Office of Naval Intelligence, Washington, D.C., June 31, 2018
Vice Admiral Thomas Lockhart was having a very bad day. "If there's one thing for certain in this world," he muttered to himself, gruffly, "It's that nothing, absolutely nothing, will get rid of Washington traffic. Not even a goddamned oil shortage." The city's infamous traffic had turned what should have been a fifteen minute drive, into something that had taken five times as long and nearly pushed the admiral towards a psychotic breakdown. He rolled up to the main gate nearly thirty minutes after the time he would have liked to.
Tommy Lockhart was a rather unassuming man. At five foot nothing and a slim figure, he wouldn't stick out in any crowd, and he preferred to keep his crop of silver hair trimmed short. He wore on his uniform blouse a pair of gold dolphins, and an impressive array of ribbons that denoted a lifetime of service to the United States Navy. The hard charging admiral had made a name for himself in the submarine community, before he made the transition into intelligence. He had been the director of the Office of Naval Intelligence for the last five years, serving through the terms of two CNOs and just as many Presidents.
Lockhart's car sat motionless as the master at arms in the guard shack came out to check on its occupant. No one, not even the director himself, got into the ONI campus without a thorough identity check, and the guards took their jobs extremely seriously. Admiral Lockhart sat in silence as the MA ran his CAC card through a handheld reader, then checked to make sure that Lockhart's face matched the one that was printed on the card. The MA finally decided that the Admiral was exactly who he claimed to be, and went to open the gate.
The Office of Naval Intelligence was an inconspicuous cluster of office buildings on the outskirts of D.C. People passing the campus had little idea what happened behind those walls, exactly as planned. Lockhart made his way towards the largest of the buildings. This one housed the administration side of things, and was where he found himself wasting away a disappointingly large part of his life. It didn't take him long to ride the main elevator up to the top floor of the building.
His secretary, a middle aged woman who had been working her job longer than he had, looked up from her desk to see him step off the elevator. "Good morning, admiral," she greeted.
"Morning," he replied, "There anything in for me?"
She cast a few furtive glances to the door marked with his name and position, and said, "Your adjutant just walked in there a few minutes ago, he was carrying that attaché of his."
"Oh boy," Lockhart said, then leaned in close so only the secretary could hear what he said next, "Give him ten minutes, then ring my phone."
"Does the admiral have something against the adjutant?"
"Only when he rambles on for two hours about something that he could have explained in twenty minutes," Lockhart replied, "Thanks."
"Anytime, admiral," the secretary replied. Lockhart gave her a curt nod of thanks, then pushed open the heavy, oak door to his office. He was immediately greeted by Captain Ken Wingate, his adjutant.
"Good morning, admiral," he greeted.
"That is yet to be decided," Lockhart replied as he slid behind his desk. He was relieved to see that a steaming cup of coffee was waiting for him, he made a quick note to thank his secretary, then asked, "So what's going on in the world today?" Wingate sat an attaché case on the desk, and then removed a large, sheaf of paper. He rifled through the stack until he found the sheet he was looking for.
"Europe was pretty quiet for once, I think things are starting to stabilize over there," Wingate read off the sheet, "Brits got another convoy into Norfolk. Sealift Command is still working out shipping manifests for that." Wingate read half a dozen other minor events that had occurred last night. This was something of a morning ritual for Lockhart, he always started his day by reviewing the previous night's reports. Of course the sort of information he was receiving now was much different than what he had grown accustomed to in the past.
With the beginning of the Abyssal war, the world had changed drastically. As countries started to become cut off from the rest of the world, new problems arose. With alliances strained and supplies short, half a dozen border wars over natural resources started overnight. If they ever did manage to defeat the Abyssals, the world would be a much different place.
"What's the situation at Midway?" Lockhart asked. Even though the oversight of the Fleet Auxiliary program had been shifted to surface command pacific, all intelligence that they gathered was still sent up to his office.
"The CO down there reports that both of his combat teams have reached their final destinations. We'll get a full report when they get back to Midway," Wingate explained.
"So, is that all?" Lockhart asked
"No, sir," Wingate continued his impromptu briefing, "The Russians are going after the Chinese again."
"What?" Lockhart said, confused, "I thought that they were too busy dealing with those communist revolutionaries to take another stab at China?"
"Well, apparently they're not as bad off as we'd thought," Wingate replied. He shuffled through the case until he came up with a stack of photographs. "These came in from NRO this morning, Sam Willis thought we might want to look at them." This statement piqued Lockhart's interest immediately. The National Reconnaissance office was in charge of the United States' large fleet of intelligence gathering satellites, and represented one of the only remaining intelligence sources. If the NRO's director thought that these pictures were important, then they probably were. Wingate laid them out on the desk, and Lockhart set down is mug to take a closer look.
"What am I looking at?" he asked after a minute.
"Sir, one of our keyholes took these of Vladivostok last night," Wingate explained, "If you look here at the southern end of the port, you can see that there are heat blooms in the docked ships. This indicates that they are in the process of firing up their engineering plants. This, along with a few shots we have of them massing military forces at the Russo-Chinese border, indicates to us that they are about to try another attempt at invading China."
"Well, there's not much we can do to intervene on that front," Lockhart admitted, begrudgingly. When the brief was completed, Lockhart had expected Wingate to leave, but the captain was still in the room a look of consternation on his face. "Is there something else, captain?" Lockhart asked.
"Just this, sir," he finally said, and extracted one more photograph, "The keyhole bird that spotted the Russians, also picked up this." Lockhart took the photo and studied it.
His eyes went wide and he asked quietly, "Where was this taken?"
"The South Pacific was all I was told," Wingate walked over to a large map on Lockhart's wall, and put a finger on a point, "About here."
"Keep things running around here," Lockhart said, standing up, "I need to get these to the President, and have someone call the White House to let them know I'm on the way."
"Of course, sir," Wingate replied, "Any idea how important this will be?"
"Son, this could change the whole course of the war," Lockhart said, quickly snapping shut his briefcase. He walked out of the office a few seconds later, and reached the White House thirty minutes after that.
NS Midway Island
Commander Charles Walker was currently doing something he loved doing, tinkering with an old airplane. For all he enjoyed flying helicopters, Charlie Walker was a fixed wing pilot at heart. He had made a career out of being able to fly any aircraft in the Navy's arsenal, and had been behind the stick of everything from E-2C Hawkeyes to F/A-18 Hornets. Even before he began his naval service, Walker had been flying. He had grown up in the wilds of Alaska, where a simple trip to a grocery store required an airplane.
Getting the chance to restore the old Catalina was an opportunity that Walker had been waiting for a long time. He had spent most of his off duty hours in this hangar working over every fault he could find with the airplane, and there were many. He was currently looking for a problem with the aileron control cable. It was sticking in the fully extended position, and he had no idea where the problem lay. That was why he was currently lying on his back, head stuck under the pilot's seat, fiddling with the bolts that attacked the control cables to the yoke. "Hey, Peary," he called, "Can you pass me the ¾ inch socket?" The three four stackers who had originally found this plane were, unsurprisingly, interested in Walker's repair work, and spent most of their own free time helping him in any way they could.
Peary lowered the PBY Catalina operations manual she had been perusing, and reached down to pick up the requested tool from the toolbox sitting by her feet. He slid out, then took the offered socket head. "Thank you," he said, then wiggled his way back under the chair.
"Have you found what's wrong?" Peary asked.
"I think so," Walker replied, "One of the bolts had loosened and pinned the cable. It should be fixed now."
"If you don't need my help, I have to be at a training session in ten minutes," Peary announced.
"No," Walker replied, "Go, I don't want your training coordinator to jump on my back."
"Aye, sir," she replied, then jumped out her seat. Walker slid back to look at the little destroyer as she walked out of the flight deck. He felt a pang of sympathy for the girl as she left. Due to her relative obsolescence, it had been decided that she—and her classmates—would be only allowed to serve in a rear echelon capacity. She had come back for the express purpose of defending the country that had built her, only to learn that she couldn't because of her age. The normally upbeat, energetic destroyer had spent the last several days in a funk that no one knew how to bring her out of. Walker was more than happy to let her work with him on the Catalina in order to get her mind off her future.
Walker waited until he had left the PBY, then got back to work on the stuck bolt. The damn thing must have rusted, because he couldn't break it free no matter what he tried. 'I'm going to have to remove the chair in order to get the leverage,' he thought, dreading having to pull off the heavy thing.
"Hello?" said a new voice, an unfamiliar voice.
"Ah," Walker said, startled. He tried to sit up, forgetting that he was under a chair.
"You okay?" the new person asked after Walker whacked his head into the bottom of the chair.
"Fine," he replied, then noticed something. The stuck bolt was now loosened half a turn. He had probably loosened it when he had tried to sit up.
He let out a loud chuckle, prompting the other person to ask, "What's the matter?"
"Nothing," he said, "I just broke free a stuck bolt."
"Okay?" the other person said, apprehensively. Walker slid his way out and looked up to see who had interrupted him. IT took him a second to recognize the face.
"You're Yorktown, aren't you?" he asked. As the aviation officer for Midway, he had taught aircraft recognition to all of the carriers.
"That's right," she replied.
"What are you doing out here?" he asked. Walker didn't wait for her to reply. He quickly stood up, dusted off his trousers, and grabbed a towel off of the pilot's seat to dab at the grease staining his face.
"I just wanted to get a look at this old bird, and the hatch was open, so…" Yorktown replied, watching closely as Walker scrubbed grease from his face.
"Next time, ask before you come it. For all you know, I could be welding, and you don't want to walk in on that," he said, tossing the now soiled towel back onto the seat.
"Sure thing, commander," she replied.
"Now why exactly are you out here?" he asked, "I'm pretty sure there are other things to do besides poke around an old airplane?"
Yorktown cast an apprehensive glance around the cabin, then said, "I sort of have this thing for airplanes. I watched planes take off and land from my deck for years, and, well, I just always wanted to know what it looked like from inside one of those tiny cockpits."
"Well then, you've come to the right place," Walker said, smiling broadly, "I'm the base's resident propeller head, so if you ever want to know something, come and ask me."
"Propeller head?" Yorktown said, confused.
"Airplane nut," Walker clarified, "I've been flying these radial engine beasts for almost twenty years now."
"I thought everything was a jet now?" Yorktown asked.
"I grew up in Alaska," Walker explained, "Jet engines don't work in that environment. I learned how to fly in Douglas DC-3s and DC-4s." Seeing Yorktown's look of confusion, he added, "R4Ds and R5Ds." Yorktown nodded, accepting the answer. She looked around expectantly, as if she wanted to ask something, but couldn't decide if she could. "You want me to give you a tour?" Walker asked. Yorktown's eyes lit up, and Walker's heart jumped unexpectedly.
"Would I ever," she said, excitedly.
"If you look around you, we are now standing in the aircraft's flight deck. This is where the pilot tells the plane where to go, and where he fixes things when it doesn't go," this elicited a small laugh from Yorktown. Walker stepped through the hatch into the next compartment, "Here is the navigator/radio operator's room. This is where the navigator records how lost the plane is, and then tries to tell someone back home how lost, he is." Walker pointed up to the roof of the compartment, "That's where the flight engineer sits, he makes sure the plane doesn't explode into a ball of fiery death." Walker pointed to the aft bulkhead, "And back there are where the gunners sit, they make sure that the enemy doesn't turn the plane into a ball of fiery death."
Walker stepped out of the hatch mounted in the side of the compartment, then turned to offer a hand to help Yorktown. "So, when is this old warhorse going to fly again?" she asked once her feet were back on the concrete of the hangar floor.
"Not for another week or two," Walker replied, "The Cat is actually in remarkable shape for a plane that has been sitting on its wheels for the last seventy plus years, but it has been sitting on its wheels for the last seventy years. Our main problem right now is that the engines are completely gummed up. Over time, gasoline will turn melt rubber and turn it into jelly, and the engines weren't drained before storage." Walker pointed to where the engines had been lowered onto a pair of service carts. "I'm in the process of stripping them down to clean them out. Luckily, the PBY has the same engine as the R4D, so I know exactly how to do that."
"That can't be the only problem," Yorktown said, "You would have had this thing back in the air if that was all that was wrong with it."
"Thank you for the vote of confidence, but you're right, that's not the only problem. Two of the cylinders in the starboard engine are cracked, they'll need to be completely replaced. Which means, unfortunately, machining replacements from scratch. Hydraulics are still good, just need to be pressurized. The landing gear is fine, but the tires need to be replaced, and so far, I haven't been able to source replacements," Walker listed.
He walked up to a section of the fuselage and rapped on it with a knuckle, "And then we come to the real problem, the reason this bird was in for repair in the first place." Upon closer examination, the skin of the plane where Walker had pointed out was crumpled and bent. It looked like a sheet of paper that had been crumpled into a ball and then partially smoothed out. "The plane took a hard water landing, and the force did this to the hull," Walker explained, "We can't trust the structural integrity of this part of the fuselage, so this whole section will have to be removed and replaced, and that means checking the structural members behind this section as well."
"Wouldn't that be an easy job?" Yorktown asked.
"All I would need is a sheet of aircraft aluminum cut and shaped to the right dimensions, but the priority for replacement parts for a seventy year old patrol bomber is pretty low down on the requisition priories," Walker said, "I'm doing good to find enough replacement parts in the scrap pile, "And the fact that we have a CNC mill makes fabricating new parts simple. All I have to do is draw up a computer model for Chief Zimmerman, tell him what material I want the part made out of, and he builds it for me."
"Okay, so when will it be ready to fly?" Yorktown asked.
"All I can say for certain, is soon," Walker replied. He then did something that Yorktown hadn't expected, Walker walked over to the hangar wall and retrieved a pair of metal folding chairs. He set them up underneath the wing of the PBY and said, "Sit, I want to hear more about this interest of yours, and I'll answer any question you have about airplanes, if you answer any question I have about you." Yorktown looked at the two chairs for several seconds, trying to decide whether or not to accept the commander's offer. Finally, she walked over and sat down in one of the chairs. "So, where do we start?" Walker asked, sitting down in the opposite chair.
"Sir…" Yorktown began, only to be stopped by an outstretched hand from Walker
"Yorktown, this is a bull session, right now, I'm not a commander and you're not a petty officer. We're just two people having a discussion over a shared interest," Walker said, "Sabe?"
Yorktown nodded, then asked, "You said you flew R4Ds, what's the deal with that?"
"As I said, I grew up in Alaska. Going from my house to the nearest grocery store required a trip in an airplane. On top of that, my family owns an air transport company with a fleet of about a half dozen R4Ds, R5ds, and R6Ds. They're about the only planes that will operate that far north with little modification. I learned how to fly by right seating with father as we made transport runs," Walker replied, "And I learned how to service them from my Grandfather. He flew Army versions of the plane during WWII." Walker leaned back with a slight smile as he remembered the past. He leaned forward and asked, "Now it's my turn, why are you here? And want the whole truth, you don't just wake up one morning and say, 'I'm interested in airplanes, I think I'm going to go learn more about them today'."
Yorktown giggled at Walker's fake accent, then replied, "It does have something to do with my past. I was the first frontline carrier designed from the keel up as a carrier, and as a result of that, I saw a lot of operation before the war. That was a period of major change in the area of carrier aviation, newer, better planes were coming online, and new technologies were being developed every day. I watched planes take off and land on my deck every day for four years, and over time, I just wanted to know what it felt like to ride in one of those planes."
"Flying is one of the most rewarding things you can ever do," Walker stated, firmly, "So have you already looked around the base at the other aircraft we have lying around?"
"I looked at your whirligigs, commander, if that's what you mean. I still don't know how something like that is able to fly," Yorktown replied, "And I looked at one of the Air Force transports. Those things are huge, but a flying truck is still just a flying truck no matter how big it is."
Walker broke out into hearty laughter, pausing only briefly to say, "That's what I've been telling those guys for years. Them and the damn COD drivers. They base on land, fly once a day out to a carrier, and then only during the day if the weather is clear. They spend twenty minutes on the boat, then fly back, and they get full at sea flight pay…"
"Excuse me, commander," Yorktown interrupted, "What're you talking about?"
"Sorry, didn't mean to rant," Walker said, sheepishly, "Where were you?"
"I was saying that the only real plane on this base right now is that PBY," Yorktown said, "And I would really like to take a ride in her when she's fixed."
"Now that I can arrange," Walker replied, "I can even do you one better. I have to fly a mission tomorrow in a helicopter. We're taking some replacement sensor buoys out to the early warning perimeter around the island. The only crew onboard would be myself, my co-pilot, and the crew chief. I'm sure we could squeeze you in."
"I would like that, commander," Yorktown replied.
Walker leaned back, then slapped a hand down on his leg, "You've answered all of my questions save for this one, you want to go get some lunch?"
"I would like that commander, if you're buying," Yorktown replied, with a sly grin.
Walker shook his head, "Whatever happened to the Navy giving its officers free food." He stood up and offered a hand to help Yorktown up. He remembered to turn off the hangar's arc lamps as he walked out, leaving the PBY sitting in inky blackness as he left.
Yokosuka Naval District
Johnston currently found herself feeling somewhat overwhelmed. She still felt this way even after a day and a half in the Japanese base. She had a pretty good idea of what was causing her to be on edge, but she was trying her hardest to not think of that. "The less I think about that battle, the better," she muttered.
Johnston heard someone behind her shout, "Hey, American." She turned to see a destroyer girl walking up the path towards her. It took her a second to recognize the girl as Fubuki.
"Hey, Fubuki," Johnston replied.
"Which one were you again?" Fubuki asked, "All I remember is that you aren't the mean one."
"Johnston," she replied, "If you get confused again, just look at the name tapes on our uniforms, they'll tell you who is wearing said uniform."
"Why are you still wearing that?" Fubuki asked, "It must be hot in that thing."
"It's a discipline thing really," Johnston said, shrugging, "And you get used to the heat, eventually." Johnston looked at the other girl, trying to remember all she could about the destroyer Fubuki. Pretty much the only thing that she could dig up was that she was the class leader for one of Japan's largest and most successful types of destroyer. Johnston also remembered that she had gone down during the hectic brawling of Cape Esperance, several months before the destroyer Johnston had slid down the slipway.
"You Americans really are big on that whole discipline thing," Fubuki observed.
"Yeah, well, that's just how we operate," Johnston said, "Duty to country before duty to self."
"And every one of your kanmusu has to make that agreement?" Fubuki asked.
"Yeah," Johnston replied, "It's voluntary though. Everyone is given the choice to stay and fight as an enlisted sailor, or to be integrated into the civilian world."
"Has anyone not joined your Navy?" Fubuki asked.
"No, but we figure that answering the call is voluntary, so if a girl comes back, she does it because she's willing to serve once more," Johnston explained.
"We have the same theory," Fubuki said, "No kanmusu has yet refused to serve." Johnston nodded agreement with Fubuki's statement, then looked away.
"Here's hoping that some more of my old comrades decide to make the trip here," Johnston murmured.
Fubuki changed the subject, "Has anyone shown you around the Naval District yet?"
"No, all I've seen are the barracks and the mess," Johnston replied.
"Follow me, and I'll show you our base, and you can tell me what your base is like," Fubuki said, then began walking down the path.
"One thing I can say about our base," Johnston said, "Get used to seeing uniforms, everyone wears them. From the girls themselves, to the regulars."
"Your base is one Midway island, is that right?" Fubuki asked, "Isn't that a small island?"
"Fairly small," Johnston admitted, "Only a few miles square, but there's an airfield and it's enough space for our needs. Plus, it helps that we gave the submarines their own island to live on."
"Really? There was talk a while back about doing the same thing here, but it never went anywhere," Fubuki replied.
"Far as I'm concerned, the farther those sneaky bastards are away from me, the better," Johnston spat, "Those girls consider our own surface ships to be just as much the enemy as the Abyssals. And they won't stop pointing out that they beat our asses at the last exercise."
"Do you do that a lot, exercises?" Fubuki asked.
"More than most, but then again, we don't have the amount of field experience as you girls do. Hell, I'm one of the most experienced American girls now, and I've only really seen one skirmish against them," Johnston remarked, then turned to ask Fubuki, "What was it like for you, back in the early days?"
"It was hard," Fubuki replied, "We knew less about the enemy than you did, everything we did was new. We lost a lot of friends in those days."
"I know that its little consolation, but we're here to stand with you now," Johnston said.
"Yeah," Fubuki breathed, "Enough of that melodramatic stuff, where do you want to go?"
"Some chow wouldn't be unappreciated," Johnston said.
"What?"
"Food, chow means food."
"Oh, well, if you want something really good to eat, Mamiya runs a restaurant in the district, it's pretty good," Fubuki offered.
"Sounds fine," Johnston replied, and followed Fubuki.
The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.
It turned out that Admiral Lockhart didn't need to go to the White House after all. A quick call to the President's secretary informed him that he had just missed the man. He had just left for his weekly briefing with the joint chiefs at the Pentagon. Lockhart didn't like sticking his nose into a meeting that he had no real part of, but the pictures he was carrying needed to be in the President's hands as soon as possible. He slowly made his way through the myriad of security checks as he made his way into the inner sanctum of the headquarters of America's military.
Many people do not realize that the Pentagon is not a single pentagonal building, but a series of concentric pentagonal buildings. The pentagons are labeled A through E, with the A ring being the innermost pentagon, and the E ring being the outermost. The E ring is unique in the fact that its windows actually look out on something other than more building. Because of this, the offices of the senior most members of the DoD are located in the E ring. Among these are the offices of the Chief of Staff of the Army, the Chief of Staff of the Air Force, the Chief of Naval Operations, the Commandant of the Marine Corps, and the Chief of the National Guard Bureau, the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
The highest ranking officers in the military have separate offices within the Pentagon, but they share a single briefing room. This is where all high important briefs are delivered to the President and members of his staff, the direct connection between America's military and the government. Admiral Lockhart wasn't normally present at these meetings, as the director of ONI, he usually forwarded his intelligence to the CNO, and let the admiral pass it on to the President. But the information he was carrying right now was just too important.
With several question looks from minor functionaries who did not recognize Lockhart as a regular member of this inner sanctum, he walked into the room and began to look for the President. He had just spotted the man, when he heard, "Tommy Lockhart, what are you doing here?" Lockhart turned to see the Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Mike Richards. The highest officer in the Navy was a big man, who looked exactly like the linebacker he was during his academy days. On his uniform, above an impressive rack of ribbons, he wore the eagle, trident, and anchor of the Special Warfare insignia. Before he had started his career in the upper echelons of the Navy, Richards had been the commander of DEVGRU, the elite special warfare unit known colloquially as SEAL Team 6.
"Sir," Lockhart began, "I have some photographs that came across my desk last night that need to be in the President's hands ASAP."
"And you didn't think that the Navy should see them first?" Richards accused. Lockhart suddenly wondered if he should have taken his intel to the CNO's desk before he went to the President, but decided that he had made the right decision.
"Sir, with respect, no, this needs to go directly to the President," Lockhart replied.
"Then you'll just have to wait," Richards said, "We're about to start our briefing."
"Sir, I can leave if my presence here will cause problems," Lockhart offered.
Richards sat rubbing his chin in thought for several seconds, before replying, "No, I think that you should hear this brief. Then you can present your intel to the President and the chiefs." Lockhart nodded, then took a seat next to the CNO.
Lockhart managed to just hear the Commandant of the Marine Corps, General Don Purnell, lean over to Admiral Richards and say, "What's the chief Navy spook doing here? The damn CIA is more than enough spook for this room."
"He's here to give some intel to the President. Said it was urgent enough to go all the way to the top. Calm down Don, I'm pretty sure the ONI won't stab us in the back, like the CIA," Richards replied. The Marine general grunted his acceptance, then leaned back.
He didn't get the chance to say anything else, because the call of, "Attention on deck," rang through the room. Everyone in uniform shot to their feet as the President of the United States entered the room.
"Seats please, everyone," the man called as he walked to the head of the table. "I would like to keep this short, so who's starting today."
"It's my turn today, Mr. President," said the Army Chief of staff, General Marc Daniels. Even though the chiefs were the source of all information passed through this room, they didn't deliver the briefings personally. They had juniors do that for them. General Daniels waved to someone standing at the edge of the room, and an officer wearing the eagles of a full colonel in the Army walked in. Lockhart assumed that he was from the Army's G-2 office, their counterpart of the ONI.
The colonel walked to stand in front of the large, projector screen in the center of the room, then said, "Good morning ladies and gentlemen, last night saw activity from all corners of the globe." The intel officer—he was wearing a name badge that read, "Donaldson,"—clicked a remote and the screen displayed a slowly rotating globe. Another click, and the globe rotated to show a close up of the European continent. "Last night saw little activity from Europe," Donaldson explained, "We believe that the series of border wars between the respective countries after the start of the Abyssal war have started to taper off. The few countries that we are still able to contact have confirmed as much."
"What about the Brits?" the President asked, "How are they doing?"
"Sir, the main problem that the British were facing was the blockade of their intercostal trade ad fishing industry. As is well known, the British are an island nation who relies on import and fishing for a majority of their food supplies. With the success of their fleet auxiliary program, these pressures have been relieved. And with the help of the German program, we have started to send convoys full of food and manufactured goods across the Atlantic," Donaldson explained. He clicked his remote once more, and the globe changed to a picture of the Chesapeake Bay. A picture of a gaggle of merchant ships appeared overlaid over the map. "A new convoy of merchantmen made port in Norfolk last night. Sealift Command is currently in the process of drawing up manifests for their cargos."
"This all seems rather routine," the President interjected, "You mentioned something of interest last night?"
"Sir," Donaldson began, "Last night we received definitive proof that the Russians are about to invade mainland China." The picture changed once more, to that of the Russian border with China.
"What, again?" said General Purnell.
"Colonel, I thought that the Russians were in the middle of another communist uprising?" asked the Air Force Chief of Staff, a General by the name of O'Neill.
"Sir, we don't know what the current internal situation in Russia is, for all we know it could have been reformed into the Soviet Union, but we do know that there is a massive buildup of Russian armor and mechanized forces on the Chinese border. Indicating that they are attempting to invade once more." An overlay popped up on the screen of a thermal picture. It took Lockhart a second to make out the outlines of dozens of tanks.
"Any idea as to why the Russians are trying to invade China again?" the President asked.
"Mr. President, I believe that I may be able to answer that one," said a man at the other end of the table, who was wearing a plain business suit. Lockhart guessed, correctly he was to learn later, that this was the CIA's representative in this room. "As you are well aware, the Chinese have very little in the way of domestic oil reserves, and with the Abyssal blockade in full swing, they aren't able to get enough oil to fuel their military."
"So this is another fight over natural resources?" the President asked.
"Quite probably, sir. We lost contact with most of our assets in Moscow when the war started," the CIA man admitted, "This is either due to the general breakdown of communication that followed the start of the war, or there is some situation going on over there that we don't know about."
"So we have, for once, a stable Europe, a British convoy, and Russia is about to start the second Sino-Russo war. Is there anything else I need to know about?" This was the opening that Lockhart had been waiting for.
"Mr. President," he said, standing up, "I have something that I think you should see."
"Richards, what's your head spook doing here," asked O'Neill.
"Delivering the intelligence he's about to deliver," Richards replied, "Now, shut up and let the man talk. I'll vouch for anything he has to say, Mr. President."
"Very well, go on admiral…" the President trailed off, trying to remember the name of the head of the ONI.
"Lockhart, sir." Lockhart walked to the back of the room and handed a laptop to the sergeant operating the projector. A few seconds later the slide show that he had quickly put together was displayed on the main screen. "Mr. President," he began, "I'm sure you're aware that due to the nature of our enemies, we are unable to get reliable satellite intelligence about their operations. Every time one of our birds flies overhead, the enemy is obscured by a thick, black cloud. Except this last time." Lockhart pressed a button, and the screen changed.
It displayed a picture of a small island, probably not even a mile across, with dozens black shapes on and around it.
"My God," Admiral Richards breathed, "Is that what I think it is."
"We believe," Lockhart continued without missing a beat, "That this is an Abyssal stronghold. One of the bases from which they have been staging their attacks against our shipping."
"Where is this base?" the President asked.
"The South Pacific, near our shipping route to Australia," Lockhart said, "As far as we can tell, the island that appears in the photograph, doesn't exist on any of our charts."
"Can we give this information to the Japanese, let them deal with it?" the President asked.
"Sir, I believe that this is outside of the Japanese's proclaimed area protection. It would fall between our claimed waters and the Australians," Richards added.
"So, how far along is our fleet auxiliary program, and can they be sent in to deal with this," the President asked.
"Sir, I believe that I can answer those questions," Lockhart replied. He walked back to talk to the sergeant running the slideshow for a second, then walked back up to the projector screen. "Currently we have two teams deployed at the moment. One comprised entirely of submarines, has made the run from Midway to Australia to both demonstrate that we can do it, and to send the help that the Brits have been clamoring for. The second team comprises of a mix of surface types centered around the guided missile destroyer Halsey. They successfully made the transit to Japan last night."
"Isn't that a bit dangerous?" asked Daniels, "As far as we know these girls remember everything that happened to them before. So, from their perspective, the Japanese are still the bad guys."
Admiral Richards fielded this one before Lockhart could answer, "General, the Japanese field one of the most powerful forces in the region, we would have to deal with this issue eventually, and it was better to deal with it on our own terms. I approved the mission, General."
"So what is the state of our reserves of fleet personnel, can we go after this base ourselves?" the President asked, changing the subject.
"Sir, currently we have a sizeable force of fleet personnel of all types, it's just that they lack experience. Throwing them into a mission like this at their current level, would be reckless."
"So, we either pass this on to the Japanese, or we try to send in green troops to deal with it ourselves," General Daniels spat, "Goddamm, why is this war so screwy."
"Can we get word to the man running the program," the President said, he snapped his fingers, what was his name again?"
"Smith, sir," Richards replied, "Captain Smith, he used to be in surface until his task group was hit."
"Oh yes, he's the one who fought them off for three hours with no help. Surprised he didn't get an award for that," the President commented.
"I'm working on that, sir," Richards said, "I'll talk to you later about the particulars."
"Back to what I was saying, can we get word to Captain Smith, tell him to start preparing for this mission. Then go after it sometime down the road? Maybe make it a joint exercise between us, the Japanese and the Brits?"
"I would have to talk to my counterparts in the respective Navies," Richards replied, "But yes. Yes, sir, it's doable. Though we do have a big press op laid up for the coming weeks. The plan is to reveal the fleet auxiliary program to the general public."
"That's right, I saw that," the President admitted, he scratched his chin idly, "I might need to talk to my public relations team about that."
"Sir, if there's no more intelligence, I move that we adjourn for the day," suggested General O'Neill.
"I agree, general. No sense wasting all of your time," the President replied, "Admiral Richards, Admiral Lockhart, I want to see you for a minute." The atmosphere in the room changed as the occupants began to file out, leaving only the President, the CNO, and the Director of ONI. "Gentlemen," the President began once they were alone, "I want a complete brief on our Fleet Auxiliary program, and I don't mean the technical nitty gritty, I want to know what's really happening on Midway Island."
"Sir, I believe that I could help you there," Lockhart said, then began to pass on every scrap of information he had ever received from Admiral Davies.
Royal Navy Pacific Shipgirl Corps, Sydney, Australia
Somehow Wahoo knew that this building was a brig, even though she had never seen a brig before. Perhaps it was the guard wearing an SP brassard standing next to the door, or maybe it was the iron bars across each window. Whatever it was, this was the Royal Navy's ship girl brig was located, and where two of her girls were being held. Wahoo exchanged salutes with the guard, who was, surprisingly, a regular. There weren't many regular Royal Navy, or Royal Australian Navy, personnel on this base. She had gathered that it had something to do with how the Brits operated their ship girl program, but she wasn't sure about that yet.
Wahoo was greeted inside the building by that big, blonde cruiser who seemed to run things around here. Exeter Wahoo remembered suddenly. She spoke first, "So, you're, Wahoo?"
"That's right," Wahoo replied, "What's the deal with all this?"
"As one of our operating standards, we keep all rule violations between ship girls. Is that not how you do things?"
"No, we're bound by the UCMJ just like anyone else in the USN. If we break a rule, we go before captain's mast, and, if someone really screwed up, court martial," Wahoo replied.
"Just another reason why I am not a member of your navy," Exeter remarked.
"So how do we treat this?"
"Because they committed their crimes on our base, and while on liaison orders, they fall under our rules. So their punishment is up to you as their commander," Exeter replied.
"Rodger," Wahoo said, "Take me to the miscreants, and I'll set this strait."
"Follow me if you would," Exeter walked down a corridor, and past a row of holding cells until she reached the last one in the row. Wahoo could see that inside it Harder was leaning against the wall, and Sealion was lying on the rack.
Harder saw Wahoo and ran up to the bars of the cell, "Skipper, I knew you would come to spring us from this Limey jail."
"Ahem," Exeter cleared her throat, loudly, then said, "Well, this limey will leave you to sort this out, Wahoo."
Wahoo waited until she was out of earshot, took a deep breath and began, "Do you schlockmiesters have any idea how much trouble you're in?"
"But skipper," Harder tried to say.
"Shut the hell up," Wahoo cut her off, "Let's just see what you did wrong. Leaving the base without permission, that's AWOL, court martiable under article 86. You were caught drunk while still on duty, article 112. You refused the direct order of a shore patrolman, article 91, and you started a fight with the SP after he tried to arrest you, articles 95 and 91 again. Do you know what would have happened to you if you had done all this on an American base?"
"We would have been put up before a general court martial," Sealion said, still lying on the bed, "We screwed up skipper, big time."
"Oh yes you did," Wahoo replied, "The result of said court marital would have probably been immediate separation from the Naval Service, dishonorably discharged without back pay or benefits. Would you be able to survive out in today's civilian world without the Navy's help? I know I couldn't." Wahoo paused for a beat, before adding, "Well, that's not entirely true, as a ship girl, you aren't subject to separation by court martial. If you are sent before a court martial, and convicted, you will be stripped of all rank and status, forfeit all back pay, and be sent to the Recruit Training Command Great Lakes to attend recruit training as a regular. Upon completion of which, you will spend a time of no less than three years as an enlisted sailor."
"So, if we screw up…" Harder trailed off.
"You stop being a ship girl," Wahoo replied. Harder and Sealion both went silent at the revelation of the consequences of their actions.
"But," Wahoo said, "You didn't do it on an American base. The British have different rules, and they say that ship girls aren't punishable under courts martial. So your punishment is up to me." The relief was evident on the two submarine's faces. It didn't last long, "As of now, you are both busted back to seaman apprentice, and you're giving up the next two month's pay."
"Skipper…" Harder protested.
"You want to make it three?" Wahoo asked.
"No, ma'am," Sealion replied.
"Now, you two have been released to my custody, so you're free to return to the transient barracks, but if you so much as think about stepping out of line again, I'll throw your asses back in here without a second thought."
"Aye, ma'am," Harder said, begrudgingly. Wahoo walked back down the corridor to find someone to turn her subs loose. She didn't like having to be a hard-ass, but part of a commander's job is to punish their subordinates for stepping out of line.
She ran into Exeter standing just outside the room, "Would your Navy really send a ship girl to boot camp?"
"Yes, we would," Wahoo replied, "We take discipline seriously, and if that means losing an asset to keep said disciple, so be it."
"Now can you turn those jokers loose for me? I need to go find a stiff cup of coffee," Wahoo asked, then walked out of the building.
Naval Base San Diego, San Diego, California
"I don't have enough dock space for her," the harbor master said, again.
"This is important," said the Navy liaison officer, a captain who had held a command of his own until recently, "We need her ready to sail as soon as possible."
"There is one dry-dock big enough to take a ship like that, and it is currently filled by a VLCC that lost a screw in the last attack," the harbor master said.
"But what can a tanker do for the war effort? Even if we could get it to a source of crude, it couldn't haul it anywhere without being attacked," the officer protested.
"And you're telling me that dinosaur," he pointed to the silhouette looming just behind the navy man, "Could actually be used for the war, how?"
"Missiles don't work that well, so it's time to try guns again, and she was just sitting up in Los Angeles gathering dust. No sense letting her just rot away," the officer explained, "All she needs is a hull check and new coat of anti-fouling paint."
"So you risked the trip south here for what?"
"You said yourself, the only dry-docks on the West Coast capable of taking her are here and up in Bremerton, and there's no way we could sneak something like her up to Washington." The harbor master thought about his options for several seconds. Like most Navy yards, the dry docks in San Diego were actually operated by a civilian company, General Dynamics to be specific. The VLCC tanker in the dock would provide a nice paycheck if it could be fixed on time, but the navy man was right, she could do nothing for the war effort. If the tanker was moved to provide space for this new ship, the dock would lose a significant amount of money, and it might take years for the Navy to get around to paying for this job.
The harbor master finally decided that maybe if giving up on the tanker to fix this new ship, and if she could help end the war sooner, then maybe it would pay off in the long run. Plus, he figured that the owners of the tanker would understand if it took a few extra weeks for their ship to be fixed.
"Fine," he said, "I'll do it. Just give my people twenty-four hours to make the dock ready."
"That's all I can ask," the officer said, "I'll tell you if there's anything else." The harbor master only nodded, then went off to arrange the transfer of ships into the dock. On cue, twelve hours later, the tanker was dragged out of the dock by a pair of powerful harbor tugs. Two hours later the Navy ship was shoved in the by the same tugs. She was a unique sight against the cluster of destroyers and frigates around her, a type of ship that hadn't been seen at this base for many years. Her 9 sixteen inch cannons being long considered to be obsolete against today's technology. The harbor master watched from his office window as the great, gray ship was tied off to the dock. He watched with interest as a line snaked across the ship's bow, blocking the number that was painted there. But he knew that under that hawser, the number, "61," was painted in white block text.
Author's Note: Lot of buildup in this chapter. I'm working to set up a bunch of things down the road, so be prepared for that.