PUNCHING ABOVE THEIR WEIGHT

December 12th, 1904, 2:45 AM-3:32 AM

The simmering moonlight cast a pale glow over the rolling waves, reflecting faintly off the steel hulls of the destroyer flotilla. The frigid breeze, sharp with the bite of winter, whispered across the deck, brushing over the dark barrels of their guns. Each weapon, twin-mounted 5-inch cannons, stood ready for battle. These destroyers, lean and purpose-built, pushed their engines to the brink. At nearly 36 knots, they surged through the night, leaving white wakes in their pursuit. Fuel burned quickly, but the mission was worth the risk.

Their target had finally revealed itself. Scout planes had spotted it just an hour earlier, 20 kilometers back, and now the hunt was reaching its climax. At the head of the strike force, the USCN Grande, destroyer of the United States of Canis Navy, broke the silence:

“Contact spotted, bearing 045. Surface radar confirms, it's the OIS Tregar Bolshoi.”

Excitement rippled through the comms. The Tregar Bolshoi was a trophy they had chased for a year, an Ozjoran battleship feared and hated in equal measure. Reports suggested it was escorted by two smaller vessels: an Upion-class destroyer and a Minewarden-class minesweeper. But none of that mattered now. The prey was within reach.

The Grande’s radar and rangefinder locked onto the target, relaying precise firing data to the strike force. The men prepared for battle with a grim focus, their fingers cold but steady on their stations. At full speed, the destroyers would close the distance in minutes.

Though they were vastly outgunned, the Grande-class destroyers had a singular advantage: their speed and versatility. Armed with 10 double 5-inch gun mounts and two quadruple torpedo launchers, these destroyers were no mere escorts. They carried three cutting-edge rangefinders and a compact ballistic calculator, allowing them to deliver deadly accurate fire under any conditions.

Captain Willard of the Grande surveyed the radar blips and issued his orders. “Range to target?”

“12 kilometers and closing fast!” shouted the fire control officer.

The captain smirked. “Good. Let’s see if the Bolshoi can keep up. Ready torpedoes and prepare for a spread at six clicks. Guns, load AP rounds. Relay to all ships.”

As the destroyers neared their prey, the Tregar Bolshoi loomed larger on the horizon, a dark silhouette against the shimmering sea. It was a leviathan, bristling with heavy artillery. By comparison, the accompanying Upion-class destroyer and the minesweeper were dwarfed. But the Grande-class destroyers weren’t built to slug it out in a traditional gun duel, they were wolves, and wolves hunted in packs.

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“Enemy destroyer attempting to screen!” came a report from the radar officer.

“Keep formation tight. Fire on my mark.”

The Bolshoi’s escorts moved to engage, their searchlights cutting through the dark. As the rangefinder chimed its final calculations, Willard gave the order:

“Guns, open fire! Torpedo crews, standby!”

The Grande's guns barked to life, the rapid-fire dual 5-inch cannons spitting tongues of flame into the night. Explosions danced across the enemy destroyer’s deck as shells found their mark, but the Upion fought back, firing with ferocious intensity. The waters between the fleets turned into a storm of steel, with tracers streaking like falling stars.

The Minewarden tried to lay smoke, hoping to shield the Bolshoi from the destroyers’ fire. But it was too late, the Grande and her sisters had already maneuvered into torpedo range.

“Six kilometers!” came the torpedo officer’s voice.

“Launch spread!” Willard barked.

With a hiss, four torpedoes leapt from their launchers, streaking towards the Bolshoi. The lumbering battleship, though equipped with superior firepower, struggled to adjust its course in time. The destroyers scattered, each zigzagging to avoid incoming fire as they kept their guns trained on the enemy escorts.

Explosions tore through the silence as at least two torpedoes slammed into the Bolshoi’s hull. The beast shuddered, its guns momentarily silenced as fires broke out along its deck from the detonating ammunition. The Minewarden vessel veered away, crippled by direct hits from the Grande’s guns.

“Direct hits on the Bolshoi! She’s taking on water!” The fire control officer’s voice rang with triumph.

But the Bolshoi wasn’t finished. Its massive turrets roared, sending salvoes that narrowly missed the Grande. One round landed close enough to drench the deck with seawater.

“Evasive maneuvers!” Willard shouted. “Keep her busy, we’ll make another run!”

The destroyers regrouped, circling their wounded prey like sharks. In the chaos, the remaining Upion-class destroyer tried to launch a counterattack, but was met with a relentless barrage from the entire flotilla. The Grande’s anti-air cannons peppered it with shells, until it too slowed, smoke billowing from its bridge.

After less than thirty minutes the Tregar Bolshoi groaned and tilted sharply, her mighty engines stuttering to a halt. Thick plumes of smoke poured from her shattered hull, and the once-dominant battleship now drifted aimlessly, a wounded giant in its final moments.

“She’s sinking, sir!” one of the crew called out, his voice tinged with awe and exhaustion.

Captain Willard stood on the bridge, watching as the sea began to claim the Bolshoi. He let out a slow breath, the frosty morning air turning it into a faint cloud. The tension in his shoulders eased for the first time in hours.

“Signal the fleet,” he ordered, his voice calm but firm. “Tell them the beast is slain, send the Littus and the Pygi to pick up the survivors. Tell the rest of the force to retreat before their air assets come in.”