Thirteen Thunderhawk transports rose from the platform in sequence, vector engines overlapping into a single sustained roar that flattened the grass at the platform's edge and sent a ripple across the nearest puddles. The fuselages had been repainted in light blue, a precaution against visual identification at altitude, and within two minutes of lift-off the entire formation had climbed into the thin cloud layer and disappeared.
David's aircraft led. The others fell into formation behind it with the practised ease of a unit that had done this enough times to have stopped thinking about it.
Thirteen was the full count of available air assets. Natasha had taken one Thunderhawk out earlier. Doom retained a Valkyrie for his own operational flexibility in Sokovia. The remaining Thunderhawk production lines on Second Son Island were still cycling through their assembly and debugging sequences, not ready. What they had was what they had.
Three of the thirteen carried the firestorm catalyst canisters, secured in their cargo bays and triple-checked before departure. The remaining aircraft were packed with the Intelligent Control Corps: one hundred and fifty Scyllax Guardian-automata armed past any reasonable definition of adequately, and fifty servo-robots carrying lasguns and melta bombs. Their role came after the fire. Once the catalyst had done its work and the island had finished burning, the Corps would go in and account for whatever the flames had left behind.
Nolan, Tyberos, Tony, and Thor filled the forward seats of David's Thunderhawk. The four of them represented the part of the plan that required something a firestorm catalyst could not provide: judgment, presence, and the ability to handle whatever the Hive's alien technology produced that defied standard projections.
The cabin was dim and the engine noise made conversation require effort, so nobody made much.
Tony had his faceplate retracted, legs crossed, issuing occasional terse instructions through his earpiece to Jarvis, keeping the Iron Legion's formation clean at the rear of the column. His eyes were on his own internal display more than on the people around him, but his attention was clearly split, the way it always was when he was managing multiple things at once.
Thor sat with his eyes closed, both hands loose on his thighs, Mjolnir resting on the seat beside him. He had buckled the hammer in with a seatbelt, the narrow strap running across the handle, and in the low light the end of it swayed with the aircraft's movement like something impatient. His breathing was long and even. Not sleep, exactly. Preparation.
Tyberos had not moved since they left the platform. The Terminator armour made him a monolith in the corner of the cabin, every surface sealed, no visible indication of what was happening inside it. He might have been meditating. He might have been reviewing tactical projections. The solid black eyepieces gave no information either way.
Nolan checked the Heart of the Furnace, ran his thumb across the housing, and returned it to his hip. He checked the Warscythe, watching the green light move along the blade edge, then let his gaze settle on nothing in particular. He folded his arms across his chest, closed his eyes, and let the ganglia in his brain begin their rotation, the partial rest that was the closest his altered physiology came to sleep.
The bump hit without warning.
The Thunderhawk lurched hard to one side, a full-body jolt that translated through the seat frames into every occupant simultaneously. Nolan's eyes opened before the motion had finished resolving, combat instinct pulling him back to full alertness in a fraction of a second.
"David." His voice was flat and immediate. "Report. Have we reached the target area? Are we taking anti-aircraft fire?"
"Apologies, my lord." David's voice came back through the cabin speakers without urgency, which was itself information. "A large-scale storm system has developed over this section of the Pacific. It was not forecast in our planning data. We are currently forty nautical miles from Hydra Island, and based on the atmospheric readings, the conditions at the island itself are unlikely to be significantly better."
Nolan took that in. Around him the cabin absorbed another shudder, rain beginning to sound against the outer hull.
Thor's eyes had opened the moment David started speaking. One hand was already resting on Mjolnir.
Tony stepped forward from his seat, ducking slightly for the overhead clearance, and positioned himself in front of Thor.
"Thor. You're the God of Thunder. Can you do something about this?"
Thor looked at him with the expression of someone who had answered this question before and had not enjoyed answering it.
"I am the God of Thunder," he said. "Not the God of Storms. Not the God of Rain. These are different offices." He paused. "A storm of this scale, dispersing it entirely, that would take my father. Odin could manage it without effort. I cannot." Another pause, and something shifted in his expression, a small opening of honesty. "What I can tell you is that my lightning abilities operate at higher output in severe weather conditions. There is a benefit, if not the one you were hoping for."
Tony absorbed this, then turned back toward the cabin.
Nolan had already risen from his seat. His hand was around the Warscythe's handle and the green light along the blade had steadied.
"We continue." The tone carried no particular drama, simply the weight of a decision already made. He looked at Tony. "What I want to know is whether this weather affects the catalyst."
Tony turned fully toward him. "With a single canister, there would be meaningful risk. Dispersal patterns depend on atmospheric conditions, and a storm like this would compromise the coverage." He held eye contact for a moment. "But we produced three canisters, with higher material purity than the previous batch and a full reaction cycle. The concentration is sufficient to compensate. I can guarantee the chemistry holds." The tone was level and precise. "There will be no unpredictable failures."
Nolan held his gaze for a moment, then nodded once.
"Then here is your task." He kept the Warscythe in hand and looked at Tony steadily. "Take the Iron Legion and one canister. Approach the island from a different vector than the main formation. Find your drop point and release it on schedule. If something goes wrong with the transport, improvise. But the canister reaches the island. That is the only fixed requirement. Understood?"
"Understood," Tony said.
The belly door opened and the storm came in.
Rain in sheets, driven horizontal by the wind, hit the interior of the cabin hard enough to sting even through armour. The dark ocean below was barely visible, just the suggestion of moving black water under a sky that had closed completely.
Tony stepped to the edge without hesitation. He dropped.
The free-fall lasted less than two seconds before his thrusters ignited, the light cutting briefly through the rain, and then he was across to the adjacent Thunderhawk whose cargo door had opened on cue. Seconds later the Iron Legion suits followed in sequence, Jarvis-directed, each one crossing the gap with its own thruster burst. They formed up around the catalyst canister's transport aircraft and angled away into the storm, disappearing inside forty seconds.
Nolan stood at the open door a moment longer.
The rain hit his helmet and ran down the ceramite in streams. Below, the ocean moved in the way oceans move in storms, not chaotic exactly, but vast and indifferent in a way that had no interest in the small metal things flying above it.
He found himself leaning into the sight, pulling at something in the back of his mind. The sensation was specific. Not fear of the water. Something more like recognition, the part of him that had absorbed experiences that were real and not real simultaneously, casting a comparison it could not quite complete. The storm seas above Fenris. The way the water there moved differently, heavier, carrying things in it that the water here did not.
He looked at the Pacific below and caught himself wondering whether that was actually true.
David closed the belly door. The wind cut off. The cabin was suddenly quiet again by comparison.
Nolan sat back down. He was still thinking about the ocean.
Tyberos was watching him. Thor was watching him. He noticed both and set the thought aside deliberately, filing it somewhere to examine later.
"My lord." David's voice returned to the speakers. "We are approaching the fifteen-nautical-mile perimeter around Hydra Island. The formation is beginning its altitude climb. If we enter anti-aircraft range ahead of the planned timeline, the flight will become irregular. My only advice is to grip the nearest handhold and maintain contact until further notice."
Nolan closed his eyes again, this time not for rest.
The battle state arrived the way it always did, not gradually but completely, dropping into place like a switch thrown. The ocean and its echoes were gone. There was only the island, forty nautical miles ahead, and what waited on it.
He was ready.