“Repeat that, please,” Ulyanovsk squeezed out.
He desperately hoped he had misheard her, but Shinano completely shattered those hopes.
“Falira and Palau…
Black and White…
Ouch!” Ulyanovsk involuntarily clenched his hand into a fist, momentarily forgetting he was currently scratching the guest’s highly sensitive fox ears.
He had absolutely never expected to hear those names from her lips.
Those were the names of entities his own Command considered nothing more than ‘stress-induced hallucinations’ caused by prolonged exposure to hostile waters.
Mainly because they didn’t fit into the internationally accepted theory regarding the Abyssal Fleet.
The only problem was, these ‘hallucinations’ possessed enough sheer power to perfectly coordinate and control every single Abyssal pack across a massive territory.
“Them?
In person?” the guy asked slowly, letting go of the girl’s ear.
The presence of just one Super-Hime in the operational area turned the upcoming mission into a guaranteed suicide run.
But two of them?
Even if they were busy ripping each other’s throats out, Ulyanovsk wouldn’t risk getting anywhere near the maximum launch range of his Granit missiles.
He wanted to believe this was a prank, or just Shinano trying to throw him off balance.
But she couldn’t possibly know names he had only heard once, thousands of miles away from home, in the stormy waters of the Pacific.
The conclusions were incredibly grim.
“In person,” the Kansen nodded cautiously.
“But they won’t fight themselves.
I can’t explain it, but it felt like a black and a white shadow came alive and clashed in the middle of a storm…” That clarification didn’t improve Ulyanovsk’s mood at all.
Destroying a standard Abyssal Hime required a massive, highly coordinated Kanmusu squadron.
One group distracted the escort while the main strike force turned the alpha into a bloody stain on the water.
But the Combined Fleet had never officially engaged a Super-Hime.
They didn’t know their pack structures, and completely ignored them in planning—despite a mountain of observation data collected by Russian intelligence.
Falira’s power dwarfed the standard Battleship Himes the same way a 125mm tank gun dwarfed a pistol.
And beyond her terrifying species mutations, she was always surrounded by a royal guard.
Her personal keshig—a pack of incredibly strong and cunning elites who managed to survive under a superior Hime in an environment ruled strictly by the law of the strongest.
He knew a bit less about Palau.
According to a certain overly talkative Abyssal submarine, Palau resembled a Southern Hime type.
Stronger than the Battleships in some aspects, weaker in others, but thanks to a much more compact Demon-symbiote, she was vastly more agile and dangerous.
“Right…” the miserable aviation cruiser exhaled.
“You know what they do to messengers who bring bad news, right?” he asked Shinano.
“It’s not my fault!” the girl shrank back.
“It just happened!” “I believe you, but…” Under the aviation cruiser’s heavy glare, the fox shuddered, awaiting his verdict.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” taking a step back, Ulyanovsk turned toward the interdimensional portal disguised as his wardrobe.
“How long are your cultural festivities supposed to last over there?” “What?” Shinano blinked.
“What exactly did they dress you up for?” the guy pointedly looked at the scandalous parody of clothing the guest was wearing.
“In theory, three or four days…” the girl answered uncertainly, nervously stroking the fur of one of her tails.
Ulyanovsk ran the time-dilation math in his head.
Enduring the uninvited guest and the inconveniences she caused for a day, maybe two, was manageable.
But after that…
“Alright, let’s say you survive and successfully return home.
What then?” The Kansen stayed silent, suddenly finding the grooming of her fur incredibly fascinating.
The guy realized she had absolutely no answer for that, which left him slightly bewildered.
For someone gifted with the ability to see the future, her blatant disregard for the consequences was slowly starting to piss him off.
“Let me answer that for you,” Ulyanovsk offered.
“What I would do in your comrades’ shoes.
Watch my hands,” he snapped his fingers to get the fox’s attention.
“Because of you, certain Kanmusu…” “Kansen,” Shinano corrected.
“And I’m not to blame!” Her tails thrashing about in righteous indignation looked cute, unlike their owner.
Crossing her arms under her chest and puffing out her cheeks in a pout, the kitsune would have looked much more expressive if she weren’t wearing the uniform of a girl with extremely low social responsibility.
“Yeah, sure, blame me.
It’s always easier to blame the man,” the aviation cruiser snorted.
“But we’ll shelf that eternal debate for later; it doesn’t matter right now.
Let me just put myself in the shoes of…
Taihou!” He chose the example perfectly, judging by how the Kansen flinched at the mention of that name.
“Listen closely.
Because of you, I—I mean, Taihou…” “You don’t look like her,” Shinano grumbled.
Ulyanovsk ignored her, recalling the poster he had seen in his temporary four-legged pet’s room.
“…Was forced to dress in…
scraps.
And you tried to force her again, but the culprit behind all this attempted to flee from rightful retribution.
Successfully.
Now, here’s the question: what’s stopping me—Taihou—and the other victims of the ‘let’s stare at sexy Shipgirls’ club, from getting our revenge on you?” Seeing the fox’s eyes widen in sheer horror, the aviation cruiser realized he had hit the bullseye.
Whatever Shinano had just imagined, pure panic was written all over her face.
“I can’t go back right now!” “I’m not a monster, I’ll send you home a bit later.
Just a word of advice for the future: maybe try talking to Taihou, or someone else you trust?” “They probably won’t believe me,” the girl said uncertainly.
“You should at least try,” Ulyanovsk advised.
Walking over to the bed, he stepped around the sitting girl and stopped near the headboard.
“You never know until you try.” “I am forbidden from using my gift for selfish purposes,” the fox said, covering her face with a tail.
“I totally believe you,” the aviation cruiser nodded.
“But that’s not what I was talking about.
Think about it.
But for now…” He pulled the corner of the bedspread back.
“Strip,” Ulyanovsk ordered in a tone that brokered zero argument.
The command left Shinano entirely speechless.
She just sat on the edge of the bed, blinking owlishly.
“Eh?” was all she managed to squeeze out, helplessly trying to find the right words.
“Do I need to repeat myself?” the aviation cruiser asked, pulling his t-shirt over his head.
The fox babbled something completely incomprehensible and immediately started wrapping herself in her tails, pulling her legs up to form a cocoon.
Less than a minute later, a giant silver furball was sitting on the edge of the bed.
“You really need a shower, too…” the guy smirked, looking into the long-suffering wardrobe.
There was no portal inside, much to the immense relief of both the guy and the massive ball of fur on the bed.
Pulling out two oversized white t-shirts, Ulyanovsk tossed one directly onto Shinano’s head, covering the two curious blue eyes peeking out from under the tails.
“Change,” he told the fox as he pulled his own t-shirt on.
“You’re not planning to sleep in latex, are you?
Or is that normal for you?” “It is not latex,” a muffled voice echoed from beneath the t-shirt.
“It’s obviously some kind of synthetic,” the aviation cruiser waved it off.
“Regardless, you better change.” The furball didn’t respond for a while, though strange rustling sounds emanated from within.
Then, it literally inhaled the t-shirt and went quiet.
“I could step out,” the guy reminded Shinano when her head popped back out.
“I apologize,” the Kansen said guiltily.
“Do you have anything else?” “I highly doubt pants are going to be comfortable with your anatomy,” Ulyanovsk smiled, standing in front of the guest.
“In theory, it should be long enough to cover everything important without causing discomfort.
You can fold your stuff right there,” he pointed to a nearby chair.
The girl’s tails parted in different directions like a blooming flower, releasing their owner.
She carefully stood up from the bed.
Pressing her crumpled black nightmare of an outfit against her chest with one hand, and holding down the hem of the t-shirt with the other, she took tiny steps toward the designated chair.
The aviation cruiser used the distraction to finish making the bed.
“No stealing the blanket.
You have tails for that,” he turned back to the girl.
“Ah…” Shinano tried to say something, but her objections were cut off.
“You can sleep on the floor, I don’t mind.
Besides, I heard that’s normal for Japanese people…” Ulyanovsk didn’t get to finish.
A massive silver lightning bolt blew past him and plastered itself against the wall on the far side of the bed.
Looking at the slyly glinting eyes of the Kansen—who had already pulled the blanket up to her nose—he could only sigh in defeat.
Not only had this girl popped out of his closet to dump a highly depressing prophecy on his head, but despite being a warship, she acted like she had never moored hull-to-hull with a colleague in her life.
“Hands to yourself,” Shinano decided to finish him off.
“You know, you’re walking on very thin ice,” the aviation cruiser sighed heavily, and unbuckled his pants.
*** “Komi, how’s the connection with the dish?” Ulyanovsk asked, tracking the approaching transport plane on his radar.
“I see twelve targets,” Komsomolets squinted, trying to make out something on the horizon.
“If only I knew who was who…” The two ships raced across the waves, squeezing a maximum thirty knots out of their propulsion plants, carving a wide arc around the detected enemy.
The rules of engagement required the missile cruiser to hit the targets without damaging any allied vessels, which was why Komi had been drilling holes into the gray distance with her eyes for the past half hour.
“Should I get closer?” the youngest of the Atlant-class cruisers rubbed her tired eyes.
“You already practiced with the over-the-horizon radar,” the aviation cruiser reminded her.
“The Commander was satisfied.
Let me paint them for you.” “But my head already hurts from maintaining a constant datalink with the AWACS plane!” the girl complained pitifully.
“Now you have a slight idea of what my life is like,” the guy chuckled.
“Alright, targets five, six, nine, and twelve are friendlies.
Confirm.” Komsomolets furrowed her brow even harder.
Sensing its host’s displeasure, the scorpion-like rigging menacingly twitched the covers of its launch canisters.
“Hmm…
Yeah, I see them,” the cruiser nodded.
“What’s their armor profile?” “You aren’t skilled enough to shoot through targets yet,” Ulyanovsk reeled her in.
“One missile per target.
Make it count.” He was already starting to regret showing her how to hit two—and if lucky, more—targets with a single shot this morning.
A massive seven-ton missile slamming into the head of an Abyssal destroyer usually didn’t have time to detonate and just kept flying, turning the target into a bloody puree of rapidly decaying flesh and chitin.
The remaining kinetic energy was more than enough to critically cripple any heavy cruiser foolish enough to expose its broadside behind it.
In real combat, Ulyanovsk didn’t waste missiles on destroyers, preferring to punch straight through the unarmored sections of higher-tier Abyssals.
But that method required absolute maximum concentration during terminal guidance, so he rarely used it.
Mostly just to punch a hole in a Hime’s defensive screen to clear the way for his aviation.
“Two targets are way too close to friendly mark nine,” Komsomolets gritted through her teeth, carving a turn away from the targets.
“I might miss.” “You won’t.
Guide them using my telemetry lock.
I’m going to intercept the package,” the aviation cruiser encouraged her, launching a flight of transport helicopters.
Completing her turn, Komsomolets aimed the claws of her scorpion-rigging toward the enemy.
With a loud, furious hiss, the first missile shot out of the launch canister, smoking heavily from its solid-fuel boosters.
Seven more followed suit, skimming just above the water, perfectly obeying the commands of the lead missile in the salvo.
The aviation cruiser kept one eye on his partner’s actions, tracking the missiles’ trajectory via his airborne recon planes.
He had a slightly more complicated task ahead of him than obliterating half a group of over-the-horizon targets.
Due to the nature of his nuclear propulsion plant, Ulyanovsk rarely needed underway replenishment for ammo and fuel during deployments.
His onboard reserves were usually enough, saving the transport aviation from unnecessary flights.
Komsomolets did not have that luxury; her gas turbine engines guzzled fuel incredibly fast, even without using the afterburners.
A standard fuel load, as Kommuna had discovered, lasted the girl about two weeks of low-intensity patrol combat.
And being a cruiser, she replenished her ammo by eating food.
After active live-fire drills, she got incredibly hungry.
As a result, HQ was currently breaking its brains trying to map out supply points, while the aviation cruiser was forced to practice mid-air cargo retrieval.
“Komi, don’t forget your airspace control,” the guy reminded her, hooking the parachute-dropped crate with his helicopters.
“I remember,” Komsomolets hissed through her teeth.
“I remember…” Wiping the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve, she went back to hypnotizing the horizon line.
If Ulyanovsk had one of the four Orlans as a partner, he could have taken control of the missiles himself, leaving perimeter defense to a much more capable combat unit.
Unfortunately, the Vulkans had a different guidance system than his Granits, so he was limited to painting the targets and praying for the girl’s accuracy.
Over time, the missile cruiser would fully master her armament, but that required time.
Time they practically didn’t have.
Even if Shinano’s prophecy turned out to be false, the upcoming mission wasn’t getting any easier.
The four helicopters hooked the blue-khaki steel cube and managed to drag it away from the discarded parachute lines.
At that exact moment, the missiles reached their targets.
With minimal intervals, they blew the plywood corner reflectors to splinters.
The lead missile, like a bird of prey, dove at the final target, punching straight through it and detonating in the water.
A fighter jet flying at low altitude visually confirmed the successful destruction of the simulated enemy to its host.
“Congratulations,” Ulyanovsk evaluated the cruiser’s strike.
“Technically, you completed the mission parameters.” “Give it to me straight,” Komi rubbed her eyes.
“A shaped-charge warhead with half a ton of explosives is severe overkill for plywood.
You really should have just fired inert slugs,” the aviation cruiser replied.
“Technically, the fuses didn’t have time to arm, but the shrapnel and engine exhaust clipped a couple of simulated friendlies.
However, if those reflectors were actual Abyssals—you’d get an A-plus for accuracy.” “Komsomolets, two friendly targets sustained minor damage.
Overall, mission accomplished,” the Commander confirmed the guy’s assessment.
“Replenish ammo and transition to ASW search.
Komi, you’re the hunter.
Ulyanovsk, provide overwatch.” “Yes, sir!” the two cruisers answered in unison.
The helicopters gently lowered the container onto the water in front of the small squadron, unhooked the cables, and returned to their host.
“Snack break, then we hunt subs.
I really hope they didn’t let Lyutikova near the control console this time,” the aviation cruiser popped the lid of the steel box.
“Eat on the move, and clip a repair kit to your belt while you’re at it.” Inside the steel cube, the cruisers found two MREs and two emergency field repair kits.
Knowing perfectly well that the transport plane could have dropped enough cargo to feed an entire major flotilla to bursting, the guy considered the exercise to be excessive waste.
He also felt a slight sting of insult that the Commander doubted his ability to snag a supply drop mid-air.
“Why the medkits?” Komsomolets asked, deftly clipping the dark-green tin can to a carabiner on her belt.
“Are they shooting live ammo at us?” “Not at us.
You,” the aviation cruiser corrected her.
“Just in case you drop a depth charge right under your own stern with a zero-delay fuse setting.” “I don’t have a stern depth charge rack,” Komi reminded him.
“And I can’t twist my RBUs to lob them over my own superstructure.
Although…” Sweeping a glance over her armament, she sent a mental command, waving her left claw back and forth.
“Hmm,” she clicked her tongue, catching her flagship’s hint.
“It’s not about the placement of the launchers, it’s just…
there have been precedents during destroyer drills.
Sometimes they mess up the fuse setting and suddenly there’s a geyser right under their stern.
Or they lob a ‘hedgehog’ right into a neighbor’s bow.
Now it’s written in the manual: always carry a repair kit during ASW drills,” Ulyanovsk explained.
The cruiser stood silently, digesting the information while struggling to tear open the MRE packaging.
“Right…” she drawled, shaking her head.
Applying slightly more force than necessary, Komsomolets ripped the packaging clean in half.
With a quiet splash, a compressed briquette fell into the water.
If heated properly, it would have turned into a delicious pilaf infused with various specialized supplements.
“There’s an arrow right there,” the aviation cruiser pointed at the tear.
“Showing which way is up.” Watching her first course sink sadly into the depths, Komi began chewing on the edible packaging with a detached look on her face.
“Why even make such inconvenient packaging,” she grumbled.
“Now the fish are going to suffer…” “By the way, the chemical heater would have completely refilled your ammo to max.” “This little white packet?
It barely weighs a hundred and fifty grams!” “It’s packed with a chemical cocktail that could summon a demon if you try to read the ingredients out loud.
Here,” Ulyanovsk handed the girl the second MRE.
“What about you?” “Nuclear,” the aviation cruiser patted his chest.
“Slightly different ammo-feed schematics.” The second time around, the cruiser opened the package correctly, muttering under her breath about the heavy swell and the rolling sea.
“Flagship, why were you spitting all morning?” Komsomolets decided to gloss over her lunch fiasco.
“Right from the house all the way to HQ.” “You haven’t had time to get acquainted with all the local wildlife yet, and they haven’t gotten used to you either.
There’s an animal that hangs around here…
beautiful and fluffy, no doubt about it.
And incredibly insolent…” “Who is it?” the Kanmusu perked up.
Seeing the burning curiosity in Komi’s eyes, the guy involuntarily recalled that morning.
The pleasant warmth of the furry blanket the sleeping Shinano had covered him with, making him absolutely loathe getting out of bed.
Her hot breath on his shoulder.
And his completely numb arm that had served as the fox’s pillow.
“There’s this one guy,” Ulyanovsk rubbed his arm, feeling phantom pains from a thousand needles digging into his skin.
“Name’s Peach.
A bizarre love child of a Persian cat and a Maine Coon.” “How does that work?” the girl repeated.
“The tomcat was apparently very ambitious.
And it’s autumn now, shedding season.
They chase the furry monster out of the mess hall, so he sleeps wherever he can.
Especially loves sleeping on faces…” “Horrifying,” the cruiser grimaced.
Ulyanovsk nodded, agreeing with his partner, albeit for entirely different reasons.
The fox-girl, simply by being there, had managed to calm the guy down after he had fallen into despair from her very own prophecy, exactly like a purring cat on his lap.
The only difference was that she started invading his personal space while asleep, and cats generally didn’t possess bodies capable of driving any healthy man insane.
“You can say that again,” the guy sighed.
“Commence submarine search,” the Commander’s order echoed over the radio channel.
“Move to Grid 38.
And keep in mind, the torpedoes are loaded with bright pink paint.” “That’s pretty far,” the aviation cruiser gauged the distance.
“Pink is bad,” the cruiser looked sad.
“Looks like they’re going to try and ambush us in transit, so keep your eyes peeled,” Ulyanovsk advised.
“Gonna have to unreel the antenna,” Komsomolets muttered.
“Try without it for now.
I’ll hang back so my noise doesn’t interfere.
We’ll practice tracking with the towed array later.
Right now, you just need to learn how to find submerged targets, and at first, it’s vastly easier to do that with your hull-mounted suite rather than supplementary gear.
You’ll start getting lost in the signals coming from multiple receivers at once.” “Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” “If you had used the towed array in the past when you were made of metal—sure.
But from personal experience, if you aren’t used to it, you can get completely tangled up in the hydroacoustic readouts.” “O-o-okay,” thinking it over, Komsomolets accepted her flagship’s arguments.
Sweeping her gaze over the water’s surface, the girl set a course for the designated grid.
The aviation cruiser mentally gave her a plus one for choosing a cruising speed of eighteen knots.
Attempting to probe the depths with an uncalibrated acoustic suite at full speed—while listening to the roar of your own engines spinning the props at max RPM—guaranteed a horrific migraine and a foul mood for the next twenty-four hours.
And given the specific musicality of the Atlant-class gas turbines, make that at least two days.
Ulyanovsk waited for his partner to pull about a hundred meters ahead before pulling four nondescript gray cards from his inner pocket, placing them on his flight deck.
A faint flash of light—and four small clouds shot away from the aviation cruiser, taking the shape of Ka-27 ASW helicopters mid-flight.
“Man, I really wish I had the Kamov-60s,” he watched the squadron fly off.
“The ones they made for the Manatee before she got eaten…
Dreams, dreams…” While the rotary-wing machines took up their combat patrol stations, the standby pair of Su-33s took to the air.
Following the cruiser, the aviation cruiser looked back at the container bobbing on the waves.
The decision took less than a second, and soon, the pilots of the two strike “Katrans” gleefully peppered the unfortunate steel box with unguided rockets.
“What’s going on over there?” the Commander immediately asked over the radio.
“Decided to clean up the trash after lunch,” Ulyanovsk replied, recalling the crews back to the deck.
“Someone could have picked that up,” Komsomolets threw her two cents in.
“It would have drifted out to the open ocean faster, and nobody is going to scramble a ship for two hundred kilos of the cheapest steel.
And you wouldn’t have kept turning around to look at it,” the aviation cruiser advised her.
At that moment, an unidentified object with clearly hostile intent was sneaking up on the girl underwater.
However, the cruiser spotted the threat in time and launched a torpedo at it, logging her first confirmed submarine kill.
It turned out Command had decided not to completely crush the missile cruiser’s self-esteem, like the guy had done earlier that day.
Every underwater drone simulating a training target behaved exactly according to the rulebook of Abyssal submarine behavior.
A few operators even tried to execute the classic Ka-class submarine maneuver: sneaking right under the Komsomolets’s feet and surfacing the moment she passed over the drone.
To achieve this, the operator used a pair of suicide drones to force the girl to look away.
The fate of that overly brave drone was tragic.
Six six-barreled rotary cannons ground it into literal dust.
“Try shooting the torpedoes down on the move, if you have the range,” the guy suggested as the mini-squadron approached the borders of their designated operational area.
“With the RBUs?” Komi verified.
“Not forcing you, just give it a try.” The cruiser looked thoughtfully at the waves.
“Hmm, I think I should try.
You never know what kind of garbage might decide to surface right under my feet…” “Spot on,” Ulyanovsk smiled.
“Even though you have the 130mm twin gun, dropping a dozen depth charges under the hull of a surfaced battleship solves the problem of big guns entering your comfort zone much faster.” The aviation cruiser’s last words were drowned out by the roar of propellant charges.
Fractions of a second later, five bright pink pillars of water erupted just to the right of Komsomolets.
“Who’s the rainbow-loving artist over there?” the girl grumbled, attempting to launch a torpedo.
The torpedo tube hissed obediently, but no steel fish popped out.
“Tch, I’m out!” she growled, prepping a secondary area-denial depth charge volley.
“That was the last one, relax,” Ulyanovsk called out to the cruiser.
“I’ll finish it.
How long for the reload?” A helicopter moving into position sent the final drone to electronic heaven.
“Ten, twelve minutes,” Komsomolets replied.
“What’s next on the agenda?” “We’re going duck hunting.” “Hunting what?” “Long story short, we’re going to push into a designated grid at full speed, shooting down simulated enemies.
I think they’ll complicate things by adding simulated friendlies.” However, they hadn’t even sailed a hundred meters before the comms channel cracked to life again.
“Ulyanovsk, Komsomolets, RTB.
The exercise is terminated for today,” the order from HQ flew in.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” the aviation cruiser shook his head.
The cruiser nodded in agreement.
The small squadron only managed to reach the operational HQ building an hour and a half later.
Dozens of miles by sea, a mooring committee upon arrival, and a small gauntlet of bureaucratic procedures—that was the path the pair of Soviet cruisers had to endure before standing before the Commander.
He looked highly displeased and a bit flushed.
“Your deployment window has been altered,” Gusoyedov gestured for the guy and the girl to take a seat at the table.
“I take it they weren’t moved to the right?” Ulyanovsk sensed trouble.
“Correct,” the admiral confirmed his guess.
“Your departure is scheduled for 20:00 local time tomorrow.” “Ours?” the aviation cruiser repeated, pointing at himself and his partner.
“With all due respect, Komi isn’t ready for combat.” “Objection!” Komsomolets flared up.
“I’m great at hitting targets!” Ulyanovsk wanted to point out that a couple of practice shots on static targets and one successful ASW drill were not indicators of combat readiness, but he changed his mind.
“She learned how to launch missile strikes, and that’s all that’s required of her right now.
For the current mission, you need a massive volley weight, and Komsomolets can handle that,” the commander stood his ground.
“You won’t have to waste time mopping up the small fry after taking out the flagships.
Hit and run.
But if possible, avoid combat entirely.” “Why the rush?” the guy didn’t argue.
“The Abyssals have ramped up their activity in the North Atlantic.
So far they’re only harassing the Brits, but they’re already howling.
According to unverified reports from Scapa Flow, a new Hime has surfaced there, presumably a Heavy Cruiser.
The squadron sent to pacify her, led by Rodney, was annihilated in minutes.” “Did leadership change over there?” Ulyanovsk asked.
Even with his limited knowledge of Abyssal society, the commander’s story had glaring holes.
No alpha Hime would just let a potential competitor run wild in her territory.
“Meaning?” Gusoyedov asked.
“Rodney is a very tough girl.
Wiping her and her entire squadron out in minutes is something only a ‘Super-Hime’ could do.
And in those waters, the Super-Hime is represented by a mutated Battleship Hime, not a Heavy Cruiser.” “Two catfish can’t live in the same pond?” Komsomolets caught on.
“Exactly,” the aviation cruiser nodded.
“And it looks like a massive turf war is about to start over there.
However, the timing…” “The Joint Command found the coincidence highly suspicious too.
That’s why they decided to accelerate the start of the Philippine mission.” “They still think they can accomplish something?” Ulyanovsk scoffed.
The remnants of that archipelago served as the forward base for the sovereign of the North Pacific, bordering the territories of two other Super-Himes.
So Falira kept appropriate forces there, having reportedly seized the islands from her southern neighbor.
“I’ve read your reports regarding this archipelago, but the UN wants to make some noise in response to the attack on Taiwan.
Plus, it looks like the main Abyssal forces have pulled out,” the commander said, dropping a stack of satellite photos onto the table.
The images clearly showed the weakening of the crimson vortex that previously covered the half-sunken archipelago.
And judging by the observation data dated yesterday, only sparse clouds remained.
“As you can see,” Gusoyedov continued, “traces of high-tier entities have significantly decreased.
Command wants to wipe the area clean.” “This is all very weird,” Ulyanovsk muttered, pointing at the remnants of Indonesia.
“You have the Indian Hime here, and here—the Southern one,” he moved his finger to Guinea.
“They wouldn’t just ignore a weakening like that.” “Maybe they just started tearing each other apart?” Komsomolets suggested.
“I don’t know,” the aviation cruiser sighed.
“Your objective is to eliminate the entire upper command echelon in this sector, operating independently from the main forces.
If you succeed, you’ll make the girls’ job vastly easier.
If this actually turns out to be a trap—your absolute priority is to pull our girls out, do not waste forces on the rest unless absolutely necessary.
Those are the orders from our Command.” “What about regulations?” Ulyanovsk asked.
“We’re required to render assistance to any foreign ships that end up near ours.” “Priority goes to saving our girls,” the commander repeated.
“The rest—act according to the situation and at your discretion as Flagship.
And one more thing…” Two small black boxes landed on the table.
Realizing what they likely contained, the guy blinked a few times, but they didn’t disappear.
“Um…
What?” the aviation cruiser asked, trying to gather his thoughts and put them into a coherent sentence.
“You are deploying ahead of the strike force, and you’ll be moving through hostile territory, so bolstering your communications won’t hurt…”