"Combat operations have begun. All units, move to your assigned positions."
The instant the battle started, Major Gary Sanderson became a different man.
Seated in the temporary command center, he watched the restored satellite feeds with calm, unwavering focus as orders flowed one after another.
A battlefield commander wasn’t supposed to sprint across the front lines while shouting into a radio and dodging explosions.
That made for entertaining action movies.
Real command meant coordinating hundreds of moving parts, adapting to changing conditions, and keeping a clear head no matter how impossible the enemy seemed.
If the commander panicked, the entire force would follow.
"Attack helicopter squadron is in position."
Eight Apache gunships circled high above the Destroyer, which continued its slow march toward the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility that housed Mjolnir.
"Open fire with thirty-millimeter cannons."
"Confirmed. Engaging."
The helicopters hovered in formation.
Eight M230 chain guns erupted simultaneously, unleashing a deafening storm of depleted uranium armor-piercing shells.
Thousands of rounds slammed into the silver giant.
Smoke blossomed across its armor.
When it cleared...
"Direct hits confirmed."
"No effect."
"The target remains operational."
Nearly sixteen thousand armor-piercing rounds had struck the Destroyer.
Its gleaming silver armor didn’t even bear a scratch.
"Missiles," Sanderson ordered immediately.
"Send it to hell."
"Confirmed."
The helicopters widened their formation.
Hydra 70 anti-tank rockets and AGM-114 Hellfire missiles streaked through the night from every direction.
The bombardment engulfed the Destroyer in overlapping explosions.
Flames.
Smoke.
Shockwaves.
The entire area disappeared beneath the barrage.
Then the dust settled.
"All missiles hit."
A pause.
"No visible structural damage."
Sanderson’s trigger finger twitched.
He had prepared himself mentally for an extraordinary enemy.
He had not prepared for this.
The firepower unleashed moments ago could have annihilated an armored battalion.
Around him, the command staff struggled to stay composed.
"Even the missiles did nothing?"
"What kind of monster is that?"
"Its armor is stronger than we estimated!"
One staff officer gripped his pencil so tightly it snapped in half.
Only Sanderson managed to keep his expression steady.
Then Evenson, who had remained silent with his left eye closed, suddenly spoke.
"High-energy buildup."
"Tell them to retreat. Now."
The Destroyer had tolerated the buzzing helicopters long enough.
Crimson light seeped through the seams of its armor, gathering toward its faceplate.
Evenson recognized the attack instantly.
"Flight units, evasive maneuvers!" Sanderson barked. "Withdraw immediately!"
He trusted Evenson’s warning without hesitation.
The helicopters had already proven ineffective.
There was no reason to keep risking them.
Unfortunately...
He was a second too late.
The Destroyer’s faceplate unfolded.
A blazing beam of molten crimson energy erupted into the sky.
Three quick bursts.
Three Apaches exploded before their crews even realized what had happened.
Then the Destroyer’s upper body rotated in a full circle while the beam continued firing.
The sweeping laser carved through the remaining helicopters one after another with mechanical precision.
It looked almost absurd.
Like someone spraying insects with a can of pesticide.
"Flight squadron..."
The communications officer swallowed.
"...destroyed."
Sanderson closed his eyes for one brief moment.
When he opened them again, there was no hesitation left.
"Ground armor advances."
"Tank companies, mobile fire pattern."
The lesson from the helicopters had been painfully clear.
The ten main battle tanks never stopped moving.
They fired while maneuvering, constantly changing direction to avoid becoming stationary targets.
Unlike helicopter missiles, a tank’s main gun delivered overwhelming kinetic force in addition to explosive power.
Two shells slammed directly into the Destroyer’s shoulders.
The massive construct staggered.
"Target movement slowing."
"Good."
Sanderson didn’t sound nearly as encouraged as the word suggested.
It wasn’t enough.
"Press the attack."
"Self-propelled artillery, fire."
The artillery batteries remained safely behind the lines.
Five 155-millimeter self-propelled howitzers thundered in unison, their recoil making the ground itself seem to tremble.
Shell after shell crashed onto the Destroyer.
The bombardment was devastating.
The Destroyer endured it anyway.
Then it retaliated.
Crimson beams lanced across the battlefield.
Unlike the helicopter crews, the tank commanders had learned from their predecessors.
They kept moving, forcing several attacks to miss entirely.
But tanks, no matter how powerful, weren’t agile enough.
Before long, the Destroyer adapted.
One beam caught a retreating tank squarely across its hull.
The armor melted apart like butter beneath a blowtorch.
A heartbeat later, its ammunition and fuel detonated.
The explosion lit the desert.
It wouldn’t be the last.
"Tank units, withdraw immediately."
Sanderson made the decision without hesitation.
There was no point wasting armor that could no longer influence the battle.
Besides...
The next phase required a much larger blast radius.
He turned toward the communications officer.
"Cancel the F-22 strike package."
If tank cannons and heavy artillery couldn’t damage the target, fighter-launched missiles certainly wouldn’t.
"Prepare a two-thousand-pound Joint Direct Attack Munition."
Far away, at a military airbase in New Mexico, a black B-2 Spirit stealth bomber roared into the sky.
Forty seconds later...
It arrived over the battlefield.
A string of precision-guided bombs rained down.
The desert disappeared beneath an ocean of fire.
Even personnel nearly ten miles away at the Mjolnir research site felt the shockwave and the searing heat rolling across the landscape.
"We got it!"
One of the staff officers shot to his feet.
After watching every previous attack fail, the enormous explosion finally felt like a victory.
"Satellite feed returning," another operator reported.
Everyone leaned toward the monitors.
The smoke gradually dispersed.
The room fell silent.
The same officer slowly raised a trembling finger toward the screen.
His face had gone pale.
"The target..."
"...is still standing."
No one spoke.
The Destroyer walked out of the inferno without so much as a dent.
Sanderson finally lost his composure.
"Cruise missiles!"
"Launch the Tomahawks!"
"And authorize the Jericho missiles!"
"We end this now!"
"No."
The cold voice cut through the command center.
Evenson.
Sanderson turned sharply.
"With what we have now, we can’t destroy it!"
"We can’t even dream of capturing it!"
"It doesn’t matter," Evenson replied calmly.
"Keep attacking."
"You’re sending them to die!"
"They don’t need to defeat it."
Evenson’s eyes never left the battlefield.
"They only need to buy me time."
Sanderson frowned.
"...Time for what?"
Did the machine have some hidden weakness?
Was it running on a limited power source?
Would it simply shut down if they stalled long enough?
Evenson only smiled faintly.
"You don’t need to know."
"Just follow orders, Major."
Only then did Sanderson notice something strange.
Evenson’s hands had been moving constantly.
His fingers shifted through an intricate sequence of unfamiliar gestures, flowing with uncanny rhythm.
Sanderson couldn’t decipher their purpose.
The longer he watched...
The more nauseous he felt.
It was as if merely observing those movements was enough to make his mind reject what it was seeing.
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