Chapter 36 - BROKEN PROTOCOL
The battle in the submarine pen became a masterclass in asymmetrical violence. Graves’s mercenaries, trained to rely on electronic targeting grids, integrated squad data-links, and high-resolution thermals, found themselves fighting an invisible ghost that struck with the brutal authority of a bygone era.
Every time Elena pulled the trigger, a heavy round smashed through their ceramic armor or punched straight through the sheet-metal cover they assumed was safe. The scarred M14 sang its terrible, singular song—a sharp, mechanical rhythm that echoed like artillery inside the concrete belly of the fortress.
"Miller! Push the analysts to the lower floodgate housing!" Elena commanded, her voice cutting through the echoes as she reloaded, slamming a fresh twenty-round steel magazine into the rifle's well until it locked with a satisfying metallic snap.
"Understood!" Miller shouted back. He and Torres were laying down coordinated bursts from their service weapons, suppressing the remnants of Graves's flanking team along the southern quay. Dr. Aris and his three technicians sprinted across the slick concrete floor, their boots splashing through oily puddles, reaching the thick iron door of the control housing.
From the high gantry above, Graves himself stepped into the light of an emergency flare he had ignited to blind any unaugmented eyes. The flare cast violent, dancing crimson shadows across the cavern, sizzling and hissing with blinding phosphor brilliance.
Graves carried a customized multi-caliber combat rifle equipped with an integrated ballistic computer. "Captain Vance!" he roared over the crackle of the flame. "You think you're a hero? You're an anachronism! A relic of a war your grandfather lost! This world belongs to the highest bidder!"
He opened fire, sweeping the gantry platform with armor-piercing rounds that chewed up the rusted iron railings near Elena's feet. Shrapnel sliced across Elena’s left cheek, leaving a thin crimson streak down her jawline.
May you like
She did not flinch. She did not drop to her knees in panic.
Through the blinding red smoke of the flare, where any digital optic would have flared out into an illegible smear of crimson bloom, Elena Vance looked right through the flame. Her iron sight sat steadily on the silhouette standing against the iron railing. She breathed out half her breath, her heart rate dropping into the cold, still reservoir of her family's legacy.
