Turquoise waypoints angle like zigzag avionics over flak-lit terrain zoomed mile-high: ETA 1:33. Perfect. we pull the trigger on a squad of spider-legged siege bots (they'll scamper north to scout a fog-cloaked resource field) then drop back low, panning a few hundred feet over desiccated riverbeds and scrub-covered hills before finding our base - a plateau tattooed with power plants feeding circuit-riddled factories, generators, fabricators, turbines, and missile launchers.
By the river, our naval base is belching smoke as our enemy pounds it into something that looks like firework leftovers - much too late for a battery of bombers to wing over and pull a Hail Mary out. Time to hunker down and pray we land our first nuke before the other guy does.
