Chapter 1.4 - “A Fleet Worth Coming Home To”

The argument began ten minutes after lunch.

In retrospect, Kade Bher supposed he should have been grateful that the girls had waited until he'd finished eating.

He wasn't.Full novel: Horizon Atoll: Hearts of Steel — read the rest free on N​o⁠v​e⁠l​C⁠o​d⁠e​x⁠.​o⁠r​g⁠

The meal had been late, hurried, and remarkably unsatisfying despite Eliza Ward's best efforts. Half the food on his plate had gone cold while he listened to the latest reports from the Burnt Narrows, and he'd spent most of the remaining time trying not to stare at the operations room's wall clock.

Now, at thirteen minutes past three, he was standing beside the main tactical map with a pencil in his right hand, a radio operator waiting behind him, and four young women occupying the doorway with expressions that suggested none of them intended to leave.

Riko Minase stood in front.

Of course she did.

The nineteen-year-old Yamato-class Keelborn had arrived wearing her shore uniform, her brown hair slightly disheveled, her blue eyes bright with a determination Kade recognized far too well.

Beside her stood Yuna Mori.

Yuna was normally the calmer of the two. The twenty-year-old Illustrious-class carrier had a habit of listening before speaking, considering questions carefully, and occasionally preventing Riko from turning a minor inconvenience into a small diplomatic incident.

Today, however, she looked every bit as determined as her friend.

Behind them stood Emi and Mina.

Emi, the Benson-class destroyer who had only recently begun using her first intermediate rigging configuration, was gripping the strap of her equipment bag.

Mina, the twenty-two-year-old Leander-class light cruiser, held a folded training clearance in both hands.

Both looked nervous.

Neither looked inclined to leave.

Kade examined the four of them.

Then closed his eyes.

"No."

Riko opened her mouth.

He raised one finger.

"No."

"Commander—"

"No."

Yuna folded her arms.

"Kade."

He looked toward her.

"Yuna."

"We haven't said anything yet."

"You've arrived together, interrupted an active battle briefing, and brought two girls whose training clearances are barely dry."

Emi looked down at her papers.

Mina winced.

Kade continued.

"I have a reasonable suspicion where this conversation is going."

Riko drew herself up.

"Then you know why we're here!"

"Unfortunately."

She stepped forward.

"We want to sortie."

"No."

"Commander!"

"Riko."

He lowered his pencil.

"There's a carrier strike force attacking our people. That is not an invitation to conduct your first unrestricted combat exercise."

Riko flinched.

For a moment, her expression changed.

Then she glanced toward the tactical map.

The symbols representing Breakwater and the Keelborn escort group were still clustered beyond the Burnt Narrows.

Red enemy markers surrounded them.

Two hostile vessels had been confirmed destroyed.

Four remained.

A Blackwake heavy cruiser.

A surviving destroyer.

A fast battleship.

And an aircraft carrier.

The enemy formation was still fighting.

Breakwater had taken a torpedo hit and several heavy shell impacts. Its port-side compartments were being held against flooding. Fires had broken out in the upper works, and the damage-control teams were working to prevent a much more serious disaster.

Aster was wounded.

June was wounded.

Elsa had sustained further damage.

Calla and Nadya remained engaged.

And on the island, fifteen SIA former players, several native security personnel, and an injured civilian were waiting for a safe way off the beach.

Riko stared at those markers.

Then looked back at Kade.

"That's exactly why we have to go."

His expression hardened.

"No. That's exactly why I can't afford to send more people who aren't ready."

Yuna stepped forward.

"Commander, the enemy carrier is still launching aircraft."

"I am aware."

"Breakwater's anti-aircraft coverage is deteriorating."

"Also aware."

"Calla can't keep protecting everyone by herself."

"I know."

Yuna hesitated.

Her hands tightened slightly.

Then she said, more quietly:

"I have fighters."

Kade looked at her.

The carrier girl met his eyes.

"I have fighters, and I have aircraft capable of attacking that carrier."

He considered that.

Then glanced toward the aviation-readiness report beside the map.

He already knew what it said.

Yuna's aviation systems had improved considerably during the past month.

Her Illustrious-class equipment had undergone repeated inspections. Her flight-handling procedures had become more consistent. The technicians had cleared a limited aircraft complement for supervised operations, and she had successfully conducted several controlled launch-and-recovery exercises in the waters around Horizon.

That was meaningful progress.

It was not the same thing as coordinating an attack against a defended enemy aircraft carrier while hostile planes filled the sky.

He looked back at her.

"Your latest clearance is for restricted aviation operations."

"Yes."

"Not fleet combat."

"I know."

"Your strike aircraft haven't completed a full live combat exercise."

"I know."

"Your current aviation equipment still has assistance restrictions."

Yuna nodded.

"I know all of that."

"Then you understand why I'm telling you no."

Her expression tightened.

For a moment, she looked down.

When she spoke again, her voice was steady.

"I also understand that the aircraft attacking Breakwater are real."

Kade said nothing.

Yuna glanced toward the map.

"So are the people on that ship."

The words landed harder than any accusation.

Kade looked at the blue marker representing Breakwater.

He knew exactly how real the people aboard it were.

He had read the initial casualty report.

Thomas Reed.

Twenty-one years old.

Killed during the enemy's bombardment of the upper battery.

There were other wounded.

Some seriously.

And the casualty numbers might rise before the operation ended.

Yuna continued.

"Every aircraft I can keep away from them is one less that gets to drop a bomb."

Kade looked toward her.

"And every aircraft you lose is another one we can't replace easily."

"I know."

"Every damaged component of your rigging is another repair we may not be able to complete."

"I know."

"And if the enemy finds you—"

Yuna interrupted.

"Then I'll be in danger."

The room became quiet.

She swallowed.

Her expression softened.

"I understand that."

For a moment, she looked younger than twenty.

Then her eyes moved toward the map again.

"But they're already in danger."

Kade exhaled slowly.

Behind him, Mara Fenwick stood near the communications table.

She had been listening without speaking.

Now she looked toward Riko.

The battleship girl stepped forward.

"And I can help too."

Kade turned.

"Riko."

"I know what you're going to say."

"Do you?"

"My Mk. I is bulky. I haven't graduated to intermediate. I still need my stabilizers."

Kade raised an eyebrow.

"That's a remarkably accurate summary."

She frowned.

"Don't."

He stopped.

The seriousness in her voice surprised him.

Riko looked toward the map.

"Please."

The word was quiet.

Not the usual enthusiastic demand.

Not one of her grand declarations about Yamato-class firepower and future twenty-inch guns.

Just one word.

"Please let me help."

Kade considered her.

He remembered the young woman who had arrived at Horizon a little over a month earlier.

Excited.

Loud.

Proud of having selected one of the most powerful battleship classes available.

She'd imagined grand naval battles, enormous guns, and eventually upgrading to a configuration that would require quantities of steel no sane quartermaster wanted to discuss.

Then the Crisis happened.

Her chosen warship became physical.

The recoil became real.

The weight became real.

Her training frame became an unpleasant daily reminder that possessing a Yamato-class body did not automatically grant the skill required to operate it.

She had struggled.

Complained.

Argued with Dain.

And trained anyway.

Every day.

Now some of the people who had helped teach her were bleeding in the Pacific.

Kade knew why she wanted to go.

That didn't make the decision easier.

"Riko."

She looked up.

"Your main guns are forty-six centimeters."

She nodded.

"Yes."

"They are among the largest naval weapons in our inventory."

"Yes."

"And firing them safely requires more than being able to point them in the right direction."

Her smile faded.

"I know."

"Your Mk. I is designed to help you handle the machinery while you're learning. It isn't a proper unrestricted combat configuration."

"I know."

"And the enemy is firing sixteen-inch-class naval artillery at Breakwater."

Riko went still.

Kade let the statement settle.

"That isn't a training target."

She swallowed.

Then nodded.

"No."

For a moment, he thought she might finally accept the refusal.

Then Mina stepped forward.

"Commander."

Kade turned.

The Leander-class girl looked terrified.

Her hands were trembling around the folded paper.

But she was looking directly at him.

"I want to go too."

He stared.

"Mina."

She flinched at the sound of her name.

He continued.

"You completed your first intermediate assessment yesterday."

"I know."

"Yesterday."

"Yes."

"You are not cleared for open-ocean combat."

"I know."

"Then why are you standing here?"

Mina took a breath.

The answer came slowly.

"Because Elsa's hurt."

Kade stopped.

Mina looked toward the map.

"She helped me with my balance training. Every time I kept overcorrecting, she stayed afterward and showed me what I was doing wrong."

Her voice shook.

"She didn't laugh. She didn't tell me I was hopeless. She just kept explaining until I understood."

Kade remained quiet.

Mina continued.

"And now she's out there, fighting something that might kill her."

She swallowed.

"I know I'm not as good as she is."

Her fingers tightened around the clearance.

"I know I'm barely qualified to use the intermediate rigging."

She looked up.

"But I can still fire my guns. I can still follow orders. I can still help."

Emi stepped forward beside her.

"Me too."

Kade turned.

The Benson-class destroyer looked as though she'd rather face another month of medical examinations than have this conversation.

Her voice was small.

But clear.

"Aster's hurt."

Kade felt his stomach tighten.

Emi looked down.

"She taught me how to stop without falling. And how to turn. And what to do when I got scared."

Her cheeks reddened.

"I was scared all the time."

Riko glanced toward her.

Emi continued.

"But Aster never made me feel stupid."

She raised her eyes.

"I don't want her to die."

The operations room seemed to become very quiet.

Even the radio traffic faded into the background.

Kade looked at the four young women.

Riko.

Yuna.

Mina.

Emi.

Four former players.

Four young women who had been ordinary people a little over a month earlier.

Two still in primary training.

Two only beginning the transition away from assistance systems.

All carrying weapons they had once treated as exciting class features.

Now they wanted to use those weapons to save their friends.

He understood.

That was the worst part.

He understood completely.

Then Riko said something that made him feel considerably less charitable.

"We're going anyway."

Kade looked toward her.

Slowly.

"What?"

Riko swallowed.

But she didn't look away.

"If you don't let us go, we'll find another way."

Yuna closed her eyes briefly.

Mina looked uncomfortable.

Emi's face went pale.

Kade stared.

Then placed his pencil on the table.

Very carefully.

"Riko."

His voice was quiet.

She flinched.

"Do you understand what you're saying?"

The battleship girl hesitated.

Then nodded.

"Yes."

"You're telling your commanding officer that you'll disobey a direct order and take a battleship-class weapon system to sea without authorization."

Riko's expression tightened.

Kade continued.

"You're also telling me that you're prepared to endanger your friends by taking them along."

Emi looked down.

Mina swallowed.

Yuna stepped forward.

"Commander, we agreed to come together."

Kade looked toward her.

"That doesn't improve the situation."

"I know."

"Then don't pretend it does."

She flinched.

For the first time since entering the room, Riko looked genuinely ashamed.

Kade watched them for several seconds.

Then turned toward Mara.

"Chief."

"Commander?"

"Close the door."

The chief did.

The click of the latch sounded unusually loud.

Kade returned his attention to the girls.

"Listen carefully."

They straightened.

"I understand why you want to go."

He glanced toward the map.

"I understand that your friends are in danger."

His voice hardened.

"But if you ever threaten to ignore a safety order again because you're frightened or angry, we'll have a very different conversation."

Riko lowered her eyes.

"Yes, Commander."

"I mean it."

She nodded.

"So do I."

Mina and Emi remained silent.

Yuna watched Kade closely.

He looked toward the charts.

Then the latest weather report.

The battle positions.

The distance between Horizon and the Burnt Narrows.

He had already rejected requests to reinforce the fleet earlier in the engagement.

Not because he wanted to leave his people unsupported.

Because the available girls were still training.

Now the situation had changed.

Breakwater's anti-aircraft defenses were damaged.

The enemy carrier remained active.

The surface screen was wounded.

Aster and June were in danger of being overwhelmed.

And Kade was being asked to choose between risking inexperienced reinforcements and leaving his existing force to continue fighting without relief.

Neither option was good.

He hated that.

A great deal.

He looked toward the four.

Then asked:

"Did you bring your latest equipment clearances?"

Riko blinked.

"What?"

"Your equipment clearances."

Yuna immediately produced a folded document.

Mina already had hers.

Emi raised her training report with both hands.

Riko looked toward the ceiling.

Kade narrowed his eyes.

"Riko."

"I have mine!"

"Where?"

"...My room."

Kade stared.

The battleship girl wilted.

"...Sorry."

He rubbed his forehead.

Then looked toward Mara.

"Get Dain, Hana, and the training officers on the line."

The chief nodded.

"Yes, Commander."

Yuna's eyes widened.

"Does that mean—"

"It means I'm investigating whether I can authorize anything without being an irresponsible idiot."

She closed her mouth.

Kade looked toward Riko.

"And it means none of you is going anywhere until qualified personnel inspect your equipment."

Riko nodded rapidly.

"Yes!"

"Do not celebrate."

She stopped.

He continued.

"If the engineers tell me your rigging cannot safely make the trip, you stay."

Riko swallowed.

"Understood."

"If the medical officer refuses clearance, you stay."

Mina nodded.

"Yes, Commander."

"If the weather or sea conditions exceed your training limits, you stay."

Emi straightened.

"Understood."

Kade looked toward Yuna.

"And if your aircraft cannot be made ready without cutting corners, you are not launching them."

She nodded.

"I understand."

He studied all four.

Then sighed.

"Good."

Mara had already reached the telephone.

The room's ordinary noise returned.

A radio operator repeated a position report.

Somewhere down the corridor, somebody hurried past carrying documents.

Outside the windows, the harbor glittered beneath the afternoon sun.

Kade looked toward the four young women again.

"Now."

They straightened.

"Go get ready for an emergency support sortie."

Riko's eyes widened.

Yuna inhaled sharply.

Emi stared.

Mina blinked twice.

Then Riko's face lit up.

"REALLY?!"

Kade raised one finger.

"Under conditions."

She stopped.

He continued.

"You are not going there to prove yourselves."

All four nodded.

"You're going to support a damaged force and help bring people home."

He looked toward Emi and Mina.

"You will remain under experienced supervision. You will not pursue enemy ships. You will not improvise independent attacks."

They nodded again.

He looked toward Riko.

"You will use your full approved stabilization configuration. No disabling assistance systems. No experimenting with weapon output."

Riko's expression became almost comically serious.

"Yes, Commander."

"And you will not attempt a nine-gun broadside unless the engineers explicitly certify that configuration for the conditions."

She hesitated.

"...Yes, Commander."

Kade turned toward Yuna.

"Your fighters are the first priority. Protect Breakwater, the Keelborn, and the landing craft. Strike aircraft only when you have enough control of the situation to launch them responsibly."

Yuna nodded.

"Understood."

He looked around the room.

"And if any of you is injured, or your rigging becomes unsafe, you report it and return toward Horizon as soon as you can safely disengage."

Emi swallowed.

Mina nodded.

Riko looked toward him.

"What if the others still need help?"

Kade's expression became very still.

"Then you tell the experienced officers, and they arrange the response."

He stepped closer.

"You do not turn one casualty into five because you refuse to admit you're hurt."

Riko looked down.

Then nodded.

"Yes."

Kade studied her.

For a moment, his expression softened.

"I need you to understand something."

She raised her eyes.

He looked toward all four.

"Coming home is part of the mission."

Nobody spoke.

Then Yuna nodded.

"We understand."

Kade held her gaze.

He hoped they did.

He hoped very much.

Finally, he stepped aside.

"Go."

The girls moved immediately.

Riko nearly collided with the door.

Emi caught her sleeve.

Mina hurried after them.

Yuna stopped at the threshold.

She turned.

"Kade."

He looked up.

Her expression was gentle.

"Thank you."

He considered the tactical map.

The red markers.

The blue markers.

The casualty figures.

Then he looked toward her.

"Make sure you give me a reason not to regret it."

Yuna smiled faintly.

"We'll try."

She left.

The door closed.

Kade stood very still.

For several seconds, he didn't move.

Then Mara approached.

"Commander?"

He looked toward the closed door.

"I hate this."

The chief's expression softened.

"I know."

He looked down at his hands.

They were steady.

He didn't particularly appreciate that.

He would have preferred some visible sign that the decision was difficult.

Instead, his body seemed content to let him stand there while his mind examined every possible way the next few hours might go wrong.

Kade exhaled.

"I really hate this."

Mara didn't offer easy reassurance.

She simply stood beside him.

Then, after a moment, she said:

"We'll make sure they're properly prepared."

He nodded.

"Yes."

"And we'll keep listening."

"Yes."

She looked toward the map.

Then back at him.

"You didn't send them because they shouted."

Kade considered that.

"No."

"You sent them because the situation changed."

He nodded slowly.

"Yes."

Mara rested one hand on the back of a chair.

"Then make sure the orders reflect that."

Kade looked toward her.

A small smile appeared.

"Good advice."

"I try."

He reached for the radio.

The authorization would have to be recorded.

The engineering checks completed.

The command structure established.

And four young women would need to understand precisely how limited their assignments remained.

The sea did not become safer because someone was brave.

But neither did bravery become meaningless simply because it carried danger.

Kade knew that.

He just wished the lesson didn't have to be taught with people he cared about.

The emergency inspection took twenty-eight minutes.

Dain Okoro later described that as the fastest he had ever seen three departments cooperate without somebody threatening to resign.

Hana disagreed.

She said it had felt like three hours.

Tali refused to express an opinion.

She was too busy checking the equipment.

The four Keelborn had assembled at the primary training and maintenance platform, where their rigging was being prepared for deployment.

The difference between the girls was immediately visible.

Emi's Benson-class intermediate configuration was compact compared with her original Mk. I. The broad flotation supports had been removed, leaving class-specific destroyer equipment mounted around her body through a reduced assistance frame. Her gun fittings, torpedo equipment, and propulsion assemblies were arranged close enough to permit a more natural movement across the water.

But she still wore additional safety supports.

They were smaller now.

Less obvious.

Not gone.

The intermediate control systems monitored her balance and limited the most aggressive propulsion changes. Her recent qualifications permitted controlled movement under supervision.

They did not certify her as an experienced destroyer.

Mina's Leander-class equipment was larger.

The light cruiser's four twin six-inch main turrets were fitted through the rigging's support structure, with the machinery distributed around her body rather than enclosing her in a rigid armored shell. Her intermediate frame retained additional stability and control components that a trained cruiser no longer required.

The apparatus looked promising.

It also looked new.

Because it was.

Yuna's Illustrious-class rigging occupied a separate section of the platform.

The carrier's fitted flight-deck arrangement extended alongside and behind her, supported by naval machinery, protective structures, and aviation-handling equipment. The training assistance assemblies were less bulky than Riko's, but the carrier still depended on calibrated control limits and technical supervision for demanding flight operations.

Aircraft were being prepared.

Not imagined into existence.

Prepared.

Inspected.

Fuel accounted for.

Weapons checked.

Flight arrangements verified.

The aviation technicians moved through the work with quiet urgency.

Several Sea Hurricanes were ready for fighter duties.

A small flight of Fairey Barracudas had also been prepared for the possibility of a strike against enemy shipping. The type could undertake torpedo or dive-bombing duties, depending on the load and mission preparation.

Yuna looked toward them with an expression of fierce concentration.

She had spent weeks training for this.

Now the work was happening for real.

And on the far side of the platform, Riko Minase was receiving what might have been the least glamorous battleship inspection in naval history.

Dain stood beside her Mk. I configuration.

His arms were folded.

His expression was severe.

Riko stood perfectly still.

Hana held a checklist.

Tali examined one of the heavy support fittings.

The Yamato-class equipment was immense.

Its principal turrets carried triple forty-six-centimeter gun mounts arranged around Riko's body through the class-specific support structure. Thick armor fittings, propulsion machinery, and the additional stabilization apparatus of the primary training frame gave the configuration a broad, imposing silhouette.

The Mk. I's auxiliary flotation assemblies remained fitted.

So did its recoil-assistance equipment.

Its propulsion governors were active.

Its safety interlocks were functioning.

And Riko hated how cumbersome it looked.

Today, however, she wasn't complaining.

Not even once.

Dain found that more alarming than the equipment report.

"Miss Minase."

"Yes?"

"You understand that this is not your proper combat rigging."

"Yes."

"You understand that several of the controls will remain restricted."

"Yes."

"And that if I receive a report that you've bypassed a stabilizer to increase your speed, I will personally recommend grounding your equipment."

Riko nodded.

"Understood."

Dain narrowed his eyes.

She looked back.

Perfectly serious.

The engineer glanced toward Hana.

Hana shrugged.

"She's been like this since she arrived."

Dain sighed.

"That's worse."

Riko looked offended.

"What?"

Hana smiled faintly.

"He's worried about you."

The battleship girl blinked.

Dain looked away.

"I'm worried about the equipment."

Hana raised an eyebrow.

"Of course."

"And the harbor."

"Naturally."

"And the repair budget."

"Very important."

Riko smiled slightly.

Dain turned back toward her.

Then his expression softened.

"Listen."

She straightened.

The older engineer rested a hand against one of the heavy support fittings.

"These aren't toys."

Riko nodded.

"I know."

He looked toward the enormous gun assemblies.

"When you fire those guns, the load has to go somewhere. The recoil systems absorb and distribute much of it, but your balance and the rigging's mechanical condition still matter."

She nodded again.

"I know."

"And just because the equipment can fire doesn't mean it should fire every gun at once."

Riko swallowed.

"Yes."

Dain studied her.

Then sighed.

"All right."

He looked toward Hana.

"Report?"

The repair ship girl checked the completed inspection.

"Propulsion within approved limits. Stabilization systems functional. Main battery fittings inspected. Training-output restrictions remain active. Ammunition loading complete for the authorized firing plan."

Tali added, "No unresolved structural faults detected in the systems required for transit. The present configuration is not certified for prolonged full-output combat."

Dain nodded.

"Good."

Then he looked toward Riko.

"You're cleared for restricted emergency deployment."

The battleship girl inhaled sharply.

Her eyes widened.

For a moment, she looked ready to shout.

Then she remembered the seriousness of the situation.

She simply bowed her head.

"Thank you."

Dain stared at her.

Hana smiled.

Tali looked quietly pleased.

The engineer considered the young woman in front of him.

Then nodded.

"Bring it back."

Riko looked up.

He indicated the machinery.

"All of it."

She smiled.

"I'll try."

Dain sighed.

"Please do better than try."

Riko's smile softened.

"Okay."

And for the first time that afternoon, the engineer looked almost reassured.

Almost.

Mina's inspection was rather less encouraging.

Not because the Leander-class rigging had failed.

It hadn't.

That was, according to Dain, the nicest thing anybody could say about an emergency equipment inspection.

The problem was the girl wearing it.

Mina stood on the water-handling platform while Calla's assistant instructor reviewed her training records over the telephone. The light cruiser's intermediate equipment had performed adequately during the previous day's controlled-water assessment, but nobody had ever intended that the next stage of her education would involve steaming toward an active battle.

Her balance was improving.

Her stopping response was acceptable.

Her propulsion coordination was still inconsistent during aggressive turns.

And her main battery experience consisted of supervised range exercises under favorable conditions.

Mina knew all of that.

The knowledge had not stopped her from volunteering.

It did, however, make her increasingly conscious of how far she had to go.

The training officer lowered the handset.

Then looked at her.

"Miss Mina."

"Yes?"

"Your equipment is fit for transit in the expected conditions, provided you remain inside the approved operating limits."

Mina nodded.

"Understood."

"You are not cleared for independent combat maneuvering."

"I know."

"Nor for unsupported close-range engagements."

"Yes."

The officer studied her.

Then added:

"If you receive instructions to disengage, you disengage."

Mina swallowed.

"Yes."

The woman continued.

"You're to make yourself useful under Elsa's direction. Not demonstrate how much you've improved."

For a moment, Mina looked down.

Then she nodded.

"I understand."

The officer's expression softened.

"Good."

Mina glanced toward the sea.

"Can I ask something?"

"Of course."

The young cruiser hesitated.

Then looked toward her own equipment.

"What if I freeze?"

The instructor became quiet.

Mina's cheeks reddened.

"I know the procedures. I know what I'm supposed to do. But when I think about actual shells coming toward me..."

Her voice trailed off.

The older woman regarded her for a moment.

Then stepped closer.

"Are you frightened now?"

Mina nodded.

"Yes."

"Good."

The girl blinked.

"Good?"

"It means you understand some of what you're volunteering to face."

Mina swallowed.

The instructor continued.

"You won't eliminate fear by pretending it isn't there. You fall back on the things you've practiced. You listen to your assigned leader. And if the situation exceeds your ability, you report it."

Mina looked toward her.

"That sounds simple."

"It is simple."

A pause.

"That doesn't make it easy."

The young cruiser considered those words.

Then nodded.

"Right."

The instructor smiled faintly.

"And remember something. Elsa didn't become a capable heavy cruiser because she never made a mistake."

Mina blinked.

"She didn't?"

The woman laughed.

"Of course not."

Mina looked genuinely surprised.

The instructor continued.

"She became capable because she kept learning."

For a moment, Mina studied the water.

Then her shoulders straightened.

"Okay."

She looked toward the officer.

"I'll do my best."

"I know."

The woman smiled.

"Now make sure you bring that rigging back in one piece. We've only just finished fitting it."

Mina laughed weakly.

"Yes, ma'am."

At the adjacent platform, Emi received a similar lecture.

Hers was considerably shorter.

Mostly because the young destroyer started crying halfway through it.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

She simply stood beside her Benson-class equipment while the inspection technician explained the limits of the intermediate configuration, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears.

The technician stopped.

"Emi?"

The girl wiped at her face.

"Sorry."

"What's wrong?"

Emi shook her head.

"Nothing."

The woman raised an eyebrow.

Emi looked down.

Then whispered:

"I'm scared."

The technician's expression softened.

She stepped closer.

"Of course you are."

Emi sniffed.

"I don't want Aster to die."

The woman remained quiet.

The young destroyer continued.

"And I don't want to die either."

Her voice shook.

The technician rested a hand on her shoulder.

"Then make sure you remember both of those things."

Emi looked up.

The woman continued.

"You're not going to be much help to Aster if you get yourself destroyed trying to impress her."

Emi nodded rapidly.

"Yes."

"And if you're ordered back, you come back."

"Yes."

"And if your equipment begins behaving improperly—"

"I report it."

"Exactly."

The technician smiled.

Emi tried to return it.

Then looked toward her rigging.

The compact intermediate arrangement waited beside the platform, its gun mounts, torpedo fittings, propulsion assemblies, and reduced stability supports inspected and ready for use.

Yesterday, she'd been delighted simply to move across the water without the bulky Mk. I floats.

Today, she was preparing to cross open sea and enter a battle.

The difference made her stomach twist.

She took a slow breath.

Then another.

Finally, she nodded.

"I'm ready."

The technician studied her.

"No."

Emi blinked.

The woman smiled gently.

"You're prepared as well as we can make you on short notice."

Emi considered that.

Then nodded.

"Right."

"That's a better place to start."

The four Keelborn departed Horizon Atoll under a sky that seemed far too beautiful for what they were about to do.

The afternoon sun lay warm across the harbor.

Cloud shadows drifted over the reef.

The western navigation beacon stood beyond the repaired channel, its old structure catching the light as the girls moved past.

Riko led the heavier element at a carefully controlled pace.

Her Mk. I stabilization equipment projected around her Yamato-class rigging, broad enough that she looked considerably less graceful than the battleship girl she'd originally imagined becoming.

The equipment's flotation assemblies rode close to the water.

Its propulsion limits remained active.

And the heavy gun machinery moved with an unmistakable sense of mass whenever she adjusted course.

Beside her, Yuna's Illustrious-class carrier equipment occupied a broad, distinctive silhouette.

Her fitted flight deck extended alongside her body, with aviation-handling machinery arranged through the rigging's supports. The maintenance crews had finished securing the approved aircraft complement, and the technicians' final checks had been recorded.

Mina followed in her Leander-class intermediate configuration.

Emi moved beside her, trying very hard not to stare down at the water.

The four formed an unusual little fleet.

A Yamato-class battleship.

An Illustrious-class aircraft carrier.

A Leander-class light cruiser.

And a Benson-class destroyer.

On paper, it looked impressive.

At least until somebody asked how many of them had ever fought a real naval battle.

The answer was none.

Riko glanced toward Emi.

The destroyer girl was moving carefully.

Very carefully.

Her propulsion remained within the approved limits, and her body made small adjustments to compensate for the swell moving beneath her feet.

She wasn't falling.

That was good.

But she looked nervous enough that Riko found herself wanting to say something reassuring.

Then she remembered that she was also nervous.

This complicated matters.

She cleared her throat.

"Emi!"

The destroyer looked over.

"Yes?"

Riko smiled.

"You're doing great!"

Emi blinked.

Then returned a small smile.

"Thank you."

A pause.

Then Mina looked toward Riko's enormous training frame.

"You're doing well too."

Riko's smile widened.

"Of course!"

The battleship girl shifted her weight.

One of the auxiliary flotation supports dipped unexpectedly into a passing swell.

The frame corrected.

Her equipment rocked.

Riko windmilled one arm.

"WHOA—!"

Yuna turned sharply.

"Riko!"

"I'm fine!"

The training frame settled.

Riko straightened.

Her cheeks were bright red.

Emi stared.

Mina covered her mouth.

Yuna slowly closed her eyes.

The battleship girl glared.

"Not one word."

Mina made a small sound.

Emi pressed her lips together.

Yuna looked toward the horizon.

"Riko."

"What?"

"Perhaps we should save the dramatic maneuvers until after you've learned to do them deliberately."

Riko looked wounded.

"That was the swell!"

"Yes."

"A very aggressive swell!"

"Of course."

Emi began laughing.

She tried to stop.

Failed.

Then Mina joined her.

For a moment, Riko looked offended.

Then she sighed.

"Oh, fine."

A small smile appeared.

"At least everybody's awake."

Yuna laughed.

The tension eased.

Only slightly.

But enough.

Beyond Horizon's protective reef, the sea changed.

The sheltered water gave way to longer swells.

The surface rose and fell beneath the Keelborn with greater force.

The wind strengthened.

Their rigging responded.

For Yuna, the adjustments were becoming familiar.

For Riko, the Mk. I absorbed much of the instability but reminded her constantly that she remained dependent on its assistance systems.

For Mina and Emi, every change in the sea demanded attention.

They weren't simply standing on the water.

They were learning to move with it while their fitted machinery carried them forward.

Aster could do this without appearing to think.

Elsa could maintain a firing solution while maneuvering through the same conditions.

Nadya could handle her enormous old battleship equipment with the confidence of someone who understood its limitations.

The four newcomers were not there yet.

That was the truth.

And, for the first time, all four seemed willing to acknowledge it without treating the admission as a personal failure.

Yuna raised her radio.

"Horizon Command, support element departing the western approach. All four units underway."

Kade's voice answered.

"Copy, Yuna. Maintain formation and report any equipment irregularities."

"Understood."

A pause.

Then he added:

"Riko."

The battleship girl straightened.

"Yes, Commander?"

"Leave the stabilizers alone."

There was a silence.

Then Mina began laughing.

Emi covered her mouth.

Yuna looked away.

Riko's face reddened.

"I WASN'T GOING TO TOUCH THEM!"

The radio crackled.

Kade sounded almost amused.

"Excellent. Keep it that way."

The transmission ended.

Riko stared at the handset.

Then sighed.

"He doesn't trust me."

Yuna glanced toward her.

"Can you blame him?"

The battleship girl considered that.

Then lowered her shoulders.

"...Not entirely."

They continued.

The western beacon disappeared behind them.

The open Pacific stretched ahead.

And somewhere beyond the horizon, their friends were fighting for their lives.

Kade watched the four blue markers leave Horizon's immediate waters.

He had signed the authorization.

He had reviewed the engineering clearances.

He had heard the medical department's reservations.

He had ordered the appropriate command restrictions recorded.

And he still felt as though he'd done something unforgivably reckless.

Mara stood beside him.

Neither spoke for several minutes.

The operations room continued receiving battle reports.

Breakwater's aft upper works had suffered a bomb impact.

A fire had threatened the ammunition-handling spaces.

The ship's crew was containing it, but the situation remained critical.

Aster and June were being protected by the other Keelborn.

Elsa and Nadya were still engaging the enemy surface ships.

Calla was fighting to keep the skies clear.

And on the beach, the SIA landing party was preparing for another attack from the air.

Kade looked toward the four reinforcement markers.

Riko.

Yuna.

Mina.

Emi.

He could still order them back.

Technically.

The thought occurred repeatedly.

He could call them.

Tell them to turn around.

Send them back to training.

And perhaps preserve them from the fighting.

He also knew that doing so would not make the danger at the Burnt Narrows disappear.

The people already there would simply face it without the additional help.

He hated that calculation.

It reduced lives to a comparison of risks.

He knew that was part of command.

He still hated it.

Mara glanced toward him.

"Commander?"

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

He looked up.

"Yes?"

"Would you like me to have Irena prepare additional treatment spaces?"

Kade considered the question.

Then nodded.

"Yes."

"Already arranging it."

He smiled faintly.

"Thank you."

The chief returned the smile.

Kade looked back toward the map.

For a long moment, he studied the distance separating the four girls from the battle.

He thought of Emi crying during her equipment inspection.

Of Mina's trembling hands.

Of Riko's clumsy flotation supports.

Of Yuna trying to become a carrier commander before she'd had time to master half the procedures involved.

Then he lowered his head.

It was a small movement.

Almost invisible.

Nobody in the operations room paid attention.

His voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Whoever's listening..."

He stopped.

For a moment, he wondered whether the words were foolish.

This world possessed too many things he didn't understand for him to claim certainty about what higher powers might exist.

Perhaps someone was listening.

Perhaps nobody was.

He didn't know.

He continued anyway.

"Please see them through."

His fingers tightened around the edge of the map.

"All of them."

A pause.

Then:

"Let them come home."

He raised his head.

The tactical markers continued moving.

The radio crackled.

Another report arrived.

There was no answer from the heavens.

Only the familiar sounds of a naval station at war.

Kade took a breath.

Then returned to work.

Whatever prayers were worth, the girls still needed accurate information.

And he intended to give them every useful piece he could.

The Beach That Nobody Wanted Anymore

Greta Falk had always believed the MG08 deserved more respect than it received.

It was a heavy weapon.

An old weapon.

A thoroughly inconvenient weapon by the standards of modern infantry.

Its water-cooled barrel jacket required attention. Its ammunition came in belts rather than convenient magazines. Its complete operating arrangement was cumbersome enough that transporting it across a beach demanded planning, not enthusiasm.

Greta understood these disadvantages perfectly well.

She had chosen the machine gun anyway.

There was a certain honesty to the design.

It did not pretend to be lightweight.

It did not pretend to be fashionable.

It was a machine built to perform a specific task, provided somebody supplied it with ammunition, cooling water, a suitable firing position, and the patience to operate it correctly.

And after several weeks of being told that her beloved old gun was too cumbersome for ordinary patrol work, Greta had finally encountered a situation where its particular strengths might matter.

Unfortunately, the situation involved Blackwake aircraft attempting to murder her friends.

She considered this an unacceptable arrangement.

"Aircraft!"

Piper's shout carried across the shore.

Greta raised her eyes.

Three dark shapes were descending from the northeastern sky.

Fighters.

Or what passed for fighters within the Blackwake's grotesque collection of machinery.

Their silhouettes resembled conventional propeller-driven aircraft, but the wing edges were irregular, and dark growths spread across the engine housings.

The first two were moving toward the water.

The third had turned toward the beach.

Toward the landing craft.

Toward the ruined industrial buildings where the SIA detachment was sheltering an injured civilian.

Greta's expression hardened.

"Of course."

Beside her, Morgan looked toward the sky.

The American's M27 rested against her protective vest.

She watched the descending aircraft for a moment.

Then said something unprintable.

Greta nodded.

"Agreed."

The beach had become a strange place during the previous hour.

The infantry group had finally withdrawn from the industrial complex, exhausted and covered in dust, carrying Belle's recovered Pendant and helping Mara Venn toward the landing point.

They had been preparing to embark.

Then the naval battle intensified.

Aircraft began crossing the waters between the island and Breakwater.

Several made low passes near the shore.

One dropped a bomb into the water beyond the reef.

Another strafed a ruined pier.

The landing craft's crew had repositioned the boat to avoid presenting an easy target, and Mira ordered the infantry personnel into the protected positions identified during their original landing assessment.

Nobody liked the delay.

Nobody argued that it was unnecessary.

Now Greta was positioned behind a solid section of concrete overlooking the beach's approaches.

Her MG08 had been placed on a stable mount.

The cooling system was checked.

Ammunition was available.

And Morgan was assisting with the weapon's support requirements while keeping her own rifle ready.

The arrangement was far from ideal.

It was better than standing on the sand and hoping the Blackwake decided to leave.

Greta watched the nearest aircraft turn.

Its nose dropped.

The guns in its wings flashed.

Sand erupted along the edge of the beach.

The first burst fell short of the landing craft.

The second walked across the remains of an old loading ramp.

The pilot was correcting.

Greta's jaw tightened.

"Too close."

Morgan nodded.

The aircraft began another pass.

Greta waited until its approach made a sensible target possible.

Then the MG08 opened fire.

The sound was deep and mechanical.

A sustained, hammering burst that seemed to fill the concrete position with vibration.

The water-cooled machine gun worked through its ammunition belt with relentless precision, ejecting spent cases while Morgan monitored the feed and the cooling arrangement.

The weapon was old.

Very old.

Its operating principles were not.

A moving aircraft remained difficult to hit, especially from an improvised ground position. Greta knew that. She wasn't expecting every burst to tear a fighter apart.

What she could do was put disciplined fire into a dangerous approach and force the attacker to contend with something other than helpless infantry.

The first burst passed behind the aircraft.

Greta corrected.

Fired again.

Several tracers crossed beneath the Blackwake fighter's wing.

Then a flash appeared near its engine housing.

The aircraft jerked.

Its course wavered.

For a moment, the pilot appeared to consider continuing the attack.

Then the fighter banked sharply away.

Morgan stared.

Greta released the trigger.

A broad smile threatened to appear.

She suppressed it.

Mostly.

"Good."

Morgan slowly turned toward her.

"Greta."

"Yes?"

"You hit it."

The German woman nodded.

"Apparently."

Morgan looked toward the aircraft.

It was trailing smoke now.

Not badly enough to guarantee a crash.

Enough to demonstrate that the machine gun could hurt it.

Morgan grinned.

"That was beautiful."

Greta considered the compliment.

Then nodded solemnly.

"Yes."

The aircraft came around again.

Her smile vanished.

"Not finished."

Morgan immediately returned her attention to the ammunition.

Across the beach, Alina was organizing the rest of the group into sheltered positions under Mira's supervision.

The native SIA officer had made one thing very clear.

The landing party was not an anti-aircraft battalion.

Their rifles and machine guns could threaten vulnerable low-flying aircraft under favorable circumstances, but they could not replace Calla, June, Breakwater's anti-aircraft batteries, or proper naval fighters.

Their job was to defend the immediate beach and recovery route.

Not stand in the open trying to shoot aircraft out of the sky.

Cassidy had appeared disappointed when Mira explained this.

Then a fighter strafed the beach.

Her disappointment evaporated.

Now she was crouched beside Zofia behind a thick concrete retaining wall, watching the Blackwake aircraft make another turn.

Her revolver remained holstered.

This was probably the most sensible decision she'd made all afternoon.

Zofia glanced toward her.

"Not going to shoot it?"

Cassidy considered the approaching fighter.

Then looked down at her snub-nosed Model 500.

A slow smile appeared.

"Tempting."

Zofia stared.

"Cassidy."

"What?"

"Please."

The American sighed.

"Fine."

She looked toward the aircraft again.

"Terrible waste of a magnificent opportunity."

A burst of machine-gun fire struck the wall above them.

Concrete fragments showered down.

Both women ducked.

Cassidy's smile vanished.

"...On second thought."

Zofia looked toward her.

"Yes?"

"Let's stay behind the wall."

"Excellent idea."

They pressed themselves lower.

The Blackwake fighter passed overhead.

Its engine screamed.

A shadow crossed the sand.

Then the aircraft banked toward the landing craft.

Piper saw it first.

She raised the warning.

The boat crew responded, attempting to keep the small craft out of the attack line while the shore party remained under cover.

The fighter descended.

Its guns flashed.

The first rounds struck the water.

The second burst came closer.

Greta turned her MG08 toward the approach.

Fired.

The heavy machine gun rattled.

Morgan watched the ammunition feed.

The Blackwake aircraft continued.

Greta fired again.

This time, several rounds struck the lower fuselage.

The fighter jerked.

A dark object tore loose from one wing.

The engine began smoking.

It tried to climb.

Then lost control.

The aircraft rolled toward the water.

Its wing struck the sea beyond the landing craft.

The machine broke apart in a violent splash.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Morgan turned toward Greta.

The German woman looked calmly satisfied.

Morgan stared.

"You..."

Greta raised an eyebrow.

"Yes?"

"You actually brought that thing down."

Greta looked toward the sinking wreck.

Then nodded.

"Apparently."

Morgan laughed.

A breathless, disbelieving laugh.

"Oh, that's ridiculous."

Greta's expression became offended.

"There's nothing ridiculous about competent machine-gun work."

Morgan grinned.

"No. No, of course not."

The German woman returned to checking the weapon.

Morgan looked toward the smoking water.

Then toward Greta.

And, for the first time since joining VESPER, she decided to refrain from making a joke about the MG08 being a historical garden sprinkler.

At least until they got home.

The next Blackwake fighter was considerably less cooperative.

It didn't attack along the same line.

Instead, it approached from farther out, climbed briefly above the shore, and then descended toward a different section of the landing area.

The aircraft's machine guns opened fire.

Rounds struck the sand near an old fuel-handling structure.

A burst tore through a stack of abandoned wooden crates.

Another struck the edge of a concrete shelter.

Piper, Tamsin, and Ren ducked behind the wall.

Tamsin winced when she shifted her injured arm.

Ren noticed.

"Still hurting?"

Tamsin nodded.

"A little."

Piper frowned.

"That's not what you said five minutes ago."

Tamsin looked toward her.

"...Five minutes ago it hurt less."

Ren sighed.

"Then stop moving it unnecessarily."

Tamsin made a face.

"You sound like Lara."

"Good."

The MP7 girl looked toward the sky.

"Somebody has to."

A dark shape swept across the beach.

Ren ducked.

A burst of fire struck the roof above them.

Fragments rattled across the concrete.

Piper cursed.

Then raised her radio.

"Mira, Piper. Fighter making repeated passes along the southern shelter. We're holding cover."

Mira acknowledged.

"Remain there. Do not expose yourselves to engage unless necessary."

Piper nodded.

"Understood."

The aircraft passed again.

Farther down the beach, Darya and Réka watched it from beneath an old loading platform.

Réka's expression was thoughtful.

Darya found that worrying.

"What?"

Réka glanced toward her.

"Nothing."

"That is your thinking face."

The Hungarian girl looked offended.

"I have several."

"Yes. That is the dangerous one."

Réka smiled faintly.

Then looked toward the aircraft.

"It's not flying very high."

Darya nodded.

"No."

"And it keeps using the same approach."

"Yes."

Réka considered that.

"Greta could probably—"

"Don't."

The Hungarian blinked.

Darya pointed toward the concrete shelter.

"We are not leaving cover to create a better target for the aircraft."

Réka sighed.

"I wasn't going to."

Darya raised an eyebrow.

Réka looked away.

"...I was considering it."

"Exactly."

A few meters away, Élodie Marchand was examining the aircraft through her observation equipment.

Her Hécate II rested securely in its support position.

She had only a limited amount of suitable ammunition left after the industrial encounter.

Corwin would undoubtedly be delighted to learn that she had expended one of the expensive cartridges on a crane.

Assuming they survived long enough to submit the report.

She watched the Blackwake fighter turn.

Its engine housing was visibly damaged.

Not from their fire.

Possibly from an earlier encounter with the Keelborn anti-aircraft screen.

The aircraft's course was becoming uneven.

Élodie considered the situation.

Then looked toward Mira.

The native SIA officer studied the approach.

The fighter descended again.

Closer.

Its guns flashed.

Rounds struck the shoreline.

Then the aircraft climbed across the edge of the ruined pier.

For a moment, its damaged engine was visible against the bright sky.

Élodie fired.

The Hécate II's report rolled across the beach.

Its recoil struck through the supported rifle.

The shot hit the aircraft's already damaged machinery.

A flash appeared beneath the engine housing.

The fighter shuddered.

Its propeller continued turning for another moment.

Then the engine began shedding smoke.

The aircraft rolled sharply.

One wing dipped.

It attempted to climb.

Failed.

Then disappeared beyond the far side of the pier.

A violent splash followed.

Élodie remained still.

She watched the smoke rise.

Then lowered her rifle.

Cassidy stared from behind the retaining wall.

Zofia slowly turned toward her.

"Did she just...?"

Cassidy nodded.

"Yes."

A pause.

Then she added:

"That woman is terrifying."

Zofia looked toward Élodie.

The tall Frenchwoman was already checking her ammunition record.

For a moment, Cassidy felt a profound respect for her friend's ability to remain so thoroughly unimpressed by her own work.

Then Élodie glanced toward them.

"What?"

Cassidy smiled.

"Nothing."

Élodie narrowed her eyes.

Cassidy raised one hand.

"Just appreciating French culture."

The sniper closed her eyes.

"Please stop."

Zofia began laughing.

For a few seconds, the beach sounded almost like VESPER's barracks again.

Then another enemy aircraft passed overhead.

The laughter stopped.

There were still too many of them.

And the landing craft was still waiting.

The trouble with shooting at Blackwake fighters, Alina discovered, was that some of them took it personally.

The first aircraft damaged by Greta had returned twice.

The second had been destroyed.

A third had disappeared behind the cloud cover.

But the survivors had begun making less predictable passes over the beach.

One approached from high above the old industrial pier.

Another came low over the water.

A third used the ruined buildings to obscure its approach until the last few seconds.

The SIA detachment's small arms could make those attacks dangerous for the aircraft, particularly when the fighters descended within effective range.

That didn't make the infantry invulnerable.

Far from it.

Every burst from the sky sent people scrambling for cover.

Every falling bomb threatened buildings that had already suffered structural damage.

And every time somebody fired from a position, the enemy acquired another clue about where the defenders were hiding.

Alina understood that.

She also understood that the group was beginning to tire.

They had spent most of the day running through an infected industrial complex.

Several were bruised.

Tamsin was wounded.

Mara's condition remained poor.

They hadn't eaten properly since breakfast.

Their ammunition was finite.

And now they were helping defend a beach against aircraft while the naval force offshore fought for survival.

Alina checked her watch.

Then looked toward the sea.

The battle was still going.

She could see smoke rising from Breakwater.

Occasional heavy gun flashes appeared through the haze.

The sound arrived several seconds later.

Her stomach tightened.

She had never imagined that a battleship could look vulnerable.

It seemed impossible.

The hull was enormous.

The guns were enormous.

The vessel carried armor heavier than anything VESPER possessed.

Yet the old ship was burning.

And every time another explosion struck near it, Alina found herself holding her breath.

Morgan approached.

Her face was streaked with dust.

"Everyone accounted for."

Alina nodded.

"Good."

"Greta's position is still operational."

"Good."

"Élodie has two confirmed damaging hits on aircraft, one of them probably fatal."

Alina smiled faintly.

"Also good."

Morgan hesitated.

Then glanced toward the recovery shelter.

"Lara says Mara needs evacuation soon."

Alina's expression tightened.

"I know."

"How soon?"

"She won't give an exact answer."

Morgan nodded.

The two stood together.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Morgan looked toward the battleship.

"Think they're going to make it?"

Alina considered that.

Then shook her head slightly.

"I don't know."

The American looked down.

A pause.

Then she said:

"I never thought I'd be happy to hear naval artillery."

Alina followed her gaze.

Breakwater's main guns fired again.

The distant sound rolled across the water.

She nodded.

"Neither did I."

Morgan looked toward her.

Then smiled faintly.

"Remember when we complained about Horizon being boring?"

Alina closed her eyes.

"Please don't."

Morgan laughed weakly.

"Fair."

They returned to their assigned positions.

Behind them, the old industrial station stood broken and silent.

Beyond the beach, the Blackwake aircraft continued hunting.

And somewhere over the horizon, four additional Keelborn were racing toward the battle with considerably less experience than anyone would have preferred.

The Shape of an Enemy Battleship

At sixteen forty-seven, Breakwater's gunnery officer received a report that made Captain Mercer forget about the damage to his shoulder.

Only briefly.

But enough.

The officer had been comparing the enemy fast battleship's gun flashes with observations from the earlier salvos. Visibility had been poor through most of the engagement, but the Blackwake vessel had finally moved into a position where its forward turrets could be studied with reasonable confidence.

Two triple turrets forward.

One triple turret aft.

Nine heavy guns.

And a silhouette that became increasingly familiar the longer the observers studied it.

Mercer listened as the officer explained.

"Captain, we're getting a better identification on the enemy's main battery."

The battleship commander looked toward him.

"Go ahead."

The officer placed a marked silhouette beside the fire-control report.

"Our best estimate is that she's carrying a sixteen-inch battery."

Mercer nodded.

He'd suspected as much.

The impacts were certainly powerful enough.

The officer continued.

"Three triple mounts, arrangement consistent with a North Carolina-class pattern."

The captain became still.

Cole looked toward the chart.

"North Carolina?"

"Not an exact ship copy, sir. The upper works are wrong, the hull proportions don't match cleanly, and the machinery configuration looks altered."

He indicated the turret arrangement.

"But the gun characteristics appear consistent with the sixteen-inch forty-five-caliber Mark 6 family."

Mercer stared at the drawing.

Then slowly looked toward the enemy.

The North Carolina class.

American fast battleships.

Nine sixteen-inch guns.

Powerful main batteries.

A great deal faster than the Tennessee class.

He had read enough naval history to recognize the implications.

So had several of the men aboard Breakwater.

But there was something worse about seeing those characteristics reproduced in a Blackwake vessel.

The enemy wasn't simply borrowing a familiar silhouette.

It was carrying the kind of firepower that had once made the North Carolina class a central part of American battleship development.

Mercer looked toward the gun flashes.

Then at the battered deck of his own ship.

"Wonderful."

Cole raised an eyebrow.

"Captain?"

"All this time, I thought we had a particularly unpleasant enemy battleship."

The executive officer waited.

Mercer sighed.

"Turns out she's an unpleasant enemy battleship with North Carolina-class guns."

Cole looked toward the chart.

"Could be worse."

Mercer slowly turned.

The executive officer considered the statement.

Then added:

"She could have more of them."

Mercer stared.

For a moment, he appeared ready to respond.

Then he laughed.

Not because the situation was funny.

Because sometimes the alternative was shouting.

"Adrian."

"Yes?"

"Please stop helping."

Cole smiled faintly.

"Understood."

The gunnery officer continued.

"The Blackwake may be using altered ammunition or fire-control equipment. We can't assume exact historical performance."

Mercer nodded.

"Agreed."

The enemy ship had already demonstrated that it could place heavy shells dangerously close to Breakwater.

Whatever the guns' precise origin, the results were real.

And the difference in speed remained a serious disadvantage.

The Blackwake fast battleship was capable of maintaining pressure while choosing its engagement geometry more freely than Mercer could.

Breakwater had twelve fourteen-inch guns.

An enormous amount of firepower.

But the ship's slower speed and accumulating damage were reducing the captain's options.

He looked toward the fire-control plot.

"How's our ammunition?"

The answer was not pleasant.

Main battery ammunition remained sufficient for continued engagement.

Not indefinitely.

The anti-aircraft magazines were being consumed at an alarming rate.

The port-side secondary and automatic batteries had suffered damage, and several ammunition-handling routes required workarounds.

A few gun positions remained out of action entirely.

The damage-control teams were containing the fires, but smoke and electrical faults continued interfering with operations in the affected areas.

Mercer listened.

Then nodded.

"Keep the ammunition expenditure reports current."

"Yes, Captain."

"And prioritize functioning AA positions where the enemy is approaching."

The officer acknowledged.

Mercer looked toward the northeast.

The carrier was still active.

It had been launching aircraft through most of the engagement.

Some groups attacked Breakwater.

Others threatened the Keelborn.

A few made low passes toward the industrial island.

The enemy wasn't merely defending its base.

It was trying to destroy the force that had attacked it.

Mercer looked toward the smoke rising from his own decks.

Then whispered:

"You're making a very strong argument for us sinking you."

The carrier did not answer.

It simply launched another group of aircraft.

The next attack came from two directions.

That was what made it so dangerous.

Breakwater's anti-aircraft crews had spent much of the afternoon fighting aircraft approaching from the northeast and east. The surviving weapons had been arranged to make the best use of the ship's available firing sectors.

But damaged mounts, smoke, ammunition expenditure, and the need to avoid firing into friendly Keelborn positions had begun creating gaps.

Some were temporary.

Others weren't.

The port-side anti-aircraft group was particularly strained.

Several forty-millimeter mounts had exhausted the ammunition immediately available at their ready positions. Resupply was underway, but one of the damaged handling routes was slowing the process.

The five-inch battery was still firing where its directors and mounts remained operational, yet the smaller automatic weapons were being forced into an uneven rhythm.

A few mounts would fire.

Then pause.

Others would pick up the attack.

Then pause in turn.

Normally, the overlapping batteries would help cover those transitions.

With part of the port-side installation damaged, the gaps were beginning to matter.

Mercer heard the report.

"Port automatic battery, local ammunition replenishment in progress!"

Then another.

"Two port mounts temporarily silent!"

He looked toward Cole.

The executive officer's expression tightened.

At that exact moment, the air-warning officer shouted:

"Multiple aircraft breaking toward port!"

Mercer turned.

Through the smoke, he saw them.

Blackwake torpedo bombers.

Low over the water.

Their approach had been partly concealed by a cloud bank and the ship's own smoke.

Above them, a separate group of dive bombers began descending.

The formations were coordinated.

The torpedo planes were forcing Breakwater to maneuver at the same moment the dive bombers attempted to predict that maneuver.

Mercer's stomach dropped.

He'd seen this kind of attack described in naval histories.

He'd watched simulations of it.

He'd argued about how different warships might survive it.

Now he was inside the target.

"Hard to starboard!"

The order went out.

The helmsmen responded.

Breakwater began turning.

The great hull leaned into the maneuver, but the damaged ship was slow to respond compared with the attacking aircraft.

The port-side automatic guns remained partly silent.

A few functioning mounts opened fire.

Five-inch shells burst overhead.

One torpedo bomber broke apart.

Another continued.

The dive bombers began their descent.

Cole stared through the windows.

For the first time since the battle began, his expression showed something very close to despair.

"Captain—"

Mercer knew.

There wasn't enough gunfire reaching the attackers.

Not at that instant.

The torpedo planes were closing.

The dive bombers were already dropping.

And Breakwater had no time to bring the damaged port battery fully back into action.

Then a new voice erupted from the radio.

Young.

Breathless.

Familiar.

"Breakwater, this is Yuna Mori! Friendly aircraft approaching from the southwest! Confirm your air-defense identification!"

Mercer froze.

For one fraction of a second, he thought he'd imagined it.

Then Cole turned toward him.

"Yuna?"

The captain looked toward the sky.

Beyond the Blackwake aircraft, smaller shapes were racing in from the southwest.

Not dark.

Not irregular.

Their wings carried recognizable British naval markings.

Single-engine fighters.

Sea Hurricanes.

They were approaching fast.

Mercer's eyes widened.

"Where the hell did she get here from?"

The radio crackled again.

Yuna sounded remarkably offended.

"Horizon! Where else?!"

Cole burst out laughing.

Mercer stared.

Then recovered.

"Breakwater to Yuna. Friendly flight identified. You're clear to engage the hostile aircraft. Mind our firing sectors!"

"Understood!"

The first Sea Hurricane descended toward the torpedo bombers.

Its engine roared.

The fighter banked sharply, crossing the Blackwake formation's approach.

Its guns opened fire.

A stream of tracer fire swept across the lead torpedo plane.

The enemy aircraft shuddered.

Its engine caught fire.

Then it rolled into the sea.

A second Sea Hurricane followed.

Another burst of gunfire struck the next torpedo bomber.

The Blackwake plane attempted to turn away.

Too late.

Its wing broke apart.

The machine struck the water in a violent splash.

Mercer stared.

Then looked toward the approaching dive bombers.

A third British fighter was already climbing to meet them.

Its pilot committed to a sharp turn, cutting across the bombers' descent.

Gunfire flashed.

One Blackwake aircraft disintegrated.

Another attempted to climb away from the attack.

The Sea Hurricane pursued.

A second burst struck the enemy's engine.

Smoke poured from the cowling.

The bomber rolled.

Its bomb fell harmlessly into the open water beyond the ship.

Mercer felt something loosen in his chest.

Then the fourth fighter passed above Breakwater's bridge.

Close enough that the captain could see its markings through the smoke.

Its engine screamed.

It climbed toward the remaining bombers.

And the damaged battleship's crew began cheering.

Not everyone.

The gun crews were still working.

The damage-control teams were still fighting fires.

The wounded were still being treated.

But several sailors saw the friendly fighters arrive at exactly the moment Breakwater seemed about to suffer another devastating attack.

And they cheered.

Mercer didn't blame them.

He was too busy staring at the sky.

The British fighters had disrupted the attack.

Not eliminated it.

Several Blackwake aircraft were still descending.

One torpedo plane managed to release its weapon before being destroyed.

Another dive bomber broke through and dropped near the ship's stern.

The explosions shook the sea.

Spray rose.

Breakwater continued turning.

The torpedo wake passed ahead of the bow.

The bomb struck the water off the starboard quarter, close enough to shower the deck with spray but not close enough to damage the hull seriously.

Mercer exhaled.

His knees felt strangely weak.

He gripped the chart table.

Then looked toward Cole.

The executive officer was smiling.

A thoroughly exhausted, disbelieving smile.

"Backup."

Mercer stared at him.

Then nodded.

"Apparently."

He reached for the radio.

"Yuna, Breakwater. Your timing is impeccable."

The carrier girl's answer came through with a mixture of relief and nervous excitement.

"Thank you, Captain!"

Mercer looked toward the horizon.

The Sea Hurricanes continued engaging the surviving Blackwake aircraft.

The port-side batteries were beginning to resume fire as ammunition reached the functioning mounts.

For the first time in what felt like hours, Breakwater's immediate air situation was improving.

Then the radio crackled again.

Another young voice.

Loud.

Excited.

And entirely incapable of sounding subtle.

"BREAKWATER! RIKO MINASE REPORTING! WE'RE HERE!"

Mercer slowly closed his eyes.

For a moment, he considered asking the universe whether it had finally decided to be kind.

Then he remembered that kindness from the universe was rarely free.

He opened his eyes.

Looked toward the southwest.

And saw the enormous gun turrets of a Yamato-class Keelborn approaching through the spray.

Forty-Six Centimeters of Unreasonable Determination

Riko Minase had always imagined her first battle would be magnificent.

She would arrive over the horizon, her Yamato-class rigging gleaming in the sunlight, her enormous turrets turning toward an enemy foolish enough to challenge her.

There would be a dramatic moment.

Possibly some cheering.

Aster would look impressed.

Yuna would smile.

Kade would say something suitably admiring about the awesome firepower of the Yamato class.

And then Riko would fire her guns.

The enemy would explode.

Everyone would go home.

In retrospect, she was beginning to suspect that the scenario had been somewhat optimistic.

Reality involved a long, exhausting transit with her Mk. I stabilization equipment creaking and humming around her, constant reminders from Yuna not to exceed her approved limits, and the deeply unpleasant sight of Breakwater burning beyond the reef.

The battleship looked enormous even from a distance.

That had always impressed Riko.

Now the old Tennessee-class ship looked frighteningly vulnerable.

Smoke rose from its upper works.

Several anti-aircraft positions were visibly damaged.

The great hull was turning slowly beneath the clouds while enemy shells raised towering columns of water around it.

And beyond the battleship, Riko could see the Blackwake fast battleship.

Dark.

Long.

Powerful.

Its heavy turrets were already turning toward Breakwater.

Riko swallowed.

For the first time since choosing the Yamato class, she didn't feel particularly eager to boast about her guns.

She felt frightened.

Then she saw the next enemy salvo.

Heavy shells struck the sea around Breakwater.

One burst close to the bow.

Another landed astern.

The old battleship shuddered beneath the near misses.

Riko's fingers tightened around the support controls of her training rig.

"No."

Yuna glanced toward her.

The carrier girl's expression was tense.

"Riko?"

The battleship girl looked toward Breakwater.

Then toward the enemy.

"No."

She raised her radio.

"Breakwater, Riko. Requesting permission to establish heavy-gun support off your starboard bow."

Mercer's answer came after a moment.

"Riko, Breakwater. Confirm your equipment clearance."

She swallowed.

Then answered.

"Restricted emergency deployment. Primary stabilization active. Main battery limited to the approved firing sequence."

A pause.

Then the captain replied.

"Understood. Maintain separation from our hull and firing arcs. We'll coordinate targets through the gunnery plot."

Riko nodded.

"Yes, Captain."

Yuna looked toward her.

The battleship girl returned the look.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Yuna smiled faintly.

"Remember what Kade said."

Riko nodded.

"No showing off."

"Good."

"No disabling stabilizers."

"Very good."

"No firing more guns than the equipment can handle."

Yuna smiled.

"Excellent."

Riko hesitated.

Then looked toward the enemy fast battleship.

"But I can still shoot it."

Yuna considered that.

Then nodded.

"Yes."

The battleship girl smiled.

A small smile.

Not particularly confident.

But real.

"Good."

She adjusted her course.

The Mk. I equipment responded.

Heavy support assemblies moved around her hips and lower body.

The flotation aids rose and settled with the swell.

The propulsion machinery altered its output within the approved limits, carrying her forward while the stabilization systems compensated for the mass of the Yamato-class gun turrets.

Riko reached the assigned support position off Breakwater's forward starboard quarter, then continued carefully until she was established ahead and to starboard of the battleship.

Not directly in front of its bow.

Not crossing the guns.

Not so close that the old ship's movements might endanger her.

Close enough to support.

Far enough to avoid becoming another problem.

Breakwater looked even more enormous from here.

Its bow cut through the water.

Its forward turrets rested high above her.

Smoke drifted from the damaged upper works.

Riko could see sailors moving along the decks.

Real people.

Working.

Fighting.

Trying to keep the ship alive.

She raised her eyes.

Beyond Breakwater, the enemy fast battleship was still firing.

Her fire-control equipment began receiving the coordinated target information.

The range was substantial.

The enemy was moving.

The sea wasn't perfectly calm.

And Riko's own equipment was an inexperienced battleship girl's training configuration, not the proper combat rigging she dreamed of wearing.

The difference mattered.

The Mk. I's assistance systems could help her maintain stability.

They could limit dangerous movements.

They could distribute firing loads through the authorized supports.

They could not replace judgment.

And they could not make the enormous forty-six-centimeter guns harmless to operate.

Riko took a breath.

Then another.

Her mouth was dry.

She looked toward the enemy.

The Blackwake ship's forward turrets flashed.

Another heavy salvo departed.

Riko felt her stomach twist.

Then a voice came through the radio.

Nadya.

"Riko."

The Yamato-class girl straightened.

"Yes?"

The older battleship sounded almost amused.

"I hear you've come to help."

Riko swallowed.

"Yes!"

"Good."

A pause.

Then:

"Don't rush."

Riko blinked.

Nadya continued.

"Let the solution settle. Let your equipment support you. The guns will do their work when you're ready."

The younger battleship girl looked toward the enemy.

Her hands tightened.

Then relaxed.

"Understood."

The older Sevastopol-class girl's voice softened.

"And Riko?"

"Yes?"

"I'm glad you're here."

Riko went still.

For a moment, the battle seemed to recede.

She remembered Nadya standing beside her during training.

Explaining gunnery calculations.

Helping her understand the relationship between movement, range, and the massive equipment attached to her body.

She remembered getting frustrated.

Complaining.

Asking when she'd finally get to use all nine of her main guns.

Nadya had laughed.

Then told her that a battleship who knew when not to fire could be more dangerous than one who fired at everything.

Riko hadn't understood.

Not completely.

Now she looked toward Breakwater.

The wounded sailors.

The smoke.

The enemy guns.

And the opportunity to help.

Her expression softened.

"Thank you."

Nadya chuckled.

"Now show me what you've learned."

Riko nodded.

Then turned toward her firing solution.

The first authorized sequence called for a limited main-battery discharge.

Not all nine guns.

Not a grand broadside.

A controlled ranging salvo from one triple turret.

Riko brought the heavy mount onto the target bearing.

The machinery moved.

The stabilization system compensated for the shifting load.

The gun barrels elevated.

She could feel the sea beneath her feet.

The Mk. I's flotation supports settled against the swell.

The firing solution stabilized.

For a moment, everything seemed very quiet.

Then Riko whispered:

"Please."

She wasn't entirely certain who she was asking.

The guns.

The machinery.

The sea.

Maybe herself.

She took a breath.

Then fired.

Three forty-six-centimeter guns spoke.

The blast was enormous.

Not merely loud.

Physical.

A violent concussion that struck through Riko's rigging and seemed to reach directly into her bones.

The support structure shuddered.

The recoil systems absorbed the main loads.

The Mk. I's stabilizers fought to keep her balanced.

Water erupted around the lower supports.

Riko cried out.

Not from injury.

From shock.

The force was beyond anything she'd experienced during controlled training.

Her body rocked.

One flotation assembly dipped sharply.

The assistance system responded.

The equipment settled.

Riko remained upright.

Barely.

Her eyes were wide.

Her hands trembled.

The three shells crossed the water.

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then enormous splashes rose around the Blackwake fast battleship.

One shell landed short.

Another struck the water beyond the bow.

The third fell close along the enemy's starboard side, throwing spray across its upper works.

A miss.

All three.

Riko stared.

Her face fell.

"...Oh."

The radio crackled.

Breakwater's gunnery officer.

"Riko, observed. Salvo short and straddling near the target. Corrections transmitting."

Riko blinked.

Then raised her radio.

"Understood!"

A pause.

Nadya's voice followed.

"Good first salvo."

Riko stared.

"But I missed!"

The older battleship girl sounded amused.

"You established a useful correction."

Riko looked toward the enemy.

Nadya continued.

"Now use it."

The younger girl's expression changed.

She nodded.

Then began preparing the next authorized sequence.

Her hands were still trembling.

Her shoulders ached.

Her Mk. I's stabilization indicators showed the increased load from the first discharge.

But the equipment remained within limits.

She checked.

Waited.

Allowed the machinery to settle.

Then looked toward the enemy again.

Breakwater's main guns fired.

Twelve fourteen-inch shells crossed the sea.

The Blackwake fast battleship replied.

Heavy shells struck the water around the old American vessel.

Riko flinched at the splashes.

Then forced herself to keep working.

Her corrected firing solution came into alignment.

The second triple turret was available within the approved sequence.

She prepared the next salvo.

For a moment, she thought about firing more.

All nine guns.

One enormous broadside.

The kind she'd imagined since selecting the Yamato class.

Then she remembered Dain's face.

Hana's checklist.

Kade's warning.

Nadya's advice.

She swallowed.

"No."

The word was quiet.

Firm.

She stayed within the authorization.

The selected guns elevated.

Riko lowered her center of gravity.

Waited for the correct moment in the swell.

Then fired.

The second salvo thundered.

Again, the recoil struck through the rigging.

Again, the stabilization system fought to keep her upright.

This time, Riko moved with it.

Not perfectly.

But better.

The shells crossed the sea.

The Blackwake fast battleship continued turning.

Its forward turrets flashed.

Then Riko's salvo arrived.

The first shell struck the water close along the enemy's bow.

The second landed beyond the stern.

The third struck.

A tremendous flash erupted against the Blackwake vessel's forward upper works.

Dark armor shattered.

A section of the superstructure disappeared behind smoke.

Fragments tore away from the structure.

The ship's course wavered.

For a moment, one of its forward turrets stopped traversing.

Riko stared.

Her mouth opened.

Then a voice came through the radio.

Mercer.

"Riko! Hit confirmed! Heavy damage forward!"

The battleship girl froze.

She looked toward the enemy.

The smoke.

The debris.

The broken structure.

Then her eyes widened.

"I..."

She swallowed.

"I HIT IT!"

The words burst out before she could stop them.

Nadya laughed over the radio.

"Yes, you did!"

Riko's face lit up.

For one glorious instant, the nineteen-year-old looked exactly like the excited girl who'd once dreamed of commanding the greatest battleship in the world.

Then the enemy fired again.

A heavy shell struck the water near her starboard side.

The blast sent spray over her training frame.

The equipment rocked.

Her assistance system issued a warning.

Riko yelped.

"WHOA!"

She grabbed the support handles.

The stabilizers corrected.

Her position settled.

The radio crackled.

Kade's voice.

Very calm.

Almost terrifyingly calm.

"Riko."

The battleship girl went still.

"Y-Yes, Commander?"

"Report your rigging condition."

She looked at the indicators.

Then swallowed.

"Main systems functional. Stabilizers operating. No critical damage."

A pause.

"And your balance?"

Riko looked down at the water.

Then toward Breakwater.

Then at her enormous gun turrets.

Her face reddened.

"...Improving."

For a moment, the radio remained silent.

Then Kade sighed.

"Maintain your limits."

Riko nodded rapidly.

"Yes, Commander!"

The transmission ended.

She took a breath.

Then looked toward the enemy fast battleship again.

The Blackwake vessel was still fighting.

Its guns remained dangerous.

Its armor had absorbed much of the punishment.

But it had been hit.

By her.

A girl who still wore the bulky Mk. I training rigging.

A girl who had spent weeks arguing about stabilizers.

A girl who, until a month ago, had never experienced the recoil of a real naval gun.

Riko swallowed.

Then smiled faintly.

Not proudly.

Not triumphantly.

With relief.

She could help.

And if she kept her head, perhaps she could keep helping.

The Destroyer Who Came Back for Aster

Emi's first sight of Aster nearly made her forget how to stand.

The Fletcher-class girl was moving slowly across the water under Calla's protection.

Her compact proper rigging had been damaged along the right side, leaving one outer support bent and several fittings scarred by shell fragments.

Blood darkened part of her uniform.

Her red ribbon remained tied in her hair, though the ends were wet and tangled.

She was conscious.

Moving.

Still carrying her weapons.

But she wasn't moving like the instructor Emi remembered.

There was no effortless acceleration.

No playful turn.

No confident little demonstration of how a trained destroyer could make the sea look like an ice rink.

Aster was hurt.

And every careful movement seemed to cost her something.

Emi felt her throat tighten.

"Aster..."

The Fletcher-class girl heard the approaching radio signal.

She looked up.

Then stared.

Her expression changed from exhaustion to disbelief.

"Emi?"

The Benson-class girl raised her handset.

"Aster!"

Aster blinked.

"What are you doing here?!"

Emi swallowed.

Then answered.

"Supporting!"

There was a pause.

Then Aster's voice rose.

"YOU'RE WHAT?!"

Emi flinched.

Mina glanced over from the nearby formation.

Even over the battle noise, the outrage in Aster's voice was unmistakable.

Emi raised the radio again.

"Commander authorized it!"

Another pause.

Then:

"He did WHAT?!"

Emi almost laughed.

Almost.

Then she saw the blood along Aster's side.

Her smile disappeared.

"You're hurt."

Aster looked down.

For a moment, she seemed surprised by the observation.

Then she sighed.

"A little."

Emi stared.

"That's not a little!"

The older destroyer glanced toward the damaged support.

Then toward the enemy.

"Fine. More than a little."

Emi swallowed.

Her eyes filled with tears.

Aster noticed.

Her expression softened.

"Hey."

The Benson-class girl looked up.

"Don't do that."

Emi blinked.

"What?"

"Don't start crying on me. I haven't got enough spare hands to hug you while we're moving."

Emi laughed weakly.

Aster smiled.

Then winced.

A small movement.

Barely noticeable.

But Emi saw it.

Her expression hardened.

"I'm going to help you."

Aster looked toward the intermediate rigging.

The reduced stabilizers.

The young girl's careful balance.

The unmistakable signs that Emi had only recently begun moving without the bulky Mk. I frame.

For a moment, the older destroyer looked almost frightened.

"Emi, listen to me."

The girl straightened.

"Yes?"

"You're not here to chase ships."

Emi nodded.

"I know."

"And you're not here to prove you can fight."

"I know."

Aster glanced toward the surviving Blackwake destroyer.

Its hull was still moving through the battle smoke.

Its guns remained active.

And despite the damage caused by Breakwater's secondary battery, it continued threatening the Keelborn around the landing route.

Aster's expression tightened.

She raised the radio.

"Stay near my assigned withdrawal sector. Help maintain the screen. And if I tell you to disengage, you disengage."

Emi swallowed.

"Understood."

Aster looked toward her.

Then smiled faintly.

"Good girl."

Emi's face reddened.

"I'm not a child!"

Aster grinned.

"Then stop making me worry like one!"

For a moment, despite the smoke and noise, the exchange felt almost normal.

Then the Blackwake destroyer fired.

A five-inch shell struck the water near Aster.

Spray rose.

The wounded Fletcher-class girl flinched.

Her damaged support dragged through the swell.

She nearly lost her balance.

Emi saw it.

Her stomach dropped.

Then something inside her settled.

Not fearlessness.

Not sudden mastery.

A decision.

Aster couldn't move the way she normally did.

Emi could.

Within limits.

Carefully.

And she had enough weapons to make the enemy think twice about focusing entirely on her wounded instructor.

She raised her radio.

"Aster, hold your withdrawal course. I'll help cover you."

The Fletcher-class girl answered sharply.

"Emi—"

But the Benson-class destroyer was already adjusting her position.

Not charging directly toward the enemy.

Not attempting a reckless torpedo attack.

Simply moving into the assigned supporting sector so that her five-inch gun mounts could contribute to the defensive fire.

Her intermediate rigging responded.

The sea shifted beneath her feet.

A wave struck the reduced stabilization support.

For a moment, her balance became uncertain.

She remembered yesterday.

The first turn.

The wobble.

The way she'd almost fallen.

Aster's voice.

Relax your knees.

Don't fight the equipment.

Let it respond.

Emi lowered her center of gravity.

Adjusted her propulsion.

The rigging settled.

Then she raised her guns.

The enemy destroyer was moving.

Its silhouette appeared through smoke.

She received the coordinated firing information.

Checked her assigned sector.

Waited for the solution to become stable.

Then fired.

The Benson-class five-inch guns cracked.

The recoil struck through her compact equipment.

Emi flinched.

Her shoulders tightened.

But she stayed upright.

The shells crossed the water.

Several splashed short.

One burst close against the enemy's upper works.

The Blackwake destroyer altered course.

Its guns turned.

Not all of them.

Enough.

For several precious seconds, the hostile vessel was no longer concentrating on Aster.

Emi saw that.

Her eyes widened.

It worked.

She'd helped.

Then the enemy fired at her.

The shells came frighteningly close.

One struck the water ahead.

Another burst near her left side.

Spray hammered her rigging.

Emi cried out.

Her intermediate stability system issued a warning.

She nearly overcorrected.

Nearly.

Then she remembered what Mina had struggled with during the training assessment.

Don't make another correction before the first one finishes.

Emi forced herself to slow down.

Adjusted her course within the approved limits.

Allowed the rigging to settle.

The next shells landed behind her.

She was still moving.

Still upright.

Still alive.

Her breathing was rapid.

Her hands trembled.

But she hadn't fallen.

Aster's voice came through the radio.

"Emi!"

The girl raised the handset.

"Yes?!"

"Good recovery!"

Emi almost laughed.

Even here.

Even now.

Aster was still teaching.

Then the Fletcher-class girl's voice became serious.

"Now get back toward my position. Don't let it pull you farther out."

Emi looked toward the enemy.

For one moment, the temptation was strong.

She'd fired her guns.

Made the destroyer change course.

She could try again.

Maybe get closer.

Maybe launch torpedoes.

Maybe—

Then she looked toward Aster.

The blood.

The damaged rigging.

The slow, careful movement.

She swallowed.

"Understood."

Emi turned back.

Not because she was frightened of being called a coward.

Because she finally understood why Aster kept telling her that stopping and turning safely mattered.

It mattered because surviving one exchange meant nothing if the next mistake got you killed.

And right now, Aster needed her more than the enemy needed another destroyer trying to be a hero.

The Leander and the Admiral Hipper

Mina reached Elsa beneath a sky stained with smoke.

The heavy cruiser girl was standing off the enemy's port side, exchanging fire at a range that made the younger Leander-class Keelborn deeply uncomfortable.

Elsa's proper rigging was scarred.

One protective assembly along her shoulder had been torn by fragments. A section of the outer armor was blackened. Her uniform had darkened with sweat and seawater, and blood marked the fabric near her ribs.

Yet she continued moving with practiced confidence.

Her Admiral Hipper-class machinery answered every turn.

The eight-inch gun turrets traversed.

The propulsion assemblies maintained her heading.

And whenever the Blackwake heavy cruiser fired, Elsa adjusted with the economy of someone who had learned long ago that dramatic movements were not necessarily useful movements.

Mina watched her.

For a moment, admiration overwhelmed fear.

Then the enemy cruiser fired again.

A salvo of heavy shells struck the water around Elsa.

One burst close enough to shower her with fragments.

She hissed.

Her equipment jerked.

But she remained upright.

Mina's stomach tightened.

"Elsa..."

The older cruiser raised her radio.

"Mina? Is that you?"

The Leander-class girl straightened.

"Yes!"

Elsa sounded astonished.

"What are you doing here?"

Mina swallowed.

She had practiced this answer during the voyage.

It had sounded much better in her head.

"Supporting the fleet!"

A pause.

Then Elsa sighed.

"Of course you are."

Mina's cheeks reddened.

"Commander authorized us!"

"I assumed he must have. Otherwise Chief Fenwick would be having a very unpleasant afternoon."

Despite herself, Mina laughed.

The sound relieved some of the tension in her chest.

Elsa glanced toward her intermediate rigging.

The additional assistance components were smaller than those of the primary Mk. I frame, but still unmistakable.

Mina had only just received them.

Elsa knew that.

She'd helped with the training.

The older cruiser considered the younger girl's position.

Then her expression became serious.

"Mina, listen carefully."

The Leander-class girl straightened.

"Yes?"

"You will remain outside the enemy's effective close engagement area unless I specifically direct otherwise."

"Understood."

"You'll support my fire-control corrections and engage when we have a suitable opportunity."

"Yes."

"And if your balance or propulsion becomes uncertain, you break off and report it immediately."

Mina nodded.

"Understood."

Elsa looked toward her.

For a moment, the older girl's expression softened.

Then she smiled faintly.

"Good. I'm glad to have you."

Mina felt something tighten in her throat.

She'd expected Elsa to be angry.

Or disappointed.

Or to tell her that she was too inexperienced to be useful.

Instead, she'd been given an assignment.

A real one.

Limited.

Carefully supervised.

But real.

Mina swallowed.

"Thank you."

Elsa nodded.

"Now let's deal with that cruiser."

The Blackwake heavy cruiser emerged through a bank of smoke.

Its forward turret was damaged.

One section of its superstructure had been shattered by Nadya's twelve-inch shells.

Black growths surrounded the surviving gun mounts.

The vessel continued moving, though its course had become uneven.

Elsa had spent much of the battle preventing it from interfering with Breakwater.

Now the arrival of another cruiser offered an opportunity.

Not an overwhelming advantage.

Mina's Leander-class equipment was much lighter.

Its six-inch guns could not match the heavy cruiser's armor penetration.

But additional accurate fire could interfere with exposed weapons, damage less-protected structures, and force the enemy to divide its attention.

Elsa raised her radio.

"Mina, maintain your assigned position. We'll coordinate salvos."

The younger girl swallowed.

"Understood."

She checked her equipment.

The intermediate stabilizers remained active.

Her propulsion system was within limits.

The four twin six-inch turrets were ready.

Mina looked toward the enemy.

Her hands trembled.

She forced herself to breathe.

Then she received the firing information.

The Blackwake cruiser turned.

Its surviving forward guns began traversing toward Elsa.

Mina saw the movement.

She remembered training.

Let the solution settle.

Don't rush the equipment.

You can correct after the shot.

She waited.

Then fired.

The Leander-class guns cracked.

Not with the overwhelming violence of Riko's forty-six-centimeter battery.

Not with the heavy authority of Elsa's eight-inch turrets.

But with a sharp, substantial report that sent recoil through the supports around Mina's body.

She flinched.

Her balance shifted.

The intermediate frame compensated.

Mina adjusted.

Too quickly.

The equipment rocked.

She caught herself.

Then forced her shoulders to relax.

The shells crossed the water.

Several missed.

Two burst near the Blackwake cruiser's upper works.

One struck an exposed section of the superstructure, scattering fragments around the damaged gun-control equipment.

Mina stared.

Then Elsa's voice arrived.

"Good. Maintain that bearing."

The younger girl exhaled.

She hadn't sunk anything.

She hadn't disabled a turret.

But her shells had reached the target.

And Elsa was already preparing another salvo.

The Admiral Hipper-class guns fired.

Eight-inch shells crossed the sea.

One struck near the enemy's forward turret.

Another burst against the upper hull.

The Blackwake cruiser shuddered.

Smoke erupted around the damaged structure.

The enemy fired back.

Mina saw the muzzle flashes.

Her stomach dropped.

She remembered how little armor protected her compared with the larger ships.

The shells came toward their position.

Elsa changed course.

Mina followed.

Her intermediate equipment responded, but not quite as smoothly as she wanted.

A wave crossed beneath her feet at the wrong moment.

The left propulsion assembly surged against the correction.

Her shoulder twisted.

For an instant, she nearly fell.

Then she remembered Calla's instruction from the previous day's assessment.

Give the equipment time to respond.

Mina reduced the correction.

Allowed the machinery to settle.

Then continued the turn.

A shell struck the water nearby.

Spray hammered her side.

She cried out.

The rigging shuddered.

But she remained upright.

Elsa looked toward her.

"Mina!"

The younger cruiser raised her radio.

"Still moving!"

A pause.

"Rigging?"

Mina checked.

"Within limits!"

Elsa exhaled.

"Good. Stay with me."

The Leander-class girl nodded.

Her heart was pounding.

She had never been so frightened.

Nor so aware of what her machinery could do if she handled it badly.

They continued moving.

Elsa fired again.

Mina followed.

The heavy cruiser turned away from their combined fire.

For a moment, its damaged upper works were exposed.

Mina received a corrected solution.

Her guns traversed.

She waited.

Then fired.

The six-inch shells struck along the enemy's exposed side.

Several burst against the superstructure.

One damaged a surviving anti-aircraft mount.

Another struck near the forward funnel, sending dark smoke outward.

The Blackwake cruiser lurched.

Elsa saw the opportunity.

Her voice sharpened.

"Mina, maintain pressure. I'm taking the next salvo."

The younger girl nodded.

"Understood!"

The Admiral Hipper-class turrets fired.

The shells crossed the sea.

One landed short.

Another struck the enemy's damaged forward structure.

A third hit near the waterline, just ahead of the machinery spaces.

The impact burst through compromised plating.

Water erupted against the hull.

The Blackwake ship shuddered.

Its speed began falling.

Elsa narrowed her eyes.

"Finally."

Mina watched the enemy.

The heavy cruiser attempted to turn.

Its rudder response appeared sluggish.

Dark water poured along the damaged side.

The forward guns ceased firing.

For several seconds, the vessel continued moving.

Then a secondary explosion erupted near the central superstructure.

A heavy column of smoke rose.

The ship began listing.

Mina stared.

"Did we...?"

Elsa watched carefully.

Not yet.

The Blackwake cruiser still had functioning guns.

Its remaining aft turret began turning toward them.

Elsa saw it.

Her expression hardened.

"Mina, remain clear. I'll finish the engagement."

The Leander-class girl looked toward the enemy.

Then nodded.

"Understood."

Elsa brought her surviving main battery onto the target.

The machinery responded.

Her wounded shoulder protested.

Pain flashed through her side.

She ignored none of it.

She adjusted her posture to avoid making the injury worse.

Waited for the fire-control solution.

Then fired.

The eight-inch salvo struck the damaged cruiser near its central machinery spaces.

The impact tore through the weakened structure.

A violent explosion erupted beneath the superstructure.

Black smoke rolled across the deck.

The remaining gun turret stopped moving.

The ship's list increased.

Then the hull began settling.

Slowly.

Inevitably.

The bow dipped.

The stern rose.

For a moment, the vessel seemed to hang in place.

Then it rolled toward its damaged side.

The sea surged over the deck.

The blackened superstructure disappeared behind smoke.

And the heavy cruiser began sinking.

Mina watched.

Her mouth was open.

The enemy ship had been enormous.

Dangerous.

Powerful.

And now it was dying.

She had helped.

Not by charging into the middle of the battle.

Not by firing the largest guns.

By following Elsa's instructions.

Holding her position.

Correcting her mistakes.

And contributing enough fire to help the older cruiser finish the fight.

Elsa exhaled.

Then raised the radio.

"Breakwater, Elsa. Enemy heavy cruiser sinking. Mina and I remain operational."

Mercer's answer came quickly.

"Copy. Excellent work."

Mina felt her face warm.

Then Elsa turned toward her.

The heavy cruiser girl's expression softened.

"You did well."

Mina swallowed.

Her eyes stung.

"Thank you."

Elsa smiled faintly.

"Don't start crying. We've still got work to do."

Mina laughed weakly.

"Yes."

The older cruiser glanced toward the horizon.

The enemy fast battleship remained active.

The carrier continued launching aircraft.

And Aster and Emi were still dealing with the surviving destroyer.

Elsa looked back at Mina.

"Now stay with me."

The younger girl nodded.

"Always."

Elsa raised an eyebrow.

Even over the radio, Mina seemed to realize what she'd said.

Her face reddened.

"I mean—during the engagement!"

Elsa laughed.

A genuine laugh.

Warm despite the pain.

"I know."

And together, the two cruisers turned toward the remaining battle.

The surviving Blackwake destroyer was becoming increasingly desperate.

Its first torpedo attack had damaged Breakwater.

Its second opportunity had been disrupted by the Keelborn.

Now it found itself facing an enemy screen that had become stronger at exactly the wrong moment.

Aster was wounded.

That remained true.

Her proper Fletcher-class rigging had suffered damage, and she couldn't maneuver aggressively without risking further injury.

But Emi had arrived.

The Benson-class girl was inexperienced.

Her intermediate rigging couldn't match Aster's unrestricted maneuvering capability.

Yet she could follow instructions, maintain a defensive position, and contribute accurate fire when the conditions allowed.

For the Blackwake destroyer, that was becoming irritating.

For Aster, it was becoming a source of considerable pride.

The older destroyer watched Emi complete another careful turn.

The movement wasn't elegant.

But it was controlled.

No overcorrection.

No sudden acceleration.

No unnecessary risk.

Aster smiled faintly.

"Good."

Then the enemy fired again.

A shell burst near Emi.

The younger girl flinched.

Her equipment rocked.

She corrected.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Aster's smile widened.

"Very good."

The radio crackled.

"Aster, Emi. Enemy destroyer turning toward your withdrawal route."

Aster looked up.

The Blackwake ship was moving closer.

Its forward guns continued firing.

The hull bore damage from earlier engagements, and dark smoke trailed behind it.

But it wasn't finished.

The destroyer still possessed enough speed and firepower to threaten the wounded Keelborn.

Aster's expression hardened.

She raised her radio.

"Emi, don't let it pull you toward the reef."

The younger girl's voice answered.

"Understood."

Aster looked toward the enemy.

Its torpedo launchers were moving.

Again.

Her stomach tightened.

"Breakwater, Aster. Surviving destroyer preparing another torpedo attack."

Mercer's voice came through.

"Copy. Secondary battery engaging."

The old battleship's five-inch guns answered.

Shells struck the water around the Blackwake destroyer.

One burst near its forward mount.

Another struck the upper works.

The enemy continued.

Aster watched.

Then looked toward Emi.

The younger girl was holding her assigned position.

Good.

The Blackwake destroyer turned broadside.

Its launchers began moving toward the firing angle.

Aster's expression changed.

She knew what was coming.

She also knew she couldn't safely accelerate into the engagement.

Her damaged support would not tolerate the maneuver.

For a moment, frustration rose in her chest.

Then Emi spoke.

"Aster."

The Fletcher-class girl looked up.

"Yes?"

"I can cover the approach."

Aster hesitated.

The younger destroyer's voice remained steady.

"I'm not going to chase it."

A pause.

"But I can make it turn."

Aster considered the position.

The enemy.

The distance.

The available gun arcs.

Then she nodded.

"All right. One controlled engagement. Break off if it closes."

Emi swallowed.

"Understood."

The Benson-class girl raised her guns.

The intermediate rigging hummed.

Her balance system made a small correction as a swell passed beneath her.

She let it.

The fire-control solution settled.

She waited.

Then fired.

The five-inch guns cracked.

Shells crossed the sea.

Several landed close.

One struck the enemy destroyer's forward structure.

A flash erupted.

The Blackwake vessel turned.

Not away from the battle.

Toward Emi.

The enemy's forward guns shifted.

Its torpedo launchers hesitated.

Aster saw the change.

Her eyes widened.

"Emi..."

The younger girl had made herself a target.

Not accidentally.

Not through recklessness.

She'd drawn the enemy's attention just long enough to disrupt its attack against Breakwater.

Aster felt a surge of pride.

Followed immediately by terror.

"Emi, disengage now!"

The Benson-class girl nodded.

"Understood!"

She turned.

The rigging responded.

Her movement was careful.

Conservative.

The Blackwake destroyer fired.

A shell struck the water behind her.

Another landed ahead.

Emi's eyes widened.

The next salvo was coming.

She needed to complete the turn.

She needed to move.

Her body wanted to panic.

Instead, she remembered the training.

Don't fight the rigging.

Don't rush the correction.

Use what you've learned.

She adjusted her propulsion.

Shifted her weight.

The intermediate stabilizers responded.

Her feet skimmed across the water.

The turn completed.

The enemy shells burst behind her.

Spray rose.

Then she was moving away.

Still upright.

Still alive.

Aster exhaled.

Then raised her radio.

"Good! Keep coming!"

Emi laughed weakly.

"Yes!"

The enemy destroyer continued turning.

Its guns tracked the younger Keelborn.

Then a new voice entered the channel.

Calla.

"Aster, Emi. Clear the target line. I'm engaging."

Aster looked toward the northeast.

The Atlanta-class girl had shifted away from the immediate air-defense sector now that Yuna's fighters were helping contain the attack.

Her dual-purpose five-inch guns had a clear opportunity against the surviving destroyer.

Aster nodded.

"Copy. We're clear."

Calla fired.

The shells struck the Blackwake ship's damaged superstructure.

A violent flash erupted near the forward gun mount.

The enemy's guns stopped.

For a moment, its course wavered.

Then Breakwater's secondary battery joined the engagement.

Another series of five-inch shells swept across the water.

The Blackwake destroyer was caught between coordinated fire from multiple directions.

Its damaged machinery struggled to respond.

A shell struck near the aft torpedo mount.

An explosion tore through the upper deck.

The ship lurched.

Dark smoke rose.

Then another impact burst near the machinery spaces.

The destroyer began losing speed.

Aster watched.

The enemy tried to turn.

Its rudder response was sluggish.

Its stern settled deeper into the water.

Then the hull twisted.

A final explosion erupted near the central section.

The Blackwake destroyer rolled.

Its surviving gun mount vanished beneath spray.

The ship broke apart.

And the sea closed over it.

For several seconds, Emi stared.

Then she looked toward Aster.

The older destroyer smiled.

Not broadly.

Not with her usual mischief.

With genuine pride.

"You did it."

Emi blinked.

"I... I didn't sink it."

Aster nodded.

"No."

The younger girl looked confused.

Aster continued.

"You protected me, disrupted its torpedo attack, and stayed alive long enough for the rest of us to finish the fight."

Emi stared.

The Fletcher-class girl's smile softened.

"That's what doing your job looks like."

For a moment, Emi couldn't speak.

Then her eyes filled with tears.

Aster noticed immediately.

"Oh, no."

Emi sniffed.

"Sorry!"

"Don't start. I'm still not equipped to hug you out here."

The younger girl began laughing through the tears.

Aster smiled.

Then winced as pain flared through her damaged side.

Emi's laughter stopped.

"You're hurt."

Aster sighed.

"Yes."

"We need to get you home."

The older destroyer looked toward the distant smoke rising from Breakwater.

Then toward the enemy carrier.

Her expression became serious.

"We do."

She raised her radio.

"Breakwater, Aster. Enemy destroyer destroyed. Emi and I are withdrawing toward the designated recovery sector."

Mercer answered.

"Copy. Good work. Keep your damaged rigging under observation."

Aster nodded.

"Understood."

Then she looked toward Emi.

The younger girl smiled through her tears.

Aster returned it.

For the first time since the mine incident, she found herself thinking that perhaps she'd actually learned how to teach.

Not merely demonstrate.

Not merely joke.

Teach.

Emi had listened.

And she'd survived.

That was worth more than any perfect training score.

The Carrier That Had Never Wanted to Fight a Carrier

Yuna Mori was beginning to understand why aircraft carriers were considered capital ships.

Not because they were particularly impressive to look at.

Although hers was.

She remained rather proud of the Illustrious-class equipment fitted around her body, with its distinctive armored flight-deck structures and aviation-handling machinery extending from the carefully balanced supports.

Not because aircraft carriers could launch large numbers of planes.

Although that was useful too.

No.

Yuna was beginning to understand because everything became complicated the moment she started treating those aircraft as more than icons on a tactical display.

Fuel.

Ammunition.

Weather.

Launch timing.

Recovery arrangements.

Aircraft condition.

Flight-control communication.

Friendly identification.

Enemy anti-aircraft fire.

Pilot endurance.

The sheer amount of work required to put an aircraft into the sky and keep it there.

It was exhausting.

And she hadn't even attacked the enemy carrier yet.

She was standing on the water southwest of Breakwater, her fitted deck equipment operating under the approved assistance limits while the aviation section prepared its next launch.

Her Sea Hurricanes had already joined the air battle.

That had been the immediate priority.

The fighters' arrival had helped disrupt the attack against the wounded battleship, and several enemy aircraft had been destroyed or forced away.

But the Blackwake carrier remained active.

Its flight deck was still launching aircraft.

Its escorts had been reduced, but the aviation ship continued to threaten the entire force.

Yuna looked toward it.

A broad, dark silhouette near the northeastern horizon.

Long flight deck.

Corrupted superstructure.

Black growths spreading around the aviation arrangements.

The enemy carrier was enormous compared with her own wearable rigging.

A real, full-sized ship.

And somewhere aboard it, machinery was preparing more aircraft.

Yuna swallowed.

She'd chosen the Illustrious class because she'd admired British aircraft carriers.

Their armored decks.

Their defensive design philosophy.

Their aviation history.

She'd imagined commanding aircraft in spectacular naval battles.

Now, with the sea moving beneath her feet and the sky full of real combat, the romance had largely disappeared.

There were people relying on her.

And she was frightened of making a mistake.

The radio crackled.

"Yuna, Horizon Command. Updated situation: enemy light cruiser, heavy cruiser, and both destroyers assessed destroyed. Fast battleship and carrier remain active."

Yuna nodded.

"Understood."

Kade continued.

"What's your aviation status?"

She checked the report.

The fighter section remained in action.

Several aircraft had expended much of their ammunition.

One Sea Hurricane was damaged but still flying.

Another had been lost during the engagement.

Its pilot's status remained unconfirmed.

Yuna's stomach tightened whenever she thought about that last entry.

She forced herself to continue.

"Fighter cover active. Barracuda strike aircraft available. Launch arrangements prepared."

A pause.

Then Kade asked:

"Can you conduct the strike safely enough to justify it?"

Yuna looked toward the enemy carrier.

She considered the question.

Then answered carefully.

"I can launch under the present conditions. The reduced escort screen makes the approach more favorable, but the enemy carrier still has functioning anti-aircraft weapons."

"Understood."

She swallowed.

"We may lose aircraft."

The radio remained quiet for a moment.

Then Kade answered.

"I know."

Yuna looked down.

The words were simple.

They didn't make the decision easier.

Kade continued.

"If you commit, the objective is to stop the carrier's flight operations. Don't let a desire to sink it turn the strike into an unnecessary sacrifice."

She nodded.

"Understood."

Another pause.

Then:

"And Yuna?"

She raised her eyes.

"Yes?"

"You don't have to prove you're a real carrier."

For a moment, the girl couldn't speak.

She looked toward the aircraft waiting in the fitted deck arrangement.

The mechanics.

The support equipment.

The weapons.

The little details that had occupied so much of her training.

Then she glanced toward Breakwater.

Smoke still rose from the battleship.

The injured Keelborn remained under protection.

And the Blackwake carrier continued sending aircraft toward them.

Her expression softened.

"I know."

She took a breath.

"But I can help."

Kade's answer came quietly.

"Then help them come home."

The transmission ended.

Yuna lowered the handset.

For a moment, she stood very still.

Then she looked toward her aviation-control equipment.

The Barracudas were ready.

Their physical machines had been inspected and supplied. The aircraft assigned to torpedo duty carried the appropriate weapons; the dive-bombing section had been prepared separately. The flight personnel and control arrangements had completed the emergency checks before Horizon authorized departure.

None of that meant the aircraft were expendable.

None of it guaranteed success.

The enemy carrier's anti-aircraft defenses could destroy them.

Fighters might intercept them.

A damaged aircraft might fail to return.

And even if the strike succeeded, Yuna would still need to manage the surviving aircraft afterward.

She looked toward the northeastern sky.

Then raised her radio.

"Strike section, prepare to launch."

The aviation machinery responded.

The fitted flight-deck arrangement came alive with movement.

Aircraft moved into their assigned launch sequence, engines building power as Yuna maintained the required control settings.

The deck equipment vibrated through its supports.

The first Barracuda began its launch.

Its wings caught the air.

The aircraft lifted away.

Then another followed.

And another.

A small formation climbed into the afternoon sky.

The torpedo aircraft turned toward their assembly course.

The dive-bombing section followed.

Friendly fighters moved to provide what escort they could.

Yuna watched every one of them.

She knew the ammunition counts.

The fuel loads.

The intended approach.

The recovery requirements.

She also knew something that had never mattered to her during the game.

There were living people involved in operating those aircraft.

People who might not come back.

Yuna swallowed.

Then lifted her eyes.

The strike formation turned toward the Blackwake carrier.

And the girl who had once chosen the Illustrious class because she loved the idea of being an aircraft carrier sent her planes into a real battle.

The Blackwake carrier's anti-aircraft fire began before the Barracudas reached their final attack positions.

That was expected.

The intensity was not.

Yuna watched the first reports arrive.

The enemy carrier still possessed a substantial defensive battery, despite the destruction of most of its surface escorts. Dark gun mounts along the flight-deck edges and superstructure tracked the approaching aircraft, firing bursts that filled the surrounding sky with black smoke.

The remaining enemy fighters joined the defense.

Yuna's escort section engaged them.

The air battle became a confused struggle above the carrier while the Barracudas continued toward their assigned attack positions.

Yuna's hands tightened.

The control equipment transmitted the formation's status.

One fighter damaged.

Another continuing.

A torpedo aircraft forced to alter course.

The dive-bombing section holding together.

She watched the tactical display.

Then looked toward the actual sky.

The enemy carrier lay near the horizon.

Smoke drifted from several smaller fires around its escort area.

But its flight deck remained active.

Aircraft were still moving along it.

Yuna's expression hardened.

"Not anymore."

The torpedo section began its approach.

Low over the water.

The Barracudas descended toward their release positions, their wings rocking slightly as they entered the disturbed air around the enemy formation.

Blackwake anti-aircraft fire swept toward them.

One aircraft shuddered.

Smoke appeared behind its engine.

Yuna's eyes widened.

The plane attempted to maintain course.

Then a burst struck near its wing.

The aircraft rolled.

Its torpedo fell short.

The machine disappeared into the sea.

Yuna froze.

For a moment, she couldn't breathe.

Then the next report arrived.

Another Barracuda remained on course.

A third was adjusting.

The flight section had to continue.

She forced herself to look at the tactical picture.

The enemy carrier began turning.

Its broad hull moved through the water, attempting to evade the incoming weapons.

The torpedo aircraft adjusted their approach.

One released.

Then another.

Two torpedoes struck the sea.

Their wakes spread toward the carrier.

Yuna watched.

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then the first weapon passed behind the enemy's stern.

A miss.

Her stomach dropped.

The second continued.

The carrier was still turning.

The torpedo crossed the narrowing gap.

Then struck.

A violent explosion erupted against the enemy's starboard side.

White water rose.

Black smoke followed.

The massive ship shuddered.

Yuna gasped.

The carrier's turn slowed.

Not stopped.

But slowed.

A dark patch spread along the hull near the impact.

The ship began listing slightly.

Yuna's eyes widened.

"Hit..."

The report arrived through the aviation channel.

Torpedo impact confirmed.

Carrier damaged.

Her hands trembled.

Then she remembered the dive bombers.

They were still approaching.

The enemy carrier's anti-aircraft guns shifted upward.

The sky filled with bursts.

Yuna watched the first Barracuda begin its dive.

The aircraft descended toward the flight deck.

Its approach was steady.

The pilot committed.

The bomb released.

Then the plane pulled away under heavy fire.

For one terrible moment, Yuna thought the aircraft wouldn't clear the carrier's anti-aircraft envelope.

It staggered.

Smoke trailed from one wing.

But it continued flying.

The bomb struck near the after section of the flight deck.

A flash erupted.

Fire spread across the damaged plating.

The enemy carrier's aviation equipment shuddered.

The next Barracuda began its dive.

Blackwake gunfire followed it.

The aircraft descended.

Released.

Then pulled away.

Its bomb struck farther forward.

A second explosion tore through the flight-deck area.

Dark fragments rose above the ship.

The carrier's forward aviation operations stopped.

At least, that was what Yuna hoped.

She could see smoke spreading across the deck.

A section of the flight surface appeared damaged.

The enemy's aircraft were no longer launching normally.

Then the third dive bomber came under attack.

A Blackwake fighter crossed behind it.

Machine-gun fire flashed.

The Barracuda shuddered.

Its left wing caught fire.

Yuna's stomach twisted.

"No..."

The aircraft attempted to climb.

Failed.

Then rolled toward the sea.

The pilot did not recover.

The plane struck the water beyond the carrier.

A small splash.

Almost insignificant against the enormous sea.

Yuna stared at the marker.

It disappeared from the display.

For a moment, the world seemed to become very quiet.

Then the aviation-control system continued reporting the surviving aircraft.

She had to listen.

She had to respond.

Two Barracudas lost.

Others damaged.

Torpedo hit confirmed.

Bomb hits confirmed.

Enemy carrier flight operations disrupted.

The mission had accomplished its principal objective.

And two aircraft had not come home.

Yuna swallowed.

Her eyes stung.

She wanted to stop.

She wanted to sit down.

She wanted to ask someone else to handle the recovery.

Instead, she took a breath.

Then raised her radio.

"Strike section, disengage. Return to recovery formation. No further attack without authorization."

The surviving aircraft turned away.

Some struggled.

One had smoke trailing from its engine.

Another had damage to its wing.

The escorts moved to cover them.

Yuna watched every marker.

She counted.

Again.

Then again.

Her hands were shaking.

But she kept working.

Because the aircraft still in the sky needed somewhere to land.

And she intended to be ready when they arrived.

The Blackwake carrier was burning.

From Breakwater's bridge, Mercer could see the smoke spreading across its flight deck.

The massive aviation ship had developed a slight list after the torpedo strike, and several damaged sections of its upper structure were burning.

The flight-deck arrangement no longer appeared capable of launching aircraft normally.

That was good.

Very good.

But the carrier wasn't sinking.

Not yet.

And behind it, the enemy fast battleship continued firing.

Mercer looked toward the updated reports.

Two destroyers destroyed.

Light cruiser destroyed.

Heavy cruiser destroyed.

Carrier damaged and flight operations apparently suppressed.

Fast battleship still active.

The captain exhaled.

Four enemy surface combatants had been eliminated.

That was an extraordinary result.

It had also cost them dearly.

Breakwater's upper works were damaged.

Flooding remained contained but unresolved.

Several anti-aircraft mounts were out of action.

The aft fire had been stopped before reaching the ammunition spaces, but repairs would be extensive.

There were dead and wounded aboard.

Aster and June were damaged.

Elsa was wounded.

And the reinforcement girls had entered the battle using equipment that had never been intended for an unrestricted engagement of this scale.

Mercer looked toward Riko.

The Yamato-class girl remained off his starboard bow.

Her enormous turrets were traversing slowly.

The Mk. I stabilization equipment kept her upright, but the earlier firing had clearly strained her.

Even from the bridge, Mercer could tell she was exhausted.

He raised the radio.

"Riko, Breakwater. Report your condition."

The girl's answer came after a moment.

"Still operational!"

Mercer frowned.

"Rigging?"

A pause.

Then:

"Stabilizers functional. Main battery available under restrictions. Some heat warnings after the last firing sequence."

The captain nodded.

That was more useful.

"Understood. Don't exceed your approved limits."

"Yes, Captain."

Mercer looked toward the enemy fast battleship.

The Blackwake ship had suffered damage from both Breakwater and Riko.

Its forward upper works were burning.

One main turret appeared sluggish.

But the remaining guns continued firing.

And the enemy was beginning to turn.

Not toward Breakwater.

Toward its carrier.

Mercer watched the movement.

His expression changed.

The fast battleship was moving to protect the damaged aviation ship.

Even now.

The enemy had lost most of its escorts.

Its carrier was burning.

And the heavy warship was still trying to hold the line.

Mercer looked toward Cole.

"She's covering the carrier."

The executive officer nodded.

"Yes."

The captain considered the distance.

The fast battleship's course.

The burning aviation ship behind it.

Then he looked toward the fire-control plot.

"We can finish this."

Cole hesitated.

"Captain..."

Mercer turned.

The executive officer's expression was grave.

"At what cost?"

The question stopped him.

For a moment, Mercer looked toward the damaged deck.

The smoke.

The casualty reports.

The sailors working below.

Then he considered the enemy carrier.

If it escaped, it might return.

Not tomorrow.

Not necessarily soon.

But eventually.

And the next time it came, Horizon might not have the advantage of surprise.

The captain looked toward the sea.

Then answered quietly.

"Only if we can do it without losing the ship."

Cole nodded.

"Good."

Mercer returned to the tactical plot.

They had an opportunity.

Not a guarantee.

The enemy fast battleship was damaged.

Its carrier was wounded.

And Riko's enormous guns had begun producing useful hits.

But every remaining shell mattered.

Every turn mattered.

And Breakwater could not afford another torpedo strike.

Mercer raised the radio.

"Riko, Nadya, Elsa. Breakwater. Enemy fast battleship moving to cover the carrier. We will concentrate heavy fire on the battleship while maintaining separation from the enemy's damaged aviation ship."

The acknowledgments followed.

Nadya.

Elsa.

Riko.

Then Mercer added:

"Riko, do not advance. Maintain your present support position."

A pause.

"Understood."

He looked toward the enemy.

The fast battleship's forward turrets were turning again.

Sixteen-inch-class guns.

North Carolina-derived firepower.

A powerful opponent.

But not an invincible one.

Mercer reached for the fire-control report.

The main battery was ready.

He nodded.

"Take the shot."

Breakwater fired.

The next exchange between the two battleships shook the Pacific.

Breakwater's fourteen-inch shells crossed the distance first.

The Blackwake fast battleship answered a moment later, its surviving forward guns producing a violent flash beneath the smoke covering the damaged upper works.

For several seconds, both salvos were in flight.

Mercer watched the enemy.

He could not afford to look away.

The damaged American ship continued moving beneath him, its engines working against the sea while the damage-control teams fought to preserve enough compartment integrity for the voyage home.

Then the shells arrived.

Breakwater's salvo fell around the enemy.

Several splashes rose short.

One struck close beside the hull.

Another hit the damaged forward superstructure, breaking away more of the blackened structure surrounding the gun-control equipment.

The final observed impact struck the upper hull near the forward turret.

A violent flash erupted.

The Blackwake ship shuddered.

Its course wavered.

Then the enemy's shells arrived.

One struck the sea beyond Breakwater's stern.

Another fell short.

The third hit.

Not the bridge.

Not the main turrets.

An exposed upper structure near the forward deck.

The impact tore through damaged plating and sent fragments across a section of the ship already scarred by earlier bombardment.

An alarm sounded.

The bridge shuddered.

Mercer gripped the chart table.

Another casualty report followed.

Three wounded.

A damaged communications run.

Additional fire near the forward works.

He listened.

Then nodded.

"Damage Control to the affected section. Maintain the main battery."

Cole acknowledged.

The captain turned toward the enemy.

It was still moving.

Still fighting.

Still refusing to die.

Then Riko's voice entered the channel.

"Breakwater, Riko. Main battery ready for another authorized firing sequence."

Mercer looked toward her marker.

He considered the situation.

The enemy fast battleship was beginning to turn.

Its course exposed part of its damaged forward side while it attempted to maneuver between Breakwater and the carrier.

The opportunity wouldn't last.

He raised the radio.

"Riko, target information transmitting. Fire only if your equipment remains within limits."

A pause.

Then:

"Understood."

Mercer looked toward the starboard bow.

Riko stood beyond the battleship's forward sector, surrounded by the enormous machinery of her Yamato-class rigging.

From that distance, she looked impossibly small beneath the weight of her weapons.

A young woman.

Nineteen years old.

Still wearing training stabilizers.

And carrying guns capable of striking a capital ship.

Mercer swallowed.

Then turned toward the enemy.

"Come on," he whispered.

"Give her a chance."

Riko's shoulders were aching.

Not a little.

A lot.

The recoil systems had protected her from the full force of the forty-six-centimeter guns, but repeated firing placed enormous loads through the machinery and support fittings.

The Mk. I's stabilization assemblies were working harder than they'd ever worked during training.

She could feel the difference.

The outer flotation supports rose and settled with the swell.

The mechanical frame transmitted small warnings through the controls.

Her right shoulder felt stiff.

Her legs were tired.

And the enemy fast battleship was still firing.

Riko looked toward the latest target information.

Her hands trembled.

Not as badly as before.

But enough.

She took a breath.

Then another.

The corrected solution settled.

The enemy was turning.

Slowly.

Its hull moving across her assigned firing arc.

For a moment, she thought about the immense power of all nine forty-six-centimeter guns.

The kind of broadside she'd imagined during character creation.

The kind that had fascinated her when she'd read about Yamato's historical armament.

Nine shells.

Nearly nineteen tons of projectiles leaving the barrels in a single full broadside.

It would be magnificent.

It would also exceed the restricted sequence currently approved for her Mk. I configuration.

Riko's eyes moved toward the warning indicators.

She swallowed.

Then shook her head.

"No."

She would use what she could control.

Not what she wished she could control.

The selected turret completed its traverse.

Its barrels elevated.

The firing solution steadied.

Riko lowered her center of gravity.

The sea moved beneath her.

A long swell rose.

Her rigging responded.

She waited.

Then fired.

Three forty-six-centimeter guns thundered.

The blast rolled across the sea.

The stabilizers took the load.

Riko cried out as the recoil traveled through her equipment.

For a moment, she felt herself rocking backward.

Then the flotation supports corrected.

Her propulsion steadied.

She remained upright.

She looked toward the enemy.

The shells crossed the water.

One landed short.

A towering column rose.

The second struck the Blackwake fast battleship near its damaged forward turret.

The impact was enormous.

Armor and dark material erupted outward.

A flash rolled across the upper hull.

The turret stopped moving.

The third shell struck farther aft, near the boundary between the upper deck and the central superstructure.

A second explosion followed.

Not as visually dramatic as the first.

But deeper.

The kind that suggested the shell had reached something important.

The Blackwake battleship shuddered.

Then its speed began falling.

Riko stared.

Her mouth opened.

The enemy's course changed.

Not deliberately.

The vessel yawed.

Its stern swung outward.

Smoke poured from the central structure.

And the damaged forward turret remained silent.

Riko's eyes widened.

"I..."

The radio erupted.

Nadya.

"Riko! Heavy hits confirmed!"

Then Breakwater's gunnery officer.

"Enemy forward main turret disabled! Significant damage amidships!"

Riko stared toward the smoke.

For a moment, she couldn't speak.

Then the Mk. I issued a warning.

A sharp tone.

Followed by another.

Her stabilization indicators showed excessive load in one of the main recoil-support assemblies.

The equipment was still functioning.

But the margin had narrowed.

Riko looked down.

Her heart sank.

"No..."

She checked again.

The warning remained.

The system was not telling her she had been destroyed.

It was telling her she needed to stop placing additional loads through the damaged or overheated support.

Riko looked toward the enemy fast battleship.

It was still moving.

Still dangerous.

Her guns were enormous.

She could fire again.

Maybe.

The thought lasted only a second.

Then she remembered Kade's voice.

If your rigging becomes unsafe, return.

Dain's warning.

Bring it back.

Nadya's advice.

Don't rush.

Riko swallowed.

She raised her radio.

"Breakwater, Riko. Main battery support warning. Stabilization still functioning, but I'm approaching the authorized load limit."

Mercer's answer came immediately.

"Understood. Cease main-battery fire and withdraw to the support sector."

Riko closed her eyes.

The order hurt.

Not physically.

In a different way.

She wanted to keep helping.

Wanted to fire again.

Wanted to make certain the enemy never had another opportunity to hurt the sailors aboard Breakwater.

But the warning was real.

And the order was clear.

She opened her eyes.

"Understood."

Then she looked toward the enemy.

The blackened fast battleship was turning away from the carrier.

Or attempting to.

Its damaged machinery seemed unable to maintain the intended course.

Smoke spread over the decks.

The forward guns remained silent.

Riko exhaled.

Then began withdrawing.

Carefully.

Within the limits of the training frame.

For a moment, she felt desperately disappointed.

Then Nadya's voice came through.

"Riko."

The younger battleship raised the radio.

"Yes?"

A pause.

Then the older girl's voice softened.

"Well done."

Riko's eyes widened.

She looked toward the sea.

Then smiled faintly.

"Thank you."

Nadya continued.

"Now get yourself home."

Riko nodded.

Her expression became serious.

"Yes."

And she did something that would once have been almost unimaginable.

She obeyed without arguing.

Breakwater's crew saw the enemy fast battleship begin losing speed.

The damaged Blackwake vessel was still afloat.

Its remaining guns still posed a threat.

But the huge hits from Riko's forty-six-centimeter battery had changed the engagement.

The forward main turret was no longer firing.

Smoke covered the central machinery spaces.

The vessel's turn was uneven.

And the enemy was beginning to lose the ability to choose the range.

Mercer studied the reports.

Then looked toward Cole.

"She's hurt."

The executive officer nodded.

"Badly."

Mercer considered the position.

For the first time since the enemy force appeared, Breakwater possessed a better opportunity than its opponent.

Not because the old Tennessee-class ship had suddenly become faster.

Because the Blackwake fast battleship had been damaged enough that its speed advantage was failing.

Mercer looked toward the fire-control report.

"Main battery?"

"Ready, Captain."

He nodded.

"Concentrate fire. Use the updated solution."

The officer acknowledged.

Breakwater's guns traversed.

The ship continued moving through the smoke.

The damage-control teams reported that the major fires were contained.

Flooding remained stable.

Propulsion was limited but available.

The old ship was hurt.

It was not finished.

Mercer took a breath.

Then nodded.

"Fire."

The twelve fourteen-inch guns answered.

The salvo crossed the sea.

The enemy fast battleship attempted another turn.

Its stern swung.

The damaged hull shuddered.

Then Breakwater's shells arrived.

Two struck.

One hit near the central superstructure, where earlier damage had compromised the surrounding structure.

The other struck the upper hull aft of the forward turrets.

Violent flashes erupted.

More smoke rolled outward.

The Blackwake ship's speed fell again.

Its surviving aft turret continued turning for a moment.

Then stopped.

The vessel listed slightly.

A dark stain spread across the water alongside it.

Mercer watched.

The enemy's machinery was failing.

He could see it.

The once-imposing fast battleship was becoming a wounded mass of steel and Blackwake growths, struggling to maintain its heading while heavy shells broke apart the structures that kept it fighting.

Then Nadya fired.

Her twelve-inch guns thundered.

The older Sevastopol-class girl had moved into a position from which she could contribute without crossing Breakwater's firing line.

The salvo fell around the enemy.

One shell struck near the stern.

A flash erupted.

The Blackwake battleship's remaining propulsion faltered.

Its wake shortened.

Then vanished.

For several seconds, the ship continued drifting through the water.

Its damaged guns remained silent.

Smoke poured from the hull.

Then the vessel began listing more heavily.

Mercer watched.

He waited.

The bridge crew waited with him.

There were no cheers yet.

Nobody wanted to discover that an apparently disabled enemy still possessed a functioning magazine or gun.

The Blackwake vessel settled lower.

A portion of its damaged forward superstructure collapsed.

Dark material spread across the sea.

Then a deep explosion rolled through the central hull.

Not a main-gun impact.

Something internal.

The ship shuddered.

A section of its upper deck lifted.

Then fell inward.

The list increased rapidly.

Water began washing over the lower armor.

The fast battleship was dying.

Mercer raised the radio.

"All units, Breakwater. Enemy fast battleship disabled and foundering. Maintain distance and watch for secondary threats."

The acknowledgments followed.

Nadya.

Elsa.

Calla.

Aster.

Emi.

Mina.

Yuna.

And Riko, withdrawing carefully with her tired training rigging.

For a moment, Mercer listened to their voices.

Alive.

Every one of them still answering.

Then he looked toward the Blackwake ship.

Its bow rose slightly as the damaged hull settled.

The stern dipped.

Smoke rolled across the water.

The enormous warship began disappearing beneath the waves.

Mercer exhaled.

"That's five."

Cole glanced toward him.

"Five, Captain?"

"Two destroyers."

"Yes."

"Light cruiser."

"Yes."

"Heavy cruiser."

"Yes."

"Fast battleship."

Cole nodded.

"Yes."

Mercer looked toward the northeastern horizon.

The carrier remained.

Burning.

Damaged.

Its flight deck no longer launching aircraft.

But still afloat.

The captain considered that.

Then glanced toward Cole.

"One more."

The executive officer's expression became serious.

"Captain."

Mercer looked at him.

Cole shook his head.

"We've already taken enough damage."

The captain nodded slowly.

He knew.

The old battleship's ammunition expenditure had been enormous.

Its upper works were battered.

Its anti-aircraft defenses were reduced.

And its crew had already paid with blood.

Mercer looked toward the carrier.

The aviation ship's list had increased.

Smoke continued pouring from its flight deck.

The surviving aircraft from Yuna's strike were withdrawing.

The enemy carrier was not in a position to threaten them with an immediate renewed launch.

It might still survive.

It might limp away.

It might eventually be repaired by whatever grotesque systems the Blackwake possessed.

But that did not justify ordering Breakwater into another dangerous engagement simply to achieve a more satisfying result.

Mercer took a breath.

Then nodded.

"You're right."

Cole looked relieved.

The captain raised the radio.

"All units, Breakwater. Enemy heavy surface screen destroyed. Carrier flight operations suppressed. Do not pursue the carrier. Maintain coverage for the ground evacuation."

The acknowledgments followed.

Then Mercer looked toward the crew.

"Let's get our people off that island."

Nobody argued.

The Blackwake carrier sank twenty-six minutes later.

No additional allied salvo caused it.

The ship had been burning since Yuna's strike.

The torpedo damage continued admitting water, and the fires beneath the damaged flight deck spread into compartments already altered by the Blackwake's unnatural machinery.

At first, the carrier merely listed farther.

Its engines continued turning.

The vessel attempted to move away from the Burnt Narrows.

Then a deep explosion erupted beneath the forward flight deck.

Fire burst through the damaged plating.

A broad section of the aviation surface lifted.

Smoke rolled outward.

The great ship shuddered.

Its speed fell.

Then another internal explosion struck farther aft.

The deck sagged.

The superstructure tilted.

And the carrier began settling heavily by the bow.

From her position southwest of the battle, Yuna watched the reports arrive.

She didn't cheer.

Not immediately.

She was busy recovering her aircraft.

The surviving Sea Hurricanes were returning with ammunition nearly exhausted and fuel reserves declining. Several were damaged.

The Barracudas were worse.

One struggled to maintain altitude.

Another had a damaged control surface.

The aircraft had completed their attack, but completion didn't mean safety until they were recovered.

Yuna's deck crew and control equipment worked through the necessary sequence.

One aircraft returned.

Then another.

The landing arrangements required careful timing and precise control.

She couldn't simply catch them because she wanted to.

She had to give them a safe approach.

A stable deck.

A clear recovery order.

The first Sea Hurricane came in.

Settled onto the fitted flight-deck arrangement.

Its recovery equipment engaged.

Yuna exhaled.

Another followed.

Then a damaged fighter.

The landing was rough enough that the carrier girl flinched.

A warning sounded.

The aircraft stopped.

The mechanics began checking it immediately.

Yuna looked toward the next returning marker.

A Barracuda.

Damaged.

Approaching slowly.

Its engine note was uneven.

She swallowed.

"Come on..."

The aircraft descended.

Its wings rocked.

For a moment, the approach looked too low.

Then the control stabilized.

The landing gear met the deck.

The aircraft caught.

Stopped.

Yuna nearly sagged with relief.

The next aircraft was worse.

It carried damage along one wing.

Its engine was running hot.

The approach took longer.

Yuna adjusted the recovery sequence.

Waited.

Then the aircraft came in.

A rough landing.

A violent shudder.

Then stillness.

Recovered.

Yuna closed her eyes.

Only for a second.

Then looked toward the next marker.

Two strike aircraft remained missing.

One fighter had not returned.

Several others were damaged.

And somewhere beyond her position, the enemy carrier was sinking.

The report arrived.

"Yuna, Breakwater. Enemy carrier foundering. Flight operations ceased. Congratulations on the strike."

Yuna looked toward the horizon.

The carrier's bow was disappearing beneath the water.

Smoke rose from its shattered flight deck.

The vast aviation ship was no longer moving under its own power.

It was going down.

Yuna stared.

For a moment, she remembered the first evening she'd chosen her character class.

The excitement.

The aircraft.

The armored deck.

The promise of commanding a carrier.

She'd imagined sinking an enemy carrier someday.

A spectacular victory.

A triumphant moment.

Now the enemy ship was disappearing beneath the Pacific.

And all she could think about were the aircraft that hadn't returned.

Her eyes filled with tears.

She raised the radio.

"Breakwater, Yuna. Enemy carrier confirmed sinking."

Her voice shook.

A pause.

Then she continued.

"Strike aircraft recovery complete for all returning units. Several damaged. We have losses."

Mercer's voice softened.

"Understood."

Yuna swallowed.

For a moment, she couldn't say anything else.

Then:

"I want to go home."

The radio remained quiet.

A few seconds later, Kade's voice came through.

"Yuna, Horizon Command."

She straightened.

"Yes?"

He sounded tired.

Very tired.

But gentle.

"You've done enough."

A pause.

"Bring your aircraft home."

Yuna closed her eyes.

A tear slid down her cheek.

"Yes, Commander."

She lowered the handset.

Then looked toward the sea.

The Blackwake carrier disappeared beneath the waves.

And the young woman who had helped destroy it began turning toward Horizon Atoll.

The Last Flight Over the Beach

The destruction of the Blackwake carrier did not immediately make the sky safe.

That was one of the particularly irritating things about aircraft.

They did not disappear simply because the ship that had launched them sank.

Several Blackwake fighters remained airborne when the carrier began foundering. Some were damaged. Others appeared to have lost coordination with the rest of the force.

A few turned away.

One continued circling the sinking carrier.

And two approached the Burnt Narrows from the northeast, following a course that carried them directly toward the landing beach.

Cassidy Boone saw them first.

Or thought she did.

Élodie claimed she had noticed the aircraft several seconds earlier, but Cassidy considered that an unnecessary detail.

"Aircraft!"

The shout carried across the shelter.

Alina looked up.

Mira immediately contacted the landing craft and the naval support element.

The response was encouraging.

The surviving Blackwake surface ships had been destroyed.

The carrier was sinking.

The Keelborn were regrouping.

Yuna's surviving fighters were recovering, although one aircraft remained available to provide a final covering patrol.

Breakwater's anti-aircraft weapons were still operational in several sectors.

The immediate naval approach was finally becoming secure enough to permit evacuation.

Unfortunately, two Blackwake fighters had apparently decided that this was an excellent time to conduct one final attack.

Cassidy considered the timing extremely rude.

Zofia stood beside her.

The Polish girl's face was streaked with dust.

Her scarf had acquired several small tears.

Her eyes were red from smoke and exhaustion.

She looked toward the approaching aircraft.

Then sighed.

"Again?"

Cassidy nodded.

"Apparently."

"Why?"

The American considered the question.

Then shrugged.

"Bad manners."

Zofia stared.

For a moment, she looked as though she might laugh.

Then one of the aircraft opened fire.

The burst struck the sand beyond the shelter.

Both women ducked.

Cassidy sighed.

"Very bad manners."

Greta's MG08 opened fire from its prepared position.

The heavy machine gun hammered through another short burst.

Tracer fire crossed the approaching fighter's path.

The aircraft banked.

Avoided the heaviest portion of the fire.

Then turned toward the machine-gun position.

Morgan saw the change.

Her stomach dropped.

"Greta!"

The German woman had already noticed.

She stopped firing.

The gun's cooling jacket was warm from sustained use, and the ammunition supply was no longer generous enough to waste on a target moving beyond a sensible engagement opportunity.

She looked toward the approaching aircraft.

Then toward the covered withdrawal path.

"Move."

Morgan didn't argue.

She helped secure the equipment.

The pair withdrew from the exposed position as the fighter descended.

Its guns opened fire.

Rounds hammered the concrete where Greta had been standing moments earlier.

Fragments scattered.

A section of the old retaining wall chipped apart.

Then the aircraft passed overhead.

Morgan looked back.

The MG08 remained intact.

The mount had suffered minor damage.

The ammunition box was still secured.

Greta stared toward the sky.

Her expression became very cold.

"Unacceptable."

Morgan blinked.

"What?"

The German woman pointed toward the damaged wall.

"That was a perfectly serviceable position."

Morgan stared.

Then began laughing.

Not because she wasn't frightened.

She was.

Very.

But the sheer indignation in Greta's voice had reached a point where laughter seemed inevitable.

Greta slowly turned.

"Miss Reyes."

Morgan raised both hands.

"Sorry."

The German woman looked toward the aircraft.

Then muttered something in German.

Morgan wisely decided not to ask for a translation.

Across the beach, Alina had ordered the group into their final evacuation positions.

Lara remained beside Mara Venn.

The technician's condition was poor, but her breathing had stabilized enough for movement.

The recovered Sensha Pendant had been placed in secure protective custody.

Tamsin's injured arm had been dressed again.

Morgan's bruising remained painful but manageable.

The others were exhausted.

Several had minor cuts or scrapes.

Nobody was pretending to be completely fine.

Alina considered that a small improvement.

Mira approached.

"Morozova."

Alina straightened.

"Officer?"

"Landing craft preparing to come in. Once the air threat is suppressed, we'll begin embarkation."

Alina nodded.

"Understood."

"Medical priority first."

"Yes."

"Equipment after."

"Understood."

"And no one leaves the security perimeter to recover abandoned supplies."

Alina nodded again.

"Of course."

Mira looked past her.

Toward Réka.

The Hungarian girl froze.

For a moment, she appeared deeply offended.

Then she sighed.

"I wasn't going to."

Mira raised an eyebrow.

Réka looked away.

"...Not today."

The native SIA officer nodded.

"Good."

Alina closed her eyes.

Some things never changed.

Then the second fighter descended.

Its course carried it toward the southern shelter, where Piper and Ren were covering the approach.

Piper raised her M4A1.

The aircraft was too far away for a useful shot.

She held her fire.

Ren looked toward the sky.

Then toward the approaching fighter.

Its engine was smoking.

One wing appeared damaged.

But it remained airborne.

The aircraft descended.

Its machine guns flashed.

Rounds struck the sand.

Piper ducked.

Ren pressed herself against the concrete.

The fighter continued toward the beach.

Then a different engine sound approached from above.

Higher.

Cleaner.

A British naval fighter.

One of Yuna's Sea Hurricanes.

It descended from the southwest and crossed behind the Blackwake aircraft.

Its guns opened fire.

A burst struck the enemy fighter's damaged wing.

The aircraft jerked.

A second burst hit the engine.

Flames erupted.

The Blackwake machine rolled.

It attempted to turn toward the sea.

Failed.

Then struck the water beyond the reef.

A violent splash rose.

The Sea Hurricane climbed away.

Its engine roared.

For a moment, Zofia simply stared.

Then she raised one hand.

"YES!"

Cassidy grinned.

The Polish girl waved toward the departing fighter.

"THANK YOU!"

The aircraft banked.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that the pilot might have noticed the movement on the beach.

Then it climbed toward the recovering carrier formation.

Cassidy watched it go.

For a moment, her expression softened.

"British naval aviation."

Zofia glanced toward her.

"Yes?"

Cassidy nodded solemnly.

"Very polite."

The Polish girl burst out laughing.

Alina heard them.

She turned.

Saw the destroyed fighter sinking beyond the reef.

Then looked toward the sky.

The remaining Blackwake aircraft was withdrawing.

The beach was finally quieting.

She exhaled.

Slowly.

Then raised her radio.

"Mira, Alina. All VESPER personnel accounted for. Ready for embarkation."

The native officer acknowledged.

"Understood. Maintain positions."

Alina looked toward her friends.

Twelve faces.

Dusty.

Exhausted.

Some frightened.

Some still trying to smile.

Then she looked toward Piper, Tamsin, and Ren.

All three were present.

Tamsin's arm was bandaged.

Ren was helping her carry part of her equipment.

Piper looked toward the incoming landing craft with an expression of immense relief.

Fifteen.

All fifteen.

Alina swallowed.

Then looked toward the sea.

The Higgins boat was coming.

This time, nobody cheered.

They simply watched it approach.

And waited for the order to go home.

The LCVP reached the beach beneath a sky turning gold.

Its engine rumbled.

The bow ramp lowered.

Water washed across the wet sand.

And the crew began receiving the exhausted landing party.

Mira supervised the embarkation personally.

The injured civilian went first.

Mara Venn was helped aboard by Lara and the medical support personnel, with the necessary precautions to keep the contaminated tissue isolated from unnecessary contact.

The boat's crew had prepared a designated space for her.

Not luxurious.

Not comfortable.

But suitable for the immediate evacuation.

The recovered Pendant followed under documented protective custody.

Cassidy watched the small container pass into the boat.

Belle's name was attached to the record.

The case remained closed.

The faint blue-violet glow was still visible through its examination window.

For a moment, Cassidy stared.

She remembered the tank.

The screaming machinery.

The girl's pale face.

The enormous industrial assembly falling across the Sherman.

And the moment Belle's hand had reached toward the Pendant.

Cassidy swallowed.

Then turned away.

There would be time to think about it later.

Perhaps too much time.

The others began boarding.

Greta's MG08 and its support equipment required careful handling, particularly because the group was exhausted and the craft's crew wanted the load secured properly.

Morgan helped supervise the transfer.

Darya and Réka assisted with the ordinary equipment cases.

Élodie's long rifle was secured.

Johanna boarded with Lara's additional medical supplies.

Ingrid helped Natsuki.

Zofia followed Alina.

Cassidy waited near the ramp.

Mira noticed.

"Boone."

She turned.

"Yes?"

"You're next."

Cassidy nodded.

Then looked toward the beach.

The ruined industrial buildings stood beyond the concrete road.

Dark.

Broken.

Silent.

Somewhere inside them lay the wreck of a Sherman.

A young Sensha who had once been called Belle.

A woman who had tried to save workers.

A former player who might never wake up again.

Cassidy looked toward the sea.

Then toward Mira.

"Officer."

The native SIA woman waited.

Cassidy hesitated.

Then asked:

"Are we really leaving?"

Mira's expression softened.

"Yes."

Cassidy swallowed.

"Good."

She stepped onto the ramp.

The metal shifted slightly beneath her boots.

The smell of diesel rose from the landing craft.

The crew directed her toward the assigned position.

She obeyed.

No jokes.

No complaints.

No argument about whether the boat was historically impressive.

She simply boarded.

Then turned toward the shore.

Zofia sat beside her.

The Polish girl looked exhausted.

Cassidy glanced over.

"Hey."

Zofia raised her eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Still with me?"

The Polish girl considered that.

Then smiled faintly.

"Unfortunately."

Cassidy laughed.

A quiet, relieved laugh.

"Good."

The last personnel boarded.

The crew checked the load.

Mira confirmed the count.

Fifteen former-player SIA women.

Native security personnel.

One contaminated civilian.

One recovered Sensha Pendant.

All necessary equipment accounted for.

No one left behind from the landing detachment.

The ramp rose.

The engine increased power.

And the Higgins boat backed away from the beach.

Cassidy watched the sand recede.

The ruined loading shed became smaller.

The broken seawall slipped behind them.

The dark industrial buildings faded beneath the evening light.

Then the landing craft turned toward Breakwater.

The old battleship waited beyond the reef.

Damaged.

Smoke-stained.

Still afloat.

Cassidy looked toward it.

For a moment, she found herself smiling.

Not because the day had been exciting.

Not because she'd finally found something interesting to do.

Because they were leaving.

And because, for the first time in many hours, the idea of returning to Horizon Atoll seemed like the greatest possible reward.

What a Battleship Costs

Breakwater looked worse from the landing craft than Cassidy had expected.

From the beach, the ship had been a distant silhouette surrounded by smoke.

Up close, the damage was impossible to ignore.

Sections of the upper works had been torn apart.

Blackened metal surrounded the places where enemy shells and bombs had struck. A damaged anti-aircraft mount sat silent beneath temporary securing arrangements. Several rails were twisted, and portions of the deck had been covered with fragments of wrecked equipment.

Smoke still drifted from one repaired fire area.

The ship's crew was moving carefully.

Damage-control personnel remained at work.

Medical teams waited near the assigned reception point.

The old battleship was still afloat.

Still moving under its own power.

But nobody aboard was pretending it had come through the battle unharmed.

Cassidy looked up at the steel hull.

Her smile faded.

Zofia followed her gaze.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then the Polish girl whispered:

"They really got hurt."

Cassidy nodded.

"Yeah."

The LCVP approached its assigned recovery position under the guidance of Breakwater's boat crew. The battleship's maneuvering was kept carefully controlled, and the transfer arrangements had been prepared for the sea conditions.

Nobody was going to improvise an ordinary beach disembarkation beside a damaged capital ship.

The passengers waited while the crew established a safe transfer.

Mira supervised the order.

The injured civilian first.

Then the medical personnel.

The remaining ground party afterward.

Cassidy watched Mara Venn being helped aboard.

The technician looked terribly weak.

Her contaminated arm had been secured and isolated as carefully as the available equipment permitted.

Her eyes remained open.

She looked toward the battleship's upper deck.

Then toward the sailors waiting to receive her.

For a moment, her expression seemed almost disbelieving.

She'd been trapped inside the Blackwake facility long enough to believe nobody was coming.

Now an enormous battleship had fought an entire enemy strike force while a group of young SIA women recovered her.

It must have seemed impossible.

Lara helped her across.

"Careful."

Mara nodded weakly.

The medical team received her.

A sailor asked for the casualty documentation.

Lara provided it.

The woman was transferred toward the ship's prepared isolation area, with the medical department maintaining the necessary precautions until she could be moved to Horizon's better-equipped facilities.

The recovered Pendant followed under separate custody.

Cassidy watched the small container disappear through a guarded passage.

Belle.

The name remained in her thoughts.

Then Mira called:

"Boone."

Cassidy turned.

"Yes?"

"Your group."

She nodded.

"Right."

The SIA women began transferring aboard.

Some moved carefully because they were injured.

Others because they were exhausted.

Zofia almost stumbled when she reached the receiving deck.

Morgan caught her.

The Polish girl looked embarrassed.

"I'm fine."

Morgan raised an eyebrow.

Zofia sighed.

"...Mostly."

"Good."

The automatic riflewoman smiled.

"Mostly is an excellent improvement over falling off a battleship."

Zofia laughed weakly.

Cassidy followed.

The steel deck felt strangely reassuring beneath her boots.

Solid.

Broad.

Unmoving compared with the small landing craft.

Then Breakwater shifted with the swell.

Cassidy grabbed a handhold.

Morgan glanced toward her.

The American woman straightened.

"Ship."

Morgan nodded.

"Very observant."

Cassidy smiled faintly.

"Thank you."

They moved toward the assigned staging area.

As the group passed one of the damaged upper structures, Cassidy noticed several sailors standing nearby.

Their expressions were subdued.

One had a bandage around his forehead.

Another's sleeve was torn.

A third was carrying a damaged equipment component toward the repair team.

They were young.

Very young.

Not much older than Zofia.

Some perhaps no older than Kade.

Cassidy watched them.

Then looked toward the scarred deck.

For a moment, she remembered the opening of the battle.

The enormous guns.

The cheers.

The excitement of boarding the ship.

It seemed like something that had happened years ago.

A sailor approached.

He wore a practical navy-blue working uniform and carried a clipboard.

"Ground party?"

Alina stepped forward.

"Yes."

He checked the roster.

"Any urgent casualties?"

Mira answered.

"One contaminated civilian already transferred. Two personnel requiring further medical evaluation. Several minor injuries."

The sailor nodded.

"Medical's expecting them."

He looked toward the assembled women.

Then smiled faintly.

"Glad you made it."

For a moment, Alina couldn't speak.

Then she nodded.

"Thank you."

The sailor returned the nod.

He was about to move on when Zofia noticed the dark stain on his sleeve.

Her expression changed.

"Are you hurt?"

The man looked down.

Then shook his head.

"Not mine."

The answer was quiet.

Too quiet.

Zofia swallowed.

The sailor glanced toward the damaged upper works.

Then back at her.

"We had some casualties."

Nobody spoke.

He lowered his eyes.

"One of the boys didn't make it."

A silence settled over the group.

Cassidy looked toward the scarred deck.

Morgan lowered her head.

Alina's expression tightened.

Lara closed her eyes briefly.

The sailor swallowed.

Then straightened.

"Anyway. Your medical team's waiting."

He moved on.

The group remained still for several seconds.

Then Greta spoke quietly.

"Come."

The others looked toward her.

The German woman's expression was solemn.

"We should get out of the crew's way."

Nobody argued.

They followed the assigned route.

And the battleship's machinery continued working beneath their feet.

Captain Mercer did not leave the bridge until the immediate navigation situation was stable.

He wanted to.

Desperately.

But the ship remained damaged, and the return passage required careful attention.

The torpedo impact had reduced his confidence in the condition of the underwater spaces.

The upper works were battered.

Several systems remained under temporary repair.

And the crew had spent hours fighting fires, flooding, and enemy aircraft.

Breakwater could make the voyage home.

That was the best news of the evening.

It would not make the voyage quickly.

Nor would it make it comfortably.

Mercer reviewed the latest engineering report.

Then looked toward Cole.

"How bad?"

The executive officer considered the figures.

"Bad."

Mercer raised an eyebrow.

"Technical term?"

"Highly technical."

The captain smiled faintly.

Then Cole continued.

"Flooding remains contained. Main propulsion is available at the reduced operating limits Engineering recommends. Aft ammunition-handling systems require extensive inspection. Multiple AA mounts damaged. Electrical restoration will take time."

Mercer nodded.

"And the main battery?"

"Still functional, but the forward fire-control arrangements need repair."

The captain looked toward the chart.

"Right."

Cole hesitated.

Then added:

"Fuel expenditure is substantial."

Mercer closed his eyes.

"Naturally."

He had become remarkably familiar with that particular problem.

The ship had gone into battle with enough fuel to complete the planned operation and return under ordinary conditions.

It had not planned to spend hours maneuvering under heavy fire against a carrier strike force.

The engines had worked hard.

The damage-control equipment had consumed additional resources.

The auxiliary machinery had operated almost continuously.

And the return would take longer because the ship was damaged.

Mercer considered the figures.

Then sighed.

"Corwin is going to kill me."

Cole raised an eyebrow.

"Quartermaster Hale?"

"Yes."

"He can't possibly blame you for the enemy attacking."

Mercer looked toward him.

"Adrian."

"Captain?"

"Have you met the man?"

Cole considered that.

Then smiled.

"Fair."

For a moment, both laughed.

Quietly.

Then the laughter faded.

Mercer looked toward the casualty report.

Thomas Reed's name remained near the top.

Other wounded personnel followed.

One additional sailor had died despite treatment after the aft bomb impact.

Several more remained seriously injured.

The ship had survived.

Not everyone aboard had.

Mercer stared at the names.

Then slowly lowered the report.

Cole watched him.

"Captain."

Mercer raised his eyes.

The executive officer's expression was grave.

"We did what we could."

Mercer considered that.

Then nodded.

"I know."

He looked toward the bridge windows.

The sea had begun turning gold beneath the setting sun.

Farther out, the Keelborn were regrouping.

Riko's broad Mk. I configuration moved carefully near Nadya.

Mina remained with Elsa.

Emi was escorting Aster.

Calla supported June.

Yuna was completing the final arrangements for her surviving aircraft.

An extraordinary group.

Experienced Beta Testers.

Newly trained former players.

Women who had been real long before the Crisis.

People who had known them for weeks.

People who had known them for years.

All working together to bring a damaged fleet home.

Mercer felt his throat tighten.

Then he looked toward Cole.

"Get the crew a proper meal when we reach Horizon."

The executive officer blinked.

"Captain?"

"Hot food."

A pause.

"Whatever Eliza can manage."

Cole smiled faintly.

"Yes, Captain."

Mercer looked toward the sea again.

Then added:

"And I want Reed's family entered on the official casualty notification list."

Cole nodded.

"Of course."

The captain swallowed.

For a moment, he could still picture the young sailor asking questions about the battleship's anti-aircraft battery.

The enthusiasm.

The smile.

The belief that naval history had finally become something he could experience.

Mercer closed his eyes.

Then opened them.

"Let's go home."

Cole nodded.

"Yes, Captain."

Ran out of space - the rest is in the post-chapter author note spot. Sorry!