Chapter 92: Carribean Base (3)
Inside the Caribbean base command center, chaos reigned. Desperate voices filled the comms. "Leader, we've failed to intercept—" "Mayday! Ejecting now—!" "Save us—!"
Some pilots managed to pull their ejection handles just before their planes exploded. Their parachutes unfurled like white umbrellas, but their relief was short-lived. Zack's particle beams sliced through them mid-descent, leaving lifeless bodies floating gently toward the earth.
"In my skies, there's no such thing as a 'no-kill' rule for parachuters," Zack muttered coldly, watching the scene unfold below. He have no plan leaving behind uncertain factor, for him it's kill or be killed the moment they come to his doorstep. From start to finish, the battle lasted only one minute and twenty seconds. Nineteen fighter planes reduced to burning wreckage. Nineteen pilots dead. From the ground, the falling debris resembled a fiery metal rain.
Zack's voice cut through the comms again, this time directed at Caribbean base. "What's your next move?" His tone was icy, unrelenting as he accelerated toward the base.
Inside Caribbean base, the command room was dead silent as Zack's taunting voice echoed through the speakers. Dozens of red blips on their radar had vanished in less than two minutes. The three base leaders—Jock, Kshatti, and Navas—stared at the screen, their faces pale and drenched in cold sweat.
Jock slammed his fist on the console, his frustration boiling over. "What the hell is he even flying?! Not even an F-35 could take down nineteen fighters that quickly! Nineteen!" He seethed, glaring at the room of engineers and techs. "And you useless monkeys can't even get a clear satellite image of him!" He paced angrily, his voice rising with every word. "Nineteen planes! These weren't some toy drones—they were state-of-the-art fighters! And we still have no idea what we're dealing with!"
Kshatti raised a hand, trying to calm him down. "The priority now is stopping him," he said firmly, pointing at the radar. Zack's red dot was approaching the base at an alarming speed.
Jock took a deep breath, grabbed the microphone, and switched to the public channel. His voice, now forced into a mock-calm tone, echoed across the battlefield.
"I am Jock Forsman, leader of Caribbean base." He paused briefly before hurriedly adding, "One of the leaders." He continued, his tone shifting to one of strained diplomacy. "We didn't mean to provoke you. The two planes we sent earlier were only delivering a message, not attacking. Yet you've destroyed more than twenty of our fighters." He sighed, as if trying to appear magnanimous.