The sun was already high over the treetops by the time the humming began. A faint, rhythmic pulse that didn't belong to the wind or the forest. Soldiers along the southern ridge of Substation Echo's perimeter—formerly just a survivor camp—were the first to notice.
It started as a low vibration in the dirt, then the unmistakable sound of rotor blades cutting through the air.
One.
Two.
Three.
Black dots on the horizon, growing larger, louder.
"Contact! South quadrant, air!" shouted one of the lookouts.
General de Vera was already stepping out of the command tent, binoculars in hand. He focused on the approaching aircraft, frowning as he counted them.
"Three helos," he muttered. "Black Hawks."
But they were wrong.
No insignias.
No Air Force markings.
No nation flags.
Just matte black paint and sleek profiles.
"What the hell…" his voice trailed off.
