/December 22, 1940/
/Commander Patrick Anderson/
/Inland Sea, 25 miles south of the Eaglin Canal/
Patrick Andersons gaze cut through the early morning fog, his soft eyes taking in a scene of tranquility and calm… but the man was not merely absorbing the beauty of the picturesque scene… he was searching for the proud tripod masts and stately superstructure of the OFS Eagle, the pride of the Pacific Fleet and flagship of Battle Group 3. The sun had still failed to rise above the jagged peaks of the central continental range, mountains that had been carved by the slow, unrelenting march of glacial sheets. The only illumination came from the dull red bulbs of the bridge. Despite this, in the darkness Patrick could still pick out the outline of the Phoenix's escort, a pair of heavy cruisers, a quartet of light cruisers, and twelve destroyers. He was still unaware of the surprise attack that had crippled the Atlantic Fleet, and the flotilla was in a low alert, only a handful of ratings actually watching the sea… and Anderson, of course.
Sighing, Patrick looked down, rubbing his forehead… what had started out as a calming exercise had quickly became monotonous and thoroughly boring… he was in charge of the bridge and could not leave, no matter how much he would like to finally get some sleep. He briefly considered waking the captain, but decided against it. The captain was a fierce man, and Patrick wouldn't want to alienate himself from him on the first day.
Finally having had enough, he turned and returned to the navigation bridge, taking his position next to the captains chair, overwatching the bridge crew. Above them was the firecontrol and radar, which would relay targeting information to the gun control in the armored conning tower. It was a complex system, a far cry from the simple optical targeting that had quickly died with the advent of new, advanced targeting computers. the entire system was classified top secret, and Anderson was fully prepared to die making sure it's secrets would not fall into enemy hands.
"Any contacts on the scope?" He asked, gazing to the officer in charge of relaying such information from the radar control and back to the bridge. the young man was slim and spectacled, and he jumped nervously when spoken too.
"Ah yes sir, I got it!" he quickly began to dial knobs, his scope coming to life. As it began to scan, a large green splotch appeared on the scope, several miles to the north of the flotilla… exactly where the Eagle and her battle group was supposed to be waiting.
Patrick smiled happily. "Go to frequency four-seven-oh. Put out a call, let the Eagle know we're nearby. They don't have a radar yet, so give them our coordinates as well."
"Aye sir." The radioman sounded, immediately setting to work, sending out the call quickly and clearly. Patrick patiently waited for a reply.
A moment later it came, and the radioman happily began writing down a message as the code machine decrypted it. When it was done he handed it to Anderson, who read it aloud to the crew.
"OFS Eagle to Phoenix, bearing 0-3-4 at 33 degrees north, 67 degrees west." He nodded to the helmsman, and then to the signal man. "Swing us to 0-3-4, ahead standard. Signal the other ships to the same." There was a sound of movement and voices as the two men obediently carried out their orders, the entire flotilla swinging to the north, directly toward the other ship. The boilers were running at full steam, the turbine engines humming through the hull as the entire flotilla sped up, search lights flicking to life as they began to scour the fog. Anderson wanted to simply open a radio channel and speak to the commander of the Eagle directly, but he was under strict orders... only use the coded messaging machine, and use light signals to communicate with his escorts. Clumsy but secure, no one lucky enough to be on the same frequency would be able to hear them.
They didn't need to wait very long. The fog was beginning to clear up, visibility improving dramatically. The sun was on its way into the sky, the cold air taking on a hint of golden warmth. If Anderson wasn't on duty he'd be watching the sun rise... it's own slow and tranquil journey to the sky... or, more likely, he'd still be in his rack, enjoying the beauty and clarity of a dream. Clarity was at least one thing he was getting to enjoy. He could see much further out to sea. The fog still hung over the shore, and without radar they still would not be able to see anything that wasn't directly in front of them.
On the horizon, the gray smudges of another battle fleet was illuminated by the sun, their silhouette distinct against white mountains in the distance. Anderson could make out the large tripod mast and single stack of the Eagle, and as they drew her own escort grew visible. The Eagle had completed a major refit a few days before and had been undergoing drills, testing her new boilers and engines under real world conditions. The next few days would be spent undergoing war games, and preparing for an eventual cruise through the Eaglin canal and to the Dinsmark Sea, north of Belka.
The yeoman approached Anderson and handed him a message that had been recently decoded. The officer opened it, and read it carefully. "We're clear of radio silence. Bring us to frequency 97.4." It only took a moment for those orders to be carried out.
"Commander Anderson, it's a pleasure to hear from you." Captain Jerome Erickman, CO of the Eagle, was an old friend of Anderson, dating back all the way to the academy. He had graduated a year ahead of him and had made a name for himself… but, considering his father was Secretary of the Navy, there may have been an element of patronage that allowed him to rise through the postings with such dramatic speed…
"Good to hear from you too, old friend. We'll rendezvous with your fleet and form a task force, then we'll head north. I'll also go wake Captain Snow… he'd be pretty sour if he missed the first day of exercises just because I wanted to hog all the glory. Lieutenant Jereau, you have the bridge. " He began walking toward the armored bulkhead that lead onto the bridge wing, and then down to the main deck. From here, the cold air was brisk and fresh, unlike the warmer, filtered air of the bridge. He took a deep breath and headed down, heading to the captains room… only to be violently thrown to the deck as the entire ship rumbled, steel groaning and wood cracking.
"Fuck!" He spat, rolling and protecting his head with his hands. Moments later the general quarters klaxon began to blair, rousing men from their bunks and splitting Andersons already sore skull.
He fought his way this his feet and toward the railing on the ships side, looking for any sort of damage… had a boiler exploded? a magazine? He looked to the center of the vessel, noting that the smoke stacks were still performing as normal… no thick black smoke, or a lack of smoke, that was a tell-tale sign that something was wrong with the boilers… what he did notice was that there was a ragged hole in the deck near the number 6 secondary gun turret, about eight inches wide and still red hot around the edges.
"What in God's-"
Another shell stuck hard, ripping through the deck and stopping as it hit the armored deck, 10 feet below the main deck. Anderson was thrown to his knees, cursing once more. He turned back to see, and saw for the first time their attackers… hidden in the fog, masked by the steep hills, was a sleek and deadly warship, escorted by a handful of other vessels, all of them painted in dark grey, black, and small hints of white… Anderson would be able to recognize the profile anywhere.. it was a Hindenburg-class heavy cruiser of the Belkan Navy. Her guns were trained on the Phoenix, preparing to fire another salvo.
Anderson had no time to gawk. He found his legs and stumbled to a ladder, making his way through the various parts of the superstructure, back to the bridge. The armored door had not been shut, in a complete failure of protocol.. and as Anderson entered, he realized why. The bridge crew were mortified, frozen and unable to act… Steve Rodriguez, the communications officer, was plastered against the wall, hyperventilating and struggling to remain conscious.
Anderson rushed to him, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him roughly, before looking him straight in the eye. "Pull yourself together! We're under attack, men are dying!" Patrick then left the man there, reaching for the radio and donning a headset… he needed to coordinate everyone.
"Commander! Respond! Phoenix!" Captain Erickman was calling on the radio, his voice strained, much to Anderson's relief. He was alive.
"Eagle, we are under attack by a Belkan warship! Requesting assis-" Anderson was once more interrupted by the sound of a shell striking steel, but this time it wasn't stopped by armor… a large, armor piercing fifteen inch shell had penetrated the number one turret and was only stopped when it struck the barbette armor, the shell luckily a dud… if not, the entire magazine could have detonated, destroying the ship.
"Battleship! They have a fucking battleship!" One of the ratings howled, pointing to port. Anderson followed his finger, and gasped… the cruiser was a mere escort… on the horizon was the menacing shape of a Dinsmark-class battleship, her fifteen inch guns firing every couple of seconds, monstrous shells dropping into the frozen sea, closer and closer to the Phoenix..
"Hard to port, hard to port! Bring us around!" Anderson ordered, holding to the console in front of him. the startled helmsman did as he was told, swinging the ship hard around, narrowly avoiding a salvo of shells from the Belkan cruiser.
The Osean's were waking up… one of the heavy cruisers in Andersons flotilla, the Kusanagi, had her number one and two turrets trained on the Belkan cruiser… she rolled in the sea as her eight inch cannons roared, sending a powerful salvo of six, one thousand pound shells toward the enemy… only for them to fall short. Anderson swallowed… only now did he realize he was trembling.
The next Belkan salvo did not fall short.
No less than twelve eight inch and six inch shells struck the Kusanagi, penetrating her four times along her hull. She was listing heavily to port, her number one turret shattered, and her crew struggling to put out rapidly spreading flames… all in the matter of a minute.
"We need to get into the fight. Weapons, what's the status on the main armament?" Anderson snarled, looking to his weapons officer, his hands gripping the compass stand before him so tightly he was cutting off his own circulation.
The lieutenant choked, before finally managing to get a status report. "The number six turret of our secondary armament is out of commision, the turret ring was jammed… main armament is still undermanned, we have men in the magazines, but no one in the turrets themselves…"
Anderson shook his head. "Change that! get those guns live!" the lieutenant nodded, turning to his station and working quickly sending a message below decks.
The Eagle, on the other hand, was having no such issues… her fourteen inch guns had opened up, sending hot lead over the horizon towards the hostile battleship. They dueled one another, the much more modern Belkan vessel skirting the range of the Osean's guns, but the Eagles heavier armor preserving her as multiple shells struck her, bouncing off her turrets or fragmenting on her armor belt.
But the battle was growing worse for the Osean's… more and more Belkan ships appeared over the horizon. Anderson counted at least fourteen light cruisers, and six heavy cruisers… and, worst of all, was a second battleship… a much older Sudentor-class battleship, but her fifteen inch guns were still a massive danger. She was bearing down on the Phoenix, the Belkan colors flying proudly in the mid-morning sun…
"Commander! The guns are online! I have the main armament ready to go!" Lieutenant CrOFS growled happily. Anderson grinned and ordered for a firing solution on the enemy cruiser.
Before they could get one, a shell struck one of their escorts, the light cruiser Badger. She was nearly split in half as an eleven inch shell from a Belkan pocket battleship, a panzerschiffe, struck her boiler room, cutting her keel and leaking fuel oil into the sea. She rolled over, men leaping from her sides, struggling to stay afloat in the freezing water.
The remaining three light cruisers were firing back, their main batteries barking, medium caliber shells streaking through the sky and bracketing a Belkan destroyer, battering the vessel until her fuel began to burn, the ship coming to a halt and slowly settling down to the bottom.
The Phoenix was zig zagging, shell splashes raining down around her. The range had closed dramatically, and the two Osean task forces had merged, the Eagle and the Phoenix only a few thousand yards away from one another. Any semblance of a formation had also been lost, individual ships maneuvering to avoid fire and gain new firing solutions on the enemy, who had created a semi-circle around the Osean fleet.
Anderson was struggling to maintain a sense of cohesion among the fleet. Several dozen ships milling about in a disorganized line of battle, firing at targets of opportunity as they presented themselves.
"Sir, we have a firing solution!" CrOFS called.
"Fire!" Anderson howled, his grip on the steel console growing stronger.
The gunnery officer didn't need to be told. He pulled the trigger, the gargantuan sixteen inch guns all firing at once, the vessel trembling as the recoil was absorbed by her steel hull. Flame and cordite smoke obscured Andersons vision for a few seconds, but the spotters in the conning tower had no such issue… around the enemy cruiser, massive spires of sea water was thrown up when the salvo arrived, taller than the ship's superstructure. One shell made contact, striking the Belkan vessel amidships, piercing an armored gun turret, and then detonating a small magazine full of 150mm shells… the vessel was rocked by hundreds of shells cooking off, finally settling to an inferno, thick oily smoke enveloping the Belkan cruiser.
"Yes! we got the bastards!" A sailor wooped, watching with awe as the fireworks on the enemy cruiser continued.
He was silenced by the sound of a trio of heavy caliber shells striking the deck, exploding violently, flames licking at the steel bulkheads and roasting any poor soul unfortunate enough to be nearby.
"They're shooting High Explosive at us!" the helmsmen shrieked, reflexively throwing the wheel around, the 35,000 ton warship heeling to port, her bow pointing toward the Belkan armada, providing a smaller target.
"Pheonix, status report?" One of the captains on an escort vessel questioned over the radio, his voice laced with both concern and stress.
Anderson coughed, regaining his composure. "The damage is superficial… no flames caught… still combat capable…"
The same could not be said for the Kusanagi. She had taken too much damage, her entire bow was enveloped in flames. Her men were making for the lifeboats and rafts, boarding them in a struggle to evacuate the wounded vessel before she finally slipped beneath the waves. No matter what, her guns still continued to sound, and Anderson realized that her gun crews were not going to evacuate. And neither was her captain.
"Phoenix to Kusanagi, what's your status?" Anderson asked, but he already knew. She was doomed.
The captain of the cruiser laughed. "It's a party over here… we sent off everyone who wasn't necessary to the guns, as well as the wounded… no matter what, I'm going down with this ship. But we're going to keep fighting until the magazines flood or the electricity for the ammunition hoists gives out… whichever comes first. Good luck commander."
The aft gun turret on the Kusanagi fired, shells arching through the air and dropping among the Belkan armada. A single shot struck the enemy panzerschiffe, the pocket battleship, in her forward deck… before she erupted in white flame, a massive explosion rocking the air as the Belkan vessels bow was disintegrated, the smashed and burning hulk slipping beneath the waves in a matter of minutes… the Osean ship had killed her from beyond the grave, a high explosive shell detonating in her magazine.
Cheering echoed through the battleship, but their glee was short lived. The battered cruiser finally gave up the ghost, rolling over and slipping beneath the frigid waters, lost to the world forever. Anderson saluted sharply, a tear forming at the corner of his eye…
"Thier bravery will be remembered… but first we need to survive. Helm, hard to starboard, ahead one third! Load armor piercing shells and get me a firing solution on that Belkan battlewagon!" Anderson ordered them sternly, finally letting go of the console and heading for the bridge window, trying to gain a better vantage point.
As he watched, a Belkan Armored Cruiser from the war previous was struck by a torpedo from a daring Osean destroyer, water washing over her deck as the fish detonated. She slowly began to roll over, Belkan sailors leaping from her deck. He felt some pride swell in his chest… his fleet wasn't doomed just yet. But he needed to get them under control. If they broke apart they'd lose the advantage of mutual support.
"Destroyers Sparrow, Robin, Finch and Chickadee, form around the cruiser St. Hewlett. We must keep her afloat at all costs, her heavy guns are too valuable to lose." Even as Anderson spoke, the four destroyers had begun to circle the much larger cruiser, their quick firing five inch guns sending a fifty pound shell toward the enemy ships every handful of seconds. The sheet of lead and steel was enough to prevent the Belkan Type-34 Destroyers from closing to launch a salvo of deadly torpedos toward the Osean task force.
"Commander, we have a firing solution on that Belkan capital ship, read to fire!" Lieutenant CrOFS, the weapons officer, reported. Anderson growled and pointed toward the enemy ship. "Fire broadside!"
The Phoenix shuddered, her guns all firing at once, the sound rolling acrOFS the sea like the thunder of a fierce squall. Her heavy caliber shells struck home on the older Belkan battlewagon, some detonating on her thick belt, some bouncing off her sloped and rounded turrets. Several shells penetrated, shredding steel and shearing away bolted plate. One of her gun turrets had been cracked, the heavy artillery within falling silent as the gun crews were killed or wounded.
But the stalwart Belkans refused to give in. The enemy battleship responded with a salvo of her own, deadly accurate. The shells came in at a flat trajectory, striking the Phoenix along her hull. The heavy rounds penetrated her welded hull, smashing through compartments before striking the armor belt, where they all fragmented, failing to penetrate into the engineering compartments. No matter, cold water began to flood into the pierced compartments, washing men away and leaving the entire ship to begin listing.
Anderson nearly fell to the deck as the vessel jack knifed, her hull groaning. He looked up and eyed his Chief Engineer. "I need a damage report. I need to know how badly we're flooding. If we need to counter flood the ballast tanks, do it. We are not sinking, at least not today. Someone get the Captain as well."
However, no one needed to do that. Not even a moment after Anderson called the order, there was a severe thumping on the steel bridge door. Chief Engineer Penrith opened it, pulling the heavy piece of cast steel away to reveal Captain Snow, still dressed in his sleeping clothes and seething with anger.
"What the fuck is going on! Commander, I need a situation report!" Anderson saluted sharply and addressed the captain. "A Belkan fleet was waiting for us sir, ambushed us from the fog. I don't know how they got here, or from where, but one thing I know for certain, they want us dead. They have a full battle fleet out there, and radar is putting a second battle group approaching quickly from the north. We've already lost several ships, for a few Belkan, and they have a numbers advantage."
Captain Snow put a hand to his chin and began to think, his hawkish glare scanning the battle. "Commander Anderson, I have the bridge. Get a call out to the Eagle, we're withdrawing to St. Hewlett. The rest of the Pacific fleet can reinforce us there… We're about to be overwhelmed." Patrick nodded and relayed the information as quickly as pOFSible. Time was of the essence… even as they worked to try and get some form of cohesion, one of the Belkan Cruisers, which Anderson could identify as the Admiral Ludwig von Baden, had made it between the Eagle's and the Phoenix's flotillas, and was leading a force of other cruisers to cut off their retreat.
"Helm, bring us around on bearing one-seven-six, flank speed. I want our escorts to make a smoke screen. We'll have to make a run for it, see if we can make it into range of the coastal guns in the Eaglin Strait. That'll keep them off of us." The Captains orders were rapidly relayed through the ship, the entire flotilla turning away from the battle. Strangely enough, the Eagle and her escorts were not turning, despite the orders to withdraw having been sent to them multiple times. Anderson struggled to maintain a radio connection with them.
"Eagle, what is your status? Respond." He asked, multiple times, watching from the bridge wings as the dreadnaught and her two Heavy Cruisers steamed in a line behind the escaping Phoenix, forming a line of battle, sending deadly broadsides to the Belkan fleet. They were paying for it too. Several heavy caliber shells struck the Eagle, who was now listing heavily to port. Despite this, her own gunfire had the Belkan Sudentor burning from end to end, her heavy guns finally falling silent as her crews struggled to put the fires out. The more modern Dinsmark was still relatively undamaged, her heavy battery still firing, so much that the paint was beginning to flake off her gun barrels.
But no matter, the battle was turning against the Osean Navy. Over the horizon came the shark like silhouette of two brand new Belkan battle-cruisers, Scharnhorst and Gneisenau. The Osean fleet stood no chance of running now… they were out numbered, and the Belkan fleet was faster than the Osean dreadnaught. Captain Snow's brow furrowed, and he eyed the faces of the men around him… pale, terrified, but thoroughly loyal.
"Turn the ship around… we're not going to die running. All ahead flank, let's tear a hole down their middle… make them pay for every Osean sailor who died today." The crew didn't say a word for or against, instead letting their actions voice their opinion. The Phoenix was swung around, her forward guns coming back into range of the enemy. The Phoenix's escorts swung around as well, their guns opening up on the enemy.
"Fire!" Snow barked, the six guns in the forward turrets coming alive, shells arcing through the frigid air. The heavy armor piercing rounds found a target on a Scharnhorst, striking her forward turret and penetrating, leaving a jagged hole in the turret roof. The Gneisenau responded in kind, her forward guns erupting in flame and cordite smoke. Six heavy caliber rounds splashed around the Phoenix, two of them striking her number two turret. They exploded on contact, forcing Anderson and Snow away from the bridge windows, protecting their faces from the eruption of flame.
"Damage control, get firefighters to turret number two! We cannot afford to lose it!" Anderson choked, looking over to Snow. He was shielding his face, but other than some superficial burns he was alright.
He turned to Anderson. "Look, Patrick… it isn't looking good. No cavalry is riding in to save us here… did… did you think it was a good idea to go back?" It was the very first time that Anderson had seen the Captain actually unsure about something, and it unnerved him greatly.
Anderson took a deep breath. "Sir, you of all people should know that in the darkest hour, it's the bravery and devotion of the sailors in the decks below us that will carry us through. There is nothing more we can do except hope God is with us today…" the ship rattled as she was hit again, this time the shot penetrating and exploding below deck, destroying several compartments in the ships bow.
Snow grimaced, but nodded slowly. "You're right… and I'm going to do my best to lead those sailors. Come on, we have a battle to win." The two men got back to their feet, brushing themselves off and eyeing the battle. The Eagle had finally succumbed to her wounds, capsizing and slowly slipping to the bottom of the sea. The Phoenix was the only capital ship the Osean fleet had left, against three Belkan. Anderson swallowed… his old friend, Erickman, was as good as dead, either from the enemy gun fire or the frigid waters of the sea.
"Helm, bring us on bearing oh-nine-oh, get me a broadside." Snow ordered, watching the fires be put out in the turret below. "We'll show them the fury of our guns, make them wish they never attacked us. I want the remaining cruisers to all form a line of battle with us, and the destroyers are free to wolf pack up and destroy any wounded stragglers… it's time we got into this, down and dirty.
The battlewagon banked sharply, cutting through the placid sea like a blade through flesh. The remaining heavy and light cruisers followed their lead, putting Snow's plan into action. He had crOFSed the Belkan force's T… he could fire broadsides while they could only fire directly ahead. With the narrow waters of the inland sea, he had the larger Belkan fleet essentially negated… they couldn't bring all of their numbers to bear, not all at once. Snow grinned darkly.
"All ships… fire everything you got."
The air was shattered by dozens of heavy guns snapping at once, shells and flame scouring the sky and streaking toward the Belkan force. Patricks adrenaline fueled howl of pride was silenced by the thunder of guns, the entire ship bowing to the force of her own broadside. For a few moments, those shells hung in the air, before landing with the force of a tremendous storm among the hostile fleet. A light cruiser was punished by twenty-two, six inch shells striking her superstructure and guns batteries, crumpling steel and shattering her hull. She fell to the bottom, broken and burning. The Dinsmark suffered heavily, all nine of the Phoenix's sixteen inch shells striking her along her hull, tearing gaping holes and buckling her frame. She limped forward, before making a full about face, steaming away at full speed as she struggled to escape. Despite this, even as she sailed away she fired back, shells from her aft turrets splashing around the Phoenix.
The hostile force began to scatter and break apart, struggling to escape the hail of shell fire that the Osea fleet was laying upon them. The Belkan battlecruiser Von der Tann, however, refused to run… and instead she fired an accurate salvo of eleven inch shells, each one striking the Phoenix in succession on her deck, detonating below on the armor plate. Snow cursed loudly. Anderson asked for a damage report, which was quickly given by Ensign Penrith.
"Boiler one and six are both losing pressure, and the inboard drive shaft is running at half power. We're going to lose speed." Anderson felt himself break out into a cold sweat. They really couldn't run now… all they could do was fight, hopefully force the Belkan fleet to retreat, force them away so they could limp back to port.
"Battle about to port!" Snow ordered, which was quickly relayed via radio to the other ships in the battle line. In time they all swung to port, showing off their other broadside to the Belkan guns. For a brief moment the bow of the Phoenix was pointed directly toward the Belkan force, her bridge once again vulnerable. Even as Anderson watched, a Belkan cruiser fired, a medium caliber shell arcing through the air… as it neared, time seemed to slow for the naval officer. The projectile was going to strike the bridge.
Snow had also seen it. In the few milliseconds of time before the shell struck, he was only able to comprehend the gravity of what was about to happen. A moment later, the HE shell detonated, blasting out the bridge windows and spalling, steel and glass pelting the bridge crew. Anderson covered his face with his hands, and Lieutenant Jereau was thrown to the deck. Smoke filled the room, before being filtered out by the ventilation system, a blast of compressed air from the boiler room cleaning the chamber as designed.
"God… goddammit… " Lieutenant CrOFS muttered, coughing and clearing his throat. Anderson stumbled, lowering his singed and lacerated arms. He was alive… the stinging pain and horrendous burning he could feel all up and down his arms was enough to tell him that. He wasn't critically wounded though, the bridge's armor had protected them from the majority of the blast and shrapnel.
"Captain?" He called, clearing his tear filled eyes and looking around the wrecked bridge. The front armor plate was bowed outward, and the glass had been shattered. Significant spalling had occurred, slivers of steel breaking away from the armor and embedding in anything soft enough to penetrate. Lieutenant CrOFS swore as he picked bits of glass and metal from his arms and face; spots of crimson soaking through his white uniform. Ensign Penrith pulled himself up from the deck, checking himself for injury.
"Is everyone alright?" Jensen asked, pulling himself up from the steel deck and returning to his station at the helm, taking the ship back under control. Anderson was still trying to regain his vision, his eyes still burning from the mass of smoke that had filled the compartment when the shell struck. "I'm fine…" He coughed, finally looking around. Engineer Penrith was already back at his station, monitoring the output from the engines and boilers. "We're leaking fuel oil…" He muttered to no one in particular. He seemed dazed.
"Captain Snow?" Anderson asked again. His ears were ringing, he could barely hear anything except for his own breathing and the muffled calls of the other officers of the bridge. He looked around, his vision coming back into focus. The navigator, Ensign Ravender, was unconscious. A large, blunt piece of steel had struck his helmeted head. Anderson felt a throbbing pain in his temple simply looking at him, and he briefly wondered if he should don a helmet, lest he be killed by a similar wound. "We have a man down on the deck… we need a medic…" he ordered in a still dazed manner, his mind feeling as if it was full of cotton.
"Commander! The Captain's wounded!" Ensign Rodriguez whimpered, nearly choking on his words. Anderson immediately felt like he had been showered in freezing cold water. His head swung around, and he gasped. Captain Snow was pinned against the deck, a gaping wound in his chest. A steel shard had been driven into his sternum, piercing his lung, and leaving him mortally wounded.
"Medic!" Anderson stammered, his eyes growing. The sound of the battle fell away, the swirling maelstrom seemingly calming. He rushed to his captains side, propping him up against the bulkhead. "Snow, you've been hit… don't try to move, you'll just end up making things worse." The older man grinned darkly, his eyes closing as he groaned.
"Give it up… I'm a dead man. In a highly cliche way, too…" He heaved, thick blood pooling on his lips as his damaged lungs filled with fluid. "And now here I am, ready to give my last words… wise and deep, something people will be quoting for years to come…" he chuckled, blood splattering down his front. "Like a novel… this is where I say something like 'don't give up the ship', or 'I have done my duty'. Well Patrick, I only have one thing to say… kill the damn bastards who did this…"
Adrian Snow gave one last rattling breath, his entire frame trembling as he struggled to breath. His eyes went glassy and he sputtered; head rolling down so it rested on his bloody chest. He was dead. Anderson struggled to his feet, unable to stop staring at the crumpled corpse of the proud man. War was hell, and even when the shooting stopped it would continue to haunt those who served. But to Anderson, he saw something else entirely. He saw a man who had died doing what he loved, somone who had lived his life and served his purpose. And now, the responsibility that Snow once bore on his shoulders had been passed to Anderson. The ship was his, and he had a promise to keep.
"Helm, battle about to starboard. Let's show our adversaries what we're capable off."
Commander Patrick Anderson saluted his Captain one final time, before turning around, eyeing the myriad of different faces, men, some of them little more than boys, who looked up to him, respected him. He cleared his throat. "Men, it has been a pleasure serving with you. Now, as we enter the lions den, I have one request of you. Stand by me." he said no more, taking his position at the head of the bridge, eyeing the situation.
Anderson felt no anger, and he felt no hate. He simply felt calm. Even his fear was gone. Accepting the only pOFSible outcome, his death, was key to this. His gaze scanned over the Belkan fleet, scattered but still imposing. Yes, they were his enemy, but they were also the only people on earth who fully understood and could commiserate with what he and his men were experiencing. Regardless of side, they were all the same. Warriors, sailors. And they would be facing the same fate that he was now.
"CrOFS, order all gun mounts to fire on my targets. Take down as many of them as we can." Commander Anderson watched calmly as the vessel before his, a heavy cruiser, was struck by a heavy caliber shell, nearly splitting her in two. The battle had reached a new stage, it had reached its climax. The Belkan's could smell victory, and now it had became a bloody knife fight in close quarters.
"Target that cruiser, 35 degrees to starboard. Send her to the bottom." The Phoenix's guns thundered, 16'' shells whistling loudly as they arched through the air until they finally struck, six shells shredding steel, the Belkan heavy cruiser's superstructure crumpled and fell into the icy sea, the fatally wounded warship falling from formation as secondary explosions tore through her hull. She was only saved from sinking when she became beached on the shore, her battered gun turrets finally falling silent.
The Belkan fleet responded in kind. Scharnhorst's heavy guns erupted, high explosive shells hurtling through the sky and crashing down on the Phoenix, shredding her teak deck and setting her ablaze once more. Anderson felt like whimpering… it wasn't helping that his ship was taking most of the enemy fire now. He wondered how much longer they would have before they finally succumbed and sunk beneath the icy sea.
"Damage report?" Anderson asked calmly. Despite his tone of voice, his composure was beginning to crack again. His hands were shaking uncontrollably and he felt like he was going to be sick. He had made a mistake, a big one, turning around. He could have ran, he could have…
"Engine three has been knocked out, I don't know how long it'll be until it's operational. We're also leaking fuel from tanks four and five and our number four boiler is leaking steam and losing pressure rapidly. We're also on fire and have suffered serious structural damage, compartments on B deck have all suffered various levels of flooding." Engineer Penrith's voice was grim. Thier ship was on it's last legs.
Patrick swallowed. The vessel was beginning to sit lower and lower in the water, and as the bridge lights flickered out and the gun turrets ground to a halt, the obvious became apparent. The power from the generators had been cut. Until the backup dynamos came online they would be at a lOFS for electrical power, and the men below decks would have nothing to guide them except for the emergency lights that operated from chemical reactions. Anderson needed to make a decision.
"All hands, prepare to abandon-"
Not for the first time that day, he was interrupted by an explosion. He gasped and looked out to the battle, and nearly fell to his knees. The Von der Tann was rolling over, men jumping from her sides as she was dragged down to the bottom. Circling triumphantly above was a Navy TBF Avenger torpedo bomber… one of many that were swooping down from the low cloud cover, coming in at wave top level and dropping their fish, before ravaging the enemy's decks with machine gun fire. Escorting them, high above, Navy F4F Wildcats circled.
"Those fighters look hotter than a drunk redhead." Helmsmen Jensen exclaimed, his voice full of the soft sound of relief and disbelief. The startled Belkan fleet was falling apart as they struggled to dodge the air dropped torpedoes, some even colliding with each other. Anti-aircraft guns began to rattle, flak and cannon fire scouring the sky, emerald and amber tracers arching acrOFS the sky.
Anderson knew an opportunity when he saw one. "We need to force them away. All ships, focus fire on their capital ships!" The message was rapidly sent to the surviving vessels, all of which began to focus their shell fire on the enemy battlecruisers. The Navy aircraft joined in, diving down sharply, machine gun fire scouring their decks. The nimble birds would come low before pulling out, barrel rolling and weaving in and out of massive pillars of oily smoke. The Belkan armada was suddenly at a serious disadvantage, and they knew it.
But no matter, they still refused to give in. One of the Belkan battlecruisers, Seydlitz, despite running low in the water and listing by the bow, was still sending deadly salvos of twelve inch shells toward the Phoenix. But even she could not resist, and her captain ran her aground before giving the call to abandon ship. A pair of destroyers moved to pick up her crew, but failed when the Osean light cruiser Legano began to open fire on them. The burning Seydlitz was left abandoned. The Osean fighters above ignored her, focusing on the surviving Belkan vessels.
Thus began the run to the north, to the Eaglin canal, which now rest securely in Belkan hands after an unexpected amphibious assault in the early hours of the morning. Osean naval air forces fought ferociously to sink as many of the Belkan ships before they reached the safety of their own air cover. The flak fire the Belkan force sent up in response was unyielding, 8.8, 3.7, and 2.0 centimeter shells detonating around the Osean dive bombers. One was hit by a medium shell, crumpling the bird and sending it into the waves, enveloped in flame. The destroyer that had presumably scored the kill was punished by a strafing attack, a Wildcat fighter swooping down, weaving through the anti-aircraft gunfire to lace her decks with deadly machine gun fire.
Anderson knew better than to pursue. His ships had all suffered damage, varying from the superficial to the mortal. His own flag ship was listing heavily, having taken on water. After reviewing and making sure his vessels were no longer endangered by the Belkan armada, he began to issue orders.
"All vessels, go to fleet speed, head for Riga. Once there we'll make emergency repairs and steam for St. Hewlett." As Anderson watched the oil stained waters, he took notice to the only remaining Belkan ships. The crippled battleship Sudentor, the beached battlecruiser, Seydlitz, and the stricken cruiser Blütcher. His own fleet had lost several capital ships, and if he left them Belkans would simply salvage them, and pOFSibly repair them at the port of Eaglin. He wouldn't allow that to happen.
"I also want the cruiser's St. Hewlett, Ackerson Hill, and Gilgamesh to tow the surviving Belkan hulks with us to Riga. We'll see if they can be repaired… if not, we take them for scrap. Either way, they're of too much value to leave behind." Anderson received a pleasing amount of confirmations to his idea. Taking the abandoned ships of an enemy fleet was often considered archaic, due to how quickly a ship could be utterly and completely destroyed. But here, he had three perfect opportunities, and wasting them would be a big mistake.
The three cruisers attacked lines to their rear turrets, using them like massive ball hitches, and began to tow the still miraculously sea-worthy vessels after them. The whole fleet would have to slow down to match their speed, but it didn't really matter… the wounded Phoenix could only make 12 knots, and they would have had to slow anyways. With the air arm protecting them from above, they at least didn't have to worry about attack. Ever so slowly, the broken fleet steamed for safe harbor.
As Anderson watched the patch of sea where they had all faced death, he desperately wish that he could at least thank the brave pilots who had swooped in and saved them. But such a thing could wait. He had a force to lead. after all, they weren't safe yet. And they would never be safe, not until the war, now mere hours old, was over.