Summoning America

Author’s Note:

I’m back from a rather lengthy hiatus! I’ve just graduated, completing a degree in mechanical engineering and was pretty busy the last couple of months. Now that I’m done though, I can resume regular uploads of Summoning America and begin work on Manifest Fantasy, as well as Liberty Reborn (sometime in the future). For updates regarding story schedules and content, please check out my discord server linked below!

Author’s Note (Story and Patreon Updates):

I will be uploading 1 extra chapter for every $100 donated! Contributions will be calculated by the end of the month and the extra chapters will be applied to the next month.

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/drdoritosmd 

SPECIAL DEAL: I will upload 1 extra chapter for a successful referral using this webull code. You must open an account and deposit at least $1 for it to be successful. Message me on discord to confirm that you’ve completed the referral. If you wish to join my investing community, it is linked through my discord server. The webull link will also be available through my discord under #other-announcements. 

Webull: https://a.webull.com/1idi6zkc37slwnleu4 

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December 19, 1640

Somewhere in the Valkan Sea

A serene ocean stretched into the horizon, kissed by the golden hues of the setting sun. Above, a squadron of Gra Valkan destroyers cruised, their hulls casting long, ominous shadows over the water. The radio chatter of sailors echoed through the air, a symphony of mundane but diligent naval operations. Yet, beneath this facade of tranquility, danger lurked. Silent and invisible to the best Gra Valkan sonar systems, three dark shapes moved with a predatory grace - the USS Montana, the USS Michigan, and the USS Florida. Cloaked beneath the waves, they were the unseen sharks in a tranquil sea.

Inside the USS Montana, the atmosphere starkly contrasted with the peaceful waters outside. Here, the air hummed with the quiet intensity of focused preparation. Screens flickered with streams of data, casting a soft glow on the faces of the crew. In the command center, Lieutenant Jack Riley stood, his gaze flitting across the screens. With sharp, perceptive eyes and a stern expression carved from years of service, he embodied calm amidst the simmering anticipation. The weight of the mission rested on his shoulders, yet he bore it with a confident, unwavering resolve.

Beyond the command center, the SEAL fireteam operatives were a study in readiness. Encased in their tactical gear, they sat in silence as they focused on Riley’s briefing. Their eyes followed Riley’s finger as he gestured toward a digital map on the main screen. It was a detailed layout of Ragna, the Gra Valkan capital city, covered with a web of red markers indicating the martial law imposed checkpoints.

“Listen up,” he began, his voice echoing in the hushed interior. “Our mission is to extract Emperor Gra Lux and his family and the loyalists with them. Tips from the Doves suggest they’ll escape from the palace and emerge in this location: an abandoned office building,” he said, pointing to a structure in an isolated district.

He clicked a button, and the screen shifted to display satellite images of the palace’s secret tunnel exits, which were swarming with troops. “Marix’s forces have anticipated this, so the extraction will not be a walk in the park.”

There was a shared glance among the SEALs, a hardened determination sparking in their eyes. Their faces, lit by the cold, artificial light, were a tableau of grit and resolve. Though the Gra Valkans were technologically inferior, the circumstances of the mission emphasized the folly of overconfidence. Oceans away from dedicated military support, the experienced operatives knew that they could not underestimate the Gra Valkans.

The briefing continued as Riley reviewed alternate routes and backup plans before ending with a solemn silence. Each operative was left to their thoughts, preparing mentally for the task ahead. Riley gave them a curt nod before dismissing them, his gaze lingering on the map.

In the submarine’s lower deck, the SEAL fireteam operatives began their final gear checks. The dark, elongated shapes of the dry combat submersibles (DCS) dominated the room, their sleek surfaces shimmering under the artificial light. They then climbed into their respective vehicles with methodical and practiced movements. The interior of each DCS was cramped, but these men were well-trained, their bodies and minds conditioned to handle discomfort. Helmets clicked into place, HUDs flickered to life, and comms checks filled the air with a chorus of affirmatives. As the final checks concluded, the atmosphere in the launch bay was electric. It was time for the wolves to leave the den.

The USS Montana’s hull, unscathed and untraceable, seamlessly slipped through the water’s cradle. It surfaced stealthily, betraying the powerful machinery housed within its belly. The world outside was an expanse of warm serenity, the ocean a mirror reflecting the setting sun’s golden hues. Within the submarine, two DCS units were prepared to set out. The deployment sequence was as eerie as it was beautiful, an amalgamation of technology and precision. The launch bay’s gates cracked open with a hydraulic hiss, revealing the endless expanse of the sea. 

Simultaneously, aboard the USS Florida, another group of Navy SEALs repeated this ballet of war preparation. As the DCSs slipped into the ocean, their silhouettes vanished into the darkness, leaving no evidence of their existence.

Inside each DCS, the atmosphere was palpable. Soft glowing lights highlighted the concentration etched on each face as they steeled themselves for the landing. The hum of the onboard systems was a comforting reminder of the technological edge they held. Here, in this tiny bubble of American tech, they were untouchable. Successful insertion was a guarantee.

In the first DCS, members of SEAL Team 5 waited patiently as the waters swirled around them. Chief Petty Officer Harper felt the familiar pulse of adrenaline but maintained a calm composure. Petty Officers Thompson, Dalton, and Richmond each exchanged glances, the current op a reminder of what they once did in North Korea. Across from them, Petty Officer Johnson closed his eyes, whispering a quick prayer to the Lord above, to guide and protect these daring men in the black depths of foreign seas. The ride was quiet except for the occasional murmur of communication and the faint hum of the DCS. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, the first sighting of the Gra Valkan coastline emerged from the inky darkness.

Riley’s heart pounded in his chest, the taste of the mission’s reality now on his tongue. Though a nearby port was bristling with commercial and military activity, the shore’s outline otherwise appeared hauntingly desolate, devoid of life, in the night-vision display.

As the DCSs drew closer to the coastline, the dark expanse of water was suddenly replaced by a blurred gray line in the distance. That was their target, the beginning of their invisible incursion into enemy territory. Riley stared at it, a knot of anticipation tightening in his stomach. He wasn’t alone; every man in the DCS felt it, the calm before the storm.

Navigating through the quiet water, the DCS units shifted abruptly, rerouting to avoid an isolated Gra Valkan patrol boat whose echoes whispered through their sonar. It was a deft dance of technology and skill, the superior American machinery making their evasion seem almost effortless.

As they approached the coastline, the hull of the DCS brushed against the sandy ocean floor. The ocean’s grip on them loosened, replace by the gritty resistance of land. The resistance, the sudden change from a smooth motion to a jarring slow, signaled their arrival. The low hum of the engines dwindled and the sound of water rushing past the hull dulled, replaced by the scrape of the machine against sand and the whisper of the receding tide. 

The world outside, previously a uniform expanse of liquid void, morphed into a landscape of shadows and shapes. Their cloaked arrival, shrouded by the obsidian veil of the ocean, was about to turn into a delicate game of shadows on land. This was it. The dry combat submersible came to a final halt, concealed by the cover of an unassuming sand dune.

“Prepare to disembark,” Riley’s voice cut through the silence, each word calm and steady over the comms.

Doors hissed open and the cool night breeze swept in, carrying with it the distinctive scent of ocean salt. SEAL operators checked their gear one last time, each movement precise and deliberate, honed by countless hours of training and field experience. Their black forms, spectral against the night, slipped out of the DCS, boots sinking slightly into the fine sand. Riley was the last to step out, his gaze sweeping over his men before lifting toward their objective.

The world was a wash of shades of green through their goggles as the SEAL fireteams pushed deeper inland. Riley signaled to his men, using hand gestures to communicate. Two fingers forward. Move up.

The beach was deserted, just as the recon drone footage had indicated. The Gra Valkan naval patrols had been meticulously tracked and avoided thanks to their superior technology. Thompson secured a link back to the submarines and through them, also secured a link back to their handlers in Mu. Any change in the enemy’s movements would be relayed immediately.

Mirroring the movements of the other teams inserted elsewhere throughout the beach, they navigated swiftly through the darkness, their bodies blending seamlessly into the night. Behind them, Dalton eliminated all traces of their insertion along the sand. To any onlooker, they were ghosts - there one moment, gone the next. 

Ahead of them lay the city, its once vibrant nightlife now stifled under martial law. From the beach, they could see the blockaded roads and patrols marching at every corner. These preparations made it easier for the SEALs to insert quietly, away from the eyes of local beachgoers but made it more difficult to move through the city. Though the beach was clear, the Gra Valkas capital city of Ragna was a fortress.

But even fortresses had their weaknesses, and that’s what the SEALs were here to exploit. The CIA’s ground operatives, Maverick’s team, had already provided detailed intel on the enemy's movements, their patrol routes, and the location of the HVPs.

Riley held up a clenched fist. His team stopped, dropping into prone positions and disappearing into the underbrush separating the beach from the roads ahead. A patrol passed by, oblivious to the impending danger lurking in the shadows. The SEALs waited, their discipline holding still. As the patrol moved on, Riley gave the signal. His team was up and moving again.

Their gear made little noise as they transitioned from the soft sand to hardened asphalt. They easily slipped past a pair of unsuspecting guards who had been tasked with keeping civilians away from the beach and hadn’t even entertained the thought of an ocean-borne insertion. 

As they moved deeper into Ragna, each man knew that every step they took was a step into the unknown. And so, as shadows under the clouded moonlight, the SEALs made their way through the web of soldiers, invisible to the enemy and ready to snatch the HVPs from right under their noses.

The city of Ragna was eerily silent, the normally bustling streets now hushed under the strict enforcement of martial law. The only signs of life were the soldiers, their uncertainty visible as they manned checkpoints, conversing with one another about the reason behind their sudden deployment.

Moving with the stealth and precision of shadows, the SEALs navigated through the cityscape. They avoided residential areas, knowing the curfewed citizens could accidentally reveal their position. Ragna’s commercial and administrative districts provided ample cover, with deserted office buildings, stores, and silent public spaces.

Riley led the team, his honed instincts acting as their compass, guiding them through the urban labyrinth. His eyes scanned the environment, spotting potential threats, and guiding his team away from direct confrontation. The adrenaline coursing through his veins sharpened his senses, each rustle of wind or clatter in the distance echoing in his ears.

Their path took them to an overwatch point, a five-story department sore overlooking a significant checkpoint. Ducking inside, they climbed to the roof where they had a clear view of the blockade. Through their night vision goggles, they studied the setup. Heavily armed soldiers patrolled in a practiced pattern, the beam of their flashlights cutting through the darkness. Despite their seeming readiness, Riley noted fatigue and even slack in their movements - a result of long hours and disinterest in their tasks.

He weighed their options, assessing the risks of both stealthy bypass and direct confrontation. Time was of the essence - each passing minute brought them closer to the extraction window and the risks that came with it. Still, the decision was far from easy. Going around the blockade meant sacrificing valuable minutes, and going through the nearby buildings increased their chances of being discovered. A misstep here could cost them more than just time.

While the team observed, their presence remained unnoticed. They knew they were in enemy territory, their every step potentially under surveillance. Yet, they also knew their mission. They were the unseen phantoms in a city under lockdown, far from reinforcements, and tasked with a daring mission matched only by blockbuster movies.

Their silent vigil continued, the scene below a chilling reminder of the challenge they faced. The streets of Ragna were a puzzle they had to solve, and every piece mattered. The city was a chessboard, and they were preparing for their next move.