A/N: Well, enough people seem to like this that it's worth continuing. And so, here we go.

*I can't get a lock, I can't get a lock! What the fu- he's on me! Where'd he come from?! He's so fast, break right, break right! Aaa-*

- Last recorded radio transmission from Blackjack Eight, VFA-199, during the Battle of the Gulf of Aden. Transcript recovered from black box found by French and British Fleet Auxiliary Forces during Operation CANAL STORM.

"Any response from the Sampson?"

"Negative, sir."

"What about Myōkō?"

"No response, sir."

"Warramunga?"

"Negative, sir."

"Damn… they should've responded by now. It's been four days."

Rear Admiral Upper Half Alan Brown lowered his binoculars, pressing his lips together as he stared out the windows on the Ford's bridge. The flight deck below hummed with activity as aircraft landed and took off one after another, a carefully orchestrated ballet of controlled chaos. As he watched, an F-18 roared down the deck, soaring off into the wild blue yonder as an E-2 Hawkeye came in just behind, shuddering to a stop against the arresting wires. Yellow vested handlers ran out to guide it off the deck, just in time for another F-18 to take its place in the takeoff pattern.

"Have the aircraft seen anything?"

"Negative sir, I'll let you know as soon as they do." Captain Sean Turner pored over a set of charts, tapping a pencil against his chin. "Helm, come right, steer course… three three three."

"Come right, steer course three three three, aye sir. My rudder is right six degrees, coming to course three three three."

"Very well."

"Admiral Brown, communication from the ROKN task force."

"Thank you." He took the proffered handset and headphones. "Admiral Lee, this is Admiral Brown. What's happening?"

"Admiral Brown, I was wondering if you have made contact with the convoy yet."

"That's a negative. None of the escorts have answered our comms, we're going to try to hail the freighters next." Behind him, Turner discreetly signalled his comms officer to carry out the task.

"Acknowledged. We will attempt to do the same." Off to the carrier's port, if he squinted through his binoculars, Brown could just barely make out the ROKS Sejong the Great plugging along at a steady twenty knots, along with three other destroyers of the same class. From a distance, they almost looked like Arleigh Burkes… but he supposed that all AEGIS ships looked rather similar. All that mattered was that they were standing watch on the screen, just like they were supposed to.

A lieutenant spoke up from his station. "Two hundred kilometers to last reported convoy position, sirs."

"Very well. All ships will increase speed to twenty five knots." Turner nodded and repeated the order to the helmsman. The subtle rumble of the deck strengthened just a bit as the Ford's two nuclear reactors fed power into the propeller shafts. Kilometers away, holding formation with the supercarrier, the three destroyers and one cruiser of the battle group also picked up speed, keeping pace neatly. Somewhere below, Brown knew that a couple of Virginia class submarines did their own thing, prowling around the edges of the fleet like big, silent, nuclear powered border collies, protecting the sheep within.

"Blackjack Seven you are cleared for takeoff." The shooter swung his arm out and the fighter screamed down the runway towards the edge of the deck, where the EMALS proceeded to fling it into the air like a 25 ton paper airplane. It clawed for altitude, exhausts glowing bright as it climbed to assume its patrol pattern.

Turner cast a glance at Brown's troubled expression. "No need to worry, Admiral. If there's anything out there, my planes'll see it before it gets within two hundred klicks."

"Our CAP is only out to a hundred."

"They're just that good."

"Even so…" He looked over to where the USS John Finn stood silhouetted against the horizon, on guard on the inner screen, ready to provide anything which might come the battlegroup's way with a warm close-in welcome. "I know the captain of Sampson, he knows better than to drop radio contact. I don't like it."

"Sir, there is no force in this region that could seriously threaten a destroyer, let alone this task force. It's probably an equipment malfunction."

"On the Sampson itself, I can understand. But on Warramunga and Myōkō as well?"

"... that is rather unlikely, isn't it?"

"Precisely." He thought for a moment, tracing the bit of sea from which the convoy had last been heard from. "Any response from the freighters?"

"Lieutenant?"

"Nothing, sirs. Just static and silence."

"Right. Captain Turner, I know you don't like to disrupt your patrols, but would you kindly have your planes recon the area ahead of us?"

"Of course, Admiral. Commander Reed?"

"Aye sir. Blackjack Four, Blackjack Six, this is FLIGHTCON. Cease patrol and proceed to coordinates 9.590621 North and 52.126884 East and perform reconnaissance in that area. Repeat, cease patrol and proceed to coordinates 9.590621 North and 52.126884 East and perform reconnaissance in that area. The relevant data is being transmitted to your GPS units."

"Blackjack Four, copy."

"Blackjack Six, copy."

On the main radar display, the two blips representing Blackjacks Four and Six peeled out of the doughnuts they'd been doing around the fleet, flying toward the convoy's last reported position. Brown watched the blips as they went, the fleet's information systems taking radar information from every AEGIS equipped ship and shaping it into a single coherent plot, enabling every ship to see well beyond its own radar horizon. As the blips flew past the USS Michael Murphy 45 kilometers out, radar coverage was handed seamlessly off to the E-2 Hawkeyes. Bouncing waves off the atmosphere would let the planes stay in contact, and radar coverage from the Hawkeyes would allow the fleet to provide limited support, but until they were back in range of the AEGIS arrays and combat air patrols of the fleet, they would be on their own, facing whatever had caused four freighters and three warships to disappear.

Reed noticed Brown staring at the display. "No need to worry, Admiral. My squadrons are the best there is."

"I suppose… do they have enough fuel for the trip?"

"Four and Six just got in the air, they've fuel for a good thousand five hundred klicks or so."

"Yes, that'll do." He thought for a moment, a feeling like he'd forgotten something at the back of his mind. "Give me the position of the PLAN task force."

"Yes sir. They're sixty klicks north, bearing three two two."

"Tch, damn Chinks." Turner scowled at the small blips which represented the three frigates and one destroyer which the People's Liberation Army Navy had deigned to send. "With a force that small, they could at least attach it to us but no, they just have to sail off on their own doing who the fuck knows!"

"Easy there, Captain. The Royal Navy's going to be joining us soon, so the PLAN hardly matters." He snapped his fingers. "That reminds me of something. Radio please."

"Here sir."

"Thank you. Admiral Lee, this is Brown, do you copy?"

"I copy. What is the matter?"

"Have your communication attempts been successful?"

"Negative. I was just about to inform you that none of our hails have been answered on any channel."

"Damn. It's not just us, then."

"Your orders, Admiral?" While the ROKN ships were nominally an independent unit, the reality of the situation was that having three of four independently operating forces in close proximity was a perfect recipe for a misguided antiship missile or two. People with more stars on their shoulders than Brown had put their heads together and decided that, with a nuclear powered supercarrier under his command, Brown ought to be the overall operational commander of the force. The Koreans and Brits had agreed, the Chinese had diplomatically snapped a one finger salute, and Brown now found himself in command of not only a carrier strike group, but a destroyer squadrons from Royal Navy and ROKN each, once the Brits got there at least.

"Have your helicopters on standby to conduct patrols and increase your readiness level. No need to be alarmed yet, but there's something going on here and I don't know what is is."

"I copy all. Lee, out." The radio clicked off once more. Leaning against a console, Brown rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired. Ever since entering the Arabian Sea, his ability to sleep seemed to be slipping away from him. Where he was once able to get a good seven or eight hours a night, he'd only been able to get six, then five, and now maybe four and a half. Add that to the low level headache he'd acquired upon leaving Pearl, and coffee was really the only thing keeping him going.

Turner leaned over as Reed whispered in his ear, then tapped Brown on the shoulder. "Admiral, the recon force has reported they have reached the location."

"Patch me into the live report."

"Aye, sir." Procuring a pair of headphones, Turner adjusted them to the right circuit and handed them to Brown. The admiral nodded his thanks and put them on, listening intently.

"Boomer, do you see anything.?"

"Negative. Nothing but ocean. Damn, why'd we even come out here?"

"Hey, hey, the captain's listening. Better zip that up."

"Alright, alright, don't you get on my case too, Nut."

"Boomer is Blackjack Four, Nut is Blackjack Six." Brown nodded as Turner chipped in with that bit of information.

"Well, we're out here anyways. Should take a look around, get lower."

"Roger that. How's your fuel?"

"Got enough for a good while. About one thousand o-hey. What's that down there?"

"What's what?"

"That, there, off to my left on the water, looks like little brown specks. Water's also a bit discolored, see?"

A chill went down Brown's spine. His eyes met Turner's, whom he saw had the same look of sudden trepidation he was sure he was wearing. Holding the headphones tighter to his ears, he blocked out everything else, making sure he heard every word.

"Confirmed. What do you think it is?"

"Probably some pirate fucked up and spilled his gas into the water."

"I dunno… brown patch's too big for a spill from a small boat." Brown could see the gears in Boomer's head turning, trying to make sense of this unexpected complication in what was supposed to be a simple task. "Watch my six. I'm going in low and slow, see what I can see."

"Roger that, I got your six." Brown could picture the pilot chopping speed, simultaneously bringing the plane down from the sky, all the while maintaining control and not letting the machine stall out from beneath him. How pilots managed to do all that at once he would never understand. He'd stick with ships, thank you very much; at least they wouldn't sink the moment he let go of the wheel.

"Alright, what do we have… huh? What the hel- wait, the fuck? The fuck is this?"

"Boomer? You alright?"

"Hold on, hold on. Gotta make another pass…" By now, the entire bridge had noticed the well-concealed alarm on their commanders' faces. The sailors shot sideways glances at each other and at the officers, trying their best to remain focused on their duties despite the tension now filling the room.

"Boomer, talk to me. What do you see?"

"Holy fuck, there's so many of them! Oh God, are those - holy shit, this is bad. This is very bad."

It seemed that no coherent answers would be forthcoming; at least, not without some outside intervention. Brown looked over at Reed for permission, quickly granted, to jump into the conversation. Reaching up to the side of his mouth, he adjusted the microphone to a comfortable position and keyed his circuit.

"Blackjack Four, this is Admiral Brown. Talk to me, what're you seeing?"

"Admiral?" The presence of a flag officer in his communication circuit seemed to bring the pilot back to his senses. "I-I… don't know where to start."

"Just tell me what's outside your canopy."

"Okay…" The sound of a deep breath being drawn came over the radio, the obviously rattled pilot trying to calm himself. Knowing there were few things more important to a pilot than their image of invincibility, Brown declined to comment on it. "There's a shipping container just below me, and what looks like a section of deck. A lot of crates floating around in what looks like oil. It's got that rainbow sort of shine to it, some of, uh, some of it's burning. Some life jackets as well- that's a piece of metal right there, looked a little like a hull section. There's, uh, there's bodies."

"Bodies?" Open mouth, insert foot. Brown clamped his mouth shut a second too late. Murmurs swept around the bridge, only quelled by Turner's ferocious glare. Somehow meeting each and every sailor's suddenly chastised gaze at once, he gave Brown a go-ahead nod. "What are they wearing?"

"Most of them are wearing… jumpsuits, I think. Blue, bright orange life jackets, but no real standardization. Look like merchant sailors."

"And the others?"

The pilot took a bit to respond. "It's a little hard to make out, but… it's a good thing the Navy ditched the camouflage, sir."

"Dammit!" His hand clenched into a fist, fingernails digging into his palm. "Are you certain?"

"This is Blackjack Six, confirming. Debris from multiple ships, numerous bodies, appear to be wearing American uniforms. I think… I think we found the convoy, sir."

"No wonder we couldn't raise them." Turner shook his head, brow furrowing in consternation. "What could have done this?"

"Blackjack Four, Blackjack Six, is there any trace of hostile activity?"

"Besides the debris? That's, that's a negative sir."

"Damn." The bridge was silent, no one daring to move or even to breathe. From the one-sided conversation they'd been hearing, the bridge crew could gather that something bad had happened to the convoy. And if something had happened to the convoy, something could happen to them. A feeling of fear, not something the crew of the largest aircraft carrier in the world were used to feeling, began to worm at the back of their minds. "I'd better let Admiral Lee know. Captain Turner, have your pilots cease reconnaissance and return to the carrier."

"Yes sir. Commander Reed, hav-"

"Hold on. Did you see that?" Six's suddenly tense voice cut Turner off in his tracks.

"What is it?"

"There was movement off to my right."

"Coming in behind you, let me see- hey! Something flashed at me!"

"I'm goin' in slow as I can-yeah! There!"

"Survivors, confirmed survivors!"

"I see them, they're waving! I think-yeah, that's a dye marker!"

"Admiral Brown-"

"I know. All vessels, increase speed to flank speed, maintain formation and come to course three four one! Stand ready for search and rescue operations and possible hostile contact, I want all helicopters in the air as soon as we're in range! Captain Turner, if you would sound general quarters?"

"Aye sir." Turner strode to the 1MC, picking up the mic and the whistle. He blew, long and loud, the shrill whistle echoing throughout the bowels of the Ford. Throughout her compartments, sailors looked up in confusion, then shock.

"General Quarters, General Quarters, All hands man your battle stations!"

"Captain, sonar contact, bearing two seven two. One propellor."

"It must be a Virginia-class; I heard the Americans had one operating in these waters."

Captain Li Haifeng got up from his command chair, making his way through the cramped command compartment of the Type 095 submarine. The sailors manning the stations around him spared a sideways glance as he passed by, but otherwise stayed focused on their duties.

The sonarman looked up as Li stopped next to him, looking over his shoulder. "It's faint sir, the sonar can barely hear it, but it's definitely there."

"Indeed, the Americans do make quiet ships." He thought about the briefings he'd received about the Americans' newest attack submarine.

The sonarman, a recent graduate of the sonar school, suddenly started in surprise. "Ah, sir, propeller noises have vanished!"

"It must have arrived at its station. It is now drifting, listening for us, just as we are listening to them."

"What will we do sir?"

"What will we do?" Li chuckled. "It is simple. We will oblige them."

"Sir?"

"We are quieter than anything the Americans have built and will ever build. Therefore, we will let him listen, let him strain his ears to hear us. He wants to collect data? Very well; he may collect as he pleases, though he will collect nothing but the sound of the currents, while the Shuilong does the same to him." Still chuckling, he patted the sonarman on the shoulder. "By the end of this, the American captain will be tearing his hair in frustration, and we will be a few megabytes of data richer."

"Y-yes sir."

"As you were. Commander Zhang, set Condition One throughout the ship."

"Yes sir." Unhooking the microphone from the PA set mounted above his chair, Commander Zhang Zhenxin spoke quickly. "All hands, this is Commander Zhang. By order of the captain, set Condition One in the ship. That is all."

Throughout the bowels of the submarine, sailors moved with slow, careful deliberation, securing every single piece of loose equipment and shutting down anything louder than a mouse. Conducting an intricate ballet of sorts, they made sure not to step too loudly, to whisper too loudly, to breathe too loudly or even to think too loudly, lest they bring upon themselves the attentions of the American submarine and, even worse, the captain.

"Condition One set, sir." A sailor reported in a whisper that wouldn't have carried two centimeters in a soundproofed library with broken air conditioning after it had closed for the holidays. Captain Li scowled at how loudly he'd spoken.

"Do not speak so loud next time."

The sailor gulped and nodded. "Yes sir," he said again, this time in a voice that made the vacuum of space seem positively deafening in comparison.

"Good." Li disposed him with a wave, sending the sailor hurrying - very, very quietly - back to his station, his steps quiet enough to put a ninja to shame. "Now, what is it that the Americans play? Ah, yes. Let us have a game of 'hide and seek', shall we?"

It was tempting to go to torpedo depth, but it held off for now. After all, it wouldn't do to reveal itself before it got into range of the main force. It was confident that, on its own, it could take out a few of the cruisers, probably even the carrier, but enough shells could and would eventually kill it.

The churning of the carrier's massive propellers provided all the cover it needed from the passive sonar it knew the humans were packing. Though it could tell active sonar to go fuck itself up the ass with an oxygen torpedo, any noise it generated could still be picked up. Sound was sound after all, no matter where it came from.

Curious. Propeller noises beneath it and to the sides. The humans had submarines in the area as well, then? No matter; they probably thought it was a whale or something. Listening closely, it could distinguish two different sources, one with one propeller and one with two. Two different submarines… that would be a problem. Submarines were the only human ships that could really threaten it; one would be no problem to take out, but with two around as soon as it flooded its tubes and targeted one, the other would go so quiet a fish fart might as well be a depth charge in comparison.

What was this? The carrier was speeding up? Was it just the… no, all the other ships were going as well, as well as the submarines. Had it been discovered? No, none of the human ships had lit off sonar. Based on its own readings, they were sailing in excess of thirty knots on bearing three four one. That would take them… ah. They must have discovered the results of the advance screen's handiwork. Rushing to the rescue, secure in their ability to fend off anything which came at them… how foolish.

It started its own propulsion, following on lazily, covering its own noise with that of the carrier. A little risky? Perhaps, but the combined fleet would be going loud soon, and as soon as they did, they would be counting on it to be there, after all. The sound of the sea would soon be the accompaniment to a symphony of death, but for now…

Silence.

"Captain, CIC reports something weird on sonar."

"Really now?" Captain Brian Ruiz glanced over at the speaker. "CIC hears something?"

"Yes sir." Lieutenant Commander Amanda Baker nodded, gulping down the nervousness she felt at speaking to her CO. "They don't know what it is yet, but they think something's there. It's under us, in the middle of our formation"

"Really? Then it's probably our Virginia-class. We have one of those around here. Where's it heading?"

She shrugged helplessly, wondering why she had to be the bridge-CIC liaison this week of all weeks. Actually, she did know - she'd lost the poker game and a hundred eighty bucks two weeks, three days, ten hours, thirty seven minutes and twenty nine seconds ago… mark - but that hardly made it better when it meant she had to be the one to inform the captain that what the full sensor suite the destroyer Winston S. Churchill and the highly trained crew that operated it could gather amounted to jackshit. "Anything from two seven zero to zero zero nine. They say it's… really weird, distorted, like our sonar's picking up a cloud instead of an object."

"Must be those new sound bafflers they have on those. Or maybe the Koreans have a sub here too." Ruiz's trademark reassuring grin somehow reached her even though he returned to stare through his binoculars. Out the windows, in a completely different direction, that is. "Doubt we have anything to worry about. Submariners are weird, but they are our comrades in arms."

"Yes sir, but they say it's not like anything they've heard before."

"Yeah?" Baker could see him mulling that one over. "Tell them to keep me posted and to stay wary, but I don't think we should worry too much. There's something out there that's powerful enough to mess up a convoy, and I want to know if it's gonna mess with us too, but whatever it is it's probably not a sub. To take down three destroyers like that, it'd have to be a small carrier at least." The muscles in the back of his neck tensed, and Baker knew that beneath his calm exterior the captain was seething. "Besides, we have bigger things to worry about."

Right on cue, the engineering liaison reported, hesitant for fear of bringing down the captain's ire on his own head. "Captain, engineering reports the plants are at maximum safe power."

"Helm, speed?"

"Thirty three knots, sir."

"Not good enough." He turned to face the bridge now, grin gone and expression cold as ice. "How far are we from the convoy site?"

"One hundred and fifty klicks and closing, sir!"

"Are we holding formation?"

"Barely sir. Our 2500's are hurting, we were due for a complete overhaul."

"There are sailors in the water. They've been there for four days! I need at least thirty five knots out of those turbines and I needed it yesterday!"

"Engineering says they'll try, sir!"

"Very well." He looked around the bridge, at the officers and sailors studiously pretending to be deaf and blind. "Is the helicopter ready?"

"Hangar reports ready, sir! The helos are ready for flight, SAR teams are standing by for ops."

"Good. As soon as the Admiral gives the word, have them take off."

"Yes sir!" The lieutenant leaned into his microphone, repeating the orders to the hangar personnel as Ruiz turned back to gazing at the horizon. After a few moments of staring at his back, Baker decided she was allowed to return to her station as well. Squinting at the shitty excuse for a radar plot which occupied most of her console, she wished with all her might that she was back in the CIC, with its large, bright displays and comforting blanket of information.

"What is up with AEGIS…?" Glancing around furtively, she covered her mic with one hand and whispered, "CIC, this is Bridge."

"Yeah, what's up?"

"I'm getting spot glitches, fuzzes and zaps and that shit. The hell is with AEGIS?"

"Why are you whispering?"

"CIC has a reputation to protect." Sitting bolt upright as the captain made a survey of the bridge crew, she leaned back in as he looked away. "You want the entire crew to know AEGIS is glitched?"

"Is that what you're on about?" The sailor's frustration leaked through the channel. "Look Baker, we're trying to fix it, but the system is all kinds of fucked and we don't even know which hole the dick is in."

"So what do I tell the captain?"

"Preferably, nothing until he asks, but seeing as how you're the Girl Scout of the CIC, you were gonna give him an update just now, yeah?"

"... you know me too well."

"You oughta come down and give us a hand."

"Hey, I lost the game right? You got my money, you fix the problem."

"Salty much? Well, just tell the captain no solution yet, but we're working on it."

"Roger. Bridge out." She clicked off the mic and straightened up the uniform, back to being the dutiful sailor. The hum of the bridge and the gentle slosh of the waves surrounded her, giving her a strange sort of comfort. Yes, everything would be fine. The convoy had been destroyed, but the full might of a carrier strike group would soon be descending upon the offenders. It wouldn't even be a contest. They would mourn, they would recover, and life would go on. She repeated this to herself as she, and everyone else, snuck looks at the primary display, counting down the kilometers until they'd be pulling sailors out of the water.

"Breathe man, breathe. You're good now, you're good."

"Thank you… I…" The sailor shivered, wrapping the proffered blanket around his soaking clothes. The winch on the outer hull whined as it hauled another load up, the stretcher on its end accompanied by a sopping wet crew corpsman. As it came up, the crew chief and another corpsman took hold of the man within, easing him off the stretcher and onto the floor of the helicopter where the corpsman immediately began stripping off his clothes to get at his horrific wounds.

"Shit, more saline!"

"Need more burn dressing!"

"Morphine! More morphine!"

Burn dressings, painkillers, saline drips and antibiotics were in high demand within the Sea Hawk's cramped interior. Only meant to hold 4 crew members and 7 passengers, it now strained to contain the frantic activity of four corpsmen tending to eleven, soon to be twelve severely injured sailors. The corpsman manning the winch didn't even bother to wring out his clothes, only accepting a gulp of water before signalling the crew chief to send him back down. Normally the petty officer would have objected to such an overloading, but today the word of the corpsmen was law and no dissent would be brooked, not that anyone would have raised a word of protest.

"Alright, that's the last one! We'll head back and unload, then come back for more!" The pilot nodded in assent before gunning the engines, sending the helicopter racing back towards its home destroyer as its rotor blades buffeted the water beneath, though not before jettisoning a life raft with a box of supplies on board. As they picked their way out of the American and Korean choppers swarming above the wreck site, the copilot radioed ahead to the approaching fleet to tell the USS Michael Murphy, racing hell-for-leather at the physical limits of her turbines, to clear the landing pad of unnecessary equipment and personnel because its rotor blades wouldn't be stopping even if the Good Lord himself came down and told them to chill the fuck out.

As it flew off, it passed by another helicopter returning to station, freshly fueled and stocked with medical supplies. The corpsmen on board caught what little rest they could, readying themselves for another round. As they did so, they shot sideways glances at their other passenger, a dress-uniformed officer holding a briefcase in his lap.

"Here, there's a bunch right below us!" The pilot pulled back on the throttle, easing the chopper into a hover. Below it, on top of and around on a battered, overcrowded life raft, a group of sailors waved desperately, the less injured ones hanging off the edge and taking turns treading water to let their wounded comrades remain above the sea's surface. As the helicopter came to a stop overhead they slumped back with relief, a tide of exhaustion washing over them along with the waves which dumped water over the sides of the raft. "Okay, get the stretcher!"

"Stretcher up!"

"Hold!" A bright orange life jacket on top of his navy-blue uniform, another corpsman clipped himself to the stretcher and took hold of the winch line in his gloved hands. Hooking his legs under the stretcher, he nodded to the crew chief. "Alright, send me in!"

"Roger that, lowering!" The motor began to whine. Below, the sailors had prepared the wounded for lifting, doing the best they could to position them on top of the raft.

Scanning the uniforms of the sailors, the corpsman noted with dismay that he could see no US Navy patches on their chests. Even worse were the miniature Rising Suns decorating their shoulders. "Shit, does anyone here speak English?"

One of the sailors treading water raised his hand, slowly. "I can, little amount."

"Okay, who's first?"

"Him." He pointed to a man on top of the raft. Pulling himself up to look, the corpsman blanched a little at the burns and poorly bandaged cuts covering the man's body.

"Okay, help me get him on the stretcher!" With some difficulty, they pulled him across the raft towards the dangling cable, a task made more difficult by their awkward positioning. Muttering an apology in response to his groans of pain, the corpsman strapped him in, nodded thanks to the other sailors and shot a thumbs up to the crew chief.

"Bring him up!"

The moment they reached the level of the chopper he unstrapped the casualty, handed him over to the corpsmen inside the helicopter and immediately signaled the chief to lower him again. Even before he'd begun his descent, his airborne comrades had jumped into action. Their equipment already prepared, the corpsmen went to begin treatment, every fibre of their beings focused on making sure that this man would not die today.

Leaning forward with scissors and needle in hand, one of the corpsmen encountered an unanticipated obstacle in the form of an outstretched hand. Unnoticed, the officer had slipped from his seat and was now standing directly in the path of four angry HM2s. "Hey, get outta th-" A badge flashed in the corpsman's face.

"Office of Naval Intelligence. You can wait." The corpsman moved to shove his arm aside, but a hand on his own shoulder stopped him. A loadmaster shook his head, a deliberate slip of his uniform revealing an ONI insignia on his breast. Dismissing the spluttering doc, he nodded to the first officer who propped the sailor up against the wall of the helicopter, giving him a little shake to get his attention. The sailor opened his eyes slowly, blinking and looking around with a bewildered expression. The officer bit back a curse as he realized the man's name patch was gone, then coughed and prepared his list of questions.

"What's your name?" A confused look appeared on the questionee's face. He spoke, but to the officer it was all gibberish. "What did you say?"

"I dunno if he can understand you too well." A corpsman pointed to the small red dot superimposed on a white square on the sailor's shoulder. The officer suppressed a groan. Just his luck that of the five languages he could speak, moon-fucking-rune wasn't one of them. He decided to try for a different angle. Hoping that enough of his meaning would get through, he spoke slowly, gesturing with his hands and feeling oddly like a tourist.

"Your ship?"

"J-JS Myōkō…" The sailor gave a wet cough, a bit of water coming up.

"Myōkō, what happened to it?" The sailor shivered, shaking his head and stuttering something he couldn't understand. "Sorry?"

"O-oni…"

"'Oni'? What's an oni?"

"That's Japanese for 'demon', sir." The man looked back in surprise, meeting the dead serious gaze of the crew chief.

"You sure? 'Demon'?"

"One hundred percent sir, grew up next door to a Japanese kid. He told me about that bean-throwing festival, the one where they chuck soybeans at people wearing demon masks." The chief shrugged, turning back to the winch as the corpsman below yelled up for another ascent. "Said they represented 'oni'."

"Demons? Demons destroyed your ship?" The sailor shook his head again, a helpless and bewildered expression on his face. Sighing, the commander turned him over to the corpsmen and pulled out his radio. "Overwatch, this is Spyglass, come in, over."

"We read you Spyglass, over."

"I just questioned a JMSDF guy. Didn't make any sense, said 'demons' destroyed the Myōkō, over."

"Repeat your last, over."

"He said 'demons' attacked the convoy and destroyed his ship, over."

"Roger that. See if you can get anything out of the other sailors that's a bit more coherent, out."

"Yeah…" He spared the waters below a passing glance. As another casualty was loaded onto the stretcher, the sailors in the water scrambled up onto the newly vacated spots on the raft, collapsing like castaways on a beach as soon as they did so. Shouting and yelling drifted up, most of it in rapid fire Japanese as the less injured survivors did their best to encourage their comrades, holding them tight as they faded away. As the downdraft of the rotors continued to beat upon them, they shielded the wounded with their own bodies, following nearly religiously the agonizingly slow ascent and descent of the stretcher. After four days adrift under a merciless sun, with no supplies worth mentioning and a raft made for perhaps a third of their number, it was a miracle that things hadn't devolved into an all-out brawl for the next lift.

"... I don't know if I'm gonna get that."

"State your name, rank and service number."

"Lieutenant Commander Henry G. Harding, 202-16-7794."

"Your vessel?"

"USS Sampson."

"Specialty?"

"Information systems."

"Very well." A fat manila folder slid across the table, the sound of paper on steel loud and rasping in the small compartment. Harding looked down at it, not sure of what he was supposed to do. "Open it." He eyed the intel officer warily, glancing from him to the one way mirror on the wall and back. "It's not booby trapped."

Placing a hand atop the folder, Harding brought it closer, still waiting for it to bite his fingers off or burst into flames or turn into a kraken or… something. You never knew with these spooks. It could have been worse though, at least the suited, sunglasses wearing man across from his was ONI - meaning he at least nominally worked for the navy - and not CIA or NSA or FBI or any other of the alphabet soup agencies. The contents of the folder slid out easily, spilling out onto the table. Glossy photographs, interview transcripts, personal profiles, the kind of stuff you see in spy thrillers and detective shows.

"This is the information we've gathered so far on what attacked you. As you can see, it's not much."

This is 'not much'? Harding attempted to sort the documents, but gave up as each piece of paper put into a pile revealed two more in its place. He settled for sweeping all but the most important-looking transcript and photo to the side, holding them up and scanning the images and letters printed upon them.

"You realize that you are the ranking American survivor." Harding jerked back in shock, staring at the officer.

"Y-you're kidding."

"No." He shook his head again, but deep down he knew that he'd long ago realized the same. From the moment that magazine explosion had consumed the Sampson's bow, he knew that not a single bridge officer had survived.

"Well… what do you want with me?"

"Your account." The officer forestalled his reply with a raised hand. "Before you begin, I want no emotions in this. Just the events and facts leading up to, during, and after the engagement." A small plastic recorder made a clink as it was placed on the table. "Give me all technical details and observations of the crew you can remember. Do not worry about verbosity or conciseness; we have all the time in the world." With the same hand, he tapped a switch on top of the recorder. "This is Captain Ernest Stone, Office of Naval Intelligence, Social Security number 779-76-1100. The date is Thursday, August second, time eighteen twenty five hours. I am questioning Lieutenant Commander Henry G. Harding, Social Security number 202-16-7794, formerly of the destroyer USS Sampson, DDG-102, on its destruction four days prior." He nodded to the man across the table. "You may begin."

Harding began to speak, hesitantly and softly at first, but growing in not confidence exactly but perhaps firmness as he went, voice detached and professional as he recounted the demise of the Sampson. Starting from the ship's casting off from Pearl, he described how seemingly the entire crew had been afflicted with different degrees of headaches and soreness, attributed to green personnel, minor seasickness and cramped quarters. He talked about joining up with the Myōkō and Warramunga, escorting the freighters up the coast. As his account went on his gaze unfocused, eyes staring at a spot on the wall over the ONI officer's head. He spoke of how the AEGIS systems of the three ships had had minor technical glitches up until the engagement, and how a general sense of unease had settled over the ship's complement. His voice trembled a bit as he told the officer of how an unknown contact had appeared on the radar displays, and how it had not responded to any hails, but stabilized into an emotionless, clipped tone as he described the way the contact had disappeared from the screens. A faint bit of pride entered his speech as he recounted the way Captain Liang had reacted to the incoming torpedoes, a smidgen of puzzlement as he recounted how none of the decoys had worked.

Throughout the entire thing the intel officer maintained an air of polite disinterest, his attention betrayed only by the small, precise writing appearing beneath his pen, but he furrowed his brow in his first display of any sort of emotion when Liang mentioned how every single sailor had been struck down simultaneously by an invisible, crushing force. It furrowed further as he noted how none of the AEGIS guided systems could lock on, how five inch shells had done nothing but bounce off the contact, how the contact had sunk the Warramunga and Sampson with only a few shots, and how the acoustic homing on the torpedoes fired by Myōkō went utterly haywire, curving off on completely unrelated courses, swimming in circles and even self destructing dozens of meters away from anything that could have set them off. As Harding finished describing with a shudder the utter wrongness of the contact's appearance, the officer flipped the page of his notebook and set it down, tucking his pen behind his ear.

"Thank you, commander. And finally, may I have a personal account? Your emotions, your feelings, what went through your mind when all this happened."

Throat suddenly parched, Harding worked his jaw a bit, trying to collect his thoughts. After a minute he spoke slowly, in a low voice and with his gaze fixed on his hands clasped tightly together on the table. "You had to have been there to know what it was like. One minute we're cruising along in the sunshine, next thing you know the world's on fire and we don't know where it came from. Our AEGIS wouldn't work, our missiles wouldn't lock, CIWS couldn't shoot what it couldn't see, and when we finally took a hint and went to manual firing the five inch just… bounced off. The Warramunga went down first. The Sampson - my ship - she was next. Finally, Captain Yura, Myōkō's commander, he had as many of us get off as could do it. I was bleeding pretty badly by that time, so last thing I saw was that… thing, that monster had blown off her stern. Three of the world's best ships, gone in minutes… oh, God." His voice broke a bit on that last one, one hand covering up to cover his eyes and the other balling into a fist. The officer waited patiently as Harding composed himself, not reacting to the sound of a sob muffled by the commander's tightly pressed lips.

"Thank you for this information. I'll have someone take you to your quarters soon. For now, just rest. This is Captain Ernest Stone, questioning Lieutenant Commander Henry G. Harding. This recording is to be destroyed after thirty days from this day. Session end, the time is twenty hundred hours… mark." He tapped the same button on the recorder, stopping the device and slipping it into his pocket as he stood. "This information will be very useful to the admiral once we engage the enemy."

"Engage… the enemy?" Harding looked at him with uncomprehending eyes. The officer nodded, one eyebrow raised.

"Indeed. The orders are classified, but I am allowed allowed to let you know that in addition to conducting anti-piracy operations in the Gulf, our orders have been amended to search for whoever perpetrated this attack and to destroy them." He walked around the table towards the exit hatch, patting the commander on the shoulder as he did. "Rest assured, the deaths of your comrades will be avenged."

Harding shot out a hand, grabbing hold of the officer's arm and pulling him close to his suddenly desperate face. "Did you hear me at all?! You can't! You can't fight them, you're all gonna die! Please, listen to me! You can't go there! It's no use, we have to get out of here!"

"Please release me." With a quick movement, the officer extracted his arm from Harding's feeble grip. "You are still weak from four days unprotected at sea. You are dehydrated and hungry, and you need medical treatment, which I apologize for delaying you from. Please, get some rest. Your mind will be much clearer once you do." Neatly stepping out of reach of Harding's attempt at a sleeve grab, he pulled open the hatch and whispered briefly to the marine standing outside. "Please wait here."

As the marine took the officer's place, holding a firm hand to Harding's shoulder, the commander half-shouted half-cried as the officer stepped out of the compartment. "No, don't! Let me off this ship! You don't know what you're dealing with, I'm not going back, I can't go ba-" The hatch slammed shut, cutting Harding off with booming finality.

It was quiet now. The bows of the fleet cut through the water with a gentle swish, much quieter than any car. Lookouts stood watch on the bridges of every ship with binoculars trained to sea, right next to the fifty cal gunners carressing the handles of their machine guns, each wishing they were using what the other one had. Radar arrays laid dormant in standby mode, letting the barest trickle of energy flow out of their generators, just enough to let everyone know where everyone else was and not much more than that.

"Helm, course."

"Aye Captain, course is bearing zero five six, speed thirty three knots."

"Very well, maintain this course."

"Maintain course zero five six, speed thirty three knots, aye sir."

The dim blue glow of a console gave Ruiz's face an eerie, ghostly quality, contrasting with the red battle lighting in use now throughout the fleet. A vague sense of unease had settled over the Churchill. Sitting in its compartments, passing by in its passageways, laying in their bunks, the sailors did their best to a man to ignore that small feeling in the back of their minds that something, sometime, somewhere uncomfortably nearby had gone irrevocably wrong. Through concentrating on their tasks, soft chatter in the mess hall and rec rooms, PT in the small fitness compartment, trying to sleep and an illicit card game or two, they tried to relieve that anxiety but somehow succeeded only in making it worse.

"Helm, course."

"Aye Captain, course is bearing zero five six, speed thirty three knots."

"Very well, maintain this course."

"Maintain course zero five six, speed thirty three knots, aye sir."

Baker blinked bleary eyes, trying to stop her vision from going double. The admiral may have instituted eight hour rotating watches on all ships, but apparently Captain Ruiz didn't want eyes off the consoles for even a second. Or maybe he'd just forgotten; Baker probably would have too, if the pressure of command had been stacked on top of the apprehension coiling in her gut. She couldn't help but feel that something, very soon, was about to go very bad. From what her shipmates told her, she expressed that feeling by constantly rubbing her eyes, and from what she could tell, Captain Ruiz expressed it by-

"Helm, course."

"Aye Captain, course is bearing zero five six, speed thirty three knots."

"Very well, maintain this course."

"Maintain course zero five six, speed thirty three knots, aye sir."

"It hasn't been forty seconds, does he really think our course's changed?"

"I don't think he's really asking, Bukowski." She tilted a meaningful head at the captain's hands. The faintest of trembles could be seen as he held his binoculars tight enough to bend the hard metal. "It's like you chewing your pencil."

"I don't chew my pencil," said the radioman, bits of wet wood and eraser falling to the console below him. He gave the captain a strange look, then turned back to his console. Before she did the same, Baker checked the main display once more, noting that they were only twenty kilometers or so from the mouth of the Gulf. Strange… surprisingly little traffic to and from the Suez Canal, though with the recent piracy uptick she wasn't overly shocked.

"Is it really piracy though…?" She wished for any sort of distraction; even political coverage would have been alright, but for some reason the golden shoulders had decided that blanket emission control was in order. A beep from her console brought her back to her duties, prompting Baker to hastily put her headphones on and key the mic. "Yeah, what's up?"

"Weird shit. Check your screen, is AEGIS giving you the some weird contacts to the north?"

"Ah, yeah, what the hell is that?"

"Don't know, it's jumping around, being all fuzzy. One minute it's there, the next it's not, and we can't get a good profile on them. Can't tell what they are, they're just… there."

"Ships?"

"No, definitely not."

"Right, I'm telling the captain." She pushed her chair back and took off her headphones, moving carefully so as not to disturb the other sailors. "Captain?"

"What?" He turned a little quicker than usual. Baker nearly stepped back when his eyes met hers, more tired than she ever remembered seeing them.

"We have, uh, unknown contacts on AEGIS, sir."

"Show me." He walked to her station, leaving her to scramble to catch up.

"Here sir, in the Gulf."

"Where?"

"They're coming on and off, it's really weird-there!" She stabbed a finger at the screen, at the small green patches of fuzz which had just appeared out of nowhere.

"I'll be damned." He frowned, then looked up at the main display. "Why isn't it on the main screen?"

"You ordered the display set to map, sir."

"Did I?" He thought for a moment. "I did, didn't I? Switch it to AEGIS, please."

"Yes sir." A few button presses and the display blinked out for a moment, startling the sailors around them with the sudden decrease in light levels. A moment later it came back on, displaying the AEGIS generated plot in all its glory, everything where it belonged except for one notable exception.

"They're gone again…" Ruiz exchanged a glance with Baker, then rubbed his temples. "I'm going to call this in. Radio?"

"Yes captain?"

"Allow me to use your station for a moment."

"Aye, captain." Bukowski relinquished his seat and his radio, allowing Ruiz to take his place. The captain adjusted the set for a bit, flipped through the channels and keyed the mic.

"Ford, this is Churchill requesting Admiral Brown, come in, over."

A moment passed. "Churchill, this is Brown. What's the matter?"

"We're seeing unknown contacts twenty eight kilometers due North, radar coverage is inconsistent. What should we do, over?"

"Churchill, standby, we'll try to confirm. This could be our mystery enemy." Another few moments passed in silence. Baker tried to look anywhere but her captain, Bukowski stood awkwardly to the side, and Ruiz remained lost in his own world. "Churchill, other ships confirm. Go to combat standby, our CAP's checking it out."

"Yes sir. Lieutenant Commander Baker, if you would sound combat standby."

"Aye, captain." Picking up the 1MC lying nearby, she took a moment to find the mic switch. "All hands, this is Lieutenant Commander Baker. All stations go to combat standby, repeat, all station go to combat standby. Prepare for possible hostile contact. That is all."

"Churchill, we're opening a channel from the CAP. Want in?"

"Yes sir."

"Patching you in." As one, the speakers mounted around the bridge came to life. At first, nothing but static came through, but after a few seconds the white noise resolved into an understandable voice.

"Blackjack Squadron, this is Blackjack Lead. Keep those triggers secured, no firing until we get the okay. Got it?" A chorus of affirmations chimed in. "Good. Let's see if we our mystery men know who killed the Sampson."

"Lead, Eight, what happens if we do engage? I mean, if these things did kill the Sampson, I don't really wanna tango with something that can jump a Burke."

"Can that chatter Eight. This is our job and we're gonna do it well."

As they reached the halfway point between the fleet and the contacts, an alarm sounded from Baker's console. She rushed over, staring at the screen and the massive cloud of dots which had just appeared on her screen.

"Captain, contacts, lots of them, airborne!"

"Right. Admiral Brown, we're seeing airborne contacts!"

"I copy all. VFA-199, be advised there are possible hostiles in the air, numbers and type unknown."

"Roger that, we see them too. Blackjack Squadron, this is Blackjack Lead. Go to formation box, see if we can't herd these guys in. Light up your tracking radar, let these guys know we don't like'em."

As the fighters lit off their radar, the fleet's systems took the data received and integrated into the overall battle plot. A chill ran down Baker's and every other sailor's spine as they realized just how many contacts there really were.

"Lead, Three, holy shit there's gotta be a hundred fifty at least!"

"Stay frosty! Speed up, prepare for contact, but do not fire!"

As the fighters and the unknowns drew near to each other, a tremor seemed to pass through the ship. Throughout its compartments, sailors paused in their activities, looking upwards and around as a primal fear, a forgotten fear, an ancient fear emerged from its dormancy. A moment later, an alarmed shout came from the speakers.

"Jesus, they're speeding up! Holy hell, they're fast! They're-they're tryin' to get past us!"

"Go to seeker mode, get locks and prepare to fire!"

The fighters switched their radars over to the mode used for acquiring missile locks. Immediately, a terrible, pressing, freezing feeling took hold of Baker's body, and the contacts disappeared from radar.

"The hell? Where'd they go?!"

"199, this is Brown, what's happening up th-"

A jackhammer pierced the back of her skull as a industrial press squeezed her body from all sides. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't feel, could only collapse against her console, the effort of keeping herself from completely falling taking all her strength. A groan of pain issued from her mouth, mixing and mingling with the moans and screams of her shipmates. Bukowski stumbled backwards, clutching and shaking his head, a sob tearing itself from his throat. Captain Ruiz slumped against the radio console, teeth gritted, eyes unnaturally wide, a trickle of blood streaming from his nose.

"Aah… aah… ah!" On the display, one of the dots indicating a friendly fighter disappeared, the altitude reading next to it diminishing rapidly. The other dots broke from their tidy formation, going into radical maneuvers as pilots struggled to regain control of their machines, bodies and minds.

"T-this is… Le-lead! D-do we h-have locks?!"

"Negative! R-radar's haywire!"

"Shit! Use guns! A-all units, radar does not lock, repeat r-radar does not lock! Use guns! Aaah!"

The pain had lessened a bit, such that she could climb back into her chair and stay in it. She didn't wait for an order from the captain - didn't figure she'd get one - and keyed AEGIS to combat mode. She could see similar happenings across the fleet, radar arrays coming up to full safe power and pumping out enough energy to create a three eyed baby or two.

The radio squawked. "All ships, this is Admiral Brown! Prepare for combat, repeat prepare for combat! Captain Turner, launch all planes now!"

"The gun's not working, the gun's not working! I'm shooting and he's not goin' dow-he's behind me! What the heaaarrgh!" Another friendly blip disappeared from her screen.

"Shit! Concentrate fire on the left most! Concentrate fire!" The remaining friendlies converged on one of the fuzzy blips, rotary cannons lighting up the night sky outside.

"Good hit, good hits-I see smoke, he's on fire! Keep shooting!"

"He's goin' down, he's goin' down, he's blown up!" The surviving pilots erupted into a ragged cheer, joined by sailors around the bridge who'd managed to recover. "They can be killed! All units, repeat, they can be killed!"

"CIC, prepare all weapons! Fire as soon as they're in range! AEGIS, start locking targets!"

"Sir, the picture's fucked, radar can't see anything! We can't get locks!"

"Then put more power in, get a clearer picture!"

"It's not-it doesn't work that way, it's not that-" Electricity coursed across the radar screens. The displays went wavy, jagged lines streaking across their surfaces. One exploded into sparks, another went dark, and the others dissolved into random static.

"Shit… shit!" Ruiz pointed at Baker, the other hand pressed to his forehead. "Sound general quarters!"

"Aye sir!" She picked up the mic with shaky hands. "General Quarters, General Quarters, all hands man your battlestations! The flow of traffic is up and forward on the starboard side, down and aft on the port! Set material condition Zebra throughout the shi-"

"Look! Up there, off the bow!" The portside lookout gestured animatedly. Ruiz immediately rushed over, grabbing up his binoculars as he ran past them.

"Where?!"

"Look, lights in the sky!" Staring into the eyepieces, Ruiz looked where the lookout pointed, scanning across the sky.

"I don't see-" He froze, pulled back, blinked, then looked again. "Oh my God. What are those? What the hell are those?!"

"This is Blackjack Lead, we can't hold them, they're coming your way! Watch out!"

Klaxons blared and alarm bells sounded, summoning sailors from their bunks and to their battle stations. AEGIS arrays came to maximum battle power, sending a tsunami of information flooding through the fleet's data integration systems. Hatches were secured, weapons came to ready, and the battlefield came to full light on displays on every single ship, right as an explosion split the Michael Murphy in two.