January 23, 1641Artticus Ocean (en route to Mykal)

IGVN Second Conquest Fleet

Grade Atlastar-class Battleship GVS Laniakea

Fleet Admiral Falke Venstrom stared at the orders from Chancellor Marix, his jaw clenched tight. The instructions were as clear as they were audacious: proceed to Mykal, engage the enemy, and secure the city for the Gra Valkas Empire. Venstrom tapped his finger on the edge of the console, a habit he had developed over years of contemplating tough decisions.

He turned his gaze to the map, eyes flitting from the markers denoting his fleet to the edge of the Muan coastline and the circles that indicated their cities. The EDI fleets were formidable, their magical capabilities a wild card he couldn’t fully account for. The lessons learned from the reportedly crushing victory in Cartalpas were significant and could help his submarines stave off assured death, but there were more pressing matters to worry about. Though lacking any impactful command over magic, the Muans – as had been reported by Fleet Admiral Caesar’s First Conquest Fleet – had deadly La Burke-class destroyers. He shuddered at the thought of facing destroyers better equipped in anti-air operations than his own.

And then there were the Americans. Their technology was leaps and bounds ahead of anything they possessed, and their recent tricks had thrown the fleet into chaos on more than one occasion. Yet, Marix’s decrees seemed to pretend like the Americans weren’t an issue.

The Americans knew their every move, and he was to believe that they wouldn’t be waiting for him at Mykal? Venstrom shook his head, a mirthless chuckle escaping his lips. What, did the Chancellor seriously want them to just waltz into Mykal? Without any consideration for the potential threats lying in wait? It seemed reckless, even by Marix’s standards.

A knock at the door broke his train of thought. “Enter,” Venstrom called out.

His communication officer, Morric, stepped into the room holding a message. “Sir, a transmission from the Chief of Naval Operations. It’s marked as Priority Two.”

Venstrom took the message, eyes narrowing as he read the contents. It was a standard report on the disposition of the fleet, but something about it felt off. Karlmann’s usually detailed accounts of the other fleets and joint operations were conspicuously absent, replaced by vague statements about ‘ongoing operations’ and ‘fluid situations’. It concluded with warnings that he hadn’t noticed before: a call to exercise extreme caution and a note to consider the lives of his men.

He drummed his fingers on the console, wondering if this had any deeper implications. As he thought, he realized that the Fourth and Fifth Conquest Fleets had been silent too long. Following the media’s excitement over the Battle of Cartalpas, it didn’t make sense for their forces in the Mirishient continent to simply… vanish. In the heat of a campaign, that could only mean one thing: they had been neutralized. It aligned with the Americans joining the war, and if they were capable of taking out two entire conquest fleets without so much as a word, what chance did the Second Conquest Fleet have?

He crumpled the message in his fist, the paper crumpling under the force of his grip. Karlmann’s warning was clear, even if he couldn’t say it directly. Openly defying Marix’s orders was treason, and the punishment for that was death.

Venstrom paced the length of the bridge. The Americans were out there, waiting, and they had already proven themselves formidable foes. To charge headlong into their trap would be suicide.

He stopped, his decision made. “Morric, gather my officers,” he said. “We have much to discuss.”

He waited in the Lanikea’s briefing room as his fleet’s top officers and personal advisors gathered. As the last of them streamed in, Venstrom stood up. “Gentlemen,” he began, “I’ve called you here because I have concerns about our current mission, and I believe they are concerns that you may share.”

He pointed to the map on the table. “Our orders from Chancellor Marix are straightforward: proceed to Mykal and secure the city. However, I’ve noticed inconsistencies between these orders and our recent experiences.”

The officers exchanged glances, unease settling in.

“The recent jamming incidents by the Americans have left me questioning the reliability of our intelligence,” Venstrom continued. “The Chancellor and our superiors have told us not to expect engagement with American forces – despite the fact that they’ve managed to conduct electronic warfare on us. It would be foolhardy to think that we won’t encounter them, and our contingencies should we truly face them in battle,” he paused, lifting up a stack of papers, “are woefully ill-prepared.”

“You think the Americans are setting up a trap for us, sir?” Captain Brundar hypothesized.

Venstrom nodded. “I believe they already have.”

He pulled out a binder containing the fleet’s communication logs. “There’s also the matter of the Fourth and Fifth Conquest Fleets. We’ve had no contact with them for an extended period. We have no idea whether the Mirishials are sending reinforcements, or if any American assets are in the Artticus. In the midst of a campaign, this silence is… deeply concerning.”

Commander Elric broke the silence, almost stuttering. “Y-You suspect they’ve been, er… neutralized, sir?”

“I can only speculate,” Venstrom replied, adopting a grim tone. “But if the Americans have the capability to continue their jamming operations so effectively, it’s not a stretch to consider they may have already engaged our other fleets.”

He turned to face his officers. “Gentlemen, I fear we are sailing into a situation that we do not fully understand. Chancellor Marix’s orders seem to disregard these potential threats, and that concerns me greatly.”

His officers considered his words, some of their reactions looking like how a commissar would see treason. Others seemed to agree, begging him to wonder if his fellow Fleet Admirals had ever had to face such a divide in their own fleets before. A few seemed uncertain, unsure of what he was implying, or how substantiated his concerns were.

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Before anyone could say a word though, a bright flash illuminated the briefing room, followed a couple seconds later by a deep, resonating boom that rattled the portholes. The officers stumbled, grabbing onto the table for support as the deck trembled beneath their feet. Loose objects clattered against the tabletop and floor as the room’s lights flickered momentarily.

Venstrom’s heart pounded. What just happened? He noticed the looks of shock and horror on his officers’ faces. Their eyes were wide, fixated on something behind him.

He spun around, gaze locking onto the small windows that lined the back wall of the room. There, in the distance, a massive fireball erupted from the deck of one of the fleet’s Pegasus-class carriers. A towering column of water shot up alongside the flames, the explosive force displacing the surrounding sea. The carrier listed heavily to one side, its hull obscured by the shimmering heat and the rapidly expanding plume of black smoke.

As the smoke began to clear and the alarms aboard the Laniakea began to blare, the true extent of the damage became apparent. The carrier’s deck was a twisted mass of metal, the once-ordered rows of planes now scattered and burning. Some had been thrown clear of the ship by the blast, wings crumpled and tails shattered. Others, still tethered to the deck, were dragged down with the listing vessel, disappearing into the churning waves.

Venstrom watched in horror as tiny figures, mere specks against the vastness of the carrier, struggled to escape the inferno. They tried leaping from the deck, preferring to take their chances in the water rather than face the flames, hoping that one of the lifeboats would come back for them. Those within were worse off, likely trapped by the twisted wreckage and left to cook, suffocate, or drown within the confines of the devastated carrier.

The surrounding carriers were in chaos, crews desperate to avoid the fate of their stricken sister ship. Planes, hastily loaded with pilots and crew, raced down the decks, fighting for speed to get airborne before the inevitable second strike. He prayed for them to make it, but another torpedo claimed the second victim and turned the pilots’ desperate takeoff into a plunge into the unforgiving sea.

Venstrom’s eyes darted from ship to ship, his mind struggling to process the unfolding catastrophe. Another carrier began to tilt heavily to starboard. Planes, unseated by the angle of the deck, slid into the water like toys discarded by a petulant child. The sight was surreal, a nightmare made manifest.

As he watched, a third explosion bloomed in the distance, another pillar of water and fire marking the grave of yet another ship. He could see no enemy planes or vessels. Considering what he’d just witnessed, it must’ve been the work of submarines. To think that three carriers were decimated in less than a minute, he couldn’t imagine the scale of the ongoing attack.

“Morric, report!”

Morric rushed to the communications station. His face paled as he read the latest report. “Sir, the Falkenhorst, Wulfhart, and Ernstrud have all been sunk by torpedoes.”

It was plainly obvious. “Damage report,” he said, the life drained from his tone. He didn’t even need to ask, given the three ships unceremoniously crumpling in the distance. He just needed something to do, something to set his mind on autopilot.

“Extensive flooding on all three ships,” Morric responded. “Crews are abandoning ship.”

Vernstrom nodded grimly. He had lost three of their most prized carriers without having even seen the enemy. They couldn’t afford to lose any more ships, not if they hoped to complete their mission at Mykal.

“Have some destroyers begin rescue operations,” he ordered. Outside, the fleet already began their anti-submarine operations, but he doubted they would find anything. “Let me know if we find the enemy.”

Venstrom turned to his other officers, who were still gathered in the room. “Gentlemen, we need to assess our options. The recent attack on our fleet leads me to believe that my suspicions were correct – the Fourth and Fifth Conquest Fleets may have been neutralized.”

“Preposterous!” one of the older officers blurted. “With all due respect, Admiral, we can’t let this setback deter us. We have a mission to complete, and the Empire is counting on us!”

Another officer stepped up, agreeing with the older man. “Admiral, I must express my reservations. Splitting our forces could not only leave us vulnerable, but introduce delays to our schedule. If the Americans are truly as frightening as some say, then shouldn’t we rush to secure Mu as quickly as possible?”

Venstrom held up a hand, silencing the murmurs of agreement from some of the other officers. “I understand your sentiment, Commander, but we must also consider the realities of our situation. We are sailing blind, having just now lost a significant portion of our aerial strength, and we still haven’t even laid eyes on the enemy – not once!”

He continued, “Yes, we have a mission to complete. Yes, the Empire is counting on us. These duties we fulfill through sound decisions. Blindly charging forward, without understanding the true nature of the threat we face, would be a dereliction of those duties. Do not forget that we are no longer facing primitive natives; we must now contend with an equal force – well, I hate to say this, a more powerful force. We cannot fight the Americans as if they were merely the Torellian Empire. No, we must consider them a foe surpassing even the Kainians.”

He paused, taking a deep breath before sighing. He knew some of the hardliners under his command wouldn’t like a retreat, so he needed to compromise. “I plan to split our forces. We’ll send out a scouting party – a small battlegroup of destroyers and submarines, led by one of the escort carriers. Their objective will be to gather intelligence on the situation in Mykal and confirm whether or not American forces are present, and assess the situation. In the meantime, the main body of the fleet will hold position and await further orders.”

The proposal was met with mixed reactions. Though, after witnessing the devastating spectacle that claimed three of their Pegasus-class fleet carriers without so much as a whisper, those caught in the middle easily agreed to Venstrom’s decision.

“I know this feels like a step backward,” he acknowledged, “but we cannot afford to rush headlong into a trap. It is clear that the intelligence provided to us is invalid – outdated, incorrect, or otherwise.”

“And if we discover that the Americans are present?” the older officer asked.

Venstrom met the officer’s gaze steadily. “If our scouts confirm the presence of American forces,” he began, choosing his words carefully, “then we will have to reevaluate our strategy.”

He let the words sink in before continuing. “Our powerlessness against their missiles is no secret. Yes, to think that a foe possesses greater power than us is damaging to our pride, but pride is not what wins wars.” He tapped the side of his head. “Intelligence is. If we were to engage the Americans directly, we would be putting the entire fleet at risk. It would be a gamble with the lives of our men – I might even go so far as calling it a lottery; that’s how precarious our chances are.”

He looked into the officer’s eyes, refusing to back down. “So, to answer your question directly: if we find that Americans are present, we will gather what information we can, and then we will make a decision based on that intelligence. And if that decision is to withdraw, then that is what we will do. Not because we are cowards, but because we are servants of the Empire. And our duty is to ensure her ultimate victory, no matter the cost to our own pride.”