nature and machine. Below them, ancient, emerald-green forests stretched for miles, their canopies thick and impenetrable. But cutting through the greenery were massive, jagged scars of industry—black iron refineries belching smoke that hung low over the trees.
They landed at Swongwa Airbase, a military installation carved right into the side of a mountain range. The tarmac was wet with the perpetual coastal mist.
"Welcome to the edge of the world," a ground crew chief shouted over the noise of the airfield, guiding them toward a secluded hangar.
Inside sat the JS3 'Iron-Lung'.
It didn't look like the sleek, polite aircraft of the capital. It looked like a shovel with wings. The fuselage was scarred from decades of service, covered in heavy iron rivets. But what stood out was the cockpit. This wasn't the standard fighter; it was the "Deep Strike" variant. The canopy was elongated, bubbling out to cover a widened rear compartment originally designed for a bombardier and a navigator.
"She's ugly," Kniya noted, staring at the soot-stained exhaust ports.
"She's a tank that flies," Malesh corrected, running a hand over the cold, rough metal of the wing. "Modified three-seater configuration. Pilot up front, payload in the back. It's going to be tight, but it's the only thing that can make a 15-hour haul without melting down."
They climbed into the rear cockpit. It was a tight squeeze—shoulder to shoulder in a space meant for military gear—but they strapped in. As the canopy locked down with a heavy mechanical thunk, the silence of the hangar was replaced by the low, vibrating hum of the steam-ramjets spooling up.
The Arrival of the Ghosts
Fifteen hours later, the DNV-77 was a lonely steel island in the middle of the DI'an Ocean. The deck crew was going about their routine maintenance when a sonic boom shattered the air—CRACK-BOOM!
Heads snapped up. High in the twilight sky, a black streak was tearing through the clouds, trailing a thick plume of white steam.
"Tower, this is Ghost-1 on approach," the pilot's voice crackled over the ship's PA system, calm despite the speed. "Requesting immediate trap."
The JS3 didn't slow down like a cargo plane; it screamed toward the deck like a missile. The steam-jets flared, glowing cherry-red against the darkening sky. It hit the deck with a violence that shook the floorboards of the bridge. The tailhook snagged the number three wire, dragging the massive steel cable taut.
SCREEEEECH.
The jet went from 160 knots to zero in two seconds, the tires smoking as they skidded across the non-slip surface. A massive cloud of vented steam erupted from the engines, engulfing the aircraft in a theatrical white fog.
For a moment, the entire flight deck went silent. It was a landing of pure, raw aggression.
The canopy hissed open, the steam clearing to reveal Malesh and Kniya climbing out. They looked stiff, battered, and utterly unimpressed by the spectacle they had just created.