The Stinger II stayed on its lazy orbit above the black forest, engines steady, hull shuddering softly from the recoil of its cannons.
"Targets still scattering north," the sensor operator said, eyes glued to the thermal feed. "Estimate three-fifty remaining, small clusters regrouping at the ridge. They're moving fast."
"Copy," said the fire-control officer. "We'll box them in with the 30 mm, then finish them with missiles. Setting run five."
The aircraft banked right, turning smoothly back toward the glowing patch of forest. Below, the ground looked like a nightmare—fire trails, shattered trees, and hundreds of corpses glowing faint on thermal.
"Gun's hot. Thirty-mike, run five, firing."
The cannon roared again. Tracer lines raked through the trees, chopping down anything that moved. On the screen, the white blobs blinked out one by one.
"Splash—good hits," the sensor operator said. "Secondary fires spreading. Remaining hostiles shifting east."
"Roger. Feed me the coordinates." The fire-control officer marked the map. "Time for the big show. Load two Hellfires."
The weapons technician's gloved hands moved quickly. "Missiles one and two armed, rails green."
"Target locked," the sensor operator called. "Two clusters, three hundred meters apart. Both closing toward the riverbed."
"Copy that. Missile inbound."
A soft thunk rattled through the fuselage as the first Hellfire dropped. The crew watched it streak downward on the thermal feed—a thin white line ending in a sunburst.
The explosion lit up half the valley. Fire and dirt erupted sky-high, and everything within fifty meters simply disappeared.
"Direct hit," the navigator confirmed, voice even. "Good effect on target."
"Launching two," the fire-control officer said immediately. "Riding the same path."
The second missile tore through the darkness thirty seconds later. Its detonation overlapped the first, merging into one massive bloom of orange.
"Multiple secondaries," the sensor operator said. "Looks like they had fire pits or torches cooking down there—those are popping now."
"Confirmed kills?"
"Almost total," came the reply. "We've got less than a hundred still moving—and they're in full retreat. Scattered."
The co-pilot gave a quiet whistle. "They're done."
"Negative," the fire-control officer said coldly. "No survivors." He gripped the stick tighter. "Let's chase them."
The Stinger II banked again, lining up its next run. The crew's headset chatter filled the cabin in a steady rhythm.
"Sensor, give me bearing."
"Heading zero-nine-five. Last contacts running toward open ground."
"Missile ready?"
"Hellfire three armed."
"Fire."
Another soft thud—and another streak of death cut across the night. The missile hit the fleeing group dead center. Through the EO camera, they could see the shockwave tear outward, blowing goblins apart in every direction.
"Jesus… they're just gone," the navigator murmured.
The fire-control officer didn't flinch. "Confirm area clean."
"Affirmative. No major heat signatures left."
He leaned back slightly, exhaling through his mic. "Alright, bring us around again. One more sweep with thirty-mike. I don't want anything walking away."
"Copy that."
The sensor operator guided the reticle toward the few remaining dots on the display. The 30 mm spun up again, thumping in short, brutal bursts. Each one flattened another patch of forest.
"Targets eliminated," came the final call.
"Predator-1 to Spooky-1, we have found the origin of the tangoes, bearing 0-9-0, three clicks, of your position, you will see a temple-looking structure, over."
"This is Spooky-1 we copy, pushing to the target location di-rectly, Spooky-1 out!" the navigator responded.
The fire-control officer's jaw tightened. "Temple? Copy that. Bring us in. Navigator, vector us to zero-nine-zero, three clicks. I want that structure in view."
The navigator keyed the autopilot and adjusted the orbit. "Vectoring. Dropping altitude—bring us down to six thousand for better optics. Expect more shake on the guns."
"Copy," the flight engineer replied, hands already checking feed and fuel status. "We got the juice. Weapons stay hot."
"Sensor, what do you see on EO?" the fire-control officer asked.
The sensor operator brightened the electro-optical feed and zoomed. "Pushing image now… There. You'll see it on the big screen." He thumbed across the display. A darker patch of ruins rose out of the scorched earth, a stone edifice with stepped terraces and what looked like carved pillars around a central chamber. Around it, thermal clusters pulsed—dozens, maybe hundreds, packed tight.
"Those are definitely not villagers," the sensor operator said. "High-density cluster. Movement inside the structure—could be command grouping or a nesting site. Multiple small heat sources—looks like torches and pits."
"Any size estimate?" the navigator asked.
"Hard to say from this altitude. But density suggests two to three hundred in the courtyard, more in surrounding grooves. Some secondary clusters moving in from the east." The operator scrubbed through frames. "If Predator's right, this is the origin. It's where they come from."
"Alright," the fire-control officer said. "Let's inform Actual of the situation."
"Comms get me Commander Spencer," the navigator ordered.
"Commander Spencer is on the line," the communications officer confirmed.
"Actual this is Spooky-1, we have detected the source of the goblin hordes, it's a temple."
"Spooky-1 I confirm, Predator-1 told me that too," Albert replied.
"Requesting guidance. Should we blow it up? Our missiles has enough punch to blow it into smithereens," the navigator asked.
"Negative, don't engage in the building. Target those who are outside, according to the village elder there are possible human survivors inside."
"Copy that Actual. We're engaging outside the temple only. Weapons hot."
They came in low and fast. The Stinger II tightened its arc, sensors locked on the courtyard perimeter and the gullies around it. The fire-control officer handed the gunner the aimpoints.
"30-mike ready," the gunner said. "Short bursts on your mark."
"Mark," the officer answered.
The 30mm barked again. Trees and dry scrub lit up under the cannon. White thermal dots blinked out in quick succession—packs crushed, runners vaporized by the cone of fire. The 40mm answered on the next pass, thudding impacts that threw up columns of dirt and flame. The patterns were clinical: box, sweep, burn.
"Sensor, any sign of grouped movement north-east?" the officer asked.
"Negative. Small pockets trying to snake east into ravines. Mostly disorganized," the sensor replied.
"Lock Hellfire on that ravine cluster. One missile, sanitized aim," the officer said.
"Missile armed… away!" the weapons tech called. The Hellfire streaked and detonated, a bloom that cleared a choke point. Thermal returns collapsed into scattered embers.
"The courtyard is clear. No enemy movements detected."