"To be secure on land, we must be supreme at sea."

- Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru's

Earth, Republic of Türkiye, Western Asia. September 24th 2038. 1100 Hours.

Promise is a big word. It either makes something or it breaks everything. Nations rise and fall upon the strength of their alliances, and in times of crisis, trust between nations is often tested to its breaking point. History is littered with betrayals, empty assurances, and words spoken without conviction.

So when Türkiye activated Article 5 of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization—the collective defense clause that bound its members together—there was skepticism within its government and military. Would their allies truly come to their aid when the battle was not fought on Earth but on an alien world? Would the promises of unity and shared defense hold true when confronted with an unimaginable enemy?

Those doubts were quickly dispelled.

Within an hour of Türkiye’s declaration, every NATO member responded. But despite their commitment, there was a single, critical problem: no one knew HOW to respond.

Aerial reconnaissance of Gaia revealed a harrowing reality—Türkiye’s colonies were cut off, isolated in a completely different continent from those of other NATO members. No land route connected them. And the threat was from the sea.

Conventional reinforcements—deployed through existing land-based portals—would be virtually ineffective. Ground forces would have no means of reaching New Çatalhöyük without exposing themselves to enemy naval bombardment.

What was needed was something entirely new.

The breakthrough came from Vice Admiral Jeffrey T. Anderson, Commander of U.S. Naval Forces Europe and Africa.

His proposal was as daring as it was unprecedented: send an entire fleet—ships, aircraft, and sailors—through an interdimensional portal to Gaia. A naval force capable of breaking the siege and reasserting control over the seas.

At first, shock swept through the upper echelons of the U.S. government and military. Many scientists dismissed the idea outright. Project Gaia’s interdimensional portal technology had never been designed for waterborne transport, let alone something as massive as an aircraft carrier strike group.

But if successful, it would change everything.

In Switzerland, at the Project Gaia research facility, scientists and engineers worked without rest, scribbling calculations on endless blackboards, feeding complex equations into their supercomputers. Could an entire fleet be transported safely?

Doubt crept in at every stage. The portal’s gravitational effects on ocean water, the sheer size and weight of an aircraft carrier, and the complex interplay of physics between two worlds—none of it had ever been tested.

Yet the implications were staggering. If successful, evacuation of Earth’s population would be doubled in speed. It would change not just warfare but the entire course of human survival.

Meanwhile, military leaders and politicians debated the stakes.

Billions of dollars in naval assets were at risk. The possibility of an entire U.S. fleet vanishing into the void loomed over every discussion. If the portal collapsed mid-transit, it would be the US greatest naval disaster since the sinking of the USS Indianapolis during World War II.

But to refuse Türkiye’s call for aid? That would be an unforgivable betrayal of NATO’s founding principles.

The world watched as the US President gave the final approval. The operation would proceed.

But there is a catch.

Türkiye would bear the full logistical burden of constructing the portal. If the plan fails, they will pay for the economic and diplomatic fallout. The Turkish government accepted. They had no other choice.

The Sea of Marmara became the stage for one of humanity’s greatest engineering feats.

Resources meant for Istanbul and Gebze’s portal networks were diverted. Entire city blocks went dark as their power grids were repurposed for the titanic energy demands of the operation.

Workers. Engineers. Scientists. They raced against time, laboring under 78 hours of relentless effort.

In New Çatalhöyük, the situation worsened. The Turkish 14th Armored Brigade had arrived, yet the bombardment from the alien Navy continued unabated. Half of the city lay in ruins and tens of thousands of civilians were dead or wounded. The death toll rivaled that of the Indian colonies—eighty thousand lives lost.

Time was running out.

Then, finally, on the third day, the portal was ready.

The Moment of Truth

A colossal metal ring—100 meters high, 100 meters wide—stood above the water near Bosphorus bridge, its lower half submerged beneath the surface. Two fusion reactors, built near the Turkish coastline, hummed as they channeled unimaginable power into the construct.

The world held its breath.

Scientists initiated activation. The portal framework began to glow, its light illuminating all of Istanbul. People gathered on rooftops, in streets, and along the Bosporus bridge, witnessing history.

A blinding flash.

Then, the event horizon formed.

A black hole-like distortion appeared in the center, warping light. The portal expanded.

Ocean water rushed forward, sucked into the void. For ten breathless seconds, nothing happened—then a massive deluge of water cascaded through, creating a seamless connection between Earth’s seas and Gaia’s oceans.

The portal was stable.

Scientists rushed to deploy drones and unmanned vessels. They crossed through first, verifying stability. Then, the signal came.

Turkish military communications from New Çatalhöyük—detected loud and clear. The path was open.

And not far from the portal, a great armada stirred. The U.S. Sixth Fleet, Türkiye’s Northern Sea Command and Italian, Greek, and Spanish naval contingents began to move, their crews standing at attention. Carrier decks roared to life, loaded with strike aircraft ready for war.

For over three and a half millennia, mankind had ruled the seas.

From the ancient Austronesians who braved the Pacific with primitive wooden outriggers, to the great fleets of Rome, to the battleships that fought in the world wars, to the aircraft carriers that sailed Earth’s modern oceans—humanity had mastered the waves.

Now, the navies of Earth would show Gaia’s wannabe conquerors who is the true masters of the sea.

Southern Mare-Nostrum Sea, Griffonian Imperial Navy, Aboard the GWS Iron Beak. 1000 hours.

The sea was calm, the moon hung high in the sky, its pale light casting a soft silver glow over the darkened waves. A million stars twinkled above, mirroring the flickering lanterns and torches that dotted the decks of the GWS Iron Beak, the flagship of Admiral Arcturus Windwing. It was a sight that had always brought him peace, the vast expanse of the ocean stretching out beyond his fleet, as if the world itself belonged to him and the mighty Griffonian Empire.

The scent of saltwater mixed with the faint smokiness of burning lamp oil, but within his private cabin, a different aroma filled the air—the rich, savory scent of roasted rat, fried crickets, and warm corn soup. A meal fit for an admiral, a stark contrast to the stale biscuits and dry cockroaches that his crew endured. Each bite was a reminder of his status, his achievements, his victories.

Or rather, the victories he should have had.

Despite the blockade his fleet had enforced for over a week, the enemy still stood firm. Their trenches held against repeated assaults, their counter-battery fire grew more accurate, and somehow—SOMEHOW—they still received supplies. It made no sense. Every avenue of escape had been sealed. Their tiny settelment should have been crushed days ago, yet these featherless, ground-dwelling invaders refused to break.

'No matter.' he thought, chewing slowly, savoring the crunch of seasoned crickets. Their reserves would run out soon. No army could fight without food. And when their last loaf of bread was gone, when their Blackpowder was spent, they would fall.

He allowed himself a small smile, reveling in the thought of their desperation, the inevitable moment when they would kneel before the might of the Griffonian Empire.

*Knock*, *knock*.

His ear twitched. Windwing frowned, slightly irritated.

"Enter," he said, setting his spoon down.

The heavy wooden door creaked open, revealing a familiar face—Commissar Gallus Ironbeak, one of his most trusted officers. A hardened veteran with sharp golden eyes and a beak lined with scars, Gallus was not a griffon who wasted time with pleasantries. If he was here, something was amiss.

"Sir."

"Aye," Windwing answered, studying the commissar's grim expression.

"Admiral, I’m unhappy to report rumors among the crew… strange sightings at sea."

Windwing raised a brow. "Strange sightings? Be specific."

Gallus hesitated. "No disrespect, sir, but some of the sailors—on other ships—claim they have seen something in the water. A steel kraken, sir. Several tens of kilometers away from the fleet."

For a moment, Windwing simply stared at him. Then, he scoffed.

"Are we children now?" he said, standing. "The Emperor’s finest, reduced to shivering at fairy tales?"

Gallus shifted uncomfortably. "I don’t believe it, sir. But the men… they're uneasy. You know how sailors are. They whisper, they speculate. It spreads like rot."

Windwing clenched his talons. He would not tolerate fear. Not now. Not ever.

"Enough of this nonsense," he growled, storming past Gallus. "Come with me."

Aboard the Upper Deck of the GWS Iron Beak.

The deck was alive with activity. Lanterns swayed in the ocean breeze, casting long, flickering shadows across the wooden planks. The Iron Beak was a well-oiled machine—griffons patrolled the perimeter, some stood atop the masts as lookouts, while others tended to the cannons, checking their powder and fuses.

Windwing stomped his talon against the deck, demanding silence.

Every griffon turned to him. The conversations died, the only sounds now the gentle lapping of waves against the hull and the occasional creak of the ship’s rigging.

Windwing spread his wings, his voice booming over the gathered crew.

"Tell me, soldiers of the Empire—are we children? Do we quiver at ghost stories?"

The crew remained silent, watching him with rapt attention.

"Aye, I have heard your whispers. Mermaids, sea ghouls, devil fish—krakens! Do you truly believe such myths?" His golden eyes gleamed in the lanternlight. "We are the Emperor’s talons! We are the ones who bring justice to these land-thieving wretches!"

He let his words hang in the air before delivering his final decree.

"No more fear. No more cowardice. Any griffon who dares to spread doubt among this fleet will be flogged and thrown to the sea. We fight with courage. We fight with conviction!"

"URAHH!"

The deck shook with the deafening roar of his soldiers. They thumped their chests, wings flaring in unison. The doubt in their eyes was gone, replaced with the fiery resolve of warriors.

Windwing smirked. Good. They had found their courage.

And then—

A blinding flash tore the night asunder.

For a split second, everything was still. Then, a deafening boom followed. Windwing shielded his eyes as the heavens themselves seemed to erupt.

When he looked again, his blood ran cold.

One of the ships in his fleet was ablaze, a massive fireball rising from its hull. Then—another. And another.

The night was alive with chaos. Griffons screamed as more explosions rocked the fleet. The water churned with the wreckage of splintered hulls and burning debris.

Windwing grabbed his spyglass, scanning the horizon, searching for something, anything.

He saw it.

A glowing trail in the distance, streaking just above the water—then a tube-shaped object with wings, slicing through the air at impossible speed.

The missile struck another ship. It detonated with the force of a lightning strike, tearing through wood and metal as if they were parchment. Griffons were flung into the sea, their bodies ignited like torches before vanishing beneath the waves.

Windwing’s mind raced.

What is this?! Magic? No—that’s impossible! The invaders have no magic! Then—then what is—?!

More trails of fire lit the sky.

More death rained upon his fleet.

Then—he saw it.

One of these accursed projectiles, streaking toward the Iron Beak.

"Helmsman! Turn starboard, now!"

It was too late.

The missile slammed into the hull with the fury of an avenging god. The explosion consumed the ship in an instant. The ammunition stores ignited, sending an inferno roaring through the decks. The ship cracked apart like a shattered bone, its massive frame splitting in two as flames engulfed it.

Windwing never even had time to scream.

His body was vaporized in the blast, reduced to nothing but ash and embers carried by the howling wind.

As the sun rose the next morning, the New Mediterranean sea was a graveyard. Broken masts jutted from the water like skeletal fingers. Charred remains of once-mighty warships smoldered, their shattered hulls drifting aimlessly with the tides.

And high above, miles away, unseen by any griffon, a steel predator lurked beneath the waves. A hunter of the deep. USS Thresher. Its torpedo tubes reloading, its missile racks empty, awaiting the next order.

Inside, the crew operated with mechanical precision, their fingers hovering over radar screens and targeting computers. No cheers, no celebrations. Only cold efficiency.

"All targets neutralized," one officer reported.

The captain nodded. "Prepare for the next engagement."

The battle was not over. But the sea—the great, untamed domain of the Griffonian Empire—belonged to humanity now.

And it always would.

Gaia, New Mediterranean sea, New Asia. September 28th 2038. 0530 Hours.

The first golden rays of sunlight broke across the alien ocean, stretching long fingers of light over the steel-gray waters. The seas of Gaia were calmer than those of Earth, almost glassy under the morning sky, their alien depths holding secrets yet unknown. But this day, the ocean belonged to humanity.

Cutting through the waves with ruthless efficiency, an armada of warships advanced—dozens upon dozens of vessels forming a wall of steel and firepower. This was the United States Sixth Fleet, reinforced by the naval might of NATO allies, a fleet so vast it seemed as if the very horizon was lined with warships.

At the vanguard, Destroyer Squadron 60, composed of Arleigh Burke-class destroyers, thundered their presence. Their Mark 45 naval guns fired in synchronized, rhythmic blasts, sending 127mm shells arcing toward unseen enemy vessels far beyond the horizon. The Aegis combat systems aboard these ships guided deadly volleys of Tomahawk cruise missiles and Harpoon anti-ship missiles, obliterating enemy ships before they even knew they had been targeted.

Above them, aircraft soared from the deck of the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower (CVN-69), a massive Nimitz-class aircraft carrier at the heart of the formation. It was a moving fortress, a floating airbase carrying over 80 aircraft, its massive flight deck bustling with activity as deck crews prepared for another wave of sorties.

On the bridge of the Eisenhower, Captain Christopher "Chowdah" Hill stood at the helm, his eyes scanning the digital displays that showed the battlefield. The bridge was alive with activity, filled with the low hum of voices, the beeping of radar consoles, and the mechanical clicks of keyboards as officers coordinated every movement of the fleet.

A comms officer approached briskly, a headset over his ears and a clipboard in hand. "Sir, the USS Thresher reports that the last of the enemy vessels have been neutralized. The waters ahead are secure."

Hill nodded, exhaling slowly. "Good. Inform all task groups to prepare for rescue operations. I want every available amphibious vessel ready to search for survivors."

"Aye, sir!" The officer turned and relayed the command.

But just as he did, another officer, Lieutenant Commander Harris, rushed forward with a new report. "Captain, we've received a distress call from New Çatalhöyük. The Turkish Air Force is grounded, and they’re taking heavy casualties. They need immediate air support!"

Hill's eyes narrowed. "Navigator, what’s our ETA?"

The navigational officer, Lieutenant Parker, glanced at his instruments. "We’re 15 nautical miles out, sir. At current speed, we’ll be there in 25 minutes."

"Not fast enough," Hill muttered. He turned sharply to the flight operations officer. "Launch the air wing. Now!"

"Aye, Captain!"

On the vast, open flight deck of the Eisenhower, a carefully coordinated ballet of machinery and human expertise was already in motion. Ground crews, clad in colored jerseys that signified their roles, rushed between rows of aircraft, ensuring each fighter was ready for launch.

The first aircraft off the deck was an E-2D Hawkeye, its twin turboprops roaring as it shot down the carrier's runway. This airborne early-warning aircraft would provide crucial battlefield intelligence, scanning the skies ahead.

Next came the F/A-18F Super Hornets of Strike Fighter Squadron (VFA) 32, the "Fighting Swordsmen". The aircraft, armed with AGM-65 Maverick missiles, were brought forward on the launch rails.

The flight deck crew attached the launch bar of the first Super Hornet to the catapult shuttle, securing the aircraft in place. A yellow-shirted catapult officer crouched, his arm raised in a signal.

"Power up!"

The pilot advanced the throttle, the engines roaring to life. The catapult officer pointed forward, the final signal before launch.

"Fire!"

The steam catapult engaged, hurling the F/A-18F from zero to 170 mph in less than two seconds. The aircraft rocketed into the sky, followed swiftly by another, then another.

From the Carrier Air Traffic Control Center (CATCC), controllers monitored the launches. Suddenly, an officer’s voice came over the radio.

"Sir! The E-2 Hawkeye reports tens of thousands of unidentified flying objects near New Çatalhöyük. They might be the enemy."

Hill clenched his jaw. "Tell our pilots to proceed with extreme caution."

The F/A-18Fs streaked across the sky at Mach 1.2, closing in on the battlefront. Below, New Çatalhöyük was under siege, smoke rising from burning homes and destroyed defenses.

At 5 kilometers out, the pilots locked onto their targets.

"Fox Three! Fox Three!"

The AGM-65 Maverick missiles detached from the fighters, their rocket engines igniting as they screamed toward the enemy.

The Avians never saw it coming. One moment, their wings beat in formation, circling over the battlefield—the next, their camps and siege engines erupted into flames.

Massive fireballs consumed wooden fortifications, shockwaves sent avians tumbling from the sky. The Turkish forces, entrenched in their strongholds, erupted in cheers as they saw their attackers obliterated.

"Bütün birimler! Karşı saldırı!" the Turkish commander bellowed. Hundreds of soldiers surged forward, bayonets fixed, determined to reclaim the villages and settelments lost in the seven-day siege.

Meanwhile, the Sixth Fleet pressed forward. The waters ahead were littered with the remains of enemy ships, wooden debris burning and sinking. Avian bodies, lifeless, floated among the wreckage, the tide carrying them away.

From the USS Wasp (LHD-1) and USS New York (LPD-21), dozens of small boats were deployed to rescue survivors. Many Avians, clutching onto charred wooden planks, were pulled aboard and given emergency medical care.

But some, still filled with hatred, lunged at their rescuers—only to be swiftly neutralized by the Marines.

Back on the Eisenhower’s bridge, Captain Hill stood near the viewing window, a telescope in hand. In the distance, New Çatalhöyük lay in ruins. Smoke spiraled into the dawn sky, and he knew—hundreds, if not thousands, were dead.

"If only we had come sooner…" he muttered under his breath.

He turned to his communications officer. "Get me the Turkish commander. I want to coordinate fire support and medical relief. Dispatch the USNS Mercy and USNS Comfort to assist in treating the wounded."

"Aye, sir!"

As the officer carried out the orders, Hill turned back to the horizon. The last remnants of Avian forces were retreating, but he knew this was only the beginning.

Today, mankind had won its first great naval battle on Gaia.

But the war had only just begun.

This was the dawn of victory.

Author's Note

I'll address the elephant in the room, yes, there is no Geneva convention on Gaia.

This means that the following chapter after this will contain things that will be very controversial and uncomfortable for many readers.
Biological, chemical, warfare and a lot of warcrimes.
Mental and physical torture. The morality level will really drop really low down to bedrock and start digging it down.

I even contacted 2 moderators and asked for their review on future chapter.