Dec 21st, 2033
Under the cover of darkness on a cloud-veiled night near 22:00, the tanker neared the waters off Esbjerg. The ocean's surface was eerily still, a stark contrast to the rising anticipation onboard. Overhead, the rhythmic thud of rotor blades cutting through the air grew louder—a harbinger signaling the approach of a link to the world beyond the endless sea.
On the deck, crew members moved with deliberate haste, clearing the disguised helipad of any equipment. To any observer, the deck was just that—a deck. But as the crew donned specialized goggles that allowed them to see the infrared markings, the hidden helipad revealed itself—a modern marvel of clandestine design, invisible to the naked eye, yet a beacon to the sophisticated sensors of the approaching helicopter.
The captain stood at the bridge, watching as the helicopter descended with surgical precision. There was no margin for error; the disguised helipad left no room for visual cues, relying entirely on the skill of the pilot and the advanced technology that guided them.
Nestled against the central mast was a modest blind made of canvas and mesh, a sparse shield from prying eyes. Richard had been briefly exposed during the swift trek to this hideaway, but now, ensconced within, he had an unobstructed view of the helipad, tantalizingly close, yet a perilous 100 meters away.
His mind raced with the knowledge that Magnus's solar drones, silent sentinels in the sky, were likely monitoring from above. The notion that a sniper's bullet aimed at him would trigger an immediate and ferocious response from these unmanned avengers offered him scant reassurance. In fact, it was almost a disquieting thought—his safety was assured not by his own caution, but by the threat of retribution from the skies.
Lars, clad in full tactical gear, stood next to him, their combined presence almost too large for the confines of the small blind. It was an uncomfortable closeness, each man acutely aware of the other's breath and the faint rustle of fabric. Richard's instructions were clear: wait for Lars's signal, then make a break for the helicopter. His heart thumped at the thought of the open sprint across the deck—each step a high-stakes dance with danger.
The plan was simple, yet fraught with tension. Other than the pilot and the co-pilot, armed and vigilant, Richard would be the sole passenger aboard the aircraft. His departure was not just a physical extraction but a departure from the pseudo-safety of the tanker. As he readied himself for the signal, the gravity of his situation settled upon him. He was a single piece in a far larger game, a pawn advancing across a board ruled by unseen players and veiled moves.
The tanker, a silent giant amidst the waves, steadied itself as if aware of the delicate dance about to take place upon its back. With a gust of wind and the roar of the engine, the helicopter touched down, the hidden helipad bearing the weight of the bird of steel and technology.
As the rotors wound down and the door to the helicopter opened, the arrival marked more than just the physical connection to land—it was a statement of capability and covert operations, a testament to the tanker's dual life of open-sea navigation and strategic importance.
"Go," Lars bellowed into Richard's ear. Heart pounding, Richard surged forward, his boots pounding the textured deck. He managed only half a dozen strides before the ship's grooved surface betrayed him, sending him sprawling face-first onto the cold steel.
A bullet grazed the edge of his helmet, the deafening impact slicing through the cacophony of his racing heart. The sudden jerk on his neck led him to fear he'd been seriously hit.
Lars's commands crackled through his microphone, a distant sound against the roar of blood in Richard's ears. Shock rooted him to the spot, his entire being reduced to the feel of the deck's vibrations underfoot and the tang of sea salt hanging heavy in the air.
Before he could process his next move, Lars's firm grip hoisted him up, dragging him back to the safety of the blind. A sharp gesture from Lars commanded silence and stillness.
Time dissolved into a chaotic rush as adrenaline surged through Richard's body, turning each second into an agonizing stretch of eternity. The air was suddenly rent by the distant roar of explosions—was that Germany? Could the origins of the attack lie so far away? Or was this a fierce retaliation, a calculated strike against those believed to be the orchestrators? A whirlwind of questions spun through Richard's mind, finding no purchase in the maelstrom of confusion and fear.
"Go," Lars shouted again, a stern urgency in his voice. "And don't fall."
Richard stood frozen, staring at Lars, his mind a maelstrom of confusion.
"The helicopter, go!" Lars's hand gestured unmistakably toward the waiting chopper, giving Richard a nudge that snapped him out of his stupor.
The helipad was 100 meters away—about the length of a football field. Who designed this ship to be so expansive? He couldn't muster the courage to run, so instead, he opted for a swift walk, his legs moving close together to minimize the risk of another fall.
The glasses Richard wore, essential for seeing the infrared markings, displayed a countdown in the corner, tracking the remaining distance to the helicopter. "How thoughtful," his adrenaline-fueled mind sarcastically noted. He focused on the numbers, letting them ground him as he made his calculated approach, each step a mix of caution and the desperate need to escape.
In the midst of chaos, Richard's mind latched onto a desperate calculation—the distance to Germany. He reckoned it to be around 75 kilometers. And that—was it really a bullet that had grazed his helmet, not a missile? Could someone shoot that far? But coherent thoughts were elusive, his brain aggressively fixated on the treacherous dance of his feet against the deck's undulating texture.
His mental gymnastics faltered between distraction and the immediate need to remain upright. The counter blinked—26 meters. He suppressed the impulse to accelerate, knowing haste could spell disaster. Vague memories attempted to surface—hadn't Magnus mentioned something about 'excessive retaliation'? The exact phrasing eluded him; the concept muddled in his adrenaline-drenched brain.
Almost as a cruel reminder of his predicament, his foot skidded, nearly betraying him once again. Heart in his throat, Richard's focus snapped back to the immediate peril with laser precision—12 meters. The final stretch unfolded before him, a gauntlet of fear, confusion, and the overwhelming desire to simply reach the helicopter.
The tanker beneath Richard's feet lurched suddenly, a deceptive beast stirring in its maritime lair. Was this intentional? An attempt to throw him off balance? The very notion seemed absurd—such a vessel wasn't designed for swift, evasive action. Yet as the thought flashed through his mind, his footing betrayed him, and he was sent sprawling once more, the helmet sparing his face from a harsh kiss with the rough steel deck.
Just six meters from his goal, pain lanced through Richard's ankle, a sharp rebuke as he attempted to rise. His knee buckled, gravity once again claiming victory. In that moment of vulnerability, the helicopter's side door burst open and out leaped a figure clad in a flak jacket. The man sprinted with purpose, closing the distance between them with efficient strides.
In one swift motion, the rescuer hoisted Richard from the ground and half-carried, half-threw him into the back of the chopper. Straps were secured, a safety harness enveloping Richard's battered form as the man dashed to his own seat.
Isolated from communication, Richard could only watch in silence as the infrared system painted cryptic glows against the dark void outside. The helicopter's rotors dominated the cabin with their thunderous roar, cutting him off from all other sounds and severing the last ties to the treacherous deck below. Relief washed over Richard as they ascended into the night, profound and all-encompassing.
Secure in his seat, with the dangers of the deck now just a memory, Richard allowed the rhythm of the rotors to drown out his lingering fears. Midnight was approaching, and with it, exhaustion crept over him like a heavy blanket. Yet, amidst the fatigue, a thought flickered through his weary mind: in less than two hours, he would be at Fæstning Hel, a notion both daunting and strangely comforting.