Season 3 chapter 107
The Federal Armada
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!
The unmarked escort ships instantly opened fire. Massive, heavy-caliber anti-air flak cannons erupted from their decks, sending a barrage of explosive, blinding artillery straight up into the sky. Black smoke violently filled the air as the tracer rounds tore toward the federal planes.
High above the ocean, inside the cockpit of a DI'an military fighter aircraft, the pilot aggressively banked left to dodge a massive explosion of flak.
"Command, this is Viper One," the pilot reported rapidly through his radio comms. "The unidentified targets are non-compliant. They are actively using heavy anti-air cannons against our squadrons. What are the orders, over?"
A sharp, merciless voice cracked back through the military frequency.
"Viper One, this is Command. They have rejected the warning and initiated hostile action. Weapons are free. Take down their escort ships. You are cleared to engage, over."
"Roger that, Command. Engaging."
The sky literally ripped open.
What the smugglers thought was a small scouting force was actually an apocalyptic federal ambush. Thousands of advanced JS-36 aircraft and heavily armored military helicopters poured out from behind the cloud cover, swarming the airspace like a swarm of mechanical locusts.
But the true terror emerged from the fog on the horizon.
The ocean parted as a massive, unstoppable naval armada of the Republic of DI revealed itself. Five colossal aircraft carriers broke through the mist, their massive iron runways bustling with activity. They were perfectly flanked by a highly lethal, impenetrable wall of federal frigates, heavily armed corvettes, and massive destroyers.
The smuggler's protection squad was instantly dwarfed. They were completely surrounded by the absolute peak of the Republic's military might.
"I repeat! Surrender right now!" the loudspeaker boomed over the deafening sounds of incoming artillery. "This is your final warning!"
While the panicked smugglers and the hooded leader were entirely distracted by the apocalyptic fleet surrounding them and the thousands of planes screaming overhead, the ocean directly beneath them began to violently bubble.
THWACK-THWACK-THWACK!
Heavy, steel-reinforced grappling hooks aggressively shot out of the water, violently latching onto the iron railings of the cargo ship. Before the crew could even aim their rifles downward, a specialized, elite aquatic strike team of DI military operatives seamlessly scaled the hull, breaching the main deck in absolute, terrifying synchronization.
The Midnight Raid
The elite aquatic strike team of the DI'an Military surged over the iron railings of the cargo ship like a synchronized wave of shadows. Clad in heavy black tactical gear and armed with suppressed submachine guns, they moved with terrifying, absolute precision.
Before the smugglers could even aim their rifles, the operatives violently swarmed the deck, completely neutralizing the armed guards in seconds with swift, brutal close-quarters takedowns.
"Ultra Special Forces!" the squad commander roared, his voice booming with absolute authority. "All sailors of this unidentified vessel are required to surrender right now! Drop your weapons! Get on the fucking ground! On your knees, hands interlaced behind your heads! Move, move, move!"
The panicked crew immediately dropped their weapons, falling to their knees and raising their hands in sheer terror as the laser sights of dozens of federal rifles painted their chests.
A specialized breach team aggressively pushed past the kneeling smugglers, advancing directly up the steel stairs toward the bridge.
CRASH!
The heavy iron doors of the captain's deck were violently kicked off their hinges. The Ultra Special Forces operatives flooded the room, immediately shoving the ship's captain against the glass windows and pressing the cold barrel of an assault rifle directly against the back of his head.
The squad commander stepped into the breached bridge. His eyes locked onto the tall, hooded figure standing near the navigation console.
Two operatives immediately stepped forward, grabbing the man and violently ripping the heavy hood back.
"You are officially under arrest, Mr. Anderson," the squad commander declared coldly, aiming his sidearm directly at the leader's chest. "Raise your hands where I can see them. You are charged with the high treason of smuggling illegal, untaxed wealth into the country from your—"
Before the commander could finish reading the charges, a subordinate operative sprinted onto the bridge, completely out of breath.
"Sir!" the operative reported urgently. "We just breached the lower cargo holds! The manifest is completely real. This ship contains a humongous amount of illegal wealth. We are looking at massive pallets of untraceable physical cash, pure gold bullion, raw unrefined minerals, highly illegal historical artifacts, stolen paintings, and exotic animal skins!"
The subordinate operative looked at Anderson with pure disgust. "They were transferring an astronomical amount of wealth into the country. It is all entirely untaxed, and half of these items are strictly illegal to even possess here."
"Secure the cargo," the commander ordered sharply. "And put this parasite in chains."
The Unhinged Broadcast
Two days later...
The scene abruptly shifted to the highly lavish, air-conditioned executive office of Kavilson Steel. Kniya and Malesh were sitting on their expensive leather couches, casually eating lunch while watching the DI'an news broadcast on a massive flat-screen television.
The screen cut to a live news anchor desk.
Sitting behind the desk was a DI'an news reporter who looked like he hadn't slept in exactly three weeks. He was aggressively slouching in his chair, sporting massive dark circles under his eyes, and holding a crumpled piece of paper like it was the heaviest object in the world.
"Ugh..." the reporter groaned into the live microphone, his voice dragging with absolute, lethargic exhaustion. "I am literally so sleepy right now, and I absolutely do not want to speak today. But... what the fuck. Yeah, so here is my script."
He lazily lifted the crumpled paper, squinting at the teleprompter with half-closed eyes.
"Breaking news," the reporter deadpanned, sounding completely bored by the massive geopolitical crisis. "The Royal Family's private cargo ship was just captured by the military. It was secretly carrying approximately 25 trillion credits of royal wealth. Since it was an entirely untaxed amount, and because they were basically making a fool of the federal government, the state has officially decided to completely loot all of their money."
Suddenly, a muffled, highly panicked voice of a news producer echoed from off-camera.
"Hey! Why are you mentioning the word 'loot' on live television?! You should not say that! Use the word 'seize'!"
The reporter slowly turned his head to glare at the off-camera producer, entirely dropping his professional filter.
"I literally do not give a fuck, Dave," the reporter fired back live on air, adjusting his tie lazily. "They looted it. Call it whatever you want to make yourself feel better. And honestly, the wealth tax in this country is already so incredibly low. Yet, these parasitic, inbred Royal aristocrats are still refusing to pay it. How utterly brain-dead do you have to be to own an entire bloodline of wealth, live in literal palaces, and still act like a cheap street hustler dodging pennies? They have the financial literacy of a baked potato. Absolute idiots."
The reporter aggressively tossed the script over his shoulder, entirely abandoning the official news segment to look dead-eyed into the camera.
"Anyway," the reporter sighed heavily, completely abandoning the official news segment. "So now, let me tell you the current daily price of retail fart cylinders in our country. Yeah, we all know that private retail fart cylinders are highly illegal. The government banned them because apparently, people were using this highly concentrated methane to instantly clear out a crowded public park when they want the benches to themselves, or to completely ruin their annoying neighbor's birthday party by dropping a bio-bomb on their cake, And hence the government has to consider this as a 'severe public health hazard.'"
The reporter paused, staring blankly into the live camera while taking a long, obnoxiously loud sip from a crumpled coffee cup.
"I mean, what is a guy supposed to do when he needs to completely destroy an annoying neighbor's birthday party? Or instantly shut down a terrible, loud street dance performance outside his window?" the reporter grumbled, lazily wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "But whatever. The federal government is definitely watching this broadcast right now anyway, so let's just go ahead and list the black-market rates so you guys know you aren't getting completely scammed by your local street dealers..."
CLICK.
Kniya aggressively slammed his thumb onto the remote, instantly turning the television off. He stared at the black screen, completely bewildered.
"Ah, what the actual fuck," Kniya complained loudly, throwing his hands in the air.
Malesh calmly took a sip of his coffee, completely unfazed by the absolute madness they had just witnessed.
"I genuinely do not know why all the fucking news channels in this country are either actively on steroids or heavy narcotics!" Kniya yelled, gesturing wildly at the TV. "I don't know what the fuck is going wrong with them! Who the hell reports the black-market prices of illegal fart cylinders right after ruthlessly insulting the Royal Family on a federal broadcast?!"