⚔️ Chapter 1 – Storm Front
Off the Cork Coast, Ireland – January 4th, 2037, 04:12
Thunder growled across the Atlantic as waves smashed against the rusting hull of the MV Fionnbharr, an abandoned trawler drifting 20 miles off Cork. On its deck, hidden under storm tarps, crouched Na Fianna Nua’s strike team.
Salty wiped rainwater from his NVGs and surveyed the black ocean. Beside him, Ye Olde Large Lad flexed his massive shoulders, hammer strapped to his back, M249 wrapped in waterproof oilcloth.
“Boss,” he rumbled over the comms, voice nearly drowned by the roaring wind, “WhizzAir’s gettin’ seasick again.”
Behind them, WhizzAir clutched the trawler railing, retching violently. He wiped his mouth, glaring through soaked curls. “Not seasick, just recalibrating my stomach for violence.”
Sarah snorted softly, checking her suppressed AR-15. Funji sat cross-legged beside her, meditating calmly in the rain, hair tied back in a neat topknot. Squallshy adjusted his Barrett sniper rifle, humming an old Igbo lullaby.
🦅 The Mission
Salty gathered them in a tight circle.
“Omega’s remnants retreated into Brussels last year, but intel confirms Rahmani’s financiers are regrouping on neutral ships in Irish waters to coordinate Europe’s destabilisation.”
He pointed at the flickering wristpad display – satellite thermal feeds showed three ships converging, heavy comms chatter and armed guards visible on deck.
“We sink their fleet, we sink their funding. Funji, silent infiltration. Squallshy, take up overwatch in the crow’s nest. Ye Olde Large Lad, you’re breaching their engine room.”
Ye Olde Large Lad grinned. “About time I smashed something big.”
🔫 Winky’s New Toy
Winky unzipped a pelican case to reveal a Mk-153 SMAW rocket launcher, painted bright orange with cartoon smiley faces along the tube.
Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Subtle.”
Winky winked with his good eye. “Subtlety is for accountants, love.”
🌊 The Infiltration
At Salty’s signal, Funji slipped into the water, rebreather bubbles vanishing into the storm-slashed darkness. Squallshy ascended the trawler mast, Barrett slung securely, scanning through night-vision scope.
Ye Olde Large Lad grabbed the breach line, bared his teeth in a feral grin, and jumped across to the Omega financier vessel with a colossal thud.
⚡ Salty’s Final Words
Before launching onto the enemy ship, Salty turned to his team, rain streaming down his weathered face, eyes steel-hard with resolve.
“Stay sharp. Stay alive. And if we don’t come back…”
WhizzAir interrupted, still half-vomiting. “Dibs on your Jeep, boss.”
Salty smirked. “If we don’t come back… remember: we were Irish, we were mad, and we gave them hell.”
With that, he pulled his H&K 416 tight to his chest, and leapt into the black storm, his team following like shadows into the jaws of Europe’s next war.
No comments:
Post a Comment