A group of three men and one woman.
For Evenson, that particular combination stirred up memories he’d rather leave buried. Once upon a time, a similar quartet had nearly traumatized him over something as ridiculous as a pair of pants.
Best not to revisit that story.
Escorted by an Apache attack helicopter, Thor’s companions arrived at the S.H.I.E.L.D. base without incident.
The Warriors Three and Lady Sif remained calm throughout the journey, showing no hostility despite being surrounded by armed soldiers.
That wasn’t surprising.
These were veteran Asgardian warriors. They had followed Thor into battles across the Nine Realms, even charging the heart of Jotunheim itself. A human military installation wasn’t exactly an intimidating sight.
Thor greeted his friends with enthusiastic embraces.
"I’ll reclaim my power soon," he promised them. "Once I do, I’ll return to Asgard and set everything right."
Afterward, he spent nearly all his time trying to convince Jane Foster that Lady Sif was not his wife.
"She’s my comrade," Thor insisted. "One of my oldest friends. A fellow warrior."
"I have no idea why Midgard’s legends tell that story."
Jane wasn’t entirely convinced.
Powerful men insisting that the beautiful woman constantly by their side was "just a friend" was hardly a new concept.
Whatever relationship drama developed from there would have to sort itself out.
Evenson had far more pressing concerns.
For one absurd moment, his gamer instincts wondered whether Fandral’s elegant fencing style meant he had an affinity for nature... or perhaps an unhealthy enthusiasm for setting entire worlds on fire.
He immediately discarded the thought.
Wrong universe, Ryan.
What actually mattered was Major Sanderson and the deployment of his forces.
He entered the newly erected military command tent, waving off several staff officers who started to salute.
Rows of monitors covered every available surface, displaying satellite feeds, tactical maps, drone telemetry, and communications channels. It looked less like a battlefield headquarters and more like the control room for a space launch.
Sanderson hurried over.
"Sir."
"The next arrivals won’t be friends," Evenson said. "I need your forces fully deployed."
"They already are."
Confidence radiated from the major.
"The combat units are in position. Our integrated command network is operational."
He gestured toward the wall of displays.
"Using the intelligence provided by Agent Coulson, we’ve recalibrated our satellite frequencies. We should have the clearest reconnaissance possible. We won’t repeat what happened earlier."
"I hope not."
Evenson’s tone remained neutral.
Then his expression turned serious.
"You’ll command this battle, Major."
Sanderson stared.
"...Me?"
He had expected to support the operation, not lead it. This was a S.H.I.E.L.D. installation, and Evenson was clearly the senior authority.
Yet command was being handed to him.
"Yes," Evenson said simply.
"You know how to use these troops better than I ever could."
He had no interest in pretending otherwise.
Nothing was more dangerous than a leader convinced he understood warfare simply because he had opinions.
Evenson knew magic.
He knew demons.
He knew eldritch horrors from beyond reality.
He did not know the optimal firing range of self-propelled artillery or the intricacies of coordinating tanks with infantry.
That was Sanderson’s expertise.
Trying to micromanage him would only get people killed.
Sanderson frowned.
"Sir... I don’t even know what we’re fighting."
Knowing your enemy was one of the oldest principles of war.
He understood conventional armies.
He understood insurgencies.
He even understood how to fight technologically superior opponents.
But alien gods?
That wasn’t covered at West Point.
"So I’ll provide guidance," Evenson replied.
Sanderson immediately understood.
Evenson would define the strategic objectives.
The military would determine the tactical execution.
It was a perfectly reasonable division of responsibilities.
Wars had always served political goals. Soldiers fought within boundaries established by people above them.
"In that case," Sanderson asked, "what are your instructions?"
"I have one."
Evenson folded his arms.
"You understand the historical significance of what’s about to happen."
"The people above us haven’t said it outright... but they want one of our enemies captured alive."
Sanderson’s eyebrows rose.
"If you succeed," Evenson continued, "your name will be remembered as part of humanity’s first victory over an extraterrestrial civilization."
"And if I fail?"
Sanderson hesitated before asking the obvious question.
"Am I looking at a court-martial?"
"No."
Evenson’s answer came instantly.
"Considering the classification level of everything you’ve learned today..."
"...you and your men would probably be sent somewhere else."
Sanderson stiffened.
He understood exactly what that meant.
Not another base.
Another world.
"I understand, sir."
"I’ll complete the mission."
A distant peal of thunder rolled across the desert.
The sky darkened.
Heavy storm clouds gathered with unnatural speed.
The arrival of the Warriors Three had been accompanied by the radiant beauty of the Bifrost.
This...
...felt entirely different.
It was as though something catastrophic had fallen from the heavens, bringing destruction with it.
Evenson looked toward the northwest.
"It’s here."
A communications officer called out.
"Unknown object detected fifteen miles northwest!"
"Redirect every available satellite!"
Another voice answered seconds later.
"No visual confirmation! Cloud cover is too dense!"
Evenson frowned at the monitor.
The satellite feed showed nothing except a swirling mass of black clouds.
"I thought you guaranteed this wouldn’t happen."
Sanderson looked thoroughly embarrassed.
"Sir... this isn’t energy interference."
He glanced apologetically at the display.
"The cloud layer is simply too thick."
"No excuses."
Evenson raised his left hand and gently pressed two fingers against his left eye.
"Weren’t you trained at West Point?"
At that same moment, far beneath the storm clouds, a massive emerald eye with a vertical golden pupil floated silently above the impact site.
The Eye of Kilrogg.
When the Warriors Three had arrived, Evenson had secretly dispatched the spell as insurance.
Now its vision became his own.
Standing in the center of the crater was a towering figure nearly ten feet tall.
Its body was forged from interlocking bands of gleaming silver metal.
Heavy riveted armor covered its shoulders and arms.
It stood perfectly still.
Silent.
Waiting.
A weapon.
Not a man.
Evenson’s lips curled into a knowing smile.
"The Destroyer."
He turned sharply toward Sanderson.
"The battle begins now."
His voice rang through the command tent.
"Tell your men there will be no warnings."
"No negotiations."
"No challenge to surrender."
"They open fire the moment they have a clear shot."
He paused.
"If they want to survive..."
"They’d better use lethal force."
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