Chapter 195: First Mission
High above, five sleek transport vessels, unique to the Praetoriani Order, sliced through the stratosphere at Mach 10, their normal cruising speed for quick deployment. Each vessel was shaped with the predatory elegance of an eagle’s beak at the front, the cockpit nestled above, within the "eyes" of the avian design.
Their hulls, a dark, burnished alloy, shimmered faintly against the nascent light. Within their reinforced bays, internal inertial dampeners effortlessly offset the crushing G-forces, ensuring the sixty Spartans within each vessel remained utterly unaffected, poised and ready.
These were not just transports; they were also designed as boarding vessels. Should an enemy ship be lucky enough to survive the sheer force of a Mach 20 impact, the beak-shaped front would pressurize the enemy hull upon collision, destroying the crew from the inside "like a poison," before the Spartans advanced through the breached hull, knocking at their ships. A terrifying dual purpose, a promise of swift, brutal ingress.
Two hours later, the eagle-shaped vessels were rapidly approaching the skies of St. Petersburg, their descent a graceful, silent plunge towards Staraya Maluksa, just above the UEDC base. Their passage was a dark, avian shadow against the morning sky, casting an imposing silhouette over the concrete structures below.
The comms notified the ground forces below of TRC’s imminent arrival, and soldiers from various UEDC units – US Rangers, Russian Spetsnaz, and regular infantry – craned their necks, their formations breaking slightly as they gazed up, equally stunned at the sight to behold. A low, collective murmur of awe rippled through the ranks, a mix of fear and desperate hope.
"Did you see that?" whispered Private Anya Volkova, a young Russian infantrywoman, nudging her comrade. "They’re so... huge."
"Like something out of a dream," her comrade, Corporal Sergei Ivanov, breathed, his eyes wide. "But real."
The transport vessels hovered above the Staraya Maluksa UEDC base, their massive forms blotting out the rising sun, before gently settling onto designated landing pads with a soft, almost imperceptible thud that nevertheless vibrated through the earth. Ramps extended with a hydraulic hiss, a metallic whisper in the crisp morning air, and the hulking figures of the Praetoriani Siderum began to disembark.
Ciano, in his imposing commander armor, stepped forward first, his every movement radiating an almost palpable authority. He moved with a heavy, deliberate grace, his armored form casting a long shadow over the concrete.
He addressed the highest-ranking officer present, a grizzled Russian General, General Dmitri Volkov, whose uniform bore the scars of recent combat and whose face was etched with exhaustion.