Chapter 3: The New Normal
Major David "Trip" McMann sat back in his F-16's reclined ejection seat, his face stuck between irritation and sheer befuddled confusion. He'd thought flying an old-style standing-air-patrol had been unusual. And then command sent him hunting for diesel-powered pigboats. That were also magic. Because why not.
Then, just when he and his crew were settling into the numbing routine of fly-land-repair-repeat, the subs started launching float-planes, Float planes with fucking… plague bombs slung under their wings. Except they were Magic float planes that were fucking invisible on radar until you get close enough to throw a knife at the little bastards.
And then they insist on dogfighting. With a forth-generation fighter. And they normally make a decent enough account of themselves. Some-fucking-how.
All this had become the new normal for Trip and his squadron. Normal to the point that a perfectly-pristine navy scout-plane getting wheeled in to the hanger barely rated a raised eyebrow, even when it inexplicably shrank.
No, the weirdest, most utterly inexplicable part of his current situation was the tiny bobblehead of a girl perched on his instrument cowling. Her tiny little arms were crossed over her khaki flying suit and yellow life preserver, her over sized face crossed with a minuscule look of determination.
"No, you can't!" said Tripp, sighing as he stared down the diminutive girl, "No and…" he shook his head, "Are you even rated to fly a jet?"
The girl let out a barely-audible sound, her chin jutting out in defiance as she stared down the infinitely-larger Viper driver.
Trip was about to respond when the door burst open. An Airman almost stumbled though the door, blabbering as fast as his lips would let him. "ma'amIswearitwasbiggerwhenwefoundit."
A second later he was joined by a… girl. A very very tall girl in very very short shorts, with a pair of aviator shades on her smirking face. If the scuttlebutt was even close to the mark, she'd be the battleship New Jersey given human form. Because of course she was. "Okay, first of all… breathe."
Tripp glanced back at the minute girl sitting on his instrument cowling, and the two pilots exchanged a mutual shrug.
New Jersey was joined by an older, academic-looking man in a civilian sweater, but he looked too out of breath to contribute anything.
She gave him a smile before wheeling around to the airman. "And second of all, they… sorta do that," she said, walking over to where the little kingfisher was sitting. Next to the Vipers, it looked like a child's toy resting sideways on its float.
"Hey, you," she said, offering a finger for the tiny floatplane's equally teeny gunner to shake. "Where's your pilot?"
The gunner must have said something, because the next thing Trip knew, the towering battleship-girl was leaning on the cockpit railing, her massive braid hanging right in front of his face. "Hey, this is cool and all, but you know it's air force, right?"
The tiny pilot made a face, her bubbly cheeks going red as a rose.
"There there, c'mon," the fucking battleship intruding in his cockpit held out her hand, motioning for the girl to hop aboard. "Sorry about that," said Jersey, slouching back to smile at Trip. "She, uh… loves Top Gun."
Trip shrugged. First thing this month that actually made sense.
"Hey, Jersey," the scholarly-looking man finally got enough wind in him to speak.
"Yeah?" Jersey jumped down the ladder, her shoes hitting the ground with a thundering thump.
"What, uh, happened to the plane?"
"Picked it up," said Jersey, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her vest.
"Where, uh-" the professor held his hands out in imitation of the plane's foot-or-so wingspan, "where'd you put it?"
"Oh, it's back on the cat," said Jersey.
"But-"
"On. The. Cat."
In her brief time as a human, Jersey had experienced all the emotions she'd only known about second-hand from her crew. Confusion, when she first manifested in the wreck of her own body. Pleasure, when Crowning had introduced her to the marvels of apple pie. Despair, when her Admiral told her how truly dire the situation had become. And now, she got to add one more emotion to her experience.
Misery.
"I hate flying," she muttered, her voice so weak it was lost in the rumble of four turbofan engines. The battleship stared into the five-gallon bucket clenched between her thighs, hoping the unnaturally pale shade of her legs was because of the aircraft's lighting.
"Pardon?" Crowning leaned over, doing his best to avoid the sickly-black mix of partially-digested pie chunks and fuel oil sloshing around in her bucket.
"I said I HATE FLYING!" snarled Jersey, whipping her head up to glare at him. And instantly regretting it. "Oh- fu-" she barely managed to get her head over the bucket before her dinner came surging up her throat.
"How are you motion sick?" said Crowning, carefully holding the battleship's braid clear. "You're a…" he stopped, glancing up the girl's body as she vomited for the tenth time, her spine quivering as her muscles tensed and relaxed. "A- uh, a ship," he finished weakly.
"Not-" Jersey wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, "Not the same." She let her head fall back against the jump-seat, her eyes closed as she panted.
Crowning wanted nothing more than to pull the girl in for a tight hug, but contended himself with a sympathetic nod. One of the aircrew—the load-master if he recalled correctly—wordlessly handed her a wet-wipe, which the exhausted battleship took with a weak nod of thanks.
"In the sea, no matter how rough, I've got my hull under me," she said, her chest heaving as she struggled to get her breath back. "This is…" she looked over, her face utterly drained, "This fucking sucks, man."
"Maybe we could land early," said Crowning, glancing towards the cockpit, "See if there's a tr-"
Jersey's grasp was hard as steel around his wrist, her nails biting into his skin as she shook her head. The muscles in her neck tensed as she fought down another wave of nausea, her demanding stare fixed on him.
"Or… not."
Jersey let go, immediately going for her bucket with a thundering wretch.
"Damnit, Jersey!" said Crowning, frantically waving for the airman to fetch another bucket. The flip-side of her bottomless appetite was rearing its ugly head. Only this time it wasn't funny. "If you can't make it-"
"I'll make it!" snarled the battleship, doing her very best to sound threatening with a tiny rivulet of fuel oil running down the corner of her mouth. "They-" she closed her eyes, hissing as the C-5 trundled though a patch of turbulent air.
"Jersey?" Crowning fished a handkerchief from his sweater pocket.
"They need me in the Pacific," she said, dabbing at her face as best she could. "I'm going to the Pacific."
"Stubborn one, aren't you?"
Jersey nodded, her head lolling over until it fell into Crowning's lap. "I'm…" her voice was so quiet it was almost lost in the thrum of jet engines, "I'mma sleep now."
The last thing she remembered before she slipped into unconsciousness was Crowning's hand running though her hair.
— | — | —
Jersey bolted upright with a gasp, her eyes burning as they adjusted to the glaring florescent lights all too slowly. "Ah!, what-" she felt a tug on her arm. Her shirt was soaking wet her skin was deathly pale and someone had stabbed her in the elbow with- no, that's an IV. Shiiiiiiit.
"Huh," said someone off to her side. A quick glance confirmed it was doctor. Navy this time though, not Air Force. Yay. "Her vitals look-" he glanced at Jersey, his face a tortured mess of confusion, "I mean… uh, she's awake."
"Clearly," grunted Jersey, reaching over with her free hand to fumble with the IV line. Before anyone could say anything, she wrapped her fingers around the little plastic needle and ripped it out of her arm. "Fuck!"
"Jersey!" Crowning was by her side in an instant, cradling her bleeding arm in his hands.
"Why did I think that was a good idea!" snarled the battleship, her muscular arm taut as she tried to stem the trickle of sticky blood.
"You got me, Commander," said the doctor as he darted off to collect… some medical item, Jersey couldn't see what. His voice was a mix of tender care with just a dash of 'what the hell were you thinking you stupid thing.'
"It looks so cool in the movies," said Jersey, tilting her head so her hat all but hid her face. "What, uh… what happened to me?"
"You passed out," said Crowning, moving his hands as the doctor came back with gauze to bandage her elbow. "On the plane, we couldn't wake you."
"You mean I'm-"
"Not dead," Crowning almost yelped the words out. "You're in Washington."
Jersey narrowed her eyes.
"The State. Joint Base-" Crowning glanced to the doctor.
"Lewis McChord."
"That," said Crowning, smiling as Jersey's skin started to regain its color. "Doc here rushed down from the naval base as soon as we realized we couldn't wake you."
"What, uh… what happened?" asked Jersey, swinging her legs over the side of the stretcher, experimentally poking at the floor with her toes.
"We, uh, think you were out of your element."
Jersey gave him a look so deadpan you could hear it.
"He's not wrong," said the doctor, offering her a glass of water. "Nothing we did could wake you, until…" he motioned for Crowning, "Your friend here had the brilliant idea to splash salt water on your face."
Jersey glanced down at herself, plucking her soggy shirt off her chest. "So…"
"Yeah…" Crowning made sure his eyes were well and truly averted.
"Thanks," said the battleship, throwing her arms around him and pulling him in for a tight, though slightly damp-hug.
"When you two are done," said the doctor, already busying himself with tidying up the exam… room… thing, "There's someone else who'd like to meet you."
"Hm?" Jersey slid off the stretcher onto her feet, leaning on Crowning as she tested her legs, "Yeah, sure. Send him in."
"Her."
"what?"
Before anyone could respond, a bubbly woman in an impossibly short orange-black skirt burst though the door. She was easily a foot shorter than Jersey—not saying much, nearly everyone was—but she more than made up for it with the size of her personality.
"Konnichiwa!" she said, her high-pitched voice positively oozing cuteness, her black-gloved hands coming up in a adorable little wave.
Jersey grunted in abject confusion.
"I'm Naka-Chan!" said… apparently INJ Naka given form. "Idol of the fleet, and liaison of kanmusu operations to the United States!" Her knees bumped together as she effortlessly shifted into yet another pose, this one somehow even cuter. "It'll be so nice to have another kanmusu around!"
For what felt like hours, Jersey didn't even breath, her head slowly pivoting to face Crowning with all the oiled mechanical precision of her main battery turrets. "Crowning?"
"Yeah?"
"What the fuck did we do to Japan?"
Jersey didn't say a word as she followed the… frilly orange traffic-cone of a light cruiser towards a truck. A bigger one this time, a semi-tractor rig some vague memory of hers identified as a tank-transporter. "You're Sendai class, right?"
Naka nodded, effortlessly pulling herself up into the trailer-mounted cabin. To Jersey's chagrin, the suspension didn't even budge. The slight Japanese girl might only be a light cruiser, but she still displaced almost—Jersey bit the corner of her lip, mentally rifling though the stacks of musty recognition manuals filling her CIC shelves— almost six thousand long tons.
"Still getting used to it, aren't you?" said Naka, offering the towering battleship girl a hand.
"Hmm, what?" Jersey shook it off, climbing into the cabin under her own steam. So to speak. Maybe? She could feel her turbines humming along inside her, like that… phantom limb thing she—or rather her crew— had heard about.
"To being a girl," said Naka, her skirt frilling up with each movement as she slid further into the cabin to make room. "I can tell by the way you look at me."
Jersey frowned. Was she really that easy to read? "Okay, fine." She crossed her arms, her damp shirt wet against her bare forearms. "When I look at you, I see…"
"You see more than a girl, right?" said Naka, her bubbly sweet smile effortlessly transitioning into something a little more… genuine, for lack of a better word. "You're not sure how, but you can tell I've got four stacks, two masts-"
"And a 'cat on your stern," finished Jersey. "It's weird as hell."
"Yeah, well," Naka leaned over, glancing past Jersey as a soldier slid the cab door closed. "You'd better get used to it."
Jersey glanced between the door and Naka. "Why… where's Crowning?" she said, the hair on her neck standing up as she slipped towards General Quarters.
"What we're about to tell you is… very classified," said Naka, "Your friend's riding up front."
"We?"
Naka pointed to the flat-screen mounted on the cab's front bulkhead,"Admiral Williams."
"Oh, shit!" Jersey swore, glancing down at her soaking shirt with distraught. "Shit shit shit…" her head swung back and forth as she looked in vain for something presentable to wear, already shrugging off her vest.
"Uhm…" Naka coughed as the battleship started to pull her shirt up.
"Commander." The familiar scratchy tones of Vice-Admiral Williams' video call echoed though the cabin.
"Sir," said Jersey, her reddening cheeks the only chink in her otherwise perfect deadpan.
"Admiral!" chirped Naka, pushing the cute up to eleven as she beamed an incandescent smile. Jersey swore she saw the little cruiser shoot her a wink.
"Am I interrupting something?" said the Admiral, his tone gruff and full of Admiraly 'if I am, drop that shit and listen up.'
"No sir!" said both shipgirls, more on reflex than anything.
For a moment, Williams just glared at Jersey, his tired stare burning holes in her shades. "Very well… Ladies, I'm not going to sugar coat this. Sixty-percent of all pan-pacific convoys flows though the Pac-North-west. Without those convoys, Japan… hell, most of the Pacific will fall or starve."
"Holy Hannah," whispered Jersey.
"The JMSDF and their… Kanmusu- the Admiral nodded to Naka by means of explanation, "-are doing their best to keep their half of the ocean clear. But their best is just barely cutting it."
"What about us, sir?" said Jersey. She knew she should just sit quietly and let her Admiral brief her. But…damn it, she was a battleship of the American Navy. She couldn't bare the thought of her country doing nothing!
"We don't have the ships to put up a fight," said Williams. He sounded just as bitter about it as Jersey. "And even if we did, we wouldn't have the missiles to fill their magazines. Hell, half the Atlantic CAP's flying with just gunpods, or nothing at all."
"Damn…" Jersey ran her hand over her face, her eyes starting to water in spite of her best efforts.
"I'm… afraid that's not all."
"Sir?"
"Abyssals… they're like us," said Naka, twisting in her seat to face Jersey. "They're… more spiritual than physical."
"Bastards don't show up on radar if they don't want to… or until you get close enough to see the whites of their fucking eyes."
"We're different though," said Naka, the little cruiser resting one gloved hand on Jersey's bare leg, giving her the tiniest of reassuring nods. "We're… uh, on the same plane as them-" she drew a little shape with her hands "-our sensors work just like they should."*
"Even your early-war kit was world-class," said Williams, "Especially compared to the jap sets." He let out a long sigh, "I know convoy duty isn't what you're made for-"
"Sir," Jersey sat up as straight as she could in the cramped cab, "BB-62, USS New Jersey… point me where you need me."
"That's my girl."
"Welcome to Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, ma'am," the sailor barely opened the door before his hand snapped up in salute, his face beaming with a smile he couldn't quite suppress.
"T-thanks," Jersey said, returning the salute as best she could. The base looked… different than she remembered. Two massive container ships were tied up in dock, refit crews scurrying around them like ants. It looked like they were hurriedly slapping on whatever guns and missiles they could find wherever they'd fit, along with a fresh coat of messy camouflage paint.
"My pleasure, ma'am," said the sailor, "It's… it's damn good to have you with us."
"Pleasure's mine, sailor," said Jersey, her stomach rumbling in agreement. "Now, uh… where's the mess?"
"I'll show her the way," said Naka, smiling sweetly at the sailor before hooking one arm around Jersey's. For all the good that did her, the battleship displacement was ten times the slender cruiser's. "Uh… Jersey?"
"Oh, yeah," said Jersey, letting herself be dragged along, her head swinging wildly from one Exciting New Thing to the next, the end of her braid nearly taking out a passing contractor. She couldn't take three steps without someone saluting her or running up to welcome her. "You're not the only… what did he call you?"
"Kanmusu?"
Jersey shrugged, "You're not the only one here, are you?"
Naka shook her head. "Fubuki's out escorting a convoy up the straight of…"
"Juan de Fuca?"
Naka smiled, spreading her short little skirt in a girlish curtsey. "Thank you. And Yuudachi's in the docks at the moment."
Jersey nodded. Two destroyers and a cruiser… not the best fleet, but- Her ears perked up as her VHF set sputtered to life. "Naka-"
"I hear it too," said the cruiser, one hand holding her air bun like a wireless headset. "Dreadnoughts"
Shit. Jersey heard the desperate screams of destroyers, but human and 'kanmusu' as if they were right next to her. Valiant cries of tin-can ships going up against armored battle wagons ten times their size. "No," she whispered, pressing her eyes closed.
"J-Jersey?"
"I left seven destroyers to die off Samar," Jersey's eyes snapped open, her vision tinted an angry, burning red. "Never again." her voice was calm. So calm it would have scared her, if there was room in her heart for anything more than flaming, seething rage.