Unknown Contact

by acceptmyusernamealready

The Gulf of Aden. Shanghai. Port Moresby. Panama. First LA. First San Fran. Tokyo. The Thames Massacre. The world's navies, the most powerful expression of maritime combat power ever assembled in the history of the Earth, powerless. Missiles, bombs, shells, might as well have been nerf darts. We were all looking toward the future - perhaps the past still had something to teach us.

3. Chapter 3

A/N: Whew.

---

"You are happy? You are happy about this, yes? Then you are all idiots. For if these… these monsters, these gui could swat an American carrier strike group aside like a few annoying flies, what do you think they could do to us?"

- Captain Liang Yezhong, testifying before PLAN South Sea Fleet HQ two days before the Battle of Shanghai.

---

"What is happening up there?"

The sailor manning the sonar station of the USS California shrugged helplessly, at a loss for what the sudden spikes in noise activity meant. They seemed to be explosions, large and many, on and just below the surface… but that would mean combat, and that was impossible, right?

"Periscope depth, captain?"

"Negative." The captain crossed his arms, leaning back with a frown on his face. "Take us down to 150 meters and go to silent running."

"Yes sir. All hands, secure all stations for silent running. Repeat, secure for silent running."

As nonessential equipment was powered down, leaving the groaning of the hull the only sound as the submarine slowly dove, the captain looked over to the XO, standing quietly next to the sonar station. "Anything on passive?"

"Same old sir, big booms. You don't think there's actually fighting going on up there, do you?"

"I'm running out of options." The captain shifted his weight forward, staring into nothing with a frown on his face. "There's nothing in these waters that could confront a carrier group."

"Sir, the convoy was destroyed."

"I know, but three destroyers is a helluva lot different than a supercarrier." A bead of sweat appeared on the captain's forehead. "What the hell is going on out there?"

The sonarman felt a slight tickle in the back of his mind, but banished it in order to concentrate on his console. The explosions continued unrelentingly, deep underwater booms that shook the hull of the California to its core. However, as he listened closely, he couldn't make out any surface or underwater contacts other than the ones he already knew were ther-hold on.

"Sir, weird noise, off to stern. Can't classify it, but it's a submarine."

"A submarine?" The captain looked over. "Could it be the Chicoms?"

"No sir, it doesn't sound like any submarine I've ever heard. The propeller's all wrong and-" He paused, pressing a hand to his forehead.

"Sailor?"

"N-nothing, sir." What a time for a headache. "It's not Chinese."

"Well, then, what the hell is it?"

"It's not registered anywhere, sir. Classifying contact unknown, recommend we go to battle stations, sir."

"Agreed. All hands, battle stations." The order was more of a formality than anything, as most of the sailors had already migrated to their stations of their own volition. However, as the order was passed down the hull through whispers and nudges, it only added to the tension in the already-thick air. Loosening collars and wiping sweat from their brows, the sailors massaged their temples as Brownings began to pound within their skulls.

"Sir, unknown contact is closing, one hundred fifty meters off the starboard stern, bearing three two two. Definitely following us."

"Has it tried anything?"

"Negative, sir."

"Hit with the active, let it know we know it's there."

"Yes sir, lighting sonar." The sonarman moved his hands over the controls, selecting active sonar and setting the pulse to 30 kilohertz. "And… pinging."

The pulse went out, lashing outwards and towards the contact. The crew waited nervously, knowing that, if the unknown hadn't known about them before, they'd definitely given themselves away now. The sonarman had closed his eyes, listening closely for the return. After a brief moment, it came, a ghostly echo which echoed in his ears, distorted and discordant.

The XO watched him grimace. "What? What is it?"

"Is the sonar array messed up? The return isn't righ-"

With a clatter, his headphones went falling to the floor, bouncing on the deck below his seat. Clawing at his head, the sonarman toppled sideways from his chair with a cry of pain. He writhed on the ground, thrashing about and screaming in agony.

"What th-" The XO crumpled to his knees, eyes bulging from their sockets and mouth open in a silent scream. As he fell to his side, one by one, the rest of the bridge crew either slumped over or fell from their seats, spasming and flailing about on the ground. Throughout the California, sailors had but a moment's warning before a industrial grade vice wrapped itself around their brains, squeezing tight and sending them toppling to the ground, grabbing their heads and crying out of an agony unlike anything any of them had ever felt before.

"G-goddamit!" The captain, struggling to remain upright, bit his lip hard enough to draw blood in an attempt to ward off the pain. "What is this?!" No answer came, and he finally gave up the struggle, slumping over in his chair.

First to go down, first to get up. Practically crying, both out of pain and in anger at his pathetic state, the sonarman dragged himself towards his station. He climbed up into the chair, the distance from his floor to his seat feeling like he was trying to summit Mount Everest, and buckled himself in tight with shaky fingers. His muscles still trembling with pain, he placed the headphones over his head and tried to block out the signals from the rest of his body. The screeching, warbling tones in the speakers did a bit to help with that, funnily enough, distracting his brain if only by sending pneumatic drills spiking into it. Beneath that, there was something else, something more… familiar, but for some reason no more comforting. Through tears and the half-whimpers escaping his throat against his will, he listened harder. Was that - cavitation!

"Torpedoes in the wa-"

He would never finish the sentence. The first torpedo ran headlong into California's side, smashing through armored hull and watertight compartments like a hot knife through butter. The sailors in those compartments, still rolling on the deck in agony, were swept away by a tidal wave of water as bulkhead after bulkhead failed, strong steel crumpling like so many aluminum cans. The last act of the engineers in the reactor compartment was to struggled to their feet and punch the SCRAM controls, right before the second fish obliterated the reactor housing. Superheated steam and frigid ocean water collided, the humans in the middle literally ceasing to exist as the submarine melted around them.

As the stern split away, falling to the ocean floor in a cloud of steam, bubbles and twisted radioactive slag, the ocean continued to fill the rest of the ship. Sailors incapacitated by the unseen assault on their very minds barely had a chance to scream before water filled their lungs, drowning amid the chaos of a submarine going down. The sonarman, the XO, and the captain were all swept from their seats, smashed senseless against the consoles as the remnants of the bow went vertical, plunging towards the seabed. An explosion of bubbles trailed behind as what air remained in the stricken ship was forcibly expelled.

California's broken remnants plunged further downwards, her propeller spinning helplessly as her stern sank. As she disappeared from view, a dark form silently passed above her, casting a pair of lights downward for a brief moment as it displaced the bubbles still streaming upwards. The twin beams flickered almost with contempt, then turned back upwards, towards where fire and explosions cast murky light down from the surface. Already, it could sense the distrubances in the water from frantically treading humans. The air arm was doing fine work. Perhaps it could get a bit of target practice in? It could always deal with that other submarine later, and no matter how quiet that one got, it wouldn't escape.

---

"Hard to starboard, flank speed!"

"Aye sir!" Spinning the wheel as fast as it would go, the helmsman sent everyone onboard the Churchill grabbing for whatever support they could as the ship leaned over to the left, just in time to avoid an explosion which sent water spraying all over the deck.

"Planes, incoming!" Holding on tight to the railing, the lookout pointed up to the sky. The machine gunner beside him responded instantly, pulling the barrel of his Browning as far up as it would go and opening fire, sending fifty cal tracers streaking upwards. The starboard side gunner opened up as well, flashes of machine gun fire lighting up the bridge as other ships began to do so as well. In between brief spells of muzzle flare induced blindness, the light thrown off by the tracers gave enough illumination for the gunners to just barely make out what they were shooting at.

"Jesus Christ, what are those things?!"

"Those aren't planes!" With a yelp of fear, the starboard gunner and lookout ducked low as one of the aircraft swept low over the ship, flashes sparkling along its body and bullets spanging off the superstructure. "Holy shit!" He blind fired over the edge of the observation deck, a reaction born purely of panicked instinct and not of any real desire to shoot anything down. Nevertheless, as he swept the gun back and forth, the hail-like sound of .50 BMG bouncing off armor reached his ears, followed by a fading, whistling noise and the splash of something heavy hitting water.

"Huh?" He poked his head up. There, in the starboard wake, laid the slowly sinking form of one of the enemy aircraft. "Holy shit holy shit holy shit, I hit it! I hit it!"

"Confirmed! Splash one bogey!" The lookout whooped and raised a hand for a high five, which was promptly granted with enthusiasm. "Must've hit the canopy!"

"Don't see a canopy, but I hit something!" Finishing off a little victory dance, he glanced uncertainly at the lookout. "Hey, right before it went down… did you hear a scream or something?"

"A scream?"

"Yeah, like a shriek, I dunno."

"Not really…?"

"Huh, weird."

"Less talking, more shooting! Damn you, die die die die die!" The portside gunner screamed with frustration as yet another one of the oddly-shaped aircraft danced just out of reach of his gun, evading his bullets with near taunting ease. "Son of a bitch, burn in hell!"

Someone must have manned the autocannons. The deeper boom of the 25 millimeters finally engaging also joined in, pumping armor-piercing high-explosive shells out towards enemies they could hardly see by the flashes of their guns, let alone track through an AEGIS system still having seizures just trying to parse the returns of the radar waves now being pumped out at full power. Perhaps the only bright spot in this whole clusterfuck was that the things seemed to move slower than actual jets, but it was of little comfort when more of them than could be counted were heading right for the task force.

"Mayday, mayday, this is John Finn, we're sinking - we're going down!" The Finn's transmission cut off abruptly, transmitter probably blown into oblivion. The bridge crew stared helplessly out the window, out to where the Finn burned, her fires the barest flicker of light on the dark horizon where she doggedly maintained her position in the outer screen. A second later, the flicker began a brilliant glow as her magazines exploded. In conjunction with her death the last Hornet from Blackjack squadron disappeared from the radar plots, plunging into the sea.

"Fuck! CIC, why isn't sea-whiz up?!"

"Radar picture's fucked, Phalanx can't shoot what it can't see!"

"Baker, what the hell is happening?!"

"I don't know, they're there but we can't see them! If I knew what was happening I'd be fixing it, but at this moment I don't have a fucking clue!"

"Incoming! He's diving!" Ruiz whipped his head up, just in time to see a dive bomber - a goddamn dive bomber in the 21st fucking century! - pull out into a steep climb, just barely missing the radar mast on its way out. Machine gun fire chased it on its way, along with some scattered small-arms fire, and a single flash of light appeared as a 25 mil hit, but he knew it was too late to make a difference. The bomb loomed large in his vision, rotating slowly as it fell, seemingly aimed straight at him. The crew around him noticed as well, yelling and pointing into the sky as they scattered from the port bridge wing.

No time to turn! "Clear the bridge, get down!"

Clutching their helmets to their heads, the bridge crew dove to the floor and behind consoles, trying to evade the blast and fragments which would follow. Ruiz crouched down as well, swallowing his pride in favor of survival.

Sorry, Churchill. I couldn't protect you…

The crunch of steel hit his ears, and he winced away from the coming explosion. He waited for fragments to shatter consoles and tear flesh and for the blast wave to blow him to the floor. A couple seconds passed by, the only thing he could hear being the thumping of the starboard Brownings and of his own heart.

"What the fuck?"

An ensign poked his head up to look. A moment later, he began to laugh. "A dud! A fucking dud! Thank you, Jesus!"

"Stop staring, start shooting!" The gunners, having taken cover amongst the consoles, ran back to their weapons. The five inch gun boomed below the bridge, CIC having switched over to manual aiming in the slim hopes of getting some sort of hit. As the five inch tracer shell screamed into the night, a streak of light trailing behind it, Ruiz scrambled back to his command chair and barked out a series of radical maneuvers. The helmsman, who'd never once left his post, swung the ship this way and that as strafing runs swept the ship from end to end and bombs sent water fountaining into the air.

"Full astern!" The helmsman slammed the indicator all the way back to the stops. A beat passed, the sounds of machinery dying down as the propellers shafts spun to a halt. Then, with a roar, they restarted, jolting the ship backwards right as a bomb sent water spraying over its bow. "Fuck!"

Pulling himself off the floor, one of the lookouts rushed to peer at the bow. "Shit, we're hit! Bow's hit!" Ruiz ran to one of the windows, long shattered, to look as well. The near hit had crumpled the thin armor, breaching it in several places. He could feel the sea rushing into opened compartments, sailors injured by the blast being dragged away from the incoming water by their comrades. Churchill groaned as her bow dragged in the water, streamlined shape ruined.

"Maneuvering's sluggish, sir!"

"Sonar's gone!"

"Just keep her steady! Damage control parties, get on it!"

One of the Brownings clicked empty, the sound strangely loud in the din of battle. "Shit, reloading!" The gunner popped the receiver open and dropped the empty ammo box free. Pulling one out from the small stack at his feet, he slotted the box into the holder, snapped the belt in, pulled the latch closed and racked back the bolt. "Eat lead!"

Baker yelled, eyes glued to her screen, barely able to stay in her seat. "Captain, AEGIS has shaky contact! Can't fire yet, but we're getting close!"

"Keep working on it! Anyone who can fire, cover the Ford!"

"Yes sir!" The streams of tracer fire swung towards the carrier, currently swinging her surprisingly agile bulk back and forth, weaving between bomb blasts and… were those… torpedo trails? Oh, shit…

"Sir, starboard!" The USS Preble charged past, wake rocking the Churchill as it steamed towards the sailors floating around the Michael Murphy's slowly sinking form, dead in the water, burning and settling by the stern after beating a long and bloody retreat from her position on the outer screen. Bursts of shells streaked into the air from the barrels of her CIWS mounts, meant more to discourage anything from getting close enough to drop a bomb or launch a strafing run than to actually hit anything. Her mast was gone, probably blown off, but Ruiz could guess what her captain wanted.

"Draw the fire off Preble, put up some flares!" He paused, then added as an afterthought, "Blast our radar too, every bit counts!"

"Yes sir, flares going up!" From launchers mounted all over her superstructure, flares meant to pull away heat-seeking missiles pulled double duty, casting their flickering light over Churchill and making her just that much more attractive of a target. Baker immediately dove for the floor as a fighter swept by, guns chattering and shattering what little glass remained intact. "Jesus!" She grabbed for the armory key around her neck to keep it in place, suddenly wishing she had an M16 on hand.

The gunners yelled triumphantly, followed by a marine who'd brought up one of the ship's M240s without anybody else noticing. "I see you now, asshole!" They opened up as one, and bullet trails converged on a single target, suddenly illuminated by the light of the flares. Sparks played across its surface, rounds bracketing it and ricocheting every which way. The gunners on other ships, firing blindly into the night sky, took notice as well, adding their fire. The target - Ruiz refused to call that thing a plane - took evasive maneuvers, juking wildly back and forth, but over a dozen machine guns and autocannons ensured that at least something would hit. As bullets continued to strike it, a faint smoke trail emerged, followed by a brief burst of flame that soon turned into an all-consuming blaze. With a high-pitched sound - almost a scream - that forced sailors all over the task force to clamp hands over ears, the target plunged into the sea, sending water exploding into the air a moment later.

A resounding cheer roared up from every ship, men and women invigorated by the knowledge that these monsters could be killed. More and more bullets filled the air as sailors fired everything from machine guns to rifles to pistols taken from ship armories. Half-reaching for her own sidearm - before realizing it was in the armory and wishing even more for an M16 - Baker instinctively ducked as an attacker flew low over the bow. Splintered wood and metal flew into the air as it peppered the deck with machine gun fire, bomb bay already emptied into the hull of some other ship. As it pulled off, climbing through the choking black smoke hanging heavy over the Preble's burning form, three Stinger missiles shot upwards. As she watched, peering over the edge of a broken window, two lost lock, spiralling into the churning water of Churchill's portside wake. The last one, however, stayed true to its course, even when its target pulled sharply to the side, closing in steadily to slam into its rear in a brilliant blast.

That's it! "They mess up radar, but they still get hot!"

Ruiz nodded in agreement with her, turning to yell at the comms operator. "Pass the word! Heat-seekers can track these things!"

"Yes sir!" As he shouted into the radio, relaying the hard-earned intel, the five-inch gun boomed again, coming to bear on the missile-damaged aircraft. Baker watched, her view of the battle oddly detached and slowed-down, as the shell left the barrel in a cone of flame and cloud of smoke. It spiralled through the air, shallow arc taking it upwards and forwards, ever so slowly closing in until finally, by the grace of either God, Buddha, or Murphy, it crashed home. Though 25 mil and fifty-cal barely scratched the damn things, a five inch naval shell was on a whole different level.

"Boom!" Shouting despite herself, Baker pumped her fist in the air as the thing disintegrated. Over her headphones, she could hear the CIC cheering as well. "Nice fucking shot!"

"All stop, hard to starboard!" Churchill swung her bow around, the force of the maneuver adding to the damage done by the bomb, just in time to avoid a collision with the ROKS Sejong the Great, falling back from the outer perimeter along with the USS Bainbridge, both trailing fire and smoke from massive gashes in their hulls and superstructures, machine gun and autocannon fire flying back towards where they came from. Bainbridge in particular looked almost ready to come apart at the seams, down at the bow and with a list to port that couldn't have been easy to stand against. Then, as if the universe was determined to kick the destroyer while she was down, a group of bombers swooped down upon her helpless form. The explosions seemed to lift her from the water, and when she came back down, it was with a shriek of tortured metal and dying sailors that accompanied the complete separation of her stern.

"This is Sejong the Great, we are maneuvering to assist." The Koreans positioned their damaged ship between the sinking destroyer and the oncoming attackers. Illuminated in the flickering glow of fires, gun flashes and slowly falling flares, lines, nets, ladders and life preservers went over the side, splashing into the water alongside the survivors jumping from Bainbridge's foundering hulk. "Be advised, our radar is nonfunctional."

"Not the only goddamn ones…" Baker mumbled, still working over her console. She could hear the techs in the CIC shouting at each other, ideas and orders flying back and forth as they labored over the array controls, trying to get any kind of return, any kind of contact, anything at all to show up on the static-filled displays. Every time any sort of clear contact appeared on the displays, it quickly disappeared, replaced by some new pattern of distortion and interference. One moment, jagged line coursed across the screens; the next, the entire picture dissolved into spiralling static as the displays sparked, trying to survive this never-before-seen but all-too-real assault.

"All ships, this is Ford! Give us cover, we're getting our fighters up!" Ruiz pulled up a pair of binoculars, staring hard in the direction of the carrier. Sure enough, despite the fires breaking out on the cratered flight deck, he could see the dark silhouettes of planes rising from within the ship. Technicians and sailors ran in all directions, fighting fires, pulling the injured to safety, pausing here and there to fire at their attackers with rifles and pistols as the catapult crew readied the F-18 for launch, unflinching even as strafing runs sent fragments of deck flying their faces. Nearly twenty billion dollars of the finest engineering the US Navy had to offer would not be going down so easily, and Ruiz intended to make the job of her assailants just that much harder.

"Roger!" Ruiz grabbed the PA mic. "All guns, divert fire and cover the Ford! We've got to get planes in the air!" To punctuate his statement, a bomber swept by parallel to the ship's course, dropped torpedo missing the Churchill by a hair's breadth. The tracers paused for a moment, then restarted, this time sweeping over the carrier in a protective net of steel. Another bomber dove towards the carrier, intending to hit the exposed, fuel and ammo-laden planes now running final checks. Twenty five millimeter, fifty-cal, 7.62 and 5.56 NATO converged to chop off a wing, sending the thing plunging into the ocean not ten meters from the carrier's side. Its bomb detonated a moment later, rocking the entire ship with a blast completely out of proportion to its size and sending several sailors overboard, screaming as they fell.

"This is Acer Lead, airborne!" The F-18 roared down the deck, the next fighter taking its place even before the roar from its engines had died down. The catapult crew ran forward, locked it into place, and once again began the procedures for launch. As the Super Hornet's exhausts flared to maximum power, the pilot gave each flap and aileron a cursory wiggle and flashed a thumbs up to the catapult officer, accompanied by turning on the fighter's exterior lights for a brief moment. As he did, other sailors jogged around the aircraft, inspecting each and every component as fast as they could. As soon as they finished they shot the officer a thumbs up as well, which he returned without looking as he checked the catapult settings one more time. Ruiz couldn't make out words, but he could see the officer's mouth moving in a shout. The shooter nodded in response and swung an arm out, hand in the shape of a gun. With a scream of exhaust, the fighter leapt forward, jumping from the deck and into the night sky.

"Acer Two, airborne!" Almost immediately after leaving the carrier, the two fighters swung into action. Twenty millimeter tracers spat from their cannons and another enemy fell into the sea, flames and smoke spewing from its angular body.

"Fox-Two, Fox-Two!" Two Sidewinders leapt from one of the Hornets' hardpoints. Twisting through the air, they barely avoided hitting the Preble, now spitting tracer fire in all directions while pulling Murphy's survivors from the sea, then climbed upwards to explode amidst an approaching flight of enemies. Debris rained from the resulting smoke cloud, one bomber corkscrewing to a watery death. The rest peeled off, feelings of invincibility shaken by the unexpectedly effective attack. "Bogey down!"

"Nice work, Two!"

"Acer Four, airborne!" Yet another jet left the carrier,

"Stingers up!" A trio of Stinger missiles fired from somewhere behind Churchill's bridge, quickly closing the range with an incoming fighter and detonating in its face, along with a stream of autocannon rounds. Even as a shattered wing buried itself in the side of her hull, Churchill's crew let out a yell of victory which seemed to be echoed by the ship herself as she plowed her way through the ocean.

"Reloading!" The gunners, half-deafened by constant gunfire, once again began to replenish their machine guns. Ruiz shouted maneuvering orders he was only half-conscious of coming up with, the words flowing from his mouth almost as if we was in a trance, oddly detached like he was a spectator to his own body as Baker continued to sweat over the AEGIS controls, doing everything she could and then some to try to firm up contacts, to no avail whatsoever.

"Acer Six, airbor-" The pilot's words were cut off when, flying almost level with the flight deck, a fighter swept by and chopped it in half with a burst of cannon fire. Its jet fuel ignited a beat later, sending flaming liquid spraying all over the deck. At the same time, a well placed bomb hit Ford's elevator and the fully-laden Hornet on it. The secondary explosions of its ammo and fuel nearly blinded Baker, even as she averted her eyes from the blast. The fires spread to a pair of helicopters sitting near the explosion, just warming their engines for takeoff. The crew dove out and tucked into combat rolls, sprinting to get away from the burning machines as other sailors played hoses over one and pushed the other off the ship and into the ocean before it too blew up. Another helicopter, having just cleared the deck, caught a burst of cannon fire to the rotor housing and went spinning back to earth, rotors twisting and snapping as they bit deep into the deck. Its wreck burst into flame, setting a significant portion of the deck ablaze and contributing to the smoke shrouding Ford as she steamed doggedly ahead, obscuring a bent and twisted flight elevator and a cratered, heavily damaged flight deck surrounding it.

"This is Ford, cover us while we restore flight ops!" The Ford's request went unanswered, though not for lack of trying. With all her escorts fighting for their lives and barely coming out on top, the carrier was left vulnerable to her attackers, who sent strafing runs ripping through her damage control parties at their leisure. CIWS attempted to put some fire into the air, but to no avail. Her entire hull shuddered, crew staggering once more as a bomber, on fire and going down, managed to drop its payload before being ripped apart by a pair of pursuing Hornets. As they struck the heavily armored flight deck, meant to protect the hangar deck from any and all harm, they seemed to hang for a moment, their fall stalled for the briefest of split seconds, allowing Baker a split second of relief. Those things might penetrate Churchill, but a heavily armored supercarrier was a whole other thing. This time around, those bastards had underestimated the US Navy!

With a thunderous crack, the armor gave way before the stunned eyes of Churchill's crew, letting the bombs fall through into the unprepared hangar. The resulting explosion blasted equipment, debris and sailors alike out of the open hangar doors, a massive fireball right behind them as fuel and ammunition ignited. The Ford keeled over to the side as the force of the explosion, magnified beyond all reasonable measure by whatever force was behind those damnable things, shoved her hull over to starboard. Blasts continued to sound out, warping the deck above as well as blowing out portions of the hull as all the combustible and explodable things a supercarrier needs to function proved that they didn't care who they killed, so long as they were killing. They didn't quite tear off the elevator, but they came close enough, warping the mechanisms enough to jam the entire multi-ton slab of steel in place, halfway between the flight and hangar deck, sailors and technicians caught helplessly exposed to strafing runs which soon put an end to their plight.

"Holy shit!" The explosions felt like someone had slugged Baker in the gut with a baseball bat - perhaps her niece back in Chicago, God knew she'd done it enough times while practicing softball - even from across the expanse of water separating the two ships. The breath knocked out of her, she almost didn't notice the two bombs that penetrated Churchill's rear superstructure. Whatever she had missed was filled in by the shockwave that knocked her forward into her console. From beneath her feet, as blood ran down her face, the sound of heavy footsteps and shouting reached Baker's ears as damage control teams ran under her, followed by corpsmen and sailors press-ganged into pulling their comrades from a steadily growing inferno. A Hornet circled protectively overhead, unheeding of the streams of AA weaving around it, just daring anything to get within gun range.

"Shit - that was big! We can't take any more of those!"

"Well, we're gonna, if we can't start shooting these things down!" As if to punctuate the man's words, another bomb clipped what remained of the rear funnel, detonating in an airburst that shredded a damage control party rushing to pull casualties from the wreckage.

"Hard to starboard, slow ahead!" Churchill shuddered with the effort of the maneuver. Her damaged bow nearly gave way from the effort, but with duct tape, glue, makeshift welds and a prayer it held, enabling the destroyer to barely swing past an incoming torpedo. The damned thing ran past for another twenty meters, where it immediately detonated and sent water splashing over Churchill's stern.

The helmsman grunted, struggling with the wheel. "Shit, I think maneuvering's damaged!" Before Ruiz could even ask, he went on. "I can deal with it, but I don't know if the 2500's can. They're tired, and that torp was close - if the shafts are cracked, we'll tear them apart at full speed!"

"Will they hold?!"

"As long as they need to! Church's not done yet, just don't push the old girls!"

"Got it. All stop!" The helmsman yanked the throttle back, just in time to avoid a burning plane which slammed into the water in front of the bow. A series of curses erupted over the radio, the remaining fighter pilots promising retribution in the form of painful death and fucked mothers.

"Shit, was that one of ours?!" As the sailor spoke, another scream rang out over the airwaves. One of the blue dots on the AEGIS display disappeared, coinciding with a single point of light flaring bright overhead. A twisted, smoking piece of wreckage plunged into the water a moment later, and in the moments before it sank Ruiz identified it as a jet engine, mangled and scorched.

"Ah fuck, the CAP's gettin' torn apart! There's too many of 'em! Can't we give them some cover?!"

"I wish it weren't so, but no!" Baker yelled back, voice barely making it over the shouting and orders flying back and forth across the bridge, not helped by the groaning of the hull, reports of gunfire, and drone of enemy planes overhead.

"Come on!" In frustration, Bukowski shot up from his position at the tactical console, slamming a fist into the computer's top and pushing his chair back. "We have to do something! We gotta get our missiles in the air, we got-"

"I told you, AEGIS can't lock! It's returning probable contacts, but it's not enough!" Tears of anger coming to her eyes as she grabbed the sides of her console, Baker violently shook the computer. "Why won't you fucking work?!"

"Dammit Churchill, don't do this to us!" Bukowski growled, aiming another punch at his console. "You can do this!"

"Come on!"

With a fizzle and a whine, the displays blacked out completely, followed by seemingly every single electrical system in the ship, leaving the bridge in terrified silence, with only the thumping of explosions and the soft swish of water to keep them company. Then, in a flash that bathed the room in soft blue-white light, the screens rebooted, hundreds of small white dots clearly delineated upon their surfaces. As the crew watched, stunned, markers began to appear next to each one, airspeed, altitude, and heading indicated and constantly updating so that the screens became a whirlwind of rapidly changing numbers and words. Finally, with a flourish and a final update, each and every one of those dots turned red, with the exception of a few lonely blue dots, islands of friendliness in a sea of hostile crimson.

"What th-"

"Bridge, CIC, AEGIS is online!"

"CIC, say again?!"

"Reading clear contacts on AEGIS, all systems ready to engage!"

"How - nevermind. Engage, repeat engage! Open fire!"

"Yes sir! Commencing firing! Get'em, Church!" An alarm blared across the deck, not that there was still anyone topside to warn. A buzz like a million angry bees began, Churchill's surviving CIWS mounts commencing firing with a vengeance, dozens of rounds per second arcing out into the sky. A wave of fire and steel detached from the box launchers beneath the guns, Rolling Airframe Missiles jumped from their chambers and corkscrewing after the cannon rounds, adding an explosive exponent to the torrent of tungsten. As a pair of bombers plunged into the water, streaming fire and debris behind them from 20 mm holes, fountains of fire erupted in front of the bridge, the heat of the flames turning the entire room into an oven through the broken windows.

"Let's go!" With a roar, a Sea Sparrow tore through the covering of its VLS cell, exhaust flames washing across the deck below. As soon as it had cleared the the ship it turned sideways, streaking out into the night. Another missile followed it, then another, then another, turning the deck black as they launched. The rear launchers got in on the action as well, SAM after SAM breaking free of their belowdecks prisons and turning onto every imaginable vector. Unsecured items were sent tumbling across the deck and into the sea by the backwash of their exhausts. All of a sudden, out of apparently nowhere, an incoming flight of torpedo bombers found themselves face to face with, instead of machine guns and autocannons, a full barrage of missiles from an Arleigh-Burke class destroyer. It was a distinctly unpleasant feeling. Only a few had time to try to avoid, and even those were quickly chased down, pursuing missiles guided in by a suddenly functional AEGIS to explode in fireballs which consumed them whole.

"Fuck yeah!" Baker jumped from her seat, wincing slightly as her headphone cable ripped the the things from her head. "Holy shit!"

"Go, blow 'em outta the sky!" The gunners cheered, falling back in relief and letting go of their guns as a renewed barrage of missiles took over for them. Three fighters, vectoring in on the Ford, went spiralling into the drink as each one was targeted by a separate Sparrow and a long burst from CIWS. As the destroyer sailed by the carrier, flames still erupting from her VLS and washing across her deck, Baker managed to catch the eye of one of the sailors on the larger ship's bridge. A shit-eating grin spread across her face as she took in his dumbfounded look, and she tossed him a casual salute like it weren't no thing, trying to conceal her shaking legs as best as she could.

"This is Preble, our AEGIS is online!"

"Sejong, we're commecing fire."

Missiles began to launch from the Preble and Sejong the Great as well. VLS cells emptied as fast as they could be cycled, sending their payloads shooting high into the sky before they turned sideways, flying off into the night sky upon columns of flame. Moments later, explosions lined the horizon as the missiles intercepted another inbound wave of attackers. Dots began to fall off the AEGIS displays one by one as the enemy aircraft found that immunity to machine guns and autocannons meant little to 300 kilogram rocket-propelled AEGIS-guided kamikaze robots moving at Mach 4 carrying nearly 40 kilograms of blast-fragmentation fuck-you.

"Sea Sparrows gone - switch to SMs!"

"Roger that, switching ordnance!" The smaller Sea Sparrows depleted, CIC switched over to the SM-2s and 3s. The much larger missiles, meant mostly for long range work, proved that against these slower than usual enemies they would do just fine. They launched with accordingly larger roars, nearly deafening everyone nearby, meaning the bridge crew. Baker had the good fortune of having put back on her headphones moments before, but the rest of the bridge wasn't so lucky. Not that it meant much to them, as they watched with nearly child-like glee as their ship began to pay back some of the hurt she - and they - had suffered.

"Dive bomber!" The attacker pulled off high above, pulling up and rolling its stubby wings over and away from a stream of CIWS fire which chased it. A pair of RAMs caught it despite all its efforts and sent its blocky, slightly triangular form into the water, but its job was done. The bomb, painted stark-black and shaped like nothing more than a giant spike, fell downwards with ever-increasing speed, a light whistle growing in intensity as it approached. "Get down!"

The explosion shook the bridge, sending anything not secured clattering to the floor. The crew staggered and grabbed for support, whether it be a console, a railing or each other. Several curses rang out as sailors pulled each other to the ground, but they were music to Ruiz's ears - it meant they were still alive to curse.

"Holy shit, chalk one for sea-whiz!" The buzzing of the Phalanx still echoed, as did the pinging of bomb fragments bouncing off the bridge's scorched armor plating. A cloud of smoke hung in midair, small chunks of fiery debris falling into the water below. A single 20 millimeter casing, still smoking, fell to the ground beneath the lookout's feet. Ruiz bent down and picked it up, ignoring the heat on his fingers as he peered at it.

"Came online just in time, didn't you?" He slipped the casing into his pocket, then turned back to the bridge. Ford, having developed a noticeable list to starboard, had joined in the party. RAM and Phalanx fire were now filling the air above her limping hull, blowing a couple more bombers from the air before they could add more damage to what she'd already suffered - though Ruiz sincerely doubted much more could be done to her. He squinted as a shadowy form appeared on the hangar deck. A few seconds later, his eyes widened as an F-18 roared through the fires and smoke, scattering debris in its wake as it lifted into the sky over the heads of sailors scrambling to save their ship. "My God, they don't give up, do they?"

"Hunter Lead, airborne!" The Hornet twisted around, in pursuit of a fighter aiming to strafe the helpless survivors of the Bainbridge and the boats of Sejong the Great, currently hauling them soaking and freezing from the sea. A pair of Sidewinders jumped off their hardpoints, the accompanying warning sounding out over the airwaves. For good measure, the pilot hosed his target with a long burst of cannon fire, letting out a yell of triumph as his plane sliced through the cloud of smoke. Vapor trailing from the tips of his wings, he circled back over the Ford, wings waggling to the cheers of those below before intercepting another flight of bombers head-on, taking several hits which sent debris splashing into the sea but taking its share of blood in return. RAMs and Phalanx fire flying past not meters away from its wings, it rolled over and up into the sky, making room for the next F-18, guided from the flame-choked hangars onto the smoked-wreathed flight deck by handlers who had to be suicidal, on drugs, or suicidal because of drugs, to be flung screaming off into the fight.

"Fire eleven!" The CIC called another shot, yet another Standard Missile screaming off to god-knows-where, off to blow another one of the monsters out of the air. Ruiz could hardly believe it; before his eyes, the overwhelming horde of incoming attackers, more planes than he'd thought could fit into the sky, had melted away to a few pitiful stragglers desperately playing keep away with Standard Missiles and rotary cannons, reinforcements having broken off their attack runs long ago. However, he refused to feel satisfaction. To be sure, the situation was much better than it had been just a few minutes ago. The uncountable number of contacts had diminished to merely dozens, and those were staying well out of range of their weapons, now wary of what could be unleashed on them by the ships and the, quite honestly still pathetic, CAP. The Preble and Sejong were still volleying out the occasional missile, but they had stopped firing for the most part, taking the opportunity to rest and regroup and make desperately needed repairs. "Fire twelve!"

"All inbounds eliminated!" Bukowski called out, giving the plots a once-over alongside Ruiz. "Still read seventy-one - belay that, seventy-two hostiles, no imminent threat! Damn, Commander, your guys are good!" Baker gave him a strained grin in reply, still concentrated wholly on coordinating with CIC. A sheen of sweat appeared on her skin as she acknowledged, denied, issued and accepted orders, trying to mesh Ruiz's orders with the CIC's information. So focused was she that she missed the captain's next set of orders.

"Cease fire, cease fire, secure missiles and guns!" Either nobody heard him, or they didn't want to obey. "Cease fire, goddammit! Baker!"

"Sir, they're still out there!"

"They're no threat now! We need to conserve ammo and regroup! Cease fire!"

"Ah, aye aye sir! CIC, cease fire!" It took a moment for the crew to respond, but one by one the weapons fell silent, tracer streaks slowly disappearing. A single 25 mm autocannon on the port side was the last to go, its communications with the bridge apparently severed, but its gunners took their hands off the triggers once the lookouts yelled down from the bridge, voices hoarse from smoke and shouting.

"CIC reports all weapons secured, sir! Gunners on high alert!"

"You better bet we are!"

"Keep it that way!" The echoing of weapons fire died away only with great reluctance. Flames danced on the water where fuel had spilled from ruptured tanks and covered the entire sea, backlighting drifting debris and half-floating bodies, their bright orange life vests reflecting the glow. In the hellish half-light provided by the flames, Ruiz could clearly see the wrecks of the Bainbridge and Michael Murphy, by now only visible by their bows and sterns poking up above the water, slowly slipping beneath their waves despite a valiant struggle by what remained of their reserve buoyancy as the Preble and Sejong the Great stood silent sentinel, the Ford limping along behind them. Soft cries and screams still echoed from within the sinking ships, sailors trapped amidst wreckage or immobilized by injuries unable to escape their watery coffins, and nobody was coming to save them. The John Finn's wreck still burned, a single point of light on the horizon. Dimly, Ruiz became aware of a slight list in Churchill's deck, and as one of the remaining Hornets passed overhead, performing a victory roll, he realized he had a piece of debris stuck in his arm. He reached up, plucked it out and put it in his pocket alongside the shell casing, not feeling anything. How could this have happened?

"Oh my God. Oh my God." The nav officer murmured, shivering as he gazed out the remnants of a window with a thousand-yard stare. Looking around, Ruiz saw that much of the bridge crew wore the same look, staring down at their hands, trembling, quietly crying, laughing softly and everything in between. In a better situation, he might have ordered to get their shit together - but truth was, he was half a second from going the same way. How could he order them to suck it up when he couldn't do it himself?

"What the hell just happened? Oh Jesus, what the hell do we do?!" The sailor looked hopefully at Ruiz, the utterly lost look in his eyes almost pitiful. They needed direction, something to focus on, to get their minds off how badly they'd been beat until they were out of danger. They could afford to break down in port and over a bottle of beer, but here? They'd be good as dead.

"Keep it together, people!" Academy never prepared me for this.He sighed, running a shaky hand through his hair. He'd lost his cap at some point - he'd have to fix that. But first, he needed to figure out what to do next and figure it out fast. Even with AEGIS was online now, he needed to get Churchill moving, get her doing something, because hesitation would spell death and there were too many things to be done to be standing around with their thumbs up their asses. As he looked at the displays, his crew waited on edge, one collective eye on the radar, the other on the gauges, and hands on their triggers and keyboards. The tension was thick enough to deflect shellfire. His gaze swept around the room, finally landing on the primary AEGIS display.

"Sir, what are our orders?" He needed time to think, dammit. If there was ever a time that his crew needed a leader, it was now, but he needed to think! Unconsciously, his fingernails began digging into his palms. A plan, he needed a plan…

"Sir, what do we do?!" a sailor nearly shouted at him, and Ruiz could see that he was on the verge of a complete breakdown. In fact, everyone around him seemed on the knife's edge of panic, now that the adrenaline in their systems had died down enough to let them panic. It was in their eyes, in the air, surrounding and filling them, and their discipline and training wouldn't let them endure much longer.

"Captain-!"

"Everyone! Calm! The fuck! Down!" Mustering the deadliest glare he could, Ruiz shouted at the top of his lungs. "I repeat! Calm! Down!" Apparently, all he needed was a little volume. His voice broke through the cloud of panic, causing everyone in earshot to blink a little, a small shudder passing through their bodies. It seemed like a fog had lifted from their minds just long enough to let their training reassert itself, a bulwark against fear. He could see their eyes clearing, heads metaphorically screwing back on straight. He'd reached them - but it wouldn't last, unless they had direction. He had to give them something to do…

It would have to for now. "See to the injured and make sure your equipment is functioning. You two!" The indicated sailors started, surprised at being singled out.

"Sir!"

"I don't know how badly the PA is damaged. I'll make an announcement, but pass the message to commence repairs immediately and report the situation back to me. Got it?"

"Yes sir!" Ruiz motioned to the bridge hatch.

"Get to it." They saluted and jogged off. The other sailors began to break out first aid kits, wrapping bandages around the wounds of the more seriously injured. The gunners started weapons checks, reloading, checking chambers, replacing barrels. Baker continued to examine her console, trying to figure AEGIS out while Bukowski did the same over at his station.

"Tactical, anything incoming?"

"No sir."

"Baker, AEGIS still working?"

"Yes sir. Whatever those glitches were, they're gone - for now."

"Okay." His gaze fixed on a single point on the display, and a plan - short-term and tenuous, but a plan - formed in his mind. Okay, listen up!" shouted Ruiz, hoping that volume would be an adequate substitute for direction. It appeared to be so. The bridge crew lifted their heads and looked at him, letting out a collective sigh of relief that someone had some idea of what to do. "Don't get relaxed. Here's what we'll do. Helmsman, can the shafts take half ahead?"

"Yes sir, I-I think she'll hold. General Electric ain't gonna give up without a fight!"

"Then bring us about to course two zero eight." He took one more look at the display, surveying the battlefield, taking a deep breath to slow the adrenaline pumping through his veins and clear his head. Half-assed decisions were not something he could afford. "We're going to assist the Ford."

The helmsman blinked. "Sir, what about John Finn?"

Ruiz looked over at the radioman, receiving a small shake of his head in return. "They're gone. If there's anyone left, they'll have to wait for morning. With visibility this bad, we can't risk going out there, and AEGIS could crap out again at any time." The helmsman nodded glumly and turned the wheel around, glancing backwards at the small orange light flickering on the horizon. "Hand me the radio."

"Here, sir."

"Thank you." He took a breath, making sure his voice was steady. The sailors around him, ears still ringing from gunfire and missile launches, might not have noticed, but whoever he reached would certainly hear his voice shaking. Keying the mic, he said in as firm a voice as he could, "Ford, this is Churchill. Reporting no inbound hostiles, we are coming on station to assist. What can we do, over?"

As Ruiz listened to the reply, Bukowski sidled over to the Baker, gingerly stepping over the broken glass and general debris littering the floor. "How the hell does he do that?"

"Do what?"

"Just… I dunno… one moment we were all crying and screaming and fighting for our lives, and now he's just… talkin' on the radio like it weren't no thing. Jesus, my whole body's shaking!" He held up his arm to show her.

Baker batted him away. "Battle does weird things to people, I guess."

"We ain't never been in a battle before."

Baker shrugged, a much more casual movement than she would have though possible given her situation. Her voice also came out surprisingly steady, given how much she just wanted to curl up and cry. "First time for everything. Guess we know what we're really made up of now."

"Kiddin' me?" Bukowski jerked his head over to the gunners, laughing and high fiving each other over their Brownings on the remaining lookout platform. "They did the hard work, we were just hangin' onto our asses and hoping they shot straight."

"And we did that well, right? That's all we need to do." Baker clapped him on the shoulder, partly to reassure him and partly to conceal her own, growing feelings of uselessness, which she was afraid would make themselves known if she didn't do something. "Come on! Cheer up! We're alive, aren't we? Helluva lot better than some of those poor bastards can say," she said, in a deliberately loud and cheerful voice which drew a few irritated and disapproving looks as a raft of debris passed alongside, a few bodies poking out from within.

"Keep it down, will ya? Ain't right for you to be talkin' like that when we've got dead of our own." Bukowski shook his head, shooting a glare back at Ruiz. "What's he thinking, anyway, going to help Ford when there's people in the water right there?" He pointed in what could have been the direction of the Bainbridge, the Michael Murphy, or the John Finn.

"Because we need that carrier more than anything, tactical." Voice ice-cold and hard as steel, Ruiz didn't even bother to turn to respond. "If we can't get planes in the air, this has all been for nothing. Even if we pull those sailors out of the water, we'll be blown up as soon as the next wave comes. Or if they don't get us, the next one, and by then we'll be out of things to shoot back. Am I understood?"

"... yes sir."

"In any case, Ford needs us to take on casualties and transfer medical personnel. They'll be helping top off our fuel tanks." Ruiz turned to point at Baker. "Commander, as all other officers are currently unavailable, I'm assigning you to make sure the transfer goes smoothly. I'll have someone come up from CIC to replace you."

"O-oh, me?"

"Yes." Baker nodded, taking off her headphones and sliding off her chair. Bukowski patted her back as she passed by.

"Oh, I want to talk to you for a second."

"Y-yes sir." Baker changed heading and came to parade rest in front of Ruiz. "What is it?"

"This way." He stepped outside onto the lookout platform, wind whipping at his clothes. Baker followed and stood by the ledge, looking down at the sailors running back and forth across the deck below, bearing welding torches, rope, crates of supplies and stretchers. Water sprayed from hoses into the fires still burning all across the ship, soaking those caught in the streams to the bone. "You alright?"

"Wh-what do you mean, sir?"

"Just before the battle, that… thing that hit everyone… are you going to be okay?"

"I-I think so, sir." She really didn't, but the captain looked like he had more important things to be worrying about than the CIC liaison.

"Good, good," he said a bit distractedly, confirming her suspicions. "I haven't felt anything like that before… and frankly, I don't think anyone has ever felt anything like that. Felt like something was stabbing…" He hesitated, clearly searching for words.

"At your soul?"

Ruiz sighed, heavily. "I really hate sounding so superstitious and psuedo-mystical, but yes. At my soul." He shivered a bit, whether from the wind or the memories of that terrible pain Baker couldn't tell. "It was just wrong, you know."

"I know what you mean, sir." She snuck a glance back at the bridge, just in time to catch Bukowski muttering a prayer and discreetly crossing himself. The helmsman had a string of prayer beads in one hand, and the radioman was muttering something with his eyes closed. "I think everyone knows what you mean."

"Yes, well… there has to be an explanation for this. Something testable, something technological, like some new kind of radar or an LRAD sort of thing, something that's not magic." He looked her in the eyes. "I don't know what Admiral Brown would say - I haven't been able to reach him for orders, and for all I know he's dead - but our mission's changed. We're not search-and-destroy any more, we're run-and-tell. We need to get out of here and let someone know what's happened. Am I clear?"

"Y-yes sir."

"Good." He clapped a hand on her shoulder. "Are you sure you're alright? Whatever the hell that shit was, you looked pretty shaken up by it. More than the others."

"I'm fine, sir," she said, with more force than she meant to put into the words. A shadow crossed Ruiz's eyes and he let go of her, taking a step back.

"In any case, head down and help the transfer crew on the helo deck. I think some time away from the bridge will do you good. I'll have a replacement sent up from CIC," he said, as the remaining ships of the task force came into view.

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir." Saluting smartly, she clapped her boots together and made her way towards the bridge hatch, feeling Ruiz's eyes on the back of her head the entire way. Baker managed to keep her composure all the way through the bridge, helped by the fact that everyone was too engrossed in their tasks to take notice of her odd expression. She even managed a parting nod as she closed the hatch.

"Strange…" Ruiz put the commander and what she obviously wasn't telling him out of his mind. Walking back to the center of the bridge, he looked up at the Ford. Most of the fires were out now, and one of the elevators was back in operation. Another Hornet was being brought out of the hangars, a desperately needed reinforcement for the CAP. The bulk of the carrier should have made him feel safe, but now it just seemed vulnerable and fragile. Nothing made sense any more. He needed a goddamn drink - or at least a smoke.

"What the hell did we find…?"

---

No sooner had the heavy steel door closed than Baker slumped back against it, sliding down to the floor with a soft groan. Laying a hand over her closed eyes, she tilted her head back, jaw clenched against waves of fatigue and a pounding ache throughout her body, but particularly in the region of her brain right behind her skull. Staying there for a few moments, she savored the feeling of just sitting, just being idle, just… resting.

"Oh God, what did we get ourselves into…?"

"Commander?" She opened her eyes. The concerned gaze of a marine met hers, an M240 hanging across his front.

"I'm fine." She waved away his hand and pushed herself up, suppressing a grunt as the motion sent a wave of nausea coiling through her gut, originating in her forehead. Lightheaded, she stood for a moment, blinking and trying to stop the world from swaying like a greenhorn sailor on a kayak in a storm just back from liberty at oh-dark-hundred. "Really."

"Are you sure? Should I find a corpsman?"

"No. Others need the beds. Are you alright?"

The marine smiled sadly, and for the first time she saw the bandages wrapped around his stomach and head, cleverly hidden beneath his helmet and webgear. "I'll be alright. My buddies won't."

"I… I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You couldn't have known what would have happened." He forced a chuckle. "They went down shooting, at least - after our skulls stopped exploding and imploding at the same time. That first two-five opening up was us." Another chuckle, this one unforced but much darker. "Think we even got one of those bastards - 'course, that's when they focused us. I had the good fortune of being on a trip to the armory, and, well, that's why I'm alive and they're… not."

"If you need to talk…"

"I don't." He walked past and put his hand on the hatch, then looked back at her, a sort of understanding in her eyes. "You need a few seconds to leave?"

"Thanks." She took her leave, walking briskly to the stairs. A few seconds later, behind her, she heard the marine greeting the captain, then relieving the marine already there. The corridors of the ship enveloped her as she broke into a run, saluting and greeting the sailors she passed. A few returned the gestures, but they were the exceptions. The rest either didn't notice or were too busy to care. It was easy to see why - though she tried to avoid the damaged sections of the ship, it was impossible to steer entirely clear, and what she saw of the damage-control efforts only increased her sense of uselessness. What good was being able to push a few knobs and manipulate a display when she could literally see the sky from the center of the superstructure? At least the sailors she passed could rewire a broken circuit or put out an electrical fire, both of which were in no short supply.

Stepping over debris, ducking under warped metal, coughing against the smoke and trying to ignore the incessant alarms, she stopped for a moment to gain her bearings. She knew Churchill like the back of her hand, but battle had turned her familiar corridors into a hellish maze of screams and moans. She stepped to the side as a pair of sailors rushed past, a stretcher borne between them, the man they carried limp and unmoving. Another man was on his hands and knees, coughing his lungs out, another man on the ground behind him. Wiping his mouth, he stood up and put his hands under the other's arms, eliciting a groan of pain. Muttering apologies, he began to drag him back, making it all of three meters before collapsing again, coughing uncontrollably. Baker held a jagged piece of steel out of his way as he passed, but the look on the man's face told her not to even think about interfering any further.

Still making her way towards the helo deck, the thought crossed her mind that perhaps they ought to be focusing on themselves before helping the Ford… but then again, wasn't that the job of an escort? To protect its charge at all costs? She supposed nobody had really known what that truly meant until today, and she found that the practice was not as clean as theory made it out to be, especially as a pair of seamen ran by her carrying a length of hose and a fire extinguisher, clothes completely drenched and smoldering in several places. Luckily for her, the path to the helo deck was relatively clear, though she had to shove her shoulder against a couple of the more stuck doors. At one point, she stopped to help a sailor handle a hose, and at another she paused to help a pair of corpsmen drag a seaman out from under a fallen light panel.

"Commander Baker!" An ensign, sporting a hastily tied bandage around his bicep, saluted her as she finally emerged onto the flight deck, coughing a little from the light smoke omnipresent in the corridors. "Everything alright on the bridge?"

"We're a little shaken up, but everything's good up there."

"Wish I could say the same for us down here." A bitter expression crossed the ensign's face before he shook it off. "Transfer's already in full swing. Jones and Schmidt passed through a moment ago, told us you're here to oversee?"

Before answering, Baker looked around, taking in the hustle and bustle. Sailor lined the starboard side of the destroyer's helo deck, helping injured sailors up from the RHIBs going back and forth between the Churchill and the gargantuan carrier whose shadow the destroyer found itself in. Other sailors played hoses over the fires still burning merrily away in the carrier's hangars and flight deck and Churchill's own hull, while others organized equipment and handed it out to rescue and damage control parties headed belowdecks, or to the sailors trying to repair the badly damaged superstructure-mounted equipment. Still others kept binoculars trained on the horizon and sea, unwilling to take their eyes off the enemy aircraft still circling around twenty kilometers out, only visible by their small green and purple lights. A few marines crouched next to them, rifles and machine guns in hand. It appeared the hangar had escaped too much damage, and was now serving as a makeshift hospital. As she watched the corpsmen, working under the rotors of a pair of Sea Hawks, thought crossed her mind - had the medbay been hit? Oh, God…

"Uh, that's right. Shouldn't Lieutenant Coleman be doing this?"

His gaze turned distant. "Lieutenant Coleman's dead, sir."

"Ah. Fill me in."

"We're putting our RHIBs in the water to get the wounded over to us." He motioned to a line of sailors along the side of the Ford. "They're firing a few lines over to transfer supplies." As he spoke, one of the sailors shouted a warning. A puff of smoke appeared, accompanied by a bang, and a grappling line soared over the gap and clanked onto Churchill's deck. A sailor immediately ran over to secure it while her comrades prepared the receiving gear. Meanwhile, the sailors on the Ford attached a thick pipe to the line and began to feed it over. The whole operation was done with such nonchalance that Baker felt even more inadequate than before. She couldn't imagine what the helmsman was going through, having Ruiz's metaphorical eye on his every move as he grappled with the damaged rudder, trying not to crash Churchill into the carrier.

"Right." She coughed into the back of her hand, suddenly feeling like she'd just stumbled loudly and drunkenly onto the stage of some painstakingly choreographed opera. "Looks like you've got things under control. I'll just… hang back and observe."

"Yes, sir." Without so much as a second glance at her, the ensign turned back to directing the transfer. Feeling distinctly out of place, Baker wandered through the throng of sailors, trying not to get in the way. She had a feeling that Ruiz had sent her down just to get her out of the way. Suddenly realizing just how tired she felt, she made her way over to the railing. Leaning on the cold wet metal, she hung her head down and sighed.

"What is this shit…"

"Commander?"

"Eh?" She looked left. A sailor had joined her, a lit cigarette in his hand. "Smoking lamp's not lit, you know."

"Sir, I think we're past that point. I'll turn myself in for captain's mast once we're in port." He breathed deep, then let out a cloud of smoke. "Would you like a smoke, sir?"

"I… I could use one." The sailor smirked and held the pack up. Baker took one out and accepted a light, savoring the nicotine as it coursed through her system. It helped with the shakes. Always had - was why she'd started, years ago by now, and she saw no reason to stop now.

"Figure I should be dead, you know?" The sailor waved his cigarette at the RHIBs shuttling back and forth below, laden with wounded personnel from the Ford and at the Sejong and Preble, still pulling the sailors of the sunken destroyers from the water. "If I'm living on borrowed time, what's the harm in killing meself a bit? 'Course, what I could really do with is a vodka."

"Shouldn't you be at your station?"

He snorted. "My station's destroyed, sir. Shell lift took a direct hit, we're hauling the five-inchers up by hand. Not shooting right now, so… here I am." He waved his cigarette again, this time at her. "Besides, shouldn't you be at your station?"

"Captain's ordered me to come down here to oversee things. I think he just wants me out of the way, and… I thought I should probably stay out of DAMCON's way."

"That makes two of us…" In silence, they continued to smoke. Baker tapped the cigarette a few times, letting ash fall into the water below. The sailor handed out a few more cigarettes to whomever passed by, the cancer sticks and offered lighter accepted with murmured thanks. The heat from Ford's hangar fires bathed their bodies, covering everything with an eerie, flickering orange-red glow. The smell of cigarette smoke didn't even begin to hide the stench of burning jet fuel and the fuel leaking from Churchill's own tanks.

"You know, they never told us that the real thing would be quite like this. Academy made it all seem so… detached, you know?"

"I dunno. Maybe that's just you officers." He looked up at her. "Hey, sir, you've got blood on your face."

"Huh? Oh, I hit my console. It's nothing."

"If you say so, sir. You might wanna get the corpsmen to look at that. Actually, I insist."

"You ordering me around, seaman?"

"Consider it a subordinate's recommendation." He pointed to her cancer stick. "I'll hold that for you."

"O-oh, thanks." Plucking it from between her teeth, she handed it to the sailor, then turned to make her way to the corpsmen. The short journey was complicated by the fact she had to step aside several times to make way for stretchers, but she found it hard to mind. The first corpsman she found speared with an are-you-fucking-serious look, thrust a few alcohol wipes and a bandage and some tape into her hands, snapped at her to keep the wound clean and dressed, then made a get-the-fuck-out-cause-you're-literally-the-least-important-thing-here motion.

"You're back. That was quick." The sailor passed back her cigarette and relit it.

"Thanks." The little tube of paper and carcinogens clenched between her teeth, she took the wipe gingerly to her forehead, hissing as the alcohol stung her cut. Throwing the thing over the railing, she then wrapped the bandage gently around her head, trimming it off and taping the whole business together. "There. Do I look any better?"

"With all due respect, sir, I think you should have stuck with the open wounds." The man laughed and waved away her offended expression. "I'm just kidding, Commander. The bandage suits you."

"Hmph. I'll have you keelhauled for that." Her mood lifted a bit nonetheless, she took a last drag on the thing before stubbing it out on the railing and letting it fall. "I should be going."

"Good luck. Hey, before you go… we're gettin' out of here, right?"

"Soon as we can."

"Thanks, Commander." A small measure of relief appeared in the sailor's expression. Baker waved as she walked away, spitting the last of the taste of nicotine over the side as she went. It was hard to believe that the water could be so calm, given what had just taken place. It seemed that so much death and destruction should have resulted in a typhoon or at least a bolt of lightning, but the sky was still clear and full of stars. She supposed that was for the best; the last thing they needed was a storm.

"Huh?" For a moment, she could have sworn she saw a pair of yellow lights in the water, looking back at her. Baker blinked hard, rubbed her eyes and looked again, squinting hard. Nothing. "Seeing things. Must be tired. Or it's time to get glasses." She chuckled it off, rubbing the back of her head in private embarrassment. "... right?" She looked again.

"Hey, Commander…?" The sailor came after her, cigarette gone. He stood next to her, leaning over the railing as well. "Did you see that?"

"You too?" They looked at each other, then down at the faint yellow glow, deep beneath the surface between Churchill and Ford.

"Shit-"

"Everyone! Back from the edge!" Her shout startled the sailors still crowding near the starboard side of the helo deck. A few turned to look at her, questions on their faces, before they were hidden by the face of an angry corpsman.

"Cut that shit out before I throw you overboard! You're interfering with operations, sir!" Baker blanched, shaking her head rapidly.

"No, I'm serious, get back now! Everyone!" The sailor, deciding that persuasion was for losers, had waded into the crowd, physically pulling people back from the edge and yelling at others to do the same. Curses and questions floated up.

"What's the big idea?!"

"We're almost done here, can it fucking wait?!"

"Get your hands offa me before I put a dent in your skull!"

"I don't wanna do this…" She drew in a deep breath. "Everybody! This is a goddamn order! Get back from the edge, now!"

Pulling rank appeared to do the trick. Sailors, grumbling in discontent, began to move towards the center of the helo deck. A few insults were hissed half-under-breaths, but she could deal with those. As a last few sailors finished pulling casualties up from the RHIBs, she sighed with relief. Whatever she'd seen, at least everyone was safe from it now. But what had it been…?

Then, like the universe mocking her assumptions, a bone-chilling cry came from the lookout.

"Torpedoes!"

No time to react, barely enough time to understand. The RHIBs were upended, spilling their occupants into the sea. Water erupted in a pair of towering geysers, deep thundering blasts accompanied by the sound of hull metal tearing and bulkheads collapsing. As bad as that was, a more concerning sound overtook them before they'd even died away: that of the ocean flooding into places the ocean was never supposed to be.

"We're holed below the waterline!"

"Oh God! What happened?!"

"Where did that come from?!"

"We gotta get out of here!" In agreement with the unknown sailor's statement, Churchill's propellers started with a roar, thrashing the sea behind the destroyer's stern. The replenishment lines between her and Ford were unceremoniously cut, RHIBs left to catch up by themselves. With agonizing slowness, Churchill began to pick up speed, gaining knots with every second that passed until, with a blast that sent sailors screaming over the side, a torpedo rammed itself into the propellers and tore off an entire two meters worth of stern.

As Churchill plowed to a halt, hull groaning in pain, Baker picked herself off the ground. Staggering slightly, she surveyed the scene in a daze. She could barely think, but a single thought made itself present in her mind: get to the bridge.

"Out of my way!" Charging back into the depths of the superstructure, she climbed up ladders, sprinted up stairs, barreled through corridors, all the while dodging sailors running in all directions. Announcements sounded over the PA, directing damage control efforts and defensive fire as the enemy aircraft, seeing their opponent's weakness, began their attacks anew. As bullets sent spall flying off the walls, the last set of stairs flew by beneath her feet. So close-!

If she'd been half a second faster, she'd have died. The blast wave blew the strong steel hatch off its hinges, sending it flying over her head to smash into the roof above. A horrible screech came over the PA, before the entire system went silent. "Eep-!" She cowered in the stairwell, a blast of hot air whipping through her hair. "N-no…"

The bridge was gone, in its place, a mangled cage of steel and ash. A few bodies lay strewn around the floor - she numbly supposed the rest had been blown apart. The roof was gone, as were most of the consoles. The wheel hung limply from its mounting. The throttle was gone, torn off and held in the helmsman's death grip. Her station was nothing but scrap metal, the chair she'd spent days and nights uncomfortably shifting in blown through the blown-out wall. The only saving grace here was that the explosion hadn't touched off the dud bomb embedded in the port lookout station - that thing was gone for good.

"Bukowski? Li? Captain? Is anybody here?" The shouts from the deck below, the hammering of guns, the drone of planes and the blasts of bombs faded away as she stood amid the ruins of the bridge. "Somebody… is anybody alive?!"

One of the bodies moved, the tiniest motion. "Baker… !"

"Captain Ruiz!" She slid the last-half meter on her knees. "Captain, don't worry, I'll get you out of here! Hold on!"

"I'm done for, Commander." She shook her head furiously, but the three-foot long jagged steel shard stuck through his chest was undeniable. "Wouldn't you know it… on my last cruise as well…"

"Sir-!"

"Church… she was looking forward to you taking over, you know. Too bad… I never got the chance to turn her over."

"Don't worry about that now!"

Ruiz continued on, ignoring her protests. "She'll hold on for as long as you need, but you've got to get everyone off. This ship is going down."

"Sir, I can't be in charge!"

"You'll have to. You're… in command now, Baker." With a trembling, bloodstained hand, Ruiz reached up to the rank badge on his shoulder, took it off, and pressed it into her hand. "Show it to them, it'll get them to follow you." With a sigh, his hand slipped off of hers and fell to the floor. "Now… is the 1MC still working?"

"Sir…" Miraculously, it was. Reaching up, she slipped the 1MC mic off its holder and pressed it into his right hand.

"Thank you, Commander." Raising it to his lips, he keyed the mic. "All hands, this is Captain Ruiz. Abandon ship, repeat, abandon ship. Pass the word to any unaware personnel. Repeat, abandon ship, abandon ship." He paused for breath and licked his lips. "Commander Baker is now in command. Obey her orders. This is my final command. Ruiz, out." The mic clattered to the floor as Ruiz leaned his head back, face oddly peaceful. "That means you too. Get off this ship."

"S-sir!" She rendered probably the sharpest salute she'd ever made. "I'll make sure…"

"Just go, please."

Baker nodded, turning away with a gulp and making her way back down the stairs. Ruiz sighed again, then let out a harsh cough. Blood spattered the front of his uniform. "Geez… well, I guess it's as good a place as any." Churchill rumbled under his back, another bomb hitting somewhere amidships. "Did I make a difference, I wonder?"

His breathing growing more and more difficult and his vision dimming, Ruiz found that sleep was sounding evermore like a good idea. He was so tired… just a few seconds of shuteye couldn't hurt, could it? As he closed his eyes for the final time, he could have sworn he heard someone kneeling down beside him.

"Baker… I thought I told you… to get off the ship…" A hand brushed across his forehead, and a familiar presence made itself known in the back of his mind. "Not Baker…? Who… ah. Are you mad at me?" A finger pressed to his lips, and a drop of liquid fell on his face. Weakly, he reached up a hand to brush it away. It came away stained red, but just for a second he could have vowed that it was clear and shiny.

"Just you and me…" As he slipped away, he thought he heard a whispering right by his ear. With the final bit of his strength, and as a nearby bomb blast caused sparks to erupt from the ruins of the consoles and a heavy metal beam to collapse towards him, he strained to hear.

Just rest.

---

"Abandon ship! Abandon ship!"

"Ahhhhh!"

"Help me!"

Baker gulped as she leaned over the railing. The water below was already choked with bobbing orange life jackets, and more were joining them with every second. Even as she watched, a sailor buckled his vest, took off his boots and, with a deep breath of air, jumped from the ship. As he did, an internal explosion blew a jagged shard of the hull off, the fireball hitting him mid-fall and setting him aflame. His burning form splashed screaming into the water below, unnoticed amid the chaos.

"Baker! Baker!" She turned, just in time to see Bukowski, face scorched and bloodied, come stumbling out of a hatch. His uniform was burned away in multiple places, and what was left of it might have been better off as ash.

"Bukowski!"

"Thank God I found you! I thought you died when that torp hit!" Gasping for breath, struggling against the increasing slant of the deck, he made his way up next to Baker and grabbed hold of the railing. "Holy shit, everything's on fire! What're you still doing on board?! Didn't you hear the PA, Churchill's fucked, we've got to get off!"

"I know, I know! I just - give me a moment!"

"Come on, jum-oh shit, get down!"

Guns chattering, a fighter swept down upon the pair. Sailors around them screamed in pain, toppling over the side or back into the ship. A couple of particularly unfortunate ones fell into open hatches, their cries fading as they were lost into an increasingly vertical steel labyrinth.

"Bastard! I'll make you pay for that!" Baker yelled impotently at the sky, rage and terror combining in her voice. "Bukowski, let's g-"

"Baker… I don't think I'mma make it." Blood flecking his lips, Bukowski gave her a sad smile. Blood ran down a hole punched straight through the center of his chest, and from the exit wound on the other side.

"No, no no no! Come on, there's gotta be corpsman down there, he'll patch you up!"

"We both know… that's not gonna happen." At that, and with a sigh, he let go of the railing.

"Fuck!" Baker grabbed for his hand, but missed by a bare inch. His body smashed into a CIWS mount on the way down, denting the radar dome. Water quickly enveloped him, the sea foaming up around him as he sank beneath the surface. "Fuck… " She reached after him for half a second before gritting her teeth and turning away. Practically hanging from the railing now, she heaved herself upwards and over, tumbling onto the side of Churchill's hull. She took a moment to rest her palm against the cold, wet steel. The ship shuddered beneath her touch, as if telling her to fucking go already!

"Thanks for holding out for us." Filling her lungs with salty, smoky air, she picked herself and, half-slipping and half-running, made her way towards the edge. Standing on what used to be the keel, she prepared herself to jump as far as she could, put as much distance between herself and the sinking vessel as she could - or at least, that was the plan. In reality, her foot slipped, causing her head to smash into the hull plating and her body to tumble over the edge. "Not the plannnnn!"

The shock of hitting water blasted away any haziness caused by the blow to her skull. Clawing for the surface, she gasped for breath as soon as she broke the water, all air in her lungs forced out by the impact. Lightly treading water, letting her life jacket do most of the work, she looked about herself in a sort of stupefied disbelief. Everything, like the flaming bits of debris floating next to her to, the sailors still hitting the water around her, the cries of the wounded and those attempting to rescue them, and above it all the scorched bulk of the Churchill looming above her, now pointing its bow to the sky as it continued to roll to starboard, just felt so surreal. It felt as if she would just blink hard enough, she'd wake up from all of this, that she'd be back on Churchill's bridge, listening to the feed from CIC. She held her hand in front of her face, water dripping from her palm. Was that really her hand? How could it be, if it felt so detached, like a med school student holding up a corpse's arm for dissection?

"... mander! Get on!"

A shout promptly jolted her back to reality. Choking out a gasp, her body was once more her own and she cast her gaze about, searching for the source of the shout. One of Churchill's RHIBs, packed to the brim with sailors, floated about twenty meters away. With a start, she recognized it as the sailor who'd given her the cigarette, shouting at her as his comrades helped others climb aboard. "Swim, swim!"

"C-coming! Wait!" She broke into a freestyle, fighting for breath as water sloshed into her nose and mouth. A strong hand grasped her outstretched one and hauled her up and into the boat. "Th-thanks!"

"Don't mention it. Didn't think I'd leave you behind, did you?" Baker tried to nod and shake her head at the same time, wiping saltwater from her eyes and shivering like beads in a maraca. "Take it easy, you okay?"

"Y-yeah." She tried to look at her rescuer's face, but the water clinging to her eyelashes made that difficult. What she did see, however, confused her because that was not the face of the sailor. Blurry and indistinct as it was, the face she saw was way too young to be wearing that impossibly clean uniform. A uniform which, by the way, was most definitely not the working uniform. And that hair was at least a half a foot past regulation length! What was more, she couldn't ever recall hearing that voice, or seeing that face anywhere on the ship. But why was it so familiar…?

The person in front of her seemed to blink, as if in surprise, before a sad smile spread across their face. They put a finger to their lips in a shushing motion, then turned away to help on the other side of the boat.

"What the- wait! Who are you?! What's your name?!"

"Commander!" A hand landed on her shoulder, and she spun around. Stars sprung into her vision as her nose collided with a painfully hard chin.

"Ow! Owowowow!"

"Sorry, sorry!" She wiped her hand across her eyes, fully intent on punching whoever was in front of her across the face. Her hand faltered, however, when she realized just who it was.

"Huh? You?"

"Commander Baker! I thought I lost you for a moment!" The sailor sighed in relief, grinning at her. "Got off alright, did you?"

"Y-yeah. Hey, who was that?"

"Who was who?"

"The person who pulled me out, dumbass!"

"I don't know, I turned away for a moment and you were on board. Who the fuck cares, you're safe, aren't you?"

"Sure, I guess." They both turned to stare at Churchill's wreck, quickly slipping beneath the waves. A few more sailors jumped, but most of the surviving crew had evacuated by now, falling into the water mercifully clear of the burning fuel still present practically everywhere else. Bobbing life rafts, RHIBs, floating debris and life preservers were all in high demand, and Baker suddenly felt guilty for taking a place on one of the few motorized craft. "Maybe I should get back in the water…"

"What do you mean? Can't be in charge if you're floating around, can you?"

"Huh?"

"Don't you remember?" The sailor sighed. "Captain Ruiz put you in charge."

"Right…" She realized how she must look, knees tucked up to her chest and face half-buried in her legs. God, why had she decided to take a trial cruise before assuming command? "Right. Then I guess I should command, shouldn't I?"

"Whatever you're doing, do it quick. Those planes are coming back around!" The sailor pointed into the sky, where, lo and behold, the planes were coming back around. Men and women yelled in fear, diving back into the water and swimming hell-for-leather away from the boat. Several attempted to submerge themselves, foiled by the presence of life jackets around their bodies. The most desperate of them shed their life vests, hoping to God that the attackers left the scene before the breath left their bodies.

"Everyone, disperse, get away from each other! Get the wounded some shelter and stay low!" She dove for the bottom of the boat, covering one of the casualties with her body. The sailor laid next to her, following her example and putting himself between an incoming fighter and a man with a broken leg.

"Guess this is it, sir!"

"Shortest command I've ever held, that's for sure."

"It was an honor!"

"Same to you!"

"This is Sejong the Great, we are on station to assist survivors."

"What the fuck?!" Both of them nearly jumped out of the boat as the radio crackled and missiles flew overhead, sending the debris of the enemy planes raining down on their heads. "Be advised, there are enemy submarines in this area."

"Tell me something I don't know!" Nevertheless, they stood up, waving to the sailors on Sejong's deck. The destroyer picked its way through floating debris and survivors, coming to a stop next to the greatest concentration of life rafts. Still spitting missiles and anti-aircraft fire in all directions, the crew threw lines and ladders over the side, launching their own RHIBs as well. Preble trailed close behind, keeping a watchful eye over the proceedings and coming up alongside Ford, taking over for Churchill and beginning to play her hoses over the carrier.

Sailors began to climb back aboard the RHIB, double-drenched from two consecutive plunges. One of them got on the wheel and gunned the motor, maneuvering the boat closer to the destroyer's fantail. A rope ladder fell over the side, the man at the top shouting something in Korean.

"Alright, wounded first. Who here can move?" Most of the casualties raised their hands. "Alright, you all on first!"

"Yes sir!" With pained groans, they moved to the side and began the long climb up the ladder. Baker helped a few get started, getting the others into basket stretchers the Koreans lowered down to the boat. After they were gone she hung back a bit longer, letting the other survivors climb up first. It felt like a commander sort of thing to do.

A hand grabbed hers as she came up. "Welcome aboard, Ms…"

"Baker. Commander Baker."

"Ah, Commander." In surprisingly unaccented English, the sailor in front of her saluted smartly. Despite the disheveled, slightly burnt state of his uniform, he looked every bit the picture of a model sailor.

"Good to see you too. Came just in time, we were about to get strafed to bits!"

"Yes, yes. Where is Captain Ruiz?"

"Dead," she bit out, as shortly as possible to take the sting off the words. The sailor nodded sharply, expression hardening.

"I thought as much." His eyes widened. "Oh, I apologize. I am Commander Lee."

"Commander-" Her arm snapped up into a salute. "Sir!"

"No need. You have gone through enough today, I won't stand on procedure. Besides, we are of equal rank, are we not?" He looked up into the sky with a frown, where his ship's tracers intermingled with Preble's, Ford's, and three squadrons of F-18s. "I think it is safe to say that tonight did not go as planned."

How is he so calm?! "You can say that again."

"I think it is also safe to say that we should get out of here as soon as we can." As he spoke, a wing of dive bombers was engaged by his ship's CIWS as they pounced, falling out of the sky one by one as streams of concentrated 30 mm fire supplemented by 5-inch shells blasted through their armor and blew them apart. "After we finish rescuing the survivors, of course."

"Of course."

"Wait." He pressed a hand to an earpiece. "Yes… yes, I see." He looked at Baker with an odd smile. "I believe you will enjoy this."

"Huh-?"

In a series of four roars that came too close together to be distinguished, four missiles erupted from Sejong's forward VLS. Tipping over, their engines burned bright for a few seconds, then cut out. The missile casings split, allowing four dark forms to fall freely for a moment before parachutes appeared, slowing them until they hit the water. The seconds passed in relative silence, Commander Lee holding up a finger and looking at a watch.

"Right around… now."

Geysers erupted from the sea a good half a kilometer away. As they died down, a sheen of oil spread across the water, followed by a dark form breaking the surface. The Sejong's five inch gun immediately turned on the thing, blasting away with merriment. Twenty five-inch armor piercing rounds later, and a fireball sent debris and flotsam sky-high.

"Your ship has been avenged," Lee said simply to her dumbfounded face. "We have communications with the PLAN task force and will be moving to join them." He motioned somewhere to the east. "They are moving up from over there. I trust you have no objections to this?"

Huh. So this was what being in command was. Being peppered with questions and commands before she'd even had a chance to figure out which way was up. Luckily enough, this decision was easy. Not that she actually had a choice."No objections at all. I don't trust the commies further than my fist, but they can handle themselves in a fight," she said, feeling she had to justify her decision.

Lee nodded, apparently pleased that Baker knew what the pecking order on the ship was. "Then please have your men come with me belowdecks."

"R-right. Everyone, fol-" She paused. Lee raised an eyebrow and tilted his head at her.

"What is the matter?"

"Something's wrong." It was exceedingly hard to hear, but she'd become numb to cannon fire and missile launches at this point. A faint whistling, steadily growing louder and higher in pitch, almost like a dog whistle. It was coming from somewhere to the North, past the circling enemy planes. She looked up into the sky, filled with brightly twinkling stars not quite obscured by smoke, clear and sharp this far away from cities and civilization. A few of those stars seemed to be larger tonight, and were they… moving…

"What is-" Her eyes widened as she flashed back to late nights spent watching World War Two films alone in a college dorm. The whistling sound could be clearly heard now, and those twinkles were definitely getting closer. Her mind protested. This was the 21st century! Everybody used missiles! Those were obsolete! No way those could be actual- but then again, tonight had seen the emergence of goddamn dive and torpedo bombers that could jam AEGIS like a child's radio set and took a full three seconds of 20 mm fire to put down. She supposed this was just the next step. "No- incoming!" she shouted, just as the first shell plowed into Ford's bow.

For the second time that day, she found herself in the water. This time, however, she did not have a life jacket, and there was no boat around to pick her up. Spitting up saltwater, she bobbed near the surface, every wave threatening to sweep her back under. Sejong shuddered as another salvo came home to roost, explosions blowing out her thin hull on all sides. Her CIWS turned to engage, spraying 30 mm cannon rounds in a valiantly futile effort to protect its ship. It was to no avail. As sailors dove right back into the ocean's embrace, shells penetrated the VLS cells, fuel tanks, and magazines, and the lead ship of the Sejong the Great class guided missile destroyers swelled, shook, and split into pieces as internal detonations tore her hull apart like an angry child would a messed up drawing.

"No… no!" The Preble went next. She held out for a bit longer, already at speed to keep pace with Ford. Cutting her lines, she zigged and zagged, speeding up and slowing down, doing everything she could to keep ahead of the falling shells. It worked for a bit, and she even shot a few right out of the sky with her Phalanx. In the end, though, her luck ran out. A shell rammed straight into her stern, penetrating her deck with ease and exploding in her engineering compartment. As her propellers spun to a halt, the salvo dialled in, walking from stern to bow. Each and every inch of the destroyer was hit with what seemed like a battleship's worth of shells, so much so that she didn't even have a chance to explode, just… melted away. Baker saw five, maybe six bodies hit the water, and maybe four of them resurfaced. "No!"

She began to swim over, see what little she could do, but stopped cold as a thought struck her. It seemed the same thing had occurred to everyone at the same time, as heads began turning all around her. A Hornet passed low overhead, probably vectoring in for a landing, but peeled off just in time to avoid the shells which buried themselves in Ford's flight deck. Several explosions later, the deck had been peeled open like an old tin can, allowing the next, inhumanly precise salvo to go all the way through. As Ford's stern sagged low in the water, partially separated from the rest of her, the third salvo hit the island, wiping the structure from existence in a smoky blast. Barrage after barrage continued to strike, wiping out the propulsion, further mangling the flight deck, finishing the job the bombs had started on the hangar, and sending more and more sailors running for the boats or taking their chances with leaping from whatever openings they could find. Those who jumped from the elevator doors bobbed up, faces contorted with pain from injuries taken on landing. Those who fell from the flight deck didn't come up.

A final salvo penetrated all the way through Ford's ripped-up flight deck, ignored what remained of her hangar deck armor, and stopped only when they hit bottom. The underwater blast wave hit Baker in the gut, but worse was the knowledge that the carrier's back was now irreparably broken. To her astonishment, she realized a few guns were still firing, tracers stitching patterns in the air as Ford clawed at her attackers. They wouldn't be firing for long though, because as a final wave of RAMs left their cells and the Phalanxes fired their final bursts, two flights of torpedo bombers came in low and fast, dropped their payload and climbed back up into the sky. Combined with one last massive barrage, the deadly fish did what hundreds of aircraft couldn't. Watertight compartments failed one after another, bolts popped loose and welds tore open. Metal ripped and bulkheads crumpled, and the fatally weakened decks could do nothing but split along a jagged line. Sailors trapped in damaged compartments could only scream as the sea rushed in, tumbling head-over-heels as the carrier's two halves both began turning turtle even as they began their final journey to the bottom.

A piece of wreckage splashed down a meter away from her, but Baker was too numb to notice. The largest, best carrier in the US Navy… sunk. It couldn't be. It couldn't be! Her eyes were seeing things, her ears were lying, the smell of burning fuel and flesh wasn't real. It couldn't be real, it couldn't be real, it couldn't be real…

A green glow bathed her body, breaking through the heavy fog which had settled over her. Still treading, she turned to find the source. She nearly screamed as the broken form of an enemy fighter stared her straight in her face, a green light pulsing in the shattered glass dome on its top.

"Damn you! Damn you! What the hell are you?!" she shouted, not expecting answers but needing to say something. "Why did you attack us?! What the hell did we ever do to you?!"

The green light flared, and her vision filled with images. She tried to yell for help, but found her throat blocked and her tongue paralyzed. She couldn't look away; they were within her very mind. She couldn't cover her ears; the sound was inside her head. No matter how much she wanted to get away, they came after her, leaving her cowering in a ball in a corner of her mind as the images unfolded. They flashed by too quickly for her to see, but the endless progression of fire, blood, steel and death left an impression which would probably never leave.

Pain.

Death.

Abandonment.

Cold.

Forgotten.

Betrayed.

Anger.

Rage.

Vengeance.

Unable to coax her arms to move, she began to sink beneath the water. As she did, something akin to a bar of steel wrapped itself around her chest. She didn't, couldn't struggle. She closed her eyes and accepted her fate.

Salty sea air entered her throat, forcing her to gasp and hack up a lungful of water. Hands were upon her body, on her stomach, holding her down. She thrashed about, yelling, crying, striking out at anything within reach. Her fist met something hard and rigid, prompting a shout in a language she did not understand. That only increased her sense of panic; were the masters of the shells and aircraft here to take her prisoner, never to see home again? It only increased her resolve to go down swinging.

As she wrenched her leg free, something decked her across her jaw, and Baker saw stars. The blow shocked the images out of her head, and her eyes flew open with a gasp. Faces swam in her vision - human faces. Angry and worried, but human. One of the faces was shouting at her, but she couldn't understand. All she could do was cry, and cry she did, body going limp, all the fire and fight draining from her like fuel from Churchill's tanks. The thought of her ship, now far beneath the ocean, and all the sailors who'd gone down with her only made her cry harder.

"American, can you hear me? American!" A palm slapped across her cheeks, the pain forcing her tears to stop. She looked up and into a hard face, a hand raised and poised to strike again.

"Y-yeah, I hear you."

"Good." The hand lowered itself to her shoulder, holding her in a firm but not painful grip. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

"Good." The man turned to shout at someone, and the floor tilted beneath her feet as sea spray stung her skin. "I am Lieutenant Jing Weixing of the People's Liberation Army Navy. Do you understand this?"

"Yes." She sniffled, but her emotions seemed to be weighed down with lead, unable to surface. She supposed that was a good thing.

"Good. Are there other survivors?"

"Yes."

"That means we arrived just in time." He turned to bark orders into a radio set in a language Baker now realized was Mandarin. "I apologize for not coming sooner. My destroyer and two others will be rescuing whatever survivors we can. However, if we are attacked, we will retreat, no matter who is left in the water. Am I understood?"

"Yes."

"Good. You are now a guest of the People's Liberation Army Navy." He regarded her with a long look that held a measure of pity, something which Baker realized she hated. She didn't want anybody's pity!

"What does that mean?"

"It means you should now rest. Explanations can come later." He looked out to sea, at the fires still burning on the water, at the wrecks slowly slipping beneath the waves. "You are lucky we chose to remain separate from your task force. Our submarine was fortunate enough to escape and warn us of what was happening." He sighed and shook his head. "I don't know what has happened tonight, but you are one of the lucky ones. Tai ke lian le."

One of the sailors helped her sit up against the edge of the boat and offered her a bottle. The fresh water barely made a dent in the briny taste in her mouth and throat, but she sucked it down anyway. About half a kilometer away she could see more boats approaching, launched from the low, black, predatory silhouettes destroyers. A feeling of bitterness rose up in her before she could quash it; where had these bastards been when Churchill went down? Where'd they been when the enemy attacked? What gave them the right to swan in and play the hero after everyone else was dead. The thought nearly made her throw the bottle right back in the sailor's face.

She hadn't understood the exact meaning of that last sentence, but she got the gist well enough. Yes. What a shame that she hadn't died along with the rest of her comrades. As she sat there in a Chinese boat, eyes blank and staring into the sky filled with the drone of unseen aircraft and desperate pleas for help, the last thing she felt was lucky.