With my Lexington Class Aircraft Carriers finally decked out with an assortment of F-1 Eagles and F-2 Falcons, it’s go-time for the expeditionary fleet. They’re already en route to Port Nine, which I’m planning to make their permanent garrison base. Everything feels pretty smooth for once—well, except for the constant headache of keeping enemy submarines away from my convoys. Nothing ever goes off without a hitch in this world.

Time kind of slips by as I juggle a thousand different tasks, but in between it all, I manage to squeeze in some moments with the girls. It's become our little routine now, catching up between the endless to-do lists. Sometimes it’s just the distraction I need. Meanwhile, I’ve got my hands full with my latest pet project—a new guided bomb, the Mark 2 Glide Bomb. But, working with 1945 tech to create something that belongs in the modern era is... an adventure, to say the least. It’s like trying to build a spaceship out of sticks and glue. But I’ve got a knack for improvising, and when things get tough, well, I just figure out a workaround.

Days blur as I run tests, tweak settings, and occasionally curse under my breath when things don’t quite work out the way I want. The bomb’s a little lighter now, which is good, the guidance system still works about half the time—so it’s a bit of a gamble. But I think I’m close to cracking it. At least, I hope I am.

Suddenly, the soft beeping of my mask interrupts my focus. The rhythmic alert pulls me out of my thoughts, and I toss my tools aside. Time to see what’s going on. I slip the mask on, and there it is—North Carolina, buzzing me for comms.

"Hey, North Carolina. What’s going on?" I ask, leaning back against the workbench.

"Per your orders, we’ve located a new island, approximately one hundred kilometers from our current position. We’re preparing to move in for further investigation," she reports, her tone steady and professional, as usual.

A new island? Oh, now that's something. Another potential outpost, maybe a base, or even a supply depot. "Nice! Good work, girls. Let me know when you make landfall, alright? I’m tied up with something here, but I’ll be ready when you are."

"Understood. We’ll proceed. North Carolina, out."

The comms go silent with that familiar click. I stare at the mask for a beat, a little smirk creeping up. "Not even a ‘catch you later’? Tough person," I mutter, chuckling under my breath.

Setting the mask aside, I let out a slow exhale and refocus on the bomb prototype sitting in front of me. I trace the sleek contours of the casing, thinking through my options. The guidance system needs a major overhaul, that’s for sure, but maybe if I reroute the targeting signals…

*

The Expeditionary Fleet moves through calm waters, the steady hum of engines reverberating beneath the surface. The ships move in perfect formation, their wake cutting through the ocean. Overhead, a few combat air patrols—CAPs—circle lazily in the sky. Everything’s running smoothly, almost too smoothly. It’s one of those moments when the calm feels just a little off, like the air's too quiet, and the ocean's too still.

Suddenly, North Carolina’s mind is hit with rapid blips from the radar reports. The AWACS aircraft feed her the data, and her focus narrows on the incoming signals. Too many blips, too fast. Something’s not right.

“This doesn’t feel good,” she mutters, eyes fixed on the radar screens. The blips are unmistakable, and her gut tightens as the realization hits. "Aircraft. And a lot of them." She exhales sharply, already knowing what’s coming.

Her hand hovers over the comms for just a second before she snaps into action. "All ships under my command, general quarters!" Her voice is clear and commanding, with just enough tension to send the right message—this isn’t a drill.

"Tennessee here—what’s going on?" The confusion in Tennessee’s voice crackles through the line.

Kansas, Massachusetts, and Washington follow with their own calls, each ship wanting to know what’s happening. The fleet is on high alert, but everyone’s still in the dark.

North Carolina doesn’t answer their questions. She’s too focused, her attention glued to the radar, where the hostile signatures continue multiplying. Distance, heading, altitude—everything's streaming in fast. It’s bad, and it’s getting worse by the second. The hostile formation is dense, too dense. There’s no way this is just a recon squadron or some stray fighters. No, this is bigger. Way bigger.

"Enemy air formation spotted," North Carolina starts, but even as the words leave her lips, her voice falters. The full scope of the threat hits her. Hundreds of enemy aircraft more than she can count, all heading straight for them.

"Lexington, Saratoga," she snaps into the comms again, this time with more urgency, "launch all available aircraft! CAPs at max count! We need everything in the air, now!"

She shifts to the fleet-wide comms. "All ships, prepare for battle! Hundreds of enemy aircraft inbound. We’re turning away immediately. Get ready!"

The fleet responds with a flurry of activity. Lexington and Saratoga’s decks burst to life as fighters are prepped for launch. The tension in the air is electric, every second counting down to the inevitable clash.

North Carolina grips the edge of her console, eyes locked on the radar. The hostile blips are closing fast—too fast. This is going to be brutal, and there’s no time to hesitate.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

*

The fleet's engines roar as the ships pivot sharply, their wakes churning in the water. The Expeditionary Fleet begins to turn away from the island, speeding up as much as possible, but North Carolina knows there’s no escaping this. The sky above, once serene and calm, is on the verge of transforming into a battlefield.

She quickly switches comm channels, trying to reach Beatrice. The first attempt is met with a hissing static. North Carolina frowns, adjusts the frequency, and tries again—nothing. More garbled noise, as if the very airwaves were rejecting her.

"I can’t reach Beatrice!" she calls into the fleet-wide comms, her frustration seeping into the words. "Someone, try to get her on another channel! She has to know what’s going on."

As the fleet accelerates, engines rumbling and CAP fighters streaking off into the sky. It feels like every second stretches out, the weight of the oncoming storm heavy on North Carolina’s shoulders. All she can do is watch as the radar paints an increasingly grim picture, dots growing more numerous, enemy signatures swarming in from every direction.

Her gaze flickers upward, and there—just at the edge of the horizon—she can see them. Tiny black dots, barely visible but unmistakable, like a dark cloud creeping towards them, signaling what’s to come.

The frantic attempts to contact Beatrice continue, but every girl meets the same fate—more static, more failure. The comms are dead, cutting them off from their Admiral at the worst possible time.

"Look over there!" Washington’s voice cuts through the tension, sharp and urgent.

North Carolina shifts her focus. At first, she doesn’t quite understand, but then—there they are. Towering on the horizon are three massive, dark silhouettes, their shapes looming against the sky like giant beasts from another world. Surrounding them, countless tiny specks swirl like insects, enemy aircraft—too many to count—growing larger as they draw closer.

Her heart sinks. This isn’t just a standard attack force. No, whatever those structures are, they spell something far worse. North Carolina's gut twists as she watches the dark figures looming closer.

"This isn’t just an air raid," she thinks grimly.

She steels herself. There’s no time for panic. "All ships, weapons are clear to engage!" she commands, her voice firm and steady, even as the tension mounts. There’s no room for hesitation now.

The fleet snaps into action. North Carolina’s 16-inch guns slowly begin to traverse, lining up with the approaching targets. The other battleships follow her lead, their massive triple-barreled turrets groaning into position, aimed at the looming silhouettes on the horizon.

*

The thunderous roar of North Carolina's guns reverberated through the fleet as the massive shells hurtled through the sky.

As the reports flooded in, North Carolina’s mind raced. Over 700 unidentified objects now swarmed toward them, the sheer number of enemy aircraft overwhelming. She quickly recalled the AWACS craft, ordering it to fall back behind the protective screen of the fighter CAP, hoping it would stay out of range long enough to continue feeding valuable data to the fleet.

Seconds later, the rest of the fleet followed her lead, their own turrets fired in a barrage of sheer firepower. The sky lit up with tracer rounds, and the horizon darkened as a hail of heavy shells streaked toward the approaching enemy aircraft. Battleships like Kansas, Massachusetts, and Washington poured everything they had into the incoming formation, filling the air with the thunder of their Heavy AA guns. Explosions rocked the distant waters as the volleys found their mark, but the enemy force pressed on, undeterred.

North Carolina’s gaze tightened on the swarming mass of aircraft, a black cloud of impending chaos. Her gut twisted, but she held firm. The enemy is closing in rapidly, their silhouettes growing larger by the second.

"We’re about to enter the storm," she thought, her heart pounding in rhythm with the guns firing around her.

This is only the beginning.

"Everyone hold your ground!" she barked into the comms. "Get ready for close combat! This is going to get ugly."

*

The hours wore on, and the battle showed no signs of letting up. The once-clear sky had become a storm of chaos, a massive dogfight of fighters weaving in and out, explosions lighting the clouds in flashes of red and orange. The air is thick with the roar of engines, the sharp crack of cannon fire, and the deadly noise of tracer rounds streaking between planes locked in desperate combat for air superiority.

Below, on the turbulent sea, the battleships fought just as desperately. Each ship rocked violently with the force of the enemy's assault Waves crashed over the decks with every near-miss, and the air stung with salt and the acrid smoke of gunpowder and burning metal. The line of battleships, once a proud and organized force, now strained under the relentless pressure of the enemy's superior numbers.

And towering in the distance, the dark silhouettes of the enemy structures loomed. Fortress-like, just as Beatrice had told about them, they seemed impervious to the punishment the fleet was dealing. Shell after shell pounded their steel frames, yet the behemoths pressed forward, shrugging off hits that should have crippled any normal ship. Worse, they fired back—massive cannons booming as they returned fire with terrifying numbers.

It was one of those shots that hit Kansas.

A thunderous impact rocked the battleship as a shell slammed into her tower and funnels, sending a thick plume of smoke and debris into the air. North Carolina’s heart leaped into her throat.

"Kansas, give me your status!" North Carolina shouted into the comms, her voice tight with concern.

A moment of static, then Kansas’ voice came through, strained but steady. "Funnels damaged, fire control’s dead. I’m losing accuracy and speed. I’ll attempt field repairs, but I’m going to be slow for a bit."

North Carolina clenched her jaw. Kansas wasn’t out yet, but she was vulnerable. "Understood. Fall back behind Washington. We’ll cover you."

"On it," Kansas replied. Her engines slowed as she veered out of formation, trailing smoke as she limped to the rear.

As Kansas fell back, North Carolina’s mind raced. Every second, the enemy was pressing in harder, their shots becoming more accurate. The fleet is holding on, but it was only a matter of time before the enemy broke through.

She could feel the vibrations under her hull as a shell exploded nearby, the fragments of metal and water clattering across her deck like ominous rain. She knew she had to act, and after thinking for a few minutes she got a plan.

"Massachusetts, stay close behind me!" North Carolina ordered, her voice cutting through the chaos. "Tennessee, Washington, pair up and follow further instructions. Kansas, hang back with the carriers and protect them while you repair! We’re fighting back with everything we’ve got."

The fleet shifted in response, each ship falling into the new formation with disciplined precision despite the chaos around them. Tennessee and Washington swung into position beside each other. Kansas, though damaged, position herself to shield the carriers, ready to fight even in her weakened state. Massachusetts moved behind North Carolina, the two battleships now working together, combining their firepower for maximum impact.

As North Carolina’s gaze fixed on the enemy structure ahead, she felt the weight of the moment settle on her shoulders. The situation was dire, the enemy overwhelming, but they had no choice but to keep fighting.