January 4, 1641

GVE-Occupied Follicus Island

Captured HME Base

Fleet Admiral Alaric Dietrich leaned over the surface of a heavy wooden table, the edges of his eyes reddening like the last glimmers of a setting sun. His hand hesitated over the papers. “Karlmann must be joking,” he muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief and edged with disdain. The orders before him felt as if they were inked with folly rather than simple black.

In a room walled by maps and charts, he navigated through scattered reports of radio chatter, intelligently deduced patterns, and the nebulous musings of informants from Cartalpas. “Destroyed recon units, rumors from the ground, and still, we’re shooting in the dark,” he sighed. His finger traced lines on a map, stopping at Cartalpas and the thin blue lines indicating the sea routes.

“We’re blind, but we’re not deaf. The radio waves betray their steps even if those steps are leagues away,” his aide, Lieutenant Halifax, offered.

“Indeed. But it’s a shadow play,” Dietrich responded, the weariness in his voice grappling with resignation. He picked up a pencil and started to mark the map. “They’re beyond our reach, and I dare say, possibly beyond planning for.”

His eyes darted across the map toward the Follicus region. “We retreat from Cartalpas, and now they amass there. Dozens of ships, a supercarrier among them. What do we have in Follicus? Two-thirds of a Conquest Fleet – Hel, even two full Conquest Fleets are nothing compared to that.”

“We have ingenuity, Admiral. We have the will to adapt,” Halifax proposed, although Dietrich could hear the young officer’s apprehension.

Dietrich chuckled ruefully. “Ingenuity would suggest we retreat. There is little we can do to outsmart them; they have complete knowledge of our operations and have ships that strike from distances we can’t even fathom.

His finger tapped the Follicus region on the map, eyes narrowing. Still, we’ll do what we can. Summon the analysts and officers. It’s time to review our current strategies in light of these… unsettling developments.”

“We need to be prepared to rewrite the entire playbook,” he added, eyes resting briefly on the antique Muan clock that ticked away precious seconds.

Halifax nodded, turning to leave. “I’ll arrange it immediately, sir.”

Within moments, his staff officers assembled in the room. Well-accustomed to his temperament but nonetheless tense, they waited for him to speak. One of them, a younger Lieutenant Commander named Ehrlich, finally broke the silence. “Admiral, we have a new report from our informants, sent a few hours ago. At least a dozen American ships departing Cartalpas, including one of their… supercarriers.”

Dietrich gave a grim nod. “Supercarriers that make our Pegasus-class look outdated,” he said. “Let’s not entertain any fantasies about a direct confrontation.”

There was a heavy pause.

“Firstly, why the hell aren’t we mining the sea approaches to Follicus?” Dietrich snapped. “We’ve had nearly a week!”

Another officer cleared his throat, “Sir, it’s underway. But we’ve had to prioritize –”

“I don’t want excuses. Expedite it and begin deploying our fighters. I don’t want a single carrier to be sunk with more than half of its complement still on board. Instruct all crews to keep an eye out for aerial anomalies. Who knows, we might get lucky and actually shoot something down.”

Dietrich shifted his attention to a chart detailing the disposition of his forces around Follicus. His eyes moved from the flotilla of carriers situated behind the island to the smaller but no less essential vessels. “The Taurus-class cruisers at the outer perimeter… Move them forward,” he ordered, barely looking up from the chart. “And pull back some of our destroyers and light cruisers to the carriers; we need to increase our chances of shooting down their missiles, however small the probability may be.”

“Aye, sir,” Ehrlich replied.

Dietrich then looked at the markers denoting the Seehund-class submarines, moving them to a position north of Follicus Island. “Concentrate our subs and battleships here. They’ll be useless sitting next to our fleet. I anticipate their ships will strike close to the northern edge of Follicus, launching their missiles over land to reach our fleet behind the island.”

His gaze then shifted to a clock on the wall. The hands moved continuously, ticking away until the moment of confrontation that felt more like a reckoning. “Begin preparing for battle. No more delays.”

“Understood, Admiral.”

Dietrich sat down heavily in his chair, a sense of foreboding settling over him. His men were capable and his ships battle-tested, but they were nothing against the American forces. He knew this, and he knew Karlmann was aware of the discrepancy, so why force him to engage? He felt like a man throwing stones at a storm, futile but desperate to do something, anything, in the face of impending doom.

In that moment, a commotion at the entrance caught his attention. An officer hurried in, holding a sheaf of papers – more reports. Dietrich could only wonder what grim news they held.

– –

900 miles from Follicus Island,

USS North Carolina

Lieutenant Commander Eamon O’Sullivan navigated the maze of the Virginia-class submarine, a blend of steel and soft lighting that was home for months at a stretch. He pushed aside the curtain of the briefing room, stepping into a muted buzz of conversation. The room was filled with the heads of various departments – Navigation, Weapons, Engineering, Sonar – and standing near the head of the table was Captain Nathan Harper.

“Take your seats,” Harper instructed, pressing a button to display mission details on the main screen.

O’Sullivan caught the eyes of Senior Chief Johnson, the sonar operator, and Lieutenant Tamara Naik, the weapons officer. Everyone’s attention was riveted to the front.

“The Gerald R. Ford is launching air strikes at 1600 hours,” Harper began. “We’ll provide simultaneous missile saturation. Questions?”

Maddox, the Executive Officer, shook his head. “None, sir.”

“Senior Chief, sonar and anti-submarine outlook?” Harper prodded.

Johnson spoke, “They’ve got a surface and sub barrier sir, and a handful of forward scouts, all well within our missile envelope. Air patrols detected over Follicus Island.”

Harper then looked at Naik. “Weapons, loadout?”

“Two birds per target, sir. All tubes prepped for rapid reload.”

Captain Harper’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the room until finally landing his eyes on O’Sullivan. “Final checks within the hour, then radio silence. You know the drill. Execute.”

A succinct nod from O’Sullivan, and the room emptied in a disciplined exodus. Seaman took to their stations, the ambient chatter now replaced by a business-like focus. System checks began in earnest, O’Sullivan making his way through the control room. His ears caught fragments of conversations – coordinates, fuel levels, weapon status – each exchange building up to the climax of launch.

As he passed the weapons control station, O’Sullivan caught sight of Lieutenant Naik’s screen. It displayed an array of Tomahawk missile statuses; all green. Naik looked up and gave a nod, which he returned.

“Final comms check,” announced Lieutenant JG Villanueva from the communications station. His eyes flicked from the console to O’Sullivan, who gestured a thumbs-up.

Minutes later, a discrete chime signaled an incoming message. O’Sullivan moved to the central table, where Captain Harper was already examining. Harper looked up. “We have the green light. We’re a go.”

“Adjusting position for optimal firing range,” said O’Sullivan, eyes on the navigation console. A few keystrokes, and the thrum of the submarine changed pitch ever so slightly.

“Stations, report ready status,” Harper’s voice filled the brief silence.

One by one, each station confirmed its readiness while the North Carolina adjusted course. The sensation resonated through the deck; O’Sullivan could feel it through his boots.

“We’re in position, Captain,” he announced, eyes on the digital navigational chart displayed on his monitor.

Harper nodded then looked toward Naik. “Prep the missiles. Target two per carrier. Tubes one through twelve.”

Naik initialized the targeting sequence. “Missile tubes one through twelve pressurizing.” A low, resonant throb pulsed through the hull as the missile tubes pressurized, a sensation the crept up O’Sullivan’s spine.

“Pressurization complete. Tubes one through twelve primed and ready, Captain.”

Harper took a deep breath, his eyes meeting O’Sullivan’s briefly before turning back to the main screen. “Fire.”

“Mark,” he confirmed. A deep guttural rumble reverberated through the sub as twelve Tomahawk missiles surged from their tubes. The USS North Carolina shuddered, the sensation rippling through the vessels like a brief, contained earthquake.

“Missiles away,” Naik reported, her eyes already shifting toward the screen that displayed the remaining arsenal. “Preparing next set of Tomahawks now.”

– –

Seehund-class Fleet Submarine, GVS Erlkonig

Captain Freiherr leaned against a metal wall, yawning. They had been on a routine scouting mission for days now, almost a thousand miles away from Follicus Island. Yet, nothing happened since the initial retreat of the Fifth Conquest Fleet. The Americans never gave chase, leaving him with an uneventful past week.

He looked at his executive officer, Lieutenant Haas. A slight nod exchanged between them conveyed mutual understanding: all was normal, routine, almost drearily so. Haas returned his gaze to the navigation console, issuing low-voiced orders to adjust their depth for the next leg of their journey.

Freiherr felt the subtle change in the submarine’s tilt, the ever-so-minimal pressure against his back as the vessel adjusted its course. He found some comfort in these tactile constants. In a world submerged and soundproofed by the surrounding ocean, these were small affirmations of life and direction.

For all the professional readiness that knotted his stomach, Freiherr couldn’t entirely dismiss the rising feeling of expectation, like the moment before a storm breaks. But years of service had disciplined to package such sentiments neatly away, focusing solely on the mission –however mundane – at hand.

So far, that mission had given them nothing but open water and the distant call of sea creatures on the sonar. “No contracts, as usual,” the sonar operator reported.

“Very well,” Freiherr acknowledged. “Continue as planned.”

With that, he turned to walk back to his quarters, expecting another few hours of routine charts and reports. But before he could take more than a few steps, an uncharacteristic sound blared through the control room.

“Captain!” the sonar operator’s voice tore through the air. “We’ve got uh- uh- unidentified acoustic signature!”

Freiherr spun on his heels, his previous fatigue washed away by a wave of adrenaline. He rushed back to the control room. The mood had shifted palpably.

“What do we have, Lieutenant?”

The young sonar operator’s face looked as if he’d just seen a ghost. “It’s nothing I’ve ever heard before sir. It’s… well, I can’t quite describe it. Multiple intense frequencies in rapid succession, followed by a softer but higher-pitched sound. It’s ascending rapidly.”

Freiherr felt the weight of years and experience press on him. Whatever it was, it defied their understanding of naval warfare. “Haas, could it be a new species of underwater fauna? What are your thoughts?”

The executive officer squinted at the paper rolling out from the acoustic plotting table. “It’s too artificial to be an alien whale. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say something massive was being launched underwater. But the profile doesn’t match any torpedo or mine that we –”

The sonar operator yelled, “Sir, there’s more! Five- no, ten? A dozen?!”

“Comms, send a coded message to the Fleet Admiral immediately. Something unprecedented is happening.” Even as he spoke, Freiherr felt a gnawing uncertainty twisting his stomach. Were they witnessing a new type of weapon? A natural phenomenon? His eyes met Haas’, whose own gaze reflected the same unspoken questions.

Before they could contemplate further, another crew member at the communications station cut into their thoughts. “Sir, I can’t get through. It seems like something is jamming our transmission.”

Freiherr’s mind raced. They were blind and mute, with an unknown threat lurking in the deep. If it was a weapon, who was the target? They had no ships in the vicinity, and the ascending object clearly wasn’t going for them.

He refocused, locking eyes with each of his officers. “Battle stations. We need to move, now. Get that manacomm unit up.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, the men sprang into action. Alarms blared, the sound piercing through the previously calm atmosphere like a fork on a plate. Crewmen strapped themselves into their stations, bracing for evasive maneuvers. One of the crew hurried to a small compartment, pulling out an intricately designed box covered in arcane symbols, holding a magic gem to the symbols to begin the activation sequence.

“Engines to full, take us to periscope depth,” he ordered. “Haas, prepare the deck gun. If we’re going to encounter something, I want to have every option available.”

The mechanical symphony of the Erlkonig roared to life, the engines revving as the submarine angled upward. Haas nodded sharply, leaving to oversee the preparation of the deck gun.

“Coming up to periscope depth, sir,” the helmsman announced.

Freiherr adjusted his balance as the submarine leveled out. He gripped the periscope handles, his eyes narrowing at the limited view it offered. What he saw intensified the weight that had settled in the pit of his stomach – nothing. No surface ships, no aircraft, just the empty horizon.

“Radar?” Freiherr asked, his grip tightening on the periscope handles.

“Nothing, sir. Sky is clear.”

His mind churned throught the possibilities, each less comforting than the last. “Sonar, any changes?”

“Unknown objects near the surface, Captain,” he reported, voice tinged with disbelief. “They’re breaking the surface now.”

The periscope swiveled and Freiherr caught sight of multiple plumes of smoke and fire against the backdrop of the ocean’s surface, shooting upwards.

“Those aren’t torpedoes,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He had never seen a missile but had heard stories of them and was damn sure that he was looking at several flying out of the water. It was worrying enough that missiles had traveled from the depths, without a single sign of an enemy submarine. But the most worrying part was that there were no targets in the vicinity. The closest possible targets were a group of battleships to the north of Follicus, but that was well over 900 miles away. The carriers were just past that, at about 1200 miles – no, it couldn’t be. “Signalman, send an emergency warning to the Fleet Admiral. Priority One.”