Geneva, European Federation, February 2035

  Retired Captain Takeshi Nakamura is all the man I imagined. Head of the UN reconstruction organization, he specializes in maritime trade. Far from home, he still caries a presence of pride and order. He runs his office the same way a Captain might run his ship.

  "It was February. Cold enough that the sea itself felt hostile. We were coming down from Bergen, Biggest allied naval hub in Norway back then. The port was a patchwork: American drone carriers, British support ships, Swedish stealth corvettes, Chinese support ships, you name it, they were there. You could smell diesel, hot metal, and coffee everywhere. The kind of place where you knew war was still being fought. Not won—just held back."

  "We left port under cloud cover, dark and quiet, sailing south toward the Kattegat. Mission was clear: relieve the Norwegians on station and keep the strait locked down. If the Tripods broke through there, Gothenburg would be devastated. Or they could move south towards Sealand. Cause havoc in the back of our lines long enough for the crabs to cross the smaller strait. Then nothing between them and the rest of Scandinavia."

  "Our ship was the Kongō—old, reliable, and mean. Old lady been upgraded. Strong radar, new sonar arrays, integrated drone command links, all that. But no matter how fancy the system, out there it still came down to people. Flesh, steel, and pressure."

  "Once we were in position, I called the crew together over the 1MC. Nothing long. I told them:

  'You are not here to win a war. You are here to buy time. Every hour we hold this line is another hour a child in Gothenburg doesn’t have to hide in a basement while bombs fall above. Every day we hold the strait, someone in Sweden sleeps in their own bed. That’s the mission.'

  "And then I told them what they already knew—these weren’t normal waters anymore. The Crabs walk the sea floor. Big tripods, slow and deliberate. They don’t make waves. They don’t show up on satellite. They move like they belong there. We only see them when they let us. Made it clear for everyone in their post to not fall asleep during their shift."

  "The ship felt colder than usual. We kept lights dimmed, ran silent mode most of the time. You learn to whisper even when you’re alone, like noise might draw something up from the deep. That paranoia, it seeps into your bones."

  "The crew was disciplined. Polite. Quiet. We didn’t talk about home much. People either lit up or became depressed when you brought back talks of home. They kept themselves busy—tight inspections, endless drills. One day you’d be running fire control sims, the next you’d be patching coolant leaks with your bare hands in minus-10 weather because the auto-sealants froze up."

  "The ship felt colder than usual. We kept lights dimmed, ran silent mode most of the time. You learn to whisper even when you’re alone, like noise might draw something up from the deep. That paranoia—it seeps into your bones."

  "The crew was disciplined. Polite. Quiet. We didn’t talk about home much. Not after the Oslo breach. Too many had family there. They kept themselves busy—tight inspections, endless drills. One day you’d be running fire control sims, the next you’d be patching coolant leaks with your bare hands in minus-10 weather because the auto-sealants froze up."

  "Mornings started with hot tea and a silence that wasn’t quite peaceful. Sonar teams ran 8-hour rotations, ears locked on the deep, listening for anything out of place—an echo, a ripple, a step. Because when those tripods moved, you could sometimes catch the rhythm. Like a heart, slow and deep, pulsing through the seabed."

  "We shared the zone with others. A Swedish Visby would ghost along the coast, almost invisible. An American LCS held the middle corridor, launching sub drones. Ships be it Russians, Chinese, Canadian going deeper south to bomb the crabs on the other side of strait overlooking our ground troops. We barely spoke to each other but just knowing they were out there kept us sane."

  "Every few days, a whisper would go around: ‘Did sonar catch movement near L?s??’ Or someone would swear they saw something out the port side in the fog—long legs, gleaming wet. No confirmation. Never was. But the fear was always sharp. Always near."

  "That was the worst part. Not the silence. Not the cold. It was knowing that under all that grey water, something enormous was walking. And we were just ants clinging to a steel shell, hoping it didn’t decide to rise."

  Nakamura exhales slowly, eyes fixed somewhere far past the walls of the interview room.

  "We were in the wardroom. Just four of us—XO, sonar lead, logistics, and me. Going over supplies. Fuel levels were good, drones had been cycling without fault, but rations were tight. Crew had been burning calories fast in the cold, and our next resupply was still four days out of Gothenburg. I remember the XO was mid-sentence, talking about power allocation to the aft heating grids—then it hit."

  "Sonar contact. 900 meters. Bearing 124. Subsurface. Moving."

  "The alarm followed maybe two seconds later. That long, rising tone that cuts through your bones. You never forget that sound. It's like the ocean screaming at you."

  "Within moments, the entire ship came alive. Boots on metal, crew sliding into their stations with quiet urgency. No shouting—just discipline. CIC lit up in red and orange tones, screens filling with data. Our sonar officer, Nakamoto, had the contact displayed—a slow, deliberate thump on the lower bands. Rhythmic. Like a living metronome. That was no current, no whale. It was walking."

  "I gave the order to hold position. No active pinging. No weapons lock. We weren’t ready to spook it—not if it was just testing us."

  "Then came the second contact. Farther out, maybe 2 clicks northeast. Same rhythm. Same signature. That’s when I knew—it wasn’t a probe. It was a formation."

  "The Kongō’s VLS was hot within ninety seconds. Torpedo tubes prepped. Drones launched underwater from the midships bay—small, fast hunters with low acoustic profiles. We cast them like a net around the contacts."

  "I gave the fleet-wide call. The Visby out near the reef line acknowledged with one ping. The Sealand drone barge went into black mode, masking its signature. American LCS began circling wide—trying to box the second contact in without revealing its flank."

  Nakamura’s voice lowers, eyes narrowed like he’s watching it happen again across the table.

  "We knew they could hear us."

  "Not just passively—not like a sub picking up echoes. I mean they could feel the active sonar. The moment you sent out a ping, they’d pause. Reorient. Like they were listening not just to the sound, but to the source. Figuring you out."

  "We tested it during that patrol. One low-powered active pulse from our secondary sonar grid—not even aggressive, just a range check. Ten seconds later, all three contacts slowed down. Not much, but enough. Like wolves lifting their heads mid-hunt."

  "They knew. They always knew."

  "When we got that second contact, we thought maybe it was just a scout. But then sonar picked up a third—farther out, behind the other two, but moving in sync. A triangle formation. Controlled. Deliberate."

  "And they weren’t coming at us. That was the worst part. They ignored us."

  "Three massive signatures, moving slowly through the Kattegat’s western shelf, hugging the seafloor like they owned it—walking straight toward Gothenburg."

  "We scrambled. Sealed the corridor. Drones repositioned. Our Swedish corvette out on the flank deployed active sonar at full pulse, trying to get a clearer read. That’s when the lead contact stopped moving altogether. Dead still. Like it had turned its head."

  The air was thick with tension, a kind of waiting that pressed down on everyone’s chest. Three miles. I cursed to myself, how had they gotten so close without us spotting them. It was close enough to feel the cold sting of the sea in the wind, but far enough that you couldn't see them yet—not clearly. But you could hear them. You could feel the heartbeat of the ocean, and it wasn’t yours. It was theirs.

  It was the first time I understood what it meant to be hunter and the pray at the same time.

  We had the three tripods on sonar, moving in slow, deliberate rhythm. Their massive forms shifted on the seabed like giants wading through mud—silent, but not hidden. The water seemed to hum with their presence. The crew was tight, eyes locked to their stations, nerves taut as piano wire.

  "Contact confirmed. 4000 meters closing. Bearing 120." That was Nakamoto, our sonar lead. His voice was steady, but you could hear the strain in the back of his throat. He was listening, too, but now, it wasn’t just sonar pulses. It was something more. Something deeper.

  I didn’t have to order anything. The XO was already moving, relaying orders. Sonar was trying to confirm classification. I stepped onto the bridge, and the air felt different. Tighter. Like the ship itself was holding its breath.

  "Battle stations. Prepare to engage." I said it calmly, but there was no hiding the sharpness in my voice.

  The ship responded immediately. The Kongo’s sensors flared to life—more pings, deeper, louder, faster. We were closing the gap, but the tripods didn’t move any faster. As they rose from the water I saw the water rush from their hull. Category 3, easily. Had they reached Gothenburg thousands would be killed. No rush. No hurry. They were testing us. Testing the waters, testing our resolve. They knew the strait, the sound, the current—they knew this battlefield. They knew they could stay underwater once spotted. They'd be killed by our torpedos before being able to reach us and strangle us with their arms. Their recourse would be to face us down and counter our weaponry the best they could with their beams.

  The ship hummed beneath me. I could feel the pressure change when we went active. I could hear the sonars screaming, the clicks and the pings filling every corner of the bridge.

  "Ready all weapons. Get the drones in the water." I snapped, and the crew moved like clockwork. The drone bays opened with a metallic roar. Small, fast underwater drones shot out like darts into the dark depths, zipping across the cold water toward the tripods. But I knew—it wouldn't be enough to stop them.

  They were too big.

  "Deploy the harpoons! Now!" I ordered. The harpoon systems on the Kongō were fast—too fast. The first harpoon shot out like lightning, slamming into the side of the tripod’s hull. The creature flinched—just a little, just enough—and I saw it. A weakness. A gap in the metal. That was all I needed.

  "Fire again!" I shouted.

  The second harpoon hit, and the tripod staggered, just a moment of uncertainty, before it snapped its head toward us. But it wasn’t alone. Those harpoons were designed to cut through naval ships like butter and here they were eating them nearly head on.

  The other two had risen, massive forms with legs like the trunks of trees. They walked on the surface, but they were still connected to the sea—connected to the deep, to the black water where they were at their most dangerous.

  We launched another round of harpoons, but the other two tripods were moving now, flanking us. I could feel the weight of the decision settling in—if they closed the gap, if they surrounded us, we would be nothing. We had to break them apart. We had to split their focus.

  The air was thick with tension, pressing down on us as we braced for the fight. We were close now—three miles out, just far enough to feel the sting of the wind, but not close enough to see the tripods clearly. Not yet. But I could feel them, like shadows beneath the surface of the water. The hum of their approach sent chills through the ship, and I could feel the Kongō’s hull vibrating in time with the rapid beats of my heart.

  The first tripod broke through the surface with a deafening splash. It wasn’t just stepping out—it breached, like a whale rising from the depths. Its massive body surged from the sea, legs still submerged, but high enough above the waterline to dodge the torpedo heading straight for it.

  I froze for a second. It was fast, too fast for its size. The water around it exploded as it broke free, like something ancient and powerful rising from the depths, and I knew—we were dealing with something unlike anything we’d ever faced.

  "Torpedo tubes!" I barked, but I knew it was already too late.

  In that brief moment, just as the torpedoes locked on, the tripod’s long legs seemed to stretch and snap back, dodging the missiles. It was a move I hadn’t expected, calculated, as if it knew what was coming. The torpedo veered off-course by inches.

  "Damn it!" I cursed under my breath. We weren’t just fighting machines anymore. We were fighting something smarter than we ever expected.

  The tripod didn’t stop there. It sank back into the water, disappearing for a moment as it regained its footing. It was trying to disappear into the depths, preparing to strike again from a different angle.

  "Prepare the torpedo tubes. Fire at the second tripod, now!"

  The Kongō shook as the torpedoes fired. The water churned violently as they raced toward their target, but once again, the second tripod reacted with frightening precision. The cannon mounted on its shoulder flared, a bright blue pulse lighting up the water, and in an instant, one of the harpoons launched at the first tripod was blasted clean out of the air.

  The harpoon twisted, spinning out of control, as the energy beam sliced through it like a hot knife through butter.

  "Damn it!" I shouted, watching the pieces of the harpoon fall into the sea. It was like we couldn’t win. Every move we made, they countered. Smarter. Faster.

  The tripod that had dodged our torpedo was now charging at us trying to close the distance to be able to use its lasers, its long legs digging into the water and pulling itself forward with terrifying speed. I could see the silvery sheen of its body, its jagged limbs slicing through the surface like blades.

  It was coming in too fast.

  And then I saw it. The light. The chest of the first tripod began to glow.

  I’d seen this before—on other tripods. The blue pulse deep within their bodies, a flicker of light before their weapon systems activated. And then the laser cannons—deadly, unrelenting, mounted on either side—would fire, unleashing white-hot beams capable of slicing through steel like it was nothing.

  The first tripod’s weapon started charging. The air hummed with energy, and I braced myself for the strike. The chest flickered, the cannon’s muzzle glowing brighter, but then—it faltered. The glow sputtered, dimmed, and the weapon powered down.

  I wasn’t sure if it was malfunctioning or if something had gone wrong, but in that moment, I realized it wasn’t going to fire. It was struggling. Desperate to get its weapon systems back online.

  Another attempt. The cannon hummed again, a desperate noise in the air—but nothing. The energy was failing. The tripod shuddered, shaking violently, as if it couldn’t figure out what was wrong.

  This was our moment.

  "Fire again!" I commanded, and the Kongō’s guns roared to life. The 127mm turrets spun, hurling shells through the zir. The first round slammed into the tripod’s arm, and it staggered back with a screeching, metallic groan.

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  But still, the cannon didn’t fire.

  The second round hit square in the chest. The tripod jerked, its body jerking backward with a long, drawn-out screech as it reeled, trying to stay upright, but the weapon—still, it wouldn’t fire.

  It was struggling now, trying to recover, but we kept pressing. The third tripod, though, was still closing in, its massive legs churning the water as it advanced toward Gothenburg.

  "Launch the drones! Full speed ahead!" I shouted, and the underwater drones shot forward, speeding toward the first tripod. The thing shrieked again, its limbs twitching and spasming, but it couldn’t react fast enough. It couldn’t fire. Its weapon systems were useless.

  "Fire the harpoons! Now!" I barked.

  The harpoons shot out, hitting their mark. The first tripod staggrred, the harpoons embedding deep into its legs, securing it to the seabed. It fought back, its movements jerky and erratic as it struggled to break free.

  And then—just as we thought we had it—that second tripod, the one we hadn’t finished off, opened its chest.

  The blue light flared.

  I saw the pulse first—the bright, shimmering light from its weapon system as it charged. Before I could even give the order to retreat, the beam shot out like a white-hot lance, slashing through the water with deadly accuracy.

  It hit the harpoon.

  The harpoon disintegrated mid-flight, torn apart by the laser's power. The beam pulsed again, illuminating the dark depths with its unnatural light, and the tripod, relentless as ever, moved closer.

  The first tripod, still struggling, was on the ropes. But we had to finish this—before we lost everything.

  The sea was a swirling mass of chaos as the tripods closed in, their giant legs cutting through the water with terrifying force. The first tripod was staggering, its body jerking with every failed attempt to activate its weapons, while the second one was charging forward, eager to finish what the first couldn’t.

  We have to keep them off balance, I thought. We can’t let them regain their footing.

  My mind was racing—there had to be something we could do to keep them from closing the distance. To give our crew enough time to finish the job. The underwater drones were making progress, but we needed more than that.

  "Fire shells at the lead tripod! Keep it staggered!" I barked to the gunnery officer, my voice barely audible over the roar of the waves and the screeching of the tripods.

  The Kongō’s 127mm turrets swung into position. I watched as the crew operated the controls with precision, bringing the weapons to bear. We had to keep the tripods moving. We couldn’t give them the chance to set their laser cannons back up, to regain their advantage. We needed to disrupt them. Throw them off their rhythm.

  The first round fired, and the shell exploded on impact with the first tripod’s left leg. The tripod lurched—its long limb buckling, jerking sideways. It staggered again, a screech of protest echoing from its frame. The cannon still didn’t fire, and I could see the momentary weakness.

  "Fire again!" I ordered, and the second round slammed into the tripod’s arm. This time, it bent backward as the shell ripped through its plating. The tripod shook violently, the sound of its joints grinding under pressure filling the air.

  But it wasn’t enough. The tripod was still standing. Still trying to recover, still preparing to fight back.

  "Fire again!" I shouted, urgency creeping into my voice. The Kongō’s guns thundered once more. The third round hit the same leg again, pushing the tripod backward, but now I saw something else. The tripod’s movements were slowing, its motions becoming more unpredictable. It was beginning to lose control.

  The second tripod, however, was still closing in. It wasn’t as damaged yet. It wasn’t staggering—at least not as much as the first. But we had a plan now. We needed to keep them moving, make them think we were everywhere at once.

  "Fire at the second tripod! Keep it occupied!" I yelled. The Kongō’s guns spun again, lobbing shells at the second tripod’s legs. The shells hit the machine with brutal force, and the second tripod reeled backward as if surprised. But it didn't retreat, not yet. Instead, it pressed forward, trying to push through the damage.

  It had no countermeasures.

  The light in the chest of the first tripod flickered again—its weapon still down. It was struggling, weak, but now it couldn’t fire. Not at us. Not while it was being battered with our shells.

  "Harpoons, fire now!" I ordered. The crew had already prepared them, and the harpoons shot out with lethal precision.

  This time, there was no laser to intercept them.

  The first harpoon hit the first tripod, sinking deep into its leg, the steel tether pulling it back toward the ocean floor. There was no laser. No counterattack. The tripod wasn’t able to fight back.

  I could see it shaking, its movements growing sluggish as the harpoon pulled it down.

  "Lock it down! Fire the second harpoon!" I commanded, watching the second harpoon scream through the water. The impact was solid—straight through the middle of the tripod’s torso, embedding deep into its internal mechanisms.

  The tripod tried to move. Tried to lunge forward, but the harpoons had pinned it down.

  I could hear the creaking of its joints, the mechanical groans echoing through the water, but it was over for the first tripod. Its weapon systems were offline. Its limbs were restricted. It was losing its footing completely.

  "Keep the pressure on the second tripod!" I ordered. The Kongō fired again, its guns shaking the ship with each shot. The second tripod took the hits, its right leg buckling under the force. It tried to right itself, but I could see the hesitation, the uncertainty creeping into its movements.

  "Fire the harpoons! Target the legs!" I shouted.

  The harpoons fired again—this time, toward the second tripod, keeping it from gaining ground. The harpoons sank deep into the legs, locking it in place.

  It was trapped.

  The second tripod’s legs were shaking, its movements frantic as it realized it couldn’t advance. The lasers were still down—failing to charge, unable to respond. Without the ability to fire, the tripod was losing the battle. All it had was brute force.

  But we were outsmarting it.

  "Final shot!" I barked, and the crew fired the last of the heavy torpedoes, their sharp, deadly forms cutting through the water toward the second tripod’s base.

  The torpedo struck with a shattering impact, blasting through the weak points of its legs. The second tripod faltered, its arms flailing as it lost control of its stance. The explosion reverberated through the water, and for a moment, I thought it was finished.

  But then—it fell.

  The massive body of the second tripod crumpled as it collapsed onto the seabed, its limbs still twitching as its systems shut down. The machine was no longer a threat.

  The first tripod—still tethered by our harpoons—continued to fight, but its movements were erratic. Slow. It couldn’t push forward. It couldn’t recover.

  And we finished it. A final barrage from the Kongō’s guns blasted into its chest, and with that, the first tripod fell—shuddering, defeated.

  We had done it.

  Gone was the reserved calmness we Japanese are known for. I high-fived my XO with both hands before pulling him into an embrace. The noise shifted from the roar of cannon fire and missiles launching from their pods to the sound of cheers echoing through every compartment.

  "Con, Sonar, tripod, 300 meters, starboard, and rising!" the radar operator yelled, snapping everyone back to attention.

  We had walked right into a trap. The tripods, knowing they couldn’t survive underwater for long, would hide at the bottom of the sea—tucked away in crevices or any large formation that could conceal their massive frames. To sonar, they’d appear as nothing more than a rock, a false reading. They would bury themselves in the depths and wait. And that was what terrified us the most. We were about to face our worst fear.

  The ship seemed to hold its breath. The radar operator’s warning still rang in my ears, but the real sound was the hiss of the bulkhead doors locking shut, sealing off the outer decks. The clang of steel sliding into place echoed through the Kongō as the crew scrambled, retreating deeper into the heart of the ship. The windows, reinforced with thick metal shutters, slammed shut with a loud clang, and the heavy protective covers slid into place, trying to fortify the ship against whatever was coming.

  Sailors ran down the hallways, their faces tense but determined, grabbing whatever weapons they could. Some went for their MP5's, but a few of the more seasoned men grabbed anything that could be used as a weapon. Axes, crowbars, even fire extinguishers.

  I moved swiftly, my boots pounding against the steel floors, giving orders as I went. The officers were coordinating the retreat, ushering sailors into secure areas, readying them for whatever would come next. I reached the comms station and keyed in the code word.

  "Kraken distress, Kraken distress." My voice was steady, but the weight of the situation hung heavy in the air. The message was sent, everyone in the airwaves stopped talking as they all knew our situation was as dire as it could be. It meant we were surrounded, that the tripod was closing in, and that soon its arms like iron claws would reach for us, trying to strangle the ship like an old painting of Kraken taking down a Viking ship. We were in danger of being crusged beneath its weight. Stuck in its embrace as it would try to breach inside the ship with its arms.

  "Breach for impact!" I yelled, but it was too late.

  The tripod struck with terrifying force. The ship lurched violently, and I was thrown to the floor, the air knocked out of my lungs. It felt like the Kongō had been hit by a brick wall. The ship tilted, like it was losing its footing, spinning out of control. My heart raced. The screeching sound of metal being crushed echoed through the hull.

  I didn’t waste a second. My fingers slammed down on the controls. The rotors. They were our only chance until help arrived. I gritted my teeth, praying one of those massive limbs would catch one of the spinning blades. If we were lucky, maybe it would hurt the thing—slow it down, at least.

  I glanced around. The bridge was empty now—everyone had already retreated, following orders, making their way to the deeper, more secure parts of the ship. I was alone here now, but I couldn’t stay. I turned and rushed down the corridor, my boots pounding the metal floor.

  Right as I rounded the corner, I felt it—a deep, bone-shaking impact, the weight of something massive slamming above us. The ship shuddered again, and this time, the tremor was far worse.

  Before I could even react, the radar screens in front of me flickered and went black, one by one. A horrible grinding noise echoed as the tripod’s arms tore into our systems, smashing radar arrays, destroying communication links. All the vital tools we relied on to track their movements, gone in an instant. The quiet hum of the ship’s systems turned into eerie silence.

  It was happening. The ship was being taken apart piece by piece.

  The door to the bridge exploded inward with a deafening crash. Metal splintered and twisted, the sound of it tearing apart echoing through the small space. The shockwave of the impact threw me back against the console, and I barely had time to brace myself before the door was flung across the room with the force of a freight train.

  Then, something even worse followed.

  An arm—no, a limb—the size of a sofa, massive and covered in thick, dark plating, burst through the opening, pushing the remains of the door aside like it was paper. It was huge. The fingers alone were thicker than any of the ship’s bulkheads, and each joint in its limb seemed to bend with horrifying speed and precision. The appendage snaked into the bridge, tearing through everything in its path with a mechanical screech. Its claws reached forward, the massive fingers curling toward us, and I knew what was coming.

  It was trying to grab us. Anything within reach. Anything worth the trouble. It couldn’t see us, not in the way we could see it, but that didn’t matter. It didn’t need sight to cause damage. The arm flailed wildly, smashing through anything that got in its way, its claws scraping across metal with a horrifying screech. I could barely keep my footing, pinned between two rows of consoles, as I tried to avoid its sweeping motions.

  I was slashing around like a madman, adrenaline coursing through me, every instinct telling me to move, to do something, anyrthing. But the arm was everywhere. It was huge. Every inch of the bridge seemed to be at risk, the mechanical monster relentlessly pushing deeper inside.

  I couldn’t see outside. I couldn’t hear anything but the chaos around me—metal bending, the deep groans of the ship struggling to stay intact—but the commotion was undeniable. The arm was right between me and the door leading down into the belly of the ship. If it reached that door, there’d be no escape. It was too big. Too strong.

  And there it was, trapped. The massive limb wedged itself between two consoles, struggling to find room to extend further. It wasn't quite in my direction, but it didn’t need to be.

  Then, my XO appeared in the doorway, standing in the frame. His eyes locked onto mine for a brief, silent moment—a shared understanding of how bad things had gotten. We didn’t need words. We knew what we were facing.

  I saw it then. The arm, still stuck between the consoles, flexed and pushed—not toward me, but toward the opposite side of the bridge. It was searching, testing the limits of its reach. And then, with a horrible, mechanical whine, it felt the door on the opposite side—the door leading outside.

  It wasn’t just trying to grab anything anymore. Now, it was pushing, testing the structure, trying to find any way it could break through, any weak point in the ship that it could exploit.

  The arm stretched further in, pushing past the bridge, its claws scraping the steel walls with an unsettling sound. I could feel the ship groaning beneath the force.

  The arm shifted, and with an awful groan, the door opposite me—the one leading outside—was ripped open. It was like a heavy storm breaking through a fragile wall. The steel frame bent and twisted as the massive limb pushed forward with unimaginable force, shattering the door into pieces. I could hear the screech of metal, the loud crack as the reinforced door was torn from its hinges like it was nothing.

  The tripod’s arm surged forward, its massive, clawed fingers reaching beyond the threshold, slipping out into the open air. For a moment, I thought it might drag the whole ship apart. I could feel the tremor through the deck as the arm extended further, stretching like a monstrous spider’s limb. It pushed itself further outside, trying to extend as far as possible—its claws scraping against the steel of the ship, the very bones of the Kongō groaning in protest.

  But then—it got stuck.

  The arm halted, its massive bulk wedged halfway through the breach, tangled in the wreckage of the doorframe and debris. It was trapped, its claws scraping uselessly against the ship’s exterior, unable to get free. For a moment, it shuddered, like the machine was trying to recalibrate, but it couldn’t move any further. It was stuck.

  Me and my XO shared a look. He directly understood what I meant, he grabbed an axe from the sailor standing scared behind him, similar to the one he was holding. He lobbed it my way, over the arm and I grabbed it mid air as he entered the room opposite side of the arm. I made my way to the door it had entered from waited a few seconds for him to catch up before we simply nodded. No more missiles the price of a house, no more cannon shells that cost as much as my son's gaming computer.

  I swung my axe up, feeling the weight of it in my hands as it cut through the air. The steel bit into the massive arm with a resounding thunk, the sharp edge sinking deep into the metal. The limb shuddered slightly, but there was no reaction—no immediate response. It didn’t feel the strike. It didn’t know it was wounded.

  Just as my axe began its descent again, my XO swung his own, timing it perfectly. His axe landed in the exact same spot I had struck—again and again, the rhythm between us flawless. We moved in perfect harmony, our actions synchronized as if we had been practicing this for years. The two axes struck together, cutting into the thick plating, working with relentless precision.

  But the tripod’s arm didn’t register any of it. It had no pain sensors, no nervous system to react to our blows. It wouldn’t know it was damaged until it couldn’t control the arm any longer.

  The sound of our axes hitting the metal was deafening, but there was no cry of pain, no retreat. The arm, still trapped and now heavily damaged, continued its assault, unknowing of the damage being done to it. But soon, I could see the change—its movements began to falter. The precision was gone, the arm trembling slightly as it tried to move. It was losing control.

  We weren’t alone for long. Slowly, more sailors trickled in, joining us with fierce determination, their faces grim but resolute. They took over where we were exhausted, each swing of the axe cutting into the colossal limb, a symbol of defiance against the machine’s grip on our ship. I could see the fire in their eyes—the same fire that had kept me going when the weight of it all seemed too much to bear.

  For five long minutes, we hacked away at the arm, sweat pouring down our faces, our muscles burning with every strike. The ship around us creaked and groaned as the tripods outside continued their relentless assault, their arms crashing against the hull, trying to tear us apart. But inside, we held our ground.

  The moment felt like it would never end—every swing, every strike, every beat of the clock felt like an eternity. We were surviving, but just barely. The ship was shaking, the sound of tearing metal reverberating through the walls, and yet, the arm was starting to lose its strength.

  Then, it happened. The arm went limp. One last, shuddering movement, and it stopped.

  I barely had time to catch my breath before I realized something was terribly wrong. My heart was still racing, my body drenched in sweat, and then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it.

  To my right—the place where the second door had been breached, where the arm had gotten stuck—I saw it. Past the dead arm, the broken entrance, there it was. The red eye of the tripod, glowing like a malevolent LED screen, staring right through the chaos. It wasn’t an eye at all, really—more like an artificial, eerie light flickering in the dark. But I knew. I knew the game was up.

  I was about to yell to my men to retreat, to get back deep into the ship when it hit.

  The entire ship shuddered violently, and before I could even react, I was slammed against one of the consoles. My face hit hard, pain exploding through my skull. I didn’t see what caused it, only that everything around me went black.

  There was no warning. No sound of engines, no distant roar of missiles. It wasn’t until later—when I finally regained consciousness—that I understood what had happened.

  A laser-guided bomb—direct hit. It was like a force of nature, a strike so precise and so powerful that it felt like the entire ship was torn apart in an instant. The tripod’s red eye flickered for the last time, its massive form buckling under the impact. The explosion was so intense it blasted my senses out, knocking me out cold before I could comprehend the full scale of it.

  When I woke, everything was dark. The ship was still shaking from the blast. But in the distance, I saw it—my XO standing there, looking out the shattered bridge window. The tripod was gone, its hulking frame reduced to twisted metal and fire. The whole thing had been torn to pieces. The moment of terror, the endless fight… it was over.

  It took two days for the towboats to drag us back to Norway. The ship’s power was gone—destroyed in the chaos of the battle. So we spent those two days freezing. No lights, no heat. Just the sound of the waves and the creaking of the ship as it limped home, blind and broken. We were still vulnerable, so we had other ships escorting us the whole way, keeping watch in case the tripods or something worse decided to finish us off.

  Every ship that passed by, the sailors couldn’t help but come out on deck. They looked at us, at the wreck that was once the Kongō. Some of them shook their heads. It wasn’t pity, though—more like disbelief that we were still floating, still alive. We weren’t much more than a skeleton of a ship, but we were still here.

  By some miracle, I hadn’t lost a single sailor. I don’t know how. No one ever explained it to me. I just remember the days after, thinking that I should’ve been able to keep more of my crew alive, but I was lucky.

  Then came the aftermath. The footage from the bridge’s security cameras—of me and my XO swinging those axes, trying to fight off that godforsaken arm—went public. It was shared across the world. The whole world saw it. I never thought I’d be part of something like that. Medals. Parades, TV interviews. People calling us heroes. It felt strange, almost unreal. Like something that belonged in a different time, a different world.

  The glory, the recognition—it was nice for a moment. But when they gave me the new ship, when I was assigned my new post even when the war was over and I went back home something in me cracked. I thought I could move on. I thought I’d finally let the war go.

  But when I lie next to my wife at night, the images still come back. That red eye, staring at us like we were nothing. Like we were ants. And every time I close my eyes, it’s like I’m back there, standing in the wreckage, the cold, the pain, the fear. It was supposed to be over, but in some ways, it never really left. Not for me.

  I’ll never forget that damn eye. Never.