The Caribbean Sea held what was probably the last known human shipping left. Well civilian shipping anyways. The last military ship anywhere near it was the Texas, firmly and proudly in her permanent drydock, concrete filling her lowest parts in one last attempt to keep her from deteriorating completely. Her guns jammed in place, and her decks silent of man. None visited her anymore, in a way she was a stark reminder of the world.
Small freighters hauled food from Houston, New Orleans, Mobile, and any other port that had function to it. Rumor was that it might pick up soon, that is if the dispensation of the Atlantic and Pacific Fleets could be determined and negotiated with. Until then there wasn't much chance of anything bigger than eight thousand tons plying the waves. Not without painting a huge target on its deck.
It didn't matter much to the Shore Watchers though. Their entire life consisted of patrolling their thirty miles of coastline twice a day. Looking for any kind of valuable scrap or detritus that could wash up, watching for Fog vessels, and rescuing castaway sailors. It wasn't an exciting life, but it would at least keep bills paid in days when that was more difficult than anyone could have ever predicted.
Derrick Cane had joined for that very reason. Sure his family came from money, but it just so happened that money relied on a shipping line with Southeast Asia out Port of Houston. With the first attacks his family approached ruin. With the collapsing of the Panama Canal their fortunes were sealed. The stock market no longer existed, and communication ceased. Now they simply worked to make their money last, and hope that Derrick's pay slowed it down.
To be honest though, the most he ever did was drive the worn out Ford pickup he was assigned up and down the coast in the morning, and his coworker in a less worn out Toyota did the same in the evening. Every once in a great, great, great while something would wash up, but is was usually nothing more impressive than some drift wood, or the skeleton of a sailor that died during the time the Fog actually had a presence in the Gulf of Mexico. Once he did get part of a wing from a downed F/A-18 which got him a solid bonus, however it was a one time thing that wasn't repeated anytime soon. Even during this patrol it was dull.
As he approached Shore Station Bolivar it was the same as ever. His partner's Toyota was sitting there, the two trucks for the opposite patrol were there, they finished early today like they did everyday. He pulled up to the fuel tank to top off the vehicle when he saw Fishbone, his partner on the West Peninsula patrol wave out the door for him to come in. He parked and jogged up to the building.
"What's the scoot," he asked as he reached the door.
"Fog, unconfirmed as to composition or purpose yet. Came in north of Havana. Rough count was at least four Battleships, seven Cruisers, and and an unknown number of Destroyers. Strange thing is it appeared that the three of the Battleships were running from the rest of them. One of them was identified as a North Carolina class," Fishbone said gruffly.
Fishbone was an odd character, but never bothered anyone. From what anyone could get out of him was he had been stationed on a destroyer based out of New Orleans, that lasted twelve seconds against what had appeared to be Clemson class destroyer that looked like a corvette next to the Arleigh Burke he was on. Apparently it was an eight gunner and tore the modern destroyer apart with a single broadside.
"Nine 16"/45 caliber guns and twenty 5"/38 calibers, that alone is bad news. They didn't get any ids on Cruiser or Destroyer by any chance did they?"
"Two Atlantas and a Baltimore for sure, but no IDs on the Destroyers. They want you and Skips at the torpedo shed until we know their moves. Also, and this may explain them, they flooded the Canal today. There is a good chance there is a second fleet on the other side of Panama waiting to shell that end."
"None of those ship are slouches. America doesn't even have much of a fleet left now. They do know that the second those fish leave the launchers that we are dead. One of them will train a gun on us and turn us into paste. We need those things setup to launch from here."
"Take that up with the people in Austin. Just like every other state agency has to do. If it were my choice I would be down there alone, but orders are orders."
Derrick sighed, "I know Fishbone, doesn't make their decisions sound any smarter though."
Leaving the building he headed down to what was called the Torpedo Shed. A small concrete bunker that controlled the ten SMALT (Shore Mounted compressed Air Launched Torpedo) launchers that would fire their entire payload at once, giving the Fleet a perfect saturation point to shoot at, and getting them killed with the heavy locking steel door that wouldn't even power up the pillbox until it was locked. Leave it to a state government to setup something so stupid that it literally killed people.
"They have you down here too Cane," Skips called, keeping in fashion of everyone wanting to cut his tongue out when he spoke.
His voice was like dragging a chalkboard over ten miles of broken glass at a Death Metal concert with the singer rapping, "Yeah they put me in the coffin too. Hopefully they stay to the south of us. Last thing we need is a battleship dropping in our laps. Once I lock the door ready the system. Set Profiles for North Carolina Battleship, Atlanta Light Cruiser, and Baltimore Heavy Cruiser. Set a standard spread profile for destroyers, Clemson to Gearing, I doubt we will see anything outside those. Did they ever get the vibrators set up?"
"Only in L8. Gulf and Caribbean are on the low list. PACCOM, ATCOM, and warships are first in line for them. I would be surprised if they ever gave us a full load out. Wont matter much once we launch our salvos. At least our families get that half million death benefit the has for us."
Cane had tuned him out as best as he could. Things like that were better left unsaid. It was bad enough that Shore Station Bolivar could be gone tomorrow, but the actual impending death and what it meant for those left behind were what bothered him the most. It might have been different if their enemy were men, men could die one as easy as another, but nobody knew what the Fleet of Fog really was.
Cane started the setup procedures as Skips glued himself to the hydrophone and radar setup. Check the compressors, 2,300psi, enough to launch the half ton torpedoes a quarter mile out into the Gulf. Electronics were reading good on targeting, and the demo bolts on the camo shacks showed good, and when activated would blow the shanties apart to reveal the ten, twenty one shot racks. The overwhelming number would damage one of the ships severely, and probably annihilate a destroyer, but the shields on the battleships would most likely just shrug off everything except the vibration warheads. Would have made more sense to disperse them among the launchers, but that was bureaucracy.
"Hey, Cane, I know nobody likes me. It isn't anything I didn't deal with growing up, but thanks for never being an asshole about it. Most of the guys at the academy loved tearing me a new one over my voice."
"Skips, shut the hell up and keep your ears on the setup," Derrick said, not wanting anymore dread in the atmosphere than there already was.
He made a mental note of the known battleships near ATCOM that could have come into the gulf. Wyoming, Arkansas, New York, North Carolina, Mississippi, Colorado, Maryland, and the most feared of them all, Texas.
It may have been her name that gave her the ferocity she was credited. There were thirty confirmed kills granted to her along with twelve assisted sinkings, and two possibles. She far exceeded the legacy of her concrete bound namesake. All other battleships of American design were in the PACCOM theater, so it was unlikely that any thing like a South Dakota or Iowa was among them. Hopefully.
Derrick turned, "Anything?"
"Faint soundings, long way out. Straight bow if the phones are working right. Can't tell the size, large cruiser, or a dreadnought. No way to tell until they get closer, if they get closer. I am praying to everyone short of the devil that they turn. Teach me some satanic prayers and I will hit up the far south as well," Skips said dead serious.
"My family is Presbyterian, so no luck there. Looks like thirty miles, so most likely they wil... damn they sped up. Two cruiser bows, one dreadnought. Looks like one Atlanta and a Northampton. That is not good."
Skips swallowed hard, "Regular shells off that lot would annihilate us. Their accelerator guns won't even leave our memories. This is it, it was good serving with you, lets hope that we take them all with us."
Derrick ignored the interjection. Watching the real time models update gave a better picture of what was coming. The initial readout changed to a Brooklyn class cruiser, and maintained the Atlanta, but it was the battleship that scared him the most. New York class. Either New York or Texas, it was not good. Both were known for aggression, Texas was just better known.
"Skips, set the vibrators for New York class. Slave the targeting for L2, L3, and L8 to that exclusively. Task L1, L5, and L4 for the CL. L9, L7, L6, and L10 for the CA. Set firing distance to twelve miles, spread to thirteen degrees, active tracking upon acquisition."
"Targeting set, launches slaved, satellite imaging available as well."
The image that popped up on the second monitor was equal parts disturbing, and confusing. Disturbing was the registry number on the battleships deck, though he had to pause to wonder why it was even there, BB-35. Texas. The confusing part, battle damage and the fact she was under attack by the smaller vessels and not in the best condition.
"Skips this wont make any sense, but trust me. Override for manual targeting, and manual tracking priorities. Split L8 between the cruisers. Task as you see fit on the others, set the battleship as a invalid target."
Skips froze, "Don't target the most feared ship on ATCOM's hit list. Please tell me that you are making a very bad joke."
"That was more forceful than I would expect from you, but trust me. Something is going on, and I think our best interest is in saving the Texas. God, never thought that come out of my mouth."
"Why I am trusting you is beyond me. Setting New York-class vessel Texas as blue, cruisers set as manual priority targets, and tracking profiles overridden. I really hope that you haven't lost your mind in panic, and we make it through this so I can kick your ass for this," the harshness of Skips voice seeming way to appropriate for the moment.
Both men watched the screen as the Fog vessels approached, making about three quarters of a mile every minute approaching them. Derrick paid close attention. Brooklyn-class, fifteen 6"/47 caliber guns, Atlanta-class, twelve 5"/38 caliber guns. Even the particle versions weren't a major threat to the foot thick armor of a New York-class battleship. Honestly the larger vessels 14"/45 caliber guns should have torn the two to shreds, but were strangely silent in the moment.
"Crossing twelve mile line, torpedoes launched."
Two hundred and ten torpedoes launched simultaneously. The massive blast of released air overpowered the destruction of the camo sheds. The massive splash of the volley threw water all the way back to the main station house. The sonar screen was a mass of lines as the weapons made their one minute journey out to their targets, dodging around the bulk of the battleship with perfect precision and swooping under the cruisers to detonate.
The Atlanta-class dissipated completely, and the Brooklyn-class lost its stern and stopped dead with no power. When the conventional torpedoes detonated a line of water was completely annihilated leaving a line almost a mile long that would have made an Israelite blush. The detonation also forced a wave that was headed towards shore.
"Cane, we might want to run."
"Skips, we are in a watertight bunker. Why would we leave it?"
"Because we have almost thirty thousand tons of warship on a collision course."
"That is a very good answer, but we are screwed either way. We can't outrun that. Hopefully it can't reach all the way to the main house."
Both men closed their eyes to await their fate. They heard the millions of gallons of water strike the bunker. It held, several feet of steel and concrete separating them from a wet death. However they soon realized they could still realize. The battleship had never struck them.
Skips exhaled sharply, "No way that beast missed us. Sat images put it on a direct course for us. All the damn steam and dust has the area blocked, but it doesn't matter, we should be dead."
Derrick glanced over at a gauge on the wall that had been designed and installed for such situations. Water was at a level they could safely open the door. Reaching for a rack next to the door as he crossed the distance he grabbed an old Mk14 rifle. Old USN stock that ended up ashore, given there wasn't much of a blue water navy left anymore.
Opening the door he looked out for a moment and then shut the door slowly, "Well, that's not the most comforting thing I have ever opened a door to see."
"Cane, what did you see out there," Skips asked as he stood up, "I can't recall ever seeing you act that casual before."
"Oh, just the muzzle of a 14" gun giving me the evil eye. That being said, most guns give their targets the evil eye. Its just a fact of them being guns and all. They can't help it."
"Oh is that all? Well, wish I had something to say to make our end less mindbreaking."
Derrick shrugged, "There was also the very upset looking woman who was soaked to the bone. That was actually the scary part of what I saw out there. I don't know where she came from, but yeah."
"Cane, you have snapped, there is no way that there is a...," Skips started to say as he opened the bunker door.
"Which one of you had the brilliant idea to set off that many explosive devices next to each other underwater," Said the woman as Skips slowly shut the door on her.
"Well, that is interesting."
"It rather is, isn't it. Especially since almost fifty four tons of JD-X was detonated out there. Any human that was out there should have been liquefied. I... uh... well... I don't know what is going on now."
"Open this door now before I send a round through it. You cowards try to kill me and then wont even face me. I should kill you just on principle, but that wouldn't help my cause any."
The men slowly opened the door again. The most present thing that one saw was the muzzle of the 14" gun, which well, was a giant gun. Next to said gun stood a petite red haired woman, who was of course soaked, angry, and radiated malice beyond anything that a person could withstand in their right mind. Which of course her appearance prevented in the two.
"Hey, Skips. Think we died and went to Hell? Cause she is definitely throwing off girly Satan vibes at the moment."
"Possibly. Though I somehow thought that Hell would have more fire and brimstone, and less concrete and beached warships."
The woman cringed, "You, taller one. Don't speak, your voice very much displeases me. Don't ever speak in my presence again."
It was a strange sight. This woman who only reached to the bottom of Derrick's jaw, which he stood only 5'8", and she was threatening Skips for speaking. Well that was normal for people to do no matter how tall they were. It was more just how she did it. So the two did the only thing they could do in the moment. They laughed.