Author's note: I am so sorry for my absence. Life has been crazy and I finally found some time on a train journey back home from school to finish this chapter. This was my second major attempt at writing this chapter again, so if it is not up to par, I understand and I apologize on my part. My schedule will be extremely unpredictable as I really don't know when I can juggle course work, major essays, university applications and writing. Being a lazy IB Student is tough. If you wish to criticize, share thoughts, or just general praise, please leave it down in the reviews. I thank everyone who has read, followed, reviewed and favourited my story.
Until Next Time. Rugger556.
PS: 000 means a new paragraph.
Lt. Jack van Persie "Sabre"
Unaffiliated
5/5/1949 – 17:00 Local Time
Interrogation room 2
The atmosphere was tense, to put it mildly. The tired pilot slouched forward with his hands acting as a makeshift pillow as van Persie tried to rest. In the tight interrogation room, there were three chairs, a table, and a one-way mirror. Van Persie couldn't see it, but he knew that almost every military police officer in the building was watching through the mirror. He was in a brown air force officer suit. His mouth burned and his eyes were heavy. Drossiness, hunger, thirst, and tiredness manifested in his arteries in which his heart pumped throughout Van Persie's body. This interrogation strategy was so blindingly obvious, literally almost every experienced soldier knew. The door swung open a few minutes later and in stepped two older men. Clad in military police uniforms, they walked in unison to the opposite side of the table. Both men had an unfriendly and tough face accompanied by a few battle scars. Then, one of the men slammed a file on the table, jolting Van Persie awake. He rubbed his eyes and felt the crust in his eyes cracking as he wiped a knuckle through.
"So, you're finally going to interrogate me. Took you long enough," van Persie remarked, injecting his trademarked humour and sarcasm into this bleak moment.
"Your name is Jack van Persie, and you are a pilot of the United States Air Force. Explain why you were in direct communication with Secretary of War Robert Stimson and cooperating with Commander Nicholas King and Lieutenant Commander Mark Overmars?"
"It's a long story but rest assured, I'm not the bad guy. I'm trying to help you fight those aliens. Or whatever the fuck they are. I just happen to… stumble into the Azur Lane after some interesting developments," Van Persie tried to explain.
"You know what we are thinking?" The other man started to speak. "We think you're in cooperation with 'those aliens' and you've successfully infiltrated Azur Lane. There are no records of you going to any flight school. And what is this 'United States Air Force'?"
"You see, that's where the problem is," Van Persie responded. "I'm in a bit of a… interesting situation and I'll keep reiterating it until YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKERS FUCKING SPEAK TO SECRETARY OF WAR ROBERT STIMSON!"
000
"Ok, so tell us what happened from your point of view?" Another military police officer spoke. He was much calmer and friendlier than the other two. He was easygoing and expressed empathy, unlike the others. Van Persie was quickly shoving the food and water the MP (Military Police) brought. The food was too good to be from a military base and therefore, van Persie deduced that he brought it from a restaurant.
"From where?"
"2 days ago, to present,"
"Ok," van Persie gulped down another mouthful of water. "I met Overmars when I was dogfighting two bogeys. I destroyed both planes with missiles, but my F-16 got hit by a lucky post-mortem missile and I bailed out. I guess I drifted across the ocean until I happenstance stumbled across Overmars. When I RTO'ed, Overmars explained to me what the summer festival was, and he said a shit ton of people would turn up in person to the huge stadium to watch the ship-girls -or whatever the fuck they're called- in slutty sports uniforms do shit. Then I made the connection that there was an imminent attack during the summer festival. Local recon units from the base flew out and confirmed there was a big-ass enemy fleet. Hence Overmars cabled Stimson and Stimson mobilized every available air unit within the vicinity to launch a pre-emptive attack.
"The pre-emptive attack was… to put it bluntly, a limited victory. Yeah, we destroyed a bunch of aircraft and sank a few ships, even an aircraft carrier! But the sirens -or whatever- are not stupid fucks, but intelligent fucks and I wouldn't throw all my eggs into one basket. It's too much of a gamble. Intelligence later found two, I think, more fleets but surely there's more right? It's too much of a perfect target…"
000
Cpt. James Libby. Callsign "Shark 1-1"
87th Quick Response Air Wing. "Shark Squadron"
4/5/1949 – 00:30 Local Time (A day earlier)
Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean
Operation Trust: Halt the Siren armada.
The veteran sat comfortably in his F-86 Sabre. Libby was the flight leader of the battle-hardened Shark Squadron which saw combat from the very start of hostilities. The entire squadron was equipped with two 1000-LBS AN-M65AI Fin M129 bombs to help destroy the armada. They were a part of the first wave and the main objective was to secure air superiority and to destroy the screen ships to shut down the anti-air capabilities so that the bombers and dive bombers can approach the big capital ships without that big of a risk. A tried and combat-proven tactic. High Command managed to scramble nearly a hundred planes from four air wings in this desperate counterattack. This was a gamble as High Command ordered all brand-new F-86 Sabres and F9F Panthers they currently have and if the counterattack failed, it would be a costly defeat. The F-86 and F9F were the answer to the new and improved Type-2 Siren jets after the lack-luster performance of the P-80.
"All right men let's pound the Siren screens so our boys in the bombers can knock the carriers and battleships out," Libby rallied his men over the radio. Tonight, was a full moon which made visibility good. On approach, the full moon illuminated the enormous menacing Siren fleet. Suddenly, flak and anti-aircraft fire were sprayed upwards from the destroyers and light cruisers, exposing their positions.
"First wave, clear to engage! Good hunting!" Overmars' voice echoed on the radio. Overmars was stationed in his mobile command post which was a boat positioned not too far away.
"You heard the man!" Libby replied. Libby pushed the flight stick downwards and zoomed onto an exposed ship. The veteran masterfully dodged the anti-aircraft fire and released the two bombs which crashed into the deck of the mass-produced Siren destroyer.
"Siren jets inbound!" Overmars announced. Cannon fire flew past Libby's Sabre as Siren jets flew past him. The tracer rounds from the jets along with the explosions and anti-aircraft fire lit up the night. Libby looked around and saw his fellow F-86s and F9Fs engaged in dogfights all around him. Libby shook the F-86 towards the right and the manurable jet peered off. Libby glanced down again and saw the wrecks of multiple burning destroyers and cruisers.
"Someone get this guy off me! I can't shake him off!" A voice echoed through the radio.
"Coming to assist Shark 1-6," Libby announced. He saw the distinctive brightly colored Shark 1-6 in front of him, flying defensively. The Siren jet in question was only about two kilometers away from his current position.
"All right sir! I'll lead him to you with a head-on," the pilot responded. Libby pointed his jet slightly to the right in a few moments, the two jets came closer to Libby. He fired multiple bursts of his 12.7mm M3 Browning .50 caliber guns which all directly sprayed the Siren jet. It exploded in midair, and Libby flew through the fireball.
"Got him!"
"Thanks for the assist, sir!"
"Bombers from the second wave are cleaning up the rest of the fleet! Provide support for them! Everyone is doing a fantastic job, let's keep this up!" Overmars said. Libby re-entered the fray of the battle where he was currently chasing a Siren jet. Its nimble shape and light airframe allowed it to twist and turn through the air with ease but these new F-86s could barely keep but. Libby fired another burst of 50 Cal ammo, but it entirely missed the jet during the turn. The Siren jet attempted another turn to the left but a burst of 50 Cal bullets tore off the left-wing, sending it spinning into the ocean. Libby saw the hordes of bombers descend from the sky, raining down explosive ordinance on the Siren ships.
"Siren jets are dropping out of the sky,"
"This is one giant turkey shoot!"
"Everyone listen up! Fresh intelligence from High Command has stated that there are TWO incoming Siren fleets! I say again, TWO ENEMY FLEETS! High Command—" Overmars was then interrupted. "Wait what, it's an even bigger fleet!" He responded to the communications officer.
"Wait there's a second fleet?"
"Not surprised, we've almost destroyed this fleet. Everything is on fire down below," a pilot of a bomber replied.
"High Command has scrambled B-29s and RB-29s for additional support. Everyone RTO and regroup. We'll hit the Sirens tomorrow,"
"Why don't we hit them now?" Libby asked.
"Lure them into a false sense of security, I'll tell you more back at base"
"Respectfully sir, that is an incredibly risky plan that might lose us the war,"
"I'm fully aware of it but it seems we have a few aces up our sleeves,"
000
Lt Cmdr. Mark Overmars
Azur Lane
4/5/1949 – 01:00 Local Time
Azur lane base
The now exhausted Overmars walked slowly from the docks to his quarters. It was a small and isolated, yet cozy and homely beach cabin constructed out of local materials such as palm wood and other tropical materials. He marched asleep on the small wooden path through the forest. He jangled his keys and slotted it through the lock, but the slight push opened the door. Overmars could've sworn he locked the door. Instinctively, Overmars shoved his keys back into his pocket and unholstered his M1911 sidearm. He entered through his living room, a small compact area with a few sofas sprinkled around and a coffee table in the middle. There was a TV set in front of a giant window facing the beach and a bonsai tree placed on the wooden coffee table. Multiple pictures were hung around the walls of Overmars with his friends, family, or at work. Turning right, he approached the kitchen. It was small and crafted out of clay and wood with a few slabs of marble. Clear. Exiting the kitchen, he moved to his bedroom, and it was also clear. The room only had a single bed with a polished wooden desk in the opposite corner. The bed faced another large window which gave him a great view of the beach and ocean when waking up. Overmars holstered his weapon and returned to the living room.
"Boo," a voice said. Overmars jumped himself and quickly pulled out his weapon. Only realizing who it was, placed it back into the holster.
"Motherfucker! Why couldn't you wait until the morning!"
"I heard about the battle. I just wanted to see if you are ok,"
"Yeah, I'm ok Hood. Fucking tired that's all,"
"Please try and make an effort not to curse that much 'leftenant',"
"Yes mom," Overmars jokingly replied. "Why are you here? You could always see me skulking around the base,"
"Is it illegal for a friend to visit another friend?"
"Well, it is illegal to break into someone's house,"
"That's beside the point. I'm honestly concerned for you,"
"Thanks. I'm holding up ok. Same shit different day,"
"I see how the base mistreats you. It wasn't your fault that you lost the battle and while yes, you striking Commander King wasn't justified, it still doesn't warrant you from getting hate,"
"Interesting you say that because when I knocked on Belfast's door, she slammed the door in front of my face. A pile of bricks is more useful than her,"
"He swore an oath to serve King. What were you expecting?"
"A second chance from a friend,"
"Fair point Mark. I'll speak to her about it. Anything else?"
"Can you find Veneto and Dunkerque -mmm, maybe she's still pissed at me- if that's the case, find Algerie. Thank you Hood for taking care of me,"
"It still pales in comparison for saving me on that dreadful night. I'll be eternally grateful for your actions Mark,"
000
Lt. Jack van Persie "Sabre"
Present Day
Van Persie grabbed the steel mug and drank another sip of coffee. His throat was dry as well after explaining the previous events that unfolded. The caring MP officer sat back and had this expression on his face which led Van Persie to believe he actually enjoyed listing to him ramble on. The MP had a slight but still notable smile plastered across his face. His light brown eyes reflected the orange hue of the oddly bright yet lonely lamp which hung above the table in the concrete room. Like any other well-respected MP, his hair was groomed and styled accordingly to the regulations, with a parting in the middle. His stylish brown hair arched across his forehead like two bridges. Occasionally, he pushed his hair back, maintaining his hairstyle. The aura the MP radiated felt suspicious by Van Persie as he was way too nice to be a military officer. Nevertheless, Van Persie carried on after he placed the coffee mug back down.
"Continuing on, after that initial battle, we were placed on red alert,"
"What did you do? Since your plane was destroyed,"
"Well, uhmm, I did nothing. I was ordered to go to the front gate and wait for something or someone, but no one came. So, I went back to Overmars and acted as his second-in-command, helping to organise and plan the defense and counter-attacks. It helps when you have a pilot to organise the various air wings,"
"Ok, that makes sense." The officer responded. "So how did you end up here then?"
"Oh right. Funny story,"
000
Van Persie
4/5/1949 – 13:30 Local Time (Previous day)
Eyeing the most recent intelligence report, Van Persie still held his suspicions of stronger Siren reinforcements nearby. He reclined into the seat, wiping his eyes from tears that streamed down from yawning. It was quiet, too quiet. Van Persie insisted to maintain or even increase the sortie rate for either reconnaissance or patrolling missions. Overmars understood the logic, but the bases' jet fuel reserves were dwindling, and the next supply convoy would arrive in days. The base's infrastructure was on the brink of collapse with a crumbling port, outdated repair yards, and shoddy and tiny oil and fuel storage terminals. Azur Lane had the budget but instead, the money was flowing towards leisure services. Grabbing a pen, Van Persie reached out to grab a paper file which was the most recent update of airborne capable jets after the battle. Van Persie gripped the black fountain pen loosely as Van Persie's hand was exhausted. Van Persie typed with a computer instead of handwriting out everything. Parts of his hand burned in pain while his fingers had ink stains while trying to refill his fountain pen.
"Mark, am I reading his document correctly? It says over 60% of our jets suffered damage and cannot be repaired due to the shortage in spare parts?"
"Yeah, I cabled High Command and they're sending over equipment and more maintenance personnel. By the end of the day, the base is going to turn into a fucking fortress." Overmars added. "Oh, right yeah, by the way, take this,"
"What's this?" Van Persie commented. He was given a restaurant card. It was beautifully decorated with gold patterns on a red backdrop with gold writing. It was clearly some sort of Chinese restaurant as Van Persie frequented Chinatown in Amsterdam.
"Come along when this mess is settled,"
"All right, sure thing Mark,"
000
The door slowly crept open and a familiar maid had entered. Belfast scanned the command room, a large conference room in Azur Lane HQ. Papers were littered everywhere across the large conference table. On the walls hung many maps with different coloured lines stretched across. Clutching the sealed letter from Secretary of War, Robert Stimson, Belfast quietly approached the fast-asleep Van Persie. He sprawled out across the couch in the corner, breathing quietly. As she approached the slumbering man, a voice called out, scaring Belfast a little.
"Good afternoon, Belfast,"
"Madame Hood, good afternoon milady. How can I help you?" Belfast asked while performing a curtsy. Belfast held Hood with an incredible level of respect and practically worshiped her bravery, elegance, and resourcefulness.
"Can I talk to you as a friend?" Hood pleaded.
"This is an unusual request. But sure," Belfast said.
"It's about Mark," Hood began. Belfast visibly flinched but tried to remain neutral before her emotions took over. "Can you please give him a second chance,"
"He's the reason why Crimson Axis was formed,"
"And they re-joined when the Northern Parliament imploded and the Soviet Union emerged, defeating the Crimson Axis." Hood countered. "Look, Mark made a few mistakes, but he deserves a second chance,"
"He's the reason why we are still fighting the war,"
"He's the reason why we are going to win the war! And it wasn't his fault he lost the battle, he was ambushed and King, with heavy reinforcements, abandoned him! Why do you think the after-action report is classified?"
"Correcting a friend is also a maid's duty," Belfast grudgingly admited. "Under one condition,"
"Name it,"
"I want to read that after-action report,"
"I'll give you my word, I will find it,"
000
Van Persie took a deep breath, wearing his olive-green suit again. He gripped his flight helmet and walked to the runway again. Belfast delivered a sealed envelope to Van Persie. It was a letter directly from the Supreme War Council asking if he could volunteer for a suicide mission. Approaching the runway, he saw an object which looked like a plane with a huge white tarp over it. A large group of personnel in white science jackets also huddled around the object. Van Persie casually strolled over with his aviator sunglasses. His naturally tidy hair brushed against the wind as a gentle breeze enveloped the area.
"You must be the pilot," a scientist said.
"Yeah, the suicide pilot," Van Persie sarcastically remarked.
"Your mission is to gather test data with this jet. Perform regular combat maneuvers as well as basic ones such as turning, diving, so-on,"
"Right ok, I understand. So, what's the plane?" Van Persie asked. The lead scientist gestured to the other scientists and engineers to remove the white cover. With one pull, the white cover came off and slapped the tarmac, creating a whipping noise that echoed out. Van Persie's jaw slightly dropped at the surprise but, the shock and confusion Van Persie has experienced had left him stunned out of his senses.
"I believe in your world, that plane is called an F-14 Tomcat developed by Grumman. I won't go into specifics as I do not understand how that jet works,"
"Yeah, let me guess. Wisdom Cubes,"
"Well yes, more or less correct. The Supreme War Council has a top-secret project that was started after your arrival. Its purpose is to copy and produce the F-16 but since it was destroyed in combat, hopes were lost. Until we realized that you used a wisdom cube to build it and we used a special computer developed by our top scientists to read and transfer information into and out-of-the Wisdom Cubes,"
"Ohhh, I get it now," Van Persie interrupted. "The F-14 is still a wisdom cube and therefore, you want me to fly around in it to collect data to make more jets,"
"Precisely," the scientist said.
"Well, there's a problem with the F-14. It's not that it's a bad plane. I need a co-pilot known as the Wizzo,"
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," the scientist muttered.
000
Present Day
"Then we go on a wild goose chase to find a suitable candidate for becoming the Wizzo but all potential candidates had failed the basic test I designed. The other option was we find a pilot for the Tomcat, and I be the Wizzo but none of the top pilots I handpicked wanted to fly it because they were scared shitless of it. Then some genius had the idea of putting a ship-girl into the Tomcat as the Wizzo. Right? So I ask Overmars to ask around and he reports back saying that there are a few volunteers that might be interested. So, I use the basic test and the plan was to go around the different dorms and personally interview and test them if they are fit for the job. Seems simple right?
"The first name on the list was USS Yorktown so I tracked her down to her room and inform her about what was going to happen. As we were talking, this one ship-girl screamed which then I shat myself and turned around. Her face was bright red and she had a hand over her mouth and she was pointing to me. She then started to shout 'PERVERT' repeatedly until some Military Police came over and arrested me. Fucking hell, ha-ha-ha." Van Persie tried to continue but he was constantly interrupted by the MP's laughter. Soon enough, Van Persie joined in and reflected on how terrible the series of events were whistled laughing incredibly hard.
"Damn brother," the MP replied. "That must've been such a shit day,"
"Then it gets fucking worse! Since I didn't have any documentation, the dumb fucks thought I was some sort of spy! Fucking retards," Van Persie said while laughing. Suddenly, the interrogation room roared in laughter between the MP and Van Persie. So loud in fact that it attracted the attention of the other guards who entered the interrogation room, bewildered to see a detainee and an officer laughing. As the guards came in, Van Persie pointed to them, and he continued to laugh with more force this time.
000
Van Persie was freed hours later when King authorized his presence on the base. Van Persie was quite shocked at this gesture as he presumed that King would leave him to rot. Adding another layer of surprise, there was a convoy escort awaiting Van Persie. It was an old-fashioned (from Van Persie's point of view) Cadillac Fleetwood accompanied by numerous jeeps with armed soldiers mounted. There was also a convoy of large trucks, probably filled to the brim with supplies. The limousine door opened and out emerged Belfast. She performed a curtsy and had a smile plastered across her face.
"Good evening 'Leftenant', I'm here to escort you back to base," Belfast said.
"That's a surprise. Why are you here?"
"Masters' orders Leftenant,"
"If you say so…" Van Persie replied. He entered and fell onto the large seats. Belfast closed the door and a few moments later, the convoy rumbled forward. Belfast handed a file to Van Persie. Opening it, there was a single piece of paper with a list of names such as Yorktown, Z23, Belfast, and others.
"List of volunteers for the Radar Intercept Officer," Belfast said. "Once we return to base, would you like me to gather the volunteers into the Lecture Hall, Leftenant?"
"Can you do that tomorrow morning, please? I'm so tired today and I need to get some rest,"
"Understood Leftenant," Belfast said. "Speaking of which, Master has reallocated a new dorm room for you, I will guide you to it once we return to base,"
"What wait?"
"Master has had a change of heart," Belfast replied. The journey was going to take a few hours and hence, Van Persie slouched sideways and leaned against the window. The constant vibrations traveling through the car door and into his ear and head didn't seem to bother Van Persie as he drifted asleep instantly.
000
"ALL COALITION FORCES BE ADVISED; WE HAVE A CONFIRMED NUCLEAR THREAT IN THE CITY. NEST TEAMS ARE ON-SITE AND ATTEMPTING TO DISARM. I REPEAT, WE HAVE A CONFIRMED NUC-"
Van Persie jolted awake. Sweating profusely and breathing heavily, the pilot had just woken up from a nightmare. His entire body was trembling, and his face was frozen in a perpetual state of fear. Adrenaline production went into overdrive and flooded his fragile body, locking him in place in the car seat. The final sentence from Command and the constant warning alarm echoed through his mind and the sight of the mushroom cloud with the blood-red backdrop mixed with atomic fire appeared replayed in his eyes.
"Leftenant! Are you ok?" The maid asked. She noticed he was violently shaking during his slumber. "Can you hear me?" She asked again. Belfast shuffled towards the paralyzed pilot, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other on his face. No response.
"Ma'am, what's going on?" The driver of the limousine asked.
"He needs medical attention now," Belfast replied. The maid opened the door of the parked limousine and used her inhumane strength to pull the pilot outside. She laid him out flat on the concrete. Minutes later, an ambulance arrived on the scene with its alarm blaring. The doors opened and the paramedics quickly rushed over, examining the frozen Van Persie on the floor.
"Is he all right?" Belfast asked.
"Yes, we have to take him to a hospital though,"
"Do you know what is going on?"
"I think so, he's appearing to have a severe anxiety attack. I've never seen a case like this before. Ma'am, is he a soldier?"
"Oh my word," Belfast muttered. Belfast deduced what was going on, he was having an episode of PTSD. Before her assignment, she read through his file and Vestal alluded to the possibility of him suffering PTSD but there was no concrete proof, so it didn't immediately register in her thoughts. "He's suffering from PTSD,"