January 13, 1641

Artticus Ocean

Destroyer Squadron 15, US Navy Seventh Fleet

USS Barry

“Ready the TLAM strike,” Winslow’s voice cut through the room, directed at his Tactical Action Officer. He stared at AN/UYQ-70 Advanced Display System, which showed their target: the Gra Valkan Navy Fourth Conquest Fleet’s aircraft carriers a couple hundred miles off the coast of Junnaral.

The TAO liaised with the Fire Control Officer, bringing the Tomahawk Weapon Control System to life with a series of low beeps. “Inputting target coordinates, bearing 3-1-6, range 347 nautical miles,” the Fire Controlman confirmed, inputting the precise coordinates and adjusting the Terrain Contour Matching settings on the TLAMs for a low-altitude approach to minimize radar detection.

The Intelligence Officer aboard glanced at the Intelligence, Surveillance and Reconnaissance feed before reporting, “Captain, TACINTEL corroborates target viability. AEW&C remains non-existent. Awaiting your Go/No-Go.”

Winslow nodded, then keyed into the secure communication line to the CIC of the USS Gerald R. Ford. “USS Barry requesting final clearance for a TLAM engagement against Gra Valkan carriers near Junnaral.”

A brief hiss of static preceded the response. “USS Barry, DESRON 15 is cleared hot for TLAM engagement.”

“Berkshire, conduct final FCS check and initiate launch sequence,” Winslow ordered the TAO.

The TAO confirmed the readiness of the Vertical Launching System and the health status of the Tomahawks. “Sir, VLS is green, TLAMs are CATM certified, ready for launch on your command,” he reported.

Captain Winslow gave a subtle nod. “Execute launch.”

In a rather anticlimactic fashion, the TAO calmly announced, “TLAMs launching now.”

Each missile, housed in the destroyer’s vertical cells, ignited and soared into the sky. The vessel shuddered slightly, the sounds of machinery echoing within the hull as the tubes closed. Captain Winslow sat back slightly in his chair after issuing his last command, his posture relaxed but eyes remaining on the digital display that tracked the Tomahawks’ flight.

“Missiles are airborne and tracking on target,” the Fire Controlman stated matter-of-factly. “Estimated time to target, two hours and five minutes.”

“Maintain tracking. Updates every fifteen minutes,” Winslow replied.

He turned to his right, seeing his executive officer, Commander Bryson. The expression on his face suggested he had something to say, and Winslow raised an eyebrow.

Bryson leaned in, his voice low enough not to carry over the hum of the CIC. “Heard the Seventh Fleet’s due for a resupply soon. Might mean a bit of downtime in a Mirishial port,” he remarked, a hint of hopeful – or rather, excited – anticipation in his tone. “Apparently, some of the local girls really like Americans.”

“Green Card diggers in another world, huh? I thought the Mirishials were too prideful for that,” Winslow commented. He was skeptical, but even he entertained the admittedly enticing idea of an Elysian girlfriend.

The glimmer in Bryson’s eyes seemed almost ravenous. “The government and a lot of upper-class citizens are. But you know how it is, with tourism open the locals are starting to find out that we love spending money.”

“So… more typical gold diggers rather than Green Card diggers?” Winslow asked.

“Maybe,” Bryson smiled, seemingly ignoring all the red flags, “But who knows? Some of them probably want more than just DVD players and the occasional McDonald’s.”

Winslow nodded. He didn’t agree with the man, but hell, he could let him dream. “Well, don’t get too excited. If they need us out there, especially since we’ve still got most of our armaments, they might just send DESRON 15 ahead of the others.”

Bryson sighed, and understandably so – ever since the Lourian War, DESRON 15 has probably been the busiest unit in the fleet. “Knowing our luck, I wouldn’t be surprised. But hey, don’t jinx it, Captain.”

“Ah, shit.” Winslow raised his hands in mock surrender. “My bad.”

– –

Artticus Ocean, off the coast of Junnaral

IGVN Fourth Conquest Fleet

Grade Atlastar-Class Battleship, GVS Bootes

Fleet Admiral Mirkenses leaned over the map-strewn table, her eyes tracing the latest report’s lines like a hawk circling its prey. The cramped quarters of the flagship’s command center were awash with the low hum of hushed conversations and the occasional clink of metal. Her campaign against Junnaral, a mix of brute force and cunning, was nearing completion. But the progress, she mused, was as slow as a crippled frigate. Supply shipments from the Conshal Islands had been delayed for weeks due to higher-priority deployments, leaving her fleet with little ammunition and enforcing a blockade rather than bombarding city infrastructure.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath. Her success was stifled not by stubborn EDI resilience, but by her own navy’s overstretched logistics. She had petitioned to switch to shore bombardment using the battleships – and it would have made sense, since she would have pulled back at any sign of approaching Pal Chimerae or Plasma Dragons. However, Karlmann shut down her authorization requests every time. Perhaps the man was too cautious for his own good.

Her contemplation was abruptly shattered as a junior officer approached. His face was etched with urgency – not a good sign considering she hadn’t seen any urgent matters in the past week. “Admiral, urgent report from the southern patrols,” he said, out of breath.

She snapped around, her gaze steely. “Report, Lieutenant.”

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He swallowed hard. “Incoming missiles, Admiral. Just over the ocean and fast – faster than a Kaiser.”

A cold dread settled in Mirkenses’ stomach. There were no Mirishial ships for hundreds of miles; they couldn’t have launched them. There was only one culprit – the Americans. Her knuckles turned white. She knew the disparity between their fleets, the cruel technological gap that loomed like a chasm. “Missiles…” she whispered, her voice laced with a bitter realization. “Retreat, immediately. Northward, opposite from their trajectory. Have the submarines screen for us. And launch every aircraft. Now!”

The lieutenant nodded. “Orders relayed, Admiral. Fleet is moving.”

The lieutenant’s confirmation was a fleeting comfort to Mirkesnses as the flagship’s engines roared to life, propelling the massive vessel forward. As the sirens screamed their warning, Mirkenses’ mind was clear, icy. This was a fight against a phantom, an enemy that struck from afar without showing its face. She cursed the Americans for their technological wizardry, their ability to wreak havoc from a distance. “Status on intercept?”

“VF-44 through 48 are currently en route, but…” the officer trailed off.

Mirkenses knew what he would say next. Most of the planes in those squadrons were standard Antares. It would take extreme luck for any of them to successfully take down a single incoming missile, and the few Kaisers among them fared marginally better. “Status on aircraft?”

“Carriers are launching all available planes, Admiral,” another officer reported, his voice strained over the shriek of alarms and the rumble of the ship. “We’re trying to get them airborne before–”

His report was cut off by a bright flash outside, which engulfed a Cygnus-class escort carrier in a devastating fireball. The room shuddered violently, the unmistakable concussive blast of the Tomahawk making contact. Before the first carrier could even start sinking beneath the waves, more flashes erupted around them, each one completely decimating a carrier.

The crew took shelter behind consoles and under tables, some likely praying they wouldn’t get hit. Mirkenses, in contrast, stood firm. She knew what the Americans were trying to do – eliminate their airpower and leave the rest of her fleet as sitting ducks. It wouldn’t be long before she faced the same fate as Dietrich and his Fifth Conquest Fleet. Yet, she couldn’t help but hold out a sliver of hope. “Damage report!” she demanded, steadying herself against the table as another shockwave rocked the Bootes.

“Initial reports coming in, Admiral. Several carriers hit… casualties expected,” the communications officer called out, continuing to jot down information as he listened to more incoming reports.

Mirkenses’ jaw clenched. Each report was a blow, not just to her fleet but to her pride as a commander. She knew there was little she could do, but as one of the only women to achieve an officer’s rank in the Imperial Gra Valkas Navy, she felt like her reputation was on the verge of being irreparably tarnished. She had known they were outmatched, but seeing the brutal efficiency of the American strike first hand was a bitter pill.

“Keep moving north. Full speed,” she ordered, her voice a mix of exasperation, anger, frustration, and resolve borne of necessity. “Ensure our aircraft rendezvous at the designated coordinates. Keep me updated on every movement. I want to know the moment we’re out of their reach.”

– –

Artticus Ocean, Operational Airspace near Junnaral

EA-18G Growler, Callsign “Blackout”

U.S. Seventh Fleet

Lieutenant Commander Alexandra Rains glanced at her instruments. She adjusted her headset, tuning into the frequency that connected her with the E-2D Hawkeye, Bandog. Beside her, Lieutenant Marquez, the Electronic Warfare Officer busied himself with the ALQ-99 Tactical Jamming System.

“Bandog, this is Blackout. We’re approaching the AO. Ready to commence EW ops on your mark,” Rains communicated.

The response crackled through her headset. “Blackout, Bandog acknowledges. CAP is in position and you are clear to proceed.”

“Initiating EW sequence,” Marquez said, activating the jamming systems.

The screens in front of them, normally displaying a variety of tactical information, now included real-time electronic warfare feedback. They were now actively disrupting the Gra Valkan fleet’s radar and communication systems, save for whatever manacomm and madar systems they had online.

“Blackout to Ford CIC,” Rains began, “Jamming operations have commenced. Awaiting SIGINT confirmation on disruption effectiveness.”

“Blackout, SIGINT confirms disruption in Gra Valkan comms. Continue with current operations.”

“Blackout copies. Maintaining current jamming protocols,” she responded.

In the distance, she could make out the faint silhouettes of fighters from the Ford’s air wing, streaking alongside her own jet. She watched as they climbed to a higher altitude before leveling out – a technique designed to maximize the range and accuracy of their air-to-air missiles. The F/A-18s and F-35s launched their missiles almost in unison, the AIM-120 AMRAAMs darting toward their targets beyond the horizon.

Rains glanced at her systems, then back to the jets. There wasn’t much else to do aside from admiring the fighters' brilliant engineering and sleek designs. They maintained their courses, ensuring locks to maximize the probability of kill. The fact that the targeted Antares and Antares Kaiser units could hardly fight back meant that the fighters could maintain locks for longer, essentially guaranteeing their kills – save for malfunctions. It wasn’t a pretty thought, especially not for the men whose death knell they just signed, but it calmed Rains’ nerves.

She had heard rumors about the possible foes they might have to face in the future, from the magically advanced Annonrials to their Ravernal ancestors. She imagined it would probably be akin to World War 3, if Earth was still around – nothing like the current breezy operations against the Gra Valkans. And especially nothing like the operations against the Lourians and Parpaldians, who didn’t even have any electronics to worry about.

But for the time being, she could at least find solace in the guaranteed victories they would find over the Gra Valkans. “Bandog, Blackout here. Status on strike package delivery? Maintaining EMCON and EW posture,” Rains communicated to the Hawkeye.

“Blackout, Bandog. Strikes in execution. BDA pending. Maintain current EW profile. Be advised, stand by for potential SEAD tasking,” the operator from the Hawkeye responded.

“Roger, Bandog. Blackout sustaining EMCON Delta and standing by.”

After a few more minutes, the fighters began to peel away from their targets. Confirming what she had just seen, the Hawkeye informed, “Blackout, Bandog. Strike package delivery confirmed. We’re RTB. Adjust your EW pattern for cover.”

“Copy that, Bandog. Adjusting for CAP recovery,” Rains acknowledged, swiftly relaying the update to Lieutenant Marquez. There wasn’t really anything to worry about in terms of the Gra Valkan’s capabilities, but it didn’t hurt to maintain procedure in preparation for real threats.

“EW pattern adjusted for CAP recovery,” Marquez confirmed.

Rains trailed behind the other fighters, maintaining the Growler’s protective electronic umbrella. The silence of the radio and the hum of their equipment accompanied their return to the Ford, punctuated occasionally by Marquez’s updates. “No sign of enemy radar lock-ons. Our jamming’s effective,” he reported.

“Yeah, I’d hope we don’t see any lock-ons from a country that hasn’t even developed missiles yet,” Rains joked.

Marquez yawned, groaning as he stretched within his seat. “I heard they got wonder weapons.”

“Huh?” Rains tilted her head. “Wonder weapons? Like wunderwaffe?”

“Affirmative,” he replied. “Heard rumors about lightning guns. Probably useless against us but apparently they’ve managed to shoot down Mirishial Alphas with them. Could even be decent against missiles.”

“Huh,” Rains said again, this time more in acknowledgment than curiosity. “Guess the idea makes sense in a world where magic is real.”

“Speaking of magic,” Marquez said, his tone shifting, “You tryna see a magic show once we get shore leave?”

It was an exciting offer. She had some plans already, but she couldn’t turn this one down. “Sure, why not? Let’s see some real magic.”