Gulf of Mexico, 924th Guards Naval Guided-Missile Carrying Regiment, 29-10-2025, 0520 Romeo (1020 Zulu):
Colonel Mikhail Sergeyevich Volkov cast a quick glance out of the window of his Tu-22M5. They were skimming the placid waters of the Gulf of Mexico scant meters above the deck at full military power. Somewhere out in the vast expanse was an American Carrier Battle Group centered on the carrier Kitty Hawk. His objective was simple. Find and inflict maximum damage on the formation in preparation for follow-on strikes.
The Tu-22M5 was the latest in a series of upgrades for the venerable "Backfire". It gave the aircraft new engines, the NK-32-03, a higher bypass turbofan based on that used by the Tu-160, providing the M5 with extended range over the aircraft powered by the earlier NK-25 and previous versions of the NK-32. New radars in the nose and tail gave the M5 a secondary air-to-air capability, similar to that of the American B-1R conversions and B-1C production aircraft. Taking another page out of the American book, those radars had secondary electronic-attack capabilities, complementing the already improved EW suites of the Backfires. It wasn't the same bomber that gave NATO war planners bad dreams before the war but it was the most numerous long-range strike aircraft available to the Morskaya Raketonosnaya Aviatsiya, or MRA.
Nothing was out there. That was good but didn't tell him much. So far the Radar Warning Receiver showed only the faint radar emissions of a pair of AWACs to their North and South, probably carrier borne. It was impossible to tell if the E-2 Hawkeyes had detected their formation; the Americans having never disclosed the exact capabilities of their radars to the Soviet Union. As such, his Weapons Systems Officer or his own RWR would probably be the first things to alert them to trouble when the active seeker of an AIM-120 AMRAAM or AIM-260 JTAM went "Pitbull'' as the Americans put it after being directed by those same AWACs or by the Electro-Optical suite in an F-35. By then it would probably be too late and they'd only have time to cast a quick prayer for a safe ejection before they were hit.
He idly thought about calling the Tu-22MR like one would contemplate jumping off a cliff. Functionally, there was little difference in broadcasting on a high-power, unsecured UHF channel and suicide. Smiling to himself, Volkov thought better of the decision. Best to not tip the Amis off to their location.
He was the pilot, occupying the left seat of the massive variable geometry bird, but he was also responsible for ensuring his regiment reached their weapons employment zone. Once that was done, survival was optional. Massed bomber attacks against NATO Carrier Strike Groups were only slightly better than the Banzai charges of Imperial Japan. All that mattered was getting their missiles off on the target.
"Victor Maximovich, when we reach point…" He checked his maps and continued, considering what they could confirm based on passive electronic emissions, "...four, send to Regiment to proceed with split." If the Tu-22MR didn't detect the American formation, they would have to split up by squadron and cover more ground. It would make coordinating a strike more difficult, but they needed to find the Americans in the first place for such a strike to occur.
"Aye Misha." Victor said, barely looking up from his work, poring over charts and times. They were operating without the American GPS currently, running solely on inertial navigation, headings, speeds, and Victor's trusty stopwatch.
Back at base, just after supper, one could always find Victor working on the infernal device, rewinding springs, and cleaning the internal mechanisms. One would think a digital stopwatch would serve the purpose better, but Victor insisted on it. It was a sign of good luck and had never failed them so far.
Volkov smiled at the nickname. Victor Maximovich Gorelov was the most experienced navigator in the Regiment and, like Volkov, had seen extensive combat. The two of them served together as part of the Indian Ocean detachment based out of Al Anad Airbase in South Yemen. Mikhail didn't have many fond memories of the hot desert air, but getting drunk with Victor after a successful mission had been one of them.
Truth be told, Victor made the Regiment run more than Volkov. Volkov was just the CO. Victor was the Senior Navigator. The men in the back were the ones truly running the show, making sure that they were on time and coordinated. The pilots and co-pilots simply pushed sticks and held formation.
"Comrade Colonel! We have the position of a carrier!" The young WSO said excitedly as the modified Tu-22M that was somewhere in-front and above the formation apparently painted the American carrier group with its large side-looking radar.
Volkov checked the recorded position and heading. Looking up, he asked, "Vitya, what are your thoughts?"
Victor looked at the readings, scribbled something in pencil, and used a straight-edge for a final mark.
Finally Victor pronounced, "It could be them. A little far South but that could be them just playing tricky."
Volkov was inclined to agree. He didn't really expect to get another report from the radar aircraft. By painting the fleet, it had made itself a massive target, so it was either running or dead. Still, the position was a little far South, but the Americans liked to be in places they shouldn't be. What sealed the deal in Volkov's mind were the reports of multiple separate radar contacts in formation around the large central contact. He wished that they would begin radiating so he could confirm the target, but he knew better. The Americans, for all their bluster, were professionals.
He checked the information again. Range to the target was a little over five-hundred kilometers, well within range of the single KH-42 missile they carried semi-recessed in their payload-bay.
The KH-42, or the AS-30 "Kickstand" in NATO parlance, was an outgrowth of the KH-22 and KH-32, known themselves to the west collectively as the AS-4 "Kitchen". It was a large, ramjet powered missile, differing from the Kitchens in that it could adopt a sea-skimming approach rather than the semi-ballistic approach its predecessors took due to their rocket propulsion. Truth be told, there was more in common between the surface and sub-surface launched P-700 missile and the KH-42 than its Kitchen predecessors.
But it fit the same role. A large, fast, long-ranged, and, most importantly, economical missile that could split the average, and the above-average, Siren warship in half with a single hit. "Or a NATO carrier." Volkov thought quietly.
Given the information, Volkov had only three choices. Turn around, split the formation and attack later, or stay together and launch now. Turning around would be the safest option without further information, but would also be an automatic failure of his mission. Splitting the Regiment was doctrinal procedure but the American fleet almost certainly knew they had been painted and would change course. It would force the KH-42s to use a hi-hi-lo profile as they relied on their own radars to find the fleet's exact position and thus expose themselves to the long-range SAMs of the AEGIS ships.
Finally, he could order an immediate launch, accepting the more limited vector of attack with the advantage of the KH-42's following their sea-skimming attack pattern.
Of course, if the E-2s detected the sea-skimming missiles and vectored intercepts the entire sea-skimming approach would be rendered pointless but Volkov had faith in the reduced radar cross-section of the weapons. Additionally, if they launched before they had been detected there was a far greater chance of the missiles getting through. The KH-42 was moderately stealthy. A Backfire was not.
"Send to prepare for launch." Volkov said, coming to his decision.
"Yes Misha." Victor said, keying a command into his console.
In the plane's tail, a UV light began blinking. Two short and one long blink. This exploited the Missile Approach Warning Systems of the Backfires as a way of circumventing using unsecured UHF bands that would betray their location. The UV light emulated that given off by the booster of a missile as it fired, creating a chime on the panels of the pilots but only on one of their MAWS, not registering on the IR sensors they also carried. This ensured that it was not mistaken for an actual missile. The duration and direction of the pulses alerted them to what the message was and who it was coming from. It wouldn't carry far, no more than maybe ten kilometers, but the formation had been tight given the same constraints they had in working without radio.
A series of chimes on Volkov's own panel signified acknowledgement of the message by flight and squadron leads. His heart began to race. This was the most dangerous part.
He advanced the throttles, pushing the twin Kuznetsov engines into afterburner, accelerating to just under Mach 1.
He took a deep breath and eased the stick back. He checked and confirmed the Regiment was following him as they rose to twelve-hundred meters, the minimum weapon employment altitude for the KH-42.
He made the final checks and was about to order the WSO to begin the launch sequence when the WSO interrupted his thoughts.
"Warning! Radar! Fighter type to our starboard! From below! Numerous! Strength is eleven! Bearing is 290." The WSO said, excited.
Volkov saw the same warning on his RWR, but that was significantly less detailed than the one in the back.
"Initiate launch sequence." Volkov ordered, voice calm. This WSO needed to remember his job.
"Yes Colonel!" The WSO said, punching in the key for automatic launch on the recorded target.
The UV light turned on again, this time holding for three seconds and then creating a rapid series of blinks as the computer counted down to when it would release the missile. Inside the other Backfires, crews finished their pre-launch sequences, WSOs holding their fingers over the button to launch their payload, waiting for their pilots to see the lead aircraft drop its weapon.
Use of the UV blinker was unnecessary. The gig was up. But with adrenaline in his veins, Volkov barely registered the mistake.
"Warning! Weapons lock!" the WSO said as a radar left its TWS mode and changed over to a coherent paint of their aircraft, emulating the lock of a missile. The warning did not appear on Volkov's RWR, but he was honestly surprised the thing worked in the first place.
Volkov's focus stayed on his dashboard and on the countdown to launch, his world compressing to those two things. They were all that mattered. He took another deep breath, inhaling, feeling the aircraft's motions, the move of its mechanisms. He briefly closed his eyes and exhaled.
He opened his eyes and saw the seconds count down.
Keying his regiment-wide radio, he said, "Launch."
As if on cue, the Backfire lurched up as the payload fell away.
He immediately pushed the Backfire into a sharp dive to the ocean waters, turning South in the opposite direction as the American radars, not bothering to check to confirm motor ignition.
The WSO was busy employing their active jammers, working to prevent the fighter radars from getting a solid track on them. How effective this would be was debatable. Home-on-jam capabilities meant that too much jamming could be their undoing in combat.
"Victor! Barrier chaff!" He yelled.
Victor complied and bundles of aluminium strips were expelled, flying upwards before bursting and quickly falling behind the now supersonic bomber. They would not fool an American fire-control radar, but they would block it from seeing their aircraft.
Now nothing mattered. Not formations outside of individual elements, not times. All they had to do was get home.
Volkov scanned the horizon, looking for anything ahead of them as the RWR kept beeping. The tone suddenly shifted to a constant whine and then repeated the beeping, the RWR showing a full strength threat right to their front augmenting the numerous secondary threats it recorded to their rear. He pushed the Backfire into a high-G turn, edging it close to where it would strain the airframe, but knew deep down that it was useless. They were a hundred ton bomber and there was only so much they could do from a threat that close.
Volkov quietly wished they had been allowed to carry self-defense missiles on this mission, but command had decided against it. The two R-77s might not actually take down the American jet, but they would scare it off.
The radio crackled to life. "Got you Ivan. Now be a good dead plane and form up." The American pilot said in a Texan Drawl. It was accompanied by Volkov spotting the American jet, an F/A-18 of some kind, rattling them with its exhaust as it passed maybe a hundred meters over them.
He leveled off and reduced his throttle, letting the American jet and his wingman pull around. He let out a deep sigh as UHF signals indicated that the rest of the Regiment had been "destroyed".
Keying the radio to the channel the American used, he said, "Guess you cowboys did get us but not before we got your carrier." He grinned. That would shut the cocky fighter-jock up.
Instead, the pilot laughed and said, "Nah. You boys sunk an oiler. Took the bait hook, line, and sinker."
Volkov's grin fell right away from his face. "But what about the escorts? Did any of those register as destroyed?" He asked.
"Oh, you mean the drones we stuck radar reflectors on? Yeah, you destroyed 'em alright. Probably not much left if you were using that Kickstand of yours." The man said.
Volkov couldn't help it. He laughed. "I'll be damned, you got us!" He said, chuckling even as he said it.
His copilot gave him an odd look, but said nothing. Volkov was probably more religious than most of the others in his Regiment. Originally hailing from just outside the Ukrainian SSR city of Mykolaiv, he was an ethnic Russian but the Ukrainian SSR had a significantly more active Russian and Ukrainian Orthodox church than the RSFSR and it had left its mark on a young Volkov.
The city itself had left its mark too. He remembered watching Shipyard No. 44 produce the massive Supercarrier, Ulyanovsk, and its launching ceremony. But as the pinnacle of the Soviet Navy was settling in the water, his eyes had been on the formation of Tu-22M and Tu-16 bombers of the local training Regiment as they flew over the crowds. Volkov knew instantly what he wanted to do for his role in the Second Great Patriotic War.
"That there we did. I consider it a point of professional pride to pull a fast one on y'all Ruskies." The American pilot said. Volkov was fluent in English, but this was starting to push even his limits. He didn't bother to correct the pilot on his nationality.
Volkov sighed. Opening up the channel, he said, "Well, your crews were very skilled. You have my solemn congratulations."
"Thanks, I'll pass that on to the boys." The pilot said.
Volkov thought about how strange the situation might look to an observer from two generations ago. An American fighter and Soviet bomber engaged in friendly exercise, preparing for a common enemy.
Back at NAS Key West, a group of American and Soviet Officers were probably pouring over the results of the exercise, looking at what went well, what could be improved on, and the mistakes made.
The positions of the aircraft and ships were all tracked with GPS with times denoting weapon releases and calculated probabilities of intercept based on algorithms that were only disclosed to a select few. Some dummy payloads and sim-plugs rounded out the system. A great deal of effort had been made to allow the Pact and NATO systems to talk to each other, both for operational purposes, and so that exercises like this one could be carried out.
He keyed his microphone again. "I heard about the convoy that the Sirens attacked last week. My heart goes out to your people." He said, seriously.
There was a delay and the American pilot said, "I knew one of the helo pilots there. Apparently, he managed to detect the Sirens and give a warning to his ship. The Navy's talking about giving him a Navy Cross." All the playfulness in his tone was gone.
"Then let him know he has done his country a great service." Volkov said reverently. Detecting the enemy was the most dangerous job any pilot could have, as evidenced by their Tu-22MR. By radiating, you made yourself an immense target, quite literally broadcasting your location to all around. The American pilot who did that had to have nerves of iron if it was true.
There was silence and the American Hornet driver said, "The award would be posthumous."
Volkov thought in silence and replied, "Then I am sorry for you losing your friend."
There was another pause, and the pilot said, "I'm bingo minus two. We'll have to pick this up another time."
"Of course. Feel free to come over to Havana and we'll share a drink. Just ask for Colonel Volkov." Volkov said, a thin smile reforming on his face.
"Naturally. On the flip side, when you're free, come down to Miami. I do believe with enough booze and girls I can convert you into a dirty Capitalist Pig." The Hornet driver said, laughing. The laugh had a note of sadness in it but the impression was fleeting.
It wasn't entirely true that the Soviet Union was staunchly anti-capitalist. Perestroika under Gorbachev had set the ostensibly Communist state down a path of market liberalization, much like China before it. However, with more hardline elements of the government and Gorbachev's own reluctance to destabilize the state in the face of an already costly war, the effects were slow to occur.
Major industries stayed under strict government control, as was necessary when prosecuting a war that now encompassed two generations, but one could find smaller private enterprises here and there. This had worked well enough in easing internal tensions after the near collapse they faced following Murmansk and the subsequent fracturing of some of the Warsaw Pact, but residue of the old system lingered in day-to-day life.
The Colonel chuckled. "We shall see." He replied.
The Superhornets, Volkov, could see that now based on their intakes, waggled their wings and broke off, heading back North to where their carrier actually was.
After a few minutes of silence, allowing for most of the Regiment to form-up, the WSO asked, "How are you so happy? We lost."
"We did. But we are still alive, no?" Volkov said. The boy was inexperienced and Volkov had hoped by being in proximity to Victor he would pick up on the Major's wisdom. Apparently his hopes had been premature.
"The Amis won but we had the odds stacked against us. A single Regiment is not a match for a single carrier. It is why doctrine is always for two or three Regiments per carrier. Sometimes doctrine cannot be applied and intuition must be used. This is why we train with the Amis. We don't need to introduce many variables. They provide all the chaos necessary for an unpredictable exercise." He explained, smiling.
If there was one law the Americans followed it was Murphy's law, and it was written all the way from their Army Corps and Fleets and down to their individual platoons and flights. But that also made them fun, provided they weren't actually shooting at you. It was one of the many reasons why The Colonel liked his stays at Cuba. Not only was The Gulf of Mexico safe, with the average life-expectancy of a Siren formation currently hovering in the high single-digit minutes, but the exercises were enjoyable and the girls… oh if they had girls like they had in Havana at Al Anada, he would've stayed his whole life in that accursed dustbowl at the end of the Arabian Peninsula. Things certainly could be worse.
Drydock K-09, Newport News Virginia, 29-10-2025, 0815 Romeo (1315 Zulu):
Edwards' eyes were hollow rings. The last week had been an endless series of debriefings, interviews, and the ceaseless inquisition of Navy intelligence types. They dissected every event, every memory he possessed, down to the finest verifiable, and sometimes unverifiable, detail. That had been taxing, physically and mentally, and exhaustion marred his features, nearly returning him to what a thirty-year-old should look like.
Edwards looked up at the ship with equal parts wonder and loathing. Part of him wished he would never cast his eyes across it again. Another part, the ghost of Evans most likely, itched to get out on the sea. She may have been right in that this wasn't actually Hell, but to Edwards the distinction was merely semantic. He felt a pang of regret from that corner of his mind he'd identified as distinctively hers.
He immediately felt bad, a headspace that was becoming all too familiar. Evans was just doing what she thought was best. She was effectively a child, her memories showing her own uncertainty and impulsivity. She couldn't have known.
That impulsiveness was a trait the two of them seemed to share before they became whatever they were now. How much was coincidence and how much resulted from her imprinting on Edwards was unclear.
Even with his mind half-clouded by an ever-present hangover, he still felt the pain of his final day in command, the cries and deaths ringing out as if he lived them himself a thousand times over, his eyes being forced open as he watched the men and women that trusted him be maimed and killed. When he first awoke, he was so eager to correct his mistakes he didn't bother to think, didn't bother to consider what he was doing.
That was a lie. Deep down, he knew what he was doing. He was saving his own sorry skin and, in the process, catapulting his career. If only he found another way. Why did he just sit back and accept Evans' words at face value? He was The Skipper, for Christ's sake. He could've come up with something. Right?
He had effectively forced his mind upon a child. A scared, confused girl who saw him as the ultimate authority in her world. To call it something like rape was the only appropriate comparison he could make at the moment. It was the only way to convey the injustice of what he had done.
The thought made him physically ill, bile trying to push itself up through his mouth. He forced himself to steady a quivering hand.
Evans' memories said she had gone into it willingly, but again, she didn't know better. She didn't know what life could bring her, and he had taken that from her. He was the CO; he was the one who was supposed to make the right call.
"What made you do it Matt? Dreams of a star on your shoulder?" He muttered to himself, just low enough that it wasn't heard by his company. He ignored that as of right now, his status had put his career on hold, possibly indefinitely. That was an inconvenient contradiction to his misery.
He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. The awful irony was he didn't learn his lesson after his impulsivity killed his crew. He'd been eager to send Hood out and deal with the Siren force, and that had left them open, and now he was willing to take the easy route to repent for sins.
Even with Evans' personality mixing with his, he was still fundamentally the same man as Commander Edwards, for all the ills that entailed. "Shitty role-model for you to imprint on Evans." He thought to himself, not knowing what part of his consciousness it had come from.
He began walking, a mechanical motion to put his superior at ease. It could be a philosophical discussion as to whether "he" had dug himself this hole, but the current matter was he had to lie in it regardless of responsibility in the end. All he had to do was stop being such a fucking pussy about it.
All around him, the small yellow birds known collectively as "Manjuu" scuttled around, working on some aspect or another.
His ship needed to be checked over. Certain personal effects had been removed as well as the nuclear weapons it… he… she… they? Carried.
About a dozen W82 nuclear shells of a variety of mods for the CLGG, useful for air-defense, ASuW, and, with the addition of a drag chute and depth sensor, ASW. Then there were the nuclear TLAMs, the nuclear Sea-Lances, B57 and B90 nuclear depth bombs for the helicopters, and the nuclear SM-2MR missiles and SM-6s. The Evans had carried a hefty chunk of firepower and the only thing that would have stopped him from using them were the Permissive Action Links to the warheads. Given he had undone locks by simply willing them open, it was not at all a stretch to assume he could bypass or influence the PAL without receiving the requisite codes.
That was a little disturbing, and he had expressly avoided anything to do with the nuclear fire-control system of the ship both because he wanted to avoid a court-martial, and because he'd rather not trip some of the fail-safes and turn millions of dollars of carefully manufactured nuclear warheads into glorified paperweights.
He just passed the bow, the number "221" having been one of the first things painted over after a large tarp meant to obscure the radar, IR, and visible light captures by satellites had been erected over the drydock and his ship summoned into it. They weren't telling the Soviets or the Chinese the details of him, not yet at least.
They were in the Kansen drydock area, away from prying eyes and the anti-conscription protests that sometimes took place at the gates.
He was sure Soviet Intelligence had an idea of what he was, or at least his existence. At least one of the RORSATs that saw him was likely of Soviet design given that he had counted four Discoverer II overflights and one overflight of a less powerful Echo-band radar at an irregular interval. Whether they knew about the Evans Report or not was unknown. If they were aware, they certainly weren't making a deal of it.
His eyes grew taut. He honestly wished that the DIA or ONI would've laughed off his experience and simply chalked it up to combat fatigue. But they hadn't. They had done the exact opposite and now he was the key piece to a theory that called their very reality into question. He couldn't blame the Soviets if they ignored it. He'd rather forget the stark conclusions it had come to as well.
That being said, the concept of this being a simulation did not bother him as much as it initially had. Maybe that was simply an effect of other problems coming to the forefront. He had a concept of self, twisted and malformed as it may currently be. Perhaps that was the only thing that mattered.
He did his best to ignore the intrusive thought, instead focusing on the concrete-sided bathtub he found himself in.
The drydock itself was not conventional. There was no way to access the open water directly. For a Kansen, such infrastructure was unnecessary. Not only did it make construction of the drydock far cheaper, it freed up space along the port for conventionally manned ships that didn't have the luxury of packing up into a human sized briefcase. That was one of the key advantages of Kansen and formed the basis of the Fourth Offset Strategy, also known as the Hybrid Sea-Control Anti-Access Area Denial methodology.
Hybrid SC-A2/AD, as it was known, combined the lessons in network-centric warfare learned in Air-Land Battle, which was the hallmark of the Second Offset Strategy and Rapid Global Strike, which was emphasized in the Third Offset Strategy.
Air-Land Battle was originally intended for fighting on the North German Plain and in the Fulda gap, being a pre-war invention that had just come to fruition by first contact in 1984. Still, when the Sirens arrived, it found application in the initial stages of the war, with network-centric coordination being critical in avoiding the complete destruction of NATO forces. Most of the advanced ISR assets like the Discoverer II Satellite network, which was still in use, were initially conceived to aid in this.
Rapid Global Strike, derived in the mid-to-late 90s, was the first Offset Strategy created within the context of Siren Warfare. It borrowed heavily from Soviet A2/AD methodologies and led to land-based aviation like the U.S. Strategic Bomber Force being more fully integrated into a global kill-chain as missile-trucks that could launch hundreds of anti-ship missiles at detected Siren Fleets. Further developments were the precursor to the Pleiades array, a network of Anti-Ship IRBMs and ICBMs meant to give the theoretical capability to hit any large Siren Fleet within minutes of its detection should such a strike be necessary.
Finally, the Hybrid SC-A2/AD method was born after the creation of the first human-controlled Kansen in the mid-2000s. With the Kansen and emerging technologies like the Combustion Light Gas Gun, guided Hypervelocity Projectiles, and some of the short-range kinetic energy missiles, the Siren Kansen could be directly countered. Additionally, the strategic mobility allowed for the chance of local numerical superiority in major fleet engagements, even while it was assumed the Sirens possessed an overwhelming total numerical advantage.
That strategy had been put to the test in 2010 at New York and had failed spectacularly. The Sirens had appeared too close to shore, giving a fifteen minute window for strategic planners to commit to a conventional counterforce attack. Those fifteen minutes passed before the greater chain of command even disseminated the information, much less come to a decision. As a result, the only option left to prevent a slaughter in the New York metropolitan area was for a pair of B-1Cs to carpet the fleet with two-dozen, 200 kiloton, SRAM II missiles.
And like what happened in those chaotic first days of the war, when the Soviets nuked the fleet making its way from the Kara Sea into their SSBN bastion, the Sirens retaliated and Boston, like Murmansk before it, was turned into a pane of glass by a weapon of exotic and incalculable nature, an event scarred into the American psyche.
It cost McCain his presidency and the Republican Party had never recovered, forever now playing second fiddle to their Democrat cohorts. It cemented a large anti-war block in Congress under the so-called "Olive Branch Party", a block that seemed to gain more and more power as time passed and more families lost brothers, fathers, sons, and daughters.
Despite its failure, the Fourth Offset strategy had a fair few merits and came to prove itself at the Battle off Zanzibar when there was less of a pressure to go nuclear, much to the devastation of Zanzibar and Dar es Salaam.
You could fly a whole fleet to a combat zone within hours, provided you had the right facilities and the now ubiquitous C-44 supersonic transports. The problem was holding out and delaying until they arrived. Strategic mobility of that sort was incredibly valuable, but was quite risky when applied to a tactical level. Kansen were tough, even when they lacked rigging, but they were not invincible and losing a helicopter or transport full of them was disastrous when it happened.
His thoughts returned to the Manjuu. They were perfect little workers. They didn't sell off your secrets or give leaks to the press. They kept their mouths, or rather, beaks, shut. Kings and/or queens of Opsec if one could ever find them.
A good thing too, because his existence was currently a closely guarded secret. Most Kansen and human personnel were currently barred from getting within a hundred meters of this drydock and those that were had explicit orders to keep the rest out.
He kept walking, looking up at the anechoic tiles that covered the underside of his ship. That's right, what did the shrink say? Focus on the present, not on possibility? They were composed of a layered composite rubber, playing a big part in the quieting of his ship. Not only did they absorb the high-frequency vibrations of his turbines and the permanent magnetic motors of the screws, but also the pings of active sonar. He could feel them even from here, examining the damage to them, how well they were secured, and how sound interacted with them.
He reached the stern, studying the pump-jet system that served as propulsion. He could barely see the twin screwback propellers from where he stood, both being nestled inside their ducted pods, partially hidden by their inlet guides and stators.
Inside the pods a permanent magnetic motor fed off power supplied by the twin electrical generators turned by the gas turbines. Shape-memory alloys and polymers in the ducting, vanes, and in the propeller itself, were adjusted using electrical signals to reduce vibration and run efficiently at a wide variety of speeds. It cut down on noise significantly, contributing to the Heerman Class being comparable to the Seawolf, SSN-21, Class in acoustic signature.
The pods could traverse along the azimuth, obviating the need for a rudder. That had presented its own problems with vibrations at the connection point but those had been overcome by effectively locking the pods in place during silent running, using adjustments of the shape-memory materials and moderate asymmetric steering to make slight course changes. This allowed the ship significantly more maneuverability, especially around port, which had been an important thing when it was still a conventional ship. Right now it was more a neat party trick.
The design, like that of the anechoic tiles, was a quieting measure implemented after a slew of prominent losses to Siren Submarines, including the Carriers Foch, Varyag, and Enterprise, CVN-65. Procedures had been improved, but the losses stung all the same.
Similar shape-memory polymers were built into the tiles, bow, and hydroplanes, allowing for the ship to subtly change its hull-form, improving fuel efficiency and somewhat improving the performance of the vessel.
"What do you think?" The woman asked, watching Edwards as he made his rounds.
"Looks good to me, ma'am. Can't say it's exactly my field of expertise, though." He said, scratching his head under his hard-hat. He instinctively knew the ins and outs of his ship as if it was his body, but that didn't make him a naval architect in the same way having a heartbeat made someone a doctor.
She was Vice Admiral Maya Fukada, Commander-in-Chief Kansen Atlantic, CINCKANLANT, under SACLANT. She dictated NATO Kansen operations in the North and South Atlantic, along with sections of the Arctic and Southern Ocean. COMKANWESTLANT, COMKANEASTLANT, and COMKANSOUTHLANT answered to her as well as their own regional commanders, making her the boss of his assumed boss, COMKANWESTLANT. How that actually translated, given the legal grey zone he occupied, not to mention his existence being classified, was unknown. So far, he was nominally under her direct command until such a time as a more permanent solution could be found.
He'd met her before and actually served under her aboard the USS Virginia, CGN-38, when he was fresh from the Academy. It had been aboard the Virginia where he qualified as an Officer of The Deck and earned his Surface Warfare Pin.
But that was nearly a decade ago, and the Virginia was now razor blades after it was determined a second refueling operation was unviable. Still, she had sent him a letter of congratulations when he'd gotten his command. For someone with few friends and fewer family, that had meant quite a bit to him.
He gave her a warm smile, trying to distract himself from other matters.
"Well, I must be going now. I have a funeral for a certain someone to attend." She said, giving him a half-hearted smile.
It did not reach her eyes, though he appreciated the gesture and the attempt to lighten the mood.
"Thank you ma'am. I heard they were pulling my cousin for a bit. If it's at all possible, could you check in on him? We were pretty close after I lost my folks." He said, expression growing more wan.
"Certainly. Are you doing better?" She asked, fixing him with the unreadable expression he remembered from his days under her.
He knew better than to lie. "No, ma'am, I am not doing better." He said, holding his chin up for a measure of decorum.
She pursed her lips but made no comment. "Alright, keep seeing the shrink." She said, expression still unreadable.
"Of course ma'am." Edwards said.
She gave an easy solute, to which he snapped a sharp one, and walked off to the chauffeur that was waiting for her.
Margaret knocked on the door to the office and took a step back. She was dressed in business formal, reflecting her own status as a civilian analyst of the Defense Intelligence Agency.
"Come in." A tired voice from inside said.
She opened the door and stepped into the well-appointed office.
A man in his late fifties was behind the desk opposite the door, several piles of paper strewn about.
"Admiral." She said respectfully. She did not solute, another action denoting her civilian nature.
Without looking up Admiral Hawthorne said in a Midwest accent, "You must be the analyst."
"That would be correct, sir." She said, eyes flicking behind him and around the office.
He looked up now and judging by the half-empty pot of coffee behind him and the bags under his eyes it was clear he wasn't getting much sleep. He was Supreme Allied Commander Atlantic, more commonly known as SACLANT. The position had lost its luster since the early 80s where it had been the most prestigious posting for a four-star Admiral. Now COMNAVFORPAC and COMNAVFORCENT, both relatively new positions, had supplanted it given that the Pacific and Indian Ocean respectively were the primary areas of activity for Sirens.
The Sirens seemed to be more inconsistent in the Atlantic. Two of the three largest fleets had been spotted in the Atlantic, but other than those occasional spikes, they were almost absent despite the economic importance of the trade lanes.
"What's your name?" He asked.
"S-Sorry sir?" She asked, taken off guard.
"Your name? What is it?" He repeated.
"Margaret. Margaret Hernandez." She said slowly.
He nodded, mulling something over in his mind. "Alright, Mrs. Hernandez, do you know why I asked for the DIA to send one of their analysts down here?" He asked.
"The memo said you needed a specialist qualified on the Evans Report." She said quickly. The drive over had been taxing, but she wanted to create a good first impression.
"I didn't ask for the requirement. I want to know what reason you think I have for requesting someone of your skills." He said.
Oh. He was one of these sorts of people. "Respectfully Admiral, I don't know." She said, doing her best to hide her irritation.
He set aside his glasses and focused on her. "Respectfully, Mrs. Hernandez, I have people killing themselves over a fucking report. I want to know damn-well what's going on. To me this looks like this Evans, Edwards, whatever the fuck It calls itself, is a Siren plant and that this is a tactic to demoralize us. What happens if people start asking questions and it gets leaked to the public? It'll be worse than fucking Boston and we both know what a shitshow that was." He said. His fire faded back into exhaustion. "Could I be correct?" He asked.
Margaret gulped. Alright, it seemed he didn't believe the reports her department had put out and was now looking for someone to validate him. "Possibly-" Hawthorne began to open his mouth but Margaret spoke too quickly for him to continue, "-but you have to consider that such an action doesn't fit observed Siren motives."
He narrowed his eyes. "Go on." He said, evidently not used to subordinates cutting him off.
She nodded quickly. "The Sirens do not want to kill us, correct?" She asked rhetorically.
"Tell that to the Widows." Hawthorne said acidly.
"Yes. But, consider the broader picture. They could wipe us out if they chose to do so." She said, brushing away his comment with practiced callousness.
"But if they try, we turn Earth into a frozen and irradiated hellhole." He said, tone still poisonous. This wasn't getting anywhere. He obviously made up his mind before she even stepped in here.
Still, his statement almost caused her to laugh. A civilization that could possibly cross uncounted worlds wouldn't give two shits if some apes decided to light up every super-volcano and then sprinkle Cobalt 60 around the equator. She wondered how Hawthorne had gotten to his position. The strategic reality of the Sirens and whatever Hawthorne thought it was were two very different things. She supposed that might be why she was here.
Instead she said, "No. The Sirens wish to test us. Their escalations are timed to put pressure on us but not enough pressure so that we break. It is surgical."
"And how does this tie back to your report?" He asked, interest evidently piqued.
"The experiences of Commander Edwards reflect the possibility of a future Siren test. The information from him could itself be the test and they want to see our reaction." She said quickly, thoughts picking up in pace.
"And what do you suppose we should do?" Hawthorne asked.
Margaret frowned. "I don't know, sir. I don't think anyone does. But I would suggest we play their game. The Sirens know more than us and this could be them trying to clue us in. We should trust but verify, if possible." She said truthfully. It was a longshot, but it was the best hope they had for figuring out what the hell was going on.
Hawthorne reclined in his chair and nodded at her words. "I do disagree with some of your conclusions, but I think you have a good head on your shoulders. I look forward to having you on the staff." He said, giving a look of approval.
That relieved Margaret a bit. Hawthorne might be entrenched in a purely operational perspective, but he wasn't stupid. She'd be able to do her job.
"Likewise. I look forward to working with you." She said, relaxing as some of her concerns were assuaged.
"How was it?" Edwards asked as he sat with Vice Admiral Fukada in her office, sipping on his tumbler of whiskey.
"It was nice. Small group. Your XO was released the other day and made a short speech." She said as she set down her glass.
"Good things I presume?" He asked, smiling. It was good to hear Bob was alright.
"He told us about the time a pack of Destroyers carted you off at Bermuda because you promised them Ice Cream if they were quiet." She said, grinning.
"Vicious creatures they are. I sometimes wonder how I survived that, but I should point out it got them to stop running around my CIC." He said, gesturing with his glass.
Fukada laughed. "I swear that's half the job of my subordinates. It's always 'How do I get the damn Destroyers to behave?' Or something like that." She said, rubbing her forehead.
Edwards chuckled a bit. "Guess it's a bit rich coming from me right now." He said, taking a drink.
"Hood was there." Fukada said, straightening.
"She was?" Edwards asked, surprised.
"Yeah, she's being transferred to the Pacific fleet and her flight had a layover here. Stuff lined up that way, I guess." Fukada said conspiratorially.
"You always scared the shit out of me when I was a Wog, you know that?" He said, grinning.
"Oh, I have no idea what you are talking about Ed?" She said innocently.
He checked his chronometer. It was getting late.
"How was Ray?" He asked.
"Ah, your cousin. I met him. He seems to be holding it together, but just barely." She said.
Edwards sighed, staring at his glass. "Thank you. I know and appreciate what you're doing for me, even with your schedule." He said, expression growing distant.
"Call it respect for a promising officer I watched take command. Besides, CNO is interested in you, so I've got a professional stake in this." She said, setting the glass down. "I'll have a timeline on when we're going to declassify you within the next week or so."
Edwards noted she used the word "when". He quickly stood and saluted. "Thank you ma'am. I don't know if I'll ever properly repay you." He said, relief in his voice.
"Oh, believe me, you'll find a way." Fukada said, all the humor in her tone gone.
The enjoyment Edwards had gotten out of his interaction with an old colleague and friend quickly faded, as he was left alone with his thoughts. He pushed away her parting words, deciding that reading too much into them was only going to lead to trouble. Still, he had his thoughts to stew in. That was dangerous, philosophizing, and thinking about his existence. It brought nothing but trouble, but he didn't ever really learn his lesson.
Edwards stared at the half-empty beer can and the empty ones that joined it on his desk. He pushed the dozen empty cans into the trash and sighed. He was barely buzzed when he should be blackout drunk. He probably wasn't supposed to have the alcohol, but whoever was making the calls seemed to not care. It allowed him to steal the odd minute of sleep here and there.
A hangover could be dealt with but chronic sleep deprivation was a slow killer and dulling his inhibitions was useful when extracting information. It made that information less clear but "good enough" was probably the word of the day in that regard.
He pulled out a bottle of vodka and began drinking it straight. It tasted awful but it got the job done and by the time he was finished with it he was feeling decidedly more drunk.
He got up from his chair and steadied himself against the wall as he made his way to the bathroom to take a piss.
As he washed his hands he looked at his red-eyed, disheveled reflection.
"You're a fucking mess." He slurred to no-one in particular. His reflection just stared back as answer.
What would Evans think if she saw him like this? He felt sadness and disappointment and couldn't decide if her voice was somewhere in there.
He left the bathroom and fell flat on his rack, not bothering to take off his shirt or get under the covers.
He closed his eyes, but despite the alcohol of his now nightly ritual, he could not sleep.
This time he was in the Aft Turbine Room again, watching helplessly through the eyes of a Petty Officer Robert Wilcox.
He knew the sequence of events in gruesome familiarity. Everything was fine, if tense, as the crew members monitored the various elements of their power system.
Then white hot pain erupted as a laser lanced through the side of the ship. Half a second later the turbine exploded, showering burning fuel on the crew-members. A lucky few were killed instantly by flying fan blades or other shrapnel. The screams of the rest confirmed their luck.
Wilcox managed to only be partially burned by the fire, and stumbled back just in time for the forward Generator to become unseated from its mounting as the drive shaft that connected it to the turbine snapped and flailed around, tearing a man in half and silencing his cries.
The Twenty-Five ton piece of metal reared up like a war elephant of Carthage and came crashing down on Petty Officer Wilcox's torso, crushing it and pinning him in place.
It, however, did not kill him instantly. He was left there, both lungs crushed, gasping for air in a vain attempt to scream, as rivulets of burning fuel and lubricant ran down and over him, slowly immolating him.
The door was busted open and agitated voices accompanied by heavy boots as they moved into the room.
Edwards did not realize he had been screaming.
"So would you like to talk about this dream-"
"Memory." Edwards corrected.
"Memory." The shrink seemingly agreed.
"Great, now he thinks I'm fucking crazy." Edwards thought to himself. It probably wasn't the case. This sort of thing was supposedly common with some Kansen.
Edwards rubbed his forehead. He was still very hungover from the previous night, and the man he was talking to was not helping.
"It was Wilcox again. I've been getting him a lot. When I close my eyes… when I let my guard down… when I try to sleep…" Edwards trailed off, seeming distracted.
"And how do you feel about his death?" The balding man asked.
"How am I supposed to fucking feel?" Edwards ground out, eyes red with anger and frustration, more directed at himself than at the man opposite him. He was just doing his job.
The therapist took off his glasses and set his clipboard aside. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, and stared at Edwards.
"Commander. Let it be known that the Navy believes you acted in accordance with your station and that you personally displayed an act of bravery by staying behind to protect your crew. At least to the point where you're deserving of a Silver Star." He said, all pretense of stoic professionalism gone.
Edwards opened his mouth, but the man cut him off with a raised hand.
"You have gone through a traumatic event that is physically beyond human comprehension, not to mention the after-effects of your personality blending that we are only just scratching the surface of. There is only so much I can personally do for you. Your attempts at self-medication are highly dangerous for yourself and others. What would happen if you got in a drunken brawl with a human?" He asked.
"I'd kill them." Edwards muttered like a guilty schoolboy.
"And probably many bystanders. Commander. We are willing to help you, but you need to understand that further incidents will make you a danger." He said, tone flat.
Making him a danger was code for "they would kill him if he kept this up". Most likely through VX or some other nerve gas delivered into his room as he slept. Edwards knew some of the attempted Paper Ships had met that fate when they'd proven too unstable. It was dirty work, but you couldn't have weapons that were liable to shoot your own men. Death did not scare him, not anymore. What did scare him was the lost opportunity, the waste that it would be. Dying would make the effort of Evans and all the others pointless and he couldn't let that happen.
Heedless of Edwards' thoughts, the therapist continued. "We have a Kansen Therapist. Her name is Bremerton. You are going to see her until we say you are done." The man said simply, pulling out a notepad, writing something down on it, and handing the piece of paper to Edwards.
Edwards looked at it. It was a phone number and department. He folded it up and put it in his pocket. He'd take the offer. Right now, it was the job he had been given. Besides, he had nothing better to do.
Edwards did not know what to think of Bremerton, CAK-130; she was on the younger side of physical appearance, though that didn't translate exactly one-to-one with actual age nor bearing; himself being a prime example.
She was a K-3, a Division Leader and had seen pretty extensive combat from what he understood. Most Kansen saw regular combat as they were, by nature, rapid-reaction forces.
Kansen ranks were best described as parallel to Human ranks. Grades ran from K-1 to K-8 in regular usage and they occupied their own separate space in the organizational structure. Kansen could only be ordered by certain commissioned officers that had attained a Surface Warfare Pin or had been put through a series of specialized programs, and then authority was delighted in accordance with seniority. For example, a Lieutenant could command a squadron of Kansen but for larger formations, like a Task Force, an O-4 or higher grade was required under most circumstances.
Conversely, Kansen did not have authority over officers or enlisted though, like with Warrant officers, a commissioned officer would do well to listen to them even if said officer was technically senior. Kansen ranks were almost purely for internal command structures and for bonuses in pay, only really coming into play when they were addressed formally, which wasn't especially often.
"Commander Edwards." The receptionist called.
Edwards got up and walked into the back.
A red-haired girl wearing decidedly not Navy uniform compliant clothing was hanging out the door to an office. One of the several benefits of having a K grade. Edwards still held his previous rank of Commander. If this would change was unclear, but as of now he was bound by his old post.
Hair, eyes, clothing. That was how Edwards learned to identify Kansen. All matched. This was Bremerton.
"You Commander Edwards?" She asked, flagrantly disregarding convention, another quirk of the positions they held.
Bringing himself to the present, Edwards nodded. "That would be me." He said.
"Great. We'll getcha in here and out in a jiffy." She declared as he entered the room behind her and she closed the door.
He couldn't help but admire her optimism, but like so many others felt it was misplaced.
"Just take a seat and ol' Bremmy will fix you up!" She said, enthusiasm still evident.
That managed to elicit a thin smile from Edwards, to which Bremerton positively beamed.
She sat down opposite him.
"So what's on your mind?" She asked, bubbly act falling away.
Edwards opened his mouth to speak, closed it, considered his words, and asked, "This might be a bit personal, but have you ever died before?"
It was not a ridiculous question to ask. Not an insignificant portion of the Kansen had been killed over their careers and then revived again using a wisdom cube.
Bremerton straightened. "And I thought I was the one who was supposed to ask questions." She said playfully. Becoming serious, she said, "Yes. A couple years ago I was out trying to find a sub after it sank the Frigate which was going after it. Suddenly Baltimore is yelling at me and I turn to see a line of bubbles running right towards me…" She trailed off.
Edwards thought for a moment and asked, "What was it like? To die that is?"
Bremerton shrugged. "One moment I was there, the next I was naked and screaming as my sisters pulled me from the water. Guess that's how you humans come into this world, though I suppose it isn't preceded by eating a torpedo." She said, smiling at her attempt at building rapport.
Edwards barely registered her comment. He took a deep breath. He needed to take this step. He hated how it would leave him vulnerable, but Bremerton had done the same had she not? It was the only way he could even begin to continue, to take the next step.
"I-I keep reliving the deaths of my crew. I see, feel their pain and I live it over and over and over again." He said, voice aching as he said the words.
Something about Bremerton, about her bearing, told him he could trust her. It wasn't quantifiable, but it was there, like a scratching in the back of his mind. It felt like the floodgates had been thrown open and his thoughts ran free and unrestrained. He began to cry.
"I can't escape it. It's constant. I close my eyes and I'm being burned alive or drowned or having my guts ripped out by some piece of shrapnel." He said, voice picking up pace.
"I… just can't. I fucking think about what I'd do if given the chance. What I know I want to do. Could I even kill myself with anything short of a nerve agent?" He said, voice throbbing as he rambled, thoughts incoherent in their rush to get out.
He looked up at Bremerton. "Say I did manage to properly off myself? What's the chance I get brought back with the memories fully intact? They wouldn't let me stay dead. I know that for sure. I'm trapped in this fucking hell that I agreed to." He placed his head in his hands, uncontrolled sobs wracking his body. "But my ship's just too damn important. I need to do my job or more people will die. How am I supposed to ease my conscience if I'm stuck here with my thumb up my ass? How am I supposed to get out if I can't become mentally stable? I can't fucking escape. I can't win."
He felt a hand on his back as Bremerton awkwardly rubbed it. "It's alright. You'll get through it. Just breathe. In… Out… In… Out." She said, voice soothing.
Edwards followed her commands, breath steadying.
"People keep saying that. That I'll get through it. It doesn't feel any more true." Edwards said numbly.
"Do you want to show me?" Bremerton asked carefully.
Edwards felt her cube extend out from where she made contact with him, tentative but there.
He gave a half nod.
"I need you to say it." Bremerton pushed, tone warm yet firm.
"Yes." Edwards croaked.
"Alright." Bremerton said and Edwards felt her presence meld into his.
He was in the CIC again; the place frozen in a tableau as officers and enlisted alike focused on their tasks.
"So, this was your ship?" She asked.
"Yes." Edwards said, voice involuntarily hardening at the familiar location, old habits catching up.
He walked, already having a destination in mind. Down three decks and into the aft machinery space. He reached where he wanted to be and time began to pass as he watched the events unfold.
It was strange. Now he was detached, simply observing the carnage instead of living it. He didn't smell the singed flesh or really hear the screams. It was like a silent movie where the characters played out on a screen beyond his influence as his eyes went distant and almost refused to focus on anything.
After it ended, with Wilcox drawing his last breath, he moved to the forward engine room where a similar scene played out. He couldn't look away. He owed this to them, at the very least. His crew should be remembered, even if it was in this most horrible of moments.
Bremerton was silent throughout, simply watching from the side.
Finally, he walked up to the upper-decks, slick with blood from those trying to flee who had been cut down by the magazine detonation.
He found himself and waited for his past self to wake and drag himself down into his room, looking for comfort that he didn't deserve.
Edwards restrained himself from spitting on the memory, contenting himself to watch as he died.
The place faded to nothing and they were back in the room.
Bremerton removed her hand, the connection instantly cutting.
She sat opposite him a little awkwardly as she formulated what to say.
"I can see why you hold guilt over your crew." She said.
"Yeah." Edwards said numbly.
"Normally when girls feel guilty over something like this, I can tell them it wasn't their fault. I'm not going to lie and say the same. The situations are different." She paused. "However, I will say from what I've read of the battle, you made reasonable decisions."
She took a deep breath. "Guilt is not an easy thing to get over. This is because it is founded in a kernel of truth. Sometimes this kernel is greater and sometimes it is smaller. In your case, this guilt has a foundation to it." She said, "Now, this brings us to what you should do. I know this sounds cliché, but consider what your crew would want for you."
She paused again, carefully examining him.
Edwards furrowed his brows and nodded at Bremerton's words. She had a candor about her, maybe because Edwards knew she answered directly to Fukada, but like earlier, he felt he could place his trust in her hands.
Bremerton pulled out a notepad and asked, "What do you think you should do? What do you think would make the situation right?"
Edwards thought and came to a few different conclusions. "My XO, Lieutenant Commander Walker. He'll have to write letters to their families. I want to help him with that, even if I cannot actually deliver them." That was one of his duties as CO. Shirking it was inherently wrong.
Bremerton nodded and said, "I'll see what I can arrange. If it will help you I'm sure the Vice Admiral can get it done." She looked up at him and asked, "Anything else?"
"If I get the choice I'd rather Evans, the Kansen that sort-of preceded this-" He said, gesturing at himself, "-gain control. I don't think I like being Edwards and if I had the choice, I'd rather be her. At the very least, I think she deserves a future more than I do."
It was Bremerton's turn to furrow her brows at his words.
"Are you feeling dysphoric?" She asked, evidently confused by his wording.
"No… no…" he said, actually chuckling a little. "It's just that Evans had a personality that, while retaining the memories of Edwards, was distinct. I think she'd be better suited to control of this body… ship… thing." He said, gesturing vaguely.
Bremerton was evidently still confused, cocking an eyebrow.
Edwards sighed. "I want Edwards gone so that Evans remains because right now it's basically Edwards in here." He said, tapping on his head. He realized he was indicating the wrong body part. "I guess it would actually be about here." He said, tapping just below his sternum where the Wisdom Cube had hooked into his central nervous system.
Bremerton looked through some of her notes.
"I see you mentioned before that you think Evans deserves a full life, even at the cost of your own. Is this what you are talking about?" She asked.
"Yes. Yes." Edwards said, a bit excited that his point was getting across. Maybe she knew how to fix this whole thing and Evans could be freed from the prison of his mind.
Bremerton was not feeling anywhere nearly as elated as Edwards. She rubbed her forehead. "Commander Edwards… based on your statements and analysis done, we doubt that just 'Evans' could control DDGK-221. We need the Edwards part of you as much as we need the Evans part. Furthermore, the navy expressly wants Edwards as he was and is a commissioned officer." She looked at him and studied his falling face.
"You are valuable beyond your ship, Commander." She said softly and took one of his hands in both of hers, giving it a firm squeeze.
"Of course." Edwards said, gaze distant as he was lost in thought.
"You have mentioned Evans said she had a purpose." Bremerton said gently, trying to coax him into a different line of reasoning.
"Yes. To protect the fleet." Edwards said, not even needing to think to recite the words.
"Then why don't we try to fulfill that purpose? Maybe it will ease the part of her that lives within you." She offered.
"Yes." Edwards said, mind resolving. "That sounds good."
"Alright." Bremerton said, releasing his hand. "We have a starting point." She gave him an easy smile. "You've done great."
Edwards felt a bit better. Bremerton's words were reassuring and he finally felt like they were making progress, even if it wasn't in the exact direction he had wanted.
AN:
One source I found particularly useful in writing this chapter is Kamikazes: The Soviet Legacy by Maksim Y. Tokarev. For any enthusiast of modern warfare or any enthusiast of naval warfare, I would consider this work required reading as it provides a very good English Language source on Soviet and later, early Russian naval tactics.
I should qualify that while from what I've explored Mr. Tokarev's information on the Soviets and Russians is quite good, his commentary about NATO and U.S. operations should generally be ignored. He is writing from the Russian perspective, so it makes sense for his view to be skewed. I do not believe his opinions are completely unfounded, but they are formed from an inherently outside perspective of NATO operational realities.
For example: He mentions that the use of a 20mm gun on the Phalanx system was a mistake and the U.S. should've adopted a 30mm or larger system like the Goalkeeper or Dardo (though he does not mention these systems by name). At the end of the day unguided-munition, gun-based CIWS are just bad. It doesn't really matter with caliber as missile-based systems like the Rolling Airframe Missile, which the U.S. has been steadily moving towards for a long time, are just better and can provide far superior Probabilities of Kill.
To tag onto this, I feel it's worth mentioning that the sinking of the Moskova is not an example in-and-of-itself of this principle. There is not much information available and I doubt there will be for some time, but if I had to guess, the problem lay in the early-warning sensors and OODA loop of the ship.
That is a story for another day. Still, definitely worth a read as even his comments on NATO tactics reveal information on Soviet and Russian attitudes to things (like that gun-based CIWS are effective).
If there is more interest in the sources I use in writing this I can include a more complete list in the next chapter.
Until next time. Good night, sleep tight, don't let the Backfires or their Vampires bite.