0400 Hours, 2032
Special Region
"Hand me the dogtags."
"Aye, sir."
Buck slided over the metal tags which he had stripped from the dead body across the table, in the makeshift headquarters, belonging to his best friend.
"I suppose, he gave you a letter? Hand it over, we'lll send it with the rest of his belongings."
"Aye, sir." Buck repeated again, handing over the blood soaked letter towards the captain.
"Take some days of rest. It's easy to see that his death's been heavy on you."
"Thank you, sir."
Burns was 28 years old when he died. His family, Im sure got a telegram from the war department saying he died like a hero, on an important mission that would help the war. When Infact, Burns lost his life on a tar road in an unknown world, crying out in agony while his friends looked on helplessly. He was just, one more casualty in a war that shouldn't have started. Most of the men had been wary since then, the news spreading like wildfire. They had not seen the enemy; nor even engaged an actual force yet, but traps and sharpshooters were amidst.
The following weeks after initial contact; were nothing but mundane after realising that there was no glorious 'battle' or such. Many troops had been tasked with menial duties; carrying out less then stellar tasks like unloading vehicles and so on once 'FOB Construction' had began.
The overnight influx of concrete, hauled by ships carrying personnel and vehicles were slowly gradually increasing. What originally started as mere tents, motor pools; had gradually slowly transformed into something more. Building material of all sorts had been brought in; cargo containers which were converted to housing or kitchens; being rapidly brought in, along with the rapid construction of airbases.
Overtime; a fortress began to take shape. Concrete walls; hesco barriers and airfields had taken form. Machine gun emplacements were strewn amill, with still more influx of personnel coming in. Out the of the two-thousand men that had initially went through the portal, it had risen to about eight thousand. 4 Other MEUs, had been sent through; and now it was starting to look like an proper invasion. Lest, it was weird. Throughout; they had not seen an single large enemy formation, nor had they seen a actual warship. It had all been probing attacks, snipers and so on.
Nothing much had happened; ocasionally, they were met with the usual same thing. Snipers, wandering amongst the bushes took constant potshots; and then were instantly killed by the large amount of return fire they would take. To be fair, it was effective. The base had a growing number of killed and wounded; granted it was still below 20, men were still weary about the prospect of being shot.
What truly was interesting; however, was the fact that the carriers had been riled up since then; as if there was an raid incoming or so. The strike groups were leaving; and they were setting out for something. Just not sure what it was, maybe that biplane early morning?
0900 Hours
2032
Air plot, USS Enterprise
Commander Ault and Lt. Cmdr Ramsey stood, staring at the aircraft board. It showed the readiness of all aircraft amongst the nine squadrons aboard the Enterprise.
LEXINGTON AIR GROUP
Fighting Two--LCDR Dixon --15 F35s--Ready: 12
Scouting Two--LCDR Ramsey --9 F35s--Ready: 7
Fighting Three--LCDR Hamil --12 F35s--Ready: 5
Jam Three--LCDR Brett --4 EA-18G--Ready: 3
Torpedo Two--LCDR Daisy -- 17 F35 --Ready: 8
"How many planes can you get up in the air by 1300?"
"Ault, It takes a few hours, but I guarantee you I'll have all the 4 squadrons in the air."
Ault grasped his coffee mug, rubbing his temple. It was pitiful, really. A squadron was supposed to have 24 aircraft, and that was what they used to have in the early days of World War Three, and a carrier was supposed to have nearly nine squadrons.
Now? However? It was pitiful. The proud United States Navy; lacking planes to complement its legendary carrier arm, and lacking anti air and anti ship missiles, the result of the destroyed industry back home and the stockpiles being used up in the war.
"Brief your men, they'll have to use guns to save cost. Only use missiles, on ships. You hear me ramsey?"
"Aye, sir."
"Replace those EA-18Gs, give them actual combat roles. there's no enemy radar anyway, no need for those scramblers. And, uh, tell the other squadron leaders about the bad news. I don't wanna have to face all the pilots and tell em about it."
Both sailors, and pilots were concerned about the scout plane they had seen. Despite somehow, being much more technologically advanced; the task force's radar had failed to detect a simple biplane due to a mishap. It was allowed to get away; and now the task force's location had been revealed to the enemy.
There was no question that they'd win; it was the question of how'd many men they would lose. Despite the technology gap, the war had already claimed the lives of three hundred and fifty-one men , including the lives of the USS Thomas Hudner. Simply put, it was no question that the F35 was a state of the art in fighter design. It was speedier, more manuverable and sleeker, along with powerful avionics to complement its array of countermeasures and weapons in general. Throughout world war three; the fighter had proven itself and had swept the Chinese airforce out of the sky in Taiwan, and more recently, would be conducting carrier operations in another world.
The problem however once again; was not winning. It was a problem of saving money, and numbers. The enemy fleet; had multiple carriers, nearly 12 of them. Granted, they weren't as advanced however carried hundreds of planes. The United States Navy; on the other hand, had two. And that, was a very, very big problem. They had, to time this right to ensure that the FOB wouldn't get overrun by planes. The carriers were safe, for sure, but for the infantry and men on the ground on the peninsula? It was an entirely different ball game. No matter how much decades they were ahead of the enemy; Infantry were still fragile.
"Oh and uh, Ramsey. Get me another cup of coffee, tell Fallo what the plan is. Get Scouting Two in the air first, and when they all land their fighter squadrons; we'll hit them hard."
"Aye, sir!" With a curt response, the squadron leader had ran out of the airplot, to inform the rest.
0900 Hours
1938 Imperial Standard Time
Saderan Imperial Navy Ship (SIN) Mithrill
Another of the many SIN Ships sailing quietly under the sun, was the fleet carrier Mithrill. Captain Galt, was commanding said ship. Mithrill, in a sense was not truly an aircraft carrier. It was an former battleship; now converted to an fleet carrier. She was much bigger than the rest of her sister ships, slightly weighing over sixty eight thousand tons. The "Happy Pheonix", a nickname given to her by the Emperor Molt Augustus for their definitive naval victories against the now subjugated clan Elbe; the ship Galt was commanding, had became something sort of a legend. Heavily armed, her purpose (mithrill as in her) was to carry nearly 148 aircraft and raze hell on that night on whatever damned invasion force there was. Her entire complement of aircraft; on that day consisted of 76 'Type fifty' fighters; that resembling of an Japanese Zero, 36 'Augustus' dive bombers; modern and tested, and the other 36 being the 'Zorzal' Torpedo bombers.
"Zorzal." Galt had greeted the man from royal lineage. "You are aware of the enemy's technology, right?"
"Yes I am, Galt. I've briefed my men, and they'll brief their respective squadrons. I've drawn up a current plan right now. Since we know about where we currently are; and we know too where they are. I suggest, we simply overrun them. We are no match to individually sink the entire enemy fleet due to how advanced they are, hence why I believe it would be beneficial for us to simply either target their capital ships. There will, be a great cost of lives, but I do genuinely think it'll work." Zorzal replied.
Galt shook his head. The cost of the amount of men they would lose to only sink two ships, lead by an uncaring commander who only cared about battlefield results rather than his own men at all. He turned around to Zorzal.
"And who will write their parents letters to explain that they were sacrificed; in vain for an uncaring empire? It will be on you. Remember that; every name that appears on the honour roll is personally caused by you."
"Watch your tongue, Galt. I hold an great amount of respect for you, but do remember your place. Outside of this ship and the military; I am your superior. Remember that, a single word and I'll have my connections demote you to the lowest level." The words slipped from Zorzal's mouth like venom, before he had left to check on his pilots.
In charge of the aircraft; was LT Zorzal El Caesar himself. Direct descendant of Augustus, a 'experienced' aviator in some regard; and a graduate of the Saderan Naval Academy, class of 1928. He had been credited with leading his squadron of aircraft in sinking the critical aircraft carriers of clan Elbe, hence why he had an entire line of aircraft named under him. In truth; despite all the glorious fame and propaganda written under him, he had not carried out any of these feats at all. It was his brother, Diablo El Caesar who had long been deceased. Only then, did the emperor have to paint an glorious image of the 'perfect saderab'. The reality was, Zorzal was an incumbent squadron leader. His career had been fast-tracked throughout connections in the high command, not like anyone else knew except Galt. Even if he did say so, he would be hanged; or tortured for 'painting false lies' despite being such a respected captain.
Like their counterparts aboard the other carriers; namely being the SIN Pina, and the SIN Rose, which oddly enough was named after an organisation, the two officers speculated about the battle that loomed ahead. Unlike those aboard the other two fleet carriers; they believed they would not be central to any drama that might lie ahead. Both believed, that the other two fleet carriers would bear the brunt of the fighting, while Mithrill would bomb the enemy invasion force setting up camp on the beaches. It was, an important task; but both men believed they wouldn't be in the center of a bulls-eye bomb run. Or would they?
2200 US-Special Region Time
2032
June 7th
Admiral Quarters, USS Ronald Reagan
Fitch was alone with his thoughts. He had wondered, what his classmate, 'Fallo' was doing onboard the USS Enterprise, merely just a few miles away. Although he was much younger, he was senior to Fitch, an quirk of the old system of graduation titles being called back. It was simple, really. The higher standing your class had; the senior you were. Fallo, had served well and steadily, however he did not serve on any aircraft carriers during World war III, and did not earn any distinguished medals as such. He had served as an destroyer captain; and only became the captain of the Enterprise after his predecessor captain had died by an missile strike. Regardless, they were friends even before Fallo had been promoted, despite the rivalry between different ship classes. But, he was worried about him. He was not known for his aggresiveness. And he sure as hell didn't have anything close to Fitch's experience in aircraft carrier operations.
All night long, the formation had knifed it's way through the ocean at thirty-three knots north to face the enemy. There was beautiful moonlight and starlight from the milky way or whatever things actually had lied beyond, and it was obscured now and then nearly by the passing birds. Fitch, went down to the flight deck; looking at the fleet drawn in close together.
It was an wonderful sight; one that he would never forget. Escort ships holding the same speed, never varying for an instant at all. It gave him the realisation, that;
we're gonna be alright, and we'll drive these bastards back from where they came
0450, June 8th 2032
Task force 58 ( Captain Fletcher and Captain Fallo)
Radio silence was the order of the day; no one wanted to give their positions away prematurely. The entire combined task force, was located 158 miles away from the glass peninsula now. Fallo had feared; he really had feared that the Saderan fleet would have some magic bullshit that made them invisible on radar, to sneak around them and head to the peninsula to utterly bombard the invasion force. Fearing this; their task force had split up. He had sent Fallo's ship, and his surface ships to the south to block any ship; if there were even any. It was a uncharacteristically bold move for him; stripping away vital anti air capabilities from his carriers and simultaneously denying Fallo extra air cover. However, in his mind, Fitch had justified it by urging to hit them fast and hard before they could even notice. He had, he had to go after the gigantic threat of the Saderan Navy.
"Get Ramsey and Brett here, hell, maybe even Ault. tell them to launch their respective squadrons. Im very sure that the enemy, is straight ahead. We're still out of range; but I want fighters in the air still." Fallo had calmly told the nearest officer; pointing towards him.
"Aye sir!" The officer ran out of the bridge; scattering away to find the Cmdr.
In a few minutes; official flight operations had began. Scouting two; in a sense had arrived from the carrier's elevators, and soon enough, Fallo was able to see each fighter individually takeoff from the flight deck. Fighting Two, and Jam three had fully taken off. He had launched them right into the north, believing that there was an enemy.
0600 Hours
2032, F35 belonging to scouting two.
From nearly ten thousand feet; holding the stick to his side, Ensign John 'Nelson' from Ronald Reagan's scouting two had made the first sighting of the Saderan fleet that day. He had reported the position of the enemy; 550 miles to the eastwest of the task force. That, did not square with Fitch's understanding of where the Japanese were supposed to be, but he wasn't going to argue with a pair of eyes that were looking at enemy ships. Soon enough; all of the squadrons on enterprise were launched. All in all, they had numbered up to 35 aircraft. It was hillarious; 35 aircraft going up against nearly a thousand world war 2 era aircraft.
The F35s; as they met the invasion fleet hundreds of miles away; launched their missiles. Fallo had been watching through the screen; before he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. He hoped it would be over quick. He opened them again; watching as the modern fighter jets twisted against the air, pulling sharp turns back to the carrier.
With nearly an entire strike force flying towards an uncertain target, Fitch had consulted with Fallo. What if he was right? Magic actually existed and it was used in pragmatic purposes? Should the strike be recalled? If so, what if they had already reached the Invasion forces?
Just as his thoughts ran amidst; a voice came over the radio and the bridge. "Captain!" The OOD Interrupted. "False alarm, our missiles went directly through the ships. There isn't an formation at all, reports state that it's some voodoo magic shit."
He opened his eyes; and feared the worst. They had been deceived; and there was minimal aircover over the invasion forces. Were they being bombed?
"Then where's the enemy?"
"Sir, the entire enemy fleet is being directed at Enterprise's battle group."
Fitch turned around, opening his mouth as he yelled; "Get our planes and redirect their route to the Enterprise, and by god, redirect our route too."
In a instant once more, the bridge had returned to it's usual hive of activity. Men, clambered about the electronics; fidgeting with the devices on the consoles.
0510
Bridge, USS Enterprise
Out of nowhere, a large geyser of water erupted a hundred yards off the Enterprise's port quarter. A enemy fighter had gotten close enough to the ship; risking their safety. Dissapearing into the clouds, some 15,000 feet above, it was immediately cut down by the PHALANX system on the enterprise. It was desperate. There were some fighters; for Fallo had already launched only the majority to attack the enemy's fleet. Now, they were miles away, and the carrier group was left without aircover.
"What the fuck was that? How much of them are fucking coming for us?" Fallo screamed throughout the bridge. It was a nightmare, truly. The night sky of this world had been lit up by gunfire, missiles and other modern munitions. Planes, crashed into the water, cut down by anti air munitions.
The Carrier's task force; were quickly depleting all they had. It was merely a few ships against the entire Saderan carrier armwing of nearly two-thousand planes. It seemed endless, like a horde of zombies.
"Contact the destroyer captains. Tell them we're commencing a zigzag pattern and have them follow us. Sound General Quarters! Increase speed to twenty-eight knots!"
"General Quarters, aye, speed two-eight knots." Replied the officer of the deck, as the GQ Claxon resonated throughout the ship. The steel behemoth, or Enterprise in general cut through the blue tides; moving and evading the countless waves of dive bombers that seemed to never cease.
"Fuckers just keep coming. Where's our fighter relief? Where's the other flotilla?"
"Sir, their 4 miles out."
"Has anyone been hit yet?"
"No sir, defences are doing a well enough job. We're running out of ammo, and majority of the fighters we launched are running out of munitions."
Another water geyser had erupted near the enterprise; this time as a result of enemy planes crashing right beside it. It was truly weird; they had been swatting enemy planes out of the sky like bugs, without issue. Old biplanes, along with world war 2 era like planes were easily destroyed; yet they just, kept coming to the point where running out of ammunition seemed like a real threat.
"Any report on Brett's and Daisy's squadrons yet?"
He turned to the table; looking st the feed of the pilots.
0550
TF58 Strike Group, 7 miles away from Enterprise
Lieutenant Cmdr Brett's section of 4 EA-18Gs caught up with the F35s from Daisy's section. As the strike group sped forward; putting a tiny landmass on it's left. On first sight, Brett had noticed the ship's trails immediately, then twisted his airframe closer to Cmdr Daisy and motioned for her to look in the same direction. Within two minutes, they had discovered the entire enemy formation.
"Hey Daisy! How much do you bet that all of us, will get some shiny medals for a god damn turkey shoot? I mean, look at em! Piled up for us to take a crack at. I'll get drinks when we go back." Brett called out; looking at the display panels in his cockpit. Multiple readings, and signatures had popped up; blinking and flashing as if to advertise the sinking of the enemy fleet.
"Sure, seems like a fair deal to me. If, there is somewhere for us to go back." Came the voice over the radio from his fellow squadron commander.
The enemy had a dozen carriers; all placed within the centre of an diamond formation. A hundred, maybe eighty or more escort ships trailed them.
Brett radioed the airgroup; they were going in first. The Reagan's planes, however, were free to pile on later.
Ever since the war started; he had wanted to be the first american aviator to take a crack at this unlnown threat. He pushed over; and commited to the airframe bending against the air. His section followed.
Instantly; the propellants of rocket fuel had once more lit up the sky as missiles headed to the formation of carriers, before being greeted with the heavy amount of flak as black clouds filled the sky.
Brett gritted his teeth, as he pulled on the joystick in between his legs. The airframe twisted into another high-G turn, causing an pit in his stomach.
He turned in what limited space he had in the cockpit, looking back as the missiles met their location.
"Target destroyed; heading back to base." Brett gripped the joystick of his airframe, twisting the bird to head back to it's original carrier. He turned around to look back, watching the fiery impact and eruption coming out of the carriers. They had been utterly destroyed and eradicated, and there was nothing to even prevent it.
One of the carriers in particular, had been the Mithrill. It had suffered a detonation in the hangerbay during the midst of changing the armaments of planes. During that time, an missile launched courtesy of the Enterprise's strike package of F35s had found itself right in the middle of the carrier, and into the hanger. The explosion caused more, causing a chain reaction which lead to the total loss of the Mithrill. It was gone, completely gone.
0810, Skies above Enterprise
"That's it, Im fucking dry!"
"Say again?"
"Guns, missiles, everything's out!"
Brett had grit his teeth, as he pushed his airframe into another High-G turn. The somber news; and the overarching threat of genuinely running out of ammo had only seemed to make it worse as his aircraft constantly sped away from the hordes of fighters.
The truth was; he was out of ammunition too. Though his own squadron had put a personal dent in the hordes of fighter-bombers, it hadn't stopped them. Whatever was continuing to inspire them to continue the attack; despite being cut down in waves, was hell bent on winning against the carriers.
He only knew this; because of how they had been moving. They had already acknowledged the differential technological levels both worlds had; and were using numbers to counteract these issues. More than once, the hordes of fighters had never broken off to chase him as would normally be done; instead, only an single fighter would break off to occupy the airframe's attention and the rest acted as bodyshields.
The pilot glanced at his readout panels, unsure of whether or not the anxiety was caused from the amount of G-forces he had been going through, or the dwindling fuel gauges and alerts he had been receiving.
"Four, that's it brother. That's all we have, and we have to rearm." He watched; as his wingman had pulled his aircraft away from the horde of Saderan aircraft below them.
"What about our ships?"
He could do nothing, except shake his head, even if he knew no one could see it. "No choice, unless you wanna eject here with these fuckers still flying around. And I, personally sure as hell don't wanna after they showed our boys no mercy back at home."
He paused; looking at the readouts. "Even if these fucks don't kill us, higher ups will have our ass for it. And for all accounts and records, I would like to not die, and keep my sickass job of being a fighter pilot."
He thought for a moment; looking at the invasion where the FOB had started construction. Although it was still being built, there were a plethora of anti air systems that could help with the fight. He looked over his shoulder, staring at the struggling carrier strike group with literally the entire complement of anti aircraft weapons firing off into the sky.
"Well uh, unless you wanna live on an army bases and eat shit, like literally, then follow me. We'll be luring them to the Reagan's battle group, they've got air defences there, and we sure as hell need all the help we can get." Jeremy grit his teeth once more, manuvering his aircraft into a high-G turn as his fuel rapidly started to deplete. He flipped through the wide array of channels; before muttering an small prayer to himself.
"Any station this net, this is Fighter Two from Enterprise. Can anyone hear us?"
The net responded with static for what seemed like eternity.
"Damn it." He muttered to himself. Then, the radio crackled to life.
"Fighter Two, This is the USS Ronald Reagan. We read you."
"Thank god! Listen, I hope your air defences are up. We're running low on fuel, all our munitions have been depleted and we've run dry of anything. Hope your ready for it, cause we're bringing the fight to you."
"Copy that, we're green down here. Bring em in, and we'll set the 'welcome to earth' basket. Sending Fighters your way." Distinct chatter between officers at the beachhead began to start, along with obvious noises of officers rushing to inform their troops of the impending fight.
"Alright, we'll be bringing them to you. Just hold on!" He strained his voice once more.
"Jerry, we'll have to lure them out. Hard right, lure out the fighters, once their on you, match their speed."
Both of the F35s had twisted and turned against the winds to the right, their jet engines propelling them much faster against the prop planes. The aircraft turned hard right; draining the already low amount of fuel each carried. Both of the planes had now split up; respectively zooming past the hordes on their individual sides to lure them away.
Matthew looked around his aircraft again, in what limited space he had. He turned behind, his helmet providing a camera so that he could 'literally' see through his plane. "Holy shit, their on us!" Gunfire erupted from the Saderan planes; but it was obvious that their rounds could not even reach the F35.
He gripped the throttle, pushing it forward as afterburners burned behind him. The G-forces of it slammed him to his seat; his training as an pilot obviously helping him. The F35 he was piloting, had moved nearly a kilometer ahead of the enemy horde now. It was still visible through the eyes of the Saderan pilots, but it remained out of the range of their weapons. "How far are we from the Reagan?"
"A few miles left, mantain this speed. Some of them stalled due to jet wash. Keep goin, we're almost there." Jerry had replied towards his buddy Matthew. Both of them, were in a similar predicament, leading hordes of aircraft that could not reach them. Hold this pace.. he muttered to himself. He pulled back on the throttle, as the afterburners ceased. It was evident that the plan was working, a large amount of planes had broken off to chase them.
It was unnerving to say the least; having nearly hundreds of planes behind your fighter eagerly waiting to get into effective range.
"Pickin up something on radar." The radar continuously pinged; as more and more green and friendly signatures had showed up on radar. "Our boys from the Reagan are here, let's bring the fight to em!"
The F/A-18s and F35s from Reagan's carrier armwing had arrived, right on time. It was practically like an movie; angels had arrived to save them both. In an instant, multiple 20mm rounds and air to air missiles had slammed into the horde behind them, the same exact returning fighters who were deceived by whatever 'magical illusion' had been conducted earlier.
CIWS Systems, from the Reagan's multiple escort ships and the carrier itself had started to display their might. They had started firing into the oncoming horde, disintegrating it in an instant and levelling whatever was left of it after the F/A-18s had their fun with the planes. For Matthew and Jerry, both of the pilots had been cramped in their fighters and were watching a fireworks display, as in the absolute destruction of the fighters behind them.
Half of the fighters had split off to escort the two F35s back to the Reagan, and the others had headed to help the enterprise fight off the horde still.
"This is Flight control; Fighter two, you are cleared for landing."
The F35s sped up and executed another manuever to align itself with the carrier, practically on perfect course to land, the lights on the carrier guiding them in.
"Are you ready for this, Jerry?" Matt asked, his voice crackling over the comms as he adjusted his helmet, looking over to his wingman who was still hovering and waiting for him to land first.
"Keep it steady, I'll be fine."
Matt's F35 was rapidly approaching the Reagan now. He tugged on the joystick, doing last minute corrections to his landing as the vibrations of the aircraft carrier resonated throughout his airframe.
With a deep breath, he adjusted his speed and altitude, aligning himself with the deck. Just as he was about to touch down, a sudden gust of wind buffeted the aircraft.
"Hold it steady, Matt. Your losin it!"
He wrestled with the controls again, feeling the tension in him spike. With a steady hand, he corrected the path of his airframe, feeling the wheels roughly slam into the flight deck. The F35 rolled to a stop; before relief flooded through him.
"Now it's your turn Jerry, keep it steady just like you said." He spoke to his radio; letting his wingman know that he had landed safely.
The other F35 promptly landed; before they were escorted to their own designated positions as the pilots returned to the flight deck. "What about the Enterprise?"
"Reagan's Flyboys will handle it. In the meanwhile, Im sure we'll have to make ourselves home here."
USS Enterprise
Bridge 0910
"Their retreating." Fallo remarked. It had been a few hours since then; sitting in his ship which had previously been blasting everything it could at the enemy planes. "Bastards don't even know their own carriers are gone."
The scene before them was painted in a very grusome picture. The water around them; covered in scraps of debris while the water was entirely black for a few hundred metres. Destroyers, were executing rescue operations, picking up some of the few reluctant aviators who often rather stayed in the cold freezing ocean, rather than get picked up by the enemy.
It gave him the insight on what kind of enemy he was facing. He sat there, lighting a cigarette.
Why wont they just give up?
He let out a puff of his cigarette, looking towards the protective circle formed by his own escort ships. It was a massacre, they just wouldn't stop coming.
"Got that on camera footage now." He remarked. It wasn't really a fight, more like an glorified turkey-shoot. Currently, the sailors under his command were vomitting from the amount of manuevers to evade enemy bomb runs.
"Oh let it go man, remember how the North Koreans were? They've got their own life, own understanding of things. Even if human life seems to be sacrificed as if it was nothing. To them, saving their own men seems to be a fleeting concept I guess." Holland called out.
"I just don't understand. Sacrificing nearly two thousand men and almost all their capital ships for just two of us? That's just not worth."
"Hey, atleast you'll get a shiny medal for it right?"
Fallo rolled his eyes. It was true, but to be rewarded a piece of medal for what was esentially an glorified turkey-shoot didn't feel right. He furrowed his brows, looking out of the bridge's window as he spotted an distinct man huddling onto one of the downed aircraft. He was definitely not like the rest, crowned in royal clothing and a mix of pilot gear.
"Hey, tell the destroyer captains to pick that guy up for me. See that idiot in the golden gear? Bring him up." He called to the nearest officer.
He watched as the man struggled, before eventually being knocked out by one of the nearby sailors on a destroyer with a rifle.
Unbeknownst to him, he had captured a man called Zorzal El Caesar, who had lead the attack.
Fallo muttered to himself oncemore as he let his eyes stray to the remaining aviators who refused to be picked up by the destroyers. They were actively drowning, yet still refused help.
It was an insight to what type of enemies they were facing. Well equiped for their era, and equally as fanactical. He let out another puff of his cigarette.
"What the fuck is wrong with you people?"
writer note:
not very versed in writing action scenes, pls let me know if there's anymore feedback to give, next chapter will probably be related to ground forces again
plan to make this a more gritty fanfic instead of the nation going through the gate beinf always morally right,
as always.. pls let me know if theres any feedback.. i dont have beta readers too