After the debriefing on the Human Torch's death, Nick Fury boarded a maglev transport jet, which slowly ascended from the helicarrier. The carrier's location was no longer over Sokovia—it now hovered above the Pacific coastline near the continental United States.
Below, the ocean roared with the might of the largest naval deployment in human history—three full U.S. carrier strike groups, assembled in preparation for the upcoming Battle of New York.
The combined fleet was a display of overwhelming military power:
Three Nimitz-class nuclear aircraft carriers, six Ticonderoga-class cruisers, eight Arleigh Burke-class guided missile destroyers, eight Sacramento-class fast combat support ships, and five Los Angeles-class nuclear submarines lurking beneath the waves. Accompanying them were dozens of transport and landing vessels, pushing the total to over fifty modern warships.
This was not a military operation—it was a full-scale declaration of survival.
The United States had mobilized seven infantry divisions, three armored brigades, and two special operations regiments—over 100,000 elite troops. There wasn't a single reservist among them; every man and woman was an active-duty combatant, drawn from the most disciplined and battle-hardened units in the country. Under normal circumstances, such a deployment would have been impossible—this was a wartime mobilization at its absolute limit.
This was America's final hand. Victory—or annihilation.
From above, the sea was a tapestry of steel and firepower. The three 100,000-ton carriers were enormous even on the vast blue expanse of the Pacific, surrounded by rings of escort vessels—cruisers, destroyers, and submarines gliding in silent formation. Behind them sailed the heavy transports and amphibious landing ships, some converted from civilian vessels to accommodate the massive troop numbers.
Including air and naval personnel, the total force numbered over 170,000 soldiers—a staggering amount for a campaign targeting a single city. And every one of them was among the finest America had to offer: veterans armed with cutting-edge weaponry, trained to fight wars no ordinary army could survive. Against any human nation, this fleet alone could have ended the war in a single strike.
The maglev jet glided past a squadron of MH-60 Seahawk helicopters, swooping low over carrier decks packed with rows of F/A-18 Super Hornets. Missiles gleamed under the sunlight on the backs of destroyers, while railguns and artillery turrets stood ready to unleash devastation. Finally, the jet descended onto the deck of a San Antonio-class amphibious transport dock, its metal ramp lowering with a hiss.
Waiting on the deck were Hawkeye and a decorated American general, accompanied by a lineup of heroes: War Machine, Falcon, Black Panther, and Ant-Man. The American flag whipped in the ocean wind behind them.
Nick stepped forward and extended his hand. "Good morning, General Wilde. I'm glad to see the fleet has assembled without delay."
The general gave a weary smile. "Not as smoothly as you think, Director Fury. Moving this many active troops in under ten days nearly broke the chain of command. But now that we're here, perhaps you'll finally tell me—who exactly are we fighting? Because short of an alien invasion, I can't imagine any enemy on Earth that could challenge this force."
Fury's expression was grave. "We're facing HYDRA's zombie army, General. Don't underestimate them. Our last encounters confirmed HYDRA's access to off-world technology. Even now, our satellites can't penetrate the black haze over New York. Whatever's happening there… won't be simple."
The general chuckled dismissively. "You're kidding me. Zombies? With the amount of nuclear firepower here, we could wipe Russia off the map ten times over. Don't worry, Director—we'll crush HYDRA and clean up your mess in a day."
Fury said nothing. He had seen arrogance like this before—from men who thought conventional firepower could stop gods. He merely gave a polite nod, exchanged a few more formalities, and left the general behind.
He and Hawkeye entered the inner deck of the transport vessel, where Fury turned to discuss the superhero deployment.
"Report," he ordered.
Hawkeye nodded. "The Fantastic Four, X-Men, and other hero teams have agreed to participate. Independent operatives like Ghost Rider, Blade, and Power Man have also joined the operation. They're currently stationed aboard another San Antonio-class vessel, standing by as our reserve strike force—per your instructions."
"Good," Fury replied. "Let's hope we don't need them. But it's always wise to have a contingency."
As they continued walking through the steel corridors, another figure approached from the far end—a short man in a tailored suit, followed by several armored sentinels towering behind him.
"Director Fury," the man greeted warmly, extending a small hand. "Bolivar Trask. A pleasure to be invited to this operation."
Trask, the founder of Trask Industries, stood barely fifteen centimeters tall due to his rare dwarfism—but his genius loomed large. His technological empire had built some of the most advanced war machines humanity had ever known.
Fury shook his hand respectfully. "Mr. Trask, we appreciate your cooperation. Your Sentinel units are the ideal counter to our current enemy. We'll be counting on your support."
Behind Trask stood a line of Mark I Sentinels—five meters tall, humanoid machines of war. Each one carried a rotary Gatling gun in its left arm, a rocket launcher in its right, and a compact jet propulsion unit mounted on its chest. Their glowing yellow eyes flickered as their systems synced in perfect formation.
These were early-generation Sentinels—not yet the mutant-absorbing nightmares of the future, but formidable autonomous combat robots nonetheless. Against a zombie horde, they were ideal—machines immune to infection, capable of sustained fire without fatigue or fear.
"I've brought every Sentinel unit built since 1970," Trask said proudly, his small stature overshadowed by the mechanical giants looming behind him. "Never thought I'd see the day when they'd be used against zombies instead of mutants. Still, I hope they serve you well. You have full command authority, Director Fury."
The tiny inventor gave a crisp, if somewhat awkward, salute.
Behind him, however, the Sentinels moved in perfect synchronization—raising their heavy arms in flawless military precision.
The sight of the towering machines saluting under the American flag was both awe-inspiring and ominous.
For the first time in history, humanity's greatest army, its mightiest heroes, and its deadliest machines were united under one cause—against a threat born not of nature, but of their own creation.
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T/N:
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