March 23, 1945 1815 Hours

T- 6 Hours, 45 Minutes and Counting

Navigation Bridge, DWS Ferguson

Southeast of Sicily

"Cap'n." Captain Rudolf ten Brincken turned to face the Janissary Specialist who stood on his cruiser's open bridge wing, a pair of heavy binoculars clapped to his eyes. "Somethin' goin' on." ten Brincken lifted his own field glasses and trained them on the Alliance task force he and his two destroyer consorts had been "observing" ever since they passed the Straits of Gibralter days ago. Sure enough, there were men swarming all over the ships, watertight doors slamming shut behind them, guns training out and elevating at the sky- all of them, he noted, carefully pointed away from his ship. Same old.

"I see it, lookout. No cause for alarm. Yankees always go to battle stations at sunset, and this is right on their schedule." There was no hint in his voice of the frustration and envy he felt when he looked at the Alliance ships. High Command might have stuck him with a uniquely pointless and annoying task, but damned if he was going to take that out on a serf seaman whose only offense was being nearby.

Besides, the Navy was a family tradition for him- which meant that when he'd chosen to enter it as an officer cadet nearly twenty-five years ago he'd been fully aware of just where the Domination's War Ships stood in relation to the other major naval powers of the world. The Navy had always been the poor relation among the Domination's armed services, with the sharply limited mission of securing the Draka homeland's coast from intruders and exercising sea control in the Mediterranean. Since the demise of Austria-Hungary as a naval power in 1918, Castle Tarleton had been content to rely largely on submarines and shore-based aircraft for the task, with a few powerful heavy cruisers and fast torpedo-firing destroyers to complement them.

All of which meant that his people would never have been able to assemble the collection of ships steaming 10,000 yards off his starboard side. Leading them all was the old battlecruiser Renown, flanked by a new heavy command cruiser, a British heavy, and one of the Yankees' antiaircraft cruisers. Almost a dozen destroyers and destroyer escorts flanked the task force, flying both the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes.

The centerpiece of the group, though, was beyond a doubt the massive new aircraft carrier Reprisal, and ten Brincken's heart clenched hardest when he looked her over. She was massive, longer than Renown and displacing over half again as much as she cut through the water at an insolently comfortable 22 knots. She deserved the traditional nickname of "flat-top" more than most- her smoke stacks were trunked over the side, leaving long white clouds in her wake, and her island was little more than a vestigial bump holding up a collection of masts and antennas, balanced precariously out on a sponson over the water. All to hold the new generation of carrier aircraft the Yankees were supposed to be building, turning their fleet into nuclear strike platforms from the sea.

He smirked. Of course, according to the greenskin back at Nova Cartago Reprisal was currently serving as the world's most expensive transport ship, steaming obligingly on to clear India of troops that might oppose the Draka's plans for the region. Maybe a little more charity was in order, considering the circumstances.

"Suh." This time the voice came from the darkened room behind the bridge, young and still high-pitched. Sublieutenant Moreau stepped out, with Chief Specialist Nkambe in his wake. That would be unusual in the Army, a Janissary reporting along with his Citizen officer, but the Navy's traditions had been heavily shaped by the Rationalist Party and in any case technical qualifications often mattered more than rank aboard a warship. Nkambe knew his place, but he would also be ready to- respectfully- correct any errors his officer made. "New emissions from the Yankee task force."

ten Brincken raised an eyebrow and fought down impatience. "They did just go to battle stations, Mister Moreau. Do you mean different emissions than usual?" This time he let the sarcasm drip into his voice. Typical junior officers- to them, every irregularity was the world about to erupt in fire.

To his credit, Moreau didn't back down. "Yassuh. Millimeter-wave radar bands, unknown type, or anyway not previously recorded. They sweepin' their whole forward arc, which means they paintin' us too." ten Brincken narrowed his brow, and began to lever himself out of the bridge chair. Might as well take a-

"Cap'n!" This time the lookout's voice was distorted in pure horror. By the time ten Brincken had spun around, there was a deep resounding boom across the water as gouts of smoke erupted from Renown's guns. For a moment the entire bridge watch was frozen in horror and disbelief, until a set of splashes erupted just ahead of their bow.

ten Brincken's lips moved for a moment before he could make sound come out. "Helm, hard to port! Engines ahead emergency!" The cruiser heeled over into her turn as Renown's guns slammed out another salvo. "Radio, get on the horn to Nova Cartago. Tell them-"

Exactly what Ferguson's message would have been, the world would never know. Guided by her new Type 2704 gun-director radar, three 15-inch shells from Renown's second salvo found their mark. The range was short enough that they were firing high explosive, not armor piercing shells. The resulting detonations snapped the unlucky cruiser's keel, splitting her in two and sending the back half almost instantly to the bottom. Lighter and not directly hit, the bow plowed on for a final few frantic seconds, as Captain ten Brincken and everyone else on the bridge scrabbled frantically for some sort of handhold. Then her split-open compartments filled with the sea, tilting her bow crazily back just before she sank forever into the Mediterranean depths.

1820 Hours

Flag Bridge, HMS Renown

Admiral Sir John Amos lowered his binoculars with a cold smile, watching the wreck of the Draka cruiser slide below the surface. One of her consorts was already sinking, courtesy of an 8" shell from HMS Devonshire, and the other was fleeing with the command cruiser Traverse City in pursuit, her antennas squealing electronic noise to block any transmissions to shore. The destroyer had speed, but the new American cruisers were also bloody fast, and Amos very much doubted whether the Draka would be able to open the range enough before Traverse City scored a hit. Her 8" rapid-fire guns would demolish a destroyer just as thoroughly as a few hits from Renown would a treaty cruiser.

His yeoman of signals leaned in from the battlecruiser's bridge window. "From Traverse City, Sir." The force's true flagship, though until now the Snakes had not been allowed to know that. "Begins: Well shot, Renown. Strike Force taking departure now. Proceed as planned. Ends." Amos nodded. While the carrier headed into strike position, his force would continue on their announced route, with Devonshire and two modified destroyer escorts broadcasting on their new model of deception jammers. It wouldn't hold forever, but hopefully they could confuse Snake radar as to which of the two groups was the real striking force.

Amos had no illusions about his mission. At his personal order, before sailing the ships under his command had landed absolutely everyone they could, with priority being given to men with families and new recruits. They would create as much of a diversion as they could, and then they would be sunk deep in a Draka ocean far from any help.

Well, perhaps it would suffice as partial payment on the Empire's mistakes, for letting the damned Draka get so big in the first place. And by God, his ship had scored one last good hit today.

"Yeoman, make to Flag-"

Flag Plot, USS Traverse City

"Message from Renown, Sir." Admiral George Connors turned to his signalman just as a gout of flame erupted from the last Draka destroyer, his flagship's 8" autocannon finally scoring a hit. "Your message acknowledged. Stop. Hit them a good one for us. Stop. Best of British."

Connors turned his eyes towards the Royal Navy ships, still steaming doggedly eastward as the ships of his own force peeled away smoothly to the north, taking their guide from Traverse City. Their upperworks were lit by the blood-red rays of the setting sun, dappled red against grey as they sailed off. They looked so serene that it was nearly impossible to imagine anything disturbing their progress.

Connors knew better, of course. Even with all the hell they planned to raise among the Draka he put it at four to one against any of his ships seeing Gibraltar again, which was a little long even for a man who liked to make book every now and then. And if the odds were long for them, they were impossible for the Brits. Connors very much doubted any of those ships would see another sunset, and for a moment he swallowed past a lump in his throat.

"Make reply to Renown, please. Wish them Godspeed."

1915 Hours

T-4 Hours, 45 Minutes and Counting

Flight Deck, USS Reprisal

"Flight quarters, flight quarters. All nonessential crew clear the flight deck. Open all circle Zebra fittings between Ready Room One and the flight deck. The smoking lamp is out throughout the ship. Now all pilots man your planes for the 2000 launch. Repeat, all pilots man your planes for the 2000 launch. Flight quarters, flight quarters."

Commander Julius Rosemont lead his crew out through the bulkhead door and up the exposed metal-grating stairs to the flight deck. In most ships they'd have come out from the island, but the United States class carriers' islands were not much more than open cockpits and a collection of masts to leave as much space as possible for the Revenants' wings. Even so, Rosemont still had to duck underneath the extended wingtip of Warhammer 02 as he reached the top of the stairs and began striding along the teak-covered deck under the harsh blue-white glare of the arc lights. The five Revenants scheduled for the first launch were staggered all down the flight deck, parked nose-to-tail with their wings spreading the entire width of the deck. At the rear of the line, deck gang members with fuel hoses were still working alongside Warhammer 05.

Spirit of Rio waited in the number-three position, lined up with the left-hand catapult and pointing across the ship's bow into the inky black. Rosemont had always done his own preflights, and tonight was no exception. He left the nose with its radar and sensor gear to Fujita, and busied himself making sure that the metal control surfaces all traveled over their full range of motion without sticking and that no drops of oil fell out of the engines when he removed the inspection plates from their cowlings. The nacelles were of necessity tight over the engines, slim and streamlined like the bomber itself, cutting down on drag- and incidentally on airflow over the engines, meaning that the Revenant suffered more than its fair share of engine fires unless everyone involved was very careful. Satisfied, he hopped up onto the wing and walked casually back over the top of the fuselage, feeling his way along in the dark so that he could check the tail surfaces. Barely visible out in the blackness, he could see Walker doing a final check on the tail turret. All clean. It was time.

Rosemont retraced his steps over the top of the bomber, pausing over the wing to reach down and give Fujita a hand up onto the plane. The bombardier's hachimaki headband with its red rising sun and Japanese script looked damned odd underneath a USN issue crash helmet, but that had always been one of the things that Rosemont had first liked about the man back when the squadron was forming, when most of the pilots didn't want to fly with a "damned Jap" no matter how good he was or what Washington said. Once Fujita had made up his mind about something, he was going to go through with it and to hell with what anyone else thought. Now he clapped his commander on the arm and smiled, as Walker came up on the wing next to them.

"Time for me to go down the Hole." Once he was in the bombardier's position in Warhammer 03's nose, Fujita's only contact with the rest of the crew would be over the intercom. "So just in case we don't see each other again, gentlemen-" He reached into his flying jacket, khaki Imperial Navy issue with a defiantly large Rising Sun flag on the left sleeve, and drew out three shot glasses and a thick glass bottle. He handed one to Rosemont and one to Walker with a rakish grin, pouring a generous dollop into each. "-will you have a drink with me? For luck." Rosemont grinned, lifting the glass up to his nose. It had the raw smell of brewed sake.

"To the Warhammers."

"Cheers!"

"Kanpai!"

Rosemont tilted his head back and drank it down. The alcohol was still hot, but cut with water so it didn't do more than burn on its way down his throat and light a fire in his stomach. He could see the ship's Air Boss on the flight deck behind him, glaring at the flagrant use of alcohol aboard a U.S. Navy vessel.

"Look out, boys. We might all be at Captain's Mast when we get back." Walker grinned, his face looking young for an instant.

"Hope so, Sir. It'll beat the alternative." Fujita and Rosemont both laughed at that, then the Japanese aviator tucked his bottle away again and tossed them a jaunty salute before disappearing down the tunnel between pilot and gunners' seats to worm his way to the bombardier's position in the nose. Walker went next, dropping into his rear-facing seat and starting to run his hands over the black boxes and scopes that surrounded his remote-control gunsight. That left Rosemont to drop into his ejection seat, buckling in tight before running his eyes over the instruments. Go and green. A hand stuck itself across his vision, and he looked up.

"Sir?" It was the plane captain, crouching on the wing and sticking a paw out. "She's all set." Rosemont nodded and shook firmly.

"Thanks, Chief. For everything."

"Give 'em Hell, Sir. From all of us." The chief took a step back, then pulled the Revenant's bubble canopy from where it was hinged to one side, pushing it down until it locked with a solid click. Rosemont turned back to his checklist, methodically running up the bomber's systems. He barely noticed when engines began to start around the flight deck, intent on his own indicators as the twin Allisons sprang to life and power meters began to rise off the stops. He didn't look up when the slamming of a steam catapult sent Warhammer 01 into the night sky. Warhammer 02 was still in the way, hooked up to the longer right-hand catapult, blocking his way forward. It wasn't until the ship shook with the second launch that Rosemont looked up to catch the taxi director's eye. He carefully eased off the brakes and taxied past the right-hand catapult, stopping short at the left-hand station and placing his hands on his head while ground crewmen connected him up.

The next few minutes were a ritual ballet, the catapult shooter's hands and his moving in a sympathetic counterpoint. The split hands of check rudder, and his feet moved on the pedals. Flaps down, and he instinctively moved the lever down into the "Takeoff" detent. The log-rolling motion of "Run 'em up", and the turboprops squalled with power, their temperature gauges climbing. Finally the thumbs up, and the wait.

"Pilot ready."

"BN, ready."

"Gunner, ready."

Rosemont took a deep breath. Closed his eyes for a moment. Opened them, and very carefully saluted the cat officer.

With an almighty SLAM the catapult fired and Warhammer 03 raced down its track, Rosemont's body flattening out in his seat as he felt her ride down, then the jerk of the catapult bridle falling away and launching the bomber into the sky. For a brief, terrifying moment he could feel them fall, then he felt the lift come up to meet them.

Breathe.

The flaps came up, and Warhammer 03 turned west, ascending into the night sky at its best climb speed of 150 knots. Ahead of it, there was no friend.

A/N: Few things-

1) I know the Draka use fake-Roman ranks for just about everything, including Navy and Space Navy in Under the Yoke and The Stone Dogs. On the other hand, we have Pilot Officer (IIRC) Johanna von Shrakenberg in Marching Through Georgia. I decided to square the circle by using regular Navy ranks and saying that there was some kind of "rationalization" movement between 1945 and the time of Under the Yoke three years later to bring the rank structure more in line across services.

2) There isn't much in canon about the Draka Navy, but I think what I have here is reasonable. Hell, even the Draka have to make choices somewhere, and as long as they can dominate the Med and secure the African coastline itself I don't think they have any other big naval missions. In particular, I can't imagine anyplace they need the sea-based power projection that led the British, Americans, and Japanese to develop aircraft carriers.

3) Yep, an IJN naval aviator in the US Navy. What can I say? There's a truce on, and I've always admired the IJN Naval Air Arm. Fujita is not really Cmdr. Mitsuo Fuchida, but is based on him- just like Rosemont is based on Charles Lindbergh.

4) Yes, autoloading 8" guns. They featured on the Des Moines class heavy cruisers in our time line, which missed the end of WWII by about *that* much