SABERS: Shadows of Ravena

The low hum of the engines reverberated through the hangar as Icarus sat in the cockpit of the B-17 Falcon, her fingers dancing across the control panel with practiced ease. The Falcon wasn't much to look at compared to her usual vessel—a sleek, heavily armored dropship designed for large-scale deployments. This ship, by contrast, was lean and predatory, its angular body painted in dull matte black to absorb radar signatures. Twin-engine thrusters jutted out like the wings of a bird of prey, with sharp fins curving backward. The nose was sleek, tapering into a reinforced cockpit that gave it the look of a dagger cutting through the sky. Unlike her bulkier ship, the Falcon was a Special Operations craft, prioritizing speed and agility over armor. Its frame was designed to fit into tight spaces and launch surgical strikes.

"Look, I was gonna go easy on you not to hurt your feelings," came the Colonel's voice through her headset, interrupting her focus. His gruff tone carried its usual undercurrent of annoyance, though something about it felt heavier than usual.

"Six minutes! Six minutes!" the control tower echoed over comms.

"But I'm only going to get this one chance," the Colonel continued, his voice unusually strained.

"Preflight 90 percent complete," she replied, flipping another row of switches as the craft's weapon systems roared to life. The sound of hydraulics charging filled the cockpit. "What are you saying, sir?"

"Something's wrong. I can feel it," the Colonel admitted after a brief pause. His voice sounded distant now, as though he were speaking more to himself than to her. "If that means what I think it means, we're in trouble. Big trouble. And if SABER-1 is as serious as he says he is... I'm not taking any chances."

She rolled her eyes, her voice tinged with sarcasm. "What are we, war gods now?"

"In the eyes of the people? Yes," he replied curtly. "This is the first time in ages we've found survivors. The first time in ages we've authorized kinetic strikes. Whatever happens, you must ensure that SABER-1 is successful in his plan."

Her hand froze briefly over the throttle as the weight of his words sank in.

She knew him too well to take everything he said at face value. The Colonel was a master of theater, putting on a show for Nautica's people, most of whom still believed he was one of Eilífr's staunchest supporters. She could almost see him now, pacing his control room, scowling as he wrestled with the reality of relying on SABER-1. She knew he hated leaving Eilífr in charge of anything, let alone an operation of this scale.

But despite her distrust of his motives, one thing struck her: he was right about something being wrong.

If anyone hated the idea of a kinetic strike, it was Eilífr. The last and only surviving SABER from the Siege of Arizona, he had seen firsthand the horrors such measures could unleash. The very fact that he would allow such a thing spoke volumes.

Just as she was about to press the Colonel for more details, the hangar rumbled. The massive Elephant-class transport ship passed overhead, its shadow briefly covering the Falcon. Icarus glanced out of the cockpit window to watch it ascend.

The Elephant was a stark contrast to her Falcon—a hulking behemoth designed for maximum capacity and protection. Its gray, armored hull was mottled with battle scars, and its shape resembled an ancient fortress on wings. Twin rows of reinforced landing struts dangled from its underbelly, and its massive propulsion engines emitted a low, thunderous roar. Despite its bulk, the ship moved with a certain grace, a testament to its engineering. Its broad side bore the insignia of Nautica's forces, a reminder of the hope it carried for those waiting at its destination.

Icarus's fingers hovered over the console as she watched the Elephant fade into the distance. A sigh escaped her lips, and she let her head rest against the cockpit seat.

Her mind wandered. She imagined Eilífr—scarred, towering, and as stubborn as ever—returning to her, his helmet tucked under one arm and that infuriatingly calm expression on his face. She could almost hear his deep voice offering some curt apology for the radio silence, as though he hadn't just spent weeks in hell with forty-two lives depending on him.

"I hate you sometimes, you know that?" she muttered to herself, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "Leaving me alone to worry while you pull some miracle out of your ass. You better make it back. And you better not have used that damn strike order..."

Shaking her head, she forced herself to refocus, flipping the final switch and gripping the controls. The Falcon's engines roared to life, and she felt the familiar surge of adrenaline as the craft prepared for takeoff.

The muffled exhale from Eilífr's helmet, a deep sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh, startled the young girl sitting beside him. She froze for a moment, her stick hovering over the patch of sand where she had been drawing a crude picture of a house.

"Sorry," Eilífr said, his voice gravelly and metallic through the vocal modulator. "I was thinking."

The girl blinked at him before a mischievous giggle bubbled out of her. "You sound like a robot!" she teased, her voice light and sweet as she went back to her drawing.

He watched her for a moment, her small hands tracing careful lines in the dirt, oblivious to the weight of the situation around her. It was a rare moment of innocence amidst the chaos, and for a fleeting second, it grounded him. But reality pulled him back.

Lifting his wrist, a holographic display flickered to life, projecting the time in glowing blue digits: 09:05. One hour. One hour to move these people—young, old, and everything in between—from the tunnel's relative safety to the extraction point two miles away.

The thought gnawed at him. He flexed his gloved hand, feeling the coarse tension in his fingers. There it was again, that feeling he hadn't experienced in years. He was worried. Not for himself, but for the forty-two lives depending on him to keep a promise.

He let out another deep exhale and turned his focus to his arsenal. Each weapon was inspected with meticulous care. The distinctive sounds of klick, clak, and krack echoed through the tunnel as he chambered rounds, tightened straps, and adjusted settings on his gear. It wasn't paranoia; it was preparation. Every second mattered now.

He glanced up, scanning the faces around him. The people watched him with a mixture of fear and hope, their eyes pleading silently. A mother cradled her infant; an elderly man leaned heavily on his makeshift cane; the young girl, still drawing in the sand, obliviously hummed a soft tune.

Eilífr shifted his gaze toward the tunnel's exit. Beyond the yawning darkness lay the forest—and the extraction point. He inhaled deeply, the sound amplified through his helmet, then checked his display again. 09:17.

Flicking the safety off his rifle, he slung it across his chest and squared his shoulders. His voice, calm but commanding, echoed through the tunnel. "Let's move out. Stay close, don't fall behind."

The group began to shuffle to their feet, gathering their meager belongings. Eilífr stood at the forefront, his imposing figure a beacon of both security and urgency. As they started forward, he cast one last glance over his shoulder, his jaw tightening beneath the helmet.

Failure wasn't an option. Not for these people.

The control room in Nautica was a hive of activity, its air thick with tension. The soft hum of machinery mingled with the sharp clicks of keyboards and the occasional murmur of voices relaying updates. Giant screens lined the walls, displaying maps, data streams, and live satellite feeds from across the region. The atmosphere was grim, every person knowing the weight of what was unfolding.

Colonel Cirus Trask stood at the center of it all, his hands clasped behind his back, his sharp eyes scanning the room. His face, weathered and hardened by years of command, betrayed no emotion, though a vein throbbed faintly at his temple. The room buzzed around him, but his mind was locked on one thing: the success of this mission.

A sudden burst of footsteps shattered the rhythm of the control room. A young communications officer, her face pale and drawn, hurried toward him, clutching a datapad to her chest.

"Colonel!" she called, her voice tight with urgency.

Trask turned sharply, his gaze piercing. "What is it, Officer Harding?"

She stopped a few feet away, snapping a quick salute before thrusting the datapad forward. "Sir, message received from Command. The Hand of God is in position."

The room went silent. All eyes turned toward the Colonel, and even the faint hum of the machinery seemed to dull under the weight of her words.

Trask's jaw tightened. He took the datapad from her and scanned the message, his face betraying nothing. The Hand of God. A weapon of unimaginable power—an orbital kinetic strike platform capable of obliterating entire regions with pinpoint accuracy. Its name alone inspired awe and dread.

"What's the time to impact if we authorize the strike?" Trask asked, his voice steady but cold.

"Sir, the platform reports readiness for immediate deployment. Estimated impact time is under two minutes from authorization," Harding replied, her voice trembling slightly.

Trask handed the datapad back to her, his gaze flicking toward the giant central screen, which displayed the region's map. A small marker blinked on the forested extraction point designated as LZ Hotel. The Colonel's thoughts turned to SABER-1 and the civilians under his protection.

"Notify Command we are maintaining strike readiness but holding authorization until confirmation from SABER-1," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"Yes, sir," Harding replied, snapping another salute before hurrying back to her station.

The room remained tense as the officers returned to their duties, though the silence was punctuated now by murmured conversations and hurried exchanges. Trask remained rooted in place, his eyes fixed on the blinking marker.

In his mind, he weighed the decision that no training could ever prepare him for. The Hand of God was their last resort—a weapon that could save lives but also destroy indiscriminately.

"SABER," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible, "you better have a damn good plan. If not, may God rest our souls and forgive us."