January 23, 1641
Artticus Ocean (en route to Mykal)
IGVN Second Conquest Fleet
Grade Atlastar-class Battleship GVS Laniakea
The latest reconnaissance report from the GVS Adler just arrived, and it all but confirmed what they already knew from previous intelligence-gathering efforts: a fleet of around 80 ships, with at least six La-Burke class destroyers, a pair of Orichalcum-class battleships, and a pair of Rodeus-class carriers. Venstrom drummed his fingers on the table, his brow furrowed. The EDI fleet's composition was troublesome, especially those damned La-Burkes with their advanced anti-aircraft capabilities. And the Orichalcum-class battleships? He'd rather not think about the devastation their missiles could unleash on his ships.
But aside from those few ships, this was by no means any force that could be deemed a significant threat – not at all concerning, at least on paper. Yet, Fleet Admiral Venstrom remained concerned. He was almost certain they were sailing into a trap, but there weren't any signs of the Americans. No ships, no planes, no missiles appearing over the horizon. Despite this, he knew, he felt it in his gut that they were out there, somewhere.
Venstrom studied the report, his eyes tracing the positions of the EDI ships. The formation was textbook, a classic defensive arrangement that maximized the strengths of each vessel type. The La-Burkes were arranged on the outer perimeter, providing anti-air coverage. The Orichalcums remained in the center, their missile ranges overlapping to create a formidable strike capability. And the destroyers, magic frigates, and light cruisers were arrayed in a standard anti-submarine screen.
It was exactly what he would have done in their position.
He glanced up at Rear Admiral Gormund, his chief of staff. “A solid formation. They’ve learned a lot from the other battles, haven’t they?”
“They can learn everything about our operations and capabilities – and they may well already have. Yet, what can they do? No matter how perfect their formation is, they will crumble without this handful of ships,” Gormund said, indicating the tabletop map and the pieces that represented the La-Burkes, Orichalcums, and Rodeus-class vessels.
Venstrom nodded, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was a relief to know that they would be able to accomplish their objective, but a part of him wished that their scouting party found signs of American presence – at least then, he would’ve been able to fall back and await further orders with little worry. Well, this was no time to dwell on hypotheticals.
Directing his attention to the current situation, he began planning. “Indeed. And that’s where we shall focus our efforts. Commander Neumark,” he turned to his operations officer, “let’s discuss the allocation of our forces.”
Neumark stepped forward. “Yes, sir. Given the enemy’s defensive posture and the absence of any detected American units, I recommend we split off a portion of our fleet to engage the Mykal fleet while keeping the majority of our forces in reserve,” he said, giving a nod to Venstrom.
He gestured to the map and pointed out specific positions. “We can deploy a strike group consisting of one Pegasus-class fleet carrier, five Cygnus-class escort carriers, five Hercules-class battleships, eight Taurus-class heavy cruisers, ten Aries-class light cruisers, thirty Perseus-class destroyers, and twenty Seehund-class submarines. This force should be more than sufficient to overwhelm the EDI's defenses and neutralize their key assets."
Venstrom nodded, considering the proposal. It was a balanced approach, committing enough firepower to ensure victory while minimizing the risk to the overall fleet. "And the rest of our fleet remains here, granting us a buffer zone of a thousand miles between ourselves and any American force that may be coming in from the northeast."
Gormund spoke up, “Meanwhile, we’ll allocate small scouting parties – each a handful of destroyers or submarines – and expand our perimeter.”
“Very well,” Venstrom agreed. “Neumark, I want the strike group ready to move within the hour. Gormund, ensure that the rest of the fleet is positioned as discussed.”
Venstrom then turned his attention to the finer details of their operation. “Neumark, I want our submarines to lead the attack. Have them target the enemy carriers and the Orichalcums. There is no doubt the enemy is already anticipating this, so I don’t expect an overwhelming success. Rather, this should open up an opportunity to target the La-Burke class destroyers. Destroying even one of these will alleviate the pressure on our aircraft waves. The first wave will act in concert with the submarines, focusing on eliminating these destroyers. Once all La-Burkes have been eliminated, our subsequent waves will target the Orichalcum-class and Rodeus-class ships. The surface group will move in after we have confirmed that the threat of missiles is no more.”
The plan was coming together. He could feel the familiar thrill of impending battle, but he tempered that excitement with the understanding that it would only take a single blow to knock down their house of cards. Every ship, plane, sailor, and airman under his command was a precious resource, not to be squandered lightly. He would lead them into battle, but he would also do everything in his power to bring them home again – even at the cost of his pride and in the face of opposing orders.
“Gentlemen, you have your orders. Execute them with the skill and precision that are the hallmarks of our Navy. Let us show the Elysians the price of standing against us.”
– –
Artticus Ocean, 45 miles from Mykal
Seehund-class Attack Submarine, GVS U-722
“Contact bearing 3-2-0, range 10,000 yards, probable surface target,” the sonar operator reported.
Captain Wenner Haufbram felt his consciousness return from the void as he acknowledged the report and refocused his vision. This was it – his first time in combat against a Mirishial force. “Understood,” he replied.
"Continue tracking."
"Helm, bring us to periscope depth," Haufbram ordered.
"Aye, Captain. Periscope depth, 55 feet," the diving officer responded.
As the U-722 slowly rose to the specified depth, Haufbram stepped up to the periscope. "Up scope." The periscope rose, and he pressed his eye to the eyepiece, scanning the horizon. "Down scope. Target identified, bearing 3-2-0. Rodeus-class carrier."
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
"Aye, Captain," the navigation officer, Lieutenant Solhid acknowledged. "Recommend course 3-1-5 to close the distance while maintaining separation from their escorts."
"Make it so. Ahead slow."
Haufbram turned to the radio operator. "Signal the wolfpack. Prepare to attack on my command. Maintain radio silence."
The radio operator nodded, sending the coded message.
"Torpedo room, report," Haufbram called out.
"Tubes one and two loaded and ready, Captain," the torpedo officer responded. "Tubes three and four will be ready in two minutes."
"Set torpedo depth at 15 feet, gyro angle zero, speed 40 knots," Haufbram ordered.
"Torpedo depth 15 feet, gyro angle zero, speed 40 knots, aye."
Haufbram turned to the fire control technician. "Input target data. Bearing 3-2-0, range 4,000 yards, angle on the bow 30 degrees starboard."
The fire control technician inputted the data into the Torpedo Data Computer. "Solution ready, Captain."
"Flood tubes one and two," Haufbram ordered.
"Tubes flooded, Captain."
"Damage control, stand by," Haufbram called out, ensuring his crew was ready for any eventuality.
"Fire tube one." The U-722 shuddered as the first torpedo was expelled. "Helm, maintain depth."
"Maintaining depth, aye."
"Fire tube two. Gyro angle plus two degrees."
The second torpedo launched, the slight variation in gyro angle creating a spread to account for potential target movement. The submarine trembled slightly as the torpedo left its tube. As soon as he felt the signature rumble, Haufbram wasted no time; he immediately turned to the diving officer. “Dive! Take us down to 200 feet, ahead full.”
“Aye, Captain. Diving to 200 feet, ahead full,” the officer responded, the vessel lurching as he carried out the orders.
Haufbram’s mind raced through the various tactics the enemy might use against them. He’d fought against minor Muan and Mirishial patrols, and their anti-submarine measures were woefully inadequate, as if the concept of undersea warfare didn’t exist outside of combat against the odd kraken. They had depth charges, certainly, but apparently the more capable fleets had other technologies and techniques to exploit. Magic, guided by American advisors, or so the rumors went.
The sonar operator’s voice cut through the silence. “Sir, we have active sonar contacts. Multiple surface ships, bearing 0-1-0, range 8,000 yards. They’re pinging.”
Haufbram nodded. “They’re trying to get a fix on our position. Helm, maintain descent. Steady as she goes.” He turned to the crew, “Release decoys then rig for silent running. All hands, prepare for depth charges.”
The crew braced themselves, waiting for the inevitable attack. As expected, depth charges tumbled to the depths, but struck with such poor accuracy that their hull barely experienced the effects of the detonations. Perhaps Haufbram had worried about nothing.
Then, a strange sensation swept through the submarine. The hull’s gentle creaks grew into groans, resonating through the vessel’s body. Did the enemy score a lucky hit? No, they couldn’t have; this wasn’t the feeling of being rocked by a nearby blast – this was something else, something wrong. “Engineering, report. What’s happening?”
The chief engineer’s voice came through the intercom, sounding concerningly shaky. “Sir, we’re uh… observing unusual expansion in the hull joints. I think – I think the water around us is heating up – and rapidly.”
Captain Haufbram’s mind raced as he processed the report. Rapid heating could spell disaster in multiple ways, from compromising the hull integrity to affecting the submarine’s internal systems. “All hands, brace for potential thermal stress,” he commanded.
The temperature inside the submarine rose, warming up as if he had stepped into a busy kitchen. Then, as quickly as the heatwave came, it was replaced by an opposite but equally alarming force. The warmth receded at an unnatural pace, replaced by a chilling cold that worsened the hull’s groaning.
“Engineering, what the hell is going on?”
“Sir, it’s… it’s cooling down now. Faster than anything I’ve ever seen. It’s like we’ve hit a cold snap under the water,” the chief engineer reported.
The rapid cooling after such intense heating was unprecedented and certainly unnatural. It had to be the work of mages on the surface above. How they were accomplishing such a feat, Haufbram could never guess. However, he could assume that whatever they were doing, it must still take some effort to maintain accuracy.
He turned back to the diving officer. “Take us to 300 feet. Ahead full.”
“Sir, going deeper with the hull in this state, it's risky. We’re not sure if –” the chief engineer cautioned, overhearing the order.
The diving officer hesitated, and for good reason. Haufbram knew that the temperature phenomena could cause the hull to become brittle and weak. Yet, he met the man’s eyes with determination; his mind was set. “We don’t have much choice. Execute, but keep a close watch on the hull integrity,” Hoffman interjected, cutting off any further objections.
They dove further, pushing the Seehund-class submarine to its limits. Under normal circumstances, the submarine could operate at a depth of up to 500 feet. There was no telling how weak their hull now was, so he didn’t dare stretch the descent further.
As the minutes ticked by, the magical assault began to wane, the temperature slowly returning to normal. Had the enemy lost their position? Were they too far away for the enemy to pursue? Was the enemy too busy dealing with other attacks? It didn’t matter. What mattered was the fact that they’d made it through, their ship and their hides intact.
“Damage report,” Haufbram called out, eyes on the gauges.
“No significant damage, Captain,” the chief engineer reported. “Hull integrity is sound, and all systems are operating within parameters.”
Haufbram nodded. It was a relief they had managed to come through the assault relatively unscathed. “Sonar, report. Status on enemy vessels?”
“Hard to hear with all the activity above, but I think they’re moving away from our position. Sounds like they’re regrouping, probably don’t want to stray too far from their main fleet.”
He turned to Lieutenant Solhid. “Plot a course back to the rendezvous point. We’ll lay low and assess our options once we’re clear of immediate pursuit.”
“Aye, Captain. Plotting course now.”
Hoffman knew some of his crew might be eager to press the attack, to strike another blow while the enemy was still reeling. But he also knew that his primary responsibility was to ensure the safety and effectiveness of the U-722 and her crew.
Without clear information on the status of the wolfpack or the full disposition of the Mirishial forces, a second attack run would be a gamble. And in the grim calculus of submarine warfare, gambling with the lives of his crew and the fate of their mission was a risk he wasn't willing to take. The hunt would continue, but on his terms and in his own way. No reckless heroics, no cinematic gestures. The silent service demanded nothing less.