Denmark cursed as the missile arced overhead, and kept cursing until it made contact with the last ship in his fleet. It was only a supply ship, manned with the smallest crew possible, and he could not feel their deaths (for they were not Danish), but it was a loss that he could not afford to have.
Denmark had made it very clear in his message to America that any attacks would be met with force.
He was a man of his word.
He sent one aide to radio one of the other supply ships to stay behind and look for survivors. He sent another to the launch deck to tell them to fire at will.
He felt no satisfaction in watching the city being destroyed. It was, he had heard, an architectural marvel, especially given when it had been constructed. But he did what he had to in order to achieve his goal: Norway, or, if that was not possible, America at his feet, begging for mercy.
He would not kill America. Because nations could not afford to do that. Not unless they wanted to be cut off from the world, disgraced, shunned, and eventually, killed by the loneliness in their own hearts and in the hearts of their people.
But he would find America, and he would get his revenge.
He watched in morbid fascination and anticipation as the city burned.
He was the kind of man who could have laughed as the world burned, but he did not.