The MH-60M flew over the ocean, two hundred feet above the whitecaps, utterly alone in the sky.

Sokolov gripped his rifle, readying himself for whatever may come. Although he would normally be very calm, as before they infiltrated the ‘Capital’ of the ponies, he was very nervous about what was upcoming: They were going to land on a vessel of the New Russian Federation. For around a quarter of a year, they had been fighting the coup, and that time had stretched for them.

He was particularly worried about their response, but hopes they could all band together, as Russians always did, to overcome the obstacles on this new world.

“At least, I hope so.” Sokolov muttered in Russian.

“Something on your mind, Sokolov?” His co-pilot, Bogdanov, asked.

“Very much so.” The pilot replied, frowning. “What’s to stop them from shooting us down once we get into range?”

“What’s to stop us from falling out of the sky when our fuel runs out?” The co-pilot replied. “Relax, Sok. We will make it through this, as we always have.”

“Aren’t you worried about your family? What they might be thinking?” Novikov asked, walking over to them.

“They’ll have the closure of announcing me dead, and I’ll still be alive. Heh, it’s screwed up five ways to hell, but that’s how it is.” Petrov said. “You all can’t be depressed forever. If you are, I swear to God I will assign you to latrine duty.”

“In the middle of the ocean?” Sokolov deadpanned.

“Where do you think the latrine is?” Petrov quipped. “As long as you have some DPV (Driver Propulsion Vehicle, an underwater, torpedo-like transport) gear, you’ll be fine.”

“You forgot the rebreathing mask.” Novikov said.

“No, I didn’t. Did I say what you have to clean it up with?” Petrov joked.

“All of you, just… Shut up.” Vasilyev said. “I am having a hard enough time concentrating without your banter. We are five minutes out, and the Admiral Nakhimov will be visible any moment now.”

The Russians slowly quieted down, and all conversation was reduced to short bits and sentences, as many awaited – and feared – the moment when they might be shot down.

Novikov was slightly scared by the prospect of meeting NRF soldiers, or, more specifically, their navy, but that did not dampen his enthusiasm much. He could not understand the Americans, chatting in their part of the helicopter in their strange language, but he did not care.

Most assumed that, because he was a simple Private, armed only with a standard-issue AK-12, that his opinions were not valid. In this situation, however, he felt that many of the others were being much too pessimistic. Even if it was a NRF ship, Russians simply did not stop being Russian.

“Two minutes out. Admiral Nakhimov, do you copy?” Vasilyev said over the radio.

After a few moments passed, a response came. “We copy, Lieutenant. We have a visual.”

“We do as well.” Vasilyev replied.

“Check turn 40 degrees, and come over the Stern landing pad.” The voice over the radio said. “We are stopped, wind is four kilometers per hour south, wave action is four feet.”

“Do you copy that, American pilots?” Vasilyev asked, turning towards the two in the cockpit.

“Rodger that, Ruskie.” The pilot said. “We read you in the clear. Wilco.”

Sokolov watched with mild interest through the door window as the helicopter tilted in the air, slowing down for the landing. It turned slightly, and the pilot could see the superstructure of the ship from their position. As they lowered, they gently touched the deck with a small *thump*, and Sokolov could see several crewmen from the ship running towards them, along with some Russian Marines in the background.

Petrov opened the right door of the helicopter and stepped onto the dry metal deck, as several crewmen began to roll out a cart to drag the helicopter inside of the small hanger, which has three other helicopters inside of it, along with two of what looked to be Pchela-1T UAVs in the back.

A Russian Naval Infantryman walked forward to the group just emerging from the helicopter and saluted.

“Who is the Spetsnaz Lieutenant here?” He asked in broken English.

“I am.” Vasilyev said. “Where do we go?”

“To the bridge. The Captain would like to speak to you all.” The blank-faced Naval Infantryman said, before swiftly turning around and walking across the deck.

The six Americans and six Russians, as well as the two ponies, followed him as they went past the helicopters and though the small hanger, where the MH-60M was just now being towed. They entered a hatch into a white-painted hallway, immediately moving up a set of stairs or, as the Russian Marine called them, ‘Ladders’.

They passed dozens of crewmen in the hallways, who gave wary glanced to the weapons that they had slung over their shoulders, and also at the ponies. Clearly, from the looks they were receiving, the Captain had told the entire crew. Either that, or the rumors had told them everything that they ‘needed’ to. Sokolov knew how life on the ships worked, having landed his Mi-24 on them several times in the past few years, when ferrying senior officers and important materials.

You don't get chosen out of the blue to fly a MVD Spetsnaz team into a combat zone.

Before the war with the New Russian Federation, he had spent his time ferrying soldiers and equipment through remote parts of Chechnya, as well as operating as a heavily-armed gunship when no other assets were available. He didn’t like doing that, but then again, he didn’t need to, either.

They went up flight after flight of stairs, finally leveling off and emerging onto the bridge of the ships. Dozens of seamen were around them, manning electronic consoles, and moving data around on touch screens.

Ahead of them, a man who Vasilyev assumed was Captain Volkov stood, looking at them. After a pregnant pause, the man spoke.

“So… you are the group of Russians and Americans who have discovered where we are, I presume.” He eyed the two ponies in the back, who were trying to stay near the rear of the group. “And I see you were not lying. Can they speak?”

“They can.” The American sergeant said, motioning to them.

“We can.” The pegasus said in a shaky voice after a moment, causing heads to turn all around the bridge.

“So, how was first contact? I presume you managed to get through it.” Volkov said.

“Rough. They attacked us, and we were forced to respond, which led us south, towards you.” Vasilyev said bluntly. “Have you caught any other transmissions yet?”

“A few bits and pieces of High Frequency transmissions coming now and then. We presume from both naval and land forces, from both the east, south-east, and the west.”

“Anything solid?”

“Nothing.”

Vasilyev sighed, and then looked up at the captain. “Do you have extra quarters for us?”

“By the hanger, same deck. If I was your superior officer, I would dismiss you now.”

“We all do our part.” Vasilyev said as he turned around, following the Russian Naval Infantryman, who led them again through the maze of passages.

As they went through the halls, ducking through doors and going down stairs, Vasilyev gained one thing he thought had left them.

A glimmer of hope.

Author's Note

This is the end of Act II. Further chapters will resume soon.