“Nomad calling HQ.” The AWACS planes had found and locked onto the convoy a long time ago.
Above the ocean, a strike wing of forty-eight Su-33 heavy fighters loitered in the sky.
Armed to the teeth with anti-ship missiles, they buzzed like a swarm of hungry hornets waiting for the green light.
It was more than enough firepower to annihilate the escort.
A second wave would easily mop up the survivors and send the convoy straight to Davy Jones’ locker.
“HQ receiving.
Sitrep,” the radio crackled.
“Uploading target data.
Priorities set,” Ulyanovsk replied.
“Twenty-three large vessels, twelve heavy escorts, thirty-three light ships.” “Status on Operation Hound?” “Estimated time until the ‘Hounds’ reach the escort’s positive detection range is fifteen minutes, tops.” “Copy that.
Nomad, you are cleared to engage.
Execute your mission.” High above, the fighter-bombers surged forward, banking sharply as they bypassed their carrier-host.
Ulyanovsk hesitated.
“Be advised, there are civilian vessels in the convoy.
Estimated total crew is around one thousand non-combatants.” “Execute your mission,” HQ repeated.
A death sentence delivered in monotone.
“The escort includes the battleship Indiana, heavy cruisers Astoria and Quincy, light cruisers Denver, Biloxi…” “Heavy Aviation Cruiser Ulyanovsk, execute Order 12-88 immediately!” a new, harsher voice barked through the comms.
The Brass was clearly losing patience.
Ulyanovsk sighed, briefly closing his eyes.
Thanks to his four AWACS aircraft, he had the convoy sitting squarely in the palm of his hand.
Massive LNG carriers, tankers, container ships, and smaller freighters were heading toward Asia.
They were escorted by fifty Kanmusu and three US Navy destroyers.
The Americans had no idea that in just ten minutes, their patrol planes would detect a starving pack of the Abyssal Fleet charging right at them.
And truth be told, those Kanmusu had every chance to fight them off.
They could make it to Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, where Russian Kanmusu would sally out to reinforce them the moment the distress call went out.
“Copy,” Ulyanovsk said simply, cutting the feed.
“Sorry,” he muttered into the empty air.
“Orders are orders.” The convoy would make it…
unless someone gave the Abyssals a helping hand.
High above, the fighter-bombers armed with anti-ship missiles locked onto their attack vectors.
Down below, the hatch covers of the missile silos attached to Ulyanovsk’s legs slammed open, signaling they were primed for launch.
Pulling a stopwatch from his pocket, the aviation cruiser started the timer.
It was a habit meant to steady his nerves rather than calculate his air wing’s positioning.
For a moment, he just stared at the ticking dial.
Then, he pressed the button.
At that exact second, a P-270 Moskit anti-ship missile detached from the lead bomber miles away, screaming toward its prey.
Trailing thick exhaust, its sisters and dozens of smaller missiles followed suit.
Immediately after, the massive solid-fuel boosters of the P-700 Granit missiles roared to life from Ulyanovsk’s own silos.
Weapons that had never been fired at an enemy—let alone in a full salvo—were now bringing hell down upon his allies, their engine flares burning bright against the sky.
Twelve “Shipwreck” missiles, capable of obliterating any warship afloat, received their terminal guidance updates.
The ‘wolf pack’ hurtled toward its victims at terrifying hypersonic speeds.
The first strike decimated the Arleigh Burke-class destroyers escorting the convoy.
Their crews never expected to be targeted by the legendary “Shipwreck.” And they certainly never imagined the carrier of those missiles would be a Kanmusu.
Designed to crack open targets far larger than a simple tin can, the missiles literally turned the unfortunate destroyers inside out.
They began sinking fast.
A split second later, a massive LNG carrier detonated.
A blinding fireball swallowed the convoy, masking the remaining escorts from view just as other lethal payloads slammed into their hulls.
The second hand on the stopwatch completed a full circle.
The lead and trailing ships of the convoy were burning fiercely.
Crews scrambled to find survivors while the Kanmusu escorts desperately tried to reorganize after losing their flagships and their entire operational CIC crew.
Meanwhile, Ulyanovsk’s air group broke off, banking into their landing patterns.
Two minutes later, his AWACS picked up new contacts.
The vanguard of the Abyssal Fleet was closing in on the crippled, bleeding convoy.
But both of the convoy’s escort carriers had been sent to the bottom the moment the LNG ship exploded.
There was no one left to warn the surviving girls of the approaching slaughter.
“Better this way,” Ulyanovsk muttered.
He stopped the stopwatch and immediately launched his second wave of bombers.
As the second hand began its next lap, the aviation cruiser turned his back on the carnage and set a course for home.
His sprite-crews could handle the rest without terminal guidance.
He knew exactly how this would play out.
His second wave would wipe out the remaining Kanmusu escorts.
Then, the enraged Abyssal pack—the very same pack he had been teasing and kiting for the past three days—would feast on the defenseless merchant ships.
Five minutes later, he keyed his radio.
“Nomad calling HQ.” “Report.” “Mission accomplished.
The hounds caught the hare,” the cruiser reported dryly.
“RTB.
Eastern perimeter patrols are operating with a phase-six offset.
Stay frosty on your way back.” “Copy,” Ulyanovsk said, cutting the comms as he began recovering his air wing.
A nagging instinct urged him to swap out his airborne assets, shifting focus to ASW.
The radar signature approaching from the southwest—and the specific way it was maneuvering—felt entirely too familiar.
Twenty minutes later, surrounded by a ring of Ka-27 ASW helicopters, the pale face of a girl with snow-white hair broke the surface of the water.
“I thought I told you to stay out of my way!” Ulyanovsk growled.
“You could have obliterated me on the approach,” the girl smiled.
She hoisted herself halfway out of the water, resting her elbows on the ocean’s surface as if it were a solid tabletop, completely ignoring the rolling swells.
She didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the fact that her mere existence spat in the face of physics.
The cruiser shot a disgruntled glare at the smirking Abyssal.
Bad enough he had to slaughter allies for the Brass’s high-level geopolitical games; now he was having a casual chat with the sworn enemy of humanity.
“I should have sunk you a year ago,” he scoffed.
“But you didn’t.” The blue glow in the Abyssal Submarine Hime’s eyes flared up like a searchlight.
“And you don’t regret it, do you?
Did you figure out anything else?” Ulyanovsk fell into a shameful silence.
It was hard to argue when the exact monster he was supposed to obliterate on first sonar contact was the same one currently rubbing his nose in the glaring inconsistencies of their world.
“I told you that you wouldn’t regret it,” the Abyssal said, brushing a stray lock of white hair from her face.
“It’s no coincidence that a male pops up among you land-dwellers.
And capturing one?
You’ve seen the difference yourself.
But I see you haven’t quite reached the juicy part yet.” “I’m being watched,” Ulyanovsk replied tersely.
“Knowing what I know about your masters, I’d be shocked if they weren’t watching you.” The Hime chuckled, casually lying down on the water and turning on her side to face him.
“I hope you took precautions?” Ulyanovsk didn’t answer.
“Which means you did.
You know where to find me if things go south.” “Did you come all this way just for that?” “No,” the Abyssal shook her head.
“Philira says hello.
And thanks for the meal.” “Who?” “Philira.
The Khan of the Great Gates Ulus.
You just dropped a bleeding cow into her piranha pool,” the Hime pointed casually in the direction of the burning convoy.
“I’m honestly a bit jealous.” “I don’t keep track of your weird titles.” “She rules this section of the ocean.” “I thought this was Hoppo’s territory.” “You’re entitled to your theories,” the Abyssal shrugged, pushing herself up.
“But I’d know better, wouldn’t I?” With a sly smirk, she slipped beneath the waves.
She glided smoothly under the massive cruiser, surfacing on his other side.
“We’ll be waiting,” she smiled.
“Don’t hold your breath,” Ulyanovsk shot back firmly.
“Do you even believe that yourself?” Glancing back toward the horizon—where the ominous glow of a second exploding LNG carrier lit up the sky—the Abyssal slipped beneath the water and vanished.
*** The rest of the aviation cruiser’s transit back to Magadan went without incident or any other surprise encounters.
Then came the grind: the debrief with the Brass, the mandatory shrink evaluation, and the physicals with the eggheads at the science bureau to determine his readiness for the next sortie.
After two grueling days of bureaucratic hell, the cruiser was finally granted a week of shore leave.
“Find anything new?” Ulyanovsk asked.
He had barely locked the door to his apartment before summoning a sprite-crew from his onboard Marine Force Recon detachment.
The tiny fairy materialized, stood at attention, threw a crisp salute, and squeaked proudly.
“Is that so…” the cruiser muttered, listening to her squeaky sitrep.
“Good job, Marine.” The fairy saluted again and vanished into thin air.
“A base on Lake Baikal, devoured from the inside out,” the cruiser scoffed under his breath.
“The exact same place where I was summoned.
What a coincidence.” Swapping his uniform for civilian clothes, Ulyanovsk—the human manifestation of a nuclear-powered aviation cruiser that had never seen the ocean in his past life—was just about to hit the shower.
But a highly unexpected obstacle stood in his way.
He opened his wardrobe.
Instead of the familiar sight of his neatly folded gear and perfectly pressed uniforms, he found racks overflowing with various dresses.
The shelves were stacked with impeccably neat piles of blouses, skirts, and crop tops.
And as the absolute kill shot to his sanity, there were two pull-out drawers stuffed with panties, bras, and thigh-high stockings with garters.
Ulyanovsk stared for a second.
Then, very slowly, he closed the wardrobe doors…