Morning in the Murmansk region greeted Ulyanovsk with a damp, bone-chilling wind and lead-gray skies.
From the window of his borrowed office, the view bypassed the parade deck—where enlisted boots were currently freezing their asses off for the morning flag-raising ceremony.
Instead, it offered a sweeping look over the Gadzhiyevo naval base’s harbor.
Or rather, what was left of it.
Gadzhiyevo had been the very first base to absorb the Abyssal Fleet’s initial strike in the Arctic Ocean.
But by the time the ravenous swarms reached the bay, the traditionally sluggish Russian military machine had proven it could adapt at terrifying speeds.
How they managed to drag the massive nuclear submarines Vepr and Gepard onto dry land and keep their hulls relatively intact was something Ulyanovsk didn’t even want to think about.
But he understood why they did it.
When the first hungry, freezing Abyssals breached the Kola Bay, the entire submarine fleet had packed into Murmansk harbor like sardines in a tin can, hiding under the umbrella of surface ships and coastal artillery.
NATO had seriously panicked about a potential invasion of Finland, given the sheer volume of firepower Russia had rushed to Murmansk.
Any sub that couldn’t escape under its own power was towed to Gadzhiyevo or Olenya Bay and hauled ashore onto hastily prepped concrete pads.
Nobody wanted to deal with a breached nuclear reactor spilling into the ocean.
“I still don’t get why they kept those two old ships around,” the aviation cruiser muttered, turning away from the window.
“Training aids,” replied the officer assigned as his handler, not even looking up from his paperwork.
“The reactors were pulled and replaced with training modules.
Lets the crews run drills without being on active combat duty.” “Please don’t tell me the boomers are deploying again,” Ulyanovsk shuddered, recalling the chaotic operations to escort strategic missile subs from Murmansk to the White Sea.
“Unfortunately, the Abyssal Fleet hasn’t entirely wiped out the old geopolitical friction, so the Navy has to react,” Admiral Mikheev sighed, stamping a form.
“Duty calls.
Besides, our domestic eggheads invented some highly useful tech that makes our job easier.” “Yeah, I saw the kraken they turned the gorgeous Kazan into…” “Hey, it works,” the officer smirked.
“Our ‘partners’ across the pond built something similar out of a Virginia-class.” “Theirs looks a hell of a lot cleaner,” Ulyanovsk snorted.
“Though, nobody ever explained to me what that American sub was doing in the Gulf of Kresta.” “Would it have changed anything?
A foreign sub entered our territorial waters in an area where ‘navigational error’ is a fairy tale.
It’s way too far off the Aleutian transit routes.
The outcome was highly predictable.
The K-series Kanmusu girls dispatched to hunt it swept the area clean.
Not a single trace left.
The politicians upstairs smoothed over the fallout, and we keep working.” “Politicians,” Ulyanovsk sighed.
“I really hate that word…” “The Navy is just the projection of state politics.
We can’t escape it,” the officer said, stacking the documents.
“Neither we nor China are thrilled with Japan’s policies regarding Taiwan.
Right now, the only thing keeping the samurai from repeating Busan and effectively annexing South Korea are heavy, nuclear-tipped arguments.
And somebody decided to upset the status quo with those LNG carriers.” “Command still considers the Abyssal push into Busan a staged provocation?” Ulyanovsk asked, stepping away from the window.
“What else would you call a massive pack slipping entirely unnoticed past Japanese patrol squadrons?
They intercept raids like that every year in those waters, but suddenly they miss one?” “Right when the two Koreas decided to reunify…” Ulyanovsk mused, taking a seat to the admiral’s right.
Taking a stack of documents from the man, the cruiser automatically sorted them into sleeves and slipped them into a binder.
He always hated paperwork, but when it came to refueling his nuclear reactors, he welcomed it.
Given the choice between having his hull partially cut open—which is what he expected before his first refueling—and filling out a mountain of forms for what was essentially a routine procedure, he’d take the papercuts any day.
“Believing in coincidences isn’t part of our job description.
But Command has to believe the intel pinpointing one of those gas carriers.” “The explosion was definitely on the weak side,” the aviation cruiser nodded.
“But I was mostly talking about the risks to the crews.” “Considering who’s currently in charge among our European and American partners, the risks are more than justified.
History has proven that the Abyssal Fleet doesn’t stop capital.
In fact, if you haven’t been paying attention…” Mikheev paused, thinking for a moment, then added: “Has Volkov completely stopped running drills with you?” “It’s a mutual policy of ignoring each other’s existence.” “Noted,” the officer pulled out a planner and scribbled a sweeping note.
“Alright,” he checked his watch.
“Ten minutes until morning formation ends.
We can head to the tactical classroom.
The girls will be there shortly.” “Why do they even need to attend formation?” Ulyanovsk asked, standing up.
“Especially the general base one?” “Raising the flag is a special moment for every Shipgirl,” the admiral shot the guy an apologetic look.
“Just another question to add to Volkov’s tab…” “Beats me,” Ulyanovsk shrugged.
“I was never granted the honor, so Oleg Alexeyevich isn’t to blame for that one.
The only thing I remember from those years is feeling bitter for Lobov.
I was at least scrapped on the slipway; he rotted for thirty years in a country that had absolutely no use for him.
Anyway, Mikhail Alexandrovich, all my previous refuelings were done in Severodvinsk.
Why drag me to the front lines this time?” “Did you read the printouts the Spooks gave you?” “Yeah,” Ulyanovsk nodded.
“Very thorough work.
Great concept for a tactical classroom.” “That’s exactly why.
You’re going to run a tabletop simulation with the girls from that convoy you babysat, using the scenario where they meet a Hime.” “How realistic are we talking?” “Within reasonable limits.
Now,” the admiral approached the door, “follow me, Captain 1st Rank Lev Vasilievich.” As the brigade commander led his sole operational missile ship through the labyrinthine corridors of HQ, the cruiser pondered his objective.
Nobody was going to define “reasonable limits” for him; they were leaving that entirely to his discretion.
He just had to decide how far he should deviate from the generally accepted dogmas of Abyssal behavior.
A clear plan formed in his head the moment the classroom doors swung open.
It was a massive, amphitheater-style room capable of seating a hundred people, looking like something straight out of a Cold War painting.
Some of the desks still bore the scratched-in graffiti of past cadets.
Occupying the very top tier were five Internal Security Suits—the same Spooks who had escorted Ulyanovsk to Gadzhiyevo.
One row down sat the local Brass.
Down in the pit, where the lecturer’s podium should have been, sat a massive billiards table covered with a tactical map.
Clustered around a middle-aged man in a crisp white admiral’s tunic and blue trousers were about fifteen girls of varying ages.
“Mark Petrovich,” Mikheev addressed the man.
“Have you finished the briefing?” “Yes, Mikhail Alexandrovich, we’re ready to begin,” the man nodded, turning to the girls.
“Don’t be shy about checking the rulebook.” The girls beamed happily and threw eager salutes.
“Let’s begin, then,” Admiral Mikheev said, gesturing to the aviation cruiser.
“Allow me to introduce Captain 1st Rank Lev Vasilievich Krechetov, Pacific Fleet Naval Intelligence.
And this,” he pointed to the man extracting himself from the swarm of girls, “is Admiral Mark Petrovich Drozdov, Commander of the Northern Kanmusu Division.” “A pleasure, Admiral, sir,” Ulyanovsk saluted.
“Likewise, Captain,” the Kanmusu commander replied.
“I’m leaving my girls in your capable hands.” “Thank you for your trust, sir!” “Alright,” Mikheev continued.
“Today, we’re running a tactical exercise using a brand-new system provided by the analytical center.
Captain Krechetov will brief you on the details.
Mark Petrovich, please join me in the gallery.
Take it away, Captain.” “Yes, sir,” Ulyanovsk saluted, turning to face the Kanmusu.
“Who do I have the honor of addressing?” The girls perked up, forming a crisp parade line organized by height.
All of them wore white blouses and black skirts cut below the knee, with garrison caps tilted stylishly—and entirely against regulations—to the side.
Only the tallest girl wore a black tunic with the shoulder boards of a Captain 2nd Rank.
“Project 26 light cruiser Voroshilov,” the girl in the tunic introduced herself.
She had a gorgeous bob of shoulder-length red hair.
“Flagship of the 4th Destroyer Division, comprising Project 30-K destroyers Ognevoy, Ozornoy, Otvazhny, and Obraztsovy.” Each Kanmusu threw a sharp salute as her name was called.
Sweeping his gaze over the destroyer girls, Ulyanovsk briefly thought he had crashed a twins convention instead of a military base.
The quartet of redheads, sporting mischievous smiles and light freckles, differed only in the shape and placement of their braids.
“Destroyer Leader Kharkov,” the second-tallest girl introduced herself.
“Flagship of the 3rd Destroyer Division, comprising Project 7 destroyers Grozny, Gromky, Gremyashchy, and Gnevny.” Another quartet of identical twins—this time brunettes—saluted the cruiser.
Ulyanovsk looked at the final quintet of blondes, waiting for their intro.
“Second Patrol Squadron, Flagship Bditelny!” A girl with twin-tails practically bounced on her heels, nearly dropping her glasses.
“Project 30-bis!
And my loyal sisters Vidny, Vertky, Ognenny, and Vazhny!” From the upper tiers—specifically the second-to-last row—a heavy sigh of disappointment echoed through the room.
“Alright,” Ulyanovsk ignored the Kanmusu commander’s embarrassment and pressed on.
“My department, in cooperation with Fleet Analytics—and relying on data gathered by your comrades and foreign partners—has decided to present training materials in a more digestible format.
I was told you’ve familiarized yourselves with the rulebook.
Is that correct?” “Yes, sir,” Voroshilov answered as the senior officer.
“Excellent.
We’ll be running a convoy escort scenario.
Since this is a trial run, we’ll ignore weather modifiers and water depth.
Any objections?” “No, sir.” “Each of you will play as yourselves.
You take your turns, then the Abyssal Fleet—meaning me—takes its turn after the last escort ship moves.
Your victory condition: the convoy must travel from Point A,” he tapped one corner of the table with a pointer, “to Point B.
The convoy advances two squares after the final escort concludes her turn.
If the escort is entirely wiped out, or the convoy loses more than half its vessels, you lose.
Is the objective clear?” “Yes, sir!” the girls answered in unison.
“Then place your miniatures.” Ulyanovsk set down three models of civilian tankers and picked up a tablet designed to manage the Abyssal side until they were detected.
“Rolling for enemy action points…” Grabbing two ten-sided dice, he tossed them onto the table.
“Double nines,” the cruiser announced.
With his onboard Combat Information Center, calculating the exact physics needed to roll a specific number on a die took maybe five minutes of practice back in Magadan.
The Kanmusu deflated slightly upon hearing the massive action point pool, but stayed quiet, intensely whispering among themselves to discuss tactics.
Ulyanovsk began deploying his forces on the board.
Deciding not to completely torture the girls, he deployed only ten standard Ka-class submarines, one elite So-class, and reinforced them with a single Battleship Hime.
A massive projector screen lowered from the ceiling, broadcasting the tabletop map for the observers in the gallery, overlaid with the hidden data from his tablet.
Seeing the cruiser’s deployment, the naval Brass shook their heads in disapproval, but the Suits perked up, clicking their pens and opening their notebooks.
“Ready?” Ulyanovsk asked the girls.
“Ready,” Voroshilov answered, checking her subordinates.
“Then mark one, movement,” Ulyanovsk rolled the dice.
“Twelve squares…” Scratching the back of her head, Bditelny called out: “Detect, destroyer.” “Too early,” Voroshilov corrected, keeping a close eye on her formation, moving her miniatures into a tight circular screen.
“I’m too far away from you, more than ten squares, so the detection check automatically fails.
Your turn, Shipgirls,” the aviation cruiser said, sliding a submarine marker across his tablet and gesturing to the table.
“Launching a scout plane,” Voroshilov said, picking up two six-sided dice.
“Flight range…” She rolled the dice and sighed in disappointment.
“Five squares.” “Movement…” For the next fifteen minutes, both sides did nothing but cautiously shuffle their figures across the map.
By the five-minute mark, the observing officers were only half-listening, occupying themselves with their own paperwork.
Finally, the Kanmusu commander leaned over to Admiral Mikheev.
“Are you sure your protege made the right choice?” he nodded at the screen.
“I’ve never heard of an Abyssal pack operating like this.” On the screen, the convoy was cheerfully crawling directly toward the Battleship Hime lying in wait on the ocean floor, while the submarines executed a perfect pincer movement around them.
“It’s fine for a trial run.
But something else is bothering me,” Mikheev frowned.
“You mean the fact that he’s rolled double sixes twelve times in a row?” Drozdov chuckled.
“I’m amazed none of my girls have noticed yet.
I’m going to have to reprimand them for poor situational awareness,” he jotted a note in his planner.
“Not just that.
Look at marker six,” Mikheev pointed to the elite submarine silently trailing right in the convoy’s wake.
“Krechetov is putting way too much emphasis on striking the convoy directly.” “Then why did he bring the Hime?” “Torpedo attack,” Ulyanovsk suddenly interrupted the movement phase, scooping up a massive handful of D6s.
“Wide spread, targeting Vidny and Gromky.
Four torpedoes.
Detection check on launch…” The first dice clattered onto the table.
“…Failed.
I am undetected,” the aviation cruiser rolled again.
“All fish are in the water, no course deviation.
Your actions,” he smirked at the girls.
“Um…” Vidny hesitated.
“Detection!” Gromky shouted, living up to her name (Loud).
“Type 7, hydroacoustics three-plus…” A die hit the table.
“Torpedoes detected!” she cheered.
“Detection, Type 30-bis, two-plus…
Detected!” “Impact check.
Two per ship, rolling for advantage,” Ulyanovsk continued without missing a beat, dropping four sixes onto the table.
Seeing the girls’ defensive rolls, he snorted.
“All hits.
Critical hit chance…” Once again, a row of sixes landed on the green felt.
“Multiplier applied,” the aviation cruiser continued, ignoring the Kanmusu who were rapidly turning pale.
“Sorry, ladies, but you’re at the bottom of the ocean,” he announced, checking the final damage tally.
A vibrating phone in his pocket distracted Ulyanovsk from the massacre on the table.
Reading the text message and seeing Mikheev shaking a fist at him from the gallery, the aviation cruiser sighed and grabbed a fresh pack of dice.
“He has absolutely no shame,” an admiral grumbled from the top row.
“Did you specifically find someone whose superpower is throwing loaded dice?” a young officer from the adjacent row whispered.
The admiral shot him a look that clearly asked if he was joking or genuinely didn’t know who the guy actively slaughtering Kanmusu at the table was.
“Is he secretly from the KGB dungeons or something?” Drozdov asked, watching the Battleship Hime slip completely undetected right under the formation of destroyers conducting an active ASW sweep.
To the Kanmusu’s credit, they managed to hunt down and sink eight submarines before the Hime finally surfaced.
Voroshilov reacted instantly, exploiting the Hime’s surface delay to torpedo her at point-blank range.
But the elite submarine that had been quietly tailing them the entire game finally made its move, putting a brutal, decisive end to the match.
“Alright, what conclusions can we draw here?” Ulyanovsk asked, looking over the decimated escort squadron.
“Rigged dice!” the redheaded destroyers answered in unison, glaring accusingly at the aviation cruiser.
“Got a little carried away,” the guy feigned guilt.
“But I’m waiting for your tactical conclusions.” “Non-standard scenario,” Voroshilov began.
“An incredibly unnatural escort for a Battleship Hime.
No destroyers or cruisers, not to mention the total lack of higher-tier elites.” “You would have noticed the movement of a pack that size,” Ulyanovsk agreed.
“What else?” The light cruiser Kansen thought for a moment, replaying the phases of the battle in her head.
“We misidentified the alpha unit, even though we engaged phantoms twice.
We got too bogged down in ASW combat on the flanks, but…
this behavior is much more characteristic of a Submarine Hime pack, or a flagship-type submarine.
An elite unit’s control limit is four lower-tier entities…” “Did the Abyssals tell you that?” Ulyanovsk interrupted her.
“No, but the statistics…” “Even though this is just a game, never forget that underestimating the enemy is fatal.
Besides, the enemy is getting smarter.” “Prepare for the worst?” Voroshilov asked.
“Exactly,” the aviation cruiser confirmed.
“I highly advise you to pay much closer attention to torpedo launches.
The statistics show a very distinct set of patterns, all outlined right here.” He waved the printed rulebook in the air.
“Read them carefully.
I’ll tell your admiral exactly which pattern I used; your job is to figure out which one it was.
There’s also intel from the Pacific Front that surface units are actively utilizing submarines, which is the tactic I simulated here.” Looking up at Admiral Mikheev and receiving an affirming nod, Ulyanovsk continued: “Some of this will sound like absolute fiction, especially the tab regarding Hime ‘magic’, but I strongly advise you to drill it anyway.” “Thank you for an enlightening lesson,” a visibly depressed Admiral Drozdov stood up.
Ulyanovsk quietly excused himself from the ensuing post-mortem discussions, slipping away to the upper tiers.
“How are you holding up?” an unassuming man in a suit asked him quietly.
“I’ll live,” the aviation cruiser replied softly, recognizing his handler from Naval Intelligence by voice.
“Where’s Sobol?” “Sending his regards to Volkov,” the Spook whispered.
“We have intel that our ‘friends’ are planning something massive near Luzon.” “Have they completely lost their minds?
Who snorted a few too many lines and came up with a ‘cleansing’ operation in the Philippines?” the guy hissed.
“Not a cleansing.
A punitive expedition.
Details will follow, but the tentative date is early September.” “Damn…” Ulyanovsk drawled, running the timeline.
“Five weeks to prep?” “Details later, just giving you a heads-up.
Expect a care package with some new toys in about a week…” *** Lying on the sterile medical bed, Ulyanovsk stared at the ceiling, bored out of his skull, counting the last drops of the reactor fuel mixture currently being pumped directly into his main power plant.
The aviation cruiser had spent nearly eight hours immobilized in total isolation, with a stainless-steel refueling catheter shoved straight into his chest.
Occasionally, two ‘cosmonauts’ from the CBRN troops would step in, but they weren’t much for conversation.
After swapping out the IV drip with a fresh dose of the mixture from a heavy, lead-lined protective container, they’d leave in silence, letting the unrealized flagship of the Soviet Union go back to hypnotizing the faintly glowing blue liquid.
“You still alive in there?” a raspy voice crackled over the intercom speakers.
“Petrovich,” Ulyanovsk practically hissed.
“When are you guys going to convert the reactor fuel into the same consumable format as everything else?” “When we’re absolutely certain the plutonium from the fuel assemblies won’t end up inside your aviation bombs,” a chorus of laughter from the science team echoed through the speakers.
“Look on the bright side, at least we don’t have to hook you up to the port infrastructure or ignite the reserve boilers anymore.” “Yeah, real progress,” the cruiser looked down at the steel tube protruding from his chest.
A year ago, there had been a lot more hardware sticking out of him.
A high-pressure steam pipe rigged up by the great-grandmother of the entire domestic repair fleet, plus a high-voltage superconducting cable of her own design.
Having to connect all of that himself had been a singularly miserable experience.
“You’re just happy you didn’t have to lug a transformer substation in here,” the guy reminded his observers.
“By the way, where’s Kommuna?” “The old girl is dug in deep at Dubna.” Ulyanovsk breathed a sigh of relief.
Interacting with the only Kanmusu cleared for his highly classified existence was always mentally exhausting.
Kommuna suffered from severe split personalities, and whenever she started arguing with herself while wearing a grease-stained grey lab coat, the room tended to empty out very quickly.
Not that she minded, but the science division was legitimately terrified of her.
Whether her mental state was tied to the archaic design of her double-hulled catamaran hull, the aviation cruiser had no idea.
But the physical manifestation of a salvage ship built under the Tsar genuinely spooked him.
Even if she was incredible at her job, never asked unnecessary questions, and never broke her ‘mad scientist’ character beyond bickering with her other half.
“Buy her a cake for me as a thank you,” Ulyanovsk requested.
“Maybe her muse will visit and she’ll finally invent a chewable fuel briquette.” “Her starboard and port hulls have different tastes…” “Then buy two!” the guy raised his voice.
“Why is this even a question?” “You’ve been acting suspiciously authoritative lately, like Lenin on an armored car.
Makes us nervous,” an apologetic tone filtered through the speakers.
“We’re sending in a syringe with the sealant plug now.
Can you close yourself up?” “Easily,” the aviation cruiser flexed his arms.
A few minutes later, the airlock cycled, delivering a syringe filled with the same repair compound found in emergency field kits.
Inserting it into the specialized valve on the catheter, Ulyanovsk slowly began extracting the excess hardware from his body.
The moment the tip of the tube left the aviation cruiser’s heart, an overwhelming surge of energy washed over him.
Fighting back a wave of sheer euphoria and the intoxicating sensation of limitless power, the guy carefully finished pulling the tube out.
Padding barefoot to the decontamination chamber, Ulyanovsk stood under a shower of harsh chemicals until he was finally granted his freedom.
Command had scheduled his base visit perfectly—his transit from the technical wing to his temporary officer housing happened strictly after lights-out.
It kept him hidden from any excessively curious destroyers.
The girls had been so thoroughly impressed by his dice-rolling skills that the entire officer corps had to intervene to protect the undercover carrier from being swarmed.
“Home, sweet, temporary home,” Ulyanovsk tossed his briefcase full of documents onto the bed as he stepped into his borrowed room.
Instantly, a fairy with woodland camo face-paint materialized on his shoulder, excitedly whispering her sitrep into his ear.
“Excellent!” The news bumped the aviation cruiser’s mood up yet another notch.
Throwing a salute, the fairy vanished.
Command, it seemed, had factored in their ship’s mood swings following a reactor refueling and wisely decided not to bug his room this time.
Or maybe they had finally taken the hint after he had systematically dismantled every hidden listening device and left them neatly arranged on his desk, along with the chunks of drywall they had been embedded in.
Opening the wardrobe, the guy casually flicked his officer’s cap toward the top shelf.
It was only after a few seconds passed without the expected ‘thud’ of the visor hitting the back panel that he realized something had gone horribly wrong.
“Ouch,” the wardrobe murmured quietly, sounding incredibly sleepy.
The aviation cruiser didn’t even have time to process why the cheap plywood backboard had suddenly turned silver.
Nor did he understand why the shelf his cap was supposed to land on now featured two triangular, fuzzy protrusions.
Because suddenly, something tall, soft, and smelling strongly of lavender collapsed onto him, dragging him down to the floor.
Caught completely off guard by a sneak attack from a wardrobe located thousands of miles away from the source of his recent interdimensional headaches, the aviation cruiser hit the deck hard.
Looking up, he locked eyes with a pair of wide, utterly bewildered amethyst eyes.
Then, letting out a massive yawn, the girl who had just tumbled out of the wardrobe lifted her head.
Spotting the bed right in front of her, she began to drag herself toward it like a zombie.
…Completely ignoring the guy currently pinned underneath her.