Horizon Atoll: Hearts of Steel

Senko Maru had spent most of the morning arguing with a man who believed that the word cargo was an adequate substitute for an actual inventory.

She disagreed.

Strongly.

”No.”

The quartermaster stared at her.

”Miss—”

”No.”

”Could you at least let me explain?”

”You’ve been explaining for twelve minutes.”

”Then you understand the problem.”

”I understand that you want me to accept six containers of miscellaneous cargo without telling me what’s inside them.”

The man looked toward the loading platform.

”General station provisions.”

Senko closed her eyes.

Counted to three.

Opened them again.

”What’s inside?”

”Provisions.”

”What kind?”

”General.”

She stared at him.

The quartermaster stared back.

A diesel crane rattled overhead.

Somewhere beyond the loading shed, a forklift reversed with an intermittent warning beep.

Senko folded her arms.

”All right.”

The quartermaster visibly relaxed.

Then she pointed toward the containers.

”Open them.”

His relief vanished.

”What?”

”Open them.”

”They’re sealed.”

”An extraordinary observation.”

”Miss—”

”If I’m carrying those across the Pacific, I want to know what’s inside them.”

”They’ve already been approved.”

”By whom?”

”Regional logistics.”

”Then regional logistics won’t mind telling me whether I’m carrying electrical equipment, potatoes, or six containers of very enthusiastic rats.”

The quartermaster looked offended.

”We don’t ship rats.”

”Then this should be easy.”

A man working beside the crane turned away.

His shoulders shook.

The quartermaster noticed.

He appeared to consider several possible responses, none of which would have been particularly professional.

Finally, he sighed.

”Fine.”

Senko smiled.

”Thank you.”

The quartermaster waved toward the loading crew.

”Open Container Seven.”

Senko turned toward it.

A locking bar was released.

The doors swung outward.

Inside stood row upon row of sealed wooden crates.

Each had been stenciled with a supply classification.

Senko examined the nearest one.

ELECTRICAL COMPONENTS — DISTRIBUTION SYSTEM REPAIR

She blinked.

Then moved to the next.

INDUSTRIAL PUMP ASSEMBLY — AUXILIARY WATER PROCESSING

Her expression changed.

She checked another.

Replacement wiring.

Circuit breakers.

Protective connectors.

Industrial lubricants.

Sealed bearings.

Machinery seals.

She stared for a moment.

Then turned toward the quartermaster.

”Why didn’t you just say that?”

He threw both hands into the air.

”Because it’s general station provisions!”

Senko looked at the crates again.

Then back at him.

”No.”

The man stared.

”Not again.”

She pointed at the labels.

”These are exactly the things Horizon needs.”

He looked toward the container.

Then toward her.

”Yes?”

”Then write that on the manifest!”

”Miss—”

”People can’t prioritize unloading equipment if they don’t know what it is!”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then looked at the documents in his hand.

For several seconds, he appeared to be struggling with the unpleasant realization that she had a point.

Senko waited.

Finally, he sighed.

”All right.”

She smiled.

”Wonderful.”

”And you’ll accept the shipment?”

”Absolutely.”

”Good.”

”After we inspect the other five.”

The quartermaster slowly lowered his head.

The crane operator burst out laughing.

Senko considered the matter settled.

She was having an excellent morning.

Relatively speaking.

The Pacific staging port surrounding her remained badly shaken by the events of the previous day. The earthquake had damaged several warehouse roofs, disrupted local communications, and left large numbers of newly arrived players unconscious for hours.

The medical facilities were still crowded.

Personnel were still being identified.

And everywhere Senko looked, people were asking questions nobody seemed capable of answering.

The most obvious question concerned the fact that she was no longer wearing the face she had selected in the character creator.

Her actual face had returned.

Her real-world height.

Her natural dark-brown hair.

Her ordinary eyes.

The small mole beside her chin that she had deliberately removed from the avatar because she thought it looked distracting.

It was back.

Everything was back.

Except the world she remembered entering the game from.

That appeared to have disappeared entirely.

Senko had already attempted the usual logout commands.

They had failed.

She had tried the interface gestures.

Those had failed too.

She had even asked an increasingly bewildered administrative clerk whether the port possessed an emergency player-services terminal.

The clerk had asked what a player-services terminal was.

That conversation had ended badly.

Senko had spent several minutes sitting on a bench afterward, staring at her hands.

Then she had noticed a supply notice pinned outside the quartermaster’s office.

URGENT MATERIAL REQUIREMENT — HORIZON ATOLL NAVAL STATION

She had read it.

Then read it again.

And suddenly she’d had something considerably more useful to do than panic.

Because Horizon Atoll was where she was supposed to have gone in the first place.

She had chosen it before the Crisis.

Not by accident.

Not because every other assignment was taken.

She had actually wanted the place.

A neglected naval station with an enormous harbor, badly maintained facilities, and the possibility of becoming something far more useful if somebody was willing to do the work.

That sounded wonderful to her.

Not glamorous.

Not prestigious.

But useful.

She had imagined arriving at the island with her cargo equipment, joining the station’s support flotilla, and spending the first few days figuring out how to turn an abandoned logistics yard into something worth having.

Unfortunately, she’d never reached her intended starting location.

The initial assignment process had placed her at a regional staging port while her equipment and transfer arrangements were being finalized.

Then the earthquake had happened.

Then the headache.

Then she’d awakened in a medical ward with her own face, a Ship Pendant hanging from her neck, and a growing suspicion that the world had become considerably more complicated than anyone had advertised.

By the time she felt well enough to stand, Horizon Atoll had appeared in an emergency supply request.

So she had taken the job.

Immediately.

She had also brought her transfer papers.

Those were currently tucked into a waterproof document case hanging from her belt.

She had checked them four times.

The destination was correct.

HORIZON ATOLL NAVAL STATION.

The receiving command position was listed as occupied.

COMMANDER KADE BHER.

A newly appointed officer.

Excellent.

She hoped he was sensible.

She also hoped he understood the difference between a supply vessel and a magical box that produced infinite spare parts.

Those were two very different things.

Her naval class had made that point rather clear.

The historical Senko Maru had been a Japanese merchant cargo vessel completed in 1935, later requisitioned for military transport service. The class was not a glamorous battleship design or a famous destroyer.

It was a transport.

A ship built to carry things from one place to another.

Food.

Equipment.

People.

Medical supplies.

Industrial materials.

Whatever a destination required badly enough to justify the voyage.

Senko rather liked that.

She had built her Keelborn identity around it, choosing the shortened personal name Senko without pretending to be the original historical vessel.

Her rigging was accordingly very different from the equipment carried by combat-oriented Keelborn.

It had taken an entire team of technicians to fit the modular assemblies properly that morning.

Heavy cargo-support frames surrounded her waist and back. Articulated crane booms rose above a pair of broad, hull-shaped buoyancy structures fitted to either side of her body. Sealed cargo compartments were integrated into the equipment, their internal spaces arranged for pallets, containers, drums, and smaller machinery crates.

The entire assembly was enormous.

Not particularly elegant.

And, in Senko’s opinion, beautiful.

The cargo modules were real.

Their contents were real.

The cranes were real.

Nothing appeared from nowhere.

She had watched every pallet being lifted aboard.

She had checked each manifest.

She had signed for every container.

And if anybody at Horizon needed to know where a particular crate had been placed, she intended to be able to answer without rummaging through an imaginary inventory.

Which was why the quartermaster’s reliance on the words general station provisions offended her so deeply.

She examined the next container.

Medical supplies.

Good.

The next contained replacement hydraulic equipment and industrial tools.

Better.

The fourth held packaged food, water-treatment chemicals, and sanitary supplies.

Excellent.

The fifth contained structural repair materials, cable reels, and electrical insulation.

Senko nearly applauded.

The sixth was less exciting.

A mixed load of office equipment, field bedding, replacement lighting fixtures, and assorted administrative supplies.

She studied the manifest.

Then nodded.

”All right.”

The quartermaster looked exhausted.

”All right?”

”Yes.”

”You’ll accept it?”

”Yes.”

He closed his eyes.

”Thank goodness.”

Senko smiled.

”Although—”

”No.”

She blinked.

”What?”

”No more inspections.”

”But—”

”Everything is properly recorded now.”

She examined the revised paperwork.

He was right.

Reluctantly, she nodded.

”Fine.”

The quartermaster looked toward the heavens.

”Merciful.”

Senko turned toward the loading crew.

”All right, everyone. Let’s get this aboard.”

The crane operator raised one hand.

”Finally!”

Senko smiled sweetly.

”Careful with the pump assemblies!”

The man sighed.

”Of course.”

”And keep the electrical crates dry!”

”Yes!”

”And—”

”We know!”

She laughed.

For the first time since the Crisis, she actually meant it.

The staging port remained tense.

The future remained uncertain.

But her cargo was real.

Her destination was real.

And somewhere across the Pacific, a naval station was waiting for supplies that she could actually deliver.

She intended to get there.

Even if she had to argue with every quartermaster between here and Horizon Atoll.

 Her escort was waiting outside the harbor.

Senko met its commander while the loading crews finished securing the last cargo module.

The woman who approached her wore a blue naval uniform with pale trim and carried a clipboard tucked beneath one arm. Her natural appearance was noticeably different from the character portrait displayed on her personnel registration, but she possessed the brisk, focused manner of someone who had already spent several hours dealing with other people’s mistakes.

A compact arrangement of light-cruiser rigging rested on a fitting platform behind her.

Its gun mounts were narrow, numerous, and clearly intended for rapid fire rather than the enormous armor-piercing shells of a battleship.

She stopped before Senko.

”Senko Maru?”

Senko looked up.

”Yes?”

”I’m Calla. Atlanta-class.”

She offered her hand.

Senko shook it.

”Pleasure.”

”Likewise.”

Calla glanced toward the cargo modules.

”You’re our priority transport.”

Senko nodded.

”I’ve got supplies for Horizon Atoll.”

”Good. We intend to deliver you with all of them.”

”Also good.”

Calla opened her clipboard.

”Escort formation consists of myself, another Atlanta-class girl, one Admiral Hipper-class heavy cruiser, a Sevastopol-class battleship, and one player-crewed Tennessee-class battleship.”

Senko blinked.

”Player-crewed?”

Calla nodded.

”An actual ship.”

”Not a Keelborn?”

”No.”

”Human crew?”

”Entirely.”

Senko looked toward the harbor entrance.

”How many?”

Calla shrugged.

”A lot.”

”That’s not particularly specific.”

”Enough that they spent half of yesterday arguing about watches, ammunition handling, and who was supposed to clean which compartment.”

Senko considered that.

Then smiled.

”Sounds promising.”

Calla raised an eyebrow.

”Does it?”

”Organizing people is a good sign.”

”Arguing?”

”Means they’ve discovered there are jobs to organize.”

Calla laughed.

”Fair.”

She turned toward the water.

”Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

The escort group stood beyond the staging port’s outer breakwater.

The second Atlanta-class girl was waiting beside a navigation buoy, her rigging equipped and her anti-aircraft mounts secured in their travel positions.

Her name was June.

She had short dark hair, an attentive expression, and the habit of checking the sky whenever conversation paused.

Beside her stood the Admiral Hipper-class cruiser.

Elsa.

Tall in bearing, though no longer in the exact body she had designed before the Crisis, she wore a dark-gray naval uniform and carried the heavy weapon assemblies of a German cruiser. Her equipment had the thick, angular appearance of machinery built with considerable attention to armor, firepower, and the ability to survive punishment.

The Sevastopol-class battleship was named Nadya.

Her equipment was older.

Very much older.

Heavy triple-gun turrets formed the central elements of her rigging, with broad armor structures and a distinctly early-twentieth-century character.

She looked at Senko’s cargo equipment with considerable interest.

”You’re carrying all that?”

Senko nodded proudly.

”Yes.”

Nadya whistled.

”Impressive.”

”Thank you.”

”Doesn’t it get heavy?”

Senko considered that.

”Only when somebody loads it incorrectly.”

Elsa looked toward the staging port.

”Was the loading correctly supervised?”

Senko smiled.

”Very.”

Calla coughed.

The smile on her face suggested she had heard something about the quartermaster.

Senko ignored her.

Then she looked past the four Keelborn.

And saw the battleship.

It was enormous.

Not in the way the player-controlled Keelborn represented enormous historical vessels through their equipment.

This was an actual ship.

A steel hull rested in the water beyond the outer anchorage, its great length dwarfing the utility craft moving nearby.

Four triple-gun turrets occupied its centerline.

Two forward.

Two aft.

The main guns were unmistakably battleship weapons.

Above them rose a massive rebuilt superstructure fitted with radar equipment, directors, platforms, and anti-aircraft installations.

The vessel’s silhouette belonged to the late-war modernization of USS California, one of the Tennessee-class battleships.

Numerous secondary guns occupied enclosed dual-purpose mounts.

Smaller anti-aircraft weapons lined the superstructure.

Signal flags fluttered from the halyards.

Smoke rose from the funnels.

And human beings moved across the decks.

Lots of them.

Men in naval uniforms.

Men carrying tools.

Men checking gun mounts.

Men securing loose equipment.

Men leaning over railings to examine the convoy assembling nearby.

It was an extraordinary sight.

Senko had become accustomed to warship machinery being carried by people.

Now she was looking at a warship that still required a whole crew.

She smiled.

”Oh.”

Calla looked toward her.

”Something wrong?”

Senko shook her head.

”No.”

She looked at the enormous battleship.

”That’s wonderful.”

Elsa raised an eyebrow.

”Wonderful?”

”It’s an actual ship.”

”Yes.”

”With actual sailors.”

”Also yes.”

Senko looked toward the aft turrets.

”Do they all operate it?”

Calla nodded.

”Every station is crewed by a player. Navigation, engineering, weapons, damage control, communications. They’re a rare kind of player organization.”

Senko studied the decks.

The sailors appeared busy.

Several were hauling ammunition-handling equipment.

Others were checking the anti-aircraft batteries.

A group near the forward superstructure had gathered around an officer holding a clipboard.

One man looked toward the enormous main turrets.

Then upward.

Then shook his head in apparent disbelief.

Senko laughed quietly.

”I think I like them.”

Nadya folded her arms.

”They spent yesterday firing their guns at practice targets.”

Senko looked toward her.

”The battleship?”

”Yes.”

”How’d it go?”

Elsa smiled.

”Eventually.”

Calla added:

”Apparently the first firing sequence involved considerable confusion.”

June spoke for the first time.

”And a very angry gunnery officer.”

Senko blinked.

”Why?”

Calla grinned.

”Because someone forgot that the ship has four main turrets, not three.”

Senko stared.

Then looked toward the enormous battleship.

”...Oh.”

Nadya laughed.

”Don’t worry. They figured it out.”

Senko considered the matter.

Then nodded.

”Good.”

She looked toward the open sea.

”Because I rather need them to.”

The battleship’s name was Breakwater.

It was painted in white block letters along a forward section of the superstructure, beneath the vessel’s identification number and above a series of smaller maintenance markings.

The name had been selected by the players who organized the crew.

It wasn’t USS California.

It wasn’t pretending to be.

The ship was a Tennessee-class battleship built around California’s extensively modernized wartime configuration, with the great 14-inch batteries, improved protection, modernized fire control, dual-purpose secondary guns, and enough smaller anti-aircraft weapons to make its upper decks resemble an unusually aggressive porcupine.

The players had chosen the historical configuration.

They had chosen their ship’s name.

And they had spent much of the first day learning that a battleship was considerably more complicated when somebody actually had to operate it.

On the bridge, Daniel Mercer stood beside the navigation table, drinking coffee that had been reheated three times.

He was twenty-six, broad-shouldered, and looked considerably more confident than he felt.

His uniform was slightly wrinkled.

He hadn’t slept enough.

And the previous day’s events had left him with the uncomfortable knowledge that every man aboard now seemed to possess a genuine physical body.

They weren’t operating a simulation from their bedrooms anymore.

They were aboard the ship.

Actually aboard.

The deck moved beneath their feet.

The machinery generated real heat.

The food tasted real.

And when one of the engineering players had cut his hand on a badly positioned metal fitting, the injury had required bandaging.

That had been an unpleasant moment.

Not because the injury was severe.

Because blood had appeared where a game damage indicator should have been.

Mercer looked toward the chart.

Their destination lay ahead.

Horizon Atoll.

A neglected naval installation in the Pacific.

Its supply requirements had justified dispatching a transport under escort, and the Breakwater crew had volunteered to accompany the movement after learning that the available patrol groups were overstretched.

It had sounded sensible.

A relatively short passage.

A supply ship requiring protection.

An opportunity for the crew to practice coordination without immediately engaging an enemy.

Then the earthquake had happened.

Then the headaches.

Then the apparent disappearance of the world outside the game.

And now every man aboard had discovered that playing a battleship was no longer harmless.

Mercer lowered the cup.

”Engineering report?”

A younger man beside the chart table looked up.

”Chief says propulsion is stable, but we’re not exactly swimming in fuel.”

”Numbers?”

The man consulted the report.

”Enough for the planned transit with a limited margin, provided we don’t start racing around the Pacific.”

Mercer closed his eyes.

”Wonderful.”

Another officer stepped through the bridge hatch.

He carried the expression of somebody who had already had an unpleasant conversation with the engine-room personnel.

”Captain.”

Mercer looked toward him.

”Yes?”

”Engineering wants to know whether we’re expecting any major speed changes.”

”Why?”

”Because they would prefer not to be surprised.”

Mercer looked at the chart.

Then toward the windows.

”Tell them we’re maintaining economical speed unless the situation changes.”

The officer nodded.

”Understood.”

”And remind them that I don’t want the ship arriving at Horizon on fumes.”

He hesitated.

”Sir...”

Mercer looked up.

”What?”

”That’s more or less how the engineer described the current plan.”

Mercer stared.

The bridge remained quiet.

Then he slowly lowered his head.

”Fantastic.”

The navigator smiled.

Mercer pointed toward him.

”Don’t.”

”Didn’t say anything.”

”Your face did.”

The navigator looked down.

His smile widened.

Mercer sighed.

For all the difficulties, the men had adapted more quickly than he expected.

Not perfectly.

Not even close.

But they were trying.

During the game’s first day, the Breakwater crew had spent several hours performing gunnery exercises in a controlled firing area.

The first attempt had been memorable.

The second had been marginally less embarrassing.

By the fourth, their main-battery teams were beginning to coordinate properly with the plotting room, directors, and turret crews.

They had learned to wait for complete firing solutions.

They had learned to confirm the guns were ready.

They had learned that moving a large warship’s main batteries required more than shouting fire into a microphone and hoping the equipment understood.

The men manning the secondary battery had practiced tracking aerial targets.

The anti-aircraft crews had learned the difference between following a target and having a practical opportunity to hit it.

The engineering department had spent most of its time explaining that engines could not be operated indefinitely at maximum output just because somebody on the bridge thought it would look impressive.

All of it had been entertaining.

Then the Crisis happened.

Now those lessons were frighteningly relevant.

Mercer looked toward the forward turrets.

Fourteen-inch guns.

Twelve of them.

The kind of weapons that could tear enormous holes through armored warships.

But guns did not load themselves.

Ammunition did not magically appear in the handling rooms.

The turrets required trained crews, working machinery, communications, and a firing solution.

And the ship itself needed fuel.

He glanced toward the chief navigator.

”How far to Horizon?”

”Still several hours, sir. Longer if we have to alter course.”

”Good.”

”Good?”

”Means we’re getting closer.”

The navigator considered that.

Then nodded.

”Fair.”

A radio operator raised one hand.

”Captain, convoy lead is calling.”

Mercer turned.

”Put her through.”

The radio crackled.

”Breakwater, this is Atlanta One. All escorts are in position. Senko Maru reports cargo secured and ready for departure.”

Mercer reached for the microphone.

”Atlanta One, Breakwater. Copy. We’re ready.”

”Understood. We’ll maintain the outer anti-aircraft screen. Hipper and Sevastopol will remain near the transport. Request you cover the rear sector.”

”Agreed.”

A pause.

Then Calla’s voice returned.

”One more thing, Breakwater.”

”Go ahead.”

”How’s your fuel?”

Mercer closed his eyes.

Several bridge officers looked away.

He pressed the transmission control.

”Manageable.”

Another pause.

”Define manageable.”

Mercer looked toward the engineering report.

Then toward his navigator.

The navigator shook his head.

Mercer sighed.

”Enough to reach Horizon if nobody does anything stupid.”

Static crackled.

Then Calla answered.

”That is an alarmingly specific condition.”

”Yes.”

”Understood. We’ll keep our speed within the transport’s limits.”

”Appreciated.”

The transmission ended.

Mercer lowered the microphone.

Then looked toward the navigator.

”How long until somebody does something stupid?”

The younger man considered that.

”Sir?”

”Estimate.”

”Would you prefer an optimistic one?”

Mercer stared.

Then sighed.

”No.”

The navigator smiled.

”Wise choice.”

Outside, the convoy began moving.

 Senko had never realized how pleasant it could be to hear cargo properly secured.

Every fastening carried a different sound.

Heavy clamps closed with deep metallic snaps.

Container locks engaged with short, satisfying clicks.

Lifting chains rattled as the final tension was released.

The cargo modules settled into their supporting frames.

Technicians checked the fittings connecting those modules to the rest of her rigging.

One inspected the reinforced mounting assembly around her waist.

Another verified that the crane booms were locked in their travel positions.

A third checked the buoyancy structures.

Senko watched each inspection carefully.

Her cargo was not merely arranged around her.

The modules were part of the equipment she would physically operate.

When she moved across the ocean, they would move with her.

The historical hull underlying her naval identity determined the overall carrying capability, and the rigging’s engineering translated that function into a form she could wear and use.

But the equipment remained machinery.

Heavy machinery.

If a support failed, it could damage the cargo.

If a module flooded, the load could become unstable.

If she tried to turn too sharply at speed, the immense mass of the cargo assemblies would resist the movement.

She had already learned that lesson during the morning’s loading trials.

It had involved a very small turn.

A moderately large splash.

And an exceptionally judgmental technician.

Senko had decided to respect inertia.

Inertia, unlike the quartermaster, had demonstrated a willingness to make its objections immediately obvious.

She stepped away from the loading platform.

Her boots settled onto the shallow harbor water.

The buoyancy structures descended around her.

Hydraulic locks engaged.

A low mechanical hum passed through the assemblies.

She felt the weight settle into balance.

A technician raised one hand.

”Forward supports secure!”

Another answered.

”Port cargo section secure!”

”Starboard section secure!”

The crane operator called from the loading tower.

”All external lines clear!”

Senko turned slowly.

The cargo modules followed.

A small wave rolled outward from the nearest float.

Nothing struck anything.

No alarming noises came from the machinery.

She smiled.

”Excellent.”

A voice called from the pier.

”Senko!”

She looked back.

The quartermaster stood beside the gangway holding a folder.

She sighed.

”Oh, what now?”

”Your transfer papers!”

Her expression changed.

”Oh!”

She moved toward him.

Carefully.

Very carefully.

The quartermaster held up the waterproof document case.

”These were still at the office.”

Senko took it.

Checked the seal.

Then opened the flap just far enough to confirm the documents inside.

Horizon Atoll.

Correct.

Commander Kade Bher.

Correct.

Assigned auxiliary transport.

Correct.

She closed it again.

”Thank you.”

The quartermaster stared at her.

Then smiled faintly.

”Good luck.”

Senko blinked.

For the first time that morning, neither of them had anything to argue about.

She smiled back.

”Thank you.”

He hesitated.

Then added:

”And get those supplies there.”

Her smile widened.

”I intend to.”

He nodded.

Then stepped away.

Senko turned toward the harbor mouth.

Beyond the breakwater, the escorts were waiting.

Calla and June had already taken positions in the outer formation.

Elsa stood near the heavy cruiser screen.

Nadya’s old battleship rigging rested on the water farther back, her triple-gun turrets secured for transit.

And beyond them all, Breakwater’s enormous steel hull was beginning to move.

Smoke rose from the funnels.

The ship’s wake widened.

The sunlight glittered along the dark armor.

Senko watched the human-crewed battleship for a moment.

Then adjusted her radio.

”Convoy lead, Senko Maru. Cargo secured. Ready to depart.”

Calla’s answer arrived through the receiver.

”Senko Maru, Atlanta One. Copy. Maintain assigned position. We’re limiting formation speed to your safe cruising capability.”

”Understood.”

”If anything feels wrong with your cargo supports, tell us immediately.”

”I will.”

”Don’t wait until something breaks.”

Senko smiled.

”Wouldn’t dream of it.”

June’s voice joined the channel.

”That’s what everyone says before something breaks.”

”Not me.”

”We’ll see.”

Senko laughed.

The convoy began leaving the harbor.

For the first time since the Crisis, she felt something resembling genuine excitement.

Not the uncomplicated excitement she had felt before entering the game.

That was gone.

The world had become too frightening for that.

But this was still what she had wanted to do.

Carry supplies.

Help people.

Reach Horizon Atoll.

Join the station.

Build something useful.

She looked toward the bright Pacific.

Then down at the document case fastened securely beside her waist.

Her transfer papers were there.

Her cargo was there.

Her escorts were there.

And somewhere ahead lay a naval base that needed exactly what she could bring.

She smiled.

”All right.”

She adjusted her course.

”Let’s get moving.”

The sea opened before them.

And the convoy sailed westward beneath an apparently peaceful sky.

 The first few hours passed without incident.

This, naturally, made everyone suspicious.

Calla kept checking the sky.

June continued scanning the outer approaches.

Elsa monitored the sea surface.

Nadya watched the horizon with the patient expression of someone who had chosen an old battleship because she appreciated the satisfaction of large guns and predictable machinery.

Senko concentrated on maintaining a smooth course.

The cargo modules responded well.

Her engines hummed.

The sea was calm enough that the long hull-shaped floats rode comfortably through the waves.

Every so often, she checked the restraints.

Everything remained secure.

She was beginning to feel proud of herself.

Then she heard a voice over the radio.

”Convoy lead, Breakwater. Engineering requests an updated arrival estimate.”

Calla answered.

”Breakwater, current estimate remains unchanged.”

”Copy. They were hoping it had become shorter.”

Calla paused.

Then sighed.

”Understandable.”

A moment later, another voice joined the channel.

”Atlanta One, Sevastopol. Is the battleship complaining about fuel again?”

Mercer’s voice answered.

”Sevastopol, this is Breakwater. We’re not complaining.”

Nadya looked toward the enormous ship.

”Really?”

”We’re expressing concern.”

”Repeatedly?”

”Yes.”

Taken from NovelPhoenix, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Nadya laughed.

”Then you’re complaining.”

A pause followed.

Then Mercer answered.

”Fair.”

Senko smiled.

The large ship’s concern wasn’t entirely unreasonable.

The convoy’s current speed suited her transport rigging, but it still required sustained propulsion from every participant.

The Keelborn depended on their own naval equipment and the fuel or energy resources associated with it.

Breakwater had an actual machinery plant, fuel tanks, boilers, turbines, and a large human crew responsible for keeping everything functioning.

Its fuel supply was finite.

Its consumption could not be wished away.

And the crew had already expended a considerable amount of time and fuel during training, emergency preparations, and the hurried formation of the convoy.

Horizon Atoll was not merely their destination.

It was the nearest friendly installation that might be able to support the next stage of the voyage.

Senko checked the supply manifest.

She had some packaged fuel among the cargo.

Not enough to satisfy an entire battleship’s requirements.

Certainly not enough to solve a major fleet’s strategic fuel shortage.

The station itself would have to possess usable reserves.

Or obtain more.

She looked toward Breakwater.

Then toward the open water.

”Let’s hope they’ve got a fuel depot.”

Elsa’s voice came over the radio.

”Senko Maru, say again?”

Senko blinked.

She had apparently pressed the transmit control without realizing it.

”...Nothing.”

A pause.

Then:

”You sound concerned.”

”I’m not concerned.”

”Senko.”

She looked toward the enormous battleship.

Then sighed.

”I was hoping Horizon has fuel.”

There was a brief silence.

Nadya spoke first.

”That makes two of us.”

Calla added:

”Three.”

June answered:

”Four.”

Elsa sighed.

”Five.”

Then Mercer’s voice came through.

”For the record, Breakwater would like to contribute several hundred additional votes.”

Senko laughed.

She couldn’t help it.

The tension eased.

For a little while, the convoy continued through ordinary water beneath ordinary sunlight.

The escorts maintained their stations.

The crew of Breakwater continued their watches.

Senko checked her cargo.

And the horizon remained empty.

Until June saw something moving above the clouds.

The aircraft appeared as a dark speck beneath a high bank of cloud.

At first, June thought it was a seabird.

It was moving slowly enough.

Its outline was difficult to distinguish.

And against the glare of the afternoon sun, even her enhanced optical equipment struggled to resolve its shape.

She adjusted her sights.

The object banked.

Sunlight caught one wing.

June stopped walking.

”Calla.”

The response came through her radio.

”Go ahead.”

”Unidentified aircraft. High bearing zero-eight-two.”

A pause.

”Friendly?”

”Checking.”

June tracked it.

The aircraft’s wings were long and oddly shaped.

Something protruded beneath its fuselage.

At first, it resembled a conventional reconnaissance plane.

Then it turned farther.

June saw the tail.

Or rather, she saw what should have been the tail.

The assembly was divided into several twisted fins, some angled in directions that would have been absurd on an ordinary aircraft.

The fuselage looked corroded.

Its propeller appeared to move through a ring of black haze.

And beneath the wings hung objects that looked disturbingly like the remains of human arms.

June’s stomach tightened.

”Negative identification.”

Calla’s voice came back.

”Describe.”

June swallowed.

”Possible Blackwake reconnaissance aircraft.”

The radio went quiet for half a second.

Then Calla spoke again.

”All escorts, possible hostile aircraft. Weapons to readiness. Do not open fire without positive identification.”

June continued tracking it.

The aircraft passed beneath the cloud.

Its silhouette became clearer.

A blue light flickered where the cockpit should have been.

June’s expression hardened.

”Positive Blackwake identification.”

Calla answered immediately.

”Copy. All units, air threat condition red.”

The convoy reacted.

Elsa’s cruiser rigging began rotating its anti-aircraft mounts.

Nadya adjusted her secondary batteries.

Calla brought her Atlanta-class guns into the appropriate firing arcs.

Senko felt a sudden coldness spread through her stomach.

The aircraft was far away.

Too far to threaten her directly.

But its presence meant something.

Something very unpleasant.

She raised her radio.

”Atlanta One, Senko Maru.”

”Go ahead.”

”Are there Blackwake airfields nearby?”

A pause followed.

”None listed within the immediate area.”

Senko looked toward the aircraft.

”Then where did it come from?”

Nobody answered immediately.

The reconnaissance plane banked.

Then turned away.

It accelerated toward the eastern horizon, disappearing beneath the clouds.

June watched it go.

Her mouth tightened.

Calla’s voice entered the channel again.

”All units, maintain formation. We’re assuming the aircraft transmitted our position.”

Nadya spoke.

”Carrier?”

”Possible.”

Elsa’s voice followed.

”One reconnaissance aircraft isn’t proof of a carrier task force.”

Calla answered.

”No. But I’m not waiting for the torpedo bombers to arrive before taking precautions.”

Senko looked toward the empty sky.

Torpedo bombers.

She hadn’t particularly wanted to hear those words.

Her cargo equipment wasn’t designed for aerial combat.

The original Senko Maru class had been a merchant-transport design, not a frontline warship.

Her auxiliary armament was limited.

Her defensive systems were modest.

She could maneuver.

She could use her equipment to protect the cargo.

She could assist with supplies and damage control.

But she couldn’t turn herself into an Atlanta-class cruiser simply because the situation became inconvenient.

Senko tightened the straps on her cargo harness.

Then checked the nearest restraints.

The compartments were secure.

The cargo was stable.

She looked toward Breakwater.

The actual battleship was changing its readiness condition.

Men moved across the decks.

Anti-aircraft crews uncovered and prepared their weapons.

The secondary directors began traversing.

Signal flags moved along the halyards.

An alarm sounded aboard the ship.

Senko watched the sailors.

They weren’t laughing now.

The ship itself seemed to change posture.

It had been an enormous vessel moving comfortably through the ocean.

Now it was becoming a weapon.

And every man aboard knew that whatever happened next would be real.

 Daniel Mercer had discovered that the words general quarters sounded much less entertaining when there was a genuine possibility that somebody might die.

He stood on Breakwater’s bridge with one hand resting against the chart table while the ship’s alarm sounded through the compartments.

The response was immediate.

Men left their stations.

Others hurried toward ammunition-handling rooms.

Hatches were secured.

Watertight doors closed.

Damage-control parties moved toward their assigned positions.

The gun crews began checking their equipment.

Throughout the ship, hundreds of male players were transforming from an uneasy collection of enthusiasts into something approaching a working naval crew.

They were frightened.

Some were very frightened.

But they were moving.

That mattered.

The gunnery officer entered the bridge.

”Captain.”

Mercer turned.

”Report.”

”Main battery ready for surface engagement. Secondary battery crews are shifting to anti-aircraft readiness.”

”Good.”

”Fire-control radar is functioning. The aft director’s been checked again.”

”Any problems?”

”A few.”

Mercer closed his eyes.

”Of course.”

”Nothing that prevents us from fighting.”

”That’s the encouraging version?”

”Yes.”

Mercer nodded.

”Wonderful.”

The gunnery officer hesitated.

Then continued.

”Captain, the men are nervous.”

Mercer looked toward him.

”So am I.”

The officer blinked.

Mercer shrugged.

”First real fight. I’d be concerned if nobody was nervous.”

The man considered that.

Then nodded.

”Understood.”

”Tell them to follow the procedures we practiced. Nobody gets creative because they’re frightened.”

”Aye.”

The officer turned to leave.

Mercer stopped him.

”And one more thing.”

”Sir?”

”Remind the ammunition crews that these are actual shells.”

The officer’s expression changed.

Mercer continued.

”I don’t want anyone trying to handle a fourteen-inch projectile like it’s an inventory item.”

”Understood, Captain.”

He left.

Mercer looked toward the bridge windows.

The ocean stretched around them.

Nothing appeared wrong.

That was the worst part.

A few clouds.

A distant line of haze.

Friendly ships maintaining their assigned positions.

The carrier aircraft had already disappeared.

If this were still a game, Mercer would have expected a warning icon or a tactical notification informing him that an enemy fleet had entered the area.

Instead, he had a report from June, a pair of binoculars, and a mounting sense of dread.

He turned toward the navigator.

”Distance to Horizon?”

”Still several hours.”

”Nearest alternative port?”

The navigator checked.

”Farther than Horizon.”

Mercer sighed.

”Naturally.”

The engineer’s voice came through the internal communications circuit.

”Bridge, Engineering. We’ve received the change to battle readiness.”

Mercer picked up the handset.

”Engineering, bridge. Maintain current speed unless ordered otherwise.”

”Aye. Captain, we need to talk about the fuel.”

Mercer stared at the handset.

Of course they did.

”Go ahead.”

”We can fight, but I need you to understand that every significant increase in speed reduces our reserve. If we start maneuvering at high power for an extended period, our arrival margin will deteriorate quickly.”

Mercer looked toward the sea.

”Understood.”

”And if we have to detour—”

”I know.”

A pause followed.

The engineer’s voice softened.

”I just want the bridge to understand what we’re working with.”

Mercer exhaled.

”I do.”

”All right.”

”We’ll get you to port.”

Another pause.

Then:

”I’d appreciate that, Captain.”

The connection ended.

Mercer lowered the handset.

The ship’s machinery continued rumbling beneath his feet.

He could feel the vibration through the deck.

It was real.

The heat.

The sound.

The enormous mass of steel surrounding him.

All real.

He looked toward the radio operator.

”Convoy lead?”

”Standing by.”

Mercer raised the microphone.

”Atlanta One, Breakwater.”

Calla’s voice answered.

”Breakwater, go ahead.”

”Recommend maintaining an economical convoy speed until the threat is confirmed. Engineering advises against prolonged high-speed maneuvering.”

A pause.

Then:

”Agreed. We’ll use the lighter escorts for screening. Keep your heavier guns available if something approaches on the surface.”

”Copy.”

”And Breakwater?”

”Go ahead.”

”Keep that anti-aircraft battery ready.”

Mercer glanced toward the secondary director.

He nodded.

”Already on it.”

The radio fell quiet.

For almost fifteen minutes, nothing happened.

Then radar reported multiple contacts.

Aircraft.

Approaching fast.

And this time, there were far too many to be mistaken for seabirds.

 June saw them first.

A low formation emerged beneath the cloudbank, dark specks descending toward the sea.

They were still distant.

Too distant for effective fire.

But their arrangement was unmistakable.

A group approaching from one direction.

Another moving farther south.

A third holding altitude behind the first two.

June adjusted her optics.

Her expression hardened.

”Multiple aircraft. Bearing zero-nine-five. Low altitude.”

Calla answered through the radio.

”How many?”

”At least twelve in the first group. More behind.”

A pause.

”Classification?”

June watched a leading aircraft bank.

Its wings were black.

A strange blue glow flickered beneath its fuselage.

Something long and cylindrical hung beneath it.

”Torpedo bombers.”

Calla swore.

Then opened the general channel.

”All units, hostile aircraft approaching from the east. Torpedo-bomber formation. Prepare to maneuver.”

Senko felt her heart lurch.

The eastern horizon filled with dark specks.

She raised her radio.

”Atlanta One, Senko Maru.”

”Go ahead.”

”Do you want me to increase speed?”

”Negative. Maintain your present course until we establish the attack direction. You’re carrying too much weight to make sudden turns without warning.”

”Understood.”

”If I tell you to turn, make it controlled. Don’t panic.”

Senko swallowed.

”Copy.”

A new voice entered the channel.

”Atlanta One, Hipper. I have additional contacts approaching from higher altitude.”

Calla answered.

”Dive bombers?”

”Likely.”

June’s expression tightened.

She looked up.

More aircraft were emerging from the clouds.

Larger formations.

The Blackwake had not sent a reconnaissance flight.

It had sent an attack.

And somewhere beyond their range of vision, something capable of launching that many aircraft was still at sea.

Calla raised her radio.

”All escorts, defensive formation. Atlanta Two, take the northern air sector. Hipper, cover the transport’s starboard approach. Sevastopol, remain with Senko. Breakwater, engage aircraft entering the western and rear sectors.”

Responses came immediately.

June acknowledged.

Elsa confirmed.

Nadya adjusted her weapons.

Breakwater’s radio officer answered from the battleship.

”Atlanta One, Breakwater copies. Anti-aircraft batteries standing by.”

Senko looked toward the huge ship.

Men were taking their positions.

Gun mounts began turning.

The five-inch batteries elevated.

The smaller anti-aircraft weapons followed.

The whole upper deck seemed alive with movement.

She swallowed.

Then checked her cargo.

Everything was secure.

Still secure.

She placed one hand against the nearest support frame.

”Please.”

She didn’t know whether she was speaking to the machinery or herself.

”Just hold together.”

The first Blackwake aircraft entered effective range.

June’s guns began tracking.

A targeting solution settled.

She drew a breath.

Then fired.

The sound was deafening.

Her rapid-firing naval guns erupted in a coordinated series of flashes.

Shells crossed the sky.

Black bursts appeared ahead of the incoming aircraft.

The formation scattered.

One plane climbed sharply.

Another banked.

A third flew directly into the bursting shells.

Its wing shattered.

The aircraft broke apart in a spray of dark metal and blue fire.

June gasped.

”I got one!”

Calla answered through the radio.

”Good. Keep tracking. Don’t chase targets outside your sector.”

June tightened her grip on the controls.

”Right.”

She adjusted her sights.

The next aircraft came closer.

Her guns fired again.

The sky filled with explosions.

And the Battle of Horizon’s Supply Convoy began.

The first torpedo bomber came in low enough that Senko could see the waves moving beneath its shadow.

It was not a normal aircraft.

Its wings flexed slightly as it descended, the metal skin shifting around structural ribs that resembled the bones of an enormous bird. Dark vapor streamed from the engine cowling. A blue light burned inside the canopy, where a pilot should have been sitting.

Senko couldn’t see anyone inside.

She wasn’t certain she wanted to.

The aircraft approached from her starboard side.

Beyond it, the rest of the formation was splitting into smaller groups.

Some moved toward Breakwater.

Others toward the Keelborn escorts.

Three were coming directly for her.

Senko’s hands tightened around the controls of her cargo rigging.

Her equipment carried a limited defensive battery, but nothing comparable to the Atlanta girls’ weapons.

She turned one of the small mounts toward the approaching aircraft.

The mechanism tracked slowly.

Too slowly.

The bomber closed.

She heard Calla shouting through the radio.

”Senko, hold course! We’re engaging!”

Senko swallowed.

”Copy!”

June’s anti-aircraft fire crossed the sky.

Black bursts erupted around the lead bomber.

It banked.

The second aircraft descended farther.

Its underside opened.

Senko saw a long, dark shape separate from the fuselage.

It fell.

Struck the water.

Disappeared beneath the surface.

Her breath caught.

”Torpedo!”

Calla answered instantly.

”Senko, controlled turn to port! Now!”

Senko moved.

Not sharply.

She couldn’t.

Her cargo modules carried too much mass.

She shifted her weight, adjusted propulsion, and brought the enormous assemblies around in a smooth, deliberate arc.

The hull-shaped floats cut across the waves.

The water resisted.

The cargo frames groaned.

Senko felt the strain through the fittings around her waist.

”Come on...”

A white torpedo wake appeared to starboard.

It advanced toward her previous course.

Senko continued turning.

The weapon crossed behind her.

For half a second, she thought it might strike one of the cargo modules.

Then it passed.

She gasped.

”Missed!”

Another wake appeared.

Closer.

Her eyes widened.

”SECOND TORPEDO!”

Calla’s guns opened fire.

The Atlanta-class girl accelerated across Senko’s starboard quarter, placing herself between the transport and the approaching aircraft.

Her rapid-firing batteries filled the sky with bursts.

The bomber carrying the next torpedo was struck before it could complete its approach.

It broke apart.

The falling wreckage hit the sea.

Its torpedo entered the water at an awkward angle and veered away.

Senko nearly shouted with relief.

Then a third aircraft emerged through the smoke.

It was already diving.

Too close.

Calla’s nearest guns were traversing toward another target.

June was engaging aircraft farther north.

Elsa’s heavy cruiser rigging was opening fire against the high-altitude formation.

The third bomber came straight toward Senko.

She raised her defensive mount.

The sights shook.

Her breathing became ragged.

She tried to hold the target.

The aircraft grew larger.

Larger.

Its blue cockpit light glared through the haze.

Senko pulled the trigger.

Her gun fired.

The first rounds missed.

She corrected.

Fired again.

One burst struck the aircraft’s wing.

Fragments broke away.

It continued.

Senko screamed and kept firing.

The next rounds struck the engine.

Dark smoke erupted.

The aircraft rolled.

Then its fuselage broke apart directly ahead of her.

The explosion threw debris into the water.

Senko ducked as fragments hissed past.

Something struck her right cargo frame.

A sharp metallic crack rang through the equipment.

She cried out.

The impact hurt.

Not merely as a vibration.

Pain shot through the side of her body, as though somebody had driven a heavy tool against her ribs.

She stumbled.

One cargo module dipped.

The other pulled against its restraints.

Senko gasped.

”Ah—!”

Her equipment alarm sounded.

STARBOARD CARGO SUPPORT — DAMAGE DETECTED

The warning appeared briefly on the physical equipment’s local monitor.

Senko stared at it.

Then forced herself upright.

The module was still attached.

The cargo remained secured.

But one of the outer braces was bent.

She raised her radio with shaking fingers.

”Atlanta One, Senko Maru! Starboard support damaged! Cargo intact!”

Calla’s reply came immediately.

”Are you mobile?”

”Yes!”

”Any flooding?”

Senko checked.

”No!”

”Keep moving. We’ll cover you!”

She nodded.

Then remembered Calla couldn’t see her.

”Copy!”

The sky erupted again.

A new wave of aircraft came through the clouds.

This time, they were approaching Breakwater.

 The first enemy dive bomber appeared almost directly above the battleship’s forward superstructure.

On Breakwater’s bridge, a lookout shouted:

”Aircraft! High starboard!”

Mercer turned.

Through the bridge windows, he could see the aircraft falling toward them, its wings spread beneath a plume of dark smoke.

A second followed.

Then a third.

The anti-aircraft officer’s voice came through the internal circuit.

”Bridge, Anti-Aircraft Control. Targets entering engagement range.”

Mercer reached for the handset.

”Engage.”

The answer was immediate.

”Aye, Captain.”

The ship’s 5-inch dual-purpose guns opened fire.

The sound was completely different from the training exercises.

There was no expectation of a stationary target.

No predictable track.

No comfortable pause between firing sequences while someone adjusted a calculation.

The enemy was moving.

Fast.

And coming directly toward them.

The first salvo burst above the aircraft formation.

One Blackwake plane rolled out of the explosion.

The second was struck.

Its wing folded.

It fell toward the ocean trailing blue fire.

The third continued diving.

Mercer felt his stomach tighten.

”Come on...”

The five-inch batteries fired again.

The aircraft shuddered beneath the bursting shells.

Then the Bofors mounts joined the engagement.

Forty-millimeter fire streamed upward from the battleship’s upper decks.

Tracers cut across the sky in long, brilliant lines.

The air filled with shell bursts.

Men shouted fire-control corrections.

Gun crews adjusted elevation.

Ammunition handlers kept feeding the weapons.

The aircraft came closer.

Mercer could see its shape clearly now.

Black wings.

A twisted fuselage.

A dark object beneath the belly.

A bomb.

He grabbed the bridge railing.

”Hard starboard!”

The helmsman repeated the order.

The wheel moved.

Breakwater began turning.

Slowly.

Terribly slowly.

The battleship was enormous.

Its mass resisted sudden changes in direction.

The bow moved.

The wake broadened.

The dive bomber released its weapon.

Mercer watched the dark shape fall.

For a moment, he was certain it would strike the forward deck.

Then Breakwater’s bow continued swinging.

The bomb missed.

It struck the water just off the port side.

The explosion threw an immense column of spray across the forecastle.

The bridge windows vanished behind water.

The ship shuddered.

Somewhere below, a man shouted.

Another alarm sounded.

Mercer caught himself against the chart table.

”Damage report!”

The radio operator pressed his handset.

A voice answered from below.

”Bridge, forward compartments reporting shock damage. No major flooding confirmed.”

”Casualties?”

A pause.

”Checking.”

Mercer stared at the bulkhead.

”Check faster.”

The response came after several seconds.

”Two minor injuries. Both conscious.”

He exhaled.

”Get them treated.”

”Aye.”

The navigator looked toward the forward deck.

”Captain!”

Mercer turned.

Another bomber was approaching.

Lower.

Faster.

Its wings were damaged, but it was still moving.

The aircraft descended toward the amidships anti-aircraft mounts.

The men there continued firing.

Mercer saw one of the Bofors crews adjust its barrels.

The gun began tracking.

The aircraft came closer.

”Come on, boys...”

The mount fired.

One burst.

Then another.

The aircraft’s left wing shattered.

Its fuselage twisted.

A black flame erupted near the engine.

It fell.

For an instant, Mercer thought it would strike the deck.

Instead, the wreckage passed just above the aft superstructure and hit the sea beyond the battleship.

A tremendous splash rose behind them.

The bridge erupted into relieved shouting.

Mercer raised one hand.

”Stay focused!”

The men quieted.

He looked toward the tactical display.

More contacts.

Still more.

The first wave hadn’t been the entire attack.

Not even close.

A communications officer raised his headset.

”Captain, Atlanta One reports the transport has taken damage.”

Mercer turned.

”How bad?”

”Cargo support. She’s still moving.”

”Good.”

”More aircraft inbound from the northeast.”

Mercer looked toward the sky.

The clouds were beginning to darken with approaching silhouettes.

He swallowed.

Then reached for the microphone.

”All anti-aircraft stations, this is the Captain.”

He paused.

”Keep your heads. Follow the firing solutions. Watch your sectors.”

The bridge remained quiet.

Mercer continued.

”You’ve trained for this. Now do it properly.”

He released the transmission control.

Then looked toward the navigator.

”How’s our fuel?”

The younger man stared at him.

”Sir?”

”Fuel.”

”Still not good.”

Mercer sighed.

”Of course.”

The ship shuddered as another five-inch salvo fired.

He looked toward the forward turrets.

Then toward the horizon.

”Let’s hope Horizon has a very welcoming fuel depot.”

The navigator nodded.

”Preferably full.”

”Preferably.”

Outside, another wave of aircraft descended.

And Breakwater’s guns answered.

 Elsa had been worried about Senko’s cargo from the moment the first aircraft appeared.

Now she was considerably more worried.

The transport’s starboard support structure had taken damage, and the additional strain was forcing Senko to reduce the aggressiveness of her turns.

The cargo modules remained intact.

That was something.

But every evasive maneuver placed enormous stress on the damaged equipment.

Elsa watched her carefully.

”Senko.”

The transport’s answer came over the radio.

”Yes?”

”Your starboard module is riding lower.”

A pause.

”I know.”

”Can you compensate?”

”Trying.”

”Don’t overcorrect.”

”I’m not!”

Elsa watched the module dip again.

”Senko.”

”Yes?”

”You’re overcorrecting.”

A long silence followed.

Then:

”...A little.”

Elsa smiled despite herself.

”Easy. Small adjustments.”

”Copy.”

The cargo assembly slowly returned toward level.

Elsa nodded.

”Good.”

Then she looked up.

More Blackwake aircraft were approaching.

She adjusted her anti-aircraft mounts.

Her heavy cruiser rigging carried substantial firepower, but it was not optimized for defeating an entire carrier air group by itself.

Calla and June were doing much of the work.

The two Atlanta-class girls had become the convoy’s protective center.

Their guns fired in disciplined bursts.

They shifted targets between sectors.

They coordinated their fields of fire to avoid wasting ammunition on the same aircraft.

But there were too many attackers.

The Blackwake planes did not behave like ordinary aircraft.

Some continued flying despite damage that should have brought them down.

Others broke formation abruptly, diving at angles that made prediction difficult.

Several attempted to circle around the convoy and approach from unexpected directions.

Elsa fired at a bomber descending toward Nadya.

The shells burst around it.

The aircraft banked.

A second salvo struck its wing.

It fell into the water.

Nadya’s voice came through the radio.

”Thank you.”

”You’re welcome.”

”I could have handled it.”

Elsa glanced toward her.

The Sevastopol-class battleship’s older anti-aircraft equipment had been working as hard as its limitations allowed.

Elsa raised an eyebrow.

”Of course.”

”I could!”

”I believe you.”

”You sound sarcastic.”

”Impossible.”

Nadya laughed.

Then her voice changed.

”Surface contact.”

Elsa turned.

”What?”

”Bearing one-one-eight. Large.”

Elsa adjusted her optics.

At first, she saw only the horizon.

Then a dark shape emerged beneath the distant haze.

It was low.

Broad.

Moving quickly.

A warship.

Or something pretending to be one.

Its forward structure resembled a heavy cruiser, with large gun turrets and angular armor.

But the hull was distorted.

Dark plates protruded from its sides.

Something resembling a rib cage wrapped around the forward superstructure.

Its smokestacks exhaled black vapor.

A cluster of blue lights glowed along the bridge.

The creature advanced through the waves with an unnatural steadiness.

Elsa’s mouth tightened.

”Blackwake heavy cruiser.”

Nadya answered.

”Confirmed.”

Calla’s voice entered the channel.

”All units, surface contact. Hipper and Sevastopol, take the heavy cruiser. Breakwater, stand by for surface engagement.”

Elsa looked toward the monster.

Then toward Senko.

The Blackwake cruiser was approaching from the direction opposite the main aircraft attack.

A coordinated movement.

The aircraft had drawn the escorts’ attention.

Now the heavy cruiser was moving toward the transport.

Elsa raised her radio.

”Atlanta One, Hipper. Enemy appears to be closing on Senko.”

Calla answered.

”Copy. Can you intercept?”

”Attempting.”

Elsa accelerated.

Her heavy cruiser rigging responded with a powerful surge.

The enormous 8-inch main-gun mounts rotated.

She checked the range.

Far.

But closing.

She settled into a firing stance.

The targeting equipment aligned.

The first salvo erupted.

Four heavy shells crossed the water.

Two fell short.

One landed beyond the enemy.

The fourth struck the Blackwake cruiser’s forward superstructure.

A burst of dark metal and sparks flashed against its armor.

The monster turned toward her.

Its guns began rotating.

Elsa smiled without humor.

”Good.”

She adjusted her aim.

”Look at me.”

The next salvo fired.

This time, several shells struck.

The Blackwake cruiser recoiled.

Then its own guns answered.

The first enemy salvo landed wide.

The second came closer.

A shell struck the water beside Elsa’s port rigging.

The explosion hit her with a wall of force.

She cried out.

Her equipment shuddered.

She stumbled sideways.

A warning sounded from the damaged armor.

She clenched her teeth.

”Ah—!”

Pain ran through her left shoulder.

Not imagined.

Not represented by a number.

Pain.

Real enough that her vision blurred for a moment.

She forced herself upright.

The Blackwake cruiser continued closing.

Elsa drew a breath.

Then raised her radio.

”Sevastopol, Hipper. I need you firing.”

Nadya answered immediately.

”Already lining up.”

The older battleship’s triple-gun turrets turned.

Nadya lowered her stance.

Then her main batteries fired.

The sound rolled across the sea.

Twelve-inch shells flew toward the Blackwake cruiser.

One struck the enemy’s forward armor.

Another landed near its port side.

The resulting explosion tore a section of dark plating from the creature’s flank.

The Blackwake turned.

Its guns shifted toward Nadya.

Elsa seized the opportunity.

She fired again.

Her shells struck the exposed armor near the enemy’s forward turret.

Sparks erupted.

A weapon housing twisted.

The monster roared.

For a moment, it appeared that the two Keelborn might be able to stop it.

Then the Blackwake cruiser accelerated.

Its engines produced a deep, unnatural sound.

The gap between them began closing faster.

Elsa’s eyes widened.

”That’s not good.”

Nadya looked toward the monster.

”No.”

The enemy’s gun turrets rotated toward Senko.

Elsa felt cold.

”Senko! Change course!”

The supply girl’s voice answered.

”Which way?”

”Away from the cruiser!”

”That’s not very specific!”

Elsa glanced toward the transport.

Then the enemy.

Then the aircraft still circling overhead.

”Port! Controlled turn to port!”

”Copy!”

Senko began turning.

Her damaged cargo module resisted.

The Blackwake cruiser fired.

The shells crossed the sea.

One landed ahead of her.

Another fell behind.

A third struck the water near the starboard cargo float.

The explosion threw Senko sideways.

She screamed.

Her rigging groaned.

The damaged support bent farther.

A warning sounded.

CARGO SUPPORT INTEGRITY CRITICAL

Senko caught herself.

Barely.

The cargo modules remained attached.

But the right-side frame was visibly twisted.

Elsa stared.

”Senko!”

The transport’s answer came through the radio.

”Still here!”

”Can you move?”

”Yes!”

”Then keep moving!”

The Blackwake cruiser prepared another salvo.

Elsa turned her guns.

Fired.

Nadya followed.

Their shells struck the monster’s forward armor.

The enemy staggered.

But its guns kept rotating toward Senko.

Elsa’s stomach tightened.

They weren’t stopping it quickly enough.

Then, from the west, a new voice entered the radio channel.

”Hipper, this is Breakwater.”

Elsa looked toward the enormous human-crewed battleship.

Its forward turrets were rotating.

The great 14-inch guns began rising.

”Clear our firing line.”

Elsa’s eyes widened.

She looked toward Nadya.

Then toward the enemy.

Then back at Breakwater.

A slow smile appeared.

”Oh.”

She raised her radio.

”Hipper copies.”

Nadya answered.

”Sevastopol copies.”

Elsa altered course.

Nadya followed.

The two Keelborn opened a clear firing corridor.

And behind them, Breakwater’s main battery settled onto the Blackwake heavy cruiser.

On Breakwater’s bridge, the gunnery officer was sweating.

He had been sweating since the first aircraft appeared.

Now he was beginning to feel as though every drop of water in his body intended to escape through his forehead.

The surface target was approaching rapidly.

Blackwake heavy cruiser.

Large.

Heavily armored.

Already damaged by the two Keelborn engaging it.

And still moving toward the supply transport.

He checked the firing information.

Range.

Bearing.

Relative course.

Target speed.

Own-ship motion.

The values had been changing constantly as Breakwater maneuvered under air attack.

That made the solution difficult.

The gunnery officer looked toward the captain.

”Main battery has the target.”

Mercer nodded.

”All four turrets?”

”Yes, sir.”

”Firing solution?”

”Developing.”

Mercer looked toward the enemy.

Another flash erupted from the Blackwake cruiser’s guns.

A distant shell splash rose near the transport.

Senko’s enormous cargo rigging turned slowly through the water.

Mercer felt his jaw tighten.

”Take your time and get it right.”

The gunnery officer glanced toward him.

”Sir?”

”We’ve got twelve guns. I’d prefer not to waste them.”

”Aye.”

The ship’s fire-control equipment continued tracking.

Down below, the main-battery crews waited.

The turret machinery hummed.

Shell-handling systems stood ready.

In the plotting room, men checked the target’s movement against the information arriving from the directors.

A crewman repeated the range.

Another confirmed the bearing.

A third adjusted the firing solution.

The gunnery officer watched the indicators settle.

Then raised his voice.

”Forward turrets ready!”

A response arrived from the battery circuit.

”Turrets One and Two ready!”

”Aft turrets?”

”Three and Four ready!”

Mercer looked toward the horizon.

The Blackwake cruiser was turning.

Its forward guns remained trained toward Senko.

He thought of the girl carrying the supplies.

The cargo she had loaded so carefully.

The base waiting for those materials.

And the possibility that one more salvo might destroy the entire shipment.

His expression hardened.

”Engage.”

The gunnery officer took a breath.

”Main battery. Selected salvo.”

He waited for the final confirmation.

Then:

”Fire!”

The forward turret discharged.

The blast struck the bridge like a physical force.

A deep concussion rolled through the ship.

Smoke erupted from the gun muzzles.

The massive barrels recoiled.

Far below, men continued performing the tasks they had practiced the previous day.

Only now their hands were shaking.

The shell rose into the sky.

Mercer watched through binoculars.

Seconds passed.

The Blackwake cruiser continued advancing.

Then a towering column of water erupted beyond its stern.

The shell had gone long.

The gunnery officer immediately began correcting.

”Over.”

A new solution was entered.

The target was still moving.

Still firing.

The enemy’s next salvo struck the water near Elsa.

Her heavy cruiser rigging vanished behind spray.

Mercer clenched his jaw.

”Correction?”

The gunnery officer didn’t look away.

”Applying.”

The fire-control team worked.

Another turret aligned.

”Ready.”

Mercer nodded.

”Fire.”

The second ranging salvo thundered.

This time, the shell landed ahead of the Blackwake cruiser’s bow.

A vast wall of water rose from the sea.

The enemy passed through it.

The gunnery officer’s expression changed.

”Short.”

He turned toward the plotting room circuit.

”Bracket established. Apply correction.”

A voice answered.

”Solution updated.”

The gunnery officer checked the instruments.

The range was settling.

The target’s course had become more predictable now that it was committed to closing on Senko.

Mercer watched the enemy through binoculars.

The Blackwake cruiser’s distorted bridge was visible.

Its enormous gun turrets turned.

Blue lights flickered along the hull.

He lowered the binoculars.

”Tell me we’ve got it.”

The gunnery officer looked at the final solution.

Then nodded.

”We’ve got it.”

Mercer looked toward the forward turrets.

Then toward the enemy.

”Main battery.”

The gunnery officer raised the microphone.

”All turrets. Full salvo.”

The response came from deep inside the ship.

”All turrets ready.”

For half a second, the bridge was quiet.

Then the gunnery officer shouted:

”FIRE!”

Twelve fourteen-inch guns discharged.

The noise was beyond anything Senko had ever heard.

From her position several miles away, the air seemed to tear open.

Breakwater’s enormous main batteries erupted in a sequence of blinding flashes.

The ship shuddered beneath the recoil.

A vast cloud of smoke rolled across the deck.

The sea around the battleship rippled from the force.

Senko looked up.

The shells crossed the sky.

For several seconds, she could hear nothing but the ringing aftermath of the discharge.

Then the Blackwake heavy cruiser disappeared inside a series of explosions.

The first shells struck the water around it.

Near misses threw up towering columns of spray.

Then several direct impacts slammed into its hull.

One struck near the forward superstructure.

Another penetrated the armored deck.

A third hit the side of the central hull section.

The monster twisted.

Dark armor fractured.

Its forward gun turret broke loose.

The entire assembly rose into the air, trailing sparks and shattered plating.

An enormous internal explosion followed.

Blue fire burst through the ship’s upper decks.

The forward hull began opening along a jagged line.

The Blackwake screamed.

It was not the sound of a human voice.

It was the groan of tortured steel amplified through something alive.

The aft section continued moving.

For a moment, the creature seemed determined to hold together through sheer hatred.

Then a second internal explosion tore through its center.

The hull buckled.

The superstructure collapsed sideways.

A dark plume erupted from the ruptured machinery spaces.

And the Blackwake heavy cruiser broke apart.

One section rolled to port.

Another pitched forward.

The remaining gun turrets disappeared beneath the waves.

Its blue lights flickered.

Then went dark.

The ocean swallowed the wreckage.

For several seconds, the convoy’s radio channel remained silent.

Then Nadya spoke.

”Well.”

Elsa was still staring at the water.

”...Yes.”

June’s voice entered the channel.

”Was that...?”

Calla answered.

”Blackwake heavy cruiser destroyed. Confirmed.”

Senko looked toward Breakwater.

Her mouth hung open.

Then she began laughing.

Not because the battle was funny.

Because she had absolutely no idea what else to do.

”OH, THANK GOODNESS!”

Elsa exhaled.

Nadya laughed.

Calla’s voice came over the radio.

”Breakwater, Atlanta One. Excellent shooting.”

A pause followed.

Then Mercer’s answer arrived.

”Thank you. We’d prefer not to do that again today.”

Senko laughed harder.

Elsa lowered her damaged shoulder.

”I second that.”

Nadya looked toward the broken wreckage.

”Third.”

June’s guns were already tracking another aircraft.

”Can we celebrate later?”

The next wave of Blackwake planes emerged through the clouds.

Calla swore.

”All units, air attack continuing! Back to work!”

And the convoy returned to fighting.

 The remaining aircraft attacked with a viciousness that bordered on desperation.

Whether they were responding to the destruction of the heavy cruiser or simply continuing an existing attack plan, nobody could tell.

They came in low.

They came in high.

They split into groups.

Several attempted to distract the Atlanta-class escorts while another formation descended toward Senko.

June intercepted the first group.

Her guns fired in rapid succession.

One aircraft broke apart.

Another veered away.

A third continued toward the convoy, its engine trailing smoke.

Calla took that one.

Her anti-aircraft mounts traversed.

The shells burst directly ahead of the damaged bomber.

The aircraft disappeared inside black smoke.

Fragments fell into the sea.

Then another group approached Breakwater.

The battleship’s five-inch batteries answered immediately.

The Bofors mounts joined the barrage.

The sky filled with tracer fire.

A Blackwake aircraft rolled through the bursts and came straight toward the starboard anti-aircraft gallery.

One of the gunners shouted a warning.

The crew tried to adjust.

Too late.

The aircraft’s wing struck the outer railing.

Metal tore.

The wreckage passed across the edge of the gallery before falling into the sea.

A tremendous crash echoed through the ship.

Men shouted.

One sailor fell against a gun mount.

Another was struck by flying fragments.

The aircraft disappeared into the water.

For a moment, the gallery was filled with smoke and dust.

Then the damage-control alarm sounded.

On the bridge, Mercer turned sharply.

”Report!”

A voice answered through the internal circuit.

”Starboard anti-aircraft gallery hit by aircraft wreckage. Fire reported. Several injuries.”

Mercer’s stomach tightened.

”How many?”

”Checking.”

”Get medical there.”

”Already moving.”

”Fire-control status?”

”One mount out of action. Others remain operational.”

Mercer looked toward the sea.

The air attack continued.

He clenched his jaw.

”Keep the unaffected batteries firing.”

”Aye.”

A few seconds later, another report arrived.

”Fire contained. Medical team treating the injured.”

Mercer exhaled.

”Good.”

Then he looked toward the navigator.

”Fuel?”

The younger man stared.

”Captain, with all due respect—”

”I know.”

He rubbed his forehead.

”I know.”

The ship continued maneuvering.

Its engines worked harder than they had during the economical transit.

Every correction cost fuel.

Every change in speed consumed part of the margin engineering had been trying to preserve.

And every minute spent fighting meant another minute before the convoy could resume its original course toward Horizon Atoll.

Mercer looked toward the chart.

They were still too far away.

Much too far away for his comfort.

The navigator checked the latest engineering report.

His expression changed.

”Sir.”

Mercer turned.

”What?”

”We need to stop wasting time.”

”That bad?”

The navigator hesitated.

Then nodded.

”That bad.”

Mercer stared at the chart.

Then toward the windows.

Outside, the surviving aircraft were beginning to withdraw.

Several had been destroyed.

Others were damaged.

The formation was breaking apart.

Calla’s guns fired one final burst.

A Blackwake plane exploded.

Then the remaining aircraft turned away.

June tracked them until they were beyond effective range.

The sea grew quiet.

Not peaceful.

The water was littered with dark wreckage.

Smoke drifted over the convoy.

Senko’s damaged cargo module rode low in the water.

Elsa held one arm against her side.

Nadya’s older battleship rigging bore several scorched marks.

Both Atlanta girls were exhausted.

And Breakwater’s starboard anti-aircraft gallery was damaged, with injured men being carried toward the medical spaces below.

But the convoy was still together.

Calla raised her radio.

”All units, report status.”

Responses came one by one.

June confirmed she was operational.

Elsa reported damage but remained mobile.

Nadya confirmed her main batteries and propulsion were functional.

Senko reported cargo intact, one damaged support, and reduced maneuvering capability.

Breakwater answered last.

”Atlanta One, Breakwater. Air attack repelled. One anti-aircraft mount disabled, several casualties under medical care, propulsion operational.”

Calla exhaled.

”Copy.”

She looked toward the eastern horizon.

The last Blackwake aircraft disappeared beneath the clouds.

Then she raised the radio again.

”All units, maintain readiness. We don’t know where those aircraft came from.”

Elsa answered.

”Carrier force.”

Calla hesitated.

”Likely.”

June looked toward the sky.

”How far away?”

Nobody answered.

Because nobody knew.

Somewhere beyond the horizon, a Blackwake carrier or carrier task force had launched an attack against the convoy.

It had possessed enough aircraft to threaten several escorts and a fully crewed battleship.