Horizon Atoll: Hearts of Steel

A Few Hours of Breathing Room

The fighting did not stop because anybody had agreed to stop.

That was the first important thing to understand about the hours following Horizon Atoll’s opening defense.

The Pacific Campaign Authority had not withdrawn its blockade.

USS Ironwake had not turned toward a friendly harbor.

The seven enemy carriers had not suddenly decided that their aircraft needed a holiday.

And Horizon’s defenders had not achieved some miraculous destruction of the entire force threatening their island.

Rather, the morning engagement had created several immediate problems for the attackers.

Problems involving damaged ships, disrupted landing formations, aircraft requiring fuel and ammunition, wounded personnel who needed medical attention, and command officers attempting to understand how their carefully advertised invasion had become such a thoroughly embarrassing undertaking.

Those problems required time.

Even for a fleet that believed itself overwhelmingly superior.

Chapayev had withdrawn from her original bombardment position under restricted power, still carrying a noticeable starboard list despite the efforts of her damage-control teams. Her crew had contained the worst flooding but had not restored the ship’s original stability or combat capability.

Baltimore was worse.

Much worse.

Her forward magazine explosion had destroyed the forwardmost turret, devastated a substantial portion of her bow, and forced her surviving officers to abandon the ship.

Rescue operations continued beneath the wary observation of Horizon’s coastal batteries.

The burning cruiser had not yet disappeared beneath the water.

But nobody watching the shattered forward section seriously expected her to resume fighting.

The landing ships had fallen back beyond the defended channels.

The destroyer screen had lost its original alignment.

And the first air strikes, though damaging, had failed to eliminate Horizon’s cruiser antiaircraft defenses or its recently deployed Keelborn battleship group.

All of that had left the PCA with an unpleasant choice.

It could continue attacking immediately with an increasingly disorganized formation.

Or it could spend time recovering its wounded, rearranging its ships, and preparing a second assault.

Its commanders chose the latter.

For approximately three hours, the battle settled into an uneasy interval of observation, distant maneuvering, emergency repairs, and scattered exchanges that were too limited to count as another general engagement.

For Horizon, those hours were precious.

For Ironwake, they were humiliating.

And for the people still trapped aboard the damaged vessels, they were the difference between being pulled from the sea and being left behind.

 At ten seventeen in the morning, Kade Bher was staring at a cup of coffee.

It was cold.

Not slightly cool.

Not pleasantly drinkable after a few minutes on a desk.

Cold enough that he had begun questioning whether the liquid had ever possessed warmth.

He regarded it for several seconds.

Then looked toward the Operations Room clock.

Ten seventeen.

The attack had begun shortly before six.

The western lighthouse had been destroyed.

Several buildings had sustained damage.

The island’s heavy-gun ammunition expenditure had been significant.

Its aviation crews were exhausted.

Its destroyers needed torpedo servicing.

The medical personnel had spent the morning treating injuries, including one Akizuki-class girl whose continued existence was presently making Irena Holt question several things she thought she understood about Keelborn physiology.

And somewhere beyond the reef, an Iowa-class battleship remained determined to make his day considerably worse.

Kade picked up the coffee.

Considered drinking it.

Then set it down again.

“No.”

Mara Fenwick looked up from the logistics register.

“Commander?”

He pointed at the cup.

“This has become a personal insult.”

The Chief studied the coffee.

For a moment, her expression remained perfectly serious.

Then she answered:

“Shall I notify Intelligence?”

Kade raised an eyebrow.

Aaron Voss, standing beside the western plotting table, looked over.

“I’ve already identified the responsible party.”

Kade turned.

“Oh?”

The lieutenant nodded solemnly.

“You left it there for two hours.”

A pause.

Then Mara smiled.

Kade stared at his intelligence officer.

For several seconds, he appeared to be considering disciplinary action.

Then he sighed.

“An entire island of comedians.”

Aaron returned to his chart.

Mara lowered her eyes to the paperwork.

For a brief moment, the Operations Room felt almost ordinary.

A tired command staff.

Too many reports.

A terrible cup of coffee.

Then the western radar officer spoke.

“New movement from the PCA formation.”

The atmosphere changed immediately.

Kade turned.

“Where?”

“Central carrier group. Several units are altering course and moving toward the forward screen.”

Aaron reached for his pencil.

Mara put down the logistics register.

The radar officer continued.

“Additional aircraft launching. Some appear to be forming up west of the blockade line.”

Kade examined the chart.

The enemy’s main formation had remained comparatively stable during the recovery period.

Now its smaller contacts were beginning to move.

Not one or two.

Several.

The Commander leaned forward.

“Destroyers?”

“Multiple.”

“Cruisers?”

“Two light-cruiser contacts adjusting with them. Possible heavy-cruiser support farther back.”

“Landing ships?”

The plotting officer hesitated.

Then moved another marker.

“Several transports are underway again.”

Kade’s expression became very still.

For a moment, he studied the arrangement.

Then he looked toward Aaron.

“Here we go.”

The lieutenant nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

The Commander glanced toward the cold coffee.

For one brief moment, he seemed almost offended on principle.

Then he pushed it aside.

“Sound the renewed contact alert. Recall the heavy-defense watch to immediate readiness, and tell the harbor patrols to report every change in the landing formation.”

Mara straightened.

“General quarters remains in effect.”

“Good. No need to wake everyone twice.”

The Chief nodded.

Kade looked toward the western chart again.

The enemy’s movement was spreading across the approaches.

One group toward the north.

Another toward the south.

A smaller aviation formation positioning farther east than before.

And behind them, the enormous marker representing Ironwake.

Still there.

Still dangerous.

The Commander drew a slow breath.

Then spoke quietly.

“All right.”

Aaron looked up.

Kade’s eyes narrowed.

“Let’s see what they’ve learned.”

 The second attack began with aircraft.

Not shells.

That was the first difference.

The PCA’s commanders had apparently decided that allowing Horizon’s battleship Keelborn to fire freely while its cruisers provided antiaircraft cover had been a mistake.

This was an accurate assessment.

Unfortunately, the revised plan demanded that the carrier groups perform an extraordinarily complicated task while the same island’s defensive fighters, radar stations, and antiaircraft cruisers remained operational.

The approaching strike elements had been divided into several groups.

Fighters moved ahead to challenge Yuna’s remaining aircraft and force Horizon’s air-defense controllers to commit their limited reserves.

Dive bombers followed on separate bearings.

A smaller group of torpedo aircraft remained farther offshore, apparently waiting for an opportunity to attack the heavy Keelborn within the defended lagoon if the cruisers could be distracted.

Behind the aviation effort, several surface escorts began moving toward the approaches.

Their mission was not yet a full landing.

Not openly.

The first objective was to create enough pressure across the defensive sectors that Kade would be forced to divide his attention.

The landing ships would then exploit whichever approach appeared weakest.

It was a more sensible plan than the first assault.

Which was precisely why Kade did not like it.

 Yuna Mori received the incoming-aircraft warning while examining an aviation maintenance report.

Her Illustrious-class equipment remained in its designated operating position, with a protected servicing area available for the fairy crews.

The first wave had cost her air group more than ammunition.

Several aircraft were damaged.

One pilot had suffered a fractured arm.

Other fairies were exhausted from the intensity of the interception.

Some had returned with their hands trembling so badly that they needed help climbing from their cockpits.

Yuna had watched them.

Every one.

She had asked whether they were hurt.

She had listened to the answers.

And she had tried very hard not to imagine what would happen if the next group failed to return.

Now the alarm sounded again.

A fairy officer approached with the readiness board.

“Carrier.”

Yuna looked up.

“Yes?”

“Enemy strike groups are reforming.”

The Illustrious-class girl nodded slowly.

“I know.”

“We have two fighter sections available for immediate defensive launch, with another group requiring servicing.”

Yuna examined the board.

The numbers were unpleasant.

She looked toward the aircraft that remained under repair.

Then toward the little officers waiting beside the servicing platform.

For a moment, her expression softened.

The girls had already worked so hard.

Some were wounded.

Others exhausted.

And yet several were looking toward her as though waiting for permission to do more.

Yuna swallowed.

Then asked:

“Which pilots are actually rested?”

The officer hesitated.

For a moment, she seemed uncertain.

Then she pointed toward the appropriate names.

Yuna studied them.

“Use those. Keep the others on the ground until they’re fit.”

The little woman nodded.

“Yes, Carrier.”

A pause followed.

Then Yuna looked toward the western sky.

The enemy formation remained beyond direct visual range.

But the radar picture was clear.

More aircraft.

More weapons.

More pilots coming toward an island whose people had not asked them to come.

She took a breath.

Then raised her microphone.

“Horizon Air Defense, Yuna. Defensive aircraft preparing. Request updated hostile track assignments and confirmation of cruiser firing sectors.”

The response came quickly.

“Yuna, Air Defense. Revised sectors transmitting. Calla has the northern engagement corridor. Southern cruiser group holds the lower approach. Your fighters are cleared to intercept ahead of the coastal boundary.”

Yuna nodded.

“Understood.”

She looked toward the fairy flight leader waiting beside the first aircraft.

The little woman raised a hand.

Yuna returned the gesture.

For a moment, she remembered something Aster had told Kade during Beach Week.

That people sometimes needed encouragement to come outside.

That the Commander would never enjoy being ordered around, but might eventually appear if everybody gave him enough space to choose.

It seemed absurd to remember a beach holiday now.

Then Yuna realized why the memory had appeared.

Only a few days earlier, the fairies had been making tiny cards and enjoying themselves in the sunlight.

Now they were preparing to fight for their lives.

That was what the PCA had brought to Horizon.

She looked toward the flight leader.

Her expression became serious.

“Come home.”

The fairy nodded.

“We’ll try.”

Yuna swallowed.

Then gave the launch order.

The first fighter accelerated.

The flight-deck machinery engaged.

And the aircraft climbed toward the western sky.

 On Ironwake, the revised assault orders were received with considerably less enthusiasm than the previous morning’s briefing.

The battleship’s officers knew that the first operation had failed.

Some admitted it openly.

Others preferred phrases such as unexpectedly strong local resistance or temporary loss of assault momentum.

Both descriptions were accurate in a narrow administrative sense.

Neither changed the sight of Baltimore’s ruined bow or the fact that Chapayev had left the bombardment line under restricted power.

The men aboard Ironwake had watched real warships suffer real damage.

Some were beginning to understand the implications.

Others were angry.

And a few had become so personally offended by Horizon’s refusal that they were now more interested in forcing the station to surrender than in asking why the Pacific Campaign Authority had wanted to seize it in the first place.

The battleship captain stood beside the operations table, listening to the latest aviation report.

“Carrier strike groups ready?”

“Second attack elements launching now, sir.”

“Surface escorts?”

“Advancing according to the revised plan.”

“Landing force?”

“Regrouped. Several vessels have been reassigned to the southern approach.”

The captain nodded.

He looked toward the chart.

Then pointed.

“Keep the northern force pressing. Their heavy batteries will have to shift attention.”

The operations officer nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

“And the southern landing group?”

“They’ll move when the cruisers begin suppressing the shore installations.”

The captain considered that.

Then looked toward the damaged-cruiser status board.

Chapayev remained under repair efforts.

Baltimore was effectively lost.

That was irritating.

He had counted on those ships.

Now he had to use his remaining forces differently.

The commander turned toward the communications officer.

“Tell the landing force that this time I want the island occupied, not another report about torpedoes.”

The officer hesitated.

“Sir, the channels remain defended by Akizuki and Kitakaze units.”

The captain looked toward him.

For a moment, his expression hardened.

“Yes.”

The officer swallowed.

“They’ve already demonstrated the ability to damage landing craft.”

“I am aware.”

The captain returned his attention to the chart.

Then he spoke more quietly.

“So we’re going to make them look somewhere else.”

The operations officer studied the revised plan.

A northern demonstration.

A southern approach.

Carrier aircraft attempting to split the defensive screen.

A small landing element exploiting the confusion near the service roads.

It had a reasonable chance.

At least, if Horizon reacted the way the PCA expected.

The officer nodded.

“Understood.”

The captain looked toward the distant island.

For a moment, he considered the strange young Commander who had refused his ultimatum.

Kade Bher.

Eighteen-year-old appearance.

Former player.

Responsible for an old naval station whose repair infrastructure seemed barely adequate.

The captain still found it difficult to accept that someone in that position could dictate terms to an Iowa-class battleship.

He looked toward the main-gun status board.

Then smiled faintly.

“This time,” he said, “we finish it.”

Unfortunately for him, Kade was looking at the same developing formation.

And he had no intention of letting the enemy choose the terms of the fight.

 An Island with More Than One Door

The southern approaches to Horizon Atoll had always been inconvenient.

That was one of the reasons Kade had originally selected the place only after nearly every more desirable naval base had been claimed.

The lagoon’s navigable channels were narrow in places.

The reefs complicated movement.

The older infrastructure had been designed around an island whose defenses and civilian population were considerably smaller than they had become.

A commander looking for a prestigious fleet headquarters would not have regarded those conditions as attractive.

Kade had spent the early days of the game thinking of them as problems.

Since Hour Zero, he’d begun treating some as advantages.

A large invading force could not simply sail through shallow reef water because its commander wanted to.

Landing craft needed room.

Troop transports needed suitable approaches.

Armored vehicles required places where their equipment could be brought ashore without becoming trapped in soft sand or deep water.

And an attacker who misidentified a maintenance service route as an undefended road might discover that the road had never been intended for public access in the first place.

The southern maintenance district possessed one such route.

It connected an older waterside unloading area with a service road running behind the protected repair facilities.

During peacetime, the route was useful.

Cargo could be brought ashore.

Vehicles could move between storage yards.

Heavy components could be carried inland without crowding the principal harbor roads.

During an invasion, however, the same route looked dangerously attractive.

An attacker approaching from the sea could see the service entrance and imagine a convenient path toward the repair yards.

What the attacker could not easily see was the old concrete loading ramp’s narrow exit, the reinforced retaining walls beyond it, or the fact that the roadway bent sharply around a low ridge before opening into the maintenance district.

There were also several gated barriers.

And, following the warnings about the PCA, a number of people who had become extremely interested in controlling access.

One of those people was Adelheid.

The Bayern-class battleship girl had been stationed near the southern defense sector during the previous night’s preparations.

Her equipment had remained fitted and ready after the morning’s heavy-gun engagement.

She had not gone ashore for a pleasant stroll.

She had not been taking a break.

And she had certainly not been waiting for somebody to offer her a chance to play hostess.

Instead, she was studying a map with the expression of a woman who had spent several hours listening to enemy bombardment and was becoming increasingly dissatisfied with the entire situation.

Her four twin 38-centimeter turrets remained aligned within the approved defensive arcs.

Eight fifteen-inch rifles.

Their immense mechanical housings rose around her, supported by the Bayern-class rigging’s structural and stabilizing assemblies.

Her secondary guns were secured at appropriate elevations, ready to engage smaller targets if ordered.

The machinery had been maintained with the care expected of an experienced former-player Keelborn.

She knew its weight.

Its limitations.

Its firing arrangements.

Its ammunition.

And exactly how unpleasant the blast from those guns could become if somebody was foolish enough to stand in the wrong place.

That was one reason she did not intend to fire her main battery at an infantry squad unless the situation became so desperate that all better choices had disappeared.

It was also why the sight of those weapons might prove extraordinarily persuasive without a single round being discharged.

Adelheid looked toward the southern water.

Then toward the service road.

Aster’s voice sounded through the local communications circuit.

“Southern Sector, this is Aster. Security reports renewed enemy movement near the outer landing approaches.”

Adelheid raised her microphone.

“Received. Any identified landing craft?”

“Not yet. VESPER is watching the road approaches. Mira’s teams have the protected facilities covered.”

The Bayern-class girl nodded.

“Good.”

Aster hesitated.

Then spoke again.

“Adelheid?”

“Yes?”

“Please don’t do anything dramatic.”

The battleship girl looked toward her enormous main turrets.

Then toward the maintenance road.

For a moment, she appeared genuinely offended.

“Why would I do anything dramatic?”

A pause.

The Fletcher-class girl’s answer came.

“You’re a Bayern-class battleship with eight fifteen-inch guns and an attitude.”

Adelheid considered that.

Then smiled faintly.

“An accurate description.”

Aster sighed through the radio.

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I shall treasure it anyway.”

The connection ended.

Adelheid lowered the microphone.

Then looked toward the water.

For several seconds, her expression remained amused.

Then another distant explosion sounded.

The island trembled.

Her smile disappeared.

She checked the service-road defenses once more.

And waited.

The people approaching Horizon were about to discover that the southern maintenance route did indeed lead somewhere important.

Unfortunately, the important thing currently waiting there was a very angry battleship.

 The Second Strike Meets the First Mistake

The Pacific Campaign Authority’s second air strike possessed one considerable advantage over the first.

Its pilots knew the island would shoot back.

That made them more cautious.

It also made them more dangerous.

The fighters did not immediately dive toward Yuna’s aircraft. Instead, they spread into a wider protective formation, attempting to prevent Horizon’s interceptors from reaching the dive bombers before the attack began.

Several aircraft climbed above the primary defensive altitude.

Others approached from below and behind.

The bombers themselves maintained greater separation, reducing the likelihood that one well-placed antiaircraft burst would disrupt several attack runs at once.

The strike leader had also been given a clearer objective.

Horizon possessed an unusually formidable group of battleship Keelborn.

Those girls had to be suppressed.

Their fire-control support had to be disrupted.

And the defending cruisers needed to be distracted long enough for the bombers to descend.

The plan was sensible.

The execution was less so.

Not because every PCA pilot was incompetent.

Some were experienced.

A few had already completed numerous sorties during the nearly two months since Hour Zero.

Their carrier girls had learned how to operate real aviation machinery, coordinate fairy crews, and deal with the unpleasant consequences of damaged aircraft returning to their equipment.

But the strike was being assembled from several different carriers.

Those carriers belonged to different classes.

They possessed different operating limitations, different aircraft complements, and fairy crews with different levels of experience.

Their communication procedures were not perfectly standardized.

Their commanders did not always agree.

And some of the pilots had begun wondering why they were expected to bomb a populated Admiralty Union naval station merely because its Commander refused to surrender five Ship Pendants.

All of that mattered.

Especially when the defenders knew the attack was coming.

 Calla watched the western air plot with a grim expression.

“Second group entering the outer approach.”

The fire-control officer beside her confirmed.

“Fighters high. Bombers behind.”

Calla nodded.

“Any torpedo aircraft?”

“Possible southern group. Still outside the assigned engagement boundary.”

The Atlanta-class girl’s eyes narrowed.

She looked toward the lagoon.

Farther inland, Horizon’s battleship Keelborn were moving within their approved defensive sectors.

Riko’s Yamato-class machinery was unmistakable even at a distance.

Scarlett’s South Dakota-class rigging occupied a separate firing position.

The second South Dakota-class girl remained near the southern reserve area.

All three were valuable targets.

Not because they were rare units.

Because their guns could hurt Ironwake.

Calla understood the difference.

She looked toward the incoming formation.

Then raised her radio.

“Air Defense, Calla. Hostile fighters attempting to establish cover above the cruiser engagement line. Request fighter interception ahead of western boundary.”

Yuna’s response came promptly.

“Defensive section moving. Maintaining separation from your upper firing sector.”

Calla nodded.

“Understood.”

A pause followed.

Then the Atlanta-class girl looked toward her antiaircraft ammunition readings.

The morning had already been expensive.

Her guns were functioning.

Her ready ammunition remained adequate.

But the magazines were not bottomless.

She needed the next engagement to be efficient.

“Hold fire,” she told the gun crews.

The directors followed the incoming aircraft.

Several small dark shapes emerged through the morning haze.

Calla watched.

Still held.

The enemy fighters crossed a distant reference bearing.

The bombers remained behind them.

The air-defense controller called an altitude change.

Calla adjusted her director.

Then waited.

One of the hostile fighters began a dive.

Yuna’s interceptors turned toward it.

The two formations converged.

For a brief moment, the sky became a complicated knot of moving aircraft.

Calla held fire.

She did not enjoy waiting.

But the friendly fighters were doing their work.

Then one of the PCA bombers broke away from the main group.

It began descending toward the southern harbor.

Calla saw the movement.

Her eyes narrowed.

“New target.”

The director shifted.

The selected aircraft entered the permitted engagement sector.

The fire-control officer checked the friendly air picture.

No Horizon fighter occupied the danger area.

The clearance arrived.

Calla took a breath.

“Engage.”

Her five-inch batteries answered.

A series of sharp concussions rolled across the water.

Shells climbed toward the descending aircraft.

Dark bursts opened in the morning sky.

The bomber banked violently.

Its pilot abandoned the intended dive angle.

The bomb fell early.

A white column rose from the sea.

Calla adjusted toward another incoming aircraft.

The rest of Horizon’s cruiser screen opened fire.

For the second time that morning, the western sky filled with bursting shells and tracer fire.

Only now, the enemy knew better than to assume the defenders would stop after the first barrage.

 Above the engagement, Yuna’s fairy flight leader spotted something unpleasant.

The enemy fighters were not trying to defeat her section immediately.

They were trying to keep it occupied.

Every time a Horizon fighter moved toward the bombers, a PCA aircraft intercepted.

When the defenders turned away, the hostile fighters did not always pursue.

They returned to their protective positions.

It was disciplined.

Annoyingly disciplined.

The fairy flight leader tightened her grip on the controls.

Her aircraft shuddered as a burst of enemy fire passed below the left wing.

She rolled away.

A wingman followed.

The hostile fighter overshot.

For a moment, she considered chasing it.

Then she remembered the assignment.

The bombers.

Not the escorts.

She raised her radio.

“Yuna Flight Two, enemy fighters conducting defensive cover. Do not pursue beyond the interception corridor. Break through when possible.”

The acknowledgments came.

The little pilot looked toward the western sky.

Then she spotted a gap.

Two enemy fighters had turned after a friendly aircraft.

Another was climbing.

For several seconds, the bomber formation’s lower edge was exposed.

The fairy leader made her decision.

“Second pair, with me.”

She rolled toward the opening.

Her wingman followed.

The engine roared.

The bomber group grew larger ahead.

For one brief moment, she had the approach she needed.

Then a familiar voice sounded over the air-defense channel.

“Yuna Flight, southern cruiser screen reports hostile aircraft crossing behind your position. Check six.”

The little pilot glanced back.

Another enemy fighter was diving toward her.

She cursed.

Then broke away.

The opening vanished.

Far below, Calla’s antiaircraft batteries opened fire again.

The bomber formation scattered.

And the engagement settled into the exhausting rhythm of an air battle where neither side possessed enough freedom to do exactly what it wanted.

 On the PCA’s Yorktown-class carrier, the aviation chief was becoming increasingly unhappy.

Her fairy officers had been reporting the same problem for nearly twenty minutes.

The strike groups were not reaching their objectives cleanly.

Enemy fighter interception remained active.

Cruiser antiaircraft fire was stronger than expected.

Several bombers had returned without releasing their weapons.

Others had been damaged.

One pilot was missing.

And Fleet Command was asking for another attack.

The Yorktown-class girl stood beside her flight-deck machinery, listening to the report.

Her expression was tense.

She had spent nearly two months learning to operate the equipment properly.

Not simply launch aircraft.

Manage them.

Service them.

Recover them.

Keep the living fairy crews alive through the endless, exhausting work of naval aviation.

Now the morning was consuming aircraft and people at a rate she had never experienced.

The aviation chief looked up.

“Carrier.”

The girl turned.

“Yes?”

“We have five aircraft requiring repair before they can fly again.”

She nodded.

“I know.”

“Two pilots under medical care.”

“Yes.”

“One missing.”

The carrier’s expression tightened.

A long pause followed.

Then she looked toward the western sky.

The aircraft that hadn’t returned belonged to her.

The pilot had been a quiet little woman who enjoyed collecting photographs.

The sort of person who spent her off-duty hours arranging pictures in an album and teasing the mechanics into posing beside whatever aircraft they had just finished servicing.

Now she was missing.

Somewhere beyond the horizon.

The carrier swallowed.

Then looked back.

“Have we received any rescue report?”

The aviation chief shook her head.

“No.”

A long silence followed.

Then the carrier girl closed her eyes.

For a moment, she wanted to scream.

Not because she disliked war.

She had known there would be fighting when she became a Keelborn.

Not because she lacked courage.

She had already survived several engagements.

But because the mission was beginning to feel pointless.

They were not fighting the Blackwake.

They were not escorting a refugee convoy.

They were not defending the supply routes from raiders.

They were attacking another naval station.

A station that had offered to accept surrender and medical requests.

And the orders kept referring to the people living there as recoverable assets.

She hated that phrase.

Had hated it since the first time she heard it.

Now she was losing fairies over it.

The aviation chief waited.

Finally, the carrier opened her eyes.

“Prepare the available fighters for fleet defense.”

The fairy officer blinked.

“Fleet defense?”

“Yes.”

“Not another strike?”

“Not until we have a proper recovery plan for the aircraft already out there.”

The chief hesitated.

“Fleet Command has requested continued offensive sorties.”

The carrier’s expression hardened.

“I know.”

A pause.

Then she continued.

“And I’m responsible for the people flying them.”

The fairy looked toward her.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then the little officer nodded.

“Yes, Carrier.”

She returned to work.

The Yorktown-class girl looked toward the distant island.

She did not yet intend to surrender.

She did not yet intend to break with the PCA.

But she was beginning to understand that the people giving her orders would spend her fairy crews much more easily than she could bear to lose them.

And that understanding would matter very soon.

 A Misplaced Transport and a Very Inconvenient Road

The southern landing element did not arrive at Horizon’s maintenance approach in anything resembling good order.

Its original orders had called for a coordinated movement beneath cruiser and aircraft cover.

The infantry were supposed to reach the service ramp after the defenders had been forced to retreat toward the main harbor.

The T-72 Sensha Girl would then provide armored support.

A small group of SIA personnel would move forward with the infantry to secure the junction beyond the loading area.

Additional troops would follow.

It sounded straightforward when discussed over a chart.

Unfortunately, the people who wrote the plan had not accounted for the reef.

Or the shifting visibility.

Or the small matter of Horizon’s defenders continuing to shoot at them.

The approach began with a landing craft attempting to follow the wrong navigation marker.

Its helmsman corrected before grounding the vessel, but the delay forced the craft behind it to slow.

A second transport altered course to avoid the first.

Then a distant shell burst in the water, sending an enormous column of spray into the air.

Nobody aboard either vessel could determine immediately whether the shell had been aimed at them.

It didn’t matter.

The men on deck ducked.

The helmsman made another correction.

And the formation spread farther apart.

The landing commander swore.

Loudly.

Then ordered the forward element to continue toward the intended service ramp.

He had already been told that the PCA possessed enough strength to occupy the island.

He had been told that the defenders were distracted.

That their Keelborn heavy batteries were concentrating on Ironwake.

That the air strikes would force the coastal defenders into cover.

And that his job was to exploit the opening.

He intended to do so.

For a moment, it looked as though he might succeed.

The first landing craft reached the sheltered water beyond the reef.

It reduced speed.

The ramp came into view.

A short strip of concrete extending down toward the sea.

Beyond it stood a service road between old retaining walls.

No obvious pillboxes.

No heavy coastal guns.

No visible Keelborn destroyers.

The landing commander smiled.

“There.”

His executive officer looked toward the shore.

For a moment, he seemed uncertain.

“Sir?”

“That’s our route.”

The officer studied the concrete ramp.

Then the narrow road.

He frowned.

“Doesn’t look very wide.”

“It doesn’t need to be. We’re not landing the entire army here.”

The officer looked toward the armored support section.

The T-72 Sensha Girl stood beside the equipment-handling platform, already fitted into the movement configuration required for disembarkation.

She had been watching the approach without much enthusiasm.

The man’s eyes moved toward her.

Then back to the ramp.

“Will she fit?”

The commander looked annoyed.

“Of course.”

The Sensha Girl heard him.

She looked toward the ramp.

Then toward the narrow roadway beyond it.

Her expression became skeptical.

“Have you actually checked?”

The commander turned.

“What?”

“The width.”

He stared.

The girl looked toward the retaining walls.

Her T-72-derived equipment was substantial.

Even as a Sensha Girl, she needed sufficient clearance for the physical armor, gun assembly, and associated mechanical structures.

The ramp itself appeared manageable.

The turn beyond it was another matter.

She folded her arms.

“I don’t want to scrape a whole side off my equipment because you think a line on a chart is wide enough.”

Several soldiers glanced toward her.

The landing commander frowned.

“We have surveyed the approach.”

The Sensha Girl raised one eyebrow.

“When?”

A pause.

The man looked toward his executive officer.

The officer suddenly became very interested in the navigation chart.

The girl sighed.

“Wonderful.”

The commander clenched his jaw.

“Your assignment is to provide armored support once ashore.”

“I know.”

“Then be ready.”

She looked toward the ramp again.

For a moment, her expression became thoughtful.

Then she nodded.

“Fine.”

The boat continued toward the shore.

Its bow wake spread across the sheltered water.

The concrete ramp drew closer.

The soldiers began preparing to disembark.

And beyond the bend in the road, Adelheid listened to the approaching engines with an expression of steadily increasing displeasure.

 The Bayern-class girl had already been warned.

The southern observation station had reported a landing craft moving toward the service ramp.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Mira’s local security team had confirmed that the main maintenance road was clear of civilians and nonessential personnel.

VESPER’s defensive positions remained concealed behind the protected structures farther inland.

The road barriers had been closed.

The side routes were secured.

And Adelheid had received permission to deny passage through the southern maintenance approach.

She intended to do that.

Preferably without killing anyone.

She stood in the shadow of the low ridge where the road emerged from the retaining walls.

Her Bayern-class rigging remained fully fitted.

The enormous mechanical structure shifted slightly as she adjusted her stance.

Four twin 38-centimeter main turrets.

Their great barrels rested within safe firing arcs, trained toward the service approach but not aligned in a manner that would endanger the nearby friendly structures through an unnecessary discharge.

The secondary guns had also been oriented to cover the road.

Their ammunition feeds were ready.

The equipment’s stabilizing supports rested against the prepared surface beneath her.

Adelheid did not look like an ordinary woman standing beside a naval base.

She looked like a battleship that had become personally offended.

There was a difference.

A very large one.

The Bayern-class girl watched the road.

For a moment, she heard voices from the landing ramp.

Men shouting.

Equipment being moved.

The sharp metallic sound of a landing craft’s ramp lowering.

Then the first boots struck concrete.

Adelheid raised her radio.

“Southern Sector, Bayern position. Enemy landing personnel ashore at the service ramp.”

Mira answered.

“Confirmed. VESPER teams holding the inland junction. Security cordon ready.”

Adelheid nodded.

“Understood.”

A pause followed.

Then Mira continued.

“Adelheid, remember the surrender procedure.”

The battleship girl looked toward the enormous main turrets surrounding her.

For a moment, she seemed almost amused.

“I remember.”

“And the firing restrictions.”

“Yes.”

“And the fact that we want prisoners if possible.”

Adelheid sighed.

“Mira.”

“Yes?”

The Bayern-class girl smiled faintly.

“You are beginning to sound like Kade.”

A pause.

Then the synthetic instructor answered:

“Thank you.”

Adelheid blinked.

For a moment, she seemed surprised.

Then she laughed.

The sound lasted only a second.

Then voices echoed along the road.

The first soldiers were approaching.

Adelheid’s expression became very still.

She lowered the radio.

Adjusted the elevation of her forward turrets.

And waited for the enemy to come around the bend.

 The landing party moved cautiously.

At least at first.

The soldiers had expected resistance, but the initial service ramp had been empty.

That made the landing commander optimistic.

The lack of obvious defenders seemed to confirm the intelligence report.

Horizon had concentrated its forces near the main harbor.

The maintenance road offered a rear approach.

A small infantry element could move inland, secure a junction, and open the way for additional troops.

That was the plan.

The first two soldiers advanced with their rifles ready.

A third followed.

Behind them came several more former-player infantry, a pair of SIA personnel, and the T-72 Sensha Girl with her equipment operating at reduced movement power.

The road narrowed between concrete walls.

A few old pipes ran along one side.

Weeds grew through cracks in the pavement.

The soldiers stepped around a maintenance barrier that had been moved into the open position earlier during legitimate base operations.

For a moment, the landing commander smiled.

“See?”

The Sensha Girl looked toward him.

“See what?”

“No resistance.”

She stared at the road.

Then the bend ahead.

For several seconds, her expression became doubtful.

“This is exactly where I’d put resistance.”

The commander sighed.

“You’re being paranoid.”

The girl looked toward him.

A pause.

Then she answered:

“I operate a tank.”

He blinked.

She continued.

“Paranoia is part of the job.”

Several soldiers smiled.

The commander did not.

He looked toward the forward scouts.

“Advance.”

The men reached the bend.

One looked around the corner.

Then stopped.

His body went rigid.

For a moment, he didn’t speak.

The second scout approached.

“What?”

The first man slowly raised one hand.

The second looked.

And went still.

The landing commander frowned.

“What is it?”

Nobody answered.

He stepped forward.

“Report.”

The first soldier swallowed.

Then spoke.

“Sir.”

The commander glared.

“What?”

The soldier’s voice cracked.

“I think you need to see this.”

The man moved toward the bend.

The T-72 Sensha Girl followed.

She had a terrible feeling.

Then they turned the corner.

And found Adelheid.

The Bayern-class girl stood in the middle of the road.

Her heavy rigging filled much of the available space.

The forward main turrets had been traversed to cover the approach.

The secondary batteries were also aimed toward the landing party.

Eight enormous 38-centimeter rifles stared down the narrow roadway, their black muzzles surrounded by the angular steel of an early dreadnought’s heavy machinery.

The equipment was real.

The ammunition was real.

The girl operating it looked absolutely furious.

For several seconds, nobody moved.

Then Adelheid folded her arms.

Her expression was magnificent.

Not welcoming.

Not surprised.

Not remotely pleased.

She looked at the approaching soldiers.

Then at the T-72 Sensha Girl.

Then toward the road behind them.

Finally, she spoke.

“Well.”

The landing commander stared.

Adelheid raised one eyebrow.

“Good morning.”

The silence that followed was extraordinary.

The T-72 Sensha Girl looked from one massive gun barrel to another.

For a moment, she seemed to be counting them.

Then she stopped.

The landing commander opened his mouth.

No words came out.

Adelheid’s smile was cold.

“Gentlemen. Ladies.”

She gestured toward the enormous equipment surrounding her.

“I believe you have taken a wrong turn.”

 Eight Reasons to Reconsider

The landing commander had expected infantry.

Perhaps a few SIA Dolls.

A destroyer girl, if the reports had been particularly pessimistic.

At the absolute worst, a small coastal gun that could be suppressed while his troops moved through the maintenance district.

He had not expected a Bayern-class battleship.

And he had certainly not expected to encounter one at a distance where the gun barrels occupied a thoroughly unreasonable portion of his field of vision.

For several seconds, he stood looking at Adelheid.

Then his eyes moved toward her rigging.

The immense main turrets were unmistakable.

He recognized the arrangement.

Four twin turrets.

German fifteen-inch naval artillery.

A formidable secondary battery.

Armor and machinery associated with a First World War capital ship.

The equipment appeared absurdly large around the woman operating it, yet its structural supports rested firmly against the road.

There was nothing ethereal about it.

No shimmering projection.

No hologram.

Steel occupied space.

The barrels moved when Adelheid adjusted her aim.

A soft hydraulic sound accompanied the movement.

And the landing commander became acutely aware that he was standing in front of an actual battleship’s main battery.

He swallowed.

Then forced himself to speak.

“This area is under Pacific Campaign Authority jurisdiction.”

Adelheid looked at him.

For a moment, her expression remained neutral.

Then she raised an eyebrow.

“Is it?”

The man straightened.

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

She looked toward the road behind him.

Then toward the sea.

For several seconds, she appeared to be considering the claim.

Finally, she answered:

“Because the last time I checked, this was my maintenance district.”

The commander frowned.

“You are required to stand down.”

Adelheid stared.

A pause.

Then she laughed.

Not kindly.

The sound was short and incredulous.

“Oh, you cannot be serious.”

The man gripped his rifle more tightly.

Behind him, several soldiers shifted.

One of the SIA personnel glanced toward the secondary guns.

The T-72 Sensha Girl remained very still.

Adelheid noticed.

Her eyes moved toward the armored girl.

For a moment, her expression changed.

Not softened.

Merely more attentive.

She understood what she was looking at.

T-72.

A powerful modern tank design.

A 125-millimeter smoothbore gun.

Substantial armor.

Compact, dangerous machinery.

A threat to infantry, light structures, and many vehicles operating within its effective engagement range.

In a battlefield without naval heavy artillery, the Sensha could be formidable.

Unfortunately for the landing commander, this was not such a battlefield.

Adelheid looked toward the T-72 girl’s equipment.

Then spoke.

“Do not traverse your gun.”

The Sensha stiffened.

Her eyes narrowed.

“I haven’t.”

“Good.”

For a moment, they regarded one another.

Then Adelheid continued.

“Keep it that way.”

The T-72 girl considered the immense barrels pointed down the road.

She did not enjoy the calculation that followed.

A tank could be dangerous.

A battleship was another matter.

At this range, firing a fifteen-inch shell would be catastrophically excessive. The blast alone could injure everyone nearby, including people the Bayern-class girl might not wish to hurt.

The Sensha understood that.

She also understood that the woman in front of her possessed smaller weapons more than capable of destroying the equipment around her.

The main turrets were not even the most practical threat.

The secondary guns were.

Those were trained toward the road as well.

And behind Adelheid, somewhere beyond the bend, were probably more defenders.

The T-72 girl looked toward the landing commander.

He still seemed determined to argue.

She closed her eyes.

Please don’t.

The man raised his voice.

“You’re obstructing a lawful military operation!”

Adelheid’s expression became very cold.

“Lawful?”

“Yes!”

She looked toward the sea.

For a moment, the sound of distant gunfire rolled across the maintenance district.

Then she turned back.

“You shelled our island.”

The man opened his mouth.

“You destroyed our lighthouse.”

He hesitated.

“You attempted to invade our harbor.”

Adelheid took one deliberate step forward.

The machinery around her shifted with a deep, heavy sound.

Several soldiers flinched.

“And now,” she continued, “you have walked into my repair district with rifles and a tank.”

The landing commander swallowed.

Adelheid regarded him.

Then spoke with extraordinary clarity.

“You are going to put your weapons down.”

A pause.

“Your armored support is going to disengage its gun.”

Another pause.

“And every one of you is going to surrender before somebody decides this morning needs to become even more unpleasant.”

The silence that followed was profound.

For several seconds, nobody moved.

Then one soldier whispered:

“That’s a battleship.”

Another whispered back:

“I can see that.”

A third stared at the main turrets.

“Why is there a battleship on the road?”

The T-72 girl closed her eyes.

A pause.

Then she muttered:

“Because somebody didn’t check the map.”

The landing commander turned.

“What?”

She looked toward him.

For a moment, her expression was utterly unimpressed.

“I told you this was where I’d put resistance.”

The man stared.

The Sensha gestured toward Adelheid.

“There.”

Adelheid’s smile widened very slightly.

The landing commander looked between them.

For one terrible moment, he seemed unable to decide which woman was being more insulting.

Then he reached for his radio.

“Landing Group to Fleet Command—”

A voice sounded from behind Adelheid.

“Don’t.”

The commander froze.

A second woman stepped into view from the protected side passage.

Mira.

The native synthetic SIA instructor held her weapon in a controlled position, supported by a security team occupying the concealed approach behind the road.

Another set of defenders appeared along the upper retaining wall.

VESPER.

Alina Morozova stood beside Morgan Reyes, her AK101 ready but not pointed at anyone who had begun complying.

Zofia Kowalska maintained a position farther back.

Réka Varga covered the side road.

The arrangement was deliberate.

Overlapping observation.

Controlled fields of fire.

A clear surrender corridor.

And no need to shoot anyone merely because they had walked into a trap.

The landing commander slowly turned his head.

He looked toward the women on the retaining wall.

Then toward the armored Bayern-class girl.

Then toward Mira.

For a moment, his expression became deeply unhappy.

“You were waiting for us.”

Mira regarded him.

“Yes.”

The man swallowed.

For several seconds, nobody moved.

Then Alina spoke.

“Lower your weapons. Place them on the road. Hands visible.”

One soldier hesitated.

The T-72 Sensha Girl looked toward him.

Her expression was furious.

“Don’t be stupid.”

The man blinked.

“What?”

She pointed toward Adelheid.

“Look at her.”

He did.

The enormous main-gun barrels occupied a remarkably persuasive portion of the view.

His expression changed.

Then he slowly lowered his rifle.

The soldier beside him followed.

Another set his weapon down.

Then another.

For a moment, the process appeared almost peaceful.

Until the landing commander raised his voice.

“Hold your positions! You do not have authorization to surrender!”

Adelheid stared at him.

A pause.

Then she spoke quietly.

“Do you understand what those guns are?”

The commander glanced toward the main turrets.

Then looked back.

“Yes.”

Adelheid nodded.

“Good.”

She indicated the secondary battery.

“And those?”

The man swallowed.

“Yes.”

Her expression became harder.

“Then understand this too.”

She stepped closer.

The machinery moved with her.

“I do not want to fire them at you.”

The commander remained still.

Adelheid continued.

“Not because I cannot.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Because I would very much prefer that all of you live long enough to regret coming here.”

The T-72 girl looked toward her.

For a moment, something passed across her face.

Respect, perhaps.

Or simple relief.

Then the Sensha slowly disengaged her main-gun control.

The tank-derived machinery lowered into its secured position.

A mechanical lock engaged.

She raised both hands.

“I surrender.”

The landing commander turned toward her.

“What?”

The girl looked at him.

Her expression was exhausted.

“I surrender.”

“You can’t—”

She interrupted.

“Yes, I can.”

For several seconds, the two stared at one another.

Then she continued.

“I am not going to fire a tank gun into a naval base while eight fifteen-inch rifles are pointed at me.”

The commander opened his mouth.

The Sensha’s expression hardened.

“And I am especially not going to get everybody killed because you’re embarrassed that the invasion didn’t go according to plan.”

The words struck harder than Adelheid’s threats.

Several soldiers looked toward their commander.

One had already put down his rifle.

Another was slowly setting his ammunition pouch beside it.

The two SIA personnel exchanged a glance.

Then one raised her hands.

The other followed.

The landing commander’s face reddened.

For one dangerous second, it seemed he might attempt to draw his sidearm.

Morgan noticed.

Her voice became sharp.

“Don’t.”

The man’s hand stopped.

For a moment, he stared toward the retaining wall.

Then at Adelheid.

The Bayern-class girl’s expression was very still.

Her secondary guns had not moved.

They did not need to.

The commander swallowed.

Slowly, he removed his sidearm.

Placed it on the road.

Then raised his hands.

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

At last, Mira lowered her weapon slightly.

“Thank you.”

The landing commander looked toward her.

His expression was miserable.

Adelheid folded her arms.

For a moment, she appeared almost satisfied.

Then she spoke.

“Excellent.”

The T-72 girl looked toward her.

Adelheid’s smile widened.

“Now.”

A pause.

“Would somebody be kind enough to explain why an invasion fleet thought my maintenance road was an undefended shortcut?”

No one volunteered.

Adelheid raised one eyebrow.

“Anyone?”

The T-72 girl closed her eyes.

Then sighed.

“Apparently, the chart was optimistic.”

Mira looked toward her.

For one brief moment, the synthetic instructor’s expression threatened to change.

Then she regained her composure.

Alina lowered her head.

Zofia covered her mouth.

Réka stared fixedly toward the water.

And Adelheid began laughing.

A deep, delighted laugh that rolled across the concrete road beneath the shadow of eight fifteen-inch guns.

The landing commander looked as though he wanted the pavement to swallow him.

Unfortunately, the pavement was not feeling cooperative.

 Disarming the prisoners took considerably longer than frightening them.

That was normal.

More important, it was necessary.

The landing party included armed former-player infantry, SIA personnel whose equipment needed to be secured carefully, and a T-72 Sensha Girl whose tank-derived machinery could not simply be treated like a rifle.

Mira supervised the process.

Alina directed VESPER’s security teams.

Adelheid maintained overwatch until the first group had been moved out of the immediate danger area.

The prisoners were searched for weapons.

Their identities recorded.

Their injuries assessed.

Medical assistance was offered.

The soldiers were separated from their equipment without being subjected to unnecessary humiliation or violence.

Those who complied were treated accordingly.

One man protested that the capture violated the rules of the event.

Morgan looked at him.

For several seconds, she said nothing.

Then she raised an eyebrow.

“What event?”

The man blinked.

“The campaign.”

Morgan regarded him.

A pause.

Then she answered:

“You invaded a real naval station.”

He frowned.

“It’s a scenario.”

The American woman looked toward the destroyed outer roadway.

The smoke rising above Horizon’s harbor.

The distant sound of injured personnel being moved toward Medical.

Her expression hardened.

“No.”

The prisoner looked uncomfortable.

Morgan continued.

“Those are real people. Those are real injuries. And if you had reached the hospital with your rifles, somebody could have died.”

The man swallowed.

For several seconds, he stared.

Then he lowered his eyes.

Morgan stepped back.

“Move along.”

The security team guided him toward the holding area.

He did not argue again.

 The T-72 Sensha Girl remained beside her secured equipment.

She had complied with the initial disarming procedures, but the machinery was too substantial to remove carelessly in the middle of a battlefield.

A maintenance specialist had been called to assist.

Until then, the Sensha remained under guard with the gun disabled and the main systems in a safe configuration.

Adelheid approached.

The T-72 girl looked up.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then the Sensha sighed.

“You know, I really thought we were going to fight SIA Dolls.”

Adelheid raised an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“Or infantry.”

The Bayern-class girl folded her arms.

“A reasonable expectation.”

The Sensha stared at her.

A pause.

Then she looked toward the enormous turrets again.

“Not you.”

Adelheid considered that.

Then smiled.

“No?”

The T-72 girl shook her head.

“Absolutely not.”

For a moment, she seemed to be calculating something.

Then she looked back.

“Did you really intend to fire your main guns?”

Adelheid regarded her.

For several seconds, she remained quiet.

Then she answered honestly.

“Not into a group of surrendering infantry.”

The Sensha nodded slowly.

The battleship girl continued.

“I had other weapons. Your movement was restricted. And your commander had given me every reason to believe he might attempt something foolish.”

The T-72 girl looked toward the disarmed landing commander.

He was being escorted toward the temporary holding area.

For a moment, her expression became tired.

“That’s fair.”

Adelheid smiled faintly.

Then she looked toward the tank-derived machinery.

For several seconds, she studied the equipment.

A powerful gun.

Substantial armor.

A design belonging to a very different era from her own Bayern-class battleship.

An unusual opponent.

Under different circumstances, the two might have spent a pleasant afternoon comparing mechanical specifications.

Instead, they’d met on a maintenance road during an invasion.

Adelheid sighed.

“What a ridiculous way to introduce ourselves.”

The Sensha glanced up.

For a moment, she seemed surprised.

Then she laughed weakly.

“Yeah.”

A pause followed.

Then she asked:

“Are you going to take my Pendant?”

Adelheid’s expression changed.

The laughter vanished.

For several seconds, she stared.

Then her face became very cold.

“No.”

The Sensha blinked.

Adelheid continued.

“Your weapons will be secured. Your equipment will be inspected. You will be held as a prisoner while the situation is investigated.”

She paused.

“But nobody here is collecting you.”

For a long moment, the T-72 girl said nothing.

Then she lowered her eyes.

Her shoulders relaxed.

Only slightly.

But enough.

“Okay.”

Adelheid looked toward her.

For a moment, her expression softened.

Then she nodded.

“Good.”

The Sensha remained quiet.

A moment later, she asked:

“What happens to us?”

The Bayern-class girl looked toward the holding area.

Then toward Horizon’s harbor.

For several seconds, she considered the question.

Finally, she answered:

“You stay alive, preferably.”

The Sensha blinked.

Adelheid’s expression became wry.

“After that, we will have rather a lot to discuss.”

The younger woman swallowed.

Then nodded slowly.

“Right.”

In the distance, naval artillery thundered across the water.

Both looked toward the west.

The war was still going on.

But for this particular landing party, the invasion was over.

And no one had needed to fire a fifteen-inch gun down the service road to make that happen.

 Mira called Operations after the prisoners had been moved into the protected holding area.

Her report was precise.

The landing element had been captured.

Its weapons secured.

The T-72 Sensha Girl was alive and cooperating.

The SIA personnel had been separated from their equipment under appropriate safeguards.

No Horizon fatalities had occurred during the operation.

Several PCA soldiers had minor injuries from the confused landing and disembarkation.

Those injuries were being treated.

Kade listened without interrupting.

When Mira finished, he looked toward Mara.

The Chief had been following the report over the second receiver.

For a moment, they regarded one another.

Then Kade asked:

“Adelheid?”

Mira hesitated.

That was interesting.

The Commander raised an eyebrow.

“What did she do?”

A pause.

Then the synthetic instructor answered:

“She persuaded the landing party to surrender.”

Kade considered that.

“Persuaded.”

“Yes.”

He looked toward the prisoner count.

Then back at the microphone.

“How?”

Mira was quiet.

For a moment, it seemed as though she was trying to decide how to describe an event without making it sound ridiculous.

Finally, she answered:

“She was waiting at the inland junction with her full Bayern-class rigging fitted.”

Kade closed his eyes.

Mara pressed her lips together.

Aaron stopped writing.

The Commander took a slow breath.

“Main guns?”

“Trained over the approach. Secondary weapons also covering the road.”

Kade nodded slowly.

“Of course.”

A pause.

Then he asked:

“Did she fire?”

“No.”

He opened his eyes.

For a moment, his expression softened.

“Good.”

Mira continued.

“The enemy’s T-72 Sensha Girl surrendered first. The remainder of the landing party followed.”

Kade looked toward the western chart.

Then slowly shook his head.

He had spent hours worrying about how to stop the enemy’s armored landing force.

Adelheid had solved one part of the problem by being an extremely convincing reason not to continue.

The Commander exhaled.

Then smiled.

“Please tell her I appreciate her restraint.”

Mira acknowledged.

“Understood.”

“And tell the prisoners they’re entitled to medical care and will be treated properly. Security is to preserve their personal identities and equipment records without creating any absurd account-ownership claims.”

“Yes, Commander.”

“Good work, Mira.”

“Thank you.”

The connection ended.

Kade looked toward Mara.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then the Chief asked:

“Do you want to know what Adelheid actually said to them?”

The Commander considered that.

Then shook his head.

“Not until after the battle.”

Aaron looked up.

“Why?”

Kade sighed.

“Because I’m afraid she’ll have enjoyed it.”

Mara began laughing.

Aaron smiled.

And for one brief, extraordinary moment, the Operations Room sounded like a place where people still remembered how to have fun.

Then the next gunnery report arrived.

The laughter stopped.

And the war returned.

 Breakwater’s Guns Were Not Decoration

USS Breakwater had not been repaired.

Daniel Mercer wished people would stop treating that fact as a technicality.

The battleship remained alongside Horizon’s maintenance quay, surrounded by scaffold frames, temporary cable runs, partially completed repairs, and enough outstanding engineering reports to fill a small warehouse.

Several compartments remained restricted.

Some equipment was operational only under carefully defined conditions.

Other systems had been isolated entirely because the engineers refused to trust repairs that had not yet received proper testing.

Her main propulsion plant was not ready for unrestricted operation.

Her mobility was severely limited.

The full battleship combat system could not simply be declared available because an enemy had arrived.

And many of the men who worked those systems were still carrying the consequences of the Burnt Narrows.

Thomas Reed was dead.

Mateo Alvarez was dead.

The crew had not forgotten either of them.

Their names remained on the ship’s records.

Their empty places in the watch organization remained painfully obvious.

Mercer had spent part of the previous evening reviewing those assignments, making certain nobody was being asked to cover too many duties simply because his command could not bear to acknowledge the absences.

Now the PCA was attacking Horizon.

And the men aboard Breakwater had reached the limit of their patience.

 The battleship’s gunnery officer stood beside the fire-control plotting equipment with a headset pressed against one ear.

His uniform was damp with sweat.

The plotting room was hot.

Not dangerously so, but enough that the men working beside the machinery had already begun loosening their collars whenever the captain was not looking.

The equipment had been checked during the morning lull.

Not all of it.

Only the systems Engineering considered safe to operate.

The repair teams had cleared specific main-battery arrangements for limited emergency defensive use after verifying the available electrical and mechanical support, magazine safety, ammunition handling, and firing arcs.

The rest remained secured.

The battleship could not use her entire main battery freely.

She could use enough of it to be unpleasant.

The gunnery officer examined the latest target data.

A PCA Keelborn cruiser was moving along the outer fire-support sector.

Another appeared to be following farther west.

Both were within the limits of the approved defensive engagement plan.

A nearby plotting assistant updated the predicted course.

The officer checked the estimated range.

Then turned toward the communications circuit.

“Breakwater Gunnery to Bridge. Target solution available against hostile cruiser group in the western approach. Request authorization for limited main-battery engagement.”

Mercer’s voice answered after several seconds.

“Confirm firing arc clear of friendly Keelborn and harbor structures.”

The officer checked the overlay.

The heavy-gun fire lane had been selected specifically to avoid the occupied repair piers and the closer destroyer patrol sectors.

The shell trajectories would pass above the western approach rather than across the main maintenance district.

He confirmed the data.

“Firing arc clear. Target remains inside approved engagement sector.”

A pause.

Then Mercer answered.

“Engagement authorized within Engineering’s restrictions. Do not exceed the cleared firing sequence.”

The gunnery officer nodded.

“Understood.”

He turned toward the crew.

For a moment, the room became very quiet.

Then he spoke.

“Stand by.”

The machinery responded.

The available fourteen-inch guns began moving toward the assigned firing position.

Ammunition handling crews confirmed the approved loading sequence.

Safety interlocks were checked.

The turret crew reported ready.

The gunnery officer examined the solution one final time.

Then he looked toward the firing indicator.

“Fire.”

 The concussion rolled through Breakwater with a familiar violence.

Not the unrestricted full broadside of a fully operational battleship.

A controlled discharge from the mounts Engineering had cleared.

The fourteen-inch rifles erupted.

Brilliant flame flashed beyond the turret muzzles.

The barrels recoiled.

Pressure traveled through the enormous steel structure.

Along the repair berth, loose dust shook from the scaffolding.

The harbor water rippled outward.

Several technicians inside a protected maintenance shelter felt the blast through the soles of their boots.

One looked toward the ceiling.

Then toward his companion.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Finally, the older technician smiled.

“Still works.”

The younger man stared.

The first nodded toward the battleship.

“Apparently.”

Then the impact reports began arriving.

 The shells fell near a PCA cruiser group supporting the second attack.

The first struck the sea short of its intended target, raising a massive column of spray.

The second descended closer.

A heavy shell burst against a nearby section of Keelborn machinery, damaging an external support and forcing the cruiser girl to maneuver sharply out of her firing position.

A third round landed beyond the group and scattered fragments across the water.

The cruiser girl who had been hit cried out.

The sound carried over the open radio circuit.

Her equipment shuddered.

One of the gun mounts jammed.

A propulsion support began vibrating violently.

She reduced speed.

A nearby destroyer moved toward her.

The cruiser looked down at the damaged assembly.

For several seconds, she seemed stunned.

Then she raised her radio.

“PCA Western Screen, cruiser damaged! Request assistance!”

A reply came immediately.

“Identify source of fire.”

The girl looked toward the harbor.

Through the haze, she could see Breakwater’s enormous silhouette beside the repair cranes.

Then another small flash appeared above the battleship’s forward turrets.

Her eyes widened.

“The conventional battleship!”

The controller paused.

“Repeat.”

The cruiser swallowed.

“Breakwater is firing!”

A longer silence followed.

Then the PCA control officer answered sharply.

“Breakwater is under repair.”

The wounded cruiser looked toward her damaged equipment.

For a moment, she seemed genuinely offended.

“I KNOW!”

A second Horizon salvo struck the water beyond her position.

The girl flinched.

Then turned away.

Her escort followed.

The cruiser group began withdrawing from its original support line.

And Breakwater’s gunnery officer adjusted the next firing solution.

 On the bridge, Mercer listened to the report.

“Target maneuvering away?”

Adrian Cole nodded.

“Yes.”

“Damage?”

“One cruiser damaged. Another withdrawing to maintain separation. Exact condition unknown.”

Mercer looked toward the western sea.

For a moment, a grim satisfaction crossed his face.

Then he turned toward the gunnery officer’s circuit.

“Breakwater Gunnery, Bridge. Good work. Continue only against confirmed hostile units within the approved sector. Preserve ammunition and maintain the repair restrictions.”

The acknowledgment came.

Mercer lowered the microphone.

Adrian looked toward him.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then the executive officer smiled.

“She still has teeth.”

Mercer considered that.

Then nodded.

“Some.”

He looked toward the repair yard.

The scaffolding.

The unfinished systems.

The enormous amount of work still required before Breakwater could return to sea.

His expression softened.

“Not as many as I’d like.”

Adrian nodded.

“No.”

The captain looked toward the western horizon.

Then spoke quietly.

“But enough to remind them we’re here.”

 Breakwater’s antiaircraft defense was considerably less impressive than a fully operational modernized battleship’s.

That was the uncomfortable truth.

Several mounts were unavailable.

Others lacked complete servicing.

Some electrical circuits remained under temporary restrictions.

The repair department had approved selected weapons for defensive use, and those were the only ones that could participate.

The rest remained secured.

Their crews assisted elsewhere.

Fire suppression.

Communications.

Casualty movement.

Damage-control readiness.

The available antiaircraft weapons joined Horizon’s larger defensive network when enemy aircraft entered their permitted sectors.

The five-inch dual-purpose battery, where cleared and supplied, could engage appropriate aerial or surface targets.

Smaller weapons provided closer protection.

Their firing sectors had been established to avoid sending rounds through friendly aircraft or toward the harbor’s occupied buildings.

The gunners understood those limitations.

They worked within them.

One sailor stood beside a functioning antiaircraft position, watching the western sky with narrowed eyes.

He had never imagined firing a real weapon at a real aircraft.

Not when he’d first selected Breakwater.

Not when he’d met Mateo Alvarez.

Not when the crew had spent an afternoon arguing about which old battleship possessed the most impressive modernization.

Now he was waiting for enemy aircraft to enter range.

The distant sky flashed.

A PCA dive bomber crossed a gap in Horizon’s cruiser fire.

The sailor watched it descend.

Then the local control officer called the target.

The gun crew responded.

The weapon opened fire.

Tracers climbed toward the bomber.

The aircraft banked away.

A burst struck close enough to force the pilot to abandon the intended approach.

The bomb fell into the water beyond Breakwater’s berth.

A column of spray rose.

The sailor ducked.

Then looked up.

For a moment, he was astonished.

They had stopped it.

Not destroyed the aircraft.

Not won the air war.

But prevented that particular bomb from striking the damaged battleship.

He swallowed.

Then returned his attention to the sky.

There would be more.

 Down in the gunnery plotting room, the fire-control officer received a new report.

He listened.

Then slowly straightened.

For a moment, his expression changed so dramatically that the plotting assistant beside him looked up.

“What?”

The officer raised one hand.

“Quiet.”

The man stopped.

The headset crackled.

A distant observer repeated the message.

The gunnery officer stared toward the board.

Then reached for the bridge circuit.

“Breakwater Gunnery to Captain Mercer.”

The response came.

“Go ahead.”

The officer swallowed.

For a moment, he seemed unable to believe what he was about to say.

Then he spoke.

“Sir. Ironwake has taken direct heavy-caliber shell hits.”

On the bridge, Mercer went still.

Adrian looked toward him.

The captain raised the microphone.

“Confirm.”

The gunnery officer’s voice returned.

“Confirmed by multiple observation stations. Horizon’s Yamato-class and South Dakota-class battleship Keelborn have established successful impacts on Ironwake.”

For several seconds, Mercer did not speak.

Then he looked toward the western horizon.

Ironwake.

An Iowa-class battleship.

One of the most powerful conventional warship designs afloat.

And Horizon’s girls were hitting her.

He swallowed.

“Where?”

The gunnery officer hesitated.

Then answered:

“Damage assessment developing. Large fire observed near the port secondary battery. Heavy structural damage around the funnel. Additional strike reported in the after main-turret region.”

Mercer stared.

Adrian’s expression changed.

The captain slowly lowered the microphone.

For one moment, the bridge was completely quiet.

Then Mercer looked toward the distant smoke.

He knew what a shell could do to a battleship.

He knew what fifteen-inch and sixteen-inch rounds could accomplish against armored structures.

And he knew what an eighteen-point-one-inch shell represented.

His expression became very serious.

“Get me the full report.”

The gunnery officer acknowledged.

Mercer remained at the bridge window.

For several seconds, he stared westward.

Then he whispered:

“Riko.”

The name was barely audible.

Adrian looked toward him.

The captain shook his head slowly.

For a moment, something like disbelief crossed his face.

Then he spoke.

“They actually hit her.”

His executive officer nodded.

“Yes.”

Mercer stared toward the distant Iowa-class battleship.

Then, despite the terrible circumstances, he gave a short, astonished laugh.

“Well.”

A pause.

Then he looked toward the damage-control officer.

“Keep our repair teams protected.”

The man nodded.

“Yes, Captain.”

Mercer turned back toward the sea.

The morning was about to become considerably worse for Ironwake.

And Breakwater’s men had front-row seats.

 Three Battleships and One Very Bad Morning for Ironwake

The hits on Ironwake had not come from a sudden miracle.

They had begun with a mistake.

Not an enormous mistake.

Not even one that looked especially foolish from the battleship’s bridge.

Ironwake had been moving closer to support the renewed attack.

Her captain wanted better observation of Horizon’s firing sectors and a stronger position from which to coordinate the naval bombardment.

The carrier strike was supposed to distract the island’s defenders.

The landing ships were supposed to exploit that distraction.

Ironwake’s main guns would suppress whichever coastal positions continued resisting.

The plan required the battleship to maintain a useful firing position.

So she moved.

Not recklessly.

Not directly into the lagoon.

But close enough that her enormous silhouette could be tracked with greater confidence by Horizon’s coastal observation network.

That was the mistake.

The island’s reconnaissance arrangements had suffered damage during the morning.

Riko’s own floatplane was grounded after returning with a damaged wing.

One radar antenna feed required emergency repair.

Several visual observation stations were operating through smoke and changing light.

But the network had not collapsed.

Other observation aircraft remained available under restricted conditions.

Coastal radar still supplied useful positional estimates.

And experienced fire-control personnel were combining the surviving reports rather than assuming the loss of one aircraft rendered all long-range gunnery impossible.

Ironwake was enormous.

Fast.

Well armored.

And difficult to destroy.

She was not invisible.

More importantly, she was not stationary.

Her movement created patterns.

Changes of course.

Speed adjustments.

Intervals during which her main battery fired and her own observation systems required a steady picture.

Horizon’s gunnery staff watched those patterns.

Then waited for an opportunity.

 Riko Minase had been ordered to conserve ammunition.

She understood why.

Yamato-class eighteen-point-one-inch shells were not objects a naval base could manufacture overnight.

Each represented an enormous expenditure of material and technical effort.

Their handling systems demanded care.

Their guns required inspection after firing.

And there was no guarantee that the station’s damaged supply network could replace what she used.

The same was true for Scarlett and the second South Dakota-class battleship girl.

Their sixteen-inch guns were formidable.

But their magazines were finite.

So the heavy group had spent much of the interval waiting.

Tracking.

Comparing data.

Occasionally correcting a firing solution.

Watching the enemy’s movement.

It was miserable work for a girl who had once believed that possessing Yamato-class guns would mean being able to solve most combat problems by firing them.

Now Riko had learned that the most difficult part of using those guns was often deciding when not to.

She stood within the approved lagoon firing sector, her immense rigging stabilized against the swell.

The morning heat had begun settling over the water.

Sweat gathered beneath her protective clothing.

Her hair ornament remained firmly in place.

The machinery hummed around her.

The main turrets were trained westward.

Ready.

Waiting.

She looked toward Scarlett.

The South Dakota-class girl was studying an updated fire-control message.

For a moment, Scarlett’s expression became thoughtful.

Then she raised her radio.

“Heavy Fire Control, Scarlett. Confirm Ironwake’s latest course estimate.”

The answer came promptly.

“New bearing and range transmitted. Target speed estimate revised. Confidence improving.”

Scarlett examined the data.

Then looked toward Ironwake’s distant position.

The second South Dakota-class girl received the same report.

She stood farther south, maintaining the separation required by the heavy-gun firing lanes.

Her equipment was not quite as familiar to the entire base as Scarlett’s.

She was still progressing through her training program.

But she had completed the specific firing and stabilization checks required for her present assignment.

Her participation had been authorized under controlled conditions.

She was not being asked to imitate Scarlett’s experience.

She was being asked to perform a defined part of a coordinated engagement.

The difference mattered.

The unnamed South Dakota-class girl reviewed her assigned target area.

Then looked toward the command circuit.

“Southern Heavy Battery, data received.”

Scarlett nodded.

Riko watched.

For several seconds, she was quiet.

Then the Yamato-class girl raised her microphone.

“Riko to Heavy Fire Control. Can we actually hit Ironwake from here?”

The controller considered the question.

Then answered:

“We have a workable target solution, but the target remains maneuvering. Accuracy cannot be guaranteed.”

Riko swallowed.

A pause.

Then she asked:

“Is Koharu’s information still useful?”

The response came.

“Her earlier observation helped establish movement patterns and verify ship identification. Current targeting uses the latest coastal and aerial observations.”

Riko nodded.

For a moment, she felt a small surge of pride.

Koharu had flown into danger.

Returned with a damaged aircraft.

And the information she’d gathered was still helping.

The Yamato-class girl looked toward the western sea.

Then spoke.

“Understood.”

Scarlett’s voice joined the circuit.

“Riko. Don’t rush.”

The younger girl swallowed.

“I won’t.”

The South Dakota-class girl considered that.

Then answered:

“Good.”

A pause.

Then she added:

“We’ve only got one chance at some of these firing windows. Better to make them count.”

Riko nodded.

She knew.

The enormous guns around her waited.

And Ironwake continued moving closer.

 The fire-control solution reached its first acceptable window shortly after eleven.

The battleship group had been given a specific engagement plan.

Scarlett would fire first against an exposed section of the enemy’s upper structure.

The second South Dakota-class girl would follow within her approved sequence, targeting the port-side secondary-battery region if the movement prediction remained valid.

Riko’s Yamato-class battery would use the final refined solution against the aft armored section, where Ironwake’s third main turret rose above the rear deck.

None of those assignments guaranteed success.

The enemy could maneuver.

The shells could fall short.

Changes in weather and range could alter the result.

A battleship was a difficult target, even when it was very large.

But the defenders possessed the information they needed to try.

The heavy fire-control officer checked the projected trajectories.

Confirmed the other batteries were clear.

Verified the firing sequence.

Then raised the microphone.

“Heavy Group. Target Ironwake. Controlled engagement authorized.”

Riko’s heart began hammering.

She looked toward Scarlett.

The South Dakota-class girl nodded once.

Then turned toward her main battery.

“Scarlett. Firing.”

Her sixteen-inch rifles answered.

A series of enormous muzzle flashes erupted from the South Dakota-class rigging.

The recoil drove through the support machinery.

Water shook around her.

The barrels returned toward their loading positions.

The shells climbed into the sky.

For several seconds, Riko watched the smoke.

Then the second South Dakota-class girl received her authorization.

She steadied her equipment.

Checked the firing indicator.

And fired.

Another set of sixteen-inch shells rose above the Pacific.

Different firing position.

Different angle.

The same terrible purpose.

The girls waited.

The shells traveled.

The enemy continued moving.

And, farther offshore, Ironwake’s captain was about to discover that several things could go wrong in the space of a single minute.

 The first direct hit struck Ironwake’s upper structure near the forward smokestack.

Scarlett’s shell arrived from above at a steep enough angle to penetrate the exposed supporting structure before detonating.

The impact was violent.

A brilliant flash erupted near the funnel base.

Steel plating tore apart.

Ventilation trunks buckled.

A section of the surrounding superstructure vanished behind smoke and flame.

For a moment, the stack remained standing.

Then the damaged support gave way.

The funnel twisted.

Its upper section began folding toward the deck.

A shower of shattered metal fell across the surrounding area.

Hot smoke and exhaust poured into places never intended to receive them.

The remaining structure collapsed amid a grinding, tearing noise that carried through the ship.

On the bridge, the shock arrived as a tremendous jolt.

Instruments rattled.

A signal lamp broke loose from its mounting.

One officer was thrown against the chart table.

The captain caught the railing.

For several seconds, the bridge crew could see almost nothing through the smoke.

Then the damage reports began arriving.

“Funnel structure hit!”

“Fire amidships!”

“Ventilation damage!”

“Casualties in the upper works!”

The captain stared.

For a moment, his expression became blank.

Then he looked toward the smokestack.

Or rather, the place where it had been.

A vast section of the structure was gone.

The remaining twisted steel lay across the deck.

Smoke poured upward.

The ship’s machinery continued operating, but its ventilation and exhaust arrangements had suffered severe damage.

The engineering department was already reporting trouble.

The captain swallowed.

“Damage Control!”

The chief officer answered.

“Responding!”

The battleship continued moving.

For a moment, its captain tried to convince himself that the damage was manageable.

The stack was important.

Yes.

But it was not a magazine.

Not a main turret.

Not the main armored belt.

The ship could survive structural damage.

Then the second group of shells arrived.

 The port-side secondary battery had already been placed under strain by the morning’s fighting.

Several five-inch mounts had been operated repeatedly during air-defense and surface-support engagements.

Ready-use ammunition had been issued where required.

Other ammunition remained secured behind the appropriate flash-protection arrangements.

The ship’s crew understood, at least in principle, the danger posed by exposed propellant and hot fragmentation.

Unfortunately, the shell from Horizon’s second South Dakota-class girl struck the region at exactly the wrong moment.

The sixteen-inch projectile tore through part of the port secondary-battery structure and detonated amid the supporting machinery.

The blast damaged two nearby five-inch mounts.

One was thrown off alignment.

Another suffered a ruptured ammunition-handling trunk.

Fragments and hot gases burst through the exposed equipment.

A ready-use ammunition position caught fire.

For an instant, it looked like an ordinary local fire.

Then the first five-inch round cooked off.

The explosion was sharp and violent.

A neighboring ready-use container was struck by fragments.

Its contents began burning.

Several seconds later, another explosion occurred.

Then another.

The blasts did not pass magically through every protected magazine aboard the ship.

Flash barriers and compartment divisions still existed.

Some held.

Others had been damaged by the initial heavy-shell impact.

The spreading fires reached exposed and partially damaged ammunition positions along the port secondary-battery deck.

Each local explosion damaged more fittings.

Each burst of fragments threatened neighboring equipment.

A rolling sequence of detonations traveled along the affected mounts.

One five-inch gun was torn from its training arrangement.

Another burst into flames.

A third suffered a catastrophic ready-ammunition fire that forced its crew to abandon the compartment.

The noise was horrifying.

Not one enormous explosion.

A succession of brutal, closely spaced detonations that seemed to chase one another along the ship’s port side.

Flash.

Crash.

Another flash.

Another crash.

Steel fragments struck the deck.

Fire poured from damaged mountings.

The ship heeled slightly beneath the violence.

Ammunition-handling teams slammed shut the remaining flash-protection barriers wherever possible.

Damage-control personnel attempted to isolate the burning positions before the fires reached deeper magazine spaces.

Some succeeded.

Others were too late to save the men already inside the affected compartments.

On the bridge, Ironwake’s captain stared toward the port side.

The explosions continued.

One.

Two.

Three.

For a moment, he seemed unable to believe they were all happening aboard his ship.

Then a sailor shouted:

“Secondary battery ammunition fires!”

The captain turned.

“Contain them!”

The officer looked toward him.

For a moment, his expression was almost desperate.

“We’re trying!”

Another detonation shook the deck.

The captain grabbed the railing.

His eyes widened.

For the first time that morning, he looked frightened.

Actually frightened.

Not offended.

Not angry.

Frightened.

The ship he commanded was being torn apart in front of him.

And there was no button he could press to make the fires disappear.

 At Horizon, the impact reports arrived several seconds apart.

The observer’s voice was urgent.

“Ironwake hit amidships! Funnel collapse observed! Additional heavy hit port side! Multiple secondary explosions!”

Riko stared toward the western sea.

From the lagoon, she could see only smoke and distant flashes.

But the radio made the results clear.

Scarlett had hit.

The second South Dakota-class girl had hit.

Ironwake was burning.

Riko swallowed.

For a moment, she felt a fierce surge of excitement.

Then she remembered the men aboard the battleship.

The sailors working those guns.

The people trapped near the fires.

The excitement became complicated.

She looked toward Scarlett.

The South Dakota-class girl was already receiving the next target data.

Her expression was serious.

Not triumphant.

Not pleased.

She glanced toward Riko.

“Your turn.”

The Yamato-class girl went still.

For a moment, the words seemed heavier than the guns surrounding her.

Then she nodded.

“Right.”

She looked toward the fire-control system.

The target solution had been updated.

Ironwake’s course had changed slightly after the hits.

Its speed was no longer perfectly steady.

The smoke made direct observation more difficult.

But the surviving coastal tracking network still possessed a workable estimate.

Riko checked.

Then checked again.

The enormous aft turret of the enemy battleship remained a major threat.

If it could be disabled, Ironwake would lose one-third of its main-battery arrangement.

That would not render the ship harmless.

But it would reduce the weight and flexibility of its artillery fire.

Riko understood.

She looked toward the western sea.

Then toward her own forward turrets.

For a moment, she remembered the little fairy pilot who had returned with a damaged wing.

Koharu.

The name crossed her mind.

She took a breath.

Then raised the microphone.

“Riko. Firing solution confirmed.”

The controller answered.

“Yamato battery, weapons authorized.”

The girl swallowed.

Her fingers tightened.

For one brief instant, she felt the old desire to shout.

To prove herself.

To make the largest possible noise.

Then she remembered Scarlett’s advice.