[Maintain speed. Enter open waters in five minutes.]
[All hands, "Iron Curtain Operation" is now in effect. All units to Level-1 combat readiness!]
The fog hung like leaden clouds, an iron curtain draped over the strait.
The most complex naval weapon humanity had ever built cut across the sea surface—
The aircraft carrier Truman, a 332-meter steel behemoth, passed through the curtain.
For a moment, it felt like the curtain itself existed because of it.
Just its presence on the ocean was enough to erase the very idea of resistance.
Coastal residents, near-shore fishermen, pirates in disguise—
No one would even think of challenging a carrier strike group. Everyone feared that the monster moving through the fog might suddenly bare its fangs.
On the deck, steel soldiers marched in perfectly synchronized footsteps.
Compared to earlier versions, these steel soldiers had clearly been upgraded with additional jet modules. Their silhouettes had also become smoother—more rounded, more streamlined—making it easier for robots weighing two or three hundred kilograms to control their posture in the air.
Besides the human-proportioned airborne units, there were now tracked robots as well, their bulk comparable to tanks—or even greater.
Remove the cockpit space, and how much more ammunition could an armored unit of the same size carry? How much stronger could its weapons be?
They would find out soon enough.
Watching the robots board, a carrier logistics sailor couldn't help but sigh to a buddy beside him.
"These iron bastards are insane. Wonder who's getting screwed this time."
"Who cares? As long as it's not us going in."
The two soldiers watched as the emblem of American power boarded aircraft—where it used to be them boarding.
Not having to go to the front, and still getting medals—
So this was what it felt like.
Anyway, it wasn't them dying.
Whoosh—
The carrier's bow punched through the fog. The mist clinging to the hull peeled away in a rush.
Ahead lay a deep blue ocean, sunlight scattering across calm water—
Soon, shells would scatter across it instead.
[Launch clearance granted. Red Team to begin catapult operations.]
Whoom!
A 30-ton aircraft was accelerated by steam to 300 kilometers per hour in two seconds. The fighter tore through the fog and surged into the sky.
But the pilot inside looked tired.
Not physically.
"…When do I get replaced too?"
[Red One, mission confirmed. Ground strike. Approaching target.]
Bosaso Port District, afternoon. After a full day of work, the market finally began to cool.
Fishermen returned, mostly complaining that today's catch was poor—and that there weren't even any merchant ships out at sea.
Motorbikes and small trucks wove through the streets. Many pedestrians walked bare-chested, without shoes; the cleverer ones padded their feet with something woven from plants.
Military police swaggered down the road. Thieves prowled at the edges. Real laborers hauled wooden crates.
It was a poor port.
It was also an ordinary port.
Criminals and civilians blended together—sometimes they were criminals, sometimes they were civilians.
A man carrying a sack of fish held his daughter's hand as they walked through the chaotic, filthy street. Seeing his daughter's curiosity drawn to kids by the roadside fiddling with some metal object, he yanked her hard.
Who knew whether those punks were playing with a grenade or a bomb?
"Stop looking around. Walk faster."
The little girl obediently lowered her head—
Because disobedience meant getting hit.
To a child, getting hit was terrifying.
But her father—uneducated, never schooled—knew the consequences of disobedience could be far worse than a beating.
An ordinary day.
Until a shadow swept overhead, flickering across the street—
"A plane!"
BOOOOM—
The eternal sea wind no longer carried only the stench of salt.
This time, it carried gunpowder smoke.
Metal cut through the sky faster than sound, shattering the air with a deafening crack!
Clang.
A man at the port tower struck the alarm bell—
And several missiles carved long arcs through the air, slamming straight into the watchtower and port offices!
BOOM!
A huge fireball erupted skyward. The shockwave hurled people off their feet!
"Terror attack! Another bunch of lunatics!"
Explosions and thunderous noise ripped open everyone's buried fear of terror attacks—
But this time, what attacked them was far more powerful than terrorists.
A burning tower broke out of the black smoke and collapsed into the crowded masses!
Confusion was blown apart by terror. Anyone still alive here had to be outrageously lucky.
No one stopped moving—
But this time, it wasn't that simple.
BOOM!
The port itself was blasted apart by some kind of bomb. The military police still trying to form up were launched into the air!
The shockwave made it impossible to stand. Huge swaths of people fell and were trampled. Collapsing buildings crashed straight down!
The father's mind went blank—standing slightly farther from the port, he could see more.
One aircraft streaked past and blew their harbor into pieces.
But the sky held more than one aircraft.
Fear.
"Run!"
With one arm, he scooped his daughter up against his chest.
But how could a human outrun an airplane?
BOOM!
After the roar came darkness.
When he opened his eyes again, the already-broken homes had become rubble.
Flames. Black smoke. Severed limbs. The stink of blood and explosives mixed together—
The smell of death.
Crack.
The little girl held her father's hand—
And a falling rock smashed down, turning the man's head into pulp.
In the ruins, a Black man carrying an AK limped beneath a shattered eave.
"Hey! Kid! Run!"
BOOM!
Another bomb slammed down. He crouched instinctively, dodging shrapnel and falling stones.
He looked like a bandit.
He had been a pirate.
But he was also one of the few "regular troops" this port had.
As regular troops, they could do whatever they wanted here, and eat their fill every day.
As regular troops, they were supposed to at least maintain order—
But now, his mind couldn't even form the idea of resistance.
He could resist someone standing in front of him, threatening his life.
But how did you resist something you couldn't even understand?
Resisting a bomber felt like resisting the Reaper itself.
Huff—huff—
He turned toward the port.
A rocket streaked out of the ruins, screaming into the sea and sky… only to splash down, swallowed without a sound.
Above, an armed transport plane passed over and dropped something.
THUD!
A steel soldier slammed into the street. Shrapnel tore its chest into a bloody mess.
[Jarvis: Landing complete. Ground condition stable. Preparing to execute occupation.]
A sensor array blinking red rotated toward the man who still hadn't fully died, then locked onto the AK-47 in his hands.
[Local infantry detected. Count: 1. Rifle equipped.]
[Executing.]
A target he could resist was now right in front of him—
Yet in the dying man's eyes, only one thought remained:
So this is what the Reaper looks like.
It looks… man-made.
[Jarvis: No significant resistance encountered. Bombardment was thorough. Full occupation of Bosaso expected within two hours.]
[Jarvis: Assault on Hobyo Port will begin in thirty minutes.]
[Jarvis: Truman is continuing movement to the next deployment position.]
"Excellent. Excellent."
As the steel soldiers deployed, the red combat map steadily turned into the green that signified total occupation.
At Roxxon Oil, CEO Dario felt his mood lift instantly.
This—this was what he was meant to enjoy.
Fast cars and pretty women didn't interest him.
He liked watching his goals become reality, step by step.
This was what a man was supposed to do—
Control everything.
He strode up to the screen, spreading his hands wide.
"I really want to kiss you hard, but you're an AI. What a shame. You're even more efficient than Tony!"
[Jarvis: No. I am only the auxiliary AI assisting Mr. Stark's auxiliary AI. If he were doing this himself, he would do it better than I can.]
"Hah—so you're saying Tony's a bigger killing maniac than you? Forget that. This time the robots won't suddenly go out of control again, right?"
[Jarvis: I have detected additional network attacks. However, rest assured—everything remains within safe parameters.]
"Bravo." Dario flopped back into the plush couch.
If he had his way, he'd mobilize the entire U.S. military and occupy Africa.
But he couldn't.
Only by holding the U.S. President card could he leverage this kind of power—and if he pushed too far too soon, the card might slip from his fingers.
"Short-sighted. So short-sighted." Dario shook his head. "An eight-year term is too short. It makes the whole country short-sighted. What can anyone accomplish like that?"
As he spoke, he opened a channel to the candidate he was sponsoring.
[Recipient: Secretary of State Barnes]
[Dario: We've won! Maybe I should call you President Barnes now!]
[Barnes: The election isn't over.]
[Dario: No, no, no, sir. If people can sit at home drinking afternoon tea, eating desserts, and victory news keeps arriving one after another—no one will reject that future.]
[Dario: Have you prepared your speech for the convention?]
[Dario: We're going to have a hero president.]
[Dario: A powerful president who lets people enjoy victory at home, pulls soldiers off the battlefield, and makes the nation prosper.]
[Barnes: I don't usually pop champagne at halftime… but you're right. I should prepare the speech.]