Yesterday had been a good day. Hell, probably the best day they'd had since stepping through the gateway.

It was almost like a vacation. While Henry and Sera had been enjoying lunch and walking around the city, the rest of Alpha Team had scattered across Enstadt like kids on a field trip. Ryan and Doc had spent the whole day geeking out over dwarven metalworking and enchantments, with Balnar apparently showing them around like a proud parent. Ron and Isaac had hit the markets hard – gathering supplies first, then dedicating the rest of their time to what Ron deemed 'essential reconnaissance.' But really, it was just window shopping for weird magical shit.

Perry, meanwhile, had spent yesterday in conference rooms from dawn to dusk. But unlike his usual diplomatic slugfests, the man had emerged looking almost refreshed. Turned out negotiations were a breeze when you held all the cards – the dwarves had no other option but to rely on the one man who controlled the only assets that could reach those trapped villages.

So he'd gotten everything he wanted: temporary airspace access, dwarven goodwill, and the possibility of more negotiations if they succeeded. And the best part, according to Perry? All the actual operational planning was Harding's problem – plus all the analysts back at base. The Ambassador just had to sit back and play generous benefactor while the Council of Masters tripped over themselves to say yes.

The evening had been more or less predictable. The moment Henry and Sera walked back into the embassy together, the team had pounced. Ron with his eyebrow waggling, of course, but also the rest of the team's ribbing. Even Perry had cracked a smile.

Now, on the third morning here in Enstadt, Henry found himself chilling in the embassy's jank-ass communications room. He worked through some berry-flavored tea Ron had picked up yesterday while waiting for the meeting.

Their convoy's techs had set up shop in what used to be some kind of ceremonial chamber, with banks of radio equipment looking totally alien against the dwarven walls. It would probably fare better than the previous days, but Henry couldn't tell if he should chalk it up to that, or to the clear weather that had finally decided to grace them.

"Morning, Captain." Perry walked in carrying a portfolio and a mug of tea. "Armstrong ready for us?"

"Should be." Henry checked his watch – 0758. "I'm sure they won't mind if we ring 'em up a bit early."

Perry settled into the chair across from the radio while Henry opened a channel to Armstrong. The static cleared after a few seconds of adjustment.

"Armstrong Ops, Armstrong Ops, this is Alpha Actual, radio check. Over."

The response came through crystal clear. "Alpha Actual, this is Armstrong Operations. Read you lima charlie. Good to have clear comms. Over."

For two days he'd written the background noise off as static. With the line this clean, he finally caught it: not static at all, but the dry crunch of potato chips. Henry grinned. "Copy, Chippy. We got Ambassador Perry present and ready for scheduled briefing. Ready to receive your SITREP. Over."

A bag ruffled in the background. "Copy that, Alpha. Wait one for General Harding."

The channel went quiet for maybe thirty seconds before Harding's voice came through. "Captain Donnager, Ambassador Perry, good morning. Figured you'd want an update on our reconnaissance operations."

Perry leaned toward the handset. "Good morning, General. What is the immediate risk to the villagers?"

"Well, Ambassador, we've been making good use of our ISR. Reaper's been overhead for twelve hours, full-spectrum look at the AO. We've mapped the approaches to those three villages you flagged."

Henry pulled out his tablet and loaded up the map, marking locations as Harding continued.

"Here's the wrinkle: we found a full wyvern nest near Tannow. Twenty-plus hostiles, including two Tier Eight Greaters and one alpha – big bastard, probably that Tier Nine Oppressor your people mentioned. They've dug in on a ridgeline two klicks northeast. Shit hand, I know."

These were probably the same wyverns from the Guild. Displaced from their normal territory, they were now squatting on premium real estate near a human settlement.

"No immediate risk," Harding went on, "but they're pinned. Wyverns are denning, feeding on local wildlife for now. Thing is, they will notice any rotary-wing approach. Can't do the lift until that nest is neutralized."

"I assume you've got a course of action?" Perry asked.

"Yeah. We're going to take full advantage of that airspace and this weather. Cooked up a strike package: four F-35s, two F-22s – Raptors actually just came through the gate yesterday."

Perry leaned back in his seat. "Do we actually need the Raptors?"

Harding's chuckle came through the radio. "Do we need them? Probably not. But I'll be damned if I let two Raptors sit on the tarmac gathering dust while I'm fighting dragons. Seems like a waste of good cards."

"Ha. Can't argue with that. If you've got them, might as well play them."

"Right? Well, here's the plan," Harding said. "We'll have our jets hold CAP at Angels twenty. Two Lightnings make a confirmation pass, lock the nest, and then each drop a pair of JDAMs to crack it open. Once the nest is broken and any survivors are in the air, the rest of the package runs them down with Sidewinders. Good ol' flush and hunt."

Perry hummed, like he wasn't convinced just yet. "General, how confident are we in the missiles? From what I've heard, wyverns are closer to flying tanks than jets – a lot less fragile."

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"Fair question. In general, we know that wyverns're built for offense, not taking hits. The lesser ones might go down in one hit. That Tier Nine though… analysts figure it'll need multiple impacts. But this isn't a duel, and it sure isn't gonna be a fair fight. The JDAM will soften them up, maybe clip some wings. Then we've got six jets with full loads. Even if that Oppressor takes three or four missiles, we've got depth."

Henry ran the numbers. Six fifth-gen fighters against a mixed flock. The numbers alone were absurd – each F-35 probably cost more than Eldralore's entire annual military budget. These jets carried stealth coatings, sensor fusion, and electronic warfare suites designed to defeat modern SAMs and fly all over other jets.

Not to mention the Raptors. All that tech just to hunt creatures that navigated by eyeball and maybe some magical sensing – talk about overkill.

Or maybe not. The Tier Nine Oppressor would be the real problem, as Harding pointed out – those things were built tough, rocking scales thick enough to shrug off most combat magic. The Tier Eights could probably take a hit or two as well, assuming the JDAMs don't get them, or assuming the Sidewinders didn't get lucky with vital organs.

The rest of the flock, maybe a dozen Lesser Wyverns ranging from Tier Seven down to Tier Six, would be easier targets. These things especially were all offense, minimal defense. Really, they only ranked so high because medieval armies had fuck-all for anti-air, aside from combat mages.

The standard wyvern attack pattern was basically World War One strafing runs – dive down, spray firebolts across enemy formations, pull up before the archers could react. Maybe even drop a bigger fireball on a cluster of troops if they were feeling spicy. And if any arrows managed to reach them, they apparently used wind magic to deflect.

Against knights and adventurers stuck on the ground, this was hell. But against missiles moving at greater than Mach 2.5? Different story entirely. Hell, the wyverns probably wouldn't even see the jets until the missiles were already inbound. At twenty thousand feet there would be nothing for them to track, and the sound of the missiles would lag seconds behind the impacts. From the ground it would look instantaneous.

"Alright," Perry said, probably having gone through a similar justification. "Go on."

"Should take less than five minutes when all is said and done," Harding wrapped up. "We'll have the NEO package parked near the horizon until the skies are cleared. Got two King Stallions for main lift, one HH-60 for MEDEVAC, one Chinook for your team and the observers, plus two Apaches for escort – not including the jets; if they're still good on ammo, they'll remain on station after taking down those wyverns. Plenty of lift and enough margin for contingencies."

Perry rested his elbows on the table, hesitating a bit. "General, I respect the plan, but I have to put a concern on the table before we go further."

Harding didn't bother hiding his sigh. "I'm not gonna like this, am I? Go ahead, Ambassador."

"The observers are here to see our capabilities firsthand; that's the point of this exercise. Explosions on the horizon won't do it. They need to see us in action. Or rather, we need them to see us in action."

The radio went quiet. Three seconds of dead air followed – the exact length of time it took a general to swallow what he really wanted to say.

Henry could imagine why; screwing up an op just to give observers a front row seat was just unnecessary risk, at least in terms of safety. Theoretically, it should just be a straightforward strike mission – in and out, no complications. The helos would never have to get close to the wyverns for the jets to do their job.

But Perry had a point. A show of force only worked if people actually saw the force. And yeah, Henry had to admit – part of him wanted to watch those Council members' brains short-circuit when they saw what a Sidewinder could do to a creature most forces couldn't even scratch. That moment when medieval warfare met modern air superiority? Priceless.

"John," Harding finally said, after a long breath. "You've already weighed it all, haven't you?"

Perry nodded, then apparently realized that Harding couldn't see it. "It increases our risk profile, I know."

Harding let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle. "Would you be satisfied if I kept the helos ten miles out and let your dwarves squint through binoculars?"

"No," Perry said plainly. "Wouldn't be much better than flashes on the horizon. We need to be close enough to read the engagement, and only just far enough not to be in it."

Henry could picture Harding rubbing at his temple.

"How do you figure we do that? We can't beam you onto a ridge."

"What if you drop us outside the engagement area and we move to an observation point?"

Harding snorted. "Yeah, if you've got a death wish. Ground movement means you're bait for every damn thing out there, and if it goes bad, extraction's a nightmare."

Henry had been studying the tactical map while they argued. The terrain around Tannow was typical mountain topology – ridges, valleys, dead ground. Standard stuff for anyone who'd studied the War on Terror. He traced elevation lines with his finger, looking for that sweet spot every forward observer knew by heart.

"What if we did a terrain-masked approach?" he suggested.

Both Perry and Harding went quiet.

"Go on, Captain," Harding said.

"There's a ridge with line-of-sight to the nest. The local terrain can mask us from their position. Land on the reverse slope, observers move just to the crest for visual. The wyverns will be too busy with the bomb and the jets overhead. We keep the bird hot, five-second sprint back to extraction if needed."

"Ehh…"

"With respect, General, we won't be helpless," Perry said. "We've got Alpha Team, we've got the jets, we've got the Apaches, and we've got four Royal Guards – at least Tier Eight each."

Harding went silent for another few seconds before he finally conceded. "Alright. If the wyverns close on your position, you abort."

Perry didn't hesitate. "Agreed."

Henry marked the ridge on his tablet. It was a perfect defilade from the nest, maybe a mile out – close enough for the observers to see the fireworks in their full glory, far enough to not be in the immediate blast radius.

"We'll designate it Observation Point One," Harding announced. "We'll cook up a couple more for backup, and send you coordinates in an hour. Package launches in three hours. Your Chinook should be wheels-up shortly after. Weather's supposed to hold through tomorrow afternoon, but no guarantees; get the evac done ASAP."

"We'll be ready," Henry confirmed.

"Armstrong out."

Henry pushed back from his seat and stood. For once, they might actually get to be spectators instead of the main event. Sit on a ridge and watch the Air Force turn wyverns into physics lessons. Basically a day off.

He wondered who'd get more out of it. Ron would probably spend the whole time narrating it like a UFC match. Doc on the other hand… well, he'd been documenting these moments since day one. Every time a local saw a rifle, a radio, a vehicle, he'd record it. The guy treated it like fieldwork, probably storing it all away for whatever anthropologists did with that kind of data.

Between Ron losing his shit and Doc cataloging every facial expression, the Council members were about to get way more commentary than they'd signed up for.

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