Sineus’s gaze swept the horizon, past the impossible island of Thule Ultima. The lights Magnusson had promised were there, a wolf pack gathering at the edge of the fog. Sleek, black attack craft from the Axiom Group formed the inner ring, their silhouettes sharp and predatory. Beyond them, the heavy, brutalist shapes of Russian Northern Fleet destroyers and the clean, modern lines of a Chinese carrier group closed the circle. They were all here. They had been waiting for the key to unlock the door.
— All stations, evasive action! — Moreau’s voice was a blade of ice, cutting through the shock. Her hands were a blur over the controls. — We’re painting targets.
The first shots came not as a volley, but as a coordinated, overwhelming storm of fire. The air around the Kestrel, their tilt-rotor transport, filled with the angry red lines of tracer rounds and the percussive blasts of heavier cannon shells. Explosions blossomed in the grey sky, close enough to rock the aircraft violently. The world outside the cockpit became a maelstrom of smoke, fire, and churning Atlantic water. Sineus gripped a bulkhead for support, his mind racing, calculating angles and threat vectors. They were the single target for a dozen converging fleets.
A deafening shriek of tearing metal ripped through the cabin. The VTOL lurched hard to port, throwing Nadia Petrova from her seat. A 120mm shell from a Russian destroyer had found them, punching through the port engine nacelle. Red warning lights flashed across Moreau’s console, a cascade of system failures. A thick, acrid smell of burning electronics and hot hydraulic fluid filled the air.
— We’ve lost the port engine! — Nadia yelled, pulling herself back to her station. — Hydraulic pressure is dropping, forty-five percent and falling!
— I can feel it, — Moreau grunted, her arms straining against the controls as she fought to keep the crippled aircraft level. The Kestrel was bleeding out, its lifeblood of hydraulic fluid spraying into the slipstream. They were a wounded bird, seconds from falling out of the sky.
— Brace for impact! — she commanded, shoving the cyclic stick forward.
The Kestrel plunged into a steep, controlled dive. The ocean rushed up to meet them, a churning expanse of grey and white. For a moment, they were falling faster than the shells chasing them, a brief, terrifying reprieve. Sineus’s stomach lurched, but his eyes remained fixed on the water, judging the angle of their descent. Moreau was not crashing; she was aiming.
The impact was a physical violation. The VTOL hit the water with a force that felt like hitting concrete, a brutal 15G shock that slammed them into their harnesses and threatened to tear the airframe apart. The cabin was plunged into a disorienting chaos of groaning metal, shattering composites, and the roar of the sea. Cold Atlantic water exploded through the compromised seals of the cockpit, drenching them. But the aircraft held. Battered and broken, it was still floating.
— She’s holding, — Nadia gasped, her voice shaky. — For now.
— Now we run, — Moreau said, her voice tight with strain. Her hands flew across a secondary control panel, bypassing the failed hydraulics. She engaged the VTOL’s surf-skimming mode. The single remaining engine tilted, its rotors becoming a massive turbine. With a gut-wrenching lurch, the crippled aircraft surged forward, transforming from a sinking wreck into a makeshift speedboat. They were racing across the waves at over ninety kilometers per hour, a plume of white water erupting behind them as they gunned for the black sand beaches of Thule Ultima.
The Axiom attack craft, faster and more maneuverable on the water, began to close the distance, their bow-mounted cannons spitting fire. The chase was on. Sineus unstrapped himself and moved to the rear of the cabin, his movements economical and sure-footed despite the violent motion. He grabbed a canvas satchel containing the last of their shaped charges. He had a new choice to make: save the charges for the spire, or use them now to survive. The price of survival was a depleted arsenal.
— Nadia, give me a proximity count on the lead pursuer! — he yelled over the roar of the engine.
— One hundred meters and closing!
Sineus knelt by the open rear ramp, the cold spray of the ocean hitting his face. He primed three of the 1.5-kilogram charges, their copper liners facing outward. He was not a soldier, but his father, a naval engineer, had taught him that every problem had a physical solution. This was a problem of physics. He laid the charges in a tight line along the edge of the ramp, a string of deadly promises.
— Moreau, hard to starboard on my mark! — Sineus shouted, his hand hovering over the remote detonator.
— Standing by!
He watched the lead Axiom boat, a black wedge cutting through the waves, its crew visible on the deck. He waited until it was directly in their wake, a predator locked onto its prey.
— Now!
Moreau threw the Kestrel into a hard turn. As the stern swung around, Sineus kicked the charges into the water. They sank beneath the surface for a fraction of a second before he pressed the button. The detonation was not a fiery explosion. It was a deep, resonant whump that lifted the sea itself. A massive wall of water, focused and directed by the shaped charges, erupted from the ocean. The Axiom attack craft, caught broadside, was lifted into the air and flipped onto its back, a broken toy in the violent surge.
The explosion bought them a precious opening in the blockade. The other boats slowed, momentarily confused by the sudden, violent display of force.
The black sand of the beach was two hundred meters away. The Kestrel’s remaining engine sputtered, protesting the abuse.
Moreau pushed the throttle to its limit, aiming the dying craft for the shore.
They had survived the sky and the sea.
Now they had to survive the island.
