"Sir, UAV is on station."
Captain Solomon let a smile cross his lips for a few fractions of a second. His gaze drifted from the slowly melting slivers of ice bobbing in his tea to one of the many screens added to
Mo's bridge in her many refits.
The UAV, like every other piece of modern technology aboard the old battleship, didn't work. TV signals were garbled and washed out with noise and static. Radar returns—when there
were returns—were too weak and scattered to make heads or tails of. According to every technician, every diagnostic system the old battleship had aboard, her technology was useless.
However, nobody'd ever told the
operators that. Despite what the diagnostics said,
Mo's radar saw keen and true. her UAV might send washed-out garbage to every
other ship in the fleet, but it gave
her a crisp report.
"Good girl, Mo," Solomon smiled again, and ran his hand along the battered bridge rail. The battleship trembled under his fingers with the roar of a quarter-million American horses churning seawater to foam, and… something else. He almost thought he heard a voice murmur something, but it was too quiet to make out. Like a conversation overheard through a thick wall.
"Target spotted," grunted Holland. The old XO needn't have bothered. The two abyssal battleships dwarfed the fleeing destroyers. Their low-riding angular hulls knifed though the water with the distinctive lines of a Scharnhorst-class…
Solomon hesitated to call them battleships.
Mo was a battleship. She was built to command the seas and defend a nation. These abyssal monsters were predators. Hunters seeking to ravage the week and flee from any who'd stay their greedy hands.
They were evil incarnate, from the inky black of their hulls to the bloody red of their war-flags.
He clenched his jaw as the two battleships ran down destroyers a quarter their size. Amatsukaze at the lead frantically signaled to the bigger
Burkes as all three warships ran for splashes. The frantic jinking was keeping them alive—barely—but each turn cost them precious speed, and the abyssals had no need to dodge. Not at that range.
"TAO," Solomon slammed his mug down so hard he heard it crack. Those battleships were nothing more than bullies, and he
hated bullies. "Range to target."
"Range to target forty-five thousand yards," came the hoarse rasp of
Mo's grizzled TAO. The old sailor'd fought her in the gulf, now he was taking his beloved battleship into yet another war.
Solomon scowled, and tore his eyes from the screen to the churning ocean off
Mo's slender bow.
"I can get though them at anything under thirty-thousand yards."
"Hmm?" Solomon glanced around for the source of the dusky whisper.
"I said," It was Holland's voice now, "We can get though them at anything under thirty-thousand yards."
Solomon smiled, "Main batteries?"
"AP's loaded up," said the XO, a bloodthirty tint to his calm voice. "Eight minutes to target."
The captain nodded. The Abyssals were closing on the destroyers, yes. But they were closing even faster on
Mo. "TAO!"
"Sir?"
"Weapons released." Solomon took a quick sip from his chipped mug. "You may fire when ready."
"With pleasure, sir."
Outside the spray-washed bridge windows, the battleship
Missouri swung her titanic turrets over her port bow. Barrels bigger than any sailor in decades had witnessed climbed to elevation. Beneath his boots, Solomon felt the warship shudder with anticipation.
Deep within her armored citadel, the captain knew her CIC was abuzz with frantic action. With every passing second, orders were being shouted across the spotlit consoles. Firing solutions were refined as every available scrap of data as fed into her Ford-built firing computer.
But on the bridge, everything was deathly silent. The minutes ticked by with nothing more than the distant roar of
Big Mo's propulsion plant and the crash of salt against steel between seconds.
Then, in a titanic crash
Mo spoke her furious invocation. Six rifles spoke as one, smashing craters a hundred feet wide in the churning ocean. Fireballs blossomed from her muzzles as the barely-perceptible blur of super-heavy shells roared downrange. All the modern, shock-hardened screens flickered as twenty-first century design cowered before twentieth-century ironwork.
"Hell yeah!" Holland pumped his fist as a cheer went up on the bridge. Solomon was sure most of the ship was doing the same. When
Big Mo speaks,
everyone listens.
Her guns dropped to their loading angle with the hungry haste of a angry boxer, each turret swarming with men scrambling to feed the Mark seven rifles' angry appetite. Running heavy naval artillery was a lost art, but her crew had found it anew.
At this range, the shells would spend nearly thirty seconds in the air. Her crew would only need twenty to send the next set on the way.
He glanced over to the UAV's feed just in time to see the first salvo slam into the water. Great crimson-dyed splashes bracketed the lead battleship, one landing close enough to splash bloody water over it's foredeck swastika.
The two abyssal battlewagons halted their ruthless bombardment of the destroyers, and Solomon swore he saw panic cross their twisted metal visages.
"Got you," whispered the Captain, "You sons of bitches. Helm! Come right one-five, let's keep the range on them."
His orders were passed back with deadly earnest, but Solomon was already planning his next move. At thirty-thousand yards, they didn't have a hope in hell of penetrating
Mo, and at thirty-one knots, they couldn't close the distance. But he couldn't let himself enjoy an easy victory, lest it turn into an avoidable defeat.
The two battleships heeled over in sharp turns. The sudden movement was enough to throw off
Mo's second salvo. Only one shell found its mark, but even then it simply passed though the target's upper fantail without encountering anything substantial enough to detonate it.
"They're running for open water," growled Holland.
"I know," Solomon grunted. "TAO, Kill those ships
now."
Mo's guns spoke in response, hurling another barrage of deadly American steel downrange. The battleship'd found her range. With the need to sprint ever closer removed, she could swing her fat stern out enough to unshadow her neglected after turret.
This time her fire found its mark. Shells crashed though the fleeing battleship's stern, tearing up armor, structure, and machinery alike. The ship visibly stuttered in the water as at least one of its screws suddenly ceased to exist.
The crash-stop was almost enough to save it from the next barrage. Almost. One of
Mo's shells tore a great bite out of the battleship's raised Atlantic bow, while another simply scraped the top several layers of its mast off and deposited them atop the second turret.
The other battleship bolted for the horizion, leaving its twin to founder in a pool of churned-up oil. Solomon would be astonished if it as making over twenty knots.
"Sir," the OOD's voice floated though the hot Hawaiian air. Tense, as always, but with an undercurrent of angry frustration. "We're to return to our patrol anchor. Orders from the Admiral."
Solomon took one last look at his prey, "Say again?"
The sailor's voice bubbled with angry disappointment. "P-8 caught another trio of battleships moving on Pearl from the south-east. Scharnhorsts. Plus… another they can't identify."
Solomon scowled at the limping abyssal battleship. It so close he could almost taste the burning cordite in the air. "Does he know we're engaged?"
"Aye sir. Reason he let us get far out."
The captain grumbled under his breath. He was so close, only to run out his leash and get yanked back by the neck. But he didn't have a choice. He wasn't like the abyssals, he didn't fight just to kill.
He fought to
defend.
"Helm, bring us about," he slumped into his bridge chair. "Best possible speed for Pearl."
Mo let out a great sigh as her hull heeled over in the turn. He'd heard ships make that sound before, it was just a product of waves crashing against her bow as she turned. But somehow, it just seemed so much more
frustrated this time.
"Sorry girl," Solomon ran his hand along the rail, "you'll get your day."
—|—|—
The ride down to Seattle had been more or less uneventful. Or as uneventful as riding in the back of a painfully overloaded ten-ton truck with fifty-eight thousand tons of American fighting steel embodied into a stunningly attractive young woman could possibly be.
Jersey kept mentioning how excited she was to get a chance to gorge herself on pie. Crowning had made sure to call ahead and make sure the bakers were prepared, and he'd even—though the Navy, of course—arranged to buy the place out so Jersey could stuff herself in peace.
He had, however, made the mistake of mentioning this to Jersey. It flustered her momentarily, but soon she was ranting about her upcoming feast in even more detail. Apparently, she was looking forwards to her feast so much she even restrained herself into eating a 'light breakfast'.
Crowning didn't want to think about that too much. He'd been at breakfast with her, the girl ate a mountain of pancakes bigger than Musashi's ego. He'd even talked with one of the culinary ratings about it. Apparently she'd eaten 'round about a quarter-ton' of pancakes.
Luckily, it wasn't too hard for the professor to push those offending thoughts out of his mind. Jersey'd got her hands on a new outfit for their outing—that she refused to call a date for reasons known only to her.
And what an outfit it was.
Gone were the short-shorts and puffy vest. In their place were a pair of stone-washed jeans that her long, sinewy legs—and of course, that superb stern—just barely fit into, and a white turtleneck that hugged her breasts just enough to make their perfect shape known without being ostentatious.
She topped it all off with a neat midnight-blue jacket that hugged her waist just enough to show off that hourglass figure of hers, but was zipped low enough to expose hints of her upper works.
"Doc?" Jersey smirked at him, and Crowning saw his own reflection blush in her ever-present aviator shades. "Something you wanna say?"
"Hmm?" Crowning rubbed at the close-cropped stubble on his chin and shot her a confused look.
"You've been staring at my tits for the past fifteen minutes," said the battleship with a contented grin.
The professor paled, and his mouth hung open. "I… Jersey, I didn't—"
"No," the battleship shook her head. "I'm not mad. Actually, uh… I didn't mind."
"Jersey," Crowning locked eyes with his own reflection in her shades, "I am sorry. You're a kind, loving woman. You deserve more than to be leered over your your body."
The battleship blinked, her cheeks slowly turning a throughly communist shade of red. "But…" she glanced down, and crossed her arms to squish herself. "Tiddy…" the poor girl seemed utterly bewildered by what he'd just said.
"They're very nice," Crowning didn't let his eyes drift by a fraction, "All of you is…" he closed his eyes, trying to gather the words. "Jersey, you're a work of art in a very real sense."
"Get to the part where you start staring at me again," Jersey sank back on her bench with a pout. "It felt nice."
Crowning shook his head. "Jersey, I don't
want to leer at your chest or drool over your stern."
"Not even a little?" mumbled the battleship.
Crowning plowed on with nary more than a smirk. "I want to
love the Black Dragon. The most decorated battleship in history. I want to know, and love, and be loved by the girl who mere hours after throwing up all but the last dregs in your bunkers charged into battle against dreadnoughts to save those under your care."
Jersey blushed and squirmed to get away from his piercing gaze.
"Your beauty is not why I love you," said Crowning. "Your courage, your faithfulness, even your awkwardness are why I love you."
Jersey stared at him for almost a minute. "FUCK!" She smashed her fist into the truck's sidewall hard enough to leave a noticeable dent. "What the fucking hell, doc?"
Crowning blinked. From experience, he knew it was best to just let her work her anger out by herself.
"Why…" Jersey stared him down, "Why can't you just… fucking… drool over my tits or shit.
That I can handle." Her glare seethed with icy anger and she jabbed a knife hand into his chest. "Now you're… you're… making me deal with motherfucking feelings and shit, and you
fucking well know I can't handle that!"
For a moment, the battleship just glared at the professor, her hand still pressed against his sternum, her chest heaving against her tight sweater as frustration pounded in her boilers.
Then a cough sounded from the cab. "Uh… Ma'am?"
Jersey glanced over with a huff.
"Are you okay?"
"Not really," she mumbled. "Need fucking someone to drool at my boobs."
There was a pause, then the driver added a timid, "Is… that an order, Commander?"
"Lewd," hissed Jersey.
"I'm a Marine, ma'am."
Her frustration melted away and a good-natured smirk brightened up her finely chiseled features. "Awww, all's forgiven then. But, uh…" she glanced across the cabin at where Crowning was visibly forcing his gaze down along her curves, "I
think that position's already been filled."
The battleship smiled, and swung one leg over his until she planted her stern squarely on his lap. Her chest bulged against his face, and she smiled as she felt his glasses tickle at her skin though her clothes. She was just about to offer him a kiss when the marine spoke up again.
"Uh… Commander…" his voice was taut with awkward tension. "Could you… not… move around, please?"
Jersey settled back with a frustrated scowl.
"You're too heavy," mumbled the marine. "Suspension's already maxed-out as is."
"Did you just call me fat?"
"Yes," Crowning smirked at her, "He did. You ate a quarter ton of pancakes."
The battleship blinked. "I don't follow." She flopped onto the bench beside him and let her head fall onto his shoulder. "Head scratchy?"
Crowning smiled, and gave the crown of her shimmering strawberry blond hair a quick kiss. "You're such a child sometimes."
"Head." Jersey somehow pronounced a period. "Scratchy." After a moment, she added an uncharacteristically timid, "please?"
The professor chuckled, and ran his fingers though her silky soft hair. Before long, she was purring contentedly against his shoulder. It wasn't quite what he pictured when he'd planned this date… but she was happy. That alone made him happy.
—|—|—
Urakaze held the shimmering midnight-blue silk to her chest and sighed. She hadn't been expecting to find something so nice to wear to the Christmas ball. She and her division mates always had trouble finding cute dresses to wear for formal events. There weren't a lot of shops in Japan that catered to girls as… unbalanced as herself, Hamakaze, or Isokaze, and those that did weren't at all suitable for destroyers.
But America had unlimited supplies of anything she could ask for! It only took her and her sisters a few
hours to find a store in town eager to sell them nice, cute dresses. Dresses that fit them like gloves without being lewd in the slightest. Even Atago couldn't find anything to take in or let out, and the cruiser had a keen eye for seam work.
Urakaze giggled and squished the kimono against her figure. The dark blue silk went perfectly with the brushed gold of her sash. She couldn't believe there was a shop in town that sold kimonos, let alone ones so pretty.
"'Laska!" the destroyer bounced down the carpeted halls towards the large—not battle,
large, she was very emphatic about that—cruiser's room. Ever since she'd gotten back, the American had gone out of her way to make Urakaze and her sisters feel welcome.
She'd even tried cooking them all rice and dumplings, and was mortified when Nachi accidentally mentioned they were
Chinese-style dumplings. Not that Urakaze really minded, they
were delicious, and it was really the thought that counted.
"'Laska?" She scuffed her boot against the door. "You home?"
"Yeah," The large cruiser's airy, contended-but-confused accent wafted though the air. Urakaze liked that accent. It sounded like how a warm fleece blanket feels. "Come in."
Urakaze smiled and bumped open the door with her hip. "'Laska, look at this—" she froze mid sentence.
Alaska sat cross-legged in the middle of her floor, a veritable nest of boxes surrounding her like a cardboard redoubt. A half-finished model kit—an
Essex-class carrier by the looks of it—sat on her lap, while a collection of photo-etched detail kits, pots of paint, brushes, glue, and tools lay scattered around her. The cruiser even had a stray bit of sprue super glued to her temple that a faerie work crew were fruitlessly trying to dislodge.
The cruiser glanced down at her makeshift work space and blushed. "Sorry about the mess, I—"
"EEEEEEEEE!" Urakaze squealed. She flung her dress on the cruiser's bed and bounced over to give her a tight hug. "'LASKA! WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL US!"
Alaska opened her mouth to mutter a confused reply, but she was quickly muffled by the destroyer's chesty hug.
"YOU'RE SO LUCKY!" Urakaze hugged the cruiser tight. "Stay here! I have to tell the others!" The destroyer spun on her heel and bolted out the door as fast as her little turbines would carry her, leaving Alaska as throughly confused as she normally was.
The cruiser blinked, shrugged, then went back to gluing 20mm Oerlikons into their gun-tubs. The tiny light-AA guns had been a huge pain in the stern to get done, but her faeries had been invaluably in folding the itty-bitty photoetched ammo drums.
Alaska smiled as she took her her half-finished build. There was something relaxing about building models. It was a nice break from the daily grind of patrols and scouting missions.
"'Laska!" The cruiser looked up just soon enough to get a face full of her best friend's limitless cleavage. Judging by the slight dampness on her skin—and her outfit of a coral-blue bikini with an airy sarong tied around her hips—Atago'd cut her bath short to come by. She hadn't even bothered to trumpet her arrival with one of her "panpakapan"s. This must
really be serious."'Laska, why didn't you tell us!"
"Um," Alaska blinked, and pried her face out of Atago's bouncy chest to meet her best friend's sea-blue eyes. And then she spat-out the hotwheel clenched between her teeth. Atago really needed to talk to her faeries about hiding stuff in her boobs. "What?"
Atago giggled, and grabbed the taller cruiser in a huge wet hug. "It couldn't have happened to a nicer girl!" She squeezed Alaska tight, then let her go and leaned over to nuzzle the American's flat parka-clad tummy. "Your momma's the best cruiser in the whole navy!"
"Momma?" Alaska cradled her belly protectively and flashed Atago a confused look. Not that Atago noticed, the Japanese girl was busy cooing sweet nothings to her belly and snuggling.
"Yes," Hamakaze nodded knowingly, "You're pregnant, aren't you?"
"You're building models," added Isokaze.
"You're so lucky!" Urakaze squealed with happiness and pounced on her two sisters for lack of anything better to hug.
Alaska's mouth hung open, but then it promptly shut again. She
had been building a lot of models recently, and her mood had been getting sunnier by the day. She thought it was just the Christmas spirit, but the pregnancy theory made a lot more sense.
After all, she was building
boats.
"I…" Alaska glanced down at her stomach and smiled, "I… I'm pregnant?"
"You must be!" Atago giggled and nuzzled the American's flat tummy, "Panpakapregnant!"
"It
is the most logical possibility," opined Hamakaze.
"We should tell the admiral," said Urakaze with a happy smile.
"And you," Isokaze pointed at the American, "Should call Dreadnought. She knows more about being a mother than anyone alive."
Alaska nodded. She could always count on her friends to keep her on the straight and narrow path. "That's a good plan," the cruiser started to get to her feet when Atago gently pushed her back down again. "You should stay here."
"Mmm," Hamakaze nodded, "It's not good for you to exert yourself in your condition."
Alaska nodded. That seemed smart.
"I'll get your laptop," Isokaze tip-toed though the modeling debris scattered around the room, "Dreadnought should be up by now."
"I'll go tell the Admiral!" Atago bounced to her feet with a triumphant giggle. She laughed and bolted for the Admiral's office at a giddy skip.
"Is there anything else you need?" asked Urakaze. "Some pillows? Warm milk? Glass of water?"
"I'm fine," Alaska blushed at all the attention she was getting. "Really. I can't be that far along…" she glanced from her flat belly to her half-finished model kit. "I think…?"
Urakaze shrugged. "This is uncharted territory."
Isokaze nodded sagely and handed the cruiser her computer. "There's really nothing else we can get you?"
Alaska shook her head. "Really, no. I'm fine."
The two destroyers shot her a concerned look, then slowly filed out of her room. "We'll be right out here if ya need us," said Urakaze.
Alaska smiled at them, then opened up her e-mail. Before long, she had a message typed up for the mother of all battleships.
From: "USS Alaska" <Alaska.CB@Navy.mil>
To: "HMS Dreadnought" <Dreadmom06@gmail.com>
Subject: How do I mom?
Hey, this is USS Alaska. Obviously. Uh… It's so nice to be able to talk to you.
Anyways, I think I'm pregnant. I've been building a lot of model ships, and that seems like the most logical explanation. What do I do?
Love,
Lt. CDR Alaska
PS: we can skype if you're okay with doing that. My user name is "Eskimopie." Not "Eskimocreapie", don't click that. It's… lewd.
Alaska smiled, and tapped the send button. Dreadnought would know what to do!
—|—|—
Atago burst into the Admiral's office with a cheerful "Pan-pakapakapakapaka-pa~n!!" and a happy giggle. She threw her hands in the air in time with her own trumpeting, and Hamakaze deftly ducked under the cruiser's frantic gesticulations. "Alaska is Pregnant!"
Admiral Raleigh glanced up from his paperwork at stared at the to shipgirls over the lid of his laptop. He slooooowly closed the computer and regarded the smiling cruiser with a practiced stare. "Atago."
"Yes?"
"You want to run that by me again?"
Atago planted her hands on his desk and grinned, a few loose lego bricks falling out of her low-cut bikini from the violence of the motion. "Alaska, my best friend in the whole wide world is building a little bundle of joy!"
Raleigh reached for his well-worn mug and took a long sip of coffee. "She's pregnant."
Atago nodded. She was starting to get upset he wasn't getting the picture. "Yes! We found her building model ships in her room, of course she's pregnant!"
Raleigh stared at her for a solid minute. "You found her building models, and that makes you think she's pregnant?"
"Yes!" Atago pumped her fist in the air, happy her Admiral was finally getting the picture.
"And this seems logical to you."
"Of course," said Hamakaze with a slight nod of her head.
The admiral sighed again. "Atago… you were complaining to me just yesterday that Alaska hasn't so much as said two words to that boy at the store."
"I was!" Atago beamed. It always made her day when her Admiral remembered something about their conversation.
"And you think she made a move," Raleigh rubbed his temple, "and grew out of her dorkiness long enough to get laid?"
Atago's smile dimmed. As much as she wanted to see her best friend happy, that did seem like a bit of a stretch.
"You don't think it's possible," Raleigh smirked, and slowly placed a sheaf of newspaper coupons on his desk, "that she's just taking advantage of the holiday sales."
Atago puffed her cheeks out in a pout. "But… but… little bundle of joy…"
"I'm sure it'll happen sooner or later," Raleigh rolled his eyes at the cruiser. "Just not today. Kongou has dibs on the first shipgirl baby after all."
"It's true," added Hamakaze, "She literally does."
Atago and the Admiral shared a mutual double take.
"
Jane's," said Hamakaze.
"Ooooooh," Atago nodded sagely. "Of course!"
Raleigh chuckled. It was just like Kongou to get her family intentions on the official record. "Now," he motioned to the stack of paperwork accumulating on his desk. "I've got work to finish, and I believe you girls have a ball to get dressed for."
Atago glanced down at her damp bikini and blushed. "Right, yes. Thank you, Admiral!"
The two shipgirls trotted out of the Admiral's office, with Hamakaze making sure to close the door after her. "Think we should tell Alaska?"
Atago shrugged. "She'll figure it out on her own."
