January 4, 1641

GVE-Occupied Follicus Island

Captured HME Base

Dietrich glanced at the clock on the wall. Twenty-eight minutes had passed since his officers left to ponder their dwindling options. The door swung open, and they began filing back in, faces taut with anxiety or hard with resolve. Some avoided his gaze, while others met it squarely as they took their seats.

“Before we discuss our response to the American fleet,” Dietrich began, his voice devoid of the emotional fatigue he felt, “we need to address the significant division among us.”

He paused, his eyes sweeping over the assembled officers. “Lieutenant Gruber believes we should continue to fight. Am I to assume there are others here who share this sentiment?”

Captain Muller, a young officer who had risen quickly through the ranks, shot up from his seat. “With all due respect, sir, we still have a fighting force. Why bow down when we can still aim our guns?”

Dietrich pointed to the tactical map sprawled out on the table in front of them. “Captain Muller, I assume you can read, can you not? The empty spaces were our carriers. They’re at the bottom of the ocean now. What do you expect us to do, charge at the enemy while they launch missiles from afar? Further engagement is not a strategy; it is suicide.”

Muller sat down, lips pursed, but not before locking eyes with a handful of officers who nodded subtly. It couldn’t be clearer to Dietrich. A faction was coalescing right there, in that room, fueled by a toxic mix of national pride, youthful arrogance, and outright ignorance.

Captain Frisch interjected. “Sir, none of us question the bravery of our men. But valor isn’t a substitute for capability,” he said, directing his attention to Gruber, Muller, and their associates. “We owe it to them to spare lives if the alternative is futile resistance.”

Dietrich could almost feel the room split. Some officers, mainly those who had been in combat longer or had done proper research into the Americans’ capabilities, nodded in agreement with Frisch. Others, predominantly younger men, shifted uneasily in their seats.

“Time is not a luxury we possess,” Dietrich reminded them, feeling the room’s tension thicken. “In ten minutes, we will reconvene. I expect straightforward recommendations based on the unvarnished reality we now face.”

The scraping of chairs filled the room as his officers dispersed. Dietrich walked over to the window, gazing out at his formidable, yet vulnerable fleet. There was no telling what the hardliners would do, but he hoped that words would be enough to get them to come to their senses. Though, some backup wouldn’t hurt.

– –

Ten minutes felt like ten seconds, but when Dietrich returned to the room, it seemed like it was ready to explode. His officers sat, some with brows furrowed in intense thought, others wearing faces like chiseled stone. They seemed to be divided into three groups: those in support of surrender, those in support of battle, and those who were unsure.

“Let’s hear your recommendations,” Dietrich demanded, allowing no room for hesitation.

Captain Frisch spoke first, maintaining his stance. “Fleet Admiral, we need to surrender,” he said, body and face positioned towards the dissenters rather than Dietrich himself. “It’s the only way to ensure the survival of our crews. The Americans have the technology to wipe us out; they’ve proven that. We would be sending our men to their deaths for nothing.”

Lieutenant Gruber shot to his feet, his fellow dissenters tensing up. “And what of our honor? Should we disgrace ourselves so easily? We still have two hundred ships!”

Dietrich subtly moved his hand to his side, next to his sidearm. “Ships that cannot fire a shot without being detected and destroyed,” he retorted, locking eyes with Gruber.

“Then let it be so! Better to die with honor than live with shame,” Gruber spat, his face reddening.

Dietrich’s fingers moved to the holster. “Because getting annihilated by a missile from a ship you don’t even know exists is an honorable death?”

Gruber didn’t respond. Instead, he glanced at his comrades, as if exchanging silent words with them. Subtle nods amongst them, and Dietrich sprung into action, raising his weapon. Guards posted around the room emulated Dietrich’s motion, aiming their rifles or sidearms at Gruber’s faction.

Gruber held his hands up. “You wish to harm your fellow countrymen for the sake of kneeling to those foreigners?”

Dietrich shook his head, his tone low. “I hope it won’t come to that. Lieutenant Gruber, Captain Muller, and the rest of you,” he pointed at Gruber’s faction with his free hand as he lowered his pistol, “you are relieved of your duties, effective immediately. Security, escort them out.”

A set of guards grabbed the men, who left without a fight. The door clanged shut behind him, echoing through the chamber.

Another officer – this time from the undecided faction – spoke up. “Sir, if we surrender, there should be assurances for our men. Can we negotiate terms that ensure their humane treatment?”

Dietrich nodded, appreciating the practical concern. “That is part of what I will discuss with the American admiral. We’ll need to get those guarantees, but the Americans have a history of treating prisoners of war according to high moral standards. The Lourians and Parpaldians were restrained peacefully, fed, housed, and experienced no signs of intentional harm. If we trust the Americans, our men at least have a chance at seeing home again –,” he paused, turning toward the window, “a chance at seeing their families again.”

“You’re placing a lot of trust in the enemy, sir,” murmured another voice from the back.

Dietrich fixed his gaze on the officer who spoke. “At this point, they are no longer our enemies but rather the arbiters of our fate. We have no leverage, and we must deal in facts, not ideals. All in favor of attempting a surrender, say aye.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

A chorus of ‘ayes’ filled the room, with only a few abstaining. Dietrich didn’t relish the decision, but it- was the one that weighed least heavily on his conscience. He signaled to his communications officer to prepare for a transmission to Admiral Hawthorne.

“As you were,” he declared, feeling a twinge of both relief and unspeakable loss. This was defeat, but perhaps also a modicum of salvation.

“We’re ready to transmit, Fleet Admiral,” the communications officer informed him.

Dietrich gave a curt nod. “Patch me through to Admiral Hawthorne.”

The line buzzed for a moment before Admiral Hawthorne’s voice came through. “Fleet Admiral Alaric Dietrich, have you reached a decision?”

Dietrich glanced at the clock. Only a minute remained of their one hour ultimatum. “We have, Admiral. We are prepared to surrender, with conditions for the humane treatment of our captured personnel. We request written assurances.”

A pause lingered, as if Hawthorne was consulting with others, or perhaps just relishing the moment. “Very well. We will transmit the terms of the surrender and the treatment of your personnel shortly. If they are agreeable, we’ll expect your immediate compliance.”

“Agreed,” Dietrich responded. It was the word that would save lives, he told himself, but it felt like a betrayal as it rolled off his tongue.

The connection was cut, and Dietrich was left standing in the hollow silence that now filled the room. An officer handed him a telegram sheet – the terms of their surrender freshly typed out. His eyes scanned the document. It was straightforward: disarmament, internment, and repatriation assurances. He initialed the bottom of the sheet, his signature a shaky afterthought to the weight of the text.

“Prepare a return transmission confirming our acceptance of these terms,” he ordered.

“Aye, Fleet Admiral. Encoding the message for transmission now,” the communications officer confirmed.

As the seconds turned into minutes, and the minutes into the foreboding stretch of an uncertain future, Dietrich felt the layers of his role as Fleet Admiral peel away. He was left with only the raw flesh of a man stripped of pride, but clinging to a battered sense of duty. The response from Admiral Hawthorne was short and unequivocal. “Acknowledged. Your surrender is accepted. Stand by for further instructions.”

Dietrich allowed himself a deep breath – the first in what felt like hours. It was over. The long hours, the death, the stress – it was all over, at least for now.

“Signal the fleet to stand down and prepare for boarding procedures. Armaments are to be disabled, and all crew are to gather at designated points for processing,” he commanded.

“Aye, Fleet Admiral,” came the reply as officers set about relaying his final orders.

Turning away from his officers, Dietrich looked out of the window one last time at the fleet stretched out before him, smoke still rising from the fallen carriers. In that moment, the fleet – his fleet – felt like monuments to a time that had passed, a bitter memorial to a changing world. And he hoped, in that changed world, he would go down in history as a hero who saved his men from certain death, rather than a traitor who knelt to an unforgiving enemy.

– –

“We have confirmation. The Gra Valkans accepted our terms.”

Around him, the room held its breath for a split second, a collective intake that drew tension like a wire. Captain Roberts gave a small smile at the news, while Commander Gutierrez, head of Seventh Fleet intelligence, surreptitiously tapped a stylus against his folder.

Colonel Farrokh, the commander of the ship’s Marine detachment, resettled into his chair, a small crack in his otherwise stoic demeanor. “I suppose that’s good news.”

“Mostly good,” Hawthorne affirmed. “We save ammunition and prevent more death, but it’s far from over. Lieutenant Commander Shukla, we’re looking at a logistical nightmare. Suggestions?”

Shukla glanced down at his tablet, where rows of numbers and logistical data scrolled. “For one, we’re gonna need more transports. A lot of them.”

“Trading one problem for another,” Hawthorne rubbed his temples. “We need to process these POWs as soon as possible, so we can get hurry over to Junnaral.”

Commander Tanaka, the staff judge advocate, chimed in, “I’ve already set up some basic groundwork with the Mirishials. We have designated areas for POWs on Calmicus Island.”

“Hmm, yes, we can request some assistance from the Cartalpas Defense Fleet,” Hawthorne responded, watching each face in the room for their immediate reactions.

Shukla nodded, “That should alleviate most of our logistical concerns. Hand over the processing of the Valkie POWs once the EDI gets here; that’ll free us up to reinforce Junnaral.”

“Good, streamline the handover process. Time is crucial here,” Hawthorne replied. His eyes briefly met those of Commander Gutierrez. “Any intelligence we should be aware of that could affect our plans?”

Gutierrez, the stylus still in hand, looked up. “We have to assume not all Gra Valkans will agree with Dietrich’s decision. With Marix in power, I can only imagine that we’ll be seeing a lot more ultranationalists in their ranks, like what the Barry encountered in early November. We should be prepared for rogue elements within their fleet.”

Colonel Farrokh interjected, “The Marine Corps can handle a few rowdy imbeciles. We’ll ensure the transition is as smooth as possible.”

Hawthorne appreciated the Colonel’s straightforwardness. “Very well, I’ll leave that matter to you.”

“Also,” Tanaka added, “We’ll need to establish a direct line of communication with the Cartalpas Fleet.”

Hawthorne found himself nodding more often than he liked, but everything made sense. “Coordinate with Communications; get their ships here ASAP.”

“As for Junnaral,” Hawthorne continued, halting the room’s micro-activities, “I want to review our intervention plans. The Mirishials are holding on by a thread. We delay, and their position weakens. They know this, but it’ll take some time before their ships in Cartalpas and Calmicus can make it here.”

Captain Roberts sighed, “We can’t be two places at once. The Gra Valkan POW situation means we’re stuck here for at least a couple days.”

“I’m aware, Captain. But the clock is ticking for the Mirishials. Junnaral might not have a couple days.”

Lieutenant Commander Shukla offered a suggestion. “What if we split the Seventh Fleet? Leave the bulk of it here to process the POWs and send some assets forward to Junnaral?”

Captain Roberts looked skeptical, “Splitting the fleet has its risks, but we have a complete picture of the region. It’s highly improbable that we’ll get blindsided by any Gra Valkan forces trying to take advantage of our divided forces.”

“We might be able to use our submarine assets,” Gutierrez proposed. “They’re not as crucial for processing POWs and could be employed with a destroyer squadron. If the commander of that fleet up north is half as smart as this Dietrich guy, they’ll pull back after a missile strike.”

Hawthorne’s eyes narrowed slightly, calculating. “Our subs have already expended their Tomahawks, but our destroyers still have a full inventory.” He caught himself nodding yet again. “Alright, it’s settled then, we’ll have DESRON get as close as they need to launch their Tomahawks, then pull back to help with the processing. Meanwhile, since the North Carolina and her sisters still have Harpoons and torpedoes, they’ll move ahead in case the enemy commander continues to siege Junnaral after the saturation strike. I expect a detailed operational plan within the hour.”