A/N – Still don't own anything, see the disclaimer in the first chapter.

I apologize for the lateness again, I am a poll worker where I live so all day election day was spent working the election, Wednesday recovering from a twenty hour day and I'm still not at 100%, so I lost a great deal of writing time. Add to that my birthday was on November 11th and, well, I was way behind the 8-ball. Then the worst happened, my muse went silent for this chapter only. I know where I want to go, and have more written for future chapters and even have this one fully outlined, but actually writing this chapter kicked my proverbial backside. But it's done now, hopefully it's good and people like it! Again, I apologize for the delay!

Comments, criticisms and such are always welcome. I don't consider myself that great of a writer but I want to improve, and the best way to improve is to get critical feedback. Thank you to all those who have done so, it is greatly appreciated.

Chapter 06

Location – Charleston Navy Yard

The wreckage had finally been cleared away from the old dry dock and wharf. Beneath the water could still be seen the burned out timbers of an American icon. Old Ironsides had met her fate to fire, while beside her the burned out hulk of Cassin Young still steamed as small fires continued to burn deep within the ruined hull. The entire waterfront was desolate and shattered, burned out buildings and the smell of death and ruin. The Abyssal bombardments that Boston had suffered had caused enormous damage and loss of life.

But Bostonians were a tough and stubborn breed. Crews moved through the wreckage, salvaging what they could and marking structures too badly damaged for repair for eventual replacement. Out in the harbor a pitiful few naval vessels sat, many damaged, but luckily Boston was close enough to a few of the new ship girl bases that they'd not suffered a raid since the summoning's started to work.

Alex Martinez and his crew of construction workers and firefighters had been busy for days clearing out structures around the naval yard turned national park. No building was intact, either savaged by shells or burned out by the fires that had raged through the area. They still had to survey the damage and they'd gotten rather skilled at the task.

"You hear that?" Alex paused, listening hard as they clambered amongst the ruins of the old ropewalk building.

The crew looked around, frowns appearing on soot-stained faces. A soft groaning noise could be heard, seemingly coming from within the rubble that had once been the last operational military ropewalk in the United States. Alex gestured and the crew carefully picked their way through the wreckage, dodging around twisted metal plates from the roof that had collapsed when the thick wooden walls had burned.

The sound seemed to be coming from a particularly large pile of debris and the crew stopped short.

"What do you think it is, boss?" one of the construction workers asked, shifting a bit nervously.

"Not sure, doesn't sound…" Alex cut off as the debris shifted, multi-ton slabs of charred wood and copper roofing being pushed aside.

Another groan, and the figure stood up, creaking noises coming from the unmistakably female form as she stretched to her full height. She could easily be mistaken for either a young woman or an ancient lady; her figure was that of youth and vitality yet her hair was the deep steel gray of advanced years. She was wearing an extremely old fashioned black and copper dress that, despite the wreckage about her, appeared to be in pristine condition, unmarked by dust or ash. A wide white-checked belt encircled her waist and delicate gold filigreed patterns twined about the long sleeves and yoke of the dress. A modest white collar that appeared positively ancient and brightly polished brass buttons completed the outfit. A few more creaks and groans, and the figure turned to face the men, a slight smile on her classically beautiful face marred only slightly by a nose that had a hint of crookedness.

Alex opened his mouth to speak, but the figure spoke first in a Boston accent so thick you could almost taste the clam chowder. "A quite annoyed USS Constitution, reporting for duty. Direct me to the nearest operational naval base, young man."

Even with the thick accent the voice of command could make even the most insolent and rebellious youth leap to obey, and Alex was no exception to that. "Portsmouth Naval Shipyard is closest, I think." He paused briefly, then coughed and added a 'ma'am' at an arch look from the old sail girl.

USS Constitution arched an eyebrow at Alex, a ghost of a smile playing over her lips. "I do believe that facility is dedicated to ships that need to sink to do their duty, yes?"

"Ummm… I think so, ummm ma'am." Alex replied.

"Then I should have been more clear, the nearest operational surface warfare base. I was hoping that New York Naval Shipyard was operational, but that would have been closer than Portsmouth, yes? Is the Washington Naval Yard operational?"

Alex nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

USS Constitution chuckled slightly. "Contrary to popular belief, young man, I do not bite. My thanks for your assistance."

She swept past the gaping crew, heading directly for the harbor with her hands clasped lightly behind her back as she navigated the ruin and wreckage with complete aplomb. "I quite enjoyed my last stay in the Potomac, but I do hope that they have done something about the silt. Good day, gentlemen." And she was out of sight.

The crew scrambled after her after a moment, reaching the seawall right as she calmly made her way to the nearest boat ramp formerly used by the harbor tours. As she stepped onto the water the air shimmered about her. What appeared to be the sort of pack that wouldn't be out of place on a revolutionary war reenactor appeared on her back and about her shoulders, with a single tall mast sprouting from it. Canvas spilled out from the yards on the mast and despite the near complete lack of wind billowed out as if caught in a stiff topsail breeze. The shipgirl's hands were still clasped lightly behind her back, her posture erect and proud as she skated smoothly out into the harbor under the impetus of unseen winds.

The crew looked at each other, then jumped as a young voice frantically called out from the wreckage of the nearby dry dock. "WAIT FOR ME!" In the harbor the shipgirl turned, arresting her progress and raised one elegant eyebrow.

A young girl clambered over the wreck and ruin of the dock and leapt into the water, Fletcher-class rigging materializing around her as USS Cassin Young landed and hurriedly skated up to the now smiling sailing frigate. The crew was too far away to hear anything that passed between them, but the hug the pair exchanged before skating off together brought smiles… fierce and hungry smiles from men who'd survived the worst the Abyssals could throw at Boston. The two warships of the old Charlestown Navy Yard were going off to war.

Location – Naval Base Ventura County

It had been several days. Several days of hard training. Around the United States the frenetic pace of summoning ceremonies had ended as the initial rush of ship girls had dried up. Only about a quarter of the believed available girls had been summoned so far, spread out around the country, but that was still more ship girls in absolute terms than any other nation had managed to summon. Most of the girls summoned were older pre-World War 2 vessels or light combatants, with the Sunnydale and Oxnard girls being the most 'modern' of them all.

It had taken a while, but the task force was finally functioning smoothly. Individual and group practices had been grueling, with Buffy driving 'her' girls to meet rather exacting standards. In the absence of any dedicated training ships, like Langley on the East Coast or Utah at Pearl Harbor, Buffy had had to combine tactical leadership with becoming the training mistress of the girls on base. This, of course, had led to plenty of conflicts between the various girls, especially the Sunnydale crew, but in the end things had shaken down with relatively little harm beyond some bruised egos and backsides. It helped that after the first day Buffy had been in near constant communication with both Utah and Langley for advice and assistance in her new duties.

On the other hand it didn't help that Buffy's inspiration for how to go about training people was drawn straight from the boot camp scenes of most major war films and the diminutive slayer seemed determined to out-Drill Sergeant even the grouchiest and meanest DI's in those films. That both Utah and Langley fully approved of this attitude and even at times commented that Montana was too soft somewhat terrified ship girls at all US bases. Buffy would then turn around and lead raids on the local ice creameries once the training day was over, so the girls equally hated and loved her. She kicked their ass out on the water in training, then gave them ice cream and head pats. The destroyers especially liked the head pats. And were short enough that Buffy didn't have to get on tip toe to give them. Mentioning this minor if indisputable fact was a quick path towards utter and total exhaustion as she dragged whoever was so foolish as to make the comment back out on the water and made them do drills until they nearly passed out. Spike and Joyce were the only two to make the comment more than once, since both of them had taken to deflating Buffy's ego at every opportunity.

Abyssal activity had dropped a bit due, as far as anybody could figure out, to the increased losses to ship girl patrols along the coasts. Two raids, one on New York City and another on Seattle, had been intercepted by local ship girl formations and driven off. Attacks seemed to have leveled off at about the same level that other nations with active ship girl forces faced, which was a massive relief to all involved. Convoys with surviving merchant vessels had already started in the Caribbean to relieve the island nations from the threat of starvation as their fishing fleets had been utterly devastated.

"Alright, listen up you bloody wankers." Spike stood in front of the briefing room filled with ship girls, his ship girls. "We've got ourselves a mission."

The girls perked up slightly from where they'd been variously doing their nails, reading magazines ranging from teenage fashion mags to highly specialized technical manuals, wolfing down ice cream (all the destroyers), bragging and glaring (Buffy and Cordelia), a rather enthusiastic thumb wrestling war (all the carrier girls) and all of them were dodging the faerie pilots bombing them with packets of glitter (one of Buffy's ideas to both improve situational awareness and to give the pilots some practice at the same time). But the noise level didn't abate one bit, not that it ever really did.

Spike just shook his head and wondered for the umpteenth time if it was worth it but yet again coming to the silent mental conclusion that it certainly was. "I said listen up." He repeated himself before rolling his eyes and glancing over to Dru. The former vampire seeress turned secretary ship grinned a bit before sticking two fingers in her mouth and letting loose a piercing whistle, thus causing the room to finally quiet down.

"Like I said, we've got us a mission." He glared around the room. "We're going to sail down to LA and pick up the escort of a convoy to Hawaii. Ten container ships loaded with food and munitions, along with a pair of tankers loaded up with fuel oil. This convoy has to get through, Honolulu is on heavy rationing and the power plants only have a week of fuel left. We'll have a six ship division of destroyer escorts from San Diego joining us for this who'll be doing the close in ASW, but we're the heavy escort in the event of surface or air attack. Once we get the convoy through, you'll be escorting them back here loaded with refugees. We don't have nearly enough freighters left, the yards are working on building replacements but that will be at least three months, so don't fucking lose any of them. They are more valuable right now than bloody gold."

He paused and fished around in his jacket pocket for a remote before thumbing it on, bringing up a chart of the Pacific showing the planned route. "You'll have P-8 coverage the entire route, and I'm told the flyboys have gotten their hands on the first batch of depth charges designed for high altitude high speed release and will be testing them. If they work that should reduce the strain on the escorts since hopefully they'll be able to thin out any submarine Abyssals before they can get in position to hit the convoy. Plan is you'll be taking a direct path with variable leg zig zags to throw off any sub attack and complicate any surface intercept. The Pearl ship girls will be meeting you at point Bravo." He used the laser pointer on his remote to indicate a spot about ten nautical miles out from Pearl Harbor. "They'll be augmenting the escort force as Abyssal surface forces have been hitting the islands hard."

He paused again, hard eyes sweeping over the girls who were furiously taking notes, ignoring the fact that many of them were doing so with varicolored ink with glitter and sparkles and other ridiculously un-military things, in notebooks that ranged from professional to ones more suitable for middle school.

"Once you arrive in Hawaii and while the ships are being unloaded, you'll be joining the Pearl Harbor girls to aggressively search for and destroy as many Abyssal surface units as you can find. Thin them out as best you can so hopefully your return trip will be somewhat easier." One last pause. "Any questions?"

Immediately Buffy and Cordelia's hands shot up.

"No, you bloody well can't load Katies." Spike said immediately to preempt the two battleships causing both Montana's to pout at him. He waved that away. "Any serious questions? Tarawa?" he nodded to the lone fleet carrier in the room.

"Keeping the air supremacy loadout?"

Spike nodded. "One fleet carrier alone isn't going to be very effective, and we can't spare any additional since Sara, Lex, Ranger and Wasp are all on the east coast, plus you have the most advanced fighters of any of the carriers who've returned. So keep a very heavy CAP up for the convoy since even though what we've seen of Abyssal airpower is practically non-existent but I would rather not take any bloody unnecessary chances."

Buffy kept her hand up for a moment longer before just speaking up. "How about Dionysius and Wright? Will they be accompanying us to provide C3 and at-sea repairs?"

Spike chuckled "I'll be on one of the freighters, and both of them will be along as well"

"What about supplies?" Buffy asked as she consulted her notebook. "Both at sea and when we reach Pearl?"

"One of the cargo ships is of the LASH type, we're setting aside capacity on her for at-sea resupply of the escort force." Spike replied, consulting his own notes before smirking. "We've also got plenty of ice cream set aside for the escort force so you should all be in good shape presuming we get enough breaks in Abyssal strikes to indulge. Once we get to Pearl we'll have a pair of repair ships to get you all back into top condition since Vestal was summoned last night."

"Is USS Independence out of dry dock yet?" Cordy asked, frowning a little.

"Yes, why? Weren't planning on bringing any conventional warships along on this trip." Spike replied.

"We should see if she's available, we may need her boat retrieval equipment and module space to serve as an emergency dock if any of us take significant damage. Might make the difference between losing a girl and all of us making it through this." Buffy said, having picked up on Cordy's thoughts quite quickly. For all that the two battleships bickered…

Spike nodded and made a note after glancing over at Dru and getting a nod. "I'll see what I can do. We're going feet wet in an hour, girls."

Location – San Pedro Bay

Ever since the chaos of the initial Abyssal attacks the roadstead of San Pedro Bay had been deathly quiet. The surviving container ships that had managed to make harbor floating listlessly at anchor with no real prospect for further voyages while their crews drowned their sorrows ashore remembering friends who'd been lost at sea. Many of the anchored vessels had been sunk in subsequent Abyssal raids while helplessly swinging at anchor with, thankfully, nobody on board.

That had now all changed. Patrols of destroyer escort girls and coast guard cutter girls swept the approaches to the bay regularly, preventing further attacks from the Abyssals. And now the surviving freighters were forming up into a convoy in the main ship channel of the bay accompanied by the greyhound sleekness of a single grey warship that appeared to be racing even while barely maintaining steerage way. Surrounding them were the figures of young women and girls skating about on top of the waves. Yet if one were to squint just right and let one's mind drift just so, one could see instead the ghostly hulls of old warships summoned from the grave to serve their country once more.

On the bridges of several of the massive cargo vessels elderly men who hadn't been to sea for years, decades in some cases, stood or sat next to sailors young enough to be their great grandchildren. The navy had scoured the country, searching for surviving veterans of World War 2 convoy operations to assist with running this, the first true convoy of a new, far more deadly, war. Age-roughened voices advised young professionals about the tricks of forming up a convoy, how to work out separation intervals and maintaining formation without breaking light or radio discipline. The little tricks, the ones that somehow never made it into textbooks or Merchant Marine Academy classes, but which were invaluable at sea.

Meanwhile, out at sea, beneath the waves, a twisted form drifted in the currents. It vaguely resembled a shark crossed with a squid and was pitch black with metallic highlights. In the uncertain light of the depths it had a mottled appearance that shifted and flowed. A single eye on a stalk extended above the waves, focusing in on the roadstead.

"̛̣̩̲̪̺̗̮̒͛̋͂̃̐Ḯ̧̖̤͉̯̥̳̉̉̊̾̃͠ ̦̲̝̣͓͔̐̽̌̓̈́́͘ͅw̢̞͉͚̤̩̭̍͊͗̃͗̌̔i̮̯͈̝̻͙̹͂͑́͂͗́̕ľ̟͙̱͔̳͖͉̇̈́̀̈̿̚l̨̡̡̞̝̭̖̿̉̃̀̀̓̕ ̻͓̗̦̯̦̞̾͆̐́͆̓͝i͈̰̺͔̣͔̝͆̒̔́̈́̾͋n̲͓͈͎̠̘͔̓̏͗͒͆́̽f̨̦̞̠̺̭̑͌͂̅͊̂̓͜l̜̖͕̤͕͎̿̉̐̓̂͑̕͜i͔̻̻̠̰̝͕͆̃̅̋̐̊͠c̢̩̤͍̺̘̓̋̇̽͌̚͘͜ẗ̛͈̝̖͓̺̳͓̾̂̚͝͝ ̢̹̖̫̳͒̔̃͗̀̿̒͜͜ţ̠̻̖̹͍̦̎͛͗́́̚͝h̻͔͇̗̣̤͉̉̿̃͆͐͘͝e̠̙͚̭͔̮͖͊̏͂̌̈́̿̍ ̡̧̞͇̹̰̤̋̈́̆͊́͋͘ṡ̨̨̧̱̟̱͓́͛̀̊͘̕ù͕̥̹͍̘̰͆̀̀͗̒̒͜f̘͍̲̤̲̰̠͆̑͐̈̓͑͝f̜̫̠̙̯̠̞̒̂̂̆̉̽̍ê̡̧̬̫̜̩̣̐̏̋̉̏͝r̢̻̯͍̩̥̄̄́̽̌̃̚ͅi̛̛͍̩̝̖̩͙̱̐̄͛͑̇n̮̲͓̻̫͉̦̈́͆̏̊̑̄̅g̢͈̺̦̰̙̎̂͒́̾̎͘͜ ̞͔̥͎͎̱̻̈͑̌̌̋̉̎Ī̧̤̘̻̜̽̒͑̽̆́͜͜ ̨̢̩̖̯͎͔͆̽̊̉͐̕͠f̡̧͕͚̫͔͙̍͐̋̊̌͋͝e̡̨̲̜͕͔͒͒̓̇́͋̏͜e̳͍̲̗̞̠͌̎̃͋͋͗͆ͅl̠̙̜̦̝̦̼̃̌̒͊͌͘͝ ̡̨̣̠̣͉̮͗̈́̀̀̈͘͝ǘ̧̲̳̰̠̞̃͌͒̄̓̽͜p̞͉̼̹̻̣̥͆̀̍̐͗̑͠ơ͓͚̤͖̙̯̑̇̒̓͒̇͜n͚̟̞̗̭̖̺̍̿̋͋͗͌͠ ̧̧͍̳͓̞̙̏̇̾̌͋̉̾y̯͉͇̗͚͉̲̾̏̉́̈́̅ȯ̠̘̟̯̦͓̱̀́̔̀̀̀ű̪͙̺̺̺̰̻̇͊̑͗̈͝ ̫̻̫̙̯̘̦̊́̃͗̽̔̈a̢͈̩͈̗̺̩̾̓̃͗͑̚͠ṉ̟͎̼͍̣̰͆̆̓̂̏̑̄d̨͇̣̫̣̙̮̒͒͊́̂͌̊ ̳̮̞̖̗͇͇̆̓̊͆̅̌͝ý͎̪̤̩̝̞̞̓͆̀͌̔̕ȯ̡̗̻̫̼̫̯̆̓́͌̿͘u̗͈̖͔̪͔͑͗̑́͊̚͘͜ŗ̨͓̘͉̩̫͂̔̂͌̋̃̇s̲͕͔̠̥̬̻͛̏͂̅͋̿͝.̭͕̯͇̱͙̎͌̆́̆̚̕͜ ̢͎͍̹̫̣͈̓̈̌̓̀̚͘ ̧͇͍͍̩͕͆̃͂͊͘͜͠͝M̞͚̣̘̫̞̪̓̏̊̽͐̌͘ȳ̧͇͕̪̮̤̹͆̏͗̐̈́̕ ̢̛͓͕̹̞̺̭̒̋͌̂̾͝p͈̻̹̱̤̙̬̽̇͆̊̑͌̿a̢̧̛̰̦͎͓̰͛̑̓̔͑͠ì̗͓̗̦̱͔̬̊̓̓̕͝͝n̨̬̫͙̲̗̝͋͌̋̿̏͒̽ ̛̮̙̺̻̮͎͚̋͐́͐͝͠ẁ̥̣̱͍̬̫͎͋͗̍̃͘͠ỉ̡̜͓̲͌̈́͌̀̅̚͜͜ͅl̨̰̺͓̣͈̂͊͌́͌͊̚ͅl̢̙̟̠͍̞͍̓͊͂̈̿̂͝ ̛̤̺͍̠̩̫̠͌̑̿͒͐͠b̢̢̛̗̖͙͈̘̀̈́́̽͝͠e͖̩̱̻̙̬̅͐̽͂̄͗͝ͅ ̻̱̳̺͇̞͗̀́̍̂̎̕ͅy̧̧̝̰͔̘̫͒͋̑̈́̔͛͝o͖̺̘̱͉͈̺̅̈́̈̿̊̆͝u̝̞̤̤̦͑͛̂͐͐͜͝͝ͅṟ̛͓̻͕̠̫̙̓͛̓̈̓̓ ̧͈̱̖̣̦͋́̊̐̈̈́͜͠p͍̺̻͎̭͐͂̔̍́̈̃͜͜ā̧̼̭̲͖̩͇̉̈́̆͂̋͠i̛̺̫̲͉̣̗̙͂̇̅̇̚͠n̨͔̗̱͈͚̑́̓̾̓͛͜͝.̘̩̺͍͈̫̆͊̂͂̽̓͜͝ ̨̱̩͓͈̹̮͊͊̓́̃̽̏ ̹̗͖͉͓͕̙̅̏̈́͆͑͋̂M̧̳͈͇̠̜̲͆̿̅̈͗̄̕y̱̝͙̻̣̣̦̽͂̑̐͌͂̕ ̧̱̥͚͙̭̏̏̽̈́͂͑̿͜ȃ͍̼͚͔͙̖̳̉̏̐͂̾͝g̱̣̠̘̯̝̙̓̇̅͛̈́͗̕ǫ̱̜̮͍̤͇͒́̀͂̀͋͘n̛͇̗̣̘̘̞̩̎̓̄̈́͘͠ỳ̢̗̭̖̜̮̼̍̃͗͊̂̎ ̛͇̳̖̭̫̺̣́̌̄̈̆͗w̛͎̫̩̯̳̤̦͆̍̈́̓̔̕ḯ̡͇̫̞̜̱̻̈̀͛̈̈́͝l̛͕͍̝̬̻͇̠͊̌́̊̒͝ĺ̨̧̠̦̖̠̅̒̽̔̚͘͜ ̢̘͍͉̯̙̰̽̽́͂̐͌̚b̢̛̬͓̼̼̼̦́̀̔̓̋̽e͕͔̫͖̩̤̳͂̐̓̃̊͐͝ ̢̡̳̯͕̖̺̾͒́͋̊͗̚y̡̛̤̥͎͕͙͓̓̊̂͐̈̑o̹͍̖̟̗̪̪̍̈̊̎͒́̕u̧̹̠̣̪͎̝̒̈͒̀͗̾͘ŗ̧̙͇̗̺̲̓̏͐̈́̽̄͝ ̧̡̛̻̺̥̖̥̒́͌̈͝͝a̧͖̫͈̺͙̿̌̈́̆̓̇̆ͅg̡̝͙̪̜̹̠̑͌̈́̽̚͠͝ǫ̰̠͕̲̯̯̏̑͌̿̓͝͝ņ̼͇̲̤̱͔̈́̊͑̇̒͘͝y̻̣͍̣̱͕̭̆͛̒̽̅̾͗.̛̲͍̭̥̜͔̙̓̎̐̂̀̃ ̢̛̖͈̝̼̻͎̎̍͂͌̑̏ ̨̫̺͖̹̝̞͑̈̅̓͐͗̎S̹̩̱̲̬̙͆͛̈́͌̄̑̚ͅu̯̩̜̤̜͖͒̾͒͌͛͌͘͜f̡̧̬̠͍͇͇̋́͊̈͌̊̓f̥̩̟̳͎́̀̉̒̈̀̈́ͅͅë̡̡̛̟̮̥̘̤́̽͊͌̚͠r̙̜̣̪̝̹̗̓́́̓̊̚͝ ̡̢̻͈͓͚̩̈̀̈́̈́͑͠͠ŵ̧̤͚̩̖͍̓͌̇͌̔̔͜î̧̬̩͇̗̬̈́̈́͑͊̏̀ͅţ̪̼̞̻̝̲̑̿͛̉̉͊͛h̢̤͚̖̞͉̻͗͌̎͐̄̌͘ ̡̣͉̩̞̬̖̾̌̄̎̈́̓̀m̪̫͖̘̺̣̬̂̋̅́̎̕͝ẻ͖̝̟̻̰̺̭̅̓̐́̃̍.̢̯̝̻̼̣̮̽͛̃͐͐́̃"̠̙͕̝̤̞̱̑̓̿͂̂̕͝