Chapter 3.4 - “When the Horizon Answered”

Sixteen Inches of Reveille

The first thing Kade Bher heard that morning was a battleship firing.

It was not an alarm clock.

It was not somebody knocking on his office door.

It was not the little telephone beside his bed, although that began ringing less than a second afterward.

It was a tremendous, rolling concussion that reached through the shutters of his quarters, shook the glass in its frame, and struck the room with such force that the water in his bedside cup rippled.

There was a brief silence.

Then another concussion came from somewhere beyond the western horizon.

And another.

Kade opened his eyes.

For approximately half a second, he lay still beneath his blanket, listening to the low thunder rolling across the atoll.

Then he sat up.

“Oh, you miserable bastards.”

The words were flat.

Entirely devoid of surprise.

His bedside clock read 05:58.

Two minutes before the ultimatum expired.

Apparently, the Pacific Campaign Authority had decided that the concept of punctuality was beneath it.

Kade swung his feet onto the floor.

The telephone continued ringing.

He reached for it.

“Bher.”

The voice on the other end was already speaking.

“Commander, Operations! Enemy naval gunfire confirmed! Western sector reports multiple heavy-caliber muzzle flashes. Incoming rounds!”

Kade stood.

“Impact locations?”

“Unknown. First salvo still inbound. Observation stations are tracking—”

The operator stopped.

A sharp voice shouted something in the background.

Then the line crackled.

“Impact! Western coastal sector! Repeat, first rounds impacting!”

Kade heard the distant sound a moment later.

Not the hollow thunder of guns firing beyond the horizon.

Something sharper.

Closer.

A violent series of explosions that rolled across the island in staggered succession, accompanied by the faint rattle of window glass.

The floor trembled beneath his feet.

He glanced toward the shutters.

The eastern sky beyond them was beginning to brighten.

Somewhere out there, the sun was coming up.

And someone had apparently decided that the most appropriate greeting was high-explosive naval artillery.

Kade reached for the uniform trousers folded over his chair.

“Sound general quarters. Condition Red. Execute the defensive readiness orders.”

“Yes, Commander!”

“Do we have confirmation of deliberate bombardment?”

“Multiple impacts ashore, sir! Coastal Observation Three reports the western beach has been struck. The lighthouse is taking fire!”

Kade's hand stopped.

For a moment, his expression changed.

“The lighthouse?”

“Yes, sir!”

He stared toward the window.

Then slowly closed his eyes.

There were many valuable things on Horizon Atoll.

Fuel stores.

Maintenance facilities.

Radar installations.

Ammunition magazines.

Communication towers.

Harbor cranes.

Repair workshops.

Buildings full of people who were doing their level best to survive a thoroughly unreasonable world.

And the Pacific Campaign Authority had decided to begin its invasion by shelling a beach and destroying an old lighthouse.

Kade opened his eyes.

“Of course they did.”

The operator sounded confused.

“Commander?”

“Nothing. Keep the line open to Operations. I'm coming.”

He set down the receiver.

Then began dressing with the rapid efficiency of someone who had learned long ago that emergencies rarely waited for a person to finish getting comfortable.

Shirt.

Trousers.

Boots.

Belt.

Command jacket.

He fastened the final button while crossing toward the door.

The second enemy salvo arrived as he stepped into the corridor.

This time, the impacts were closer.

A tremendous crash rolled through the western side of the island, followed by the distant metallic shriek of a large structure failing under stress.

The overhead lights flickered.

Dust drifted from the corner of the ceiling.

A sailor emerged from the neighboring quarters, half-dressed, carrying his boots in one hand.

For a moment, the man stared at the Commander.

Then he straightened automatically.

“Sir!”

Kade looked at him.

“Why are you standing there?”

The sailor blinked.

“Sir?”

“General quarters. Get your boots on.”

“Yes, sir!”

The man hurried away.

Kade continued down the corridor.

Another alarm began sounding.

This one was familiar.

A long, descending naval warning that had been tested during drills so frequently that most of the station's personnel could identify it without thinking.

Now it was real.

Doors opened along the corridor.

Personnel emerged carrying emergency equipment.

A maintenance worker hurried toward the protected power room with a tool bag over one shoulder.

Two security officers moved in the opposite direction, heading toward the civilian shelter route.

Kade passed them without stopping.

The building shook again.

Outside, something enormous struck the sea.

A column of spray rose beyond the harbor roofs.

Then the blast reached him.

He felt it through the soles of his boots.

The Commander looked toward the rising sunlight.

For one brief moment, a thought passed through his mind.

They couldn't even wait until six.

Then he pushed open the stairwell door.

And Horizon Atoll went to war.

 

The western lighthouse had stood on its rocky headland for longer than most of the station's present personnel had been alive.

Its concrete foundation had endured storms, salt spray, years of neglect, and the gradual deterioration that seemed to afflict almost every structure on the island.

The lamp itself had been repaired only recently.

That repair had been one of the small victories Horizon's personnel took pride in.

The light had worked.

The beacon had turned.

Ships approaching the surveyed western channel could once again use it as an additional visual reference when the weather and visibility allowed.

It was an old-fashioned thing.

A simple thing.

Useful.

That morning, the first heavy-caliber shell struck the beach several hundred meters from the tower.

It detonated in a spectacular eruption of sand, coral fragments, seawater, and shattered vegetation.

The second burst among a line of abandoned defensive revetments.

The third landed offshore and sent a vast white column climbing above the waves.

The fourth hit the lighthouse.

Not precisely at the top.

Not through the lamp.

The shell struck the lower structure at an oblique angle, penetrated the weathered concrete, and detonated within the supporting masonry.

For an instant, the tower appeared to remain standing.

A dark crack spread along one side.

Dust billowed from the windows.

Then the lower portion failed.

The entire structure leaned toward the sea.

Its lamp housing tilted.

A long, terrible grinding sound rolled across the headland.

And the lighthouse collapsed into the rocky shallows, breaking apart in a cloud of dust and spray.

The lamp went dark.

A moment later, the first surviving observer at Coastal Station Three lifted his telephone with shaking hands.

He had watched the entire thing through the observation slit.

For several seconds, he couldn't speak.

Then he swallowed.

“Coastal Three to Operations. Lighthouse destroyed. Western light is gone.”

A pause.

The reply came.

“Casualties?”

The observer looked toward the empty headland.

The lighthouse had been cleared as part of the previous night's defensive precautions.

Its normal keeper was already in a protected post.

No one had been inside.

He released a breath.

“No personnel reported in the structure. Headland evacuation completed before impact.”

“Understood. Maintain cover. Do not expose yourself to assess damage.”

The observer nodded.

“Copy.”

He lowered the receiver.

Then looked through the slit again.

Where the lighthouse had stood, broken concrete now lay among the rocks.

Dust drifted toward the sea.

The morning sun touched the debris.

For a moment, he felt an irrational anger so sharp that it almost surprised him.

That light had taken people days to repair.

There were harder things to replace.

Of course there were.

But it had mattered.

He remembered the maintenance team cheering when the lamp turned successfully for the first time.

He remembered the harbor-control officer joking that the island was finally becoming civilized.

He remembered the little crowd watching from the access road.

Now it was gone.

Because men aboard a battleship had decided to fire at it.

He tightened his grip on the telephone.

Then returned his attention to the sea.

There would be time to mourn the lighthouse later.

If there was a later.

 

In the western observation bunker, a native watch officer crouched over the plotting table as another salvo passed overhead.

He heard the shells before he saw their impacts.

A distant, rushing growl.

Almost like a railway train coming down from the sky.

Then the sharp whistle of air being forced aside by enormous objects moving far faster than anything a person on the ground could hope to follow.

The officer ducked instinctively.

The first shell landed in the shallows.

The second struck the outer beach.

The third exploded among old concrete bunkers that had already been abandoned.

He waited for another impact.

None came.

For several seconds, he remained still.

Then he raised his head.

The roof had held.

The telephone still worked.

The observation instruments remained intact.

He looked through the narrow slit toward the western sea.

Far beyond the reef, flashes appeared beneath the pale morning sky.

Not one.

Several.

Some vast enough to suggest the main battery of an enormous warship.

Others smaller, spread across different bearings.

Ironwake was not firing alone.

The watch officer reached for his microphone.

“Western Observation Two. Multiple PCA surface units firing. Heavy naval artillery confirmed. Impacts on western beach, outer defense works, and lighthouse headland. No direct hit on harbor facilities observed yet.”

He paused to read the next bearings.

Then continued.

“Enemy appears to be adjusting fire. Repeat, adjusting fire.”

That was the important part.

The first rounds had not been enough.

The hostile fleet was observing the fall of shot and changing its aim.

There would be more.

And sooner or later, those shells would begin landing where the people were.

 

The Island Wakes Angry

Horizon Atoll had not been sleeping unprepared.

The difference was visible within the first ninety seconds.

General quarters did not require the defenders to discover where their equipment had been stored.

The previous evening's preparations had already placed ammunition crews beside their magazines, secured the vulnerable maintenance operations, dispersed essential vehicles, and moved most civilians into protected areas.

The base was not ready for everything.

No naval installation ever was.

But it was not defenseless.

In the coastal artillery positions, crews began opening the protective coverings over their weapons.

Observation stations reported bearings.

Fire-control personnel checked the communications links between the shore batteries and the principal command post.

The antiaircraft units completed their final readiness checks.

Radar operators watched the western air picture fill with incoming contacts.

At the repair yards, workers abandoned nonessential equipment and moved toward sheltered stations, leaving only those personnel whose emergency duties required them to remain exposed.

Along the protected lagoon, Keelborn girls hurried toward their equipment cradles.

It was not a scene of magical transformations.

It was steel.

Hydraulics.

Retention locks.

Power cables.

Mechanical supports.

Propulsion fittings.

Ammunition checks.

Young women working as quickly as they safely could while the island trembled under distant gunfire.

Every procedure had been rehearsed.

Now every mistake mattered.

A badly engaged lock could throw a destroyer off balance.

A damaged ammunition feed could injure its operator.

A fuel connection left unsecured could become lethal the moment a hot fragment landed nearby.

Technicians moved among the equipment with handheld lights and inspection boards.

Some shouted instructions over the alarms.

Others simply pointed.

The girls knew what to do.

Mostly.

And where they did not, someone was there to help.

 

Riko Minase was halfway into her Yamato-class Intermediate rigging when the first explosion shook the training yard.

She looked up.

The heavy machinery surrounding her trembled on its cradle.

A technician standing beside the portside support frame caught the handrail.

For a moment, both stared toward the western horizon.

Then the sound reached them.

A long, deep rolling concussion.

Riko felt it in her chest.

Her eyes widened.

“They're firing.”

The technician looked back toward the equipment.

“Yes.”

Another explosion followed.

Closer.

A maintenance lamp swung above the platform.

Riko's fingers tightened around the support handle.

For one terrible instant, she was frightened enough that she forgot what she was doing.

Then the technician spoke sharply.

“Riko!”

She looked toward him.

“Finish the lock sequence!”

The command restored her concentration.

“Right!”

She returned her attention to the rigging.

The heavy Yamato-class equipment had already been brought into its fitting position before dawn. Its enormous main-gun assemblies rested on their reinforced mounts, linked through the Intermediate assistance structure to the propulsion and control systems that allowed Riko to operate them on the water.

The machinery was recognizable.

Three triple 46-centimeter turrets.

Eighteen-point-one-inch rifles.

Not yet the dreamed-of A-150 refit she'd once talked about with such enthusiasm.

Her actual Yamato-class equipment.

Powerful enough to make most naval officers uneasy.

Heavy enough to demand respect.

Riko had learned that last lesson repeatedly.

She engaged the first retention lock.

A green indicator appeared.

Then the second.

The technician checked the alignment.

“Starboard support secure!”

Riko nodded.

“Port?”

“Checking!”

She waited.

The island shook again.

A deep explosion rolled across the harbor.

Riko gritted her teeth.

“Come on.”

The technician raised one hand.

“Port support secure!”

The Yamato-class girl released a breath.

Then reached for the final control connection.

A low hum traveled through her equipment.

The propulsion system initialized.

The stabilizing assemblies adjusted.

The main turrets responded to their diagnostic commands.

Everything remained within the limitations established during her recent Intermediate trials.

Not perfect.

Not unrestricted.

But operational.

Riko looked toward the technician.

“Ready?”

He checked the board one last time.

Then nodded.

“Ready for controlled deployment.”

The Yamato-class girl's expression hardened.

She turned toward the lagoon.

Beyond the open maintenance doors, the first sunlight touched the water.

Then another salvo landed near the western coast.

Riko felt the shock through the floor.

Her fingers tightened.

For a moment, she remembered a beach volleyball net.

Kade standing opposite her.

His sarcastic expression after she finally began taking the game seriously.

The laughter.

The sand.

The ridiculous feeling of winning something that mattered only because everyone was enjoying themselves.

That beach was somewhere beyond the defensive buildings.

The enemy was shelling it.

Riko looked toward the water.

Her jaw tightened.

Then she whispered:

“No.”

The technician glanced up.

“What?”

She shook her head.

“Nothing.”

Her eyes narrowed.

Then she stepped toward the launch ramp.

The machinery moved with her.

Water stirred beyond the platform.

And the Yamato-class girl entered the lagoon.

 

Yuna Mori was already at the aviation servicing station when the first enemy shells landed.

She had been awake for nearly an hour.

Not because she'd slept well.

She hadn't.

But because her fairies had begun preparing their aircraft before sunrise, and she'd decided that if they were going to be awake, she ought to be there with them.

The Illustrious-class girl's recently upgraded Intermediate rigging stood on its supporting cradle beside the water.

Its flight-deck machinery had been checked.

The aircraft handling systems were ready.

The aviation fuel had been issued.

The ammunition allocations had been confirmed.

And the fairies were waiting.

Some looked determined.

Others pale.

One small fighter pilot kept adjusting the strap beneath her chin, although the fitting was already secure.

Yuna noticed.

She knelt beside the launch platform.

“Hey.”

The little pilot looked up.

“Yes, Carrier?”

Yuna smiled faintly.

“Your strap is fine.”

The fairy blinked.

Then glanced down.

“Oh.”

For a moment, she seemed embarrassed.

Yuna's expression softened.

“I'm nervous too.”

The little woman looked toward the western sky.

The first distant flashes had appeared.

A moment later, the sound of heavy gunfire rolled across the island.

The fairy swallowed.

Then nodded.

“Me too.”

Yuna looked toward the aircraft.

The fighters had been selected for defensive interception.

They were not an enormous air group.

They were the aircraft Horizon could actually prepare, crew, launch, and recover under the current conditions.

That distinction mattered.

Yuna's Intermediate rigging did not grant her a bottomless hangar.

Her fairies did not possess infinite ammunition.

Every aircraft carried finite fuel.

Every pilot needed to return.

Every loss would be permanent unless some future capability existed to change that terrible fact.

She knew.

She knew better than almost anyone present.

Yuna looked toward the little pilot.

Then spoke gently.

“You know your assignment?”

The fairy nodded.

“Intercept hostile aircraft approaching the harbor. Stay with our section. Don't chase anything beyond the recovery limit.”

“Good.”

“Report damage. Return if fuel becomes unsafe.”

“Good.”

The little pilot hesitated.

Then asked:

“Will there be lots of them?”

Yuna looked toward the western horizon.

She considered the seven enemy carriers.

The aircraft already in the air.

The strike groups that might be preparing behind the fleet.

Then she answered honestly.

“Probably.”

The fairy lowered her eyes.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Yuna extended one finger.

The little pilot placed her hand against it.

A tiny gesture.

Almost absurdly small beside the immense carrier machinery.

Yuna smiled.

“Come back.”

The fairy looked up.

Then nodded firmly.

“Yes, Carrier.”

An alarm sounded above the aviation station.

Not the naval bombardment warning.

Something more urgent.

The air-defense plot had identified a formation moving toward the island.

Yuna turned.

A communications officer hurried toward the launch platform.

“Enemy aircraft inbound! Multiple groups! Intercept authorization confirmed!”

The Illustrious-class girl stood.

Her expression changed.

The fear remained.

But the hesitation did not.

She looked toward her aviation chief.

“Launch defensive section one.”

The fairies moved.

Aircraft engines started.

Mechanics cleared the launch positions.

The first fighter rolled forward.

Its pilot checked the controls.

Then gave the signal.

Yuna's flight-deck machinery engaged.

The aircraft accelerated.

Passed beyond the launch limit.

Expanded to full operational size.

And climbed into the sunrise with its engine roaring.

Another followed.

Then another.

A small group of real aircraft, flown by living fairy pilots, rose above Horizon Atoll to meet the approaching enemy.

Yuna watched until the last fighter cleared the launch path.

Then she raised her microphone.

“Horizon Air Defense, this is Yuna. Defensive fighters airborne. Beginning interception.”

The response came immediately.

“Yuna, Air Defense copies. Enemy strike elements approaching from the west. Friendly antiaircraft batteries are being informed of your altitude and sector. Maintain identification procedures.”

Yuna nodded.

“Understood.”

She looked toward the sky.

Her own aircraft were climbing.

The enemy aircraft were descending.

And somewhere beyond the harbor, the first naval shells continued falling.

 

At Coastal Air Defense Station One, Calla listened to the aircraft identification report while her Atlanta-class rigging completed its final fire-control checks.

The experienced light cruiser stood beside the surveyed defensive waterway, surrounded by physical machinery whose principal purpose had always been to make the sky extremely unhealthy for hostile aircraft.

Twin five-inch mounts.

Automatic antiaircraft weapons.

Directors.

Fire-control instruments.

Ammunition feeds.

The compact but formidable equipment of an Atlanta-class cruiser.

Calla's face remained calm.

Her eyes did not.

The radar plot was ugly.

Multiple incoming groups.

Some high.

Some descending.

Others turning toward the harbor from different directions.

The seven PCA carriers had not launched everything at once.

They didn't need to.

A single properly coordinated strike could do terrible damage if the defenders mishandled their response.

Calla raised her radio.

“Air Defense, Calla. Friendly fighter sector confirmed. Request engagement boundary update.”

The controller answered.

“Friendly Yuna flight is climbing through the assigned western corridor. Hostile dive-bomber group approaching above them. Maintain director discipline. Do not engage through friendly aircraft.”

Calla nodded.

“Understood.”

She turned toward the neighboring cruiser positions.

Mina's Leander-class equipment was moving into its assigned defensive sector.

Farther away, a Takao-class heavy cruiser girl was positioning her antiaircraft weapons to cover the northern harbor.

Other cruisers had already reported readiness.

Some possessed heavy dual-purpose batteries.

Others relied more heavily on smaller antiaircraft weapons.

Their arcs were carefully assigned.

A curtain of fire would be useful only if it did not destroy the friendly pilots trying to defend the island.

Calla looked toward the sky.

Tiny dark shapes were beginning to appear.

She took a breath.

Then spoke over the fire-control circuit.

“Track.”

The directors moved.

The mechanical systems adjusted.

Ammunition crews stood ready.

And the first hostile aircraft entered the defended approaches.

 

The Commander Reaches Operations

Kade arrived at the Operations Room at six minutes past six.

He had taken the shorter route through the reinforced communications corridor rather than crossing the administration courtyard.

That decision saved him from being caught in the open when another enemy shell landed beyond the western maintenance road.

The blast shook the corridor.

Dust fell from an overhead ventilation panel.

A security officer ahead of him instinctively ducked.

Kade felt the pressure through the concrete.

Then continued walking.

The officer stared.

For a moment, she seemed uncertain whether to follow.

Then Kade looked back.

“Come along.”

She straightened.

“Yes, Commander.”

They hurried toward the reinforced door.

Beyond it, Operations had already become a chamber of organized noise.

Telephones rang.

Radio operators called bearings and altitudes.

Plotting personnel moved contact markers across the tactical chart.

A large wall clock ticked above the communications station, its second hand moving with an irritatingly ordinary rhythm.

The western battle plot was covered in red.

Ironwake remained beyond the principal coastal defenses.

Chapayev had shifted toward the northern portion of the central screen.

Baltimore occupied a supporting position farther south.

The Tribal-class destroyer was operating along the blockade's southern edge.

The thirty hostile Keelborn had begun repositioning from their overnight stations into a formation better suited to suppressing Horizon's defenses and covering the landing ships.

Several groups of aircraft were approaching the island.

And the first landing formation had moved away from its transport assembly area.

Kade saw that immediately.

He stopped beside the plotting table.

“Report.”

Mara Fenwick turned.

Her expression was severe.

“Enemy commenced bombardment at approximately five fifty-seven. Western coastal sector hit. Lighthouse destroyed. Several abandoned defenses damaged. No confirmed fatalities from those initial impacts.”

Kade nodded.

“Harbor?”

“Still operational.”

“Medical?”

“Protected wards secured. No direct hits.”

“Civilians?”

“Shelter transfers completed overnight. All known civilian groups accounted for except a small maintenance party being located now.”

He looked toward the communications station.

“Aircraft?”

Victor answered.

“Multiple hostile groups inbound. Yuna's defensive fighters are launching. Calla coordinating the cruiser antiaircraft screen.”

“Surface movements?”

Aaron stepped closer.

“PCA destroyers moving toward the outer channels. Landing craft organizing behind them. Ironwake remains at long range and continues firing.”

Kade examined the chart.

For several seconds, he was quiet.

Then he raised his eyes.

“Any doubt this is an attack?”

Nobody answered.

They didn't need to.

The destroyed lighthouse had settled that question rather conclusively.

Kade looked toward the western plotting markers.

Then turned toward Victor.

“Put me on the command net.”

The communications officer reached for the controls.

A moment later, the signal indicator turned green.

Kade took the microphone.

His voice was calm.

“All Horizon defense stations, Commander Bher.”

Across the island, personnel paused to listen.

In the lagoon, Riko raised her head.

At the western cruiser line, Calla kept one eye on the incoming air plot.

Alice Lasky adjusted her headphones.

On Breakwater, Captain Mercer listened through a bridge circuit while engineers continued preparing the available defensive systems.

Kade continued.

“The Pacific Campaign Authority has opened fire on Horizon Atoll. Its forces are attempting to suppress our defenses and approach our harbor without authorization.”

He looked toward the plotting table.

“Our orders are to deny the PCA access to this installation.”

A pause.

“Protect the harbor, the medical facilities, the civilian shelters, and the personnel under our care. Prevent hostile landings. Maintain unit coordination and preserve maneuvering room.”

His expression hardened.

“We are not firing to collect trophies, settle personal grudges, or punish people for belonging to the wrong faction. If enemy personnel surrender or withdraw, do not pursue them unnecessarily.”

He glanced toward the red carrier markers.

Then spoke more firmly.

“But understand this clearly: the lives of Horizon's people take priority. If an armed enemy threatens those lives, you are authorized to stop that threat.”

The Operations Room remained quiet.

“Keep your reports accurate. Do not claim a target destroyed unless you know it is destroyed. Do not fire through friendly units. And do not assume a Keelborn is helpless merely because she looks like a girl.”

His eyes narrowed.

“They started this.”

A short silence followed.

Then:

“We are going to keep our home.”

He released the transmitter.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Mara nodded once.

The Commander turned toward Aaron.

“First priority?”

The intelligence officer looked toward the advancing enemy formation.

“Break the coordination between the bombardment force and the landing ships.”

Kade nodded.

“Exactly.”

He studied the chart.

The enemy had made one enormous mistake.

Not by attacking an undefended island.

Horizon was far from undefended.

The mistake was assuming that because its own naval force was powerful, the defenders would remain paralyzed beneath its guns.

The PCA had concentrated its best ships around Ironwake and the carrier screen.

Its landing vessels needed access through predictable approaches.

Its cruisers were moving into positions from which they could support both the bombardment and the invasion.

And several of those ships had come much closer to Horizon than Ironwake herself.

Kade looked toward the fire-control plot.

“Which targets are within the heavy batteries' effective engagement sectors?”

The plotting officer moved quickly.

“Chapayev is approaching the northern arc. Baltimore is farther south but within the combined heavy-gun engagement area. Several Keelborn cruisers are also in range, though their movement makes them more difficult targets.”

Kade glanced toward the marker representing Ironwake.

“And her?”

“Still outside the preferred engagement area for several of our batteries. We could attempt ranging, but fire-control certainty is poor.”

Kade nodded.

“Don't chase the largest ship on principle.”

Mara looked toward him.

He continued.

“Hit the vessels actually supporting the attack.”

The Chief nodded.

“Understood.”

Kade turned toward Victor.

“Tell the battleship group to prepare coordinated defensive fire. Main targets are Chapayev and Baltimore. Secondary targets by sector assignment. Engage when fire-control reports the solutions are acceptable.”

Victor repeated the order.

The message traveled across the island.

Into the lagoon.

To the heavy rigging.

To the girls who had spent weeks learning to handle equipment powerful enough to shake the water beneath them.

And to Riko Minase, who had just discovered that a small aircraft could matter almost as much as the enormous guns mounted behind her shoulders.

 

The Little Aircraft Above the Largest Guns

The floatplane was not something Riko had expected to find particularly interesting.

That had been the problem.

When the technician first showed her the aircraft handling assembly during the final familiarization work on her Intermediate rigging, she'd been far more interested in the main-gun elevation system.

Understandably.

She was Yamato class.

Her three triple 46-centimeter turrets were rather difficult to ignore.

A small reconnaissance aircraft seemed almost disappointingly ordinary by comparison.

The equipment was there, of course.

An aviation-handling arrangement integrated into the ship-derived rigging.

A compact floatplane in its secured servicing position.

Mechanical launch equipment.

Recovery fittings.

A dedicated aviation communication circuit.

All of it associated with the historical reconnaissance capabilities of a battleship that had needed eyes beyond the horizon.

Riko had examined it.

Nodded.

Then asked another question about the main guns.

The technician had sighed.

Several days later, during a training discussion about naval fire control, the same aircraft had become considerably more interesting.

Riko had learned that her guns could throw enormous shells over distances at which the people aboard the firing ship might not be able to see the target directly.

She had also learned that a shell large enough to destroy a cruiser was not especially useful if it landed several hundred meters away.

An accurate firing solution required information.

Range.

Bearing.

Course.

Speed.

Environmental conditions.

And, when the target was not directly observable from the gun position, some reliable means of observing where the shells actually landed.

That was where the little floatplane came in.

Its pilot had been delighted to explain.

Riko remembered the tiny woman standing beside the aircraft during the inspection, hands on her hips, wearing the expression of somebody who had spent far too long waiting for a battleship to notice she existed.

Now, in the lagoon beneath a sky full of distant explosions, Riko finally understood why that woman had been so pleased.

The fairy pilot stood on the aviation servicing platform beside the floatplane.

Her flight helmet was secured.

Her goggles rested above her eyes.

A compact radio set had been checked.

The aircraft itself was a Mitsubishi F1M reconnaissance floatplane, a small biplane whose role included observation and artillery spotting.

It was not a modern fighter.

It was not built to defeat a carrier's entire combat-air patrol.

Its strength lay in helping a ship see beyond the limitations of the horizon.

Riko looked down at the tiny pilot.

For a moment, she seemed uncertain.

Then she knelt slightly, bringing herself closer to the platform without disturbing the heavy rigging.

“Are you ready?”

The fairy looked up.

Her expression was almost offended.

“Of course!”

Riko blinked.

“Oh.”

The pilot folded her arms.

“I've been ready.”

A pause.

Then she added:

“For days.”

Riko had the decency to look embarrassed.

“Right.”

The fairy glanced toward the enormous main turrets looming above them.

Then back at her carrier—no, her battleship.

“Now do you understand what I'm for?”

Riko swallowed.

“Yes.”

The little pilot smiled smugly.

“Good.”

Then the smile faded.

The distant sound of enemy gunfire rolled across the water.

Riko looked toward the western sky.

The fairy followed her gaze.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then the pilot asked more quietly:

“Are we really going?”

The Yamato-class girl's expression changed.

She looked down.

The little woman was still standing straight.

Still holding her helmet.

Still trying to look confident.

But her fingers were tight around the edge of the platform.

Riko remembered Yuna's fairies.

The tiny crews who had helped make Beach Week feel alive.

The people who had built a miniature leisure compound and teased Kade into visiting the beach.

The lives lost at the Burnt Narrows.

She looked toward the pilot.

For the first time, the little aircraft no longer seemed like an accessory.

It was a machine operated by a person.

And that person was about to fly toward a fleet that possessed seven carriers.

Riko swallowed.

“I don't want you getting shot down.”

The fairy blinked.

For a moment, she seemed surprised.

Then she smiled faintly.

“I don't want that either.”

The battleship girl lowered her eyes.

The pilot continued.

“But if we don't get the information, your guns won't know where to shoot.”

Riko nodded.

“I know.”

The fairy looked toward the sky.

Then back.

“Let me do my job.”

For several seconds, Riko considered that.

Then she nodded slowly.

“Okay.”

The pilot smiled.

“Good.”

She turned toward the floatplane.

Then paused.

“Oh.”

Riko blinked.

“What?”

The little woman looked back.

“You still haven't asked my name.”

The Yamato-class girl's face went blank.

For one second, she seemed horrified.

Then she opened her mouth.

Closed it.

And whispered:

“Oh, no.”

The fairy folded her arms.

Riko bowed her head.

“I'm sorry!”

The tiny pilot tried to maintain her serious expression.

Failed.

Then laughed.

“My name is Koharu.”

Riko looked up.

“Koharu?”

The fairy nodded.

“Koharu.”

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

Then she smiled.

“Riko.”

Koharu stared at her.

A pause.

Then she raised one eyebrow.

“I know.”

Riko blinked.

The fairy continued.

“You've been shouting your name at the maintenance staff for weeks.”

The Yamato-class girl turned scarlet.

“That was during training!”

Koharu grinned.

“Very loudly.”

Riko looked toward the sky.

For one brief moment, she felt absurdly normal.

Then another enemy salvo landed near the western coast.

The water trembled.

The humor vanished.

Koharu looked toward the aircraft.

Riko followed her gaze.

The fairy climbed aboard.

The little biplane rocked slightly as she settled into the cockpit.

A second fairy assigned to observation and radio duties took the rear position, checked the equipment, and raised a hand toward the servicing crew.

Riko watched.

The aircraft was prepared.

The launch system moved into position.

The main-gun fire-control circuit confirmed that observation support was requested.

Then the aviation officer's voice sounded over Riko's internal communications equipment.

“Yamato reconnaissance flight, launch authorized. Maintain assigned altitude and avoid the carrier interception sector.”

Koharu acknowledged.

“Koharu copies. Launching.”

Riko swallowed.

She looked toward the tiny aircraft.

Then spoke quietly.

“Come back.”

The fairy glanced toward her.

For a moment, her expression softened.

Then she grinned.

“Hit something worth the trouble!”

The launch mechanism engaged.

The floatplane accelerated away from the rigging.

Its engine rose in pitch.

It cleared the launch boundary.

Expanded to its full operational dimensions.

And climbed above the lagoon.

Riko watched the little aircraft turn westward.

A thin, dark silhouette against the brightening sky.

For a moment, she felt terribly exposed.

The pilot was out there.

Alone in an aircraft that was not designed to survive a battle against carrier fighters.

Then the radio crackled.

“Yamato spotting flight established. Beginning climb. Riko, I can see the coastline.”

Riko blinked.

For a moment, she forgot to answer.

Then she raised her microphone.

“Koharu, receiving!”

The fairy's voice returned.

“Good. Keep your main guns trained within the assigned sector. I'll report the enemy's movement.”

Riko nodded.

“Understood.”

A pause.

Then Koharu added:

“And try not to move the island when you fire.”

Riko stared.

The tiny voice had been perfectly serious.

For a moment, the Yamato-class girl looked toward her enormous main turrets.

Then whispered:

“I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.”

The radio clicked.

Koharu laughed.

And the floatplane climbed into the morning sky.

 

Above Horizon, the first enemy dive bombers broke formation.

Yuna's fighters saw them.

So did Calla.

So did the radar operators whose plotting boards had become increasingly difficult to read through the clutter of incoming aircraft.

The dive bombers had approached from the west beneath the protection of their own fighters, using the confusion of the naval bombardment to conceal their final attack preparations.

Their targets were not all identical.

Some appeared to be approaching the coastal batteries.

Others were turning toward the harbor.

A third group moved toward the aircraft servicing facilities.

The flight leader of Yuna's first defensive section watched them through the canopy of her fighter.

The fairy pilot's hands tightened against the controls.

Her engine vibrated through the airframe.

A wingman held position slightly behind and above.

The enemy fighters were higher.

That was bad.

The approaching dive bombers were lower.

That was worse.

The flight leader had only seconds to decide.

She glanced toward the western air picture.

Then raised her radio.

“Yuna Flight One, hostile dive bombers beginning attack descent. Request engagement permission.”

The response came from Air Defense.

“Engage hostile aircraft threatening the harbor. Friendly cruiser fire restricted to assigned lower and eastern sectors until your group clears.”

The little pilot swallowed.

Then answered:

“Understood.”

She pushed the throttle forward.

The fighter accelerated.

The other aircraft followed.

Their formation turned toward the diving bombers.

And the sky above Horizon became a battlefield.

 

The Sky Was Not Theirs

The enemy formation had assumed that the morning bombardment would suppress most of Horizon's antiaircraft defenses.

That assumption was reasonable only if the people making it had not examined the island closely.

Horizon did not possess a modern integrated air-defense system capable of covering the entire atoll without interruption. Some radar installations were old. Several fire-control arrangements relied on equipment that needed constant maintenance. The Keelborn antiaircraft group included girls still gaining experience with their rigging.

The station had weaknesses.

Many.

But it also possessed cruisers.

Quite a number of cruisers.

And the Pacific Campaign Authority had underestimated what an experienced Atlanta-class girl could accomplish when she had a clear fire-control assignment, a functioning ammunition supply, and several neighboring cruisers whose personnel were equally determined not to see their homes bombed.

Calla stood in the lagoon's defended sector while the first enemy bombers descended toward the western shore.

Her five-inch mounts tracked upward.

The director followed a selected group.

The target information was updated through the local air-defense network as the aircraft changed course.

Calla did not immediately fire.

Friendly fighters were moving through the western engagement corridor.

Yuna's fairies had already committed to an interception.

The first rule of useful antiaircraft fire was that it should preferably strike the enemy rather than one's friends.

Calla watched the separation.

Then the controller's voice sounded.

“Friendly fighter section clear of northern engagement zone. Hostile bomber group crossing assigned boundary. Calla, weapons free on designated contacts.”

Stolen from NovelPhoenix, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The Atlanta-class girl inhaled.

Then answered:

“Engaging.”

Her five-inch batteries fired.

The sound was almost insignificant compared with Ironwake's enormous main guns.

Almost.

But when several twin mounts discharged in rapid succession, the concussions rolled across the lagoon like a series of hard metallic blows.

Shells climbed toward the incoming aircraft.

Time-fuzed bursts opened in the sky.

Dark blossoms of smoke appeared ahead of the bombers.

One aircraft rolled sharply.

Another pulled away from its dive.

A third flew through the edge of a bursting shell and began trailing fragments from one wing.

Calla adjusted the firing solution.

The directors followed.

Her guns fired again.

The aircraft formation broke apart.

Not completely.

Not enough to end the attack.

But enough to disrupt the precise geometry the enemy pilots needed.

That mattered.

A dive bomber entering its attack with a stable sight picture could put a weapon dangerously close to a selected target.

A dive bomber forced to evade a burst of antiaircraft fire might still release its bomb.

But the chance of striking the intended target became considerably worse.

Calla watched one aircraft drop its weapon early.

The bomb fell toward the sea beyond the coastal battery.

It struck the water in a tremendous white burst.

Too far from the guns to do significant damage.

She did not celebrate.

Another bomber was still descending.

Calla turned toward it.

“Track.”

The machinery responded.

Then the neighboring cruisers joined in.

 

Mina's Leander-class rigging shook beneath the recoil of her antiaircraft weapons.

The brunette cruiser girl stood slightly south of Calla, her almond-brown eyes fixed on the aircraft that had broken away from the central dive-bomber group.

Her equipment was not equivalent to an Atlanta-class antiaircraft cruiser.

It had never been intended to be.

The Leander design emphasized a balanced light-cruiser arrangement, including a substantial surface battery, rather than being built almost entirely around dual-purpose antiaircraft fire.

But Mina still possessed weapons capable of engaging aircraft.

And she had trained with them.

She maintained the assigned sector.

Waited for the fire-control clearance.

Then fired.

The first burst missed.

The aircraft banked.

She adjusted.

The next burst forced the pilot to break his approach.

Mina followed the turn.

Her equipment's stabilizing machinery worked to compensate for the water moving beneath her.

Then the cruiser girl's smaller automatic weapons opened fire.

A stream of tracer rounds climbed toward the bomber.

For a moment, the aircraft continued descending.

Then its engine cowling flashed.

A trail of smoke appeared.

The pilot rolled away from the harbor.

Mina stopped firing when the aircraft left her assigned sector.

She raised the microphone.

“Southern Cruiser Two. One hostile bomber damaged and withdrawing. No confirmed destruction.”

Calla's voice answered.

“Acknowledged. Maintain your sector.”

Mina swallowed.

Then looked toward the next contact.

The sky was full of them.

For a moment, she felt terribly small.

Not because her body lacked strength.

Because the sky seemed much larger than the amount of ammunition she carried.

She steadied her breathing.

Then resumed tracking.

 

Farther north, the Takao-class heavy cruiser girl brought her antiaircraft equipment into action.

Her larger surface guns remained secured.

There was little point in pretending a battery designed for fighting warships could automatically perform every role of a dedicated antiaircraft weapon.

Instead, she relied on the dual-purpose and light antiaircraft armament available in her actual configuration.

Nearby, another cruiser supported the engagement.

The combined fire created a complicated pattern of bursting shells and tracer arcs above the northern harbor approach.

Enemy fighters attempted to push through.

Several succeeded.

Others discovered that diving toward a formation of cruisers with functioning fire-control equipment was an excellent way to shorten one's flight.

One PCA fighter rolled through a gap between two bursts, attempting to reach the defensive aircraft below.

A five-inch shell detonated ahead of its path.

The pilot pulled hard.

Too late.

Fragments struck the engine.

A flash appeared near the cowling.

The aircraft shuddered.

Then its engine stopped producing power.

The pilot tried to glide away.

For several seconds, it seemed possible.

Then the damaged fighter lost altitude.

It struck the ocean outside the reef, sending spray high into the air.

The cruiser who had fired did not cheer.

She watched the impact.

Then raised her radio.

“Northern Cruiser Screen. One enemy fighter down in the western exclusion sector. Possible pilot survival unknown.”

The watch officer acknowledged.

The cruiser turned toward the next aircraft.

Another fighter was already approaching.

She tightened her hands.

Then resumed firing.

 

Above the smoke, Yuna's fairies fought a very different battle.

The little pilots could not rely upon being stronger than the enemy.

Their aircraft possessed the capabilities and limitations of their actual designs.

They needed altitude.

Energy.

Situational awareness.

Formation discipline.

And the ability to resist chasing a damaged opponent toward a larger group of hostile fighters.

The flight leader of Yuna's first section spotted a dive bomber descending toward the harbor-control buildings.

Its wings were angled steeply.

The aircraft had already entered its attack.

She pushed into a shallow dive.

The engine roared.

Her wingman followed.

The bomber grew larger ahead of her gunsight.

For a moment, she had a clear opportunity.

Then an enemy fighter appeared above and behind.

A warning shouted over the radio.

“Leader! Fighter high six!”

The little pilot glanced toward her mirror.

A dark shape was descending.

She had seconds.

She could continue toward the bomber and hope to release a damaging burst before the fighter reached her.

Or break away.

The bomber was closing on its target.

The enemy fighter was closing on her.

She thought of Yuna.

Of the carrier's face when she'd asked her to come back.

Then the fairy made her decision.

“Wingman, cover. I'm taking the bomber.”

The response came immediately.

“Copy!”

Her wingman pulled upward into the attacking fighter's path, presenting a different target and forcing the enemy pilot to decide which aircraft to pursue.

The maneuver was dangerous.

It bought the flight leader only a few seconds.

But she used them.

She steadied the gunsight.

Pressed the trigger.

The fighter's machine guns and cannon opened fire.

Tracers crossed the short distance.

Several struck the bomber's wing.

A burst hit the engine.

The aircraft shuddered.

Its pilot attempted to maintain the dive.

Then the engine erupted in smoke.

The bomber released its weapon prematurely.

The bomb fell into open water beyond the harbor.

The damaged aircraft pulled upward, failed to recover properly, and rolled toward the sea.

The fairy flight leader broke away immediately.

She did not follow.

The wingman was already descending toward her.

An enemy fighter had begun another approach from above.

The two friendly aircraft turned together.

For a moment, their paths crossed beneath a sky full of smoke.

Then the enemy fighter overshot.

The wingman fired.

A short burst struck its underside.

The aircraft rolled away.

Damaged.

Not destroyed.

The fairy leader raised her microphone.

“Yuna Flight One. One bomber down. One enemy fighter damaged. Returning toward defensive sector.”

The air-defense controller acknowledged.

Then Yuna's voice entered the circuit.

“Good work. Check your fuel and ammunition. Don't chase.”

The little pilot smiled despite herself.

“Understood, Carrier.”

A pause.

Then she added:

“Still flying.”

Yuna's reply came quickly.

“Keep doing that.”

The fairy laughed.

Briefly.

Then the next enemy formation appeared ahead.

The laughter stopped.

She tightened her grip on the controls.

And turned toward the fight.

 

The air battle did not belong to one side.

Not yet.

Yuna's fighters could disrupt individual bomber groups, but they could not intercept every aircraft coming from seven enemy carriers.

Calla's cruisers could deny selected approach corridors, but they could not fill every cubic meter of sky with fire.

Horizon possessed experienced watchstanders and good local coordination.

The enemy possessed numbers.

Several PCA bombers reached the western coastal installations.

One released a bomb near a radar station, damaging its external antenna feed and forcing the operators onto a backup circuit.

Another struck an abandoned ammunition handling platform.

The structure caught fire, but its magazines had been emptied the previous evening.

The explosion was ugly.

Fortunately, not catastrophic.

A third bomber approached the maintenance district.

Its pilot had been briefed that destroying the repair facilities would prevent Horizon from returning damaged Keelborn to battle.

The objective made sense in purely military terms.

The problem was that the repair district was also full of injured machinery, civilian technicians, and people who could not conveniently disappear before a bomb arrived.

The bomber descended.

Its engine screamed.

Then a stream of antiaircraft fire rose from the cruiser line.

The pilot adjusted.

Tried to hold the approach.

Another burst exploded ahead.

The aircraft shuddered.

The pilot lost the stable dive angle.

For a moment, the target vanished beneath the nose.

He released the bomb.

Too early.

It struck a service road beyond the primary workshops, destroying an empty transport vehicle and shattering nearby windows.

The bomber pulled away.

Several fragments struck its fuselage as it crossed the defensive screen.

The aircraft escaped toward the sea.

Its pilot had survived.

Horizon had survived the attack.

But a section of the maintenance district was burning.

And the war had begun leaving actual damage behind.

 

At the aviation station, Yuna watched the developing air picture with increasing discomfort.

A small flight returning from interception reported two aircraft damaged.

One had lost part of a control surface.

Another was leaking fuel.

The carrier's recovery personnel prepared immediately.

The little fairies moved with the speed of people who had practiced emergency procedures until their hands knew where to go.

Yuna listened.

Then raised her radio.

“Returning flight, Yuna receiving. Recover individually. Damaged aircraft first. Maintain separation and call if you can't control the approach.”

The flight leader acknowledged.

“Understood.”

The damaged fighter appeared above the lagoon.

It circled once.

Then aligned with the recovery arrangements.

Yuna watched its descent.

For a moment, her breath caught.

The aircraft seemed to be approaching too fast.

The pilot corrected.

The landing system engaged.

The plane crossed into the carrier's recovery envelope and returned to the compact servicing arrangement.

The fairy climbed from the cockpit a moment later.

Her left arm hung awkwardly.

A medic hurried forward.

Yuna knelt beside the platform.

“Are you hurt?”

The pilot looked up.

For a moment, she seemed embarrassed.

“Little bit.”

Yuna's expression tightened.

The medic examined the arm.

Then looked toward the carrier.

“Likely fracture. She needs treatment.”

Yuna nodded immediately.

“Take her.”

The little pilot began protesting.

“But the next—”

“No.”

The word surprised both of them.

Yuna swallowed.

Then spoke more gently.

“You did your job. Now let Medical do theirs.”

For a moment, the fairy stared.

Then she lowered her eyes.

“Yes, Carrier.”

Yuna watched her being carried toward the treatment station.

The little pilot had survived.

That mattered.

It mattered enormously.

Then another alarm sounded.

A new group of enemy aircraft was approaching.

Yuna looked toward her remaining fighters.

Her expression became determined.

“Prepare the next section.”

The fairies moved.

She raised her microphone.

“Air Defense, Yuna. Second defensive flight preparing to launch.”

The reply came.

“Acknowledged. Enemy aircraft approaching from northwest. Maintain separation from the heavy-gun spotting corridor.”

Yuna nodded.

“Understood.”

She looked toward the distant sky.

Somewhere above it, Koharu's little floatplane was trying to identify targets for Riko.

Yuna hoped the fairy understood just how dangerous that assignment was.

Then the next fighter launched.

And the morning continued.

 

A Fire-Control Solution Is Not a Wish

Koharu discovered very quickly that the PCA had not arranged its ships for her convenience.

The battleship's reconnaissance floatplane climbed above the western coastline while maintaining sufficient distance from the enemy carrier air patrols to avoid becoming an immediate target.

The fairy pilot watched the sea through her cockpit windows.

The observer behind her studied a chart and optical equipment.

Together, they began identifying the ships Horizon had marked as priority targets.

The first challenge was scale.

From the lagoon, Riko saw distant flashes.

From the floatplane, Koharu could see the pattern those flashes belonged to.

Ironwake stood farther offshore.

Her enormous hull was difficult to mistake.

The conventional cruisers occupied supporting positions nearer the island, though not all at the same distance.

Destroyer girls moved between the larger vessels.

Carrier aircraft circled above the western formation.

Smoke from the bombardment drifted across the sea.

And the light of sunrise made some bearings easier to see while turning others into a bright haze.

Koharu checked her chart.

Then her compass.

Then the visual reference points available along the coast.

The observer called out the first confirmed movement.

“Chapayev changing course!”

Koharu looked toward the cruiser.

The Soviet vessel had begun adjusting her heading after firing another salvo.

Her main guns had been trained toward Horizon's western defensive works.

The ship was moving in a broad arc, maintaining enough speed to complicate a fixed battery's targeting while remaining within its own effective bombardment position.

Koharu raised the radio.

“Yamato spotting flight to Heavy Fire Control. Chapayev visual. Moving across northern engagement sector. Course and estimated speed follow.”

The observer supplied the figures.

Koharu transmitted them.

Then she looked toward the Baltimore.

The American heavy cruiser was farther south.

Its bow was angled toward the island.

The forward turrets were trained toward the coast.

Several shells had already been fired.

The ship's gunnery was not especially impressive.

Its crew appeared to be making substantial corrections between salvos.

But the guns were eight-inch naval rifles.

They did not need perfect accuracy to threaten a harbor.

Koharu checked the bearing.

Then transmitted.

“Baltimore visual. Supporting bombardment from southern sector. Course and estimated speed follow.”

A voice answered from Horizon.

“Spotting flight, data received. Maintain observation. Do not cross the designated heavy-gun danger area.”

Koharu acknowledged.

Then she looked toward the sea again.

The enormous enemy formation stretched far beyond her immediate view.

For a moment, she felt the urge to climb higher.

A better altitude would provide a broader view.

It might allow her to observe more of the formation.

Perhaps even identify the landing ships behind the cruiser screen.

Then the observer spoke.

“Fighters. West.”

Koharu turned.

Two small aircraft were moving across the sky beyond the cruiser line.

Enemy.

Probably part of a combat-air patrol.

She immediately abandoned the thought of climbing higher.

The floatplane was not an aircraft that could afford unnecessary attention from dedicated fighters.

She turned slightly.

Maintained distance.

And returned her attention to the designated targets.

The heavy batteries needed information.

Not a heroic reconnaissance pilot getting herself shot down in an attempt to identify every vessel in the enemy fleet.

Koharu understood the distinction.

She hoped Riko did too.

 

In the lagoon, Riko stood among the heavy battleship group.

Scarlett occupied a nearby position, her South Dakota-class rigging stabilized and ready.

Adelheid's Bayern-class equipment stood farther along the firing line, its four twin 38-centimeter turrets trained toward the western approaches.

Nadya's Sevastopol-class machinery rested within its assigned sector, the familiar arrangement of twelve-inch guns rising above the water as her fire-control equipment received updated information.

Marina maintained a position closer to the protected harbor, where her Virginia-class pre-dreadnought equipment could contribute within its more limited range and fire-control capabilities.

Other battleship Keelborn occupied their assigned areas.

An unnamed Indiana-class girl stood near the southern portion of the formation.

Another South Dakota-class girl remained farther back, supporting the defensive reserve while her training restrictions were considered.

A Kongō-class battleship girl whose fourteen-inch guns could engage targets within the assigned approach sector completed her readiness check.

A Scharnhorst-class girl, equipped with the distinctive triple 28-centimeter turrets of her historical design, occupied a supporting position where her eleven-inch guns could cover enemy light forces moving into range.

Their machinery differed enormously.

Different generations.

Different propulsion arrangements.

Different turret layouts.

Different fire-control limitations.

They could not simply point every gun at one distant ship and expect the shells to arrive in a neatly organized mathematical miracle.

A broadside from a battleship was not a gesture.

It was a controlled release of enormous stored energy.

And it needed to be directed.

The heavy-group fire-control officers understood that.

Target assignments had been divided by sector.

Ranging procedures were being coordinated.

Friendly patrol positions were plotted.

The contaminated lagoon zone remained excluded.

The defenders could fire through designated arcs above the reef, but those arcs had to remain clear of friendly aircraft, friendly Keelborn, and the harbor's own structures.

Riko watched the others.

For a moment, the sight almost overwhelmed her.

Scarlett's sixteen-inch turrets.

Adelheid's fifteen-inch guns.

Nadya's twelve-inch battery.

The other girls preparing their own weapons.

An entire line of battleships.

Not the same ship.

Not the same size.

Not the same age.

But all carrying machinery designed for the same terrible purpose.

Riko looked toward the western sea.

For a moment, she imagined the enemy cruisers beyond the horizon.

Then Koharu's voice sounded in her ear.

“Riko, spotting flight. Chapayev confirmed in assigned sector. Fire-control data transmitted.”

The Yamato-class girl swallowed.

“Received.”

Koharu continued.

“Baltimore also confirmed. South of Chapayev. Don't confuse the two.”

Riko frowned.

“I wasn't going to!”

A pause.

Then the fairy answered:

“Good. One is a Soviet light cruiser and the other is an American heavy cruiser. I would hope you noticed.”

Riko's cheeks warmed.

Even in the middle of an invasion, her tiny pilot was apparently going to be a menace.

She looked toward the sky.

Then smiled faintly.

“Just keep watching.”

Koharu's reply was immediate.

“That's the idea.”

The channel returned to ordinary background traffic.

Riko lowered her microphone.

Then looked toward her enormous forward turret.

The barrels had been elevated according to the preliminary firing solution.

Ammunition was available.

Mechanical checks had passed.

The equipment was ready.

Almost.

Her hands tightened.

She glanced toward Scarlett.

The South Dakota-class girl noticed.

For a moment, she smiled.

“You all right?”

Riko swallowed.

Then nodded.

“Yes.”

Scarlett considered that.

Then looked toward the distant enemy.

“Remember what I told you.”

Riko lowered her eyes.

For a moment, she recalled the conversation beside the equipment cradle.

You don't have to prove you're Yamato class by firing the biggest guns in the Pacific.

The younger battleship took a breath.

Then looked toward Scarlett again.

“I remember.”

The other girl nodded.

“Good.”

A pause.

Then she added:

“And don't rush your firing solution.”

Riko nodded firmly.

“Right.”

Scarlett turned toward her own turrets.

The Yamato-class girl looked toward the western horizon.

Another enemy salvo arrived.

Shells splashed into the sea beyond the reef.

One struck an empty coastal road and shattered the pavement.

The island trembled.

Riko's jaw tightened.

The fire-control circuit crackled.

“Heavy Group, preliminary solutions received. Confirm assigned targets and readiness.”

The girls answered.

One after another.

Their voices moved across the net.

“Scarlett. Ready.”

“Adelheid. Ready.”

“Nadya. Ready.”

“Marina. Standing by within range restrictions.”

Other confirmations followed.

The Indiana-class girl.

The Kongō-class girl.

The Scharnhorst-class girl.

The supporting reserve.

Then Riko raised her microphone.

Her mouth felt dry.

For a moment, she almost forgot what to say.

Then she swallowed.

“Riko. Yamato battery ready.”

The controller acknowledged.

“All units, maintain assigned firing sectors. Await authorization.”

Riko looked toward the sky.

Koharu's floatplane was a tiny dark speck moving beyond the island.

The fairy pilot had done her part.

Now the battleship girls had to do theirs.

And the island continued shaking beneath enemy shells.

 

Someone Shouted Fire

At six fourteen, Ironwake fired another broadside.

The Iowa-class battleship's main guns discharged in a sequence that momentarily wrapped her forward superstructure in smoke and brilliant orange-white flame.

The nine enormous barrels recoiled.

The water around the ship trembled.

A wall of pressure expanded across the sea.

On her bridge, the men responsible for the firing order braced themselves against the shock.

Then the barrels returned toward their firing positions as the loading cycle began again.

The shells were already in flight.

High above the Pacific.

Traveling toward an island that, in the minds of Ironwake's officers, should have been thoroughly impressed by the amount of metal being directed at it.

Some of those shells would land on abandoned defenses.

Some would strike the sea.

One would damage a coastal service road badly enough to block it for the remainder of the morning.

And one would explode near a protected fuel-transfer facility, showering the area with fragments and forcing the fire-suppression crews to respond before the leaking equipment became a larger problem.

The bombardment was dangerous.

There was no point pretending otherwise.

Horizon possessed defensive positions designed to survive some amount of artillery fire.

It did not possess a magical guarantee that every shell would miss something important.

But Ironwake's captain was about to discover that the defenders had guns too.

And that those guns did not care whether their targets had once been expensive digital ships.

 

The heavy-group controller watched the latest plots arrive.

The air spotting report.

The coastal observation bearings.

The radar estimates.

The confirmed positions of friendly units.

The predicted movement of Chapayev and Baltimore.

Everything was assembled into a set of firing solutions that remained imperfect, but had become good enough to justify engaging the enemy cruisers now supporting the bombardment.

The controller looked toward the chief gunnery officer.

The older man checked the target assignments.

Then the firing sectors.

For a moment, he remained very still.

Outside, the morning sun was beginning to climb above the eastern sea.

Smoke drifted over the western shoreline.

Another enemy shell struck the water beyond the reef.

The gunnery officer looked toward the command circuit.

“Solutions acceptable.”

The controller nodded.

Then raised the microphone.

“Heavy Group, engagement authorized. Assigned targets. Execute controlled opening salvo.”

The words traveled to the lagoon.

To the girls waiting on the water.

To the massive main turrets whose barrels were already elevated.

Riko heard them.

Her heart began hammering.

For a moment, the machinery around her seemed impossibly heavy.

Then the firing interlocks cleared.

Scarlett's director confirmed the target.

Adelheid's battery settled.

Nadya's turrets completed their elevation adjustments.

The fourteen-inch guns of the Kongō-class girl came to rest.

The eleven-inch turrets of the Scharnhorst-class girl aligned within their assigned sector.

Other battleship Keelborn reported readiness.

And somewhere over the command network, someone shouted:

“FIRE!”

Nobody in the Operations Room later agreed on who had said it.

The heavy-group controller insisted he had given the formal authorization.

Scarlett believed it had been one of the younger gunnery operators.

Adelheid thought the voice came from a nearby battleship girl.

Riko was too busy trying not to flinch to be certain of anything.

It didn't matter.

The guns answered.

 

The first concussion came from the sixteen-inch batteries.

Scarlett's South Dakota-class main turrets fired within their approved sequence, sending enormous shells westward through the morning air.

The recoil drove through the mechanical mountings.

The rigging's stabilizing systems responded.

Water erupted around the heavy support structures.

The muzzle flashes illuminated Scarlett's face.

For a moment, she appeared completely still beneath the thunder.

Then her guns returned toward their loading positions.

Farther along the formation, Adelheid's fifteen-inch batteries opened fire.

Four twin turrets.

Eight massive rifles.

A rolling eruption of flame and smoke that transformed the water around the Bayern-class girl into a foaming field of disturbed waves.

The report reached the island like a series of enormous doors slamming shut beneath the earth.

The Kongō-class girl's fourteen-inch rifles joined them.

Her equipment shuddered beneath the recoil.

The Scharnhorst-class girl's eleven-inch guns fired their own controlled sequence.

Then Nadya's twelve-inch battery answered.

Marina's older pre-dreadnought equipment contributed within its available engagement arc.

The Indiana-class girl joined the sixteen-inch fire.

The separate South Dakota-class battery added its own measured shots.

The water trembled.

The air shook.

And, above all of them, Riko's Yamato-class main turrets began moving.

She felt the firing system complete its final checks.

The enormous machinery seemed to hold its breath.

Then she heard the authorization.

“Yamato battery. Fire.”

Riko's fingers tightened.

She gave the command.

Her 46-centimeter guns fired.

The first muzzle flash appeared like a small sunrise of its own.

The concussion struck the lagoon with a physical violence that Riko had never encountered during the limited firing tests.

The recoil traveled through the massive turret supports.

The stabilizing machinery responded.

A wall of spray rose around her.

For one terrible moment, she felt as though the water beneath her feet had vanished.

Then the equipment caught itself.

The support frames held.

The gun barrels recoiled and returned.

Riko staggered half a step.

Her breath caught.

And the sound arrived.

A vast, rolling thunder that swallowed every lesser noise within reach.

The Yamato-class girl stared toward the west.

For several seconds, she couldn't speak.

Then she whispered:

“Oh.”

The enormous shells were already gone.

High above the sea.

Traveling toward a cruiser that had no idea how much steel was coming.

 

The combined fire did not arrive at the enemy simultaneously.

Different gun calibers.

Different muzzle velocities.

Different ranges.

Different firing angles.

Different target assignments.

The time of flight varied.

Some shells were already descending while others were still climbing toward the highest part of their trajectories.

The first fall of shot appeared near the northern cruiser screen.

Columns of water erupted around Chapayev.

The Soviet light cruiser turned sharply.

Her bridge crew shouted.

The helmsman put the rudder over.

A wall of spray rose beside the bow.

For several seconds, the ship seemed to escape.

Then the second group of shells arrived.

A twelve-inch round struck the water close aboard, sending fragments across the cruiser’s exposed upperworks.

An eleven-inch projectile burst against a neighboring support craft that had moved too far into the firing area, damaging its propulsion equipment and forcing its Keelborn operator to withdraw.

A fourteen-inch shell landed beyond the Chapayev, throwing a vast column of water into the air.

The cruiser continued turning.

Her captain was already shouting for an evasive course.

Then one of Adelheid's fifteen-inch shells struck.

The projectile entered high along Chapayev's starboard side at a damaging angle.

It tore through light structure, crossed an internal compartment, and detonated deep enough inside the ship to produce a violent rupture along the machinery spaces.

The blast shook the entire vessel.

The lights flickered.

A ventilation trunk burst apart.

Steam erupted from a damaged line.

For a moment, the cruiser continued moving.

Then her starboard machinery began losing power.

The bridge received a flood of reports.

“Engine room casualty!”

“Starboard compartment flooding!”

“Electrical distribution failure in the forward machinery section!”

“Fire in the lower deck!”

The captain grabbed the bridge railing.

“What hit us?”

Nobody answered immediately.

The ship shuddered again.

Another heavy shell struck the water close aboard, opening seams already stressed by the first impact.

The lower damage-control party reported incoming water.

The starboard list began slowly.

At first, it was barely perceptible.

A small change beneath the sailors' feet.

Then the inclinometer moved farther.

Five degrees.

Seven.

The cruiser captain stared.

For a moment, she looked almost offended.

That was absurd.

She was standing on a real warship whose internal compartments were flooding.

But some portion of her mind still expected a damage indicator.

A numerical status display.

A repair interface.

Something that would tell her the exact extent of the problem without requiring people to crawl through smoke and water to find it.

Instead, a sailor appeared at the bridge entrance with blood running down one side of his face.

“Captain! We need permission to counterflood!”

The woman stared at him.

For one heartbeat, the reality of the situation became painfully clear.

The young man was injured.

Actually injured.

He was breathing hard.

His hand trembled against the door frame.

There was no health bar above his head.

No harmless animation.

No convenient respawn.

The cruiser captain swallowed.

Then forced herself to act.

“Damage Control Central. Counterflood only on assessment. No blind flooding. Isolate the ruptured compartments.”

The order passed below.

The crew began fighting for its ship.

Chapayev continued listing.

And Horizon's spotter aircraft was already reporting the next corrections.

 

Koharu saw the hit.

From her observation position, the Soviet cruiser was unmistakable.

A dark burst of smoke rose from the starboard side.

The ship's wake changed.

Its speed fell.

Then the hull began leaning.

Koharu's observer raised the binoculars.

“Hit! Major hit!”

The fairy pilot looked toward the ship.

For one second, she felt the wild exhilaration of accomplishing the mission.

Then she saw people on the deck.

Tiny figures.

Running.

Some dragging hoses.

Others helping wounded companions away from the damaged portion of the cruiser.

Her smile vanished.

The observer raised the radio.

“Spotting Flight to Heavy Fire Control. Chapayev hit. Significant starboard damage, speed decreasing, visible list. Additional flooding suspected.”

The response came.

“Received. Confirm target condition.”

Koharu watched the cruiser.

It remained afloat.

Its crew was fighting the damage.

The gunfire had not stopped everywhere aboard.

Some turrets still appeared capable of firing.

But the ship's movement was becoming increasingly unstable.

She raised the microphone.

“Chapayev severely damaged but not confirmed sinking. Recommend continued observation and reassessment before further fire.”

The fire-control officer acknowledged.

Koharu looked toward the ship one more time.

For a moment, she wished the crew would abandon the bombardment.

Then she saw something farther south.

Another eruption.

Much larger.

And she turned toward Baltimore.

 

The Baltimore-class heavy cruiser was in the process of firing its forward turrets when Horizon's shells arrived.

The first heavy projectile struck short.

Water erupted along the bow.

The next fell beyond the ship.

The captain ordered a course change.

The cruiser began turning.

Then a sixteen-inch shell struck the forward armored deck near the first main-gun turret.

It did not simply bounce away.

The projectile possessed tremendous kinetic energy, and its impact drove destructive force through armor and structure in a way that no ordinary small-caliber weapon could imitate.

The forward section shuddered.

The turret's training mechanism jammed.

Several men inside the handling spaces were thrown from their stations.

Then a second shell struck the forward turret region.

The explosion tore through damaged armor and the shell-handling arrangements beneath it.

Hot gases raced into spaces that contained ammunition and propellant.

Flash barriers and safety systems were supposed to prevent a turret fire from becoming a magazine disaster.

They existed precisely because naval history had demonstrated what happened when flame reached stored propellant.

On Baltimore, the first damaged barriers were overwhelmed.

The turret's lower handling compartment erupted.

A violent flash propagated into the forward magazine spaces.

And the cruiser suffered a magazine detonation.

The explosion was enormous.

It lifted the forwardmost turret from its mounting.

For a moment, the heavy structure seemed to rise above the deck, trailing flame and shattered steel.

Then the surrounding plating tore apart.

A great orange fireball opened beneath the bow.

The forward superstructure shook.

A shock wave traveled through the ship.

The cruiser heeled.

The water around her erupted with debris.

On the bridge, the men who survived were thrown against consoles and bulkheads.

Glass shattered.

Instruments failed.

A section of the ship's internal communications system went silent.

For several seconds, the Baltimore appeared to have been struck by a small volcanic eruption.

Then the fireball began collapsing into a towering column of black smoke.

The ship's bow was devastated.

The forwardmost main turret was gone.

The magazine spaces beneath it had been torn open.

Fire spread through damaged compartments.

And the cruiser began settling forward in the water.

The blast had not destroyed every magazine aboard.

The remaining protective arrangements and compartment divisions had prevented immediate propagation throughout the whole ship.

But the forward explosion had done damage no emergency repair party could simply undo.

Men were dead.

Others were injured.

And the surviving crew suddenly had to decide whether the ship could remain afloat long enough to be evacuated.

 

On Ironwake's bridge, the sight of Baltimore's forward magazine detonating silenced every conversation.

The battleship captain stared through his binoculars.

For several seconds, he did not move.

Then he lowered them.

“Report.”

The bridge officer beside him swallowed.

“Baltimore has suffered a major forward explosion.”

The captain looked toward the distant smoke.

He could see the column rising above the fleet.

It was immense.

Dark.

Violent.

For a moment, he seemed unable to believe what had happened.

Baltimore was a heavy cruiser.

A proper warship.

Crewed by former players.

Equipped with powerful guns and substantial armor.

She was supposed to support the invasion.

Not have her bow blown apart by a naval station that had been described as poorly maintained and undermanned.

The captain's expression hardened.

“Who fired?”

The officer looked toward the island.

“Horizon, sir.”

“I know that.”

For a moment, the man seemed close to shouting.

Then he caught himself.

He took a breath.

“Identify their firing units.”

The operations officer consulted the latest reports.

“Multiple Keelborn battleships in the lagoon. South Dakota, Bayern, Sevastopol, Indiana, Yamato, and additional classes.”

The captain stared.

For a moment, his eyes narrowed.

“Yamato?”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked toward the distant island.

The report had mentioned a Yamato-class girl.

He remembered that.

But he'd assumed she was a novice unit.

A valuable prize, perhaps.

A powerful ship class waiting to be claimed.

Not a functioning heavy-gun platform whose shells could strike his cruisers.

He lowered the binoculars.

Then spoke quietly.

“Interesting.”

The officer beside him looked toward Baltimore's smoke.

For a moment, he seemed horrified.

“Captain, Baltimore is burning.”

The battleship captain glanced toward him.

“I can see that.”

“Should we send assistance?”

The man considered the question.

Then nodded.

“Order the nearest escort to support casualty recovery. Keep the rest of the formation moving.”

The officer looked toward the tactical board.

“Yes, sir.”

The captain stared toward Horizon.

His expression hardened.

Then he reached for the fleet communications circuit.

“All PCA units, enemy heavy batteries active. Execute evasive maneuvers. Carrier groups are to suppress the defensive positions. Landing forces hold outside immediate danger until the bombardment is brought under control.”

A moment later, the acknowledgment reports began arriving.

The captain listened.

Then looked toward the island again.

He had underestimated Horizon.

That much was obvious.

He did not intend to make the same mistake twice.

Unfortunately, the island had not finished answering.

 

The Price of Hitting Something

The first coordinated salvo had achieved something no one at Horizon could reasonably dismiss.

Chapayev was listing and losing speed.

Baltimore's forward magazine had detonated.

Several smaller enemy units had suffered damage from direct hits, fragments, or near misses.

The landing force had been forced to reconsider its immediate approach.

And Ironwake's captain now knew that the battered island possessed a heavy battleship group capable of returning fire.

Those were significant results.

They were not a victory.

Kade made certain nobody confused the two.

He stood beside the plotting table while reports arrived from the heavy-gun positions.

“Chapayev?”

Aaron checked the latest information.

“Still afloat. Visible starboard list, probably increasing. Her propulsion has deteriorated.”

“Baltimore?”

“Severe forward damage. Possible magazine explosion confirmed by multiple observers. Still afloat, but settling by the bow.”

Kade nodded.

“Enemy rescue activity?”

“Yes. At least one destroyer moving toward Baltimore. Several Keelborn escorts adjusting their positions.”

“Good.”

Aaron looked up.

The Commander saw the question.

He answered before it could be asked.

“If they're recovering survivors instead of shelling our harbor, that's fewer people trying to kill us.”

The lieutenant considered that.

Then nodded.

“Right.”

Kade turned toward the plotting officer.

“What's Ironwake doing?”

“Changing course. Increasing separation from the defended sector.”

The Commander studied the marker.

For a moment, he appeared almost satisfied.

Then he looked toward the air picture.

His expression darkened again.

“Carrier aircraft?”

“More groups inbound.”

“Of course.”

Kade looked toward the heavy batteries.

“Tell the battleship group to prepare corrections, but conserve ammunition. We are not going to empty the magazines into ships that have already lost their ability to attack.”

Mara nodded.

“Understood.”

The Commander glanced toward the western sector.

For a moment, he thought of Baltimore's crew.

The forward turret.

The magazine.

The men who had been standing in those compartments when the shells arrived.

Some would never leave.

Others would spend the rest of their lives remembering the explosion.

Kade's expression tightened.

He did not enjoy the thought.

He did not regret ordering the defensive fire.

Both feelings could exist together.

That was one of the less pleasant realities of command.

He looked toward the next incoming aircraft group.

Then spoke.

“Now we stop the landing.”

 

The PCA's forward landing formation had originally been ordered to move toward the southwestern beaches shortly after the coastal defenses were suppressed.

The plan depended upon several assumptions.

That Horizon's heavier Keelborn would remain inside the lagoon rather than actively engage the invasion fleet.

That the initial naval bombardment would disable the principal observation stations.

That the carrier strike groups would suppress the antiaircraft positions quickly enough to permit aircraft to attack the defending surface units.

And that the landing ships would have a reasonably clear approach once the escort screen moved forward.

Those assumptions had begun failing.

The lighthouse was destroyed.

Several old coastal structures had been damaged.

But the observation network still functioned.

The antiaircraft cruisers were still firing.

Yuna's fighters were intercepting incoming aircraft.

And Baltimore was burning.

The landing commander stood in the wheelhouse of the lead transport staring at the thick smoke on the northern horizon.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he turned toward his communications officer.

“Fleet Command?”

The man checked the receiver.

“Orders are to hold outside the immediate heavy-gun danger area.”

The commander frowned.

“We're already moving.”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked toward the chart.

Several landing ships were committed to a broad approach.

The following vessels had reduced speed.

Escort destroyers were attempting to screen the formation.

A group of hostile Keelborn destroyers was emerging from Horizon's inner defensive channels.

The landing commander stared.

For a moment, he seemed almost incredulous.

“Destroyers?”

The officer nodded.

“Multiple.”

The man looked toward the approaching figures.

Compact machinery.

Gun mounts.

Torpedo apparatus.

Young women moving across the water with a speed that did not match the appearance of their human bodies.

He remembered reading an equipment summary describing Horizon's training population.

Several Akizuki and Kitakaze classes.

A few Fletchers.

Allen M. Sumners.

Bensons.

Other destroyers.

Nothing that should have been especially unusual for a naval base.

Then he noticed the torpedo equipment.

The way the girls were spreading across the approach.

The positions they were taking relative to the narrow passages through the reef.

His expression changed.

For several seconds, he studied the chart.

Then he looked toward the communications officer.

“Warn the escorts.”

The man blinked.

“Sir?”

“Those destroyers are positioning for a torpedo attack.”

The officer reached for the radio.

Outside, the first Horizon destroyer group accelerated toward its assigned firing positions.

And the landing ships began discovering that getting close enough to an island to invade it was not the same thing as being allowed to enter.

 

The Destroyer Girls Have Opinions

Alice Lasky had always believed that the correct response to an unauthorized warship entering a defended harbor was to make the unauthorized warship regret its navigational decisions.

Until the submarine incident, that belief had been mostly theoretical.

After the submarine incident, it had become something she understood with unfortunate personal clarity.

Now the Pacific Campaign Authority was trying to send landing ships toward Horizon.

And Alice had been given a torpedo-sector assignment.

She considered that a very different problem.

One requiring rather more attention than merely listening through her headphones.

Her Allen M. Sumner-class equipment moved along the northern side of the surveyed approach, maintaining separation from a group of Akizuki and Kitakaze destroyer girls.

The water was shallow in places.

Reef boundaries constrained movement.

Several defensive navigation markers were known only to Horizon's watchstanders.

The incoming landing ships would need to use channels that offered sufficient depth and width.

Alice could not simply fire torpedoes in every direction and hope for a useful result.

The weapons would travel through real water.

They needed suitable running depth.

Their courses had to remain clear of friendly units.

And a torpedo passing beyond its intended target would remain dangerous until it stopped functioning.

The destroyer group had spent the previous evening reviewing those limitations.

Now the girls were executing the plan.

Alice raised her radio.

“Northern Destroyer Screen, Harbor Three. Assigned firing lane confirmed. Friendly positions accounted for.”

A nearby Fletcher-class girl acknowledged.

Another Sumner reported ready.

Farther south, Emi's Benson-class equipment was moving into its own assigned sector.

The platinum-blonde destroyer girl had her light-blue eyes fixed on the approaching contacts.

Her equipment was comparatively compact.

That did not make the torpedoes attached to it harmless.

Mina's cruiser line remained farther inside the defensive position, ready to provide covering fire if hostile escorts attempted to interfere.

The Akizuki group occupied the most dangerous forward sector.

Alice watched them.

For a moment, she wondered whether their commanders understood what was coming.

Then one of the Akizuki girls looked back.

Raised a hand.

And gave Alice a thumbs-up.

The Sumner girl stared.

For half a second, she was tempted to laugh.

Then she returned the gesture.

And looked toward the landing ships again.

 

The first torpedo salvo came from the southern destroyer sector.

Not an indiscriminate mass launch.

A coordinated spread against the lead group of landing vessels moving through the broad outer approach.

Several destroyer girls released their weapons within seconds of one another.

The torpedoes entered the sea.

Motors started.

The weapons accelerated along their assigned tracks.

Their wakes spread across the water.

Some were visible.

Others less so, depending upon the weapon type and the condition of the sea.

The incoming ships did not immediately understand what they were seeing.

Then the first lookout shouted.

“Torpedoes!”

The landing commander turned.

A white line cut across the water.

Then another.

Farther south, several more appeared.

The ships began maneuvering.

Engines changed pitch.

Rudders moved.

A larger transport attempted to turn away from the leading tracks.

A smaller landing craft followed.

The formation began losing its neat spacing.

That was the first effect Horizon needed.

Not necessarily a sinking.

Disruption.

The PCA had been trying to move its invasion craft through restricted waters in an organized sequence.

Now it was being forced to maneuver while under observation from the island's defenders.

A transport that turned sharply to avoid a torpedo could drift out of its intended channel.

A landing craft that slowed might block the vessel behind it.

An escort attempting to intercept a destroyer might expose the ships it had been assigned to protect.

Every movement created another problem.

The first torpedo passed ahead of the lead transport.

It missed.

The second crossed astern.

Also a miss.

The commander began releasing the breath he'd been holding.

Then a third torpedo struck a smaller support vessel near the rear of the leading group.

The explosion lifted part of the craft out of the water.

A violent column of spray and debris rose beside its hull.

The vessel heeled.

Its engine stopped.

For a moment, the crew appeared unable to understand what had happened.

Then men began shouting.

One sailor stumbled onto the exposed deck.

Another crawled toward the damaged stern.

The craft remained afloat, but its propulsion had been destroyed.

The landing commander stared.

Then grabbed the radio.

“Lead Landing Group to Fleet Command! Torpedo attack in the southern approach! One support craft hit! Formation breaking!”

Static crackled.

A response came.

“Maintain assigned objective. Escort units moving to suppress hostile destroyers.”

The commander looked toward the water.

The next torpedo spread was already approaching.

He swallowed.

Then shouted to his helmsman.

“Turn away! Clear the channel!”

The transport heeled into its turn.

Behind it, another landing ship began following.

The invasion formation opened like a badly tied knot.

And Horizon's destroyer girls moved to exploit the confusion.

 

The northern torpedo group launched next.

Alice had the selected target in sight.

A large landing vessel moving toward the narrow channel between the reef heads.

It was carrying troops.

That was obvious.

Men stood on portions of the deck, though most had been ordered below as soon as Horizon's batteries opened fire.

Equipment was secured along the upper surfaces.

The vessel was not a helpless civilian transport.

It belonged to an invading military force, was attempting to enter a defended harbor after an ultimatum, and carried armed personnel whose mission was to occupy the island.

Alice understood that.

She also understood that the men aboard would die if their ship sank.

She thought of the Type VIII submarine crew.

The way the frightened women had emerged after her depth charges forced them to surface.

The strange mixture of arrogance and terror that had characterized their surrender.

Then she looked toward the landing ship.

For a moment, she felt sick.

She did not want to kill those people.

She did not intend to let them land.

The distinction was uncomfortable.

It was also necessary.

Alice checked the firing solution.

The target was moving.

The range remained within the torpedo's planned engagement envelope.

The projected track did not intersect a friendly unit.

She raised her radio.

“Harbor Three. Target acquired. Firing lane clear.”

The controller acknowledged.

“Weapons authorized.”

Alice swallowed.

Then launched.

The torpedoes entered the sea.

Their motors came alive.

A narrow pattern spread toward the landing ship.

Alice watched.

For several seconds, she felt the urge to close her eyes.

She didn't.

The target began turning.

The first torpedo passed ahead.

The second approached along the predicted course.

Then the landing ship slowed unexpectedly.

Its captain had ordered an emergency reduction in speed to avoid another vessel crossing its bow.

The torpedo's predicted intercept point changed.

The weapon passed just ahead of the target.

Alice released a breath.

Then realized what had happened.

The landing ship had nearly collided with another transport while avoiding her attack.

Its formation was disintegrating.

She raised the radio.

“Harbor Three. No confirmed hit. Enemy landing group maneuvering erratically and withdrawing from assigned approach.”

The controller acknowledged.

“Continue screening. Preserve remaining weapons.”

Alice nodded.

“Understood.”

She looked toward the sea.

Several torpedo wakes continued toward the enemy.

Farther south, another explosion rose beside a landing craft.

The Akizuki group was advancing.

Alice's expression hardened.

The battle was not over.

Not even close.

But the first landing attempt was already in trouble.

And the girls defending Horizon had made that happen.

 

Emi was having the most difficult morning of her life.

This was a considerable achievement.

The Benson-class destroyer girl had previously experienced maintenance drills, emergency propulsion failures, humiliating training mistakes, and one particularly unfortunate incident involving a wet dock ladder.

None compared with having enemy shells burst around her while she tried to keep a torpedo firing solution stable.

Her platinum-blonde hair had been secured firmly beneath her protective equipment.

Her light-blue eyes tracked the distant landing ships.

The physical rigging around her moved with the swell.

The torpedo mounts remained aligned.

And her hands were shaking.

Emi looked toward the nearest Fletcher-class girl.

“Am I doing this right?”

The other destroyer glanced over.

For a moment, she seemed surprised.

Then she checked Emi's position.

“You're maintaining your assigned lane.”

“Right.”

“Your torpedo angle is within the safety limits.”

“Yes.”

“And you haven't collided with anybody.”

Emi blinked.

For a moment, she looked offended.

“That was one time!”

The Fletcher girl smiled despite the gunfire.

“Then yes. You're doing fine.”

Emi swallowed.

For several seconds, she stared toward the enemy.

Then she nodded.

“Okay.”

Another shell burst offshore.

The water rose in a white column.

Emi flinched.

The Fletcher girl raised her radio.

“Southern Destroyer Reserve, hostile surface guns firing near our sector. No damage observed.”

A reply acknowledged the report.

Emi looked toward the landing formation again.

One of the ships was turning away.

Another had slowed.

A third appeared to be attempting to maneuver around the damaged support craft.

The invasion was losing momentum.

She could see it.

And for the first time since the battle began, she felt something other than fear.

A small, fierce sense of possibility.

We can stop them.

The thought startled her.

Then she tightened her grip on the controls.

Her torpedoes remained ready.

She looked toward the firing lane.

And waited for the next authorization.

 

The Akizuki Who Was Supposed to Die

The Akizuki-class girl had no intention of becoming a scientific discovery.

She had woken before dawn, eaten a hurried breakfast, checked her rigging, and received orders to defend the outer channel against unauthorized landing vessels.

That was the extent of her ambitions for the morning.

Survive.

Prevent an invasion.

Return to the maintenance pier with all her equipment attached.

Perhaps complain about the early hour.

She had not volunteered to prove anything about the physical durability of Keelborn bodies.

Unfortunately, the Pacific Campaign Authority had arranged a rather unpleasant experiment without asking permission.

The girl moved through the northern approach beside a Kitakaze-class companion, their destroyer equipment leaving narrow wakes as they accelerated toward an enemy landing ship that had broken away from the main formation.

The vessel was smaller than the conventional cruisers.

Much smaller.

But it carried armed troops, and its pilot was attempting to exploit a gap between two reef markers to move toward the inner defensive waters.

If it reached the beach, the men aboard might establish a foothold before Horizon's defenders could concentrate on them.

The Akizuki girl had been given one job.

Stop that from happening.

She intended to do it.

Her rigging's 100-millimeter dual-purpose guns were aligned toward the landing craft.

The Kitakaze girl maintained position farther out, watching for supporting vessels and additional threats.

Both had confirmed the firing lane.

Both knew friendly units were clear.

The Akizuki raised her radio.

“Northern Intercept One. Landing craft approaching restricted channel. Ordered to halt, no response. Preparing disabling fire.”

Harbor Control acknowledged.

“Engagement authorized against confirmed hostile landing movement. Avoid unnecessary fire into personnel areas if machinery can be disabled.”

The destroyer nodded.

“Understood.”

She raised the warning signal again.

The landing craft did not stop.

Instead, a man near the forward deck gun pointed toward her.

For a moment, she assumed he was identifying the approaching Keelborn to the vessel's bridge.

Then the gun began moving.

Its barrel turned.

Lowered.

And settled toward her.

The Akizuki's expression changed.

“Oh.”

Her Kitakaze companion saw it too.

“Akizuki, break!”

The warning came a fraction too late.

The landing craft's deck gun fired.

A short, violent muzzle flash.

A shell crossing the water.

The Akizuki tried to change course.

Her equipment responded.

But she was already within the gun's firing line, and the shell's short travel time left almost no room for correction.

The projectile struck her body.

Not the outer hull section.

Not a detached support.

Not the main gun mount.

Her body.

High on the left side of her torso, near the armored rigging interface.

The impact produced a sound that the Kitakaze girl would later struggle to describe.

It was not the sound of a shell striking ordinary flesh.

It was a hard, metallic crack accompanied by a burst of sparks and fragments from the destroyed projectile.

The Akizuki was thrown sideways.

Her equipment tilted violently.

The stabilizing systems reacted.

Water erupted around her.

For one terrible instant, she disappeared behind the spray.

The Kitakaze girl screamed.

“NO!”

Her radio transmitted the sound across the northern destroyer circuit.

Then she accelerated toward the impact position.

The Akizuki's wake had vanished.

Only disturbed water remained.

A fragment of damaged protective material floated near the surface.

The Kitakaze girl felt her stomach turn cold.

She had seen the shell hit.

Seen the impact.

Seen her friend thrown sideways.

No ordinary human being could survive being struck directly by a naval deck-gun projectile.

Not like that.

Not without suffering catastrophic injuries.

She reached the area.

Looked down.

And saw movement.

For a moment, she couldn't believe it.

Then a hand appeared above the water.

A familiar voice shouted something extremely rude.

The Akizuki surfaced.

Her rigging was damaged.

One support plate hung at an awkward angle.

The left-side protective structure had been badly scorched.

Her equipment was listing slightly, and one of the stabilizing assemblies was struggling to compensate for the impact.

But she was alive.

Not merely alive.

Conscious.

Angry.

And apparently more offended than frightened.

She coughed water.

Then shouted:

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!”

The Kitakaze girl stared.

For several seconds, she couldn't speak.

Then she blurted:

“YOU'RE ALIVE!”

The Akizuki looked toward her.

Her expression was incredulous.

“YES!”

The Kitakaze stared at the damaged uniform.

The scorched plating.

The dented rigging interface.

Then she looked toward the girl herself.

“BUT YOU GOT HIT!”

The Akizuki looked down.

For a moment, she appeared uncertain.

Then she touched the left side of her torso.

Her fingers found scorched cloth.

A damaged protective fitting.

A bruise already beginning to form beneath the impacted area.

She winced.

“Ow.”

The Kitakaze's mouth fell open.

The Akizuki looked toward her.

Then back at the landing craft.

The deck gun was turning again.

Her expression became murderous.

“Oh, you did not.”

She raised her right hand.

The Kitakaze girl stared.

“What are you doing?”

The Akizuki checked her main gun mount.

The 100-millimeter weapon responded.

Its elevation system still functioned.

The fire-control indicators were unstable from the impact, but the local backup sight remained available.

The landing craft was close.

Very close.

The Akizuki did not need a sophisticated long-range firing solution to identify the deck gun that had just struck her.

She needed to stop it before its crew fired again.

The gunner aboard the landing vessel saw her aiming.

For one impossible moment, he froze.

He had watched his shell hit the girl.

Directly.

He had expected her to disappear.

Or fall.

Or die.

Instead, she was standing on the water.

Bruised.

Furious.

Pointing a destroyer's main gun at him.

He stared.

Then shouted toward the bridge.

“She's still up!”

The landing craft's captain turned.

“What?”

The gunner pointed.

“She took the hit!”

The captain looked.

For a moment, he was speechless.

Then the Akizuki fired.

Her 100-millimeter gun discharged with a sharp, violent report.

The shell crossed the short distance and struck the landing craft's forward gun position.

The impact destroyed the weapon's mounting and tore through its supporting deck structure.

The gun was thrown off alignment.

Fragments struck the nearby equipment.

The ammunition ready-use box caught fire, prompting several crewmen to scramble for cover while another attempted to isolate the exposed rounds.

The deck gun stopped firing.

Permanently.

The Akizuki lowered her weapon.

For a moment, she stared toward the disabled mounting.

Then she shouted:

“THERE!”

The Kitakaze girl looked at her.

Then toward the landing craft.

Then back.

For several seconds, she seemed unable to form a sentence.

Finally, she managed:

“You got shot.”

The Akizuki turned.

“Yes!”

“With a deck gun.”

“Yes!”

“In the body.”

The Akizuki glanced down again.

The bruise hurt.

Her side felt as though she'd been struck by a falling maintenance crane.

Her shoulder was beginning to ache.

The rigging support was damaged.

But the terrible injury she should have sustained had not occurred.

She looked toward her companion.

For a moment, even she seemed uncertain.

Then she answered:

“…Apparently.”

The Kitakaze stared.

The Akizuki stared back.

A distant explosion rolled across the sea.

The landing craft was turning away.

Its forward gun was gone.

The invasion troops were scrambling to secure the damaged deck.

And the two destroyer girls remained looking at one another as though somebody had quietly rewritten a fundamental rule of the world.

Then the Kitakaze raised her radio.

Her hands were shaking.

“Northern Intercept Two to Operations! Akizuki has sustained a direct naval-gun impact!”

The controller responded sharply.

“Casualty status?”

The Kitakaze swallowed.

She looked toward her friend.

The Akizuki raised one hand.

Gave an annoyed thumbs-up.

Then winced because the movement hurt.

The Kitakaze stared.

For a moment, she almost laughed.

Then she answered:

“Conscious. Responsive. Still afloat. Rigging damaged. Appears to have survived bodily impact without catastrophic injury.”

Silence.

The controller came back.

“Repeat.”

The Kitakaze took a breath.

Then spoke more slowly.

“Shell struck her torso. Directly. She is alive.”

Another pause.

Then:

“Understood. Medical assessment required. Withdraw from forward sector as soon as relieved.”

The Akizuki heard that.

Her expression became offended.

“Withdraw?!”

The Kitakaze turned.

“Yes!”

“But the landing craft—”

“IS TURNING AWAY!”

The Akizuki looked.

The damaged vessel was indeed turning away from the channel.

Its gun had been disabled.

Another Horizon destroyer was moving to maintain pressure on it.

The immediate threat had been stopped.

The Akizuki considered that.

Then looked down at her damaged equipment.

Her side hurt.

Quite badly, actually.

For a moment, she became aware that the shock of being hit had been masking some of the pain.

She swallowed.

Then nodded reluctantly.

“Fine.”

The Kitakaze released a breath.

The Akizuki began reducing speed.

Then paused.

Looked back toward the landing craft.

And muttered:

“Idiot.”

The Kitakaze stared at her.

For a moment, she seemed overwhelmed.

Then she began laughing.

It was not a happy laugh.

Not entirely.

It was the strained, disbelieving sound of someone who had spent several seconds believing she'd watched a friend die.

The Akizuki looked offended.

“What?”

The Kitakaze shook her head.

“Nothing.”

She wiped her eyes.

Then moved closer to escort her friend back toward the protected sector.

The Akizuki winced.

And muttered something about getting a replacement uniform.

Behind them, the disabled landing craft abandoned the channel.

Its deck gun was no longer an issue.

And Horizon had learned something extraordinary.

Something that would require careful examination.

Something none of its personnel had previously dared assume.

A Keelborn girl's apparent human body could endure an impact that would have killed an ordinary person, because the durability of the warship she embodied was somehow present in her physical form.

Not just in the rigging.

In her.

The discovery was real.

So was the pain.

And the fact that she remained alive did not mean she could survive every weapon a battleship or cruiser might fire.

Nobody sane would volunteer to test that possibility.

Especially not the Akizuki, who had already decided that one experiment was more than sufficient.

 

The Girl Who Should Have Been in Pieces

The report reached Operations while Kade was examining the latest landing-force positions.

At first, he thought he'd misheard.

He looked toward Victor.

“Say that again.”

The communications officer swallowed.

“Akizuki-class Keelborn sustained a direct hit from a landing craft's deck gun. The impact was reported as striking her body rather than an external rigging panel.”

Kade stared.

Then slowly lowered his pencil.

“Casualty status?”

“Conscious. Moving under her own power. Damage to local equipment fittings, probable blunt-force injuries, possible burns. She disabled the attacking gun and is withdrawing for medical inspection.”

For several seconds, the Commander did not speak.

Then he looked toward Mara.

The Chief's expression was equally incredulous.

Aaron stood nearby holding the intercepted fleet reports.

Even he seemed unable to decide what to say.

Kade turned back toward Victor.

“Confirm the wording.”

The communications officer checked the transcript.

Then nodded.

“Direct bodily impact. Witnessed by the accompanying Kitakaze-class girl.”

“Was the shell stopped by her armor?”

“The witness says no, sir. Not by a conventional external plate.”

“Deflected by the rigging?”

“Not according to the initial report.”

Kade went very still.

He had been learning about Keelborn for nearly two months.

He knew that their ship-derived bodies and equipment possessed unusual properties.

He knew they could operate machinery no ordinary human being could physically carry.

He knew that their Pendants were associated with the lives and naval identities they embodied.

But nobody at Horizon had previously been willing to test the precise relationship between human appearance and warship-scale durability by firing a naval weapon directly into a girl's torso.

That would have been monstrous.

Now a hostile landing craft had effectively conducted the experiment.

And the result challenged an assumption almost everyone had been making.

Kade considered the report.

Then spoke carefully.

“Do not disseminate a conclusion that all Keelborn are immune to gunfire.”

Mara nodded immediately.

“Agreed.”

“One incident. One apparent weapon caliber. One impact location. Unknown angle, projectile condition, and exact interaction with her equipment.”

Aaron was already writing.

Kade continued.

“She may have suffered more serious internal damage than the initial witnesses can identify.”

Victor nodded.

“Medical assessment requested.”

“Good.”

The Commander looked toward the defensive chart.

His expression became thoughtful.

Then he added:

“But if the report is accurate, their apparent human bodies may preserve more of their warship durability than we've established.”

Mara looked toward him.

For a moment, she seemed almost disturbed.

“Enough to stop a naval shell.”

Kade nodded slowly.

“Apparently.”

The Chief lowered her eyes.

The information was extraordinary.

It might eventually change protective-equipment standards, battlefield medicine, training procedures, and the way officers thought about Keelborn safety.

It might explain why some girls survived impacts that seemed impossibly severe for human bodies.

It might even help clarify certain injuries recorded during earlier battles.

But those were questions for later.

For now, the important facts were much simpler.

A girl had been shot.

She was alive.

She was injured.

And she needed medical care.

Kade looked toward Victor.

“Tell her escort that withdrawing for examination is an order, not a suggestion.”

The communications officer nodded.

“Yes, Commander.”

A moment passed.

Then Mara raised an eyebrow.

“You think she'll argue?”

Kade regarded her.

“Chief.”

“Yes?”

“She is a destroyer girl.”

The Chief considered that.

Then sighed.

“Fair point.”

Kade looked toward the western approaches.

For a moment, his expression softened.

Then he continued:

“And tell the landing-force intercept group they did good work.”

Victor nodded.

The Commander picked up his pencil.

The disabled landing craft's marker had begun moving away from the channel.

He drew a small notation beside it.

FORWARD GUN DISABLED — WITHDRAWING.

Then he turned toward the next group of transports.

The enemy still had landing ships.

Still had troops.

And the western sea was still full of hostile warships.

The surprising durability of one Akizuki did not change any of that.

 

The Akizuki herself arrived at the emergency treatment station seven minutes later.

She was walking.

That was the first thing Irena Holt noticed.

The second was that she was arguing.

“I'm telling you, I can still fight!”

The Kitakaze girl escorting her looked ready to commit a minor crime.

“You were shot!”

“I noticed!”

“In the chest!”

“On the side!”

“That does not improve the situation!”

The Akizuki folded her arms.

Then immediately unfolded them because the movement caused a sharp pain beneath her ribs.

“Ow.”

The Kitakaze pointed.

“SEE?”

Irena stepped forward.

“Both of you.”

The girls stopped.

The doctor looked toward the injured Akizuki.

“Sit.”

The destroyer opened her mouth.

Irena raised one eyebrow.

The Akizuki closed it.

Then sat.

The physician examined the damaged clothing.

The scorched area.

The outer rigging interface.

The bruising beneath it.

For several seconds, she remained quiet.

Then she looked toward the Kitakaze.

“Describe the impact.”

The girl did.

Carefully.

She explained the landing craft's deck gun.

The short range.

The direct hit.

The violent sideways movement.

The spray.

The moment she believed her companion was dead.

Then the impossible sight of the Akizuki rising from the water.

Irena listened.

Her expression became steadily more serious.

When the account ended, she looked toward the patient.

The Akizuki avoided her eyes.

For a moment, the doctor considered that.

Then she spoke.

“Where does it hurt?”

The destroyer hesitated.

Then answered:

“Everywhere.”

Irena nodded.

“That seems reasonable.”

The girl blinked.

For a moment, she seemed surprised.

Then the doctor examined the injury more closely.

The damaged clothing had not concealed the sort of catastrophic wound that a high-explosive shell striking an ordinary human body ought to produce.

Instead, there was deep bruising, a scorched impact area, and damage to the surrounding protective fittings.

The girl's skin remained largely intact.

Her breathing was uncomfortable but stable.

The affected area was painful to pressure.

And the equipment interfaces nearby showed signs of having absorbed or transmitted forces far beyond their normal handling conditions.

Irena frowned.

She did not understand everything she was seeing.

That bothered her.

It also made her more cautious.

“Any dizziness?”

The Akizuki hesitated.

“A little.”

“Difficulty breathing?”

“When I move.”

“Pain here?”

The doctor pressed gently along a nearby area.

The destroyer winced.

“Yes.”

Irena nodded.

“Right.”

She looked toward the medical assistant.

“Respiratory assessment, imaging if the available equipment permits, and continuous observation until we've ruled out significant internal injury.”

The assistant nodded.

The Akizuki stared.

“Continuous observation?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“As long as necessary.”

The girl's expression fell.

“But the battle—”

“Will continue without you until we know you are safe to return.”

The Akizuki opened her mouth.

Then closed it.

For a moment, she looked toward the Kitakaze.

Her companion folded her arms.

The expression on her face said very clearly that no assistance would be forthcoming.

The injured destroyer sighed.

“Fine.”

Irena examined the bruise again.

For several seconds, she was silent.

Then she asked:

“Did you feel the impact as pain, pressure, or something else?”

The girl considered that.

For a moment, she seemed genuinely uncertain.

Then she answered:

“It was like getting punched by a truck.”

The doctor nodded.

“Go on.”

“And like something hit my armor.”

“Your rigging?”

The Akizuki shook her head.

“Me.”

Irena looked up.

The girl continued.

“I felt the hit here.”

She indicated the injured area.

“Then everything around me shook. It was like the entire ship got hit.”

The doctor remained still.

For several seconds, she considered the implications.

Then she asked:

“Did you feel as though your body was being struck separately from your rigging?”

The Akizuki frowned.

“No.”

A pause.

Then she added:

“Not exactly.”

Irena waited.

The girl looked toward her damaged support fitting.

For a moment, she seemed to be searching for words.

Then she answered:

“It all felt connected.”

The doctor slowly nodded.

That was important.

Not conclusive.

But important.

The patient appeared to experience her body and associated warship structure as parts of one physical system during the impact.

The protective response had not been confined to an external armor plate.

It had involved the Keelborn herself.

Irena looked toward the medical assistant.

“Document that wording exactly.”

The assistant nodded.

The Akizuki blinked.

For a moment, she seemed embarrassed.

“Did I say something weird?”

Irena looked toward her.

Then smiled gently.

“No.”

A pause.

“You said something very useful.”

The destroyer considered that.

Then nodded.

“Oh.”

For a moment, she seemed almost pleased.

Then she winced.

“Ow.”

The Kitakaze sighed.

Irena looked toward her.

“Your friend can remain here if she doesn't interfere with treatment.”

The Kitakaze straightened immediately.

“Yes, Doctor.”

The Akizuki looked horrified.

“She's going to lecture me!”

The Kitakaze folded her arms.

“Absolutely.”

Irena almost smiled.

Then she returned to examining the injury.

The girl had survived.

That was extraordinary.

But she was still a patient.

And the doctor intended to keep her that way until she understood what had happened.

 

In the harbor-defense command post, the news spread with surprising speed.

Not because somebody deliberately announced that Keelborn were invincible.

The officers were careful about that.

Rather, the rumor began in the ordinary way.

A Kitakaze girl mentioned that her friend had survived being struck by a deck-gun shell.

Another destroyer overheard.

A maintenance technician asked whether the report meant the shell had bounced off armor.

Someone answered that the shell had struck the girl herself.

A cruiser overheard the question.

Then the entire story acquired the sort of momentum normally associated with sailors discovering that the galley had accidentally produced edible coffee.

By the time it reached Riko, the account had become almost unbelievable.

The Akizuki had apparently been shot directly in the body.

Thrown into the sea.

Come back up.

Cursed at the enemy.

And destroyed the gun that had fired at her.

Riko stared at the radio.

For several seconds, she couldn't speak.

Then she looked toward Scarlett.

“Did you hear that?”

The South Dakota-class girl nodded slowly.

“Yes.”

Riko looked down at her own body.

Then toward the enormous Yamato-class machinery surrounding her.

For a moment, she seemed to be reevaluating several assumptions.

Scarlett noticed.

“Don't.”

Riko looked up.

“What?”

The older battleship girl's expression became serious.

“Don't start wondering what you can survive.”

Riko blinked.

Scarlett continued.

“That Akizuki survived a particular hit under particular circumstances. It doesn't tell us what happens if a heavier shell strikes a vulnerable area, if her Pendant is damaged, or if the blast catches her equipment in a different way.”

The younger battleship lowered her eyes.

For several seconds, she considered that.

Then she nodded.

“Right.”

Scarlett's expression softened.

“Be glad she's alive.”

Riko looked toward the eastern medical district.

Then smiled faintly.

“I am.”

A pause.

Then the Yamato-class girl looked toward the enemy fleet again.

Her expression hardened.

“And I hope they don't try it again.”

Scarlett nodded.

“So do I.”

Above them, Koharu's floatplane continued circling within its assigned observation area.

And far beyond the reef, the enemy battleship was preparing another salvo.

 

Chapayev Learns What Damage Control Means

Inside Chapayev, the sea was entering places where the ship's designers had never intended it to be.

The starboard machinery-space damage had opened a path for flooding.

The initial shock had damaged electrical distribution.

Fire had spread through several adjoining compartments.

The cruiser had lost speed.

Her list had increased before the damage-control teams managed to isolate the worst of the flooding.

Now the crew fought to prevent the situation from deteriorating further.

It was ugly work.

There was very little romance in it.

Men and women moved through hot, smoke-filled passageways carrying tools, extinguishers, emergency lamps, and portable communications equipment.

Some wore breathing protection.

Others hauled hoses.

Several were checking compartment doors and watertight boundaries.

An engineer knelt beside a damaged valve, trying to determine whether it could be isolated without disabling another important system.

The floor beneath her feet was no longer level.

That made everything harder.

Water moved along one side of the passage.

A loose equipment case slid against a bulkhead.

The cruiser groaned as the sea lifted her.

For a moment, the engineer stopped.

Listened.

Then returned to work.

She had been a former player before Hour Zero.

A university student.

Someone who enjoyed mechanical systems, naval history, and the technical challenges of the game.

She had never expected to spend a real morning inside a flooding cruiser while the ship's injured crew shouted for help.

But the emergency was real.

So she worked.

The machinery did not care whether she had expected this.

 

On Chapayev's bridge, the captain stood beside the damaged navigation equipment with one hand resting against the railing.

She was a former player.

Her crew included men and women from the original Earth.

They had spent nearly two months learning to operate a real warship.

Some had been remarkably successful.

Others were still struggling with the consequences of their own earlier enthusiasm.

Now the captain looked toward the list indicator.

The ship remained heeled to starboard.

Not as badly as before.

But enough.

The damage-control officer reported that the worst flooding had been isolated.

Counterflooding was being applied carefully where necessary to restore stability without unnecessarily sacrificing reserve buoyancy.

The remaining propulsion system was functioning at reduced power.

The cruiser could still move.

That was good.

Unfortunately, she could not move quickly.

And her damaged hull was still exposed to Horizon's heavy batteries.

The captain looked toward the west.

Then the shore.

For a moment, she felt sick.

She remembered the briefing.

Horizon Atoll is a low-tier naval support location.

Limited defensive forces.

Valuable Keelborn resources.

Compliance likely after demonstration of overwhelming force.

She looked toward the smoke rising from Baltimore.

Then toward the damaged machinery spaces beneath her feet.

The briefing had not mentioned this.

Not properly.

It had not prepared her for the sound of wounded sailors.

Or the smell of burned insulation.

Or the fact that one of the men she had spoken with over breakfast was now missing.

She reached for the communications microphone.

“Chapayev to Fleet Command. Severe damage sustained. Starboard flooding contained but not eliminated. Propulsion restricted. Request permission to withdraw from bombardment position.”

The answer came after several seconds.

“Chapayev, maintain position if combat capability remains.”

The captain stared.

For a moment, she thought she'd misheard.

Then she answered:

“Negative. We are listing and require immediate damage-control assistance.”

A pause.

“Fleet Command advises that withdrawal before suppression of enemy batteries will weaken the central screen.”

The captain looked toward the damaged bridge.

One of her officers had a bandage around his head.

Another was trying to reestablish a broken communications line.

She glanced toward the list indicator.

Then raised the microphone again.

“My ship cannot continue effective bombardment. I am withdrawing to preserve the crew.”

Silence.

A moment later, the response returned.

“Chapayev, your withdrawal is not authorized.”

The captain closed her eyes.

For several seconds, she was perfectly still.

Then she looked toward the damage-control report.

A sailor had died in the forward machinery section.

Another was missing.

Several were wounded.

And the water remained dangerously close to sensitive electrical equipment.

She opened her eyes.

Then answered:

“Understood.”

She lowered the microphone.

The executive officer looked toward her.

“Captain?”

For a moment, she remained quiet.

Then she spoke.

“Bring us around.”

He stared.

“Fleet Command—”

“I heard them.”

The captain looked toward the western sea.

For several seconds, her expression hardened.

Then she continued.

“We're leaving the firing line.”

The executive officer swallowed.

Then nodded.

“Yes, Captain.”

The helmsman began the turn.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Chapayev's damaged machinery responded.

The cruiser moved away from Horizon.

And the captain discovered that the first act of real command sometimes involved deciding that the person giving the orders was wrong.

 

At Horizon, Koharu saw the cruiser turning.

She raised her radio.

“Spotting Flight to Heavy Fire Control. Chapayev withdrawing from bombardment position. Significant list remains. No current fire observed from main battery.”

The controller acknowledged.

Koharu watched.

For several seconds, she remained uncertain.

Then the observer reported another detail.

“She's moving away.”

Koharu nodded.

“Yes.”

The cruiser was no longer approaching Horizon.

Its damaged hull was turning westward.

The captain had apparently decided that remaining within reach of the island's battleship group was a bad idea.

Koharu transmitted the updated course.

A moment later, Horizon's fire-control officer answered.

“Chapayev classified as withdrawing. Cease assigned heavy fire unless hostile engagement resumes.”

Koharu exhaled.

For a moment, she felt relieved.

Then she looked toward the smoke trailing from the cruiser.

She wondered how many people were hurt.

The question troubled her.

She did not regret helping the battleship group disable an attacking ship.

But seeing the result from above was different from watching a target marker disappear on a tactical chart.

There were people aboard.

Some might be frightened.

Some might be trapped.

Some might be trying to save their friends.

She looked toward the ocean.

Then whispered:

“Please get away.”

The observer glanced toward her.

“What?”

Koharu shook her head.

“Nothing.”

She adjusted the aircraft's course.

Then returned her attention to the next target.

The enemy had not finished attacking.

Neither could she.

 

The Forward Magazine

Baltimore was dying from the bow backward.

Her forwardmost turret had been destroyed by the magazine explosion.

The blast had torn open compartments whose watertight integrity could not be restored during combat.

Several forward spaces were flooded.

Others were burning.

The ship's remaining machinery could provide limited power, but the bow was settling into the water.

The surviving captain had been carried from the damaged bridge with serious injuries.

His executive officer now held command.

For several minutes, the man had attempted to organize a coherent damage-control response while receiving contradictory reports from every direction.

The forward magazine area was destroyed.

The fire in the adjoining compartments was spreading.

The remaining magazines had been isolated and threatened spaces flooded where necessary to prevent another catastrophic explosion.

Electrical power to sections of the ship had failed.

Several escape routes were blocked.

The medical team was overwhelmed.

And the cruiser could no longer make a safe turn without worsening the flooding.

The executive officer stared toward the bow.

For a moment, he felt the enormous temptation to order everyone to remain at their stations and somehow save the ship.

That was what an officer was supposed to do.

Fight the damage.

Keep the vessel afloat.

Maintain discipline.

But Baltimore's forward hull had been devastated by an ammunition explosion.

The ship's condition was getting worse.

He looked toward the chief engineer.

The older man shook his head.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then the executive officer swallowed.

“Can we save her?”

The engineer looked toward the flooded forward compartments.

His expression was exhausted.

For a moment, he seemed reluctant to answer.

Then he spoke.

“Not without help we don't have.”

The executive officer lowered his eyes.

Outside, the sea moved against the damaged hull.

The bow settled farther.

The officer closed his eyes.

For a moment, he thought of the ship as it had existed before the Crisis.

A digital warship.

A powerful cruiser.

Something they'd selected because its eight-inch guns, armor, and antiaircraft battery looked impressive.

He remembered the first time the crew had successfully brought the real machinery online.

The cheering.

The photographs.

The ridiculous celebration in the mess.

Now the bow was sinking.

And men were dead.

He opened his eyes.

Then reached for the emergency communications circuit.

“Prepare to abandon ship.”

The order spread through Baltimore.

For a moment, several sailors simply stared.

Then the chief petty officers began moving.

Life rafts.

Emergency equipment.

Casualty evacuation.

Damage-control boundaries.

The wounded first, where movement was possible.

The crew knew what the words meant.

Some understood immediately.

Others needed to hear them twice.

But eventually, the sailors began leaving the spaces that could no longer be defended.

And Baltimore's executive officer looked toward Ironwake.

He raised the fleet radio.

“Ironwake, Baltimore. Forward magazine detonated. Catastrophic structural damage. We are abandoning ship. Request rescue assistance.”

The reply came after a short delay.

“Baltimore, Fleet Command receiving. Nearest escort directed to assist.”

The executive officer swallowed.

Then answered:

“Understood.”

He lowered the microphone.

For a moment, he looked toward the sea.

Horizon remained visible in the distance.

Smoke rose above the island's western shore.

The defenders were still fighting.

The cruiser had fired at them.

The defenders had fired back.

That was how wars worked.

He knew that.

And yet he felt an almost childish disbelief that his ship could be destroyed.

Not inconvenienced.

Not temporarily disabled.

Destroyed.

The executive officer looked toward the men assembling at the evacuation stations.

For a moment, the truth became unbearably simple.

They should never have come here.

 

The first Baltimore sailors entered the water while explosions continued farther east.

A PCA destroyer Keelborn moved toward the damaged cruiser to assist with rescue.

Her crew—or, rather, the girl herself and her assigned support personnel—had been instructed to recover survivors while remaining outside Horizon's active heavy-gun sectors.

She approached cautiously.

The sea around Baltimore was filled with floating debris.

Pieces of metal.

Damaged equipment.

Oil.

Fragments of lifeboats.

Men shouting.

Some waving.

Others struggling to remain above the surface.

The destroyer girl looked toward the shattered forward section.

For a moment, she seemed horrified.

Then she swallowed.

And began helping.

She extended a rescue line.

A floating sailor grabbed it.

She hauled him closer.

Another man was brought alongside.

Then another.

A lifeboat approached with several injured crewmen aboard.

The girl adjusted her rigging to provide a sheltered recovery position.

Her machinery remained ready to maneuver if more shells arrived.

But Horizon's heavy fire did not follow the rescue effort.

For several minutes, that fact seemed almost unbelievable.

The PCA had been told the defenders were hostile.

That they would fight to preserve illegal assets.

That they would resist legitimate campaign authority.

Now its own wounded sailors were being recovered beneath the guns of the enemy.

And the enemy was not firing at them.

The destroyer girl looked toward Horizon.

For a moment, her expression changed.

Then she returned to the rescue.

There were people in the water.

And they needed help.

That was enough.

 

In Operations, the report of Baltimore's evacuation reached Kade while he was reviewing the latest air-defense losses.

He looked up.

“Baltimore?”

Aaron nodded.

“Abandoning ship. PCA escorts conducting rescue operations.”

The Commander took a breath.

Then looked toward the heavy-gun controller.

“Confirm no fire on rescue craft.”

The officer nodded.

“Already ordered.”

“Good.”

Mara glanced toward him.

“They were shelling us ten minutes ago.”

Kade nodded.

“Yes.”

The Chief looked toward the map.

For a moment, she seemed conflicted.

Then the Commander spoke quietly.

“And now they're trying to keep people from drowning.”

Mara lowered her eyes.

Kade continued.

“We've stopped Baltimore's bombardment. That's the military objective.”

He looked toward the smoke rising from the cruiser marker.

“We don't gain anything by killing men in lifeboats.”

The Chief nodded.

“No.”

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Aaron asked:

“Should we broadcast safe rescue conditions?”

Kade considered that.

Then nodded.

“Yes. Make it clear that rescue craft must remain outside the designated defensive boundary and identify themselves. We'll hold fire on properly marked rescue operations that aren't being used to conceal a renewed attack.”

The lieutenant nodded.

“Understood.”

Kade returned to the chart.

His expression hardened again.

The enemy was still coming.

And now its remaining warships had a reason to be angry.

That made the next phase more dangerous.

Not less.

 

The Battleship in the Distance

Ironwake's captain did not enjoy being told that one of his cruisers was sinking.

He particularly disliked being informed that the other was withdrawing without permission.

The two reports arrived less than four minutes apart.

Chapayev had sustained major damage and begun leaving the bombardment formation.

Baltimore had suffered a forward magazine detonation and was being abandoned.

A large part of the PCA's intended surface fire-support arrangement had ceased to exist before the landing ships even reached Horizon's beaches.

The captain stood on Ironwake's bridge with a telephone receiver in his hand.

For several seconds, he remained perfectly still.

Then he slowly set it down.

“What happened to our air suppression?”

The operations officer looked toward the air plot.

“Enemy antiaircraft defenses remain active. Our first strike groups encountered significant resistance.”

“From what?”

“Cruiser batteries. Keelborn antiaircraft units. Enemy fighters.”

The captain frowned.

“They have one carrier.”

“Confirmed Illustrious-class unit, sir. Possibly limited additional aviation capabilities.”

“One carrier.”

The officer hesitated.

“Yes.”

The captain stared toward Horizon.

For a moment, he appeared unable to understand why that was not enough information to solve the problem.

Seven PCA carriers had been available to support the operation.

The island possessed one known operational fleet carrier Keelborn whose Intermediate rigging had only recently entered service.

By the simplest possible comparison, the outcome should have been obvious.

Seven was more than one.

Therefore the PCA should control the air.

The problem was that aircraft did not fight by arithmetic.

Some were unavailable.

Some were waiting for launch clearance.

Some were covering the fleet.

Some had been assigned to reconnaissance.

Others were returning from previous patrols and needed fuel.

And the aircraft that actually approached Horizon encountered a layered defense that included experienced antiaircraft cruisers, prepared shore batteries, and fairies who had been told exactly where they could engage.

The captain was not ignorant of naval aviation.

But he had underestimated the time required to turn seven carriers into a coordinated strike force.

Now he was paying for it.

He looked toward the air operations report.

“Tell the carrier group to concentrate suppression efforts against the heavy Keelborn positions.”

The officer nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

“And the coastal fire-control stations.”

“Yes.”

The captain looked toward the smoke rising from Baltimore.

For several seconds, his expression remained cold.

Then he continued.

“Reassess the enemy's main-battery positions. I want Ironwake's next salvo directed at the battleship group.”

The operations officer hesitated.

“Sir, they're inside the lagoon. Some are partially masked by the island's terrain.”

“Then find the sectors they can fire through.”

“Yes, Captain.”

The battleship commander turned toward the gunnery plot.

He had expected Horizon to collapse beneath the intimidation of his fleet.

Instead, the island had returned fire.

His cruisers were damaged.

His landing ships were being driven away from the channels.

And his aircraft were suffering losses.

The situation remained favorable in terms of numbers.

But the defenders had made it clear that they intended to use their weapons.

He considered that.

Then gave another order.

“Bring the main battery to bear.”

The guns began moving.

And far away, the people of Horizon prepared for the next blow.

 

The trouble with spotting a battleship beyond the horizon was that the enemy could spot you too.

Riko understood this when Koharu's voice changed.

Until that moment, the fairy pilot had been reporting Chapayev's withdrawal and attempting to maintain observation of the remaining hostile cruisers.

Then she went quiet.

For several seconds, Riko heard only the engine noise transmitted through the radio.

“Koharu?”

A pause.

Then the little pilot answered.

“Riko, we have enemy fighters moving toward the observation sector.”

The Yamato-class girl went still.

“How many?”

Koharu's voice remained professional.

“Two confirmed. Possibly more behind them. We're turning away.”

Riko's stomach tightened.

The aircraft was small.

Slow compared with dedicated fighters.

And equipped for reconnaissance rather than sustained air combat.

She looked toward the western sky.

Could not see it.

The floatplane was too far away.

“Koharu, come back!”

The fairy answered quickly.

“Working on it.”

The engine noise increased.

Riko swallowed.

The carrier air-defense circuit crackled.

Yuna was listening too.

“Yamato spotting flight, this is Yuna. Defensive fighters are being redirected toward your withdrawal corridor. Maintain the announced heading and do not climb into the enemy patrol altitude.”

Koharu acknowledged.

“Understood.”

Riko looked toward Yuna's position.

The Illustrious-class girl was already preparing the intercept.

Several of her fairies were still in the air.

Not many.

Enough, perhaps, to distract the enemy fighters.

The Yamato-class girl's heart began hammering.

For several seconds, she could do nothing except listen.

That was a terrible feeling.

Her equipment carried the largest main guns in Horizon's active Keelborn group.

She could throw enormous shells across the sea.

She could threaten a cruiser far beyond direct visual range when the fire-control system possessed appropriate information.

But she could not reach into the sky and protect one tiny pilot simply because she wanted to.

Her antiaircraft weapons were available.

The approaching fighters, however, were too far from her immediate defensive sector for a reliable engagement, and indiscriminate fire might endanger Koharu as much as the enemy.

Riko looked toward the western sky.

Then whispered:

“Please.”

The radio crackled.

Koharu's voice returned.

“Still moving. They're closing.”

Then another voice.

Yuna's fighter leader.

“Spotting flight, friendly fighters approaching from east. Keep descending toward the designated corridor.”

Koharu answered.

“Copy.”

Riko closed her eyes.

For one moment, she imagined the little floatplane breaking apart beneath enemy fire.

Then she opened them again.

No.

She would not decide that Koharu was doomed before the pilot had finished trying to survive.

She raised her microphone.

“Koharu, listen to Yuna. Don't worry about our guns.”

A pause.

Then the fairy answered:

“You better get another firing solution later.”

Riko's throat tightened.

Then she managed a small smile.

“I will.”

The radio clicked.

And high above the Pacific, Koharu's floatplane began a desperate flight toward home.

 

The two PCA fighters had approached from above and behind the reconnaissance aircraft.

Their pilots had been ordered to drive away enemy spotters before the defenders could refine their artillery fire.

It was a sensible mission.

Dangerous to the reconnaissance aircraft.

Necessary from the PCA's point of view.

The first enemy pilot began descending.

Koharu saw the fighter's shadow cross the water far below.

Then the aircraft itself appeared behind her.

The observer shouted.

“Fighter closing!”

Koharu adjusted the controls.

The floatplane banked.

Its engine strained.

The fighter continued descending.

The little aircraft could not win a contest of speed.

Koharu knew that.

She tried to make herself a difficult target instead.

The first burst of machine-gun fire passed beneath the left wing.

Tracers disappeared into the sea.

Koharu felt her stomach twist.

Then she turned again.

The fighter overshot.

For one brief moment, there was space.

She used it to descend toward the protective corridor.

The observer checked the radio.

“Friendly fighters approaching!”

Koharu nodded.

“Good!”

The enemy fighter turned.

Its wingman began another approach.

Koharu looked toward the bright eastern sky.

Then she saw two small aircraft moving toward her.

Yuna's fighters.

For a moment, relief almost made her dizzy.

Then the enemy wingman fired.

A short burst struck the floatplane's outer wing.

Fabric tore.

A small portion of the structure splintered.

The aircraft shuddered.

Koharu gasped.

The controls became heavier.

The observer looked toward the damaged wing.

“Still attached!”

Koharu almost laughed.

“Excellent news!”

She kept the aircraft moving.

Then Yuna's fighter leader arrived.

The friendly aircraft passed between the floatplane and the attacking enemy.

A burst of fire crossed the sky.

The PCA fighter rolled away.

Its wingman turned to engage the new threat.

For several seconds, the airspace became a knot of moving aircraft.

Koharu did not remain to watch.

She reduced her descent slightly.

Maintained a manageable speed.

And headed toward Horizon.

Her wing was damaged.

The floatplane still flew.

She intended to keep it that way.

 

At the aviation station, Yuna listened to the reports.

The reconnaissance flight was approaching friendly airspace.

One wing damaged.

No confirmed injuries to its fairies.

Enemy fighters engaged by her defensive section.

The carrier's hands were clenched so tightly that her knuckles had gone pale.

She had seen too many aircraft fail to return.

Now another was struggling home.

Yuna looked toward the recovery personnel.

“Prepare for emergency floatplane assistance.”

The aviation officer nodded.

“Yes.”

“Notify Riko's equipment crew that the aircraft may need an alternate recovery point.”

“Understood.”

Yuna raised her radio.

“Koharu, this is Yuna. Your recovery arrangements are being prepared. Can you maintain control?”

A pause.

Then the fairy answered:

“Yes. Left wing damaged, but control remains. We can make the lagoon.”

Yuna closed her eyes briefly.

Then opened them.

“Good. Stay within the friendly approach corridor. No unnecessary turns.”

Koharu acknowledged.

A moment later, Riko's voice joined the circuit.

“Koharu!”

Yuna blinked.

The fairy pilot answered.

“Still alive!”

Riko swallowed.

“Please stop scaring me!”

A pause.

Then Koharu replied:

“Tell the enemy fighters!”

Despite everything, Yuna laughed.

Only briefly.

Then she looked toward the sky.

The floatplane was returning.

And the enemy's next bombardment was already beginning.

 

Ironwake fired at six thirty-nine.

Her main turrets discharged in a carefully timed sequence.

The giant shells left the barrels.

The muzzle flashes rolled over the ship.

The concussion shook the sea.

The firing data had been adjusted using the available observations of Horizon's heavy-battery positions.

The solution remained imperfect.

The enemy battleship did not possess clear visual contact with every Keelborn inside the protected lagoon.

But it had enough information to threaten the known firing sectors.

That was dangerous.

Very dangerous.

The first shells landed along the outer reef.

Water erupted hundreds of feet into the air.

The second group struck the western edge of the defensive channel.

A massive explosion shattered an abandoned concrete emplacement.

The third landed dangerously close to the Kongō-class girl's assigned position.

She saw the incoming shell only in the final instant.

A brief, dark movement above the water.

Then the sea exploded beside her.

The concussion struck the rigging.

Her stabilizing systems reacted.

A wall of spray engulfed the machinery.

For a moment, she disappeared behind white water.

The fire-control circuit went silent.

Then her voice returned.

“Kongō battery! Near miss! Equipment responding!”

The controller acknowledged.

Another shell struck farther south.

The blast shook the Sevastopol-class girl's position.

Nadya felt the water rise beneath her.

Her equipment rolled with the pressure.

The support assemblies compensated.

She gritted her teeth.

Then raised the radio.

“Nadya. No direct hit. Maintaining station.”

Riko watched the spray columns with widening eyes.

The explosions were enormous.

Beyond anything she'd experienced in training.

She had been proud of her Yamato-class guns.

Now she was being reminded what heavy battleship artillery looked like from the other end.

Another shell struck the reef.

A vast column of water rose.

The Yamato-class girl flinched.

Then forced herself to remain steady.

Scarlett's voice sounded across the circuit.

“Heavy Group, maintain separation. Do not crowd the inner channel.”

The girls acknowledged.

The equipment moved.

Carefully.

There was limited room to maneuver, but remaining motionless beneath enemy fire was equally dangerous.

Riko looked toward the western sea.

For one terrible moment, she wanted to fire every gun she possessed directly at Ironwake.

Make the battleship stop.

Make the shells stop.

Make the enemy understand what it felt like to be under attack.

Then she remembered Kade's instructions.

Don't chase the largest ship on principle.

She clenched her jaw.

Her fire-control solution for Ironwake was still unreliable.

Koharu was returning with damaged aircraft.

The other spotters were occupied.

And firing without a useful solution would squander ammunition while exposing her position again.

Riko swallowed.

Then forced herself to wait.

The restraint hurt.

But she understood why it mattered.

 

The fourth shell from Ironwake's salvo landed close enough to the harbor to break windows in the outer repair offices.

A maintenance crew sheltering beneath a reinforced walkway felt the explosion as a tremendous pressure wave.

Dust filled the passage.

A tool cabinet toppled.

One worker fell.

Another caught him before he struck the floor.

For several seconds, nobody moved.

Then the emergency lights flickered on.

The crew leader looked around.

“Everybody?”

One voice answered.

Then another.

A third coughed.

The fallen worker sat up, holding one wrist.

He appeared injured.

But conscious.

The crew leader counted.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

All present.

He released a breath.

Then looked toward the shaking ceiling.

“Stay under cover.”

Nobody argued.

Outside, another enemy shell fell into the sea.

The harbor trembled.

And the repair workers waited while the enormous forces beyond the reef decided how much damage the island would suffer.

 

Breakwater Remembers What She Is

Daniel Mercer stood on Breakwater's bridge listening to the distant gunfire.

The battleship remained alongside her repair berth.

Several major systems were still unavailable.

The electrical network had temporary restrictions.

Damage-control parties were stationed throughout the hull.

Her crew had prepared the systems Engineering considered safe to operate, but Mercer had no illusions about returning the ship to unrestricted service.

He also understood something else.

The enemy was shelling his home.

Not an abstract base on a map.

The place where his crew had buried Thomas Reed.

The place where Mateo Alvarez's sister had come seeking news of her brother.

The harbor whose technicians had worked desperately to keep Breakwater alive.

The station whose Commander had allowed his sailors to grieve.

Mercer looked toward the western horizon.

The distant flashes of Ironwake's guns were visible.

For a moment, he imagined sailing out.

Bringing Breakwater's fourteen-inch batteries into action.

Fighting another battleship in a proper surface engagement.

Then he looked toward the repair status board.

The fantasy disappeared.

Breakwater was not ready.

Her hull and machinery had not been restored to combat service.

Her fire-control equipment could support limited defensive work under the right conditions, but the ship could not freely maneuver.

And the men aboard had already lost enough comrades to decisions made under pressure.

Mercer turned toward Adrian Cole.

“Status?”

The executive officer checked the report.

“Available defensive circuits remain stable. Damage-control teams standing by. Main propulsion unavailable for unrestricted movement.”

Mercer nodded.

“Gunnery?”

“Limited readiness. Engineering has cleared the designated mounts for emergency defensive fire, subject to local safety checks.”

The captain looked toward the western sea.

For a moment, he considered the difference between having guns and having a useful target.

The enemy battleship was far away.

The cruisers were moving.

The Keelborn heavy group was already engaging.

And the harbor's defenders needed accurate information more than another uncontrolled blast from a stationary ship in a repair berth.

He looked toward the gunnery officer.

“Maintain readiness. No firing without proper solution and clearance.”

The officer nodded.

“Yes, Captain.”

Mercer continued.

“Keep our damage-control parties under cover. The first shell that hits this berth could turn a bad morning into a disaster.”

Adrian nodded.

“Understood.”

The captain looked toward the men at their stations.

For a moment, his expression softened.

Then another distant explosion rolled across the harbor.

Mercer turned toward the west again.

His jaw tightened.

He had never particularly enjoyed being unable to help.

But he had learned that forcing a damaged battleship into a fight was not always assistance.

Sometimes it merely created another casualty.

He looked toward the communications officer.

“Maintain contact with Horizon Operations.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if the enemy shifts fire toward the repair district, I want the warning immediately.”

“Understood.”

Mercer looked toward Breakwater's immense forward turrets.

The fourteen-inch guns remained silent.

For now.

The captain rested one hand against the bridge railing.

Then quietly said:

“Not today, old girl.”

He didn't know whether he meant the guns.

Or the ship.

Perhaps both.

Behind him, the crew continued its watches.

And Breakwater waited.

 

The Floatplane Comes Home

Koharu reached the eastern side of Horizon's protected airspace with one damaged wing, a very unhappy observer, and an engine that had begun making a noise neither fairy particularly appreciated.

The F1M floatplane was still flying.

That was the important part.

It was also becoming increasingly obvious that keeping it in the air indefinitely would be a poor decision.

The left wing had suffered damage during the enemy fighter's attack.

Part of the fabric covering was torn.

A structural section had been stressed.

The aircraft retained sufficient control to make a careful approach, but Koharu could feel the difference whenever she tried to bank.

The plane no longer responded with the clean confidence it had possessed at takeoff.

Her observer checked the radio again.

“Recovery station says calm water available.”

Koharu nodded.

“Good.”

“They want us to use the eastern approach.”

“Also good.”

The observer hesitated.

Then added:

“Riko is waiting.”

Koharu closed her eyes for half a second.

“Of course she is.”

The observer smiled faintly.

“She sounds worried.”

Koharu looked toward the damaged wing.

Then toward the lagoon.

“She should be.”

The little pilot took a breath.

Then adjusted the aircraft's descent.

The water ahead shimmered beneath the morning sunlight.

Beyond it stood the enormous shapes of Horizon's Keelborn battleship rigging.

Riko was among them.

Even from the aircraft, Koharu could distinguish Yamato's immense main turrets.

The battleship girl had moved to the designated recovery sector after receiving clearance from Heavy Fire Control.

Her guns were temporarily secured.

Her attention was directed almost entirely toward the approaching aircraft.

Koharu spotted her.

For a moment, the pilot felt an irrational urge to wave.

Then she remembered that both hands were required to keep the damaged floatplane stable.

She settled for the radio.

“Yamato reconnaissance flight. Final approach. Tell Riko to stop staring.”

A pause.

Then the Yamato-class girl's voice came back.

“I'M NOT STARING!”

Koharu smiled despite herself.

The observer began laughing.

The little pilot shook her head.

“Honestly.”

Then the aircraft entered the final descent.

 

A floatplane recovery was not as simple as landing a wheeled aircraft on a runway.

Koharu needed suitable water.

A manageable approach.

Enough space to settle onto the floats without striking rigging or floating debris.

And a recovery team capable of securing the aircraft before the next wave or passing vessel created another problem.

Horizon had prepared the eastern water for precisely that purpose.

The area was calm compared with the outer approaches.

A small recovery craft waited nearby.

Riko's aviation-handling crew had checked the equipment needed to bring the floatplane back aboard her rigging.

Several fairies stood ready.

The damaged aircraft descended.

Koharu watched the water.

Its surface seemed to rise toward her.

She corrected slightly.

The left wing resisted.

She compensated.

The floats touched.

For a moment, the aircraft bounced.

A sharp jolt traveled through the cockpit.

Koharu gritted her teeth.

Then the floats settled again.

The aircraft skipped once more.

Finally, the plane slowed and began moving through the water rather than above it.

The little pilot released a breath.

“Down.”

The observer looked toward the wing.

“Still attached.”

Koharu laughed weakly.

“Wonderful.”

The recovery crew approached.

A line was secured.

The engine was brought to idle.

Then shut down.

For several seconds, Koharu remained in the cockpit listening to the sudden quiet.

Beyond the sheltered water, enemy gunfire continued.

The island was still being shelled.

Aircraft were still fighting overhead.

But she was down.

Alive.

The observer was alive.

The plane was damaged, yet recoverable.

For the moment, that was enough.

Then a familiar voice shouted from the recovery platform.

“KOHARU!”

The fairy looked up.

Riko stood beside the equipment, her dark hair moving in the sea breeze, the golden chrysanthemum ornament still secured in place despite the morning's extraordinary activity.

The Yamato-class girl's expression was a mixture of relief, anger, and the sort of concern that had evidently been accumulating throughout the entire flight.

Koharu climbed from the cockpit.

She raised one hand.

“Hello!”

Riko stared.

For a moment, she seemed unable to decide whether to hug the fairy or lecture her.

Then she leaned closer.

“You got shot!”

Koharu looked toward the damaged wing.

“Yes.”

“You almost crashed!”

“Didn't.”

“You were being chased by fighters!”

“Also true.”

Riko's expression became increasingly distressed.

The fairy considered that.

Then smiled.

“Did I get you a firing solution?”

The battleship girl stopped.

For several seconds, she stared.

Then her expression softened.

“Yes.”

Koharu nodded.

“Good.”

A pause.

Then she added:

“Did you hit anything?”

Riko looked toward the western sky.

For a moment, she seemed uncertain how to answer.

Then she nodded slowly.

“Yes.”

The fairy's eyes brightened.

“Really?”

Riko swallowed.

“We hit the enemy cruisers.”

Koharu considered that.

Then looked toward the distant smoke.

She knew.

She had seen the impacts.

But hearing the Yamato-class girl say it made the result feel different.

For a moment, the tiny pilot's expression became serious.

Then she nodded.

“Good.”

Riko looked down.

Koharu continued.

“Now can somebody get this thing repaired?”

The battleship girl blinked.

The fairy pointed toward the damaged wing.

“I'd rather not fly it like that again.”

Riko stared.

Then began laughing.

It escaped her all at once.

A bright, relieved sound that seemed almost absurd beneath the distant gunfire.

Koharu smiled.

The other fairies joined in.

For a few seconds, the entire recovery team laughed.

Then another explosion rolled across the island.

The moment ended.

Riko straightened.

Her expression became serious.

She looked toward the floatplane.

Then the little pilot.

“You're resting.”

Koharu opened her mouth.

Riko raised one finger.

“No arguing.”

The fairy stared.

For a moment, she appeared offended.

Then she folded her arms.

“Fine.”

Riko smiled faintly.

“Good.”

The little pilot looked toward the western sky.

Then back.

“Don't waste the information.”

Riko's expression hardened.

“I won't.”

The damaged aircraft was brought toward its servicing position.

Koharu and her observer were transferred to the aviation medical station for examination.

And the Yamato-class girl returned to her heavy-gun position.

She had learned something that morning.

Not about the size of her guns.

Not about the power of her rigging.

About the small people whose work made those guns useful.

She looked toward the western sea.

For a moment, her eyes narrowed.

Then she raised her radio.

“Riko to Heavy Fire Control. Reconnaissance flight recovered. Ready to receive updated targeting data from other observation stations.”

The controller acknowledged.

“Understood. Maintain defensive sector. Ironwake currently adjusting bombardment position.”

Riko nodded.

“Copy.”

She looked toward the immense main turrets.

Then toward the smoke rising over the outer reef.

For a moment, her expression became thoughtful.

The enemy had tried to destroy her spotter aircraft.

The pilot had survived.

The aircraft could be repaired.

And Horizon still possessed other means of observation.

The Yamato-class girl tightened her grip on the controls.

She had no intention of giving the enemy another easy chance.

 

At the western air-defense station, Calla checked the remaining ammunition figures.

They were not pleasant.

The initial interception had consumed a considerable amount of five-inch and automatic antiaircraft ammunition.

The defenses had succeeded in disrupting the PCA's first air attacks.

Several enemy aircraft had been shot down.

Others damaged.

A number had released their bombs prematurely or abandoned their attack runs.

But ammunition did not appear out of nowhere.

The magazines had finite capacity.

The feed systems required maintenance.

The guns themselves were heating under sustained use.

And the next wave of enemy aircraft was already approaching.

Calla looked toward the ammunition report.

Then the air plot.

For several seconds, she was quiet.

Finally, she raised her radio.

“Air Defense, Calla. Recommend tightening engagement discipline. No speculative long-range fire. Priority to aircraft entering actual attack paths.”

The controller acknowledged.

“Agreed. Revised engagement instructions forthcoming.”

Calla lowered the microphone.

Then looked toward Mina.

The Leander-class girl was checking her own equipment.

Her brunette hair had become untidy beneath the strain of the morning.

Her pear-shaped figure was partially hidden by the physical cruiser machinery surrounding her, and her expression had settled into one of exhausted concentration.

Calla called toward her.

“Mina!”

The younger cruiser looked up.

“Yes?”

“Temperature?”

Mina checked the equipment.

“Within limits.”

“Ammunition?”

“Enough for another engagement.”

Calla nodded.

“Good.”

Mina hesitated.

Then asked:

“Are we winning?”

The Atlanta-class girl considered the question.

For several seconds, she looked toward the western sky.

Enemy aircraft continued circling.

Smoke rose above the sea.

The battleship group had struck two conventional cruisers.

The landing force had been disrupted.

The island had taken damage.

The fight was continuing.

Finally, Calla answered:

“We're still here.”

Mina lowered her eyes.

For a moment, she seemed disappointed.

Then she nodded slowly.

“Right.”

Calla's expression softened.

She continued.

“And they're still trying to get in.”

Mina looked up.

The Atlanta-class girl smiled faintly.

“Which means they haven't succeeded.”

For several seconds, the Leander-class girl considered that.

Then she nodded.

“Okay.”

Calla turned toward the next approaching aircraft group.

“Now let's keep it that way.”

Mina straightened.

“Yes.”

The cruisers prepared their next defensive engagement.

(Ran out of room - again. Jeez, i need to watch how many words I type lmao)