Bering Strait, Operation "Whaler," 2029.
"Last night, the Kastovia portal pushed a fresh update on 'Zacharov's' movements. The target vessel is transshipping illicit autonomous warhead systems somewhere between 58°N–62°N and 170°E–170°W. AIS is dark, no oversight."
Under brooding cumulonimbus, a mid-ocean storm was gathering.
The black seas rose dull and relentless, warping the horizon again and again. Beneath it there might have been nothing alive, but that wasn't true—even hell has its unclean birds. Fish, at least, could dive deep and breathe along bubble streams. Beyond food and dissolved oxygen, they had little to fight over.
High above the strait, a single point of light tracked its prey twenty nautical miles ahead. Only a quarter of the streamlined steel hull breached the surface.
"Sat-link can't punch through the thick cloud deck this season, but the stealth UAV will clear the way. Once we confirm the target fix, surface, plot the track, then use the dark to fall in behind its wake."
Perpendicular to the faint glow buried in the water, a slate-gray delta-wing drone tore past, blooming a vapor cone in the saturated air. Four engines spat violet flame; serrated exhaust diverters snapped closed for afterburner. Cloud wash scoured the green-tipped wings as position strobes flashed.
The electro-optical targeting system (EOTS) in the belly pod slewed downward, zooming the protective lens onto the sea directly below.
Inside a wave-skimming submersible speedboat, four fully kitted figures rocked with the motion. One leaned forward at the helm, waterjets growling low.
"ESTU 317256—three-container freighter. Burn that hull number. We have solid reason to believe 'Zacharov' isn't just moving high-threat ordnance this run; he intends to transfer it in unregulated waters, then position for a strike—either against allied territory or the homeland itself."
Rain hammered the windshield in sheets, streaking down the sloped sides. The driver gripped the wheel hard to keep it from slipping. The boat pitched and rolled like surfing, but the tonnage gave unmistakable drag and the robust structure a reassuring solidity.
Through tactical headsets, only the steady, almost artificial roar of waves remained, broken now and then by the clatter of gear.
Two operators sat shoulder-to-shoulder; opposite them, the recon man stared at a ruggedized laptop, working the drone's stick.
"Boarding window is tight. Container ship terrain is a maze—outside to inside. We stay mobile, cover our own six."
Logan Lerman shivered as cold spray blew in despite the zipped collar. He elbowed the scarf-wrapped 'Django' beside him, whose eyes stood out bright white against dark skin.
"What, Logan?"
"Shit, my hands are frozen solid."
"Then stick 'em in your crotch to warm up, dumbass."
"The hell?!"
Logan frowned, tried it—worked. He gave Django a deliberate sleazy nod. The other man sucked his teeth in classic side-eye, that tongue-click deep in the root they're born knowing.
In the rearview, John Hastings glanced at Finn, who had switched the drone to autonomous loiter and flashed a thumbs-up—bird's good.
"For close-quarters on a moving platform, we need the right tools. Base just took delivery of some new kit. Grab what'll work, load heavy—this is gonna be a long night."
Logan pulled his warmed hand free, sniffed it under Django's incredulous stare.
He racked the bolt on his chest-rigged SIG MCX Rattler Gen 4. Dust cover marked "300BLK" flipped open—round chambered. Selector safe, dialed the holographic sight's reticle brightness down.
Beside him, the big man—Django—slapped the lid shut on his KAC LAMG shorty's belt box, pounded it once with a fist. He hefted the constant-recoil light machine gun, tilted it toward Logan like showing off, running thick fingers along the cold titanium handguard.
Across from them, Finn braced the HK439 on his thigh, mounted a breaching "master key" underbarrel shotgun, worked the action, and fed a 12-gauge dragon's-breath round.
At the bow, John Hastings leaned into the helm, correcting course. His hip carried an HK437 NG with a honeycomb suppressor—slightly longer overall. The clear magazine was packed with white-cased polymer rounds; the gas system had been tweaked accordingly.
"Visual on the freighter!"
As the gap closed, drone imagery sharpened. Finn zoomed the feed and called it out to John:
"Target is running dark except nav lights—low viz profile, strong sonar signature."
John cranked the wheel hard. The speedboat fishtailed in a high-speed drift, arrowing straight for the massive silhouette.
Wind whipped across the container ship's stern. Four armed figures grappled up a five-meter cargo door, the lead man hauling each teammate aboard with one arm.
A single open container spilled the only light on deck—an LED panel rigged for cargo inspection. Inside, red-painted fuel drums were stacked two high; one stray spark would turn the whole thing into a fireball.
The boarding team melted into the shadows, scanning. Logan nodded to John. The lieutenant dropped into a low ready; the others coiled to move.
Four sets of quad-node night-vision flipped down in unison, the faint electronic whine linking on the same channel.
"Gray-2,Going dark."