DISCLAIMER: See Chapter One. I also have made no money on any of the song lyrics mentioned in this chapter.
I can't apologize enough for not having this chapter out sooner. However, a few things were factors in the delay (among them a health scare, my computer's hard drive wearing out, and my annual one-week trip to Paradise (HEAVY sarcasm on the last one)), but I persevered, and even got a promotion out of the deal...go me! So without further ado, here's the next chapter!
Special thanks to Berean, Alpha HighBreed, Krugger, Lt. Cmdr. Jonathan Miller, Generalfeldmarschall, wup5, a Guest, FBMPyroTech, Tekketsu1220, redcollecter, Helmet-Chan, F-14 Tomcat Lover, Abdi Shabill729, and Pyeknu for reviewing the previous chapter, and pastor and correnhimself316 for reviewing Chapters 13 and 25, respectively!
Chapter Twenty-Eight – Coming to America
Professor Tanabe had a varied taste in the music. One day he might be listening to Bob Marley singing Is This Love, while the next day the booming voice of the late great Luciano Pavarotti might be blaring out La Donna è Mobile. But having a varied taste in music wasn't necessarily a problem; the fact that he usually listened to music in the summoning chamber was, for it had resulted in bringing forth some...interesting characters.
And now, as he'd turned back to face the summoning machine after having looked away for a few minutes to check something on one of the monitors, it appeared that said varied taste in music had done it again.
"Hello," Tanabe smiled nervously.
The new girl looked around. "Like, where am I?" she asked uncertainly.
"You're in Japan," Tanabe responded. "Welcome back."
"Japan, huh?" the girl mused. "Cool…never got to visit here in my years of service." She looked at Tanabe. "Are you, like, my Admiral or something?"
"Ah, no…" Tanabe replied. "I'm just the scientist in charge of summoning shipgirls."
"Like, what year is it, man?" the girl asked, having seen a mirror and wandered over to it, checking out her reflection.
"It's 2018," Tanabe replied. "Could I get your name?"
"Who needs names, man?" The girl replied without looking in Tanabe's direction as she adjusted her breasts in the skimpy, midriff-baring top she wore. "Why can't we all just be?"
"What?" Tanabe didn't know how to respond to that.
"Consciousness, man," the girl replied. "We don't need labels like names to define us…they constrict us and like, bind us to certain norms. No names, no barriers. Righteous, huh?" she turned and gave him a spacey grin.
Oh, great…another one that's Looney with a side of Tunes, Tanabe thought to himself. The Admiral's going to jump for joy.
He was brought out of his thoughts when the girl spoke again.
"Gotta jet, man…the waves are like, calling to me."
"W-waves?" Tanabe echoed blankly as the girl headed for the door.
"Yeah, man," the girl replied. "I need to like, find a board and some surf. Later, man…stay cool."
Tanabe hurried after her, calling out to her as she headed off down the road.
"Who are you? I need to at least tell the Admiral that much!"
The girl turned back and shook her head as though humoring him for not being on the same alternate frequency she was on.
"No names, man…just be."
She flashed him a peace sign, rounded the corner, and was gone.
Tanabe facepalmed as the final lines of the song that had summoned the shipgirl drifted out to him:
Everybody's gone surfin'…Surfin' USA.
Everybody's gone surfin'…Surfin' USA.
"Let me get this straight," Avers sat in his office, glowering at Tanabe, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else in the world right then. "You just let her walk out of there without even getting her name?!"
"Sh-she wouldn't t-tell me!" Tanabe stuttered. "I-it was like she was living in her own little world or something!"
"Well, that description certainly narrows things down!" the Admiral snapped sarcastically. "A shipgirl acting strange…that certainly hasn't been seen before!" He sighed. "What kind of ship was she?"
"I don't know," Tanabe replied. "She didn't have a combat rig with her. However, she didn't have the form of a battleship, so I'll say a cruiser."
"Did she have an accent of any kind? Perhaps if we knew what country she's from we could figure out her identity that way."
"Oh, she was definitely American," the scientist confirmed. "She acted like a California valley girl surfer combined with the dream-like state of a 1960s Flower Child."
"Were you listening to any music when she was summoned?" Avers asked, writing down the traits Tanabe had just mentioned.
Tanabe nodded. "Surfin' USA by The Beach Boys."
Avers pulled out his phone and did some quick research, then turned to Mutsu. "Extremely random request time," he smiled at the battleship, who giggled and nodded. "Find out which of the American shipgirls were still in U.S. Navy service as of 4 March 1963 and get them here."
Mutsu merely nodded and set to work; if she was surprised by odd request, she didn't show it. Odd seemed to be the norm at the Naval Base.
Twenty minutes later, Avers was explaining the situation to the four shipgirls in his office.
"Can any of you think of a fellow U.S. Navy ship who might match that description?"
Confused faces gazed back at him.
"Yarr…I be drawin' a blank, matey," Kidd muttered.
Avers glanced at Nicholas, who shrugged and shook her head in response. A glance at O'Bannon resulted in the destroyer in question merely gazing back at him and taking another chomp out of her latest raw potato.
The Admiral sighed and looked at the last shipgirl. "Anything to add?"
Currituck shook her head. "Sorry, sir…I was en route to Saigon in March 1964; I have no idea who it could be."
"Well, crap," Avers muttered, slumping in his chair in defeat.
Currituck put her hand to her ear, apparently having received a message over her radio, and then giggled. "You are so cute!" When she noticed Avers and the others looking at her strangely, she blushed and added, "Sorry…message from Oceanic. See, -"
"No need to elaborate," Avers replied, putting a halt to any explanation. The American seaplane tender and the Victorian-era passenger liner were now a couple, and Oceanic had eagerly thrown himself into learning anything and everything about what had gone on in the world since he'd been wrecked in September 1914. His child-like enthusiasm for things that seemed mundane to most people was almost infectious - the day he was introduced to chocolate-chip cookies being the most memorable occasion thus far – and food aficionados like Akagi were only too happy to help him discover new culinary joys.
Then there was the more…extreme side of things; Oceanic rarely turned down a chance for adventure, and one day when he'd sent Currituck a message via radio – he was still learning how to use a smartphone – that he was 'about to embark on an adventure called 'skydiving'', the seaplane tender had nearly had a meltdown. Tashkent hadn't been too pleased about the incident either, as it had been DesRon 23 – who else? – that had invited Oceanic to accompany them on the 'adventure' to begin with.
There was a knock at the door, and Mutsu opened it to admit Iowa.
"Yes?" Avers asked, thinking the American battleship had a report for him.
"Heard you guys were trying to ID a new American shipgirl," she stated. "Figured I could help out."
"But you weren't in commission in 1964," Nagato pointed out.
"True," Iowa replied, "but any U.S. warship commissioned in 1964 was probably still around when I was recommissioned in the 1980s."
"Good point," Avers conceded, and proceeded to fill Iowa in on what little they knew about the new girl.
"Wait!" Iowa stopped Avers mid-sentence. "You said she sounded like a surfer girl-slash-Flower Child, and that she said the waves were calling her?"
"Correct," Avers responded, and Iowa nodded.
"That clinches it, then," she stated. "Your new girl is Long Beach."
"The nuclear missile cruiser?" Avers asked, and Iowa nodded. "The few times I met her, I remember her talking like that." She shook her head. "Jeez, what a weirdo she was."
Avers sighed and turned to Tanabe. "You let a nuclear-powered warship just stroll off on her own?!"
Tanabe whimpered, seeming to realize his gaffe was now much more serious than he'd originally thought.
March came and it was time for the American contingent to head back to the United States. The massive Airbus 380 would be carrying Robertson and 132 shipgirls and boys non-stop from Atsugi Air Base in Japan all the way to Norfolk, Virginia. Heading to the United States were no less than thirty battleships, thirteen aircraft carriers of all types, six battle cruisers, seventeen heavy and thirteen light cruisers, thirty destroyers, one destroyer-escort, ten submarines, and twelve auxiliaries.
Robertson was thoroughly not looking forward to this trip, as he would be trapped on a plane for over fourteen hours with quite a few ships that were poster children for ADHD. What made it even worse was that certain ships he'd prayed would never meet – specifically, Trigger and DesRon 23 – had become best buddies. The submarine had been declared an Honorary Member of DesRon 23 – mainly because he liked crazy stunts as much as the destroyers did – and Robertson shuddered to think of what chaos the group would cause once they got settled in the United States.
Then there was the newest arrival. Long Beach had been found within three hours of the conversation in Avers' office; the cruiser had gone across the bay to Iwakuni, where a popular surfing spot was located, and had been dazzling locals with near-professional surfing skills when Iowa found her. And while she'd come back with Iowa without a fight, the battleship had been forced to keep a close eye on the nuclear-powered cruiser ever since, for Long Beach was apt to wander off wherever her 'inner vibe' told her to go. She also rarely answered to her own name; the fact that she walked up to the new Commander U.S. Naval Forces Japan during a farewell reception for those leaving for the United States and – while wearing her U.S. Navy uniform with her provisional rank of Captain – stated that since the U.S. Navy insisted on using names to label everyone, she preferred to answer to either 'Glowing Rain' or 'Princess Fire Flower'. The U.S. admiral – judging by the gob-smacked look on his face – didn't know how to respond to that one, and Kongo had to prevent Avers from repeatedly banging his head over the nearest hard surface. Long Beach's attendance at any formal functions had – from that point on – no longer been required.
Now, Avers was standing on the tarmac at Atsugi Air Base, bidding farewell to the majority of the non-Japanese shipgirls. There were still some that were staying behind; the three Taiwanese and six Australian shipgirls would depart for their respective countries once bases could be constructed for them. The seven Russian shipgirls had elected to go to America rather than make the short trip to Vladivostok, and the four Dutch ships also chose to leave the Pacific when informed that the territory they'd fought and died to defend had been the independent nation of Indonesia since 1949. The leader of the group, light cruiser De Ruyter, informed Avers that she and her three companions would go to Norfolk in the hopes that they would someday be able to return to the Netherlands.
The Admiral stood with Robertson as they watched the Chilean, Brazilian, and Spanish shipgirls bicker their way onto the plane. While Almirante Latorre, Sao Paulo, and Minas Gerais could theoretically return to their own countries, they had no destroyers or cruisers to support them, thereby drastically curtailing their operational effectiveness. Another unspoken truth was that the weapons of all three battleships had been obsolete even by World War II standards, and to send them into combat by themselves would be a virtual death sentence for them.
The liners made their way onto the plane next; the Cunard-White Star trios went first, followed by Rex, Conte di Savoia, and Normandie, who had decided to start their own restaurant in the States. Everyone at the Naval Base had been sorry to see the latter trio go, but all three liners had left copies of their recipes with Hosho, so the excellent-beyond-words menu at both Hosho's restaurant and the commissary would continue. Those still on the ground choked back laughter as an ecstatic Oceanic all but dragged Currituck onto the plane; the liner was overjoyed to hear he would get to 'embark on one of those huge metal flying machines' and could hardly wait to get on board.
The Japanese submarines – as well as Harder and Albacore – were on hand to see Imuya and Goya off. Imuya had handed charge of the submarine pens over to Hachi two days prior; as a Warrant Officer, Hachi was the next-highest-ranking shipgirl of that type, and so was next in line to take over. Iku – despite having complained at not receiving high rank initially – hadn't put up a fuss when the change-of-command took place; she was too busy with Aiya, who had just started her second trimester.
The German ships boarded next, with U-47 eagerly dragging an exhausted-looking Prien with her. Avers made a mental note to warn his XO when he heard the German submarine mention the phrase 'mile-high club' in passing; judging by the goofy grin on the Bundesmarine officer's face, he didn't think there would be much enforcing of the rules coming from that direction. The Italians followed the Germans, with 'Don Vittorio' and his 'crew' deep in conversation about plans Avers was sure would cause Robertson more than a few white hairs.
Next came DesRon 23, who shook hands with Avers, everyone else who was there to see them off, and then with each other before forming up in a line.
"Okay, everyone ready?" Spence called to his brothers.
"Ready, dude!" Foote responded, with the rest of the group giving thumbs-up indicating they were primed for whatever bout of insanity that was about to unfold.
"DesRon 23, HEAD OUT!" Aulick ordered, and the nine destroyers marched for the stairwell leading into the plane, loudly singing the theme from The Monkees in Minion-ese, dancing and looking as though they were having the time of their lives. The group passed Tashkent as they belted out the chorus; as they went by, Spence and Foote reached out and grabbed the poor Russian destroyer, who was too busy facepalming to notice they were reaching for her.
"What are you doing?! Let me go!" Tashkent shouted threats in Russian to no avail; the nine destroyers crowd-hoisted her and carried her onto the plane while Avers choked back laughter and a twitch began under Robertson's left eye.
"Like I've said before…have fun," Avers grinned, and Robertson groaned.
Ten hours later, Robertson woke from a dream in which he was standing in the hangar of the Gerald R. Ford in very rough seas. Normally a supercarrier would be able to plow through any kind of seas and those belowdecks would not even be affected, but these seas seemed to jerk the carrier from side to side quite roughly.
The previous evening had involved keeping various ships – mainly the younger ones – occupied and keeping several of those with significant others aboard from going off to the bathroom together to join the Mile-High Club. Judging by the smug grin on the face of U-47 and the goofy grin on Prien's face, Robertson figured he hadn't been completely successful; the giggles from the pair of seats where Admiral Scheer and Admiral Graf Spee were huddled together told him that while the duo hadn't left their seats, the blanket they kept spread over both their laps was probably a concealer for illicit activities.
Kidd, Bannie, Willie D., and Nicholas had been quite restless, and when the evening meal had been served, Kidd had used the opportunity to start an impromptu sword fight with the steak knife she'd been provided with. The four adventurous destroyers hadn't settled down for the night until a stern look from Arizona had stopped them in their tracks. Repulse helped put them to bed, and surprised everyone by singing quietly to them. The song, You Can't Hold a Good Man Down by The Pirateers, had quickly been claimed by Kidd to be her new all-time favorite, and as Repulse made her way back to her seat, she was given several compliments on her beautiful singing voice. Renown found her sister ship's fire-engine-red blush to be quite humorous.
Incredibly, DesRon 23 hadn't stirred from their seats throughout the whole mess, having been completely glued to their tablets. Robertson was about to count himself lucky when he noticed what the group was so engrossed in watching.
Whoever provided each member of DesRon 23 with a year's subscription to the WWE Network would suffer, especially after the Admiral saw Spence watch Jeff Hardy do a Swanton Bomb off the top of a twenty-foot ladder onto Adam 'Edge' Copeland – putting him through three tables stacked one on top of the other – and muttering, "That looks easy enough to do…"
He came slowly back to consciousness, only to realize that the jarring he'd experienced in the dream had remained. He was about to find one of the plane's crewmembers to ask what was going on when one of them approached him.
"Admiral," the JASDF Staff Sergeant greeted Robertson, "I apologize for asking something of you so soon after you've awakened, but several of your personnel have ventured onto the upper floor of the aircraft and are being quite rambunctious."
There came another jar as Robertson stood up and looked around at the various groups of seats and groaned; Trigger's and DesRon 23's seats were empty.
"You said they're upstairs?" He asked, and the Staff Sergeant nodded.
Robertson sighed. "I'll take care of it." He headed for the stairwell, making it to the second floor before there was yet another jar, forcing him to grab onto the staircase railings to avoid going for a tumble down the staircase. A string of angry Japanese came from the cockpit as Robertson ventured into the second-floor passenger compartment.
As he came through the curtain, he was nearly run down by a Fletcher-class destroyer.
"Oops! Sorry, Admiral!" Charles Ausburne called as he raced by, Dyson hot on his heels.
"What's going on up here?" Robertson called out, causing the whole group to stop dead in their tracks.
"Nothin' much," Stanly replied. "We're just playin' a little Bitch-Tag."
"Bitch-Tag?" Robertson echoed, completely lost.
"Yeah!" Dyson exclaimed excitedly. "See, it's just like regular tag for the most part, but when you tag someone, you have to do it like this." He walked up to Stanly and socked his brother hard in the arm. "Tag, bitch…you're it!"
He took off running and Stanly made to pursue, only to be stopped by Robertson yelling, "HALT!"
"What's the problem, yo?" Claxton asked, his question causing the others to snort back laughter.
Robertson sighed wearily. He could almost hear Avers laughing.
Robertson nearly sobbed in relief when the announcement came over the passenger cabin speakers that the plane was inbound for a landing at Oceana Naval Air Station.
"Aw, come on!" Dyson yelled up the stairs to the cockpit. "Live a little…forgo the landing gear and drift-slide this puppy to the terminal! It'll be like Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift, but with planes!"
"WHOO!" His brothers – along with Trigger – cheered and then began chanting, "Drift…drift…drift…"
"Be silent, all of you!" Tashkent snapped at them in Russian. She'd been quite short-tempered since being woken up that morning with a rousing rendition of "The Song that Doesn't End", and later that afternoon had nearly lost it completely when DesRon 23 and Trigger had decided to play a game called "The Most Annoying Sound in the World". The rest of the plane's occupants hadn't been too thrilled with the game, either.
The plane landed safely – using its landing gear, much to the disappointment of DesRon 23 – and taxied off the runway, finally coming to a stop after being towed into a massive hangar. The sound of the doors clanging shut was heard throughout the aircraft, and its occupants looked around uncertainly.
"That sound kinda makes you think of the phrase 'Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here', doesn't it?" Hornet muttered, and her sisters nodded in agreement. Hammann whimpered and snuggled closer to Yorktown.
"Gather your things, people…let's go!" Robertson called out. "I'm guessing they'll have buses to take us to our base."
As the whole group – including the plane's crew – made their way off the aircraft, a smaller garage-style door rolled open and a black U.S. Government sedan accompanied by several large Army trucks rolled into the hangar.
"Those must be our rides," Robertson stated, but was quite surprised to be proven wrong when heavily-armed soldiers disembarked from the vehicles and began surrounding the group.
"Was ist los?" (1) Bismarck growled as she and the other German ships tensed for a showdown. The Italian and Russian ships appeared to be doing the same thing.
"Sacre merde!" (2) Émile Bertin murmured angrily to Hood. "They're treating us like we're enemies!"
"What the hell happened to this country?" Arizona shook her head in dismay.
"Blame the FBI," Robertson growled. "Washington, D.C. was never the same once that organization was founded and a paranoid asshole was given free rein to smear anyone he didn't like or who he thought would let out his little secrets of being a cross-dresser in his private life and him and his 'assistant' being much more than just coworkers."
"I remember one of my Captains talking about J. Edgar Hoover," Iowa muttered. "Of course, he said the bastards at the CIA made him and his boyfriend look about as threatening as a pair of Las Vegas showgirls."
"They haven't improved," the Admiral replied. "If anything, they're worse."
"Great," the battleship muttered.
The soldiers completed their encirclement, and Robertson was shocked when the Army personnel aimed their M16s at the group. He was touched, however, when he, Prien, and the Airbus' flight crew were shoved into the center of the formation and then surrounded by determined-looking shipgirls and boys.
"Let's even the odds a bit," Arizona stated, and the soldiers glanced at each other in surprise when every American ship's combat rig suddenly materialized on their bodies.
"Weapons!" Bismarck barked in German, and the soldiers facing her balked when eight fifteen-inch guns appeared and seemed to draw a bead right on their noses.
One of the back doors of the sedan opened and a man stepped out. He was tall, with dark hair that had been slicked down, sunglasses that hid his eyes, and a superior smirk on his face. He approached the group and stopped before Alfonso XIII.
"Step aside," he ordered, looking at the shipgirl like she was dirt on his shoe.
"Government pig!" the Spanish battleship snapped in return and spat in the man's face.
The man calmly took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. "You shouldn't have done that," he remarked. "Spanish battleship Alfonso XIII…you fought on the Nationalist side during the Spanish Civil War." He smirked. "Nationalist Spain was an ally of Nazi Germany during that time. That puts any…ship-thing who sailed under that flag under suspicion. Meaning you and anyone who wasn't on the side of the Allies during World War II is going to be under observation for quite a while before joining the fight."
He glanced to the side and noticed Gangut. "Oh, that also goes for the Commie ship-things as well," he added, looking at the Russian battleship with contempt. "Even though the Cold War ended years ago, America still doesn't like your kind. Better dead than Red, you know."
"What an asshole," Dyson muttered, and his brothers snickered.
"You should watch your mouth, kid," the man snapped, and Dyson scoffed, flipping him off in the process.
"And you need to get laid, dude," Claxton shot back.
"Yeah…that might help remove that stick up your ass you acquired from years of 'Company' fuck-ups at Langley," Iowa put in.
Those two rejoinders caused the rest of the group – even Arizona, Renown, and Bismarck – to choke back laughter.
Robertson made his way to the edge of the group, but remained behind Gangut and Alfonso XIII. "I'm Admiral Marcus Robertson," he stated, "Commanding Officer of this group and Executive Officer of the World Kanmusu Fleet. Can I help you?"
"Admiral, you may call me Agent Bishop," the man replied. "You're to come with me while these men escort these units to a secure facility. Commander, you're to come with us as well." He indicated Prien, who merely glowered at him as U-47 snuggled closer.
"Nyet," Gangut growled. "Our Admiral goes nowhere without us."
"Vereinbart," (3) Prien replied. "I'm staying with my fellow Germans."
A look of disgust passed over Bishop's features. "I've read your file, Commander Prien," he stated. "But I didn't see anything in there about you being a Nazi sympathizer." He smirked as he acknowledged U-47's proximity to the Bundesmarine officer. "Must be a new development."
The German shipgirls snarled angrily, and two of Bismarck's turrets rotated around to aim directly at Bishop.
"We are not Nazis!" the German battleship stated. "Our records clearly state every one of us has emphatically denounced the Third Reich and have pledged our allegiance to the Federal Republic of Germany!"
"Irrelevant…military equipment doesn't have allegiances," Bishop dismissed her statement. "Now, Admiral, if you'll come with me…"
"I'm staying with my fleet," Robertson growled, "and the only way I'll be parted from them is if I get orders from Fleet Admiral Avers or President Trump. And if President Trump wants me to leave, he'll have to come down here and tell me in person." He smiled at Bishop. "Something tells me he has no idea about what you're doing here."
"Need to know, Admiral," Bishop snapped.
"Fascinating," Stanly muttered, gazing at his phone.
"What up, yo?" Charles Ausburne glanced over.
"I recorded this entire thing and just posted it to Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and our YouTube channel," the Fletcher-class destroyer replied. "Damn if it hasn't created one helluva shit-storm, and it's only been about two minutes."
"Awesome!" the rest of DesRon 23 exchanged high-fives with Stanly.
"I saw the video, Herr Stanly," Prien put in, "and I sent the link to the German Embassy in Washington." He turned a malicious smile on Bishop. "I'm sure the Ambassador will have a few words about accusing Germany's only shipgirls of being Nazis."
"Fleet Admiral Avers has been contacted, sir," Imuya addressed Robertson. "I just sent a text to Kongo's phone with the link to Stanly-san's video." She grinned. "I expect a phone call at any time now."
"The JASDF has also been contacted," Major Saneyasu Takeda, the Airbus' pilot stated, as he and the rest of his crew glowered at Bishop. "I'm sure you'll be hearing from the Japanese embassy quite soon."
"And I've contacted the British Embassy," Warspite stated. "They were most displeased to hear how the ships of Her Majesty's Navy are being treated."
"You know, I remember overhearing conversations of some crewmembers when I was anchored in Norway," Scharnhorst mused. She and Gneisenau looked at Bishop with blatant contempt. "Hard to believe the Gestapo is still around today."
"And in the United States, no less," Gneisenau giggled.
Judging by Agent Bishop's expression, it was obvious he hadn't expected ships from the 1940s to be well-versed in modern-day technology. And it seemed Scharnhorst's comment had been the straw that broke the camel's back.
"Get their phones!" he snarled to the soldiers. "I don't want them to have a single way of communicating with the outside world!"
Every gun the shipgirls had was instantly trained onto the soldiers, including those of the American ships.
"God forgive us for this," Enterprise murmured as she drew back an arrow. Her sisters echoed the sentiment, their faces also sporting heartsick expressions as they prepared to protect their Admiral.
Other ship-persons weren't as sad as the three Yorktowns.
"C'mon…make my millennium!" Trigger grinned, laughing raucously as he aimed his 5-inch deck gun at the soldiers. His comment drew laughter from DesRon 23.
Bishop made to draw his own gun, but a voice made him stop cold.
"You draw that gun, and they're guacamole, man," Long Beach stated, aiming one of her 5-inch guns at the CIA agent's crotch.
Several soldiers switched their guns to Long Beach, but one of them apparently recognized what type of ship Long Beach.
"DON'T SHOOT…SHE'S A NUKE!" he yelled. "ALL TROOPS, STAND DOWN IMMEDIATELY!"
The word 'nuke' was threat enough, and all activity in the hangar stopped dead. Bishop's gaze snapped to the individual who'd yelled out.
"I'm in charge here, Colonel Walters!" he snarled. "I'll be reporting you to your Commanding Officer about this! Tell your men to resume their positions NOW!"
Colonel Walters, apparently having had his fill of the pretentious CIA agent, shrugged and turned to Long Beach.
"You heard him, ma'am," he replied. "Blow his nuts off."
Snickers – from both shipgirls and soldiers this time – reverberated throughout the hangar. What was even more amazing was how quickly the color drained from Bishop's face as his seemingly-iron composure deserted him quicker than rats abandoning a sinking ship.
"You got it, dude," Long Beach replied. Seconds later a 5-inch gun boomed in the hangar, throwing up a huge cloud of cordite smoke. When it cleared, Bishop was still standing intact – albeit with a large dark spot on the crotch of his pants – and Long Beach was grinning.
"Charge only, man," she laughed. "Bet you got religion now, huh?"
"Urk…" Bishop replied, and passed out.
Walters came forward, having slung his weapon across his chest. "Since I don't think you'll let me close enough to your Admiral yet, who's the shipgirl in charge?"
"That would be me," Arizona spoke up, extending her hand to grasp Walters'. "Battleship U.S.S. Arizona, BB-39."
Murmurs of awe rippled through the assembled troops upon hearing that name. Walters shook Arizona's hand, the expression on his face saying he was having trouble believing whom he was meeting.
"An honor, ma'am," he stated, smiling broadly before looking to his right and addressing Long Beach. "I'd know you anywhere," he informed the cruiser. "U.S.S. Long Beach, right?"
"Yeah, man…one of my many names," the shipgirl in question replied. "Do I know you?"
Walters shook his head. "No, but you might have known my uncle…he served on you during Vietnam."
Long Beach nodded. "Righteous…always happy to meet extended family, man."
One month later, Robertson had to admit that his new command was functioning well. The kanmusu had settled in quickly, and Rex, Conte di Savoia, and Normandie had been quick to commandeer the kitchen at the dining facility. As a result, Robertson and the rest of the base's human personnel had been forced into a strict physical fitness regimen designed to combat the rich cooking being produced by the three superliners. Robertson grimaced as he recalled the time he'd decided to join some junior officers on their five-mile run. The last time he'd run five miles at a stretch had been shortly after making Commander, so when two Lieutenants had to help him – okay, carry – him back to his quarters where his wife had waited with an 'I-told-you-so' smile, a bottle of Aleve, and a large tube of Icy Hot, news of the Admiral's predicament had made the full circle of the base's rumor mill by that evening.
Now he was sitting in his quarters with Janice watching WWE Monday Night RAW. It wasn't his first choice of programming, but seeing as how DesRon 23 and Trigger had managed to score ringside tickets for the Norfolk show, he figured he'd better watch to make sure nothing happened. Thus far, the ship-boys had been well-behaved, but Robertson knew it was only a matter of time before something would set chaos in motion.
Then Brock Lesnar's music hit, and the crowd booed loudly as the man in question swaggered down the ramp to the ring, carrying his WWE Universal Champion belt and followed by his balding, rotund manager Paul Heyman, who had a superior smirk on his face. The pair climbed in the ring and Lesnar stood looking out at the crowd with a stony expression on his face while Heyman grabbed a microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, "my name is Paul Heyman."
"We know!" Charles Ausburne's voice yelled loud enough to be heard over the rest of the crowd. Heyman proceeded to ignore him and began a promo against Lesnar's current opponent, Goldberg, as the crowd proceeded to boo louder and louder.
"Now," Heyman continued, "my client, BROCK LESNAR –"
"SUCKS DONKEY ASS!" DesRon 23 yelled. The chorus was loud enough to be heard clearly on live television and was perfectly-timed, causing most of the crowd to burst out laughing and completely turning the tables on the two idiots in the ring.
Back at home, Janice Robertson snorted back laughter as her husband face-palmed.
In the ring, Lesnar whirled to face the new annoyance, only to be greeted with what appeared to be nine preteen boys and a man in his mid-twenties, all of whom grinned at him.
"If the audience could refrain from such juvenile comments, it would be appreciated," Heyman smoothly replied before resuming his seemingly-endless monologue about his client's self-perceived greatness.
DesRon 23 responded by chanting, "WAL-RUS! WAL-RUS! WAL-RUS!" in response, which was soon picked up by the rest of the arena. Heyman closed his eyes and appeared to be praying for patience.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please ignore the juveniles in the front row…any attention you give them only serves to encourage them more."
"Hey, Lesnar!" Claxton yelled, "I gotta know: what's it like being the '1' in '21-1' – oops!" He sarcastically stopped himself from continuing as the rest of his group – and those around them – roared in laughter. It was a well-known fact that Lesnar's WrestleMania XXX match with the legendary Phenom was counted as the most-grueling match of The Streak's history, with Lesnar performing three F-5s on The Undertaker that failed to put the legendary wrestler down. For his part, the Beast Incarnate suffered through a Last Ride powerbomb, three chokeslams, and three Tombstone Piledrivers before finally submitting to the Hell's Gate submission maneuver. The Undertaker had recently retired at WrestleMania 33 after defeating Roman Reigns and bringing his undefeated WrestleMania Streak to 25-0.
Claxton's question invariably started a chant of "UN-DER-TAKER!", causing Heyman to look over at his client in concern. It was also well-known that Lesnar did not take kindly to being reminded of the few failures in his career. The WWE Universal Champion could be seen on camera visibly gritting his teeth to remain calm.
"Yo, Brock!" Dyson hollered, "How'd that UFC fight with Mark Hunt turn out – sorry, my bad!" Another round of laughter followed; the fight in question had been overturned from a win to a no-contest after Lesnar had tested positive for a banned substance. The rest of DesRon 23 started a chant of "ROID RAGE! ROID RAGE!" that saw Lesnar literally shaking with an effort to remain calm.
Heyman whirled around to face the destroyers, desperate to keep his client from taking apart what appeared to be a group of annoying kids.
"If the parents of these children would please control them and keep them from talking anymore –" he began, but Spence cut him off.
"And if The Advocate would stay with one style of dress maybe he'd get a more-positive response from his audience!"
"Yeah, dude!" Converse added. "I mean, if you insist on wearing your hair like a 1970's porn director, at least wear the psychedelic t-shirt and bell-bottoms, too!"
Heyman gaped at the shipboys while the audience died laughing. At the Robertson home, Janice had long since lost the battle to keep her laughter in and was currently gasping for air while her husband was banging his head off the sideboard where he'd gone to refill his glass of whiskey for the fourth time.
In the ring, Lesnar could be seen approaching meltdown level, and even Heyman was looking concerned now. Before the Champion could snap completely, however, the opening notes of another set of entrance music blared, sending the crowd – the shipboys included – into another chorus of boos.
Time to play the Game!
"Rut-roh!" Stanly announced, causing several of his brothers to burst out laughing as Triple H and Stephanie McMahon walked down the ramp to the ring.
"Paul, you can't ignore a group of loud-mouthed kids?" Triple H scoffed at Heyman before motioning to nearby security personnel.
"Look, kids," he addressed the destroyers, "I don't know where your parents are, but you need to stop interrupting the show and let the Champion and his Advocate have their moment, all right? Otherwise, these gentlemen," he motioned to the security forces, "will have no problem escorting you out of the arena."
"Whoa!" Spence seemed awed. "Dudes!" He addressed his brothers, "It's Triple H! The Game! The Cerebral Assassin! A future Hall of Famer! The King of Kings!"
"Wow…" the rest of DesRon 23 murmured, although Robertson, watching at home, could easily see the gleam in Spence's eye that meant the mischievous Fletcher was building up to yet another embarrassing prank.
Triple H was quite obviously soaking in the hero-worship from Spence…until the destroyer spoke again.
"The guy who knocked into his wife at WrestleMania 33, knocking her off the ropes so that she fell through a table at ringside in front of over 75,000 people!"
"Ooooohhh…" the destroyers cringed, and both Triple H and Stephanie glowered at them as the audience howled with laughter.
"Trips, I gotta know, dude," Charles Ausburne piped up. "How long did you pay for that little oopsie? What was it? Like, a week sleeping in the guest room with only your right hand and a bottle of lotion for entertainment?"
With that little comment, it was obvious who was now in control of the show. The audience was in stitches, Triple H and Stephanie looked irate, Heyman looked mortified, and Lesnar appeared to be held back by a rapidly-fraying thread, while at the Robertson house the Admiral had forgone his glass and was now gulping straight from the bottle.
Triple H finally managed to rein in his temper long enough to find his voice.
"SECURITY! GET THESE KIDS OUT OF HERE!" He roared, imperiously pointing to the top of the stairs.
The security guards moved in, but Claxton stopped them.
"Wait! Wait, wait, wait!" The destroyer yelled, pulling out a quarter. "I always wanted to try this, and now that I have the opportunity I'm not gonna pass it up! One sec!"
He positioned the quarter on his hand and flipped it up with his thumb…making a three-point shot into Stephanie McMahon's cleavage, right on worldwide television. The Billion-Dollar Princess shrieked in surprise and jumped back, and Triple H yelled once more at the security guards to remove the destroyers from the building. But as he watched, the guards were having trouble even moving the group, all of whom were standing there with big smiles on their faces.
"What the hell are you guys playing around for?!" he yelled. "Get 'em out of here!"
"We're trying, but we can't move them!" The senior guard snapped back. "It's like they're cemented into the floor!"
The Chief of Operations growled in frustration. "Here…I'll show you how to do your job, and then maybe you'll be able to do it!" He snarled, climbing over the barrier and taking Spence by the shoulders in preparation for lifting him up.
"Yeah, I really wouldn't try that, dude," the destroyer in question warned him.
Back at the Robertson home, the Admiral shook his head, knowing what was coming.
"No…don't do it…they activated their ship weights…you'll be sorry…" he murmured at the television screen, knowing it was pointless.
Triple H lifted. Spence resisted. Triple H's back paid the price. The wrestler collapsed back against the barrier, clutching his spine and uttering under his breath words that really didn't need to be heard by the numerous kids in the audience.
"Wha…wha…what are you?" the COO gasped.
In response, each destroyer reached into their pockets and pulled out their ship baseball caps. Spence reached out and grabbed the microphone from a confused Triple H before the wrestler even knew he had it.
"HELLO, NORFOLK!" Spence yelled, causing the audience to cheer raucously.
"Have you all seen the news lately? How the shipgirls in Japan destroyed the Abyssals in the Pacific?"
There were more cheers at this question.
"Well guess what?" The destroyer-boy grinned. "The good ol' United States Navy now has some ship-people of its own, and you're lookin' at nine of 'em right here, live tonight on MONDAY NIGHT RAW!"
The roof nearly lifted off at this announcement. If nothing else, America loved its Navy. Spence continued with a grin.
"And we promise to ignite you, to excite you, to delight you, and most importantly, to kick ass, take names, and send every Abyssal bastard in the Atlantic straight back to hell where they came from!"
The level of excitement in the crowd had now bypassed frantic and was rapidly approaching 'red-line' level. Spence turned to his brothers.
"But I think it's time we introduced ourselves…start us off bro!" He pointed the microphone at Stanly.
Each destroyer introduced themselves – in order by hull number – before the group ended their introduction by crowding around the microphone and yelling,
"Together, we are Arleigh Burke's Little Beavers, Destroyer Squadron 23! USA! USA! USA!"
The 'USA!' chant was picked up by the audience almost immediately, and the group let the cheers go on for several minutes before Claxton grabbed the microphone again.
"Um, not to stop the love-fest and all, but I have an important question to ask," he stated.
"Go ahead, bro," Spence nodded and Claxton grinned at Stephanie McMahon.
"Can I get my quarter back?" he wiggled his eyebrows up and down suggestively, and his brothers – along with most of the arena cheered or burst out laughing once again.
Stephanie gaped at the ship-boy's audacity before remembering she was on live television. She glowered at Claxton.
"No, you can't have it back!"
"Why not?" Claxton grinned.
"Yeah, why not?" Dyson joined in. "I mean, come on, lady…it's not like you're hurtin' for cash."
The audience howled with laughter and Stephanie appeared to gain a nervous tic under her left eye. Nonetheless, she managed to paste a fake-looking smile on her face that was apparently the result of her telling herself to 'grin and bear it'.
"The WWE is always supportive of our country's Armed Forces, and for that I'm going to allow your group to choose a match for tonight. Any match, any wrestler…what do you say?"
DesRon 23 appeared to be giving it serious thought…all save for Stanly, who was shaking his head.
"You don't like the idea?" Stephanie asked. Stanly shrugged.
"Meh, it does sound cool and all, but instead I'd rather have my own private wrestling match with Mickie James back at the base." He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows naughtily. "This sailor's been a long time at sea, if ya know what I mean!" He blew a kiss into the camera. "Love ya, Mickie…you're gorgeous!"
As the crowd whooped and hollered, Stephanie ignored them and turned to Stanly's brothers.
"What about the rest of you?" she asked, her fake smile now faltering.
"Well, we'd love to take you up on your offer, but our favorite wrestler's not here," Claxton looked sad.
"Who's your favorite wrestler?" Stephanie asked.
"I don't think you want us to answer that," Dyson warned.
"Sure we do," Triple H put in, smiling at the group as if he were trying to convince shy kids to speak up.
"You really sure?" Spence asked, still trying to give them an out.
The COO and his wife nodded, then realized that they'd just made a monumental mistake when all nine of the group grinned widely and screamed their answer into the microphone.
"CM PUNK! CM PUNK! CM PUNK!"
The chant was immediately picked up by the crowd, who went wild once more. Stephanie's nervous tic increased, and as she looked away from the group briefly to gather her patience, she noticed Trigger sitting next to DesRon 23, looking around and smiling goofily, clearly enjoying the show.
"Enjoying yourself, sir?" She asked, and Trigger nodded.
"Oh, yeah! But," he amended, "I'm not even s'posed to be here, ya know…I wandered in here tryin' to find the bus station for 42nd Street and Manhattan…might ya know where that is, cutie?" As the crowd laughed at his response, Trigger reached into one of his pockets and pulled out his own ship hat, causing the crowd to cheer at the reveal of another kanmusu.
"Another ship-boy," Stephanie smiled thinly. "And do you have anything to say?"
"Nah, but I do got a question for ya," the submarine grinned.
"All right," Stephanie replied, "what's your question."
"If I do that same down-ya-shirt trick that the kid did, but I use a silver dollar instead of a quarter, would you let me reach in there and get my money back? Ha-cha-chaaa!"
THONK!
Janice Robertson looked over at her husband, who had moved on from drinking to banging his head off the coffee table. As she wiped tears from her eyes and struggled to catch her breath, the phone rang. Upon glancing at the handset's caller ID, her hysterics returned even greater than before. She gasped for air as she extended the handset to her husband, who groaned pitifully when he saw the caller ID for himself:
JAPAN – LONG DISTANCE
TRANSLATIONS
1) What's wrong?
2) Holy shit!
3) Agreed.
The name of Agent Bishop comes from a revamp version of a popular 1980s cartoon series...try and guess it! Also, with this chapter, this fanfic becomes longer than all my other stories COMBINED. Go me!
UP NEXT: The Battle of the Atlantic begins! Problems abroad! And - for one shipgirl - a dream is realized.
READ & REVIEW!
