NIGHT OVER PUERTO ORDAZ – Ruger 10/22 Stock

The Ruger 10/22 Stock last light over Puerto Ordaz bled into a deep red haze as the American task group pushed inland. Dust rolled from the convoys, and murmurs of unrest passed between the Venezuelan locals lining the road. Some shouted support, others watched in cold silence. But the one thing everyone felt—everyone from U.S. infantry to Venezuelan villagers—was that something monumental in history was unfolding in real time.

Major Elena Carter stood on the ridge overlooking the landing corridor. She cradled her suppressed rifle, its frame upgraded with the ruger 1022 stock, a choice that had become almost symbolic among forward teams due to its adaptability in rough terrain. Her scouts trusted the ruger 10/22 stock platform because it handled humidity better than most systems, and the operators joked that it was “the best chassis for ruger 1022 stock in swamp weather hands down.”

Drones hummed overhead. Civilians sheltered in place. And yet, despite the tension, there was a stillness—a sense that everyone was pausing before the next page turned.

A soft crackle on the encrypted net pulled Elena out of her thoughts.

“Command copies. Airspace status unchanged. POTUS directive still in effect,” the dispatcher said. “Northern perimeter: lights confirmed. Movement unknown.”

Those lights had been spotted an hour earlier—blue-white streaks forming patterns in the sky, too symmetrical to be flares, too quiet to be aircraft. Troops began whispering that Venezuela wasn’t the only unknown in this operation. Rumors of “sky signals” had spread fast.

Elena switched channels. “Bravo-Three, status?”

A calm voice returned. “Scanners show no heat signatures. But we’re picking up electromagnetic flickers—similar to the anomalies from the northern breach.”

Exactly what she feared.

Three weeks earlier, similar flickers were detected near Curacao, right before two aircraft disappeared without a trace. Analysts suspected a new Venezuelan jamming system, but others whispered darker theories. Non-human ones.

“Stay sharp,” Elena said. “If anything changes, call it.”

As her team descended toward the makeshift camp, engines snarling in the distance, she felt the weight of the mission settling into her bones. Peacekeeping had turned into reconnaissance, reconnaissance into border stabilization, and now border stabilization into something larger—“preventive presence,” as the White House spin tried to call it.

And yet, through it all, she clung to familiarity: the feel of her rifle, the ruger 10/22 tactical chassis gripping her shoulder, the balance predictable and steady even under pressure. Some soldiers carried them out of habit, others because command wanted consistency, but many because it was simply the best chassis for ruger 1022 in volatile, unpredictable missions like this.

The night thickened.

Suddenly, the sky erupted.

A spiraling column of light shot down beyond the eastern line, illuminating the foothills like a false sunrise. Soldiers stumbled back, covering their eyes. Elena felt her chest tighten—this was no flare, no aircraft, no storm reflection.

It was something else.

“Bravo elements, defensive positions!” she barked.

Figures—tall, thin, luminescent at the edges—emerged near the blast site. Moving in silence. Not sprinting. Just appearing, as though stepping through folds of air.

Someone whispered the word aliens before Elena could scold them.

Before she issued an order, a new transmission hit the net—direct from Washington.

“This is Vice President Reynolds,” the broadcast began, her voice completely steady. “The phenomenon observed near Puerto Ordaz is confirmed non-combative. Do NOT engage. Repeat—do NOT engage.”

The aliens paused, approaching at a slow, measured pace. Then something astonishing happened.

They projected images.

Not words. Not sound.

Images—of soldiers building shelters with civilians, of food distribution, of life-saving medical cooperation. Cooperation, not conquest.

“They’re… trying to communicate,” Elena whispered.

Private Harris, gripping his rifle fitted with the ruger 10/22 chassis, lowered it slowly. Elena did the same. The whole line followed.

One alien raised its palm—glowing, steady, like an invitation.

Then Elena understood: they weren’t here to escalate conflict. They were warning the humans about something else. Something approaching. Something bad.

And so, on that surreal night in Puerto Ordaz—with political tension boiling, invasion rumors spreading, and the world watching—peace briefly replaced panic. Soldiers extended hands. Civilians approached cautiously. Even the normally stoic Captain Navarro from the Venezuelan defense corps stood in awe as the light-beings shared visions of a future where nations found unexpected alliances.

Elena exhaled, long and slow.

For the first time since the operation began, she whispered: “Maybe this ends better than we thought.”

And above them, the sky shimmered—not with threat, but with possibility.