I Was Summoned as the Weakest Hero, But I Awakened a Military System

The operations floor of the underground bunker was filled with the soft clatter of keyboards and low radio chatter.

On the main display, the black smoke inside Port Solis continued to spread. It billowed upward, hitting the ceiling of the golden dome and rolling against the curve like trapped fog. The Radiant Sun had completely vanished beneath the oily surface, leaving behind only floating crates, splintered spars, and patches of burning pitch. The second galleon was burned down to the waterline, its blackened ribs sticking out of the water like the skeleton of a dead whale.

John stood by the central railing, watching the aftermath with a steady gaze.

”Commander,” the intelligence chief said, stepping up to the lower tier of the command pit. ”Drone feeds confirm secondary damage to three surrounding caravels. Dock infrastructure at Pier Two is compromised. However, seventy-five major combatants remain intact along the eastern and southern piers.”

”And the barrier?” John asked.

”Still fully energized, sir,” the officer replied, glancing at his console. ”The upper dome never flickered. Drone telemetry shows zero disruption along the magical grid above sea level. Goddess Viona probably hasn’t even realized how the strike happened yet.”

”She thinks from the sky because she sits in the clouds,” John said plainly. ”That’s her blind spot.”

He turned away from the big screen and looked at the naval operations staff.

”We are not going to waste any more Tomahawks on that ceiling,” John declared, his voice cutting clearly through the hum of the computers. ”We’re locking in this doctrine. Subsurface kinetic strikes only. If the front door is made of unbreakable glass, we’ll keep kicking through the basement floor.”

The naval liaison officer stood up. ”Sir, if we commit to an all-torpedo strategy, our delivery options are clear: maritime patrol aircraft, ship-launched tubes, and fast-attack submarines. But we need a continuous rotation to clear out eighty ships before they attempt a coordinated breakout.”

”Then let’s build the rotation,” John said. ”Get Carrier Strike Group on the secure horn.”

A technician flipped a series of toggles on the communications console. A steady beep echoed through the bunker’s speakers, followed by the deep voice of Rear Admiral Donovan aboard the aircraft carrier USS Gerald R. Ford.

”Eagle Actual, this is Donovan,” the admiral said. ”We saw the drone feed. Clean keel-break on target Alpha. That was a textbook drop by Trident Seven.”

”The concept is proven, Admiral,” John said into his mic. ”The Aegis barrier does not penetrate the seabed channel. We are shifting primary offensive operations to subsurface torpedo interdiction. I want an attrition corridor established across the mouth of Port Solis.”

”Understood, Supreme Commander,” Donovan replied without hesitation. ”We have the assets. The carrier air wing has two squadrons of MH-60R Seahawk helicopters equipped with dipping sonar and Mark 54 lightweight torpedoes. Our escort cruisers and destroyers have their surface vessel torpedo tubes hot, and the USS Virginia is already on patrol along the outer shelf.”

”How fast can you cycle the birds?” John asked.

”We can put a pair of Seahawks over the outer shelf every forty-five minutes,” Donovan answered. ”They can carry two Mark 54s each. We also have two more P-3C Orions from the land base ready to stage out of the northern field with full internal bays. That gives us eight torpedoes per heavy wave.”

”Do it,” John ordered. ”Target their largest hulls first. Flagships, troop transports, and any vessel attempting to hoist sails or weigh anchor. I don’t want a single wooden keel making it out of that breakwater alive.”

”Wilco, Eagle Actual. Operation Bottom Feeder is active. Donovan out.”

The line clicked off.

Down in the pit, technicians immediately went to work. Digital maps lit up with flight routes, ingress waypoints, and weapon drop zones. Blue vector lines stretched from the carrier group out in the deep ocean, converging on a small red circle marked Channel Alpha—the narrow opening between the ancient stone breakwaters of Port Solis.

John leaned over the railing, looking down at his tactical planners. ”What about the imperial dragon riders? In the previous engagement, they scrambled wyverns when they saw our planes.”

”We’ve analyzed their flight envelopes, sir,” an Air Force captain answered. ”The wyverns have an operational ceiling of roughly eight thousand feet and a maximum level-flight speed of sixty knots. Our Seahawks can ingress at fifty feet above the deck at one hundred thirty knots. Even if the riders spot the helicopters, they can’t dive fast enough to intercept them before weapons release. Furthermore, each Seahawk is armed with door-mounted M240 machine guns for close-in defense if a flying lizard gets curious.”

”Keep our F/A-18s on combat air patrol at twenty thousand feet just outside the barrier line,” John instructed. ”If any dragon clears the dome to chase our helos, swat them with AIM-9 Sidewinders.”

”Yes, sir.”

John stepped down into the operations pit, stopping behind the acoustic console. The young technician sitting there had two screens active—one tracking the underwater noise floor, the other showing the water currents around the imperial port.

”Show me the bathymetry again,” John said.

The tech tapped a key. The screen displayed the blue underwater contours of the harbor mouth.

”Right here, Supreme Commander,” the technician explained, tracing a finger along a dark blue trough. ”The natural tidal surge pulls water into the harbor for six hours, then pushes it back out for six hours. Right now, the tide is running in. When our aircraft drop the torpedoes outside the breakwater, the current actually assists the weapon’s propulsion. It drags the acoustic noise of the screws into the bay, which confuses any primitive listening devices or water-mages they might have.”

”And the depth?”

”Thirty-five feet at the shallowest point along the stone reef, dropping to one hundred twenty feet in the center trench,” the tech said. ”The Mark 54 draws less than two feet of water when swimming flat. As long as our pilots hit the designated drop basket within two miles of the entrance, the torpedoes will ride the trench straight into the basin.”

”Good,” John said. ”Send the targeting data directly to the incoming flights. Let’s make sure the second wave hits before they finish putting out the fires.”

Thirty miles off the imperial coast, low over the gray ocean swells, two MH-60R Seahawk helicopters flew in loose formation.

Their twin turboshaft engines whined steadily against the ocean wind. The gray fuselages hovered barely seventy feet above the whitecaps, keeping well beneath the horizon to avoid the high stone watchtowers of the imperial fortress. On the stub wings of each helicopter hung two sleek, olive-drab Mark 54 torpedoes.

Inside the lead helicopter, callsign Warlord Two-One, the pilot adjusted his cyclic stick with tiny, practiced movements.

”Warlord Two-One to Two-Two,” the pilot said over the secure tactical net. ”Check in.”

”Two-Two is loud and clear,” the wingman responded. ”Master arm is on. Weapons hot on stations one and two.”

”Tactical control from Ford says the gap is clear,” the lead pilot continued. ”Targeting two heavy caravels anchored near the inner sea-gate. We drop at waypoint Charlie, three miles out from the breakwater, then break south and head home. Keep it low and fast.”

”Copy that, Lead. Let’s send them to the bottom.”

Through the cockpit glass, the coastline appeared as a dark smudge against the clouds. Above it, like a shimmering wall of yellow glass, the Aegis of the Sun glowed faintly in the overcast sky. Inside that glowing dome, a thick pillar of black smoke was still rising from the docks, marking the graves of the two galleons destroyed an hour earlier.

”Approaching drop basket,” the copilot announced, checking the GPS readout. ”Range three point two miles. Altitude sixty-five feet. Airspeed ninety knots.”

”Arm release circuits,” the pilot ordered.

”Circuits armed. Green lights on racks one and two.”

”Three... two... one... pickle!”

The copilot pressed the weapon release button on the center console.

Underneath the stub wings of both helicopters, the heavy metal latches snapped open. Four Mark 54 torpedoes dropped cleanly into the ocean spray.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

Four small stabilization parachutes blossomed in the air behind the falling weapons. The chutes caught the rotor wash, pointing the blunt nose cones downward toward the dark green water.

Four distinct splashes erupted across the waves.

The parachutes detached instantly upon impact, floating on the surface like discarded silk handkerchiefs. Beneath the waves, the torpedoes’ thermal batteries flooded with saltwater, sparking the electric drive motors into action. Their counter-rotating propellers spun up with an angry, mechanical hum.

”Four weapons away, clean separation!” the copilot reported.

”Warlord flight, breaking hard right,” the lead pilot said, pulling the helicopter into a tight bank over the water. ”Heading one-eight-zero. Let’s clear the area.”

The two helicopters turned south, their rotors beating the ocean air as they skimmed low over the water, vanishing into the gray sea mist before the watchtowers at Port Solis even raised an alarm horn.