Dusk, Shelikhov Gulf, Sea of Okhotsk
Task Force 52
Major Christian Sukatendal sat quietly in the command briefing room aboard the Kingdom of Javnia afloat support base ASB Montanari, anchored in the cold gray waters of the Shelikhov Gulf. Outside, waves rolled against the massive hull while helicopters came and went from the expansive flight deck overhead. The rhythmic vibration of turning rotors could be felt faintly through the deck plating.
The briefing room itself was comfortable by military standards.
Air conditioning.
Rows of theater-style seats.
Folding tables covered with notebooks, coffee mugs, and maps.
A large whiteboard stretched nearly the length of one bulkhead, layered with satellite imagery, terrain maps, intelligence summaries, NOTAMs, NOTMARs, weather forecasts, radio frequencies, and reconnaissance photographs connected by colored grease-pencil lines.
It was the sort of room where wars were planned.
Where commanders made decisions before soldiers walked into places where those decisions determined who returned home.
Christian glanced around at the officers assembling.
Every one of them had earned their seat.
At precisely 1900 hours the hatch opened.
Rear Admiral Gondo Chanming entered first.
The Task Force commander wore a perfectly pressed naval uniform despite having spent nearly three weeks at sea. His movements were calm and deliberate, his face unreadable. Nothing about him suggested panic or excitement. Officers trusted him because he never appeared rushed, even when everything around him was.
“Good evening,” he said simply.
The room immediately settled.
Following him came Lieutenant Colonel Tania Quon, commander of Helicopter Heavy Lift Squadron 242.
She carried her flight helmet beneath one arm, her light brown hair tied into a neat bun. Her green flight suit showed the wear of countless hours in the cockpit, though every patch remained perfectly sewn. She offered a brief nod to several company commanders before finding her chair.
Lieutenant Colonel Pjetr Latuheru arrived next.
Unlike Quon, he entered with the confidence of someone who enjoyed attention.
“Hope the weather behaves,” he announced with a grin. “Would hate for my pilots to save everyone’s hides again.”
A few chuckles echoed around the room.
Captain Wiranata Shanyuan merely rolled his eyes.
The Alpha Company commander possessed the build of a heavyweight boxer. Thick shoulders strained against his combat uniform, and he stood rather than sat until everyone had arrived. He rarely smiled and spoke only when necessary.
Captain Baruch Selangit wandered in behind him carrying two steaming mugs of coffee.
“You looked like you needed one,” he said cheerfully, sliding one toward Christian.
Christian accepted it.
“Thanks.”
“No problem. Better coffee than regret.”
Baruch had somehow maintained his optimism through fourteen years of military service.
Across the aisle, Captain Boaz Rumasingap silently lowered himself into a chair.
Burn scars stretched from the left side of his jaw beneath his collar and disappeared beneath his sleeves. Few in the room knew the full story behind them. They only knew he had earned them rescuing trapped soldiers during a fuel explosion years earlier.
He never joked.
He never smiled.
Captain Eko Tedja entered last.
Commander of Weapons Company.
Broad-shouldered and powerfully built, he carried a thick binder under one arm. His jaw remained tightly clenched, as though every sentence required careful consideration before being spoken.
He simply nodded once.
Rear Admiral Chanming stepped to the front beside the whiteboard.
“Ladies and gentlemen.”
The projector illuminated the wall.
A satellite image appeared.
An enormous section of eastern Siberia filled the screen.
“Our intelligence directorate has confirmed the existence of four abandoned RT-2PM2 Topol-M intercontinental ballistic missile launchers.”
A second slide appeared.
Each launcher was marked by a flashing red icon.
“The missiles remain mounted on transporter-erector-launchers.”
Christian leaned forward.
The admiral continued.
“Each carries an estimated nuclear yield between five hundred and eight hundred kilotons.”
Silence settled across the room.
Even seasoned veterans appreciated what those numbers represented.
One missile.
One city.
Gone.
“The collapse following the Mendorong left numerous strategic weapon sites abandoned. Most were destroyed or scavenged.”
Another image appeared.
“This group survived.”
Satellite photographs showed enormous vehicles hidden beneath camouflage netting inside deteriorating maintenance compounds.
“Recent KISA operations confirmed the launchers remain largely intact.”
Captain Selangit raised an eyebrow.
“So why haven’t they disappeared onto the black market already?”
Rear Admiral Chanming clicked to another image.
Armed men.
Pickup trucks.
Old armored personnel carriers.
Makeshift checkpoints.
“Because several tribal warlords have unknowingly turned the area into their territory.”
Lieutenant Colonel Quon crossed her arms.
“They don’t know what they’re guarding?”
“They know they’re protecting something valuable.”
The admiral nodded.
“They simply don’t understand exactly how valuable.”
Captain Rumasingap spoke for the first time.
“Any evidence they’ve tried activating them?”
“No.”
“Good.”
His answer came flatly.
Christian finally asked the question everyone wanted answered.
“Our objective?”
The admiral looked around the room.
“Acquire all four launchers.”
Another slide appeared showing helicopter routes.
“They will then be prepared for transport back to the Montanari.”
Lieutenant Colonel Quon stood and pointed toward a broad plain west of the mountains.
“My heavy lift squadron inserts all companies here.”
She circled the location.
“Eight kilometers west of Seymchan, along the Kolymsky Khrebet.”
Several contour lines highlighted steep ridges surrounding the insertion zone.
“We stay below radar where possible.”
Captain Shanyuan studied the terrain.
“Eight kilometers.”
“Correct.”
“What about extraction?”
Quon smiled slightly.
“When you’ve secured the missiles, we’ll come get them.”
Captain Selangit laughed.
“Simple.”
Captain Rumasingap looked at him.
“Nothing involving nuclear weapons is simple.”
Rear Admiral Chanming resumed.
“Air support.”
Lieutenant Colonel Latuheru practically stood before being called.
“Pursuit Squadron Thirty-Four.”
He grinned confidently.
“Our PA-14s will maintain combat air patrol throughout the operation.”
He tapped one of the route maps.
“If anyone decides to interfere…”
He shrugged dramatically.
“They’ll discover why my pilots have the highest air-to-ground accuracy in the service.”
Captain Tedja quietly muttered,
“As long as you don’t bomb us.”
Laughter spread through the room.
Latuheru smirked.
“I only did that once.”
“Twice,” Captain Selangit corrected.
“Twice officially.”
Even Rear Admiral Chanming allowed himself a faint smile before his expression returned to business.
“The enemy.”
Another slide appeared.
Technical trucks.
Old Soviet tanks.
Mortars.
Heavy machine guns.
Reconnaissance drones.
“The region is controlled by multiple tribal warlords.”
A final image showed rusting armored vehicles mixed with surprisingly modern weapons.
“They’ve acquired pre-Mendorong military equipment through smuggling, organized crime, and illegal arms networks.”
Christian noticed several anti-aircraft systems circled in red.
“So, they can fight.”
“They can.”
The admiral folded his hands behind his back.
“But they cannot coordinate against a professional force.”
The room became quiet once more.
“Our advantage is speed.”
“Our advantage is surprise.”
“Our advantage is discipline.”
He looked at every commander individually.
“If we fail…”
He paused.
“…those missiles remain available to anyone wealthy enough—or reckless enough—to purchase them.”
Nobody needed further explanation.
Mission success was not simply desirable.
It was strategically essential.
Rear Admiral Chanming shut off the projector.
“H-Hour is 0300 local.”
The room remained silent.
Just as Rear Admiral Chanming was about to dismiss the room, the hatch opened once more.
A naval petty officer stepped inside.
“Sir, the Nordstjernes delegation has arrived.”
“Send them in.”
The officers turned toward the entrance.
Two men entered together.
The first immediately commanded attention.
Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Fitzgerald, commander of the 23rd Battalion, Federal Guard—the famed “Surgical Edge.”
Tall and broad-shouldered, Fitzgerald carried himself with effortless confidence. His blond hair was trimmed short, and his clean-shaven face projected calm professionalism rather than intimidation. Years of service had hardened him without making him cynical. He was known throughout allied militaries as a commander who planned meticulously, demanded excellence from his soldiers, and placed extraordinary value on protecting civilians and his own troops whenever possible.
His reputation had earned respect far beyond the Colony of Nordstjernes.
Many considered the 23rd Battalion among the finest special operations formations remaining in the post-Mendorong world.
Beside him walked Captain Robert Kirkland.
Where Fitzgerald’s presence was measured, Kirkland radiated restrained intensity.
The rifle company commander was a heavily built Black man with powerful shoulders and a neatly trimmed goatee. His combat uniform fit tightly across years of disciplined physical training, while his sharp eyes quietly surveyed every person in the room before settling near the maps.
Neither officer appeared impressed by rank.
Neither appeared nervous.
Both looked like men accustomed to walking into dangerous places.
Rear Admiral Chanming stepped forward.
“Lieutenant Colonel Fitzgerald. Captain Kirkland. Welcome aboard the Montanari.”
Fitzgerald returned a crisp salute.
“Thank you, Admiral. We appreciate the invitation.”
His voice was steady and deliberate.
“We’ve reviewed the preliminary intelligence during transit.”
Chanming gestured toward the whiteboard.
“You’ve arrived at the perfect time.”
The admiral addressed the room.
“For those who haven’t had the opportunity to work with them, Lieutenant Colonel Fitzgerald commands the 23rd Battalion, Federal Guard. They’ll be attached to Task Force Fifty-Two for this operation.”
Christian nodded respectfully.
“I’ve heard of the Surgical Edge.”
Fitzgerald offered a modest smile.
“I hope you’ve only heard the good stories.”
Captain Baruch Selangit chuckled.
“I heard you once rescued hostages without firing a shot.”
Fitzgerald shrugged.
“That depends on where you start the story.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
Captain Kirkland finally spoke.
“And if negotiations fail…”
He folded his arms.
“…that’s where my rifle company comes in.”
His voice carried quiet confidence rather than bravado.
Lieutenant Colonel Pjetr Latuheru leaned back with a grin.
“I like him already.”
Captain Boaz Rumasingap merely gave Kirkland a short nod.
Professional soldiers often recognized one another without many words.
Rear Admiral Chanming returned everyone’s attention to the maps.
“The Nordstjernes battalion will deploy alongside our commandos.”
He pointed to the northern objectives.
“The Surgical Edge will secure the two northern missile sites while our companies move simultaneously against the southern positions.”
Fitzgerald studied the terrain for several seconds.
“Frozen valleys.”
He traced a finger across the satellite imagery.
Fitzgerald smiled faintly.
“People guarding strategic weapons rarely expect disciplined infantry to appear out of the darkness eight kilometers from the nearest helicopter landing zone.”
Captain Kirkland leaned over the map.
“If they fight hard?”
Captain Shanyuan answered first.
“We fight harder.”
“No,” Kirkland replied evenly.
“We fight smarter.”
The room fell quiet.
Fitzgerald glanced toward his company commander with approval.
“Captain Kirkland is correct.”
He looked around the assembled officers.
“We’re not here to win a battle.”
He tapped one of the red missile icons.
“We’re here to secure nuclear weapons.”
He tapped the map a second time.
“Everything else is secondary.”
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Rear Admiral Chanming nodded.
“Exactly.”
The coalition officers—Javnian and Nordstjernes alike—shared a common understanding.
By sunrise, they would be crossing frozen Siberian wilderness toward four abandoned intercontinental ballistic missiles.
None of them intended to leave even one behind.
Outside, another helicopter thundered into the evening sky.
Christian glanced once more at the maps covering the whiteboard.
He slowly closed his notebook.
It was going to be a very long night.
