Changing Destiny (Kancolle)

Skywalker_T-65 · Nov 6, 2020

Chapter 59

"I feel as if the war left us behind a very long time ago, Sascha."

Günther Lütjens slid into his customary chair with a heavy sigh, his bones protesting every movement. He wasn't a young man anymore and he had just been party to his world being turned upside down. This day had been one thing after another. Learning that Sascha was not a maid, and in fact, was his old flagship. Meeting with Winston Churchill to discuss betraying his homeland. Learning that the man who had taken his place, the most famous naval officer- perhaps rivaling even Rommel in fame -was already subverting the war effort. It was maddening.

"To be entirely fair, Admiral, it did." Sascha gave him a small smile, though her muscles and shoulders remained stiff. Her lingering frustration with Churchill, perhaps? "It's hardly as if we have had any way to influence it from here."

The old man could only snort at that. "That is not what I meant, though I appreciate the attempt at humor. Sascha, what is your opinion on all of this?" Sending her a dry look, Lütjens knew what he was asking. "You know more about Gustav's plans than I ever will. What, exactly, does he intend to do with all of this? I can't help but see this as a repeat of the lies that brought Hitler to power in the first place."

Maybe it was his time in Britain, away from Germany, that let him see the Stab in the Back for what it was. A convenient rallying point for keeping Germany angry at the Entente, more than any real truth. He still loathed Versailles, as did any patriotic German, especially one in the military. Yet...

Hmph.

We let his words sway us onto a path that can only end in loss. Germany could possibly have beaten Britain and France alone. Germany has no hope of defeating Britain, Russia and America all working in concert with each other. We were all blind. Blind to follow a madman into the depths of Hell.

"...I'm sure you see my concern." Lütjens finished, tiredly reaching a hand up to rub at his face.

Sascha, to her credit, shifted uncomfortably on her feet. "I am not privy to everything the Admiral is planning, sir. Even with our unique abilities, he isn't comfortable sending everything over radio or wireless. He knows that the Gestapo watch his every step." Folding her hands behind her back, the battleship continued, nerves clear and obvious. "I am sure he is aware of the risks, however. He certainly doesn't want a repeat of what happened after the last war."

Lütjens wanted to believe those words. He truly, honestly, did. However, he could hardly help but acknowledge that Sascha had no first-hand experience with how Germany had been between the wars. She couldn't have. And for all that he acknowledged, now, that Hitler was a madman dragging Germany down with him? Removing him at the moment may not be the best plan. How would the people react if Germany were truly 'stabbed in the back' at the height of their success, when it looked like her armies were invincible?

Sighing once more, the Admiral shook his head. There was nothing he could do to influence events in Germany. What would happen, would happen. "I have to trust in your judgement, Sascha. I hope that Gustav knows what he is doing. I cannot see where he plans to end. Unless he intends to see Germany burnt to the ground before making any sort of move..."

At the way Sascha looked away from him, Lütjens slowly raised a hand to his brow and rubbed at it tiredly. Of course. He should have known the answer to his question, before he so much as asked it. There was only going to be one response. He hated the response, with everything in his being, but it was the only one that made any sense.

"...I shouldn't be surprised by that." So, acknowledging that point, the old Admiral looked at the door. And beyond it, to where the British were waiting for their next meeting, whenever that came. "Fine. Sascha, we must do everything in our power to limit the damage. I will not see Germany destroyed to save her. There must be a way to end this madness before it goes that far."

"Of course, Admiral!" Sascha snapped to attention, firing off a picture perfect salute. A picture perfect Kaiserliche Marine salute. "I'll do anything I can to help you, I promise! Just say the word, and it will be done. Even if I have to fight again!"

"No need for that, dear." Lütjens smiled, before sighing softly.

Waving off the concerned look that Sascha sent his way, the Admiral leaned back in his chair and held a hand to his face. It hid things he would rather not have her see. This...he had his own reasons to not want Germany destroyed. Reasons that had nothing to do with loyalty to the nation.

My boys...my dear daughter. I don't want them to grow up in a country in ruins. I don't want them to constantly be at risk of dying, from starvation or bombs or vengeful soldiers. Even as I contemplate betraying everything I stood for, I fear more for their sake than my own. I will accept whatever my people deem necessary of me, when this war is over. I will not allow my children to suffer. No matter what I must do. Sascha...there is one more thing I must ask of you, my dear friend.

Letting his hand fall, the old Admiral looked over at the battleship. She had dropped her own salute, yet she still stood at parade-ground attention. "Sascha, there is one request I have of you. One more important than any other."

"What is that, Admiral?" Her voice was entirely serious, not a hint of her old act in it. The immigrant maid had been replaced by the calm and collected sailor. Warship. "If it's in my power, I am glad to do it!"

"I need you to contact your sister, and Gustav. I will do what I can to help him. However," here, he stared directly into Sascha's eyes. He wanted no questions to come from what he was about to say, and he wanted everything to be very clear. "I want him to protect my family. I do not care how he does so. If he must have another woman like you do it, I do not care." Lütjens was not a man given to exaggerations, nor to grand gestures. Even so, he stared Sascha down. "If I am to betray my country, if I am to see it burn to end this war, I must know my family will survive."

Something flashed behind Sascha's eyes, yet she nodded her head anyway. "Of course, Admiral. I...I would do the same for my sister."

"So I imagine." Lütjens smiled and relented from his stare. "That is all I ask of you, Sascha. You may go now...I think I'd like to rest a while."

After all, the old Admiral had the distinct feeling that the next few days, months, years...were not going to be fun for him. He would need his rest where he could find it.

The coming days are going to be interesting. And not in a good way.

While Admiral Lütjens rested, Admiral Thompson found it impossible to do so. He paced in his room, while Utah poured over the details of how Royal Oak had woken up in Scapa. And what little that Gneis...Sascha...had been willing to share of her own experience. He wasn't entirely sure if she was reading all of that because she was curious, or if it was to let him have peace to think to himself. Either way, he was taking advantage of the spare time.

"Right. I can't confirm anything about Schreiber without talking to him myself, but there's no way that will work. Not in the middle of a war..." muttering to himself, Thompson looked down at his bed. His own notes scattered over it, his attempts at remembering the names of everyone he had worked with in the future. His past. "Damnit, I wish I could remember. I haven't had to think about things back then in years. I didn't think I would have to."

"Are you concerned he is like you are, Admiral?" Utah piped up, though her grey eyes remained focused on what she was reading. He forgot how good her- any of the women, really -hearing was. "I admit, it would make a certain amount of sense. I can hardly imagine why anyone without your experience would know we exist."

Thompson sighed deeply, "Same here, Utah. It doesn't make any sense. But it also doesn't make any sense that he wouldn't just defect if he was like me. Why bother working for Germany at all?"

"I believe we already answered that question. Just as I would do anything for my daughters, or you would do anything for any of us..." Utah trailed off, sending a significant look at the Admiral, instead of looking at her papers.

"...he'd do anything for his country and girls. Right."

Utah smiled, and returned to what she was doing. Thompson took her example and returned to his own pacing. Alright. There was almost zero chance that Schreiber wasn't from the future, based on the available data. He'd looked at absolutely everything they had on the man, from British intelligence to what his fellow Admiral and Sascha had said. Everything pointed to a man who knew things he shouldn't, who had been in just the right place at just the right times, and who had a strong desire to make peace with the West while keeping the Soviets out. No matter what it meant for Germany as a whole.

Most of it could just point to a man who saw how the cards were arranged, with the United States in the War now and was unusually lucky. If not for the singular fact that he knew about ship girls and ship spirits.

She's right, I can't see how he could have known about the girls like this, if he weren't like me. No one in my time, no one, knew about the girls until the Abyssals showed up. I don't see anything different about this world that could cause that, other than me being here and...he's been doing things before I showed up.

Letting out an explosive sigh, the Admiral did the only thing he could. Sit down and stare at Utah. "So, if Schreiber is like me, how are we going to do this? I can't stay here forever, and neither can you. How do we know he'll be able to respond while I'm still here?"

"We can't know for sure." Utah replied, pulling out a picture of Royal Oak's hull and looking at it intently. She bit her lip, shook her head, and continued speaking. "You want to be back with Saratoga, don't you?"

"...you aren't wrong." Thompson forced the flush down, while smiling a crooked smile at Utah. "And you want to be back with Jackson, I'm sure."

The battleship didn't respond to that bait, simply blushing and returning to her work. Chuckling slightly at that, Thompson fell back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. Times like this, he felt like he was a cadet at the Academy again. Tasked with some absurd situation that he had to come up with a solution to. Never had something quite as outlandish as this though. Figuring out what a German Admiral was doing in World War Two, while he was talking with USS Utah as a woman.

Hm. Well, he couldn't stay with the British forever. He was needed back in the Pacific. Sara's refit wouldn't take that much longer and he'd be damned if someone else took her out.

"Right. If we can't say for sure when he'll respond, we need a different plan. We should put something together for the British." Thompson spoke up, just loud enough for Utah to know he wasn't muttering to himself.

At those words, Utah actually pushed herself out, and turned her chair around to look at the Admiral. "What do you suggest, Admiral?"

"I think we need to tell Churchill everything, and create a list of things that we can relay to Schreiber whenever Gne...Sascha can talk to him." At the dubious look he got, Thompson raised a hand and smiled. "I know, I know. I don't much want to tell Churchill what I am either, but the President gave me permission if we found it necessary. It isn't something any of us are fond about doing, but we need Churchill onboard with what we're doing or we're just going to fail."

What was left unsaid was that any other President would have forbidden him from saying anything. Roosevelt was the rare breed who had his secrets, yet also felt much less in the way of problems with telling others things. He was never going to march up to Joe Stalin and tell him about the Manhattan Project- ignoring the spies, obviously -but he also shared damn near everything with Churchill. Out of necessity or trust for the post-war world. Something like this was just par for the course, really.

A small chuckle came from the battleship. "I do not doubt that, I'm simply surprised you are willing to tell him about yourself. You hate anyone knowing other than all of us."

"Because I didn't want to get tossed into a loony bin." Thompson's reply was dry and to the point. Utah laughed at it, while he chuckled softly. "At any rate, we have the letter from the President. That'll have to be enough. I just...how to put this..."

Tapping his chin, the Admiral looked at the ceiling and frowned a little. Utah knew the future, of course. He had told her everything he knew about the Pacific War, just as he had told all the other girls. Sara the first and the one who knew the most, obviously. Yet he hadn't spoken all that much about the European part of the war. Unless he ran into Ranger or Wasp, he hadn't really felt the need.

But...

"...I really want Churchill to know, because he'll be the one who has to work with Schreiber. He needs to know how the war went, so he can avoid the same mistakes and knows how the Germans are going to act. I can't be here to guide him along, y'know?"

Utah nodded, slowly, as she looked over her shoulder at her own research. Before turning back to the Admiral, an aura of understanding forming around her. She knew what he meant. Not surprising, considering she was a smart one.

"Just like in the Pacific, since you taught us all those new tactics. You don't want us to suffer." Utah clarified, more for her own sake than anything. Nodding to herself, the battleship continued. "Do you think Churchill will trust Schreiber more if he knows about the future, sir?"

Thompson shook his head, "Not necessarily. Churchill isn't an idiot...if he puts two and two together like I did, he may be even more suspicious about Schreiber. But!" Holding a hand up to forestall Utah's likely complaint, the Admiral continued explaining. "It's probably a good thing if he does. I'm not great at this whole 'spy' business--"

"Not at all. You can't tell a lie to save your life." Utah cut in, giggling at the dry look she received in return.

"---but I know it isn't a good idea to trust someone just because we have one of you girls vouching for him." Thompson finished, grumbling at Utah. "And I know I'm not good at lies. Damnit."

Electing to ignore her continued giggles, Thompson hopped to his feet and started to gather up papers to use. He needed to write down everything he remembered about the European War and the German leadership. Both to have it for the meeting with Churchill, and for when he left. He had very little hope he would happen to be here when Schreiber was able to make contact, and frankly, it wouldn't matter if he was. He knew that Bismarck hardly had the codes to get into British radio or wireless networks. And without those, any sort of long-distance real-time communication was impossible. Schreiber would have to be a complete and utter fool to try and broadcast over the open like that, after all.

Which left them back at square one of this conversation. If he couldn't reliably talk with Schreiber in real time, he didn't see as much reason to stay here. He could help Churchill plan things out for later, he could give his opinions on Schreiber and hope for the best. The best bet that he had in the long run, really, was just getting that information to the Prime Minister and then getting back to Sara and the Pacific.

Intellectually, I know I'm more valuable on the home front. Supplying them with everything I know, even if a lot of it is guesswork. Can't tell them how to make assault rifles or nuclear engines, beyond the very basics, after all. And there's always knowing the future. But...that is going to be less and less useful the longer the war goes on, and the more things change. Not to mention my skills are best used with Sara. I may be a novice compared to Halsey, but with my ability to work with the girls...

It hadn't been fun, already, to have to explain to Roosevelt what an 'assault rifle' was and how he could point things in the right direction but not actually design one himself. And that was just one thing the President had tried to get him to design.

"Okay...I'll get things together for my part. Utah?" Thompson set his papers down, and walked over to the desk where the battleship sat. "You figure anything out about Oak or Sascha yet? You'd know better than me, there."

Thompson could tell someone exactly how to summon a new ship girl. That knowledge was completely useless for figuring out how Utah had summoned herself. It was even less helpful now that Oak, Sascha, and that rumored Italian girl were around. More data points, yet not enough hard information to work from.

"I have some ideas." Utah replied, looking up at the Admiral. Her scarred face twisted into a thoughtful frown, beneath her long grey hair. "The nearest thing I can tell is that all of us share some need to come back. I desperately wanted to protect my daughters. Sascha wanted to save her Admiral. Oak...I think she wanted to save her crew? She doesn't say exactly what she felt, just that she needed to be able to fight. We should ask her about that when we see her again."

"Noted." Nodding along to that, the young Admiral placed a hand on Utah's shoulder. "We'll need to talk to both of them in a bit more detail. And see if Schreiber knows anything about that Italian. For now..."

Well, for now they at least had a plan. They would go to Churchill the next time they saw the man, and set everything up, no matter what happened. Thompson and Utah would make it where, even if they had to go back to the Pacific, the British would know what to do. Schreiber...

If Schreiber is from the future or not, he will have a proper conduit into the British government now. If he is honest about wanting to end this war as soon as possible, even if it means losing in every way, then we need to help him. Millions of lives are at stake. Not just the people in the camps, either.

I have to hope that he knows what he's doing.

As I said in Purple Phoenix, this has been a...fun time. The year as a whole, really, has been a fun time. Sorry about how long this took. I wasn't expecting it to be this difficult to rally the muse for writing, well, anything. But...well. It's how things have gone. Hopefully this chapter makes up for that, at least a little bit.

Thompson is making proper moves and has a PLAN (tm). And we'll get him back to the Pacific, soon enough, as a result. Europe will still be primarily Schreiber's story.

Skywalker_T-65 · Mar 4, 2021

Chapter 60

Winston Churchill was many things. A veteran politician, who had been serving his country since before the Great War. One of the few, in his opinion, to have seen Hitler for the madman he was. The man who had kept Britain in the war during the hard period after France threw in the towel, and before the Americans had entered. A man who had seen the war on the Western Front, up close and personal, in the last War. The leader of the opposition, the leader of Britain, the man who fought against German tyranny. All together, a man who was not easy to surprise.

Or so he had thought. He was quickly learning that, no matter what experience a man had, it would not be enough to prepare him for listening to anything related to Admiral James Thompson.

What I wouldn't give for a brandy, right about now. Churchill rubbed at his brow, staring at the American officer who was giving him such a pounding headache. Thompson at least had the grace to look sheepish, for all the good that did. If it had not been for the letter from Franklin, I would call this man a bloody madman. I'm still tempted to do so.

"If I didn't know better, I would say you are deliberately trying to give me a heart attack." Churchill's voice was gruff, and perhaps the slightest bit sour. He shook his head and sighed, continuing to rub at his brow. "Franklin believes what you have to say, so I suppose I will give you the courtesy of listening."

"I still don't believe it myself, sometimes, for what that's worth." Thompson shrugged his shoulders, his eyes drifting over to Utah, by his side as ever. "But I'm here for a reason, I know that. If that's only ending this war before so many people have to die...I'll take what I can get. Sir."

Churchill waved his hand, "If that's so, I want you to tell me what we should expect moving forward. I can safely assume we do win, or you'd be speaking German."

"...you aren't wrong. And we do win, in 1945."

That brought a new frown to Churchill's face. Oh, sure, it was hardly as if he expected the war to be over by Christmas. The Great War had made that lesson abundantly clear, and they didn't even have a foothold in Europe yet. Discounting Stalin's red hordes, at any rate. But 1945? With Hitler at war against the British Empire, the Soviet Union and the United States? How could the Germans possibly endure all of that for three more years?

Thompson seemed to read Churchill's mind, reaching a hand up to scratch at his neck, a bit of sweat running down his cheek. "The Nazis really don't like surrendering. Hitler keeps them going until the Soviets are battering down Berlin, and they only surrender after he shoots himself in his bunker. By that point...let me think..." The hand that had been scratching his neck moved to tapping the table, as Thompson muttered under his breath. "...we were on the Elbe, right. And Austria and near the Czechs. Where else..."

Familiar, even from a couple meetings, with Thompson's muttering habit, Churchill cleared his throat. That got the Admiral to wince and shake his head to clear his thoughts.

"Right, sorry. Germany only had a little bit of their own country and some of Czechoslovakia left. If they're anything like that again, it won't be easy to win the War." Thompson shrugged again, his eyes suddenly looking very tired. "A lot of people are going to die."

"That's war, son." Churchill leaned back in his chair, and reached in a pocket to fish out a cigar. Soon enough, the smell of cigar smoke filled the meeting room once more.

The two men were alone this time, their respective ship spirits having their own meeting. Churchill had wanted to talk to Thompson alone, when the man had dropped the supposed 'I'm from the future' bombshell on him. It had taken hours for Thompson to convince the Prime Minister that he wasn't lying. So many arguments and the letter from Franklin finally getting the old bulldog to at least listen. And now, after all that time, the sun was setting and the wide windows cast only enough light to shadow the Admiral's face, and make him seem more mysterious.

Or it would, if the man were anything more than eager to please.

"As I understand this, the Germans are lead by a madman and are quite happy following him into the depths of hell itself. They'll make us wish the bloody Kaiser was back, because then they'd at least listen to reason. Am I incorrect?" Churchill lowered his cigar, and frowned deeply. That was something he expected of the damned Japs, not the Germans.

Thompson helplessly shrugged, "If we surround them, they'll surrender. They won't fight to the last man. It's just...the government won't stop, as long as Hitler and the Nazis are in charge. Harris can burn as many of their cities as he wants, it won't make them quit."

That shot across the bow had Churchill's frown deepen. It wasn't the first time he'd heard someone level that particular criticism at Harris and his Strategic Bombing campaign, new as it was. Only a month or so old and it was already being hung over the head of his government by some bleeding hearts. As if the Germans weren't doing the same.

"What would you suggest, then, Admiral?" In spite of being something of a Navy man himself, Churchill put emphasis on that last word. Even if this man was from the future, he was still an Admiral. What could he really offer for land conflicts? And make no mistake, even before this, Churchill had known that Germany could only truly be defeated on land. "Give me a method to win this war quicker. The Soft Underbelly? Hit Mussolini and knock him out of the war?"

Thompson flinched at that, and gave a slightly nervous chuckle. He started pacing and looking anywhere but directly at the Prime Minister. Churchill let him, honestly more confused than anything. What was with that reaction? It was no secret that Italy was the weak link in this little Axis alliance. He would have thought it was Japan, but then, the Japs were currently knocking on Singapore's gates. At least the Italians couldn't find their way out of a paper bag with a German holding the bag open.

Or so it seemed, gauging on how reliant they were on Guderian to do their dirty work.

"I'm going to apologize when I say this, sir." Thompson stopped pacing and ran a hand through his dark hair. He put on a serious expression, his lips thinning to a straight line. "There is no 'Soft Underbelly'. You can knock Italy out of the war, easily enough, but you won't be able to use that to defeat the Germans." Holding up his hand, the first time the Admiral had actually stopped Churchill from making an angry retort, Thompson sighed heavily. "Listen to me here, please. The Germans throw everything they can spare at keeping Italy in the War and even by 1945, we hadn't kicked them completely out. Focusing there is just...I can't say it's wasting time, since the Germans had to spend resources on it, but it won't win the war quicker."

Giving a mighty shrug of his shoulders, the Admiral wore a slightly crooked smile now.

"I'm no General, but I remember reading that in my Academy days. There isn't the room to maneuver in Italy, and all the mountains make advancing hell on the troops. Obsessing over it does no good."

I see why he looked at me like that, then. Churchill was definitely showing a sour expression now, realizing what Thompson had been doing. He was prone to pushing through his ideas against all resistance, and he did feel that Italy was the weak link.

And, perhaps, they still were. But not in the way he thought. Maybe it would be better to try and sway the Italians to swapping sides again...it had worked in the Great War, hadn't it? For a certain value of 'worked' considering how the Italians were never useful for anything but tying down the Austrians. Thoughts for later. Not important right now.

"If not Italy, then where? When?" The Prime Minister pushed aside his, in his mind justifiable, annoyance. If he had a time traveler before him- as insane as that still felt -then he needed to take advantage.

Thompson could only slump into a chair, tiredly sighing, whatever energy he had gained now spent. "I don't know. I am an Admiral, not a General. I know some things about what happened in my past, but not enough. I know that we tricked Hitler into thinking that we were going to invade Calais and hit France in Normandy. And I know that we took back North Africa before then, and then Italy. I couldn't begin to tell you how to plan any of these operations."

Churchill nodded, taking a long drag on his cigar. He couldn't say that answer was unexpected. Letting the smoke and flavor settle in his lungs before blowing it out, the Prime Minister reflected. Here he had a golden opportunity, and it wasn't even helpful for what he truly needed. Then again...as the smoke filled the room instead of his lungs, perhaps there were other ways to take advantage of a time traveler. He was nothing if not adaptable.

"Hm. In that case, I want to know everything you know about the future. Even if it is bare on details. Anything that can give those bloody Germans a fit trying to get one over on us. Technology, tactics, everything." Churchill smiled thinly, placing his cigar into an ashtray. "I want everything you can give me, before you run back off to the Pacific and that carrier of yours."

To his great credit, the Admiral only coughed slightly at that jab. He leaned down to his side and pulled out a stack of papers from his suitcase, setting it upon the desk. A very, very large stack of papers. Clearly, the man had come prepared. Churchill could respect that.

"Utah and I put our heads together and came up with everything we could offer." Thompson explained, as he tapped the massive stack of papers. "I'm not an engineer, or a general, but I've given you everything I can remember. And more besides, since Utah remembered things I've told her that I forgot. Though..." here, the young Admiral could only throw his hands up and give a crooked smile. "I'm not sure how much use the specifics on battles and the like will be. The longer I'm here, the more things will change. After a certain point, everything will be different. Things in the Pacific already are, and then there's...well. There's Schreiber to keep in mind."

Churchill absently nodded, looking at the stack of papers. Of course, things couldn't be the exact same, that would be silly. Not with so many people...changing...

Wait a tick.

"Schreiber," Churchill turned his gaze on Thompson again, his eyes narrowing to sharp flints. "I was wondering how that man could possibly know about the ship spirits like you do. Now that I know you're from the future, supposedly, I have to ask---"

"---if he is too?" Thompson finished the question, a bitter look crossing his face. He had thought about it too, clearly. "I don't know. I knew a few other Admirals in my time, but I can't tell you if I ever met anyone from Germany. If I had to guess, though?"

Thompson leaned back in the chair, and brought a hand to his face. He sighed and let the hand fall, staring Churchill directly in the eye. Not showing any signs of looking away, this time.

"He probably is. I couldn't come up with any other explanation for how he knows about these things. About the girls. I only know because of when I'm from. I can't see how a random German Admiral, who I don't know from what I remember of my history lessons, could possibly know. Things would be far more different than they are if something like that were the case."

That was...about what Churchill expected to hear. He sighed all on his own, pulling his cigar back to his lips. If his hand shook, just a little, neither man would comment on it. A German from the future. That could have been a very, very bad situation. If that man had used his own knowledge to help the Nazis, it could have lead to so many issues. So many losses. Worse than what they already had faced, with Revenge and what happened in Norway.

Yet, it hadn't gone that way. Not at first glance, anyway.

Why would a German from the future be wanting to overthrow his own government and help us? I don't have the foggiest idea. It doesn't make sense. He should be wanting his nation to win...right?

"Why would a man from the future want his own country to lose a war? He must be aware we won't treat Germany with kid gloves, this time around." Churchill stared at Thompson. At the closest thing to an expert he was rapidly realizing he had.

Thompson only shrugged, "If he was an Admiral in the future, he almost certainly hates the Nazis. I won't say there weren't still Nazis in my time, but they weren't near the seat of power anymore. Germany did a pretty good job at rooting them out. Germany couldn't win even if they had future knowledge, anyway. I'd guess he wants to keep as many people from dying, just like I do."

Tapping his papers again, the Admiral got to his feet and stared at Churchill. "I can't stay here, but I put some stuff in that for Schreiber too. If he is from my time, he'll recognize it. If not, we don't lose anything, because it won't mean anything to him. I'd suggest working with him, though. We won't get a better chance to subvert the Nazis than this, I think."

"A spy now, are we?" Churchill chuckled, climbing to his own feet. His meaty hand held out to give Thompson a firm handshake. "I'm not going to trust the man. Not yet. However, I will keep your advice in mind. Make sure you tell Franklin about this." His grip tightened on Thompson's hand, a serious frown on his lips. "I have the feeling we will need to work ever closer together, especially if this Schreiber is correct about Stalin."

"He is. Believe me, he is." Thompson pulled his hand back and frowned. "Stalin is in this for his own gain, I know that. We need him, but..."

Nothing more needed to be said. Churchill would move to look at the stack of papers, and Thompson would move to collect Utah. The Americans would return to their own homes, to their own war, while the Prime Minister would begin crafting new plans and new orders. The war would continue marching on. In different directions, perhaps, but Churchill had been correct to say that 'it was war'. No one man could truly change that.

Not even with a man on the inside of the enemy, willing to work with them.

Taranto, Italy

"I have to admit, you have proven quite adept at forming connections." Gustav Schreiber rarely smiled, these days. The stress of the war, of being away from Bismarck and Blücher for so long. "I wouldn't have guessed it, based on where you were serving before all this began."

Beside him, Carlo Lombardi snorted softly. "You don't see many new people, buried in the engines of an old destroyer, no. I surprise myself with how easy this has been."

The two men stood on a lonely pier in Taranto, looking out upon what had been the Regia Marina's greatest naval base. Several capital ships were still present, though no where near what it had been. Andrea Doria was one of the most notable in her absence, having been moved further north for extensive repair work. Turbine, sitting between the Admiral and the engineer, had been distraught over that. The destroyer had grown quite close to the battleship, in the time they had been together while Doria was prepped for the journey. And now, she was gone, for who even knew how long.

Well. Schreiber had a fairly good idea, based on how long the Italians took to repair similar damage in his time. Albeit to different ships.

At any rate, Taranto's harbor was missing quite a few ships that had been present even a few months before. It was a sign of just how much the Italian navy had suffered and bled for Mussolini's ambitions. The Italians weren't his people, and the ships weren't his ships, but Schreiber couldn't help the frown on his face nonetheless. What a waste. They fought as bravely and valiantly as anyone, even though it was a war they had never intended to fight.

I must do what I can to end this war. Before they all must die. Before my own countrymen destroy what little remains.

Sighing softly, the old Admiral sat down next to Turbine. "I'm afraid that it will be some time before you see Andrea Doria again, my dear. Are you alright with that?"

"I'm fine!" Turbine was quick to answer, her tanned skin darkening just a little. She averted her eyes from Schreiber, and looked down at her own reflection in the calm waters. "She'll be fine, I know that! Doria is a battleship, after all, and she's a lot tougher than I'll ever be."

"Even battleships can hurt." Schreiber's voice was soft, though he refrained from putting a hand on Turbine's shoulder. He would have, were she one of his, but she was Lombardi's, not his. And on that note...

"Even if she can convince her Captain to listen, you are aware that won't change much, yes?" Lombardi had also sat down, grimacing slightly as it pulled at old wounds. His scarred face twisted into a deep frown. "I will admit, we have made good progress on getting in contact with various officers. But you have to realize that we won't subvert the Fascists that easily. They've had too much time to root themselves into the government."

Schreiber nodded, absently, and looked out at the distant Vittorio Veneto, making slow progress towards her mooring. "I am very aware of that. In Germany, the situation is much the same. And I have spent the last two years doing everything in my power to attempt to subvert the Nazis. It is...a lonely mission that I have set myself. I must always look over my shoulder and wonder 'is this the man who will send me to my death?'" Turning to give Lombardi a crooked smile, the old man shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not afraid of death. I've lived a long life. Yet, if I die, I know that Germany will suffer more. I am one of the few who truly understands that."

"Hm." Lombardi tapped his finger against the wooden planks of the pier. His face bearing a thoughtful look, even as his other hand came to rest on Turbine's, prompting the destroyer to blush even more. "I can hardly claim to understand Germany. I'm just a lowly engineer, after all."

The sardonic smile that came over his face there, along with Schreiber's soft chuckle, took the bite out of those words. Not that it stopped Turbine from staring at him and reaching a hand up to...knock her engineer over the head.

"You're more important than that!" She huffed, before turning back to look out at the harbor, absently kicking her legs over the water.

Lombardi just chuckled, rubbing his head and continuing as if nothing happened. "Of course, Turbine, you're right like usual." While the destroyer giggled, the engineer focused back on Schreiber. "You haven't lied to me yet, so I will believe you when you say that Germany will suffer. And I'm certain that, if you're doing even half as much for Italy as you are for Germany, that you're working yourself to the bone. Am I wrong?"

"Not at all. Some days I consider what my life would have been like if I just served as a loyal naval officer and put aside all of my qualms of serving the Nazis." And completely ignore the knowledge of what my family will face if I did so.

Leaning back, just enough to direct his gaze at an overhead flight of Italian fighters, Schreiber let his mind drift. There were many things that he had done, and many more he could have done. It truly would have been easier to just give up, albeit not in the way Lombardi might have thought. He would never have willingly helped the Nazis without the goal of subverting them at every turn. He could have retired and lived life ashore, allowing events to continue as they would. He knew that Germany would lose in the end, of course.

He could also have defected to the allies and used his knowledge to their advantage. Swallowed the knowledge that he would be hurting the girls he knew as daughter figures in the future. It was all for the greater good, yes?

I'm a tired old man, though. I want the best for my girls, for my family, and not for myself. If that means I must suffer to bear this burden, so be it. If it means I must fight against men who would be my allies, I will do it. That was never in question.

Letting his gaze fall back down as the fighters rolled away, Schreiber gave a small smile at Lombardi. "How to save Germany is my burden to bear. You have your own country to worry about, my friend. If I am not wrong, your navy is much the same as my own."

"Conservative and not at all fans of the pompous idiots in the halls of power?" Lombardi smirked back, his scars turning what may have been amusement into a predatory expression. He didn't notice. "No, you aren't wrong at all. The Navy has fools as any place does, though I doubt you will find many fans of Mussolini in the higher echelons of command. Not many at all."

"It is fortunate, I suppose, that the Navies are what they are. Our greatest chance lay with the spirits, after all." Schreiber did place a hand on Turbine's shoulder, this time, giving the girl a gentle squeeze.

That prompted Turbine to look over at him, and smile widely. "You can count on us! I don't know everyone else in the Navy, but we want to help however we can, I'm sure of it!" Her smile did fade a little, though, when she continued. "...but I don't know how much we really can help. I don't know how to really use my weapons anymore, and I don't know if anyone else can even leave their hull...."

Schreiber squeezed her shoulder again, "Don't worry about that, my dear. We have time to figure all of that out. Just knowing that you are here is a great aid to me and my mission, I assure you. And to your country."

"Thank you, sir!" Turbine brightened, and turned to look at her engineer with a wide grin. "I'm important now, Carlo! I'm not just an old destroyer anymore!"

"You always were important, to me." Lombardi smiled back, his own hand gripping Turbine's. The smile didn't quite reach his eyes, though, when he looked over her blushing face and back at Schreiber's aged visage. "I don't know, and don't want to know, what you're working on in Germany. But I will honor your request, Schreiber."

The request to continue making contact with as many anti-Fascists as possible. Even if it were just men who were realizing that Mussolini was dragging Italy into Hitler's doomed crusade, tearing the country and its navy apart. There were more of those men every day, as ships came back damaged or didn't come back at all. As stories of Italian soldiers suffering in Africa- even if Guderian didn't waste their lives like some Germans would have -filtered in. The home front was never happy about tying themselves to Germany and entering a war that was destroying the Italian Empire for no apparent gains, save some pitiful border lands in France.

Lands that Germany may not even let the Italians keep.

No, it wouldn't be hard to find people dissatisfied with the War. People who could form the core of a Co-Belligerent force, if Italy should ever switch sides. The core of a new Italian state, free of Mussolini.

"That is all I can ask for." Schreiber didn't move from his position. Content, for now, with letting the salty breeze of Taranto warm his old bones before he returned to the frozen fjords of Norway. "In return, I will do whatever I can to keep the SS from interfering with your navy. You know how to bring the spirits forth, and I would suggest holding that knowledge close to your chest. Only bring them forth when you absolutely must to support our mission."

Lombardi nodded back, his own gaze focusing on another Turbine-class destroyer sailing out of the harbor. Probably Euro, and Lombardi didn't need to look to know that Turbine was following her surviving sister with her own eyes. Aching to be out there, with her sister. Knowing that she was unable to be, just as she had been unable to be by the sides of her lost sisters.

Rubbing soft circles into Turbine's tense hand, Lombardi sighed softly. "I will keep that in mind. Is there anything else you want to warn me of?"

Schreiber shook his head, "Not at all. I feel we have had enough of the difficult talk for now. Let us enjoy this moment of peace, while it lasts. I know we will all miss it, soon enough."

And so, they did just that. Lombardi and Turbine watched the various ships come and go, lost in their own thoughts. Lombardi about what he was going to do to try and help his country, Turbine in worry about her surviving sister. Schreiber let them be. He simply let the breeze wash over him, as he turned his own thoughts to Bismarck and Blücher. He was dreading returning to the cold of Norway...yet he was looking forward to seeing those two again, as well as Tirpitz, Scharnhorst and the others.

Most especially, he was looking forward to seeing the pink-haired cruiser again. Blücher had been by his side since he first started this insane mission of his. He missed her presence, even if only from her position alongside Bismarck.

The war is entering its darkest phase, my dears. I hope we are all ready for that. I truly, dearly, hope for that.

AN: I AM BACK. AGAIN.

One of these days, my muse will stop fighting me. I don't know when that will be, though

That being said, hopefully the chapter works out well enough. We're done with the big meetings (more or less) for now. Thompson will be returning to the Pacific, and Schreiber to Norway. Both will have detours, of course, but that's the general plan. Next chapter will have Thompson on the East Coast and reintroduce a certain British character to the story, but other than that...well. Current plan is that chapter (probably also involve Schreiber a bit) and then a little omake covering the various other characters, with a particular focus on Schreiber's network and what it is up to.

Then a time skip to get our main characters back where they belong. Thompson in the Pacific with Sara, and Schreiber with Bismarck and Blücher.

Hopefully, at that point, my muse will start cooperating more again. Familiar ground and all that.

Skywalker_T-65 · Jan 9, 2022

Chapter 61

I wonder if it's odd that I feel more at home here than on shore. In my, supposed, actual home. I can never get past the fact that I don't really know anyone there, not really. And...

Staring up at the rising sun, James Thompson smiled lightly. His view of the sun was obstructed by a towering pillar of steel that, even now, comforted him more than he would ever admit. The familiar black stripe was long gone, replaced by dull camouflage in keeping with the rest of her hull. Men were milling about, putting the finishing touches on paint and other such things, in preparation for sailing back into the war. Had it been any other ship, she probably would have already been back in the war, by this point. But she wasn't and so she hadn't. Because this was his ship.

"...Roosevelt must have pulled quite a few strings with the Navy. Him and Richardson." Thompson shook his head, chuckling softly as he strode down the flight deck of USS Saratoga. "I'd never want to command from a different ship, after all. And they know that."

Everyone knew that, it felt like, as he got knowing looks from the crew. Those that had been aboard since the start of the war, anyway. He did his best to ignore those looks, while inspecting the ship and making sure she was ready for sortie. Technically the Captain's job, but if anyone had a right to inspect Saratoga, it was him. No one on the crew would begrudge him that. So, he walked, stopping to look at new anti-aircraft mountings. Talking to the crew to gauge how things were working. Seeing if there was anything that still needed done. All things that were technically beneath him as the Admiral.

All things that he would do anyway, because Sara was his ship.

"Welcome back, Admiral! Took you long enough, we were beginning to think the Brits had kidnapped you!"

Thompson came to a halt, outside the entrance to her superstructure, staring at a grinning pilot with a couple other men on his flanks. "Commander Thach. They haven't stuck you on Lady Lex or something? I would have thought someone like you would have been kept on the front." Thompson said that with a grin of his own, as he walked up to the aviator. "Who at command decided they didn't like you?"

Thach barked out a laugh, while tossing a lazy salute the Admiral's way. Thompson was one who had always tried to be 'down in the dirt' with his men, even before the revelation of Sara being alive came to the front. And when it came to Thach...well.

I did steal his claim to fame, so the least I can do is talk to the man. Thompson snorted, internally, and returned the salute.

"Honestly, sir, I requested this. Sara and I have a good working relationship and I wouldn't want to have to replicate that on her sister," Thach patted the hull next to him, with the soft touch of an old friend. "I don't think you'll find many of us actually transferred, once we figured out you were sticking around. We love Sister Sara and wouldn't trade her for anything. It helps that Admiral Richardson has the final say, and he knows how close you two are."

It was said with the utmost respect...and still came across as a joke that had the Admiral coughing to hide his spluttering. "Damnit, you too, Thach? I got enough of that from Churchill!"

"Huh," Thach whistled, deliberately ignoring the first part with a smirk on his lips. "Getting up there, aren't we, Admiral? The President and Churchill? And he even knows about you and 'ole Sara? That's impressive."

"Pilots," Thomspon shook his head, prompting another round of laughter from the group of naval aviators. "Can't be serious if it was to save your own life. Well." Here, he gestured up at the superstructure, making his intent fairly obvious. "If you could tell me where Sara is that would be helpful. Contrary to apparently popular belief, we don't read each other's minds or anything like that. We're just very close friends."

"Whatever you say, Admiral," for a man as old as he was, Thach still acted like a much younger man, as he gave a respectful yet dubious answer. And hooked a thumb behind himself, pointing into the superstructure, "She was on the bridge, talking with the Captain. Doubt she's still there now, since she likes going to your cabin. Best bet is there...sir."

One of these days, Thompson was going to learn how pilots- no matter the branch or time -were able to sound so casual, while not once dropping the respect needed for a superior officer. It was a unique skill that only they seemed to have. He certainly didn't have it. Might have helped with dealing with King...

"Understood," instead, the relatively young Admiral stuck with 'formal and dignified' in his response. And absolutely did not send his gaze skywards, pleading with God for strength. "Now, do you and your men have work that needs done, Commander?"

With a laid-back smile, Thach nodded and waved at his companions, "Come on boys, let's make sure the new Wildcats are up to spec. Don't want to keep the Admiral from his good friend, now do we?"

With a chorus of 'no sir!', the other pilots followed Thach out, leaving Admiral Thompson alone to shake his head bemusedly. He could feel the eyes of a curious group of deck workers, watching his back, as he strode into Sara's dim superstructure. The dull metal walls and the dim, artificial, light somehow feeling more comforting than the warm sunlight and soft breeze of Bremerton. Hah. He really was home wasn't he?

"I don't even mind the jokes, honestly," Thompson muttered to himself, before smiling and humming a little as he went through the familiar halls towards his cabin. No. He didn't mind the jokes, that much. I'm home and back with Sara. Now we can get back out there and do what we do best. Leave the heavy lifting to the ones who know what they're doing. I belong on the front, trying to save as many lives as I can. I already did that with Wake. Now...

Well, as he walked through the comforting metal corridors, Thompson knew that he was where he belonged. Doing what he should have always been doing.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Sitting inside her Admiral's cabin, Saratoga stared up at the small ceiling. Even in such illustrious quarters, space aboard her was tight, and every inch was used for something or other. The bed could barely fit her, if she curled up tight. The desk was more of a 'piece of wood jammed into the wall'. The less said about the 'closet space', the better. It beat out her suddenly expanded crew having to use hammocks in her mess, but not by as much as one would think. It was...

Enough to make her feel self-conscious about herself.

She knew that the newer carriers, even Little E, had more space. They were designed from the keel up for their space, after all. They didn't have cramped hangers bolted atop of a hull never designed for it. Their crews had proper quarters, and their Admirals had actual cabins. She knew that even if she had never been aboard one of her little sisters. And it made her very aware of her own limitations in a way she hadn't been, before she met her Admiral. It just hadn't occurred to her to think about it, before then. It did now and all because she wanted the best for her dear Admiral.

Look at me. I'm acting like a silly girl. Sara giggled, softly, brushing back a lock of her blue hair. She stared at that, wondering not for the first time, if there was some reason her hair was so...strange. It probably doesn't matter. It's just...weird, I guess. Or I'm just being silly again. It's been too long since I was out there, hasn't it?

Leaning against the sparse bulkhead, Sara gave a small smile to herself. She'd never say no to having her Admiral back, of course, but even she had to wonder if there was some reason why she was being treated with kid gloves. Her repairs were done. Shouldn't she be back out, fighting with everyone else?

"Lex...are you alright? I haven't seen you since the War started, and..." The old carrier shook her head, not willing to finish that sentence. One of the first things her Admiral had told her was how her sister sank. They should have fixed that problem, but it still worried her.

It would worry any big sister to know their little sister was out in danger. Even when that sister maintained that she was the big sister!

Before she could go far down that particular rabbit hole, the cabin was opened from the outside. Sara instantly jumped to her feet, only avoiding braining herself on the low ceiling by virtue of instinctively knowing every inch of her own hull. She still stumbled a little, on landing, and only avoided falling by virtue of her surprised Admiral reaching his hands out to steady her.

If those hands landed a bit lower on her waist than intended, neither commented on it.

Guess I'm still a klutz after all. Only one of our carriers to run aground!

Fighting down a blush, Saratoga pulled back and flashed a grateful smile at her Admiral. "Thank you, Ad..."

She trailed off, her green eyes widening a bit. The face looking back at her was so...different. Older. She knew it had been a while since she had last seen her Admiral, but it looked as if he had aged years in that time. His eyes crinkled at the corner in his soft smile, age and worry lines plainly visible. The corners of his mouth were little better, stretched in ways they hadn't before. Even his short hair was greying, flecks of silver in the dark mass beginning to outnumber the darker strands. He was...getting old. The war was aging him.

Saratoga, naturally, didn't look like she'd aged a day. Never before had she felt the realization of what that meant, quite like this.

"Good to see you too, Sara." Admiral Thompson's warm smile showed no signs of noticing what she was feeling, as he dropped the little luggage he carried to the deck. He used his now-free hands to pull her into a soft, gentle, hug. "It's been...a long time. Too long. I missed you, y'know?" Holding her close, the Admiral whispered into her ear, his breath brushing over her sensitive skin. "Everything holding together up here? I know it's been a wait and a half. You haven't been bored, have you?"

Sara blinked, before flushing again at the concern in his tone. At what he wasn't saying. "I--I'm fine, Admiral. Nothing to report."

Thompson pulled back, his gaze meeting her own, looking for any sign of a lie. "You sure? I know the Sara I knew would want to be on the front, protecting all her baby sisters." He chuckled, softly, and shook his head. "Sorry, sorry. I shouldn't compare you to her."

There was a wistfulness in his expression that almost had Sara asking about the other, her from the future. She didn't. She just smiled and shook her head, herself, "I'm fine, really! I do want to help Lex and Little E and the others, but I didn't mind waiting for you. I wanted you back." I needed you back, she didn't vocalize.

"Got it, Sara." Thompson sat down on the bed, pulling Sara along for the ride. She didn't resist, even though she was more than strong enough to do so. "So, tell me how things have been? Thach and his boys driving you up a wall like they did me?"

Sometimes, parsing her Admiral's turns of phrase were difficult. Decades of lingo she had never learned. This wasn't one of those times, as Saratoga giggled merrily. She could forget her own concerns, for a moment, when she thought about her merry band of misfits. Her pilots were almost like her children, no matter that they were all far older than she was. And like a mother, she couldn't help but smile when she thought about their antics.

"I think they're the ones at risk of that, Admiral. Commander Thach wants to get back out there, but he doesn't want to leave either." With a warm smile, a motherly one, Sara leaned back and waved her hand. "I wouldn't want him to leave, either. He's a good man. We work well together."

In lieu of a response, her Admiral just leaned back beside her. His hand drifting to lay on her arm, as he looked at the sky, as if he could see it through her deck. As she, herself, could. His face bore a pensive expression, deep in thoughts he wasn't sharing with her.

What are you thinking about, Admiral? Did something happen in Britain? Something you don't want me to know about?

Saratoga knew, better than anyone, that her dear Admiral Thompson had things he told no one. She still didn't know the true extent of his relationship with her other self. Or, for that matter, with the Japanese of the future. Was that what he was thinking of?

"Don't worry about that, Sara," he finally spoke again, turning his head down to give her his classically lopsided smile. The age lines and greying hair did little to take away the boyish charm he had always had, as Sara felt a tightening in her chest. A rush in her boilers that had her engineer blinking in confusion. Thompson didn't show any signs of noticing, other than perhaps a softening of his eyes. "None of us are going to leave you. I, sure as hell, wouldn't want any other ship. You're special. You know that?"

That cut right through to the worries she had been feeling before, and she couldn't hide it this time. She looked away and waved at the small room. "I'm old and tired, Admiral. Wouldn't it be better to get one of those new carriers? Everyone is relying on you and...I can only do so much. Didn't Admiral Halsey have to leave Little E, in your past? She's even newer than I am..."

"Sara," in response, the Admiral took his hand from her arm and wrapped it around her shoulder, instead. "None of that matters. I don't have that kind of relationship with Hornet or the Essexes, when they start showing up. I have that relationship with you. I trust you. I care about you." He squeezed, gently, and laughed softly. "Everyone else does, too. So you're a bit cramped and old. Do you think anyone cares about that? Even if they're grouching about the hammocks, they'll still stick around. You're our Sister Sara. We'd never want anyone else."

Sara thought back to that dockworker, during her refit. The one that had convinced her that these men cared about her, even when they couldn't see her. When she was just metal to them. Now that everyone on her crew could see and interact with her...

"I'm being silly. Mama Langely would smack me over the head and tell me that." Sara let out a sigh and leaned against her Admiral's shoulder, taking comfort in his warmth. He was so much smaller than she was, in so many ways. Weaker and easier to hurt. But, in that moment, she wouldn't be anywhere else. She felt safe. "Adm...James. Thank you."

Thompson blinked at the close contact, a flush crawling up his own neck. Before he just smiled, and let the carrier stay where she was. "No need to thank me, Sara. I'll always be here for you. Even when we head back out."

Thoughts about that could wait, though. For the moment, they weren't Admiral and Carrier. They were just a man and a woman, curled against each other in the quiet of their shared quarters. There were no thoughts about the War and the battles to come. No talk about how she would sortie again within the week. No talk at all, actually.

Just James and Sara, leaning against one another, as they slowly drifted away.

Fættenfjorden, Norway

Bundling a scarf closer to his neck, Gustav Schreiber looked out at the cold and dimly lit fjord. Unremarkable in the craggy coastline of Norway, where a thousand others just like it stretched from the North Sea to the Arctic. The sheer cliffs tumbled rocks and ranks upon ranks of tough trees were remarkable in their unremarkableness. Were it not, of course, for the row of buildings built along a military dock. The anti-aircraft batteries scattered all around, interspaced with smoke generators and camouflage netting. The signs of a wartime base, setting this barren locale apart from its sisters.

That and, of course, the slate-grey forms of three battleships and a handful of cruisers and destroyers. Two sisters moored right next to one another, in a way their counterparts in another world never were. Another, off on her own, her squat triple turrets seeming to droop with the pain of one who had lost her only sibling. The jealousy that she couldn't quite hide when glancing at her larger cousins.

When did I become so adept at noting these things? Schreiber shook his head, turning his gaze away from Scharnhorst. He, instead, looked past the imposing form of the battleship sisters, and towards a much smaller cruiser. A cruiser that was larger than most, as he saw a flash of pink, running down from her bridge and towards the stairs leading up from her side. Ah, Blücher, dear. You always are an eager one. I missed you too.

With a world-weary smile on his lips, the old Admiral ascended those creaking metal stairs, as his launch pulled alongside the cruiser. If any of the crew were confused as to why he came here instead of his flag, Bismarck, they hid it well. Perhaps they just knew better, as he always did have a soft spot for this cruiser. Blücher might as well have been his home.

"Admiral!" A home that was currently charging right at him, heedless of how her crew shivered at her passing, as she threw herself at the Admiral. He stumbled, slightly, as the pink-haired girl latched onto his side. "What took you so long? We've been waiting for you to get back for months! It's lonely here~!"

Schreiber was familiar enough with the cruiser, his daughter in all but blood, to play off her antics. He waved off a concerned officer, who thought he had slipped on ice. He tuned out the sound of screaming at men to deice the ship better, something that all navies had. Instead, he just walked forward, with Blücher tucked safely against his side.

"You need to be more careful, dear," Schreiber gave her a stern, but loving, glare. She just stared up at him with her bright blue eyes, completely uncaring of his reaction. It was enough to make him sigh. "One of these days, you will do something you regret. You are too eager."

Blücher only giggled, reaching a free hand up to tug at her own scarf. The blood-red fabric tightened around her neck, not a single sign of any embellishments on it. "I'm plenty careful, Admiral. I'm just happy to see you back! Do you have any idea how hard it is to ignore those SS asses running around like they own me? Captain Lange has to keep telling me to leave them alone!"

Her pout did nothing to stop a long-suffering sigh from the Admiral, as they moved inside her superstructure. "Blücher, dear, you must stop that. Now that the Italians have proven that your kind exist, the SS will only grow more suspicious if ships I am closely associated with, continue to have unexplainable 'accidents'." At the look she gave him, the old Admiral shook his head. "No matter how amusing that dunk in the Baltic was, we cannot afford to repeat it. Please. For all our sakes."

Letting out a little grumble of annoyance, Blücher burrowed more into his side, as they walked through her halls. Schreiber sighed with a small smile crossing his lips. His mood wasn't even harmed as they walked by all the crew, none of whom could see the cruiser. He had no idea how it was for the Italians or anyone else, but Schreiber had been very careful to avoid anyone by Captain Lange being able to see the girls. Much as he hated what he had become, he knew it was a terrible idea to spread the knowledge around this Germany.

Only Louis, of his counterparts ashore, even knew.

"Welcome back, Admiral. I see that our cruiser found you." That was Captain Lange himself, standing outside the conference room. Blücher's flagship facilities did come in handy, at times like these. "I warned her against heading out until you had settled back in, but I'm afraid we both know how little she follows my commands." Giving a dry look at the cruiser sticking her tongue out at him, Lange rolled his eyes and sent a shrug his Admiral's way. A good-natured one, at least. "Sometimes, I feel like I'm a lowly rating when I speak with her. At least the crew listens to my orders."

"I listen to your orders!" Blücher shot back, brushing her pink hair from her face as the Admiral detached himself from her to sit down. She allowed that, with nothing more than a pout. "It's not as if I ignore everything you say, Captain."

Lange chuckled, at that, and gave a simple shrug with his hands thrown up. "You listen to my orders when the Admiral confirms it. Sometimes it feels like he's still the one you consider your 'Captain'."

Schreiber, for his part, knew it was exactly that. Blücher would, now and forever, always consider him her Captain and father, rolled into one.

He was also very well aware that they would launch into arguing again, if he let that continue. So he coughed and headed that off, "Blücher, I have important information to share. The time for jokes is later."

Contrary to her usual personality, Blücher was still a warship. She could be serious if that became necessary. As she did now, rolling her eyes and squaring her shoulders, her golden skirt shifting beneath her. "Fiiiiine. What did you learn, Admiral? Anything to help us out?"

"Not as such," Schreiber sighed deeply, sliding down into a chair as he looked at his oldest comrades in this world. "As you already knew, the Italians have somehow brought a destroyer forth. Turbine is...about as I expected. I did not expect her Engineer to be so willing to listen to what I had to say." At the looks he got, the old man laughed weakly, softly. "He served aboard her predecessor. He's not so far off from my age."

"Ah. He remembers a time before the Fascists." Lange tapped the table, nodding along with Schreiber's words.

"Indeed. Not only that, but he bears no love for the ones who nearly got him killed. Who destroyed his precious Turbine." Schreiber gave a small smile, though it was a dead thing. No happiness to be seen.

Blücher winced and sat next to her Admiral, placing a hand on his arm and rubbing it softly. She could only imagine his reaction if someone had sunk her from beneath him. It wouldn't matter if she came back right away. It would still destroy her beloved Admiral as surely as watching his family die. It was why he hated having to take any of the ships into combat. Why he tried so hard to end this war behind the scenes.

She just...never really thought about how much it hurt him. Not until she saw his face in that moment.

"At any rate," Schreiber gave her a warmer smile, placing his hand on her own. "It is no secret, now, that ships have souls. I imagine it is only a matter of time before the Nazis attempt to summon their own. That madman, Himmler, especially. This is the kind of occult knowledge he dreams of."

Lange hissed through his teeth, clenching a fist on the table. "You won't allow that, will you? The SS with ship spirits...it doesn't bear thinking of. I can only imagine the damage they could cause."

"I do not need to imagine it," Schreiber shut his eyes. Images of the Abyssals, of burning cities and crippled young women- girls -flashing through his mind. No. He didn't need to imagine it. "For now, we are secure in the knowledge they have no idea how to summon the spirits. I doubt the Italians do, either. Nor the Japanese."

"Even if they did summon one of us, would we even want to serve them? The Imperials certainly seemed like they hated the Nazis more than you do, sir." Blücher asked the obvious question.

It was a question that Schreiber never wanted to see answered. He pushed aside the images in his head, focusing instead on the pensive expression from Lange and the anxious one on Blücher. That, more than anything, grounded him once more. I won't allow her to see what I have. So I swear.

"All this means is that we must accelerate our plans," Schreiber looked away from Blücher, and tried to put the image of the worried face behind pink hair from his mind. "What of the British? Have we received any messages at all?"

Lange, now the center of attention, shook his head. "Nothing. Not on the channels or from Gneisenau. It's as if they're ignoring the message entirely."

"Or they don't see a reason to trust us. Just as I expected."

Even for a man for whom history was a secondary interest, at best, Schreiber knew that much. The British had hung the German Resistance, disunified and dysfunctional as it may have been, out to dry. They had strung the leaders along with no intention of truly working with them. Given hope where there was none. Was he a fool to expect anything else of Churchill in this time, even with all he had done? Perhaps. It still stung.

"Very well...we will try another approach. Have a message sent to Seydlitz. She will need to escort a transport of Jewish refugees to the United Kingdom." Schreiber saw the looks he got, and simply brought a hand down on the table. "If they won't listen to the message, we will show them proof. Proof of what inaction dooms so many lives to. Proof that we are acting in good faith. Proof...proof that we are doing everything we can to end this war!"

"Ah...but what about our sorties? We're still doing that, aren't we?" Blücher spoke up, unusually hesitant in her words. She rolled a lock of pink hair between her fingers, her cherubic face and blue eyes downcast and sullen. "If we want to hurt the damn Reds don't we need to hurt the British too?"

Once more, Schreiber winced internally at how much his own biases had shaped these impressionable souls. He pushed it down, ruthlessly, and shook his head. "We remain at war. To not act would be to allow Hitler to remove us. We must place ourselves in the greater German mindset. It is the only way to gain their support when the time comes."

Tapping the table again, his eyes rolled up in thought, Lange sighed heavily. He used his free hand to gesture at a map of Norway, as if it explained everything. "Quite the difficult situation, Admiral. Continue to fight those we wish for aid from. Work against our own goals in the interests of serving them. I don't know how you do it."

"I wonder myself. How I have yet to lose my mind from it all." Schreiber looked every inch his age, as she sighed and fell back in his chair. "For now, we do as we must. I will speak with Bismarck and plan our further actions. Can I trust you to keep Seydlitz in contact?"

"Of course."

Schreiber nodded, and turned to Blücher with a soft, fatherly, smile. "As for you, my dear, I can spend some time catching up. Shall we head to my quarters? You can tell me everything you have done while I was gone."

In spite of the situation, Blücher grinned brightly as she hopped to her feet. She was lucky that the men in the room were either too old- and her father figure -or married, as her skirt bounced up a tad too far for modesty's sake. "Yes~! Let's spend some time together, Admiral! It's been a long time since we could cuddle on the bed and talk about things!"

It was at times like this, that Schreiber could try and forget his burdens. Forget that Blücher was anything more than a teenage girl with strange hair. He could pretend, for just a moment, that he was a proud father dealing with a rowdy daughter that he loved with every inch of his being.

For only a moment. For Schreiber could never, truly, forget that he was an Admiral. A traitor to his country, in his efforts to save it.

There we go. Apologies on the much belated chapter. As established, last year was...a thing. And we spent this week basically just recovering from the move, so there was that too. Hopefully this is at least...somewhat worth the wait.

It's a bookend, in a way, as we move back to the real war. Especially for Thompson in the Pacific. Shouldn't be long before this and the ABDA fun start mixing together properly. Hopefully. >.>

Skywalker_T-65 · May 16, 2022

Please consider supporting our work on patreon. It really does help now.

Chapter 62.1

Truk Lagoon, June 25th, 1942

In the calm waters of Truk Lagoon, giants slumbered under a starry sky. Lights dimmed and portholes blocked off to protect from daring submariners. Lookouts stared out into the darkness while their shipmates slept, though the ships were never truly quiet. Men labored in their depths, preparing them for future combat. Planes were repaired and armed to be ready for launch at a moments notice.

When at war, no one ever really rested.

This was proven true aboard one of the dim giants. While her crew slept or labored away, one man sat in his quarters, uncomfortable and pensive. He had not felt restful in a very, very long time. Not since the attack on the Americans, so long ago.

I wonder if I ever will get used to this. Likely not.

Kojiro Takeda often wondered when his life had taken a turn for the bizarre. He had been nothing more than a proud servant of his Emperor, serving as a fighter pilot aboard the newest carrier in the fleet. He had been honored by that, and he knew his family approved, as well. It had been a simple life, perhaps, one without any greater desires than to fly his Reisen and serve his Emperor and country. The attack on the Americans had been enough to break his usual routine, even on its own.

Now, as he sat in his cabin and stared at the grey-green haired girl across from him, he still wondered if he was insane, some days.

"It's been months now! Are you ever going to tell the Captain about me, or not?" The girl glared at him, hands on her hips. Her scandalously short skirt shifted on her legs, as she brought one of those hands up to shake at him. "I won't wait forever, you know! I'll go to him myself!"

"Good luck with that, Zuikaku." Takeda snorted, softly, at the mental image. No, the Captain wouldn't even entertain the idea. Even he wondered, half the time, if this really was Zuikaku.

Sure, the carrier was new, but she still seemed...very young. Impulsive. Entirely unlike a proper Japanese warship.

"One would have thought you would be more mature, after our time in the Indies..." Takeda muttered under his breath. He ignored the resulting glare with long, hard-earned, practice. "Zuikaku, you are well aware why I have not told the Captain. I have no desire to be removed and sent home as a madman."

The kami glared at him a bit more, before blowing out a sigh and falling down on his bed. Takeda studiously avoided looking at where her red skirt billowed out around her. Where had she gotten the idea to wear such scandalous clothing, anyway? He remembered the American kami wearing a far more conservative dress.

What was the world coming to, indeed, when American ship kami were more conservatively dressed than proud Japanese warships?

"You do know that you're not the only one who saw that American," Zuikaku's voice was every bit as sour as the look in her green eyes. "And that's ignoring the cruiser in the Philippines! It's not a secret that we exist!"

Takeda shrugged, "No, it is not. It is an open question as to if this is unique to the Americans or not, however."

In response, the carrier only clicked her tongue and pointed at her lithe form. That she looked like a teenager did not help her case, in regards to her clothing. Takeda was a young man himself, and he still felt intensely uncomfortable when he thought of it.

...perhaps I am too focused on how she looks instead of how she acts?

Snorting at that thought, the man brought himself back into focus, and looked at Zuikaku. Past her obvious issues, he could see the steel in her. The gaze that bored into his soul every time they met like this. She was rude, impulsive, childish, angry and everything in between. Yet, even past all of that, she had a core of hardened metal that spoke to what she claimed to be.

It was why Takeda entertained her. Why he listened to her instead of assuming he had gone as mad as the world had.

"...why have you not attempted to talk to anyone else?" He finally asked the question that had been on his mind for many days.

Silence was his only answer. Silence and a deep crimson blush, spreading from the roots of Zuikaku's hair, down to her chin. He imagined it spread even further down her neck, though her relatively modest top concealed it. That train of thought had his own cheeks heat up, though he pushed it down. After all...

"I...didn't think about it."

...Zuikaku's answer had the pilot sigh and lower his head. He was far too professional to bring his hands to his face, though the thought did occur to him. She truly did act both her apparent and her actual age.

"You should have. I should not be responsible for you, Zuikaku. You are our kami and you should know better." Instead, Takeda took on the role of the disapproving...older brother, perhaps? He had no siblings, though he imagined it was like this.

Though, he still sighed softly, as he continued, "You should attempt to speak with the Captain, yourself. I may not be of a sufficient rank to know what our grand plans are, yet I imagine we are setting out soon. Why else gather all of this here?"

His hand waved grandly out his dimmed porthole, taking in the fleet sitting in the lagoon that neither of them could see.

Akagi. Hiryu. Soryu. Shoukaku. And, of course, Zuikaku.

All of the remaining fleet carriers, gathered together for what could only be a major battle with the Americans. What else could justify bringing them all together like this? Takeda was no strategist, no captain, yet he was not blind. Nor stupid.

"...you aren't wrong," Zuikaku was still marred by a dusting of pink upon her cheeks. She did not confirm, nor deny, Takeda's musings.

No, she just clenched her hands in her skirt, and looked at him with what could best be described as a...caring expression?

What is with this kami? Takeda frowned, as he thought about her mood swings. One moment she could be berating him with all the ferocity of a scalded cat. The next, she could act like...well, like she was going to hug him and never let go.

Was this how women acted when they were not expected to be subservient to their husband or father?

"I'm comfortable with you. You're a good friend." Zuikaku's voice was every bit as soft as the look in her green eyes. It was enough to have Takeda shift uncomfortably on his bed, as the carrier scooted closer to him. "I like spending time with you and I haven't really thought about talking to anyone else. Guess that's why I wanted you to do it for me."

"For a kami, you certainly do not act like one." Takeda's dry response was done as much to cover his own embarrassment as anything.

If his goal was to make Zuikaku act more like she normally did, it worked. Her blush redoubled as the carrier sent a withering glare his way. "What was that?! I'll have you know that I act as a proud member of the 5th Carrier Division!"

Her glare and return to form could only make Takeda chuckle. Ah. This was the Zuikaku he had grown used to. He could handle this far better.

"As we all are." Takeda easily nodded along, reflecting once more on when this had become his 'normal'. "And, indeed, why you should be talking to the Captain. If we are going to return to combat once more, after the Indies, I would prefer to know that we are not outmatched by the Americans and their kami."

Zuikaku flinched and turned her face away with a huff. She held her nose up, crossing her arms over her chest, and not looking at Takeda. Yes. That one had hit a sore spot.

"I...will try to talk to him before we leave. And suggest that Shoukaku do the same." Zuikaku refused to look at Takeda, as she climbed off the bed and set out from his room.

The pilot didn't say anything and just let her go. He looked down at his hands and sighed heavily. His life was anything but normal now.

...so why did he prefer it this way?

London

Admiral Günther Lütjens, dressed in a civilian suit, was incredibly uncomfortable in his new role. Months after that first fateful meeting, he had been fully brought in as...what he could only call a traitor to his country. His people would certainly see it that way. He did, after all, and he was the one taking these actions. The one working with the enemy.

And the worst part was, he did it all entirely willingly. He didn't have to do this.

"Admiral, if you could come over here, please?" A British man spoke up, his own nondescript suit not hiding his military bearing. The lieutenant, for that was what he was, stood over a pile of maps.

Lütjens sighed deeply before doing as requested. "What do you need?"

"I need you to look over these maps. I know you aren't a general by any means, but," here, the man pointed at the pile of maps. A sea of gray pushing into a wave of red. "We need to get some idea of how this is going and you're the closest to an expert we have, in lieu of talking with that Schreiber fellow."

A soft chuckle came from the Admiral, in spite of his situation. "He is also an Admiral, so I rather doubt he knows more about land combat than I do. Let me take a look."

The maps meant near enough nothing to him, of course. Oh, sure, he could read a map. No sailor worth his salt couldn't. At least if they reached any real rank. But the ability to read a map did not translate into the ability to understand something beyond the scope of his experience. The vague movements portrayed on the map, clearly done through reports from either the Reds or Schreiber, meant nearly nothing to him. He could see where armies moved but the reasons why...

Well, I suppose I can understand the tactics on some level. It is not that dissimilar to a fleet action, in the broadest sense.

"I'm afraid I am the wrong person to ask, if you want any insight into what my fellow leaders are doing." Still, Lütjens stepped back from the maps with a Gallic shrug. No point in lying. "I can make guesses, but I could no more tell you what they are planning than I could tell you what food Goering had today."

Some habits died hard. Even the straight-laced lieutenant chuckled a little at that joke.

It faded off, though, into a pensive frown, "I see. Well, it was worth a try. We've had reports from the Reds that things are...heating up on their end."

It was rather telling how much they trusted Lütjens. That they were willing to mention that to him. The Admiral felt a mix of gratitude and intense, roiling, shame. "You should know that is the focus of the Fuehrer, yes? He has always focused on the Bolsheviks."

"That's no secret. We're still wondering why it took so long for those two to come to grips." The lieutenant shrugged in response.

He reached down and started sorting the pile of maps, too. As he did so, Lütjens sucked in a breath and held out a hand. He couldn't do more than make guesses, but perhaps those guesses may be valuable.

"Wait. If you desire my educated guess," he pointed at one map in particular, showing a push towards the South. "I believe that it is likely the generals are pushing towards the south. I can't claim to know why, but that is what I can see."

Indeed, it was obvious even to a relative neophyte in ground tactics. The lieutenant looked at the maps and frowned lightly. "I see...I wonder. The Caucasus. Don't the Reds have oil fields out that way?"

Lütjens could only shake his head, "If they do, it is the first I have heard of it. I grant you that I have never put much mind into what goes on in the East."

A small grimace came over the Admiral's lips, as he said those words. He hadn't put much thought into the East at all. Always more concerned with the navy and his own duties. Perhaps he would regret that now. He had accepted Gustav's plan and knew that Germany must suffer before they could hope to succeed, but...

That didn't make it any easier, did it?

"Right, sorry, I should have thought about how this hurts." The lieutenant actually picked up on the Admiral's mood. He finished picking his papers up and gestured towards another desk. That had yet further papers, though of smaller size. "Could you look over these intercepts? Maybe you can make better sense of them than we can."

"I can certainly try." Lütjens walked over to the papers, stopping just long enough to look at the younger man. "And I should thank you. I did not expect an Englander to care about my feelings. I am your enemy."

As the fading light of a setting sun shone on the two men, the lieutenant gave a small, ever so slight, smile. "Ah. Well, I have cousins in Germany. I can understand at least a little of what you feel. I worry about them all the time." His smile widened, a little, at Lütjens' suspicious glance. "Yeah, I figure that's why they assigned me to this. Gotta make sure you trust us so we can trust what you give us."

"I can admire the pragmatism. Very Germanic." Lütjens actually laughed, for what felt like the first time in years.

The two men shared that laugh, before returning to more serious matters. Or they would have, had Sascha not come charging into the room. Her eyes wide, blonde hair stuck to her face and falling from her otherwise tight bun. She looked past the lieutenant and right at Lütjens, as she sprinted across the room in no more than three strides.

Her long legs brought her right up to the Admiral she stood taller than, as she thrust a hand-drawn map at him.

"What is this, my dear?" Lütjens asked, frowning as he looked at the paper.

Sascha, her face twisted by worry, spoke very slowly. "That...is my transcription of the most recent message from my sister."

Frowning at that reaction, Lütjens ran a finger over the map. "Oh? And what news does she bring this time?"

In response, Sascha just looked at the lieutenant, and the pile of maps beside him. She bit her lip and shook her head, "Those maps are outdated. General Rommel...he..."

As she trailed off, Lütjens looked at the map and bit off a curse. Oh.

"Oh dear."

Norway

"That damn fool. I should have expected something like this."

Gustav Schreiber was no a man given to fits of annoyance, nor anger. Well. At least when the Soviets or the Nazis weren't involved. When either of those were related to his problem, anger did tend to overtake rationality. It had happened more times than he liked to admit.

So, perhaps, it should come as little surprise that he paced Blücher's deck. The ice did nothing to deter him, nor did the crew. They stood aside and did their duty. If they wondered why he was aboard the cruiser instead of his ostensible flagship, moored some distance away, none of them commented on it. At least where he could hear.

Besides, they took a sense of pride and superiority in knowing the Admiral preferred their cruiser to the big brute of a battleship.

Not that they have any idea why I do. Schreiber stopped pacing, blew out a breath that fogged before him, and shook his head fiercely. "I truly should have expected this. The man was a gloryhound before, and he still is now."

Standing beside him, invisible to her crew, Blücher brushed a bit of pink hair from her face. Her red scarf was pulled up tightly around her neck, but she made no complaints about the cold this time. No. Her blue eyes just watched her Admiral, feeling more than a little concern for him.

"Admiral, you knew something like this would happen." Her voice carried like a slap in the cold air, and the old man flinched slightly. Blücher frowned at that, "Ad-Admiral?"

Schreiber shook his head and gave a weak smile at the ship he considered his daughter, "No, you're correct. I did expect this. Just...not so soon, nor in this way. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Between myself and that American, things are just going to keep changing."

At the mention of Admiral Thompson, Blücher rolled her eyes mightily. "I still find it hard to believe some American came back like you did, Admiral. What are the odds?"

"The same odds that brought me here in the first place," the old Admiral appreciated what Blücher was doing and graced her with a smile. A smile that looked more a grimace, as it stretched the lines on his face into a scattershot pattern of starting and ending. "Impossible odds. What's a little more impossibility on top of that?"

Blücher rolled her eyes again, while Schreiber continued to stare out at the brooding forms of Bismarck and Tirpitz. The battleships, looming menacingly out of the fog, looked far more powerful than they actually were. Bristling with great guns. Massive turrets of hardened steel vanishing into the mists that surrounded them.

He knew all too well how vulnerable they were to aircraft. That the British had declined combat had as much to do with him as with the ships themselves. Because it was him in charge and not someone else.

In the dim sunlight, fading through the fog, he could almost fool himself into believing it was because they were afraid.

Then, I have no desire for them to fear me. I want to work with them.

Letting his eyes fall down to the ice-encrusted deck he stood upon, Schreiber pulled his greatcoat closer to his chest. The cold made his bones ache. Or was that the weight of his responsibility, bearing down on him? He didn't know anymore.

"All those boys, freezing in their trenches and dugouts..." the Admiral muttered to himself, before shaking his head. How many of them deserve it? More than I care to admit. I know more than anyone how brutal our armies were in the East. And how much brutality was done unto them in return.

With a fierce scowl and shake of his head, the Admiral stepped away from the railing he had unconsciously strode towards. He walked past Blücher and into the warmth of her interior. His footsteps carried him past his crew and into the Admiral's quarters that still retained some vestiges of when she was his flagship. Even now, the quarters were maintained for him.

'I won't let them change anything, sir! This is your home! I love when you're aboard, you know that!'

The smile that Blücher had worn when she said that was enough to warm Schreiber's heart, at least a little bit. He still couldn't help but frown, though. Things were coming to a head sooner than he anticipated, and he had to be ready for that.

"Blücher, dear?" Once the door was shut, the Admiral looked at his daughter-in-all-but-blood. She returned his look with utmost seriousness, in spite of her pink cheeks, dusted with the cold. "Find Captain Lange and bring him up to speed. We should prepare for a proper sortie."

Gaping at him now, Blücher seemed confused more than anything else. "A...proper sortie, sir? What do you mean?"

"I mean what I said. We need to start moving. My victories so far have made me popular in Germany, but it is not enough. We should find a convoy or two." Biting his lip, Schreiber clenched his fists by his side. "We should probably warn the British. Maybe we can convince them to leave only Soviet ships to us...I don't know."

Still visibly confused, Blücher walked up to her Admiral. The young woman, her chest rising and falling in motion with her deep breaths, frowned. "But why? I thought we were trying to work with them now?"

Why now, indeed. He had actually been trying to avoid direct conflict with the British for some time. It seemed counter-intuitive to expect them to work with him while he was drowning their sailors. But war was war, and he couldn't delay forever. He had brought Churchill on board. And Schreiber was confident that if any man understood the concept of sacrifice and of the need for battles, it was that man. He would understand.

He would not like it, but that was another thing entirely. It wasn't as if Schreiber relished the idea himself. The time traveler had more in common with the British than most.

"That damn fool in the East forced our hand, my dear." Schreiber placed his hand on Blücher, perhaps to steady himself. Or her. "The Army is going to lose prestige. More importantly, they're going to lose land and men. The Russians won't hesitate to take advantage, and neither should we."

After all...the core of his plan still hinged on making himself a household name in Germany, as Erwin Rommel once was.

Blücher placed her lithe hand upon Schreiber's rough, aged, limb...and smiled softly. "Guess we couldn't wait forever, eh, Admiral?"

"Not forever." Schreiber agreed. He leaned forward and placed a soft kiss upon Blücher's pink hair. "When we do head out, be careful, my darling daughter. Captain Lange is a smart man, so I'm sure you'll be fine...but I can't take losing you."

They stayed like that, for a few blessed minutes. Soon enough, Blücher would track down her Captain and Schreiber would return to Bismarck. The time of 'play war' was over. It was time to properly reenter this conflict, for better or for worse. He could only wonder how many more lives he would take before it was over...

Central Russia

The dull thump of artillery firing, and the even duller sound of it impacting, was as familiar as breathing. Red Army soldiers marched to and fro, supplying shells to the mighty guns and firing them. Hundreds, nay, thousands of guns. All firing to a tune of their own making as the noose tightened. These men were working with a passion that many of their comrades had lacked in the early days of the war.

After all, why shouldn't they? This was their first taste of real victory. It probably shouldn't have even happened. The Germans were still fresh and still dangerous. They should have been brushing the Red Army aside, not the other way around.

Georgy Zhukov would not be one to complain. He was not even supposed to be here. Comrade Stalin did not trust him, and he was well aware of that fact.

"Yet, here I am." Stepping into his command tent, Zhukov sent a sharp glance at his staff. They were bent over tables and maps, chattering as they did their work. "Good. We should give them no chance to escape."

If anyone heard him, they didn't act like it. Zhukov gave a rough laugh, shaking his head. Good staff was hard to come by, even before the war had broken so many of them.

"Comrade General!" One of the men did stride up to him, though, with a paper in hand. "Reports from the front! It seems that we have cut the Germans off completely."

Zhukov nodded, taking the paper and glancing over it. Good. "So we have. Are they showing any signs of surrender?"

"Ah...not as yet, Comrade General."

Waving that off, Zhukov walked past the man and looked at the large map spread over his central table. A set of red markers designated his own forces, tightening the net around a set of gray Germans. Yet more forces kept the rest of the Germans out, though Zhukov knew better than anyone how difficult that would prove. It was the hardest part of all.

"We must tighten the noose further, then. Time is not our ally." Zhukov jabbed a finger at the map. "Find enough T-34s to launch a proper assault. If the Germans do not wish to surrender, we shall force them. A gift like this will not come twice."

As if to punctuate his words, another rolling barrage of artillery echoed through the tent. Continuing to batter the forward positions of the German Field Marshal Rommel.

The man is a fool too high on his own propaganda. He outran his supplies and will suffer for it. Zhukov looked at his staff, a small smile crossing his lips. "If ever there were an indication that their leader is mad, it was promoting that man so high."

His staff was far too professional to laugh, though Zhukov would swear he still heard soft laughter in the back. Let them. He felt the urge himself.

After all, it was as if there were some great cosmic joke playing out right before him.

AN: There we go. Decided to split it in half. Since it was getting long enough as is, and we wanted to hold to the promise to post something today. We'll see Thompson, Hood and Italy in the next update. Which should hopefully take nowhere near as long as this one did. >.>

Now, we should note:

This is not meant to imply that Manstein and the like are better generals or anything of the sort. Rommel getting in this fix is due entirely to his own well-recorded issues with outrunning his supplies. Bad enough to do that against the British...doing it against millions of very angry Russians is...well. It doesn't necessarily have to happen this way, but it is certainly plausible.

He did well enough to get to be a Field Marshal again and with control of a very large group of men (not a full army group by any means, but still a pretty decent chunk of men)...you can see how this is a problem

Again, hopefully the next chapter won't take this long.

And for the obligatory shilling again: Anyone who feels like supporting the patreon, we appreciate it. As well as anyone who is willing to sub to the youtube channel. We won't make a habit of the shilling down here. Just start putting it in spoiler at the top. Just doing it here because it's the first time we've had it while posting a chapter (that and we need to get to 1k subs to get any money out of the youtube, so, yeah. That. >.>)

Skywalker_T-65 · Jul 29, 2022

Please consider supporting our work on patreon. It really does help now.

Chapter 62.2

Norfolk Naval Yard, June 30th, 1942

The sound of a shipyard at work never went away. During peacetime it rang with noise. During wartime it was a constant, dull, roar that shook the teeth of anyone around it. Men shouting at each other and the clang of metal falling into place. Trains rattling along as they brought supplies in and took workers out. The constant arc of welding spray and the pounding of rivets. It was the kind of noise that you could learn to ignore, given time, but never quite miss in the background. Especially if you were there for any substantial amount of time instead of just coming and going.

And I've been here a bloody long time. Far too long.

One particular ship, conspicuous in her foreign design, knew that better than most. She stood atop her foremost turret, one of the few bits of her superstructure that was untouched. Long blonde hair fell down her back and blew in a thin breeze. A frown rested upon her pretty face, though it was twisted a bit by lingering scars.

"I want out of here." She spoke to herself, not bothering to whisper or raise her voice. She brushed a bit of her hair back and deepened her frown. "How much longer is this going to take? I'm itching to get out of here and take the fight back to those bastards, but..."

But the sound of construction was always loudest when it was directly beneath you. The woman looked down at men milling on her deck, carrying materials and tools to and fro. Dozens, nay, hundreds of them. They swarmed like bees, moving with a purpose as they did their tasks. So it had been for over a year at this point and would likely continue for at least another. She had taken up precious resources and yard space that the Americans would almost certainly have wanted for their own construction. Yet she was the pride of the Royal Navy and who even knew what concessions Churchill had made to keep her rebuild going. And it was a rebuild, make no mistake of that. No refit here.

She had felt the pain as they cut into her and removed her tired old powerplant. She had winced alongside the dockworkers when they saw just how worn out it truly was. Forget the battle damage. Just time and lack of proper refit had practically destroyed her boilers and turbines. She still clearly remembered stripping one of them chasing the French. That had been like a sprinter tearing one of their leg muscles and the pain had been excruciating.

If nothing on the pain she had felt getting here, to the Americans, after those damned Germans shot her up.

"Nothing for it." She huffed and shook her head. In spite of how her deck was torn open and her armor removed, she still had full range of movement, as she strode to the side of her turret. Guess I should be thankful the Yanks made replacing my powerplant their first goal. I haven't felt this limber in ages!

Unable to stop a very slight smile at how old that made her sound, she stared down from her turret. The drop would be enough to cripple- or even kill -an ordinary man. She didn't even hesitate. Her long legs took her right over the armored frame. For a single moment, she hung in the air, before promptly dropping like a lead weight. Not one man looked in her direction or blinked at her. Not even when she landed on her deck in an easy crouch, her skirt fluttering in the breeze, as she stood back to her full height.

Ah, to do the things that no man could hope for. Too bad it was only on her hull.

"Having fun, Hood?"

...okay, fine, one man had raised an eyebrow at her antics. Captain Harrington stood, arms crossed, beside her turret. He had raised a single eyebrow in the universal sign of bemused tolerance.

"I was wondering if you knew I was here," the Captain continued, without missing a beat, as he walked over to her side. "You seem to be doing better, at least. Is that because the Yanks finished installing your new boilers?"

Hood couldn't help the light blush that climbed up her neck, nor how her Scottish brogue deepened, when she replied, "Ah...I hadn't noticed you there. I was distracted."

It embarrassed her to admit that. She normally knew where everyone was, at all times, like any ship did. She was too easily distracted now. It had been far, far too long since she had stretched her legs. For someone who had never been in a true, full, rebuild? Being stuck in dock so long was dulling her senses. A battlecruiser wasn't meant to sit still so long and it irked her something fierce.

"Hmm." Harrington didn't comment on her thoughts. He simply placed a hand on her shoulder and directed Hood towards her flanks, to look out over the dockyard.

Her blue eyes could see the forms of many ships in the distance. Carriers that were bigger than any she'd seen before. Destroyers in numbers that boggled the mind. Was this American industry in its fullness? Was this why the Admiralty was so convinced having them on our side would be good?

As if reading her mind, Harrington sighed softly, "Makes our own efforts look quaint, doesn't it? Bloody Yanks have more steel than they know what to do with."

"At least it's on our side. Can you imagine the Huns with this?" Hood shuddered at the thought. Her encounter with those battlecruisers was still fresh to her mind, even if most of the wounds had healed.

"Don't even bring that up." Harrington shared her shudder, before drifting his eyes back over her hull. "Well, that entirely aside, I understand how it feels to want to be back out in the war. We've been here entirely too long. The refit is appreciated, I'm sure--" he sent a dry look her way, and Hood flushed again. Harrington snorted, "--but we can't sit here on our arses forever."

It was telling that he had no problem with that language around her. Then again, Hood had used far more vulgar words herself. It always amused her to see her Captain flinch when she did. What did he expect? She was a battlecruiser. Yeah, she was a woman, sure. But she was also a warship with hundreds of seaman aboard. Did he think she hadn't picked up their vocabulary over the years?

Gotta get my amusement somehow. And if he thinks 'wanker' is the worst thing I know, he's a bit naïve.

"Well, no rest for any of us. I have to fill out paperwork and I'm sure you want to observe them install new equipment." The Captain stepped back and rubbed his brow. He looked like he had aged far more than the year or so she had been in dock.

Gray at his temples and lines stretched across his face. His shoulders thinner than they had been before and his body slumped down. The time spent organizing her rebuild had not been kind to him. Would actual war have aged him so much? It was hard to say. Hood felt her own age more than ever, in her own right, when her aged frames were worked on. She wasn't a young ship anymore, even if Renown and Repulse were still older than her.

Back to waiting. I wonder what they'll give me when this is all done. Maybe some of those fancy five-inchers?

With thoughts of how she would look at the end of her refit, Hood spun on her heel and marched into her hull. Even if no one could see her, she would still make her presence known in her own way. If only by watching them work.

It wasn't creepy when she could see everyone on her hull anyway!

Pearl Harbor

"Is everything alright, Admiral?"

Looking up from his desk, Admiral Richardson allowed a small smile to cross his rugged features. A by-now familiar face greeted him. With her long grey hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, Utah stared right back. She had exchanged her dress for a dress uniform, the deep blue outfit hugging her figure well. He was certain she had turned a few heads, even with her obvious age and the scars crisscrossing her face.

Though he got the distinct feeling that Jackson would have words with anyone dumb enough to make a move on her. Assuming Utah didn't bend them into shape herself. She was no wallflower, after all. Kind and gentle she may be, the woman remained a battleship at heart. He could still well remember when she got those scars.

Her hands rested at the edge of her long skirt, though they did not clench it. Her equally grey eyes stared back at him with perhaps a touch of concern, as she walked over to him.

Richardson returned the stare as he replied, "Nothing at all, Utah. Or, should I say, nothing important."

Her dubious expression was enough to prompt a light chuckle. The stacks of paperwork littering his desk probably did not help his claim.

"This is nothing particularly important," Richardson shrugged slightly. He didn't stand up, though he did relax a little in his chair. His hands set down a paper and pen, as he continued, "Nothing beyond routine requests and paperwork. I'm afraid that, until we hear from the frontline, there is nothing important to do."

If Utah believed him, she didn't show it, only settling for striding over to the desk. She stopped beside it, frowning lightly, "Have we had any news? From James or Saratoga?"

"As yet, nothing. The Japanese are..."

Trailing off, Richardson looked past Utah, to where a large map of the Pacific took up most of his wall. A tide of red had taken over the Far East, stretching from China down to Malaya and as far as Guam. The Philippines had fallen, save for a few holdouts safeguarded by a ship even older than Utah. The East Indies had surrendered, even as ABDA continued to contest the seas and made itself known. They tied down the Japanese better than anyone could have possibly hoped for. Singapore held, though it was anyone's guess how long it would last. That it had lasted as long as it had was mute testament to the skill of the British commander.

Wake remained the furthest flung American outpost in that direction, reinforced substantially since the battle nearby. Everyone knew that no amount of land forces would be enough to hold against a concerted Japanese attack without naval reinforcements. Yet, the Japanese had not attacked.

Shaking his head, Richardson pushed those thoughts aside.

"They are carefully husbanding their remaining carriers," the old Admiral frowned deeply. He knew the Japanese better than anyone and was...suspicious of that. It seemed distinctly out of character.

The Japanese craved a decisive battle. Their entire fleet had been built around the idea of such a conflict and for them to be consciously avoiding it only screamed that they were preparing for one. Richardson was at a loss to explain where it would come. He had long-since milked Thompson for any information he had to offer, and it had only helped a little. Guadalcanal had been secured by the Australians before the Japanese could land there. Such as the Australians could spare any men and planes for it, at any rate. Midway had been reinforced as much as it could be and the efforts of Rochefort and his team had been given top priority. And yet...

There had been no attempt at Port Moresby by sea. There had been no moves towards the Aleutians or Wake. It was as if the Japanese had completely surrendered the initiative past the Java Sea. Was it because they lost that carrier at Wake? The losses to their air wings? Or were they preparing for a decisive battle somewhere else?

I believe they would not hold back like this. Yamamoto. What are you planning...

"Have you warned Sara and the others?" Utah asked, breaking in to his thoughts. Her lips were pursed, a hint of concern there. "Surely the Japanese are not going to try and give up. I..."

She bit her lip and shook her head. Her pursed lips turning into a deep frown. Richardson raised an eyebrow and returned the frown. Ah.

"I wish I could be out there, fighting alongside them." Utah finished, sighing heavily.

She was a battleship, through and through, and that had never changed. Richardson reached up to pull his glasses from his face, tiredly rubbing at his brow. He would love nothing less than to allow her to fight as she had been designed. Yet, he could not. For much the same reason as why he would call Rochester home if he were able. She was outdated and her equipment, such as it was, entirely unfit for modern warfare. Especially in the age of aircraft carriers.

"Even if we can say, for certain, that you are not as vulnerable as your hull would have been?" Richardson didn't need to look out at the harbor, where the rusting hulk of USS Utah still lay against Ford Island. He knew it was never far from her mind. "What if the Japanese conspire to bring back Kaga? You would stand no chance."

Utah didn't argue with him. She could only look down and suck in a steadying breath that set her hair to flutter.

"I understand. That hardly makes it any easier."

Richardson replaced his glasses and shook his head, "You do good here, Utah. I am aware being my...secretary ship...is a dull task. Yet your aid in identifying how to bring forth more of your kind is invaluable, even if it has proven less than successful." He took the bite out of his words by giving a thin smile and continuing, "Also, I do believe that Arizona is nearly ready to return from the West Coast. Would you like to meet her when she arrives?"

That was enough to perk Utah up, as Richardson had known it would be. He let his smile grow a little more genuine. Utah still considered herself the next best thing to a mother to the Standards, and they returned the feeling.

I am hardly one to judge them. If it is what they feel, so long as it does not impact their duty, then it is fine.

"It would be good to see Ari again." Utah's own smile could light up a room.

Nodding along, Richardson waved at a chair near his desk, "You may sit there while I work, Utah. Perhaps you might notice something I---"

Whatever else he was going to say would never be said. A panting man slammed the office door open, his eyes wide. As Richardson raised his eyebrow once more, the man winced, and quickly hurried over with a paper in his hand.

"Apologies, Admiral, but this just came in from the codebreakers." The young man handed over the paper and left as quickly as he arrived. Not without sending a dubious look at Utah, who stared placidly back.

For his part, the Admiral looked at the paper and...frowned deeply. Hmm.

"What is it, Admiral?" Utah's placid smile was, perhaps, a bit strained.

Holding up the report, Richardson didn't bother hiding what was on it. If he couldn't trust Utah, he couldn't trust anyone. And she was basically his right hand at this point. If anyone deserved to know when something new arrived, it was certainly her. He studiously ignored how the sunlight from his window cast her face into shadows. He dearly wanted to forget how far she could go if pushed hard enough.

"It would seem that the Japanese are gathering for a move, after all."

Rochefort and his team had come through and proven themselves every bit as useful as Thompson had claimed. The Japanese were gathering their carriers in Truk, though their target remained elusive. It could only be preparation for a new operation. Where were they...

It is time to pay Rochefort a visit. He identified Midway in Thompson's history. He can do the same here, I am sure.

Naples, Italy

It almost seemed natural now. Walking through the streets of Naples with the young girl by his side. She looked as if she could be his daughter, now clad in a yellow sundress that brought out her brown eyes. She seemed as at ease in that dress as she had in her uniform, though if you asked him, it was weird to see. On the one hand, he couldn't help but feel she fit better in civilian clothing, far from the battlefield. On the other, she seemed...wrong. As if she only truly belonged in her uniform.

Sighing heavily, Carlo Lombardi shook his head. I want to keep her away from war. Even though I know she is a warship and far more capable of fighting than I am. Turbine is a veteran.

"Something wrong, sir?" Turbine noticed his sigh and tilted her head up at him. Her deeply tanned skin faintly glowing in the cheerful sunlight.

Was there something wrong? Lombardi bit back another sigh. Leaving aside, for the moment, his feelings about Turbine fighting...there were many things on his mind. Not the least of which being what they were on their way to do at that very moment. It had taken months of effort to reach this point. Months of careful planning and even more careful reaching out to sources he had in the Navy. Turbine's old crew- both Turbines -had proven invaluable, as had his connections to the German, Schreiber. It had still taken this long just to get a meeting.

And that was why he walked alongside Turbine through the streets of Naples. Even in wartime it was a crowded place, people rushing along to shop or work. No one even batted an eye at either him or Turbine, dressed in civilian clothes as they were. They truly did look like a father and daughter on their business.

That Turbine considered him her father and that he did have fatherly affection for her...well, that probably helped the image.

"I am worried. This is the biggest step we've made so far and there is no going back from it," Lombardi rubbed at his scarred brow and shook his head again. Only so much he could do. "We're putting a lot of trust in the Admirals. We need them but they haven't given me any indication if they trust us or not."

Turbine nodded, her face bearing a serious expression. "I'll always have your back, sir! You don't have to worry about that!"

"And I appreciate that, as you know. I still worry." Lombardi patted Turbine's head and smiled slightly at how she leaned into his touch. Ah, I don't know where I would be without her.

Well, actually, he did. At the bottom of the Mediterranean with his crewmates and her hull. With his smile turning melancholic at that thought, Lombardi shifted his hand to grip Turbine's own, pulling her alongside him. The crowds had thinned substantially as they neared a café, one of the few still operating properly. As a favorite of high ranking naval officers, that should perhaps have come as no surprise. Italy was a place of casual corruption even before the Fascists had come to power. Even men who hated Mussolini and his ilk were quite content to take advantage of it, just as the shop owners were quite content to take advantage of them.

It was to be expected, really.

Chuckling slightly, Lombardi pulled the door open with one hand, and tugged Turbine in behind him with the other. The two of them found themselves in a dimly lit room, filled with the smoke of cigars and the smell of fine food. He waved off a waitress with a thin smile. His eyes had locked onto a table in the back where a group of men sat. Their uniforms were quite fancier than his own had been. They were older than him as well. One of them, with the fanciest uniform of them all, looked directly at him and frowned. He looked distinctly sour at even being present and made no efforts to hide it. At all.

Lombardi returned the expression as he walked over. He knew it was going to be an uphill battle from the start. This just served to confirm it.

I knew going into this that I would have a difficult time convincing them. No one wants to be a traitor. Though, are we really traitors? To the Fascists, perhaps, but to our country?

When he reached the table and sat down, Turbine by his side, Lombardi felt the weight of their gazes. He steadied himself, squaring his shoulders, and made the first move. "Hello, sirs. I am grateful that you are willing to hear me out."

Painfully formal, painfully nervous in spite of his years of experience, the old engineer waited for a response. He would not have to wait long.

"I take it that this young lady is Turbine, then?" The man in the fanciest uniform was the first to speak. His sharp eyes narrowed in thought. "She hardly looks like a warship. Am I to believe that this is what the spirit of an Italian warship takes the form of?"

Turbine fairly bristled by Lombardi's side, the instincts of a destroyer telling her to snap back. Even as the instincts of a serving warship told her that snapping at an Admiral, especially this one, would do her no good. Lombardi simply placed a hand on her shoulder. He gave a gentle squeeze, before facing the Admiral, answering for Turbine.

"She is, yes, Admiral Iachino." Lombardi felt out of his element, speaking so relatively informally with the head of the battlefleet. Even talking with Schreiber hadn't been like this. "I understand that she may not look like a sailor, yet I assure you, Turbine is braver than many men I have served with. Tougher as well. I can remember her sinking and I would not be here if not for her efforts to save my life."

Iachino raised an eyebrow, "You sound like a proud father."

"...so I do." Without missing a beat, the old engineer continued, "Are you willing to discuss my ideas? I was told you were."

The Admirals, for that was what they were, shared a glance. The men seemed to communicate without words as they did so, before Iachino sighed heavily. If he had a hat, he would likely have removed it. For his hand reached towards his brow, clenching upon nothing, before falling back to the table. His expression was one of deep concern and frustration.

"Discuss, certainly," Iachino spoke, his words filled with his frustration. He grimaced as he spoke again, "You should understand that, even this much, is in direct conflict with our oaths to the Crown and His Majesty." The grimace deepened, were that even possible. "If nothing else, the Fascists would certainly see it as a betrayal."

Lombardi had to dearly resist the urge to point out that this was, in every way, a betrayal of the Fascists. It was hardly as if the Admirals were unaware of that. It was a fact they all knew but couldn't say aloud. Even in a place such as this, when it had been cleared of anyone who may spy on them, it was the kind of thing they just couldn't say. It might have amused Lombardi to know that the same thoughts ran through the head of his German...acquaintance...every day.

"This war is a lost cause," so instead of commenting on that, Lombardi simply went right to what he needed to say. It was a point that needed to be said. "You know that, I'm sure. Better than I could."

The Admirals were silent. Each of their faces twisted into varying degrees of annoyance and regret. Yes, they knew what he meant. Several of them had seen combat as he had. Seen the fleet battered and bruised against the British, even as the Fascists and their precious Aeronautica proved completely impotent in the face of the Royal Air Force and Royal Navy. With the Americans in the war too, it was only a matter of time before Libya was lost. Before the homeland was invaded. It was an unspoken fact that the Regia Marina was incapable of contesting a landing if it came to that.

"We are aware," Iachino finally spoke, his voice soft and quiet.

The Admiral leaned forward, folding his fingers together before him. The light caught on his eyes in the perfect way to shadow his face and hide what he was thinking. At least to some extent. His shoulders were taut with stress that he couldn't hide.

He didn't even try, continuing with the same soft voice, "You suggest a separate peace, then? Betray our allies and join with our enemies?"

"Do you consider the Germans friends? The British our enemy?" Lombardi asked, doing his utmost to ignore the sweat rolling down his brow. He was nowhere near the rank or social standing to be doing this.

He had to, though, because no one else could. No one else had a ship spirit as he did, nor the ear of the man who was likely to launch a coup against the Nazis.

Iachino stared at him, for a moment, before grunting. "The Germans are no friends to the Italians. Yet we remain allies."

"Allies of convivence, at best," one of the other admirals spoke up before Lombardi could. That man, his name escaping the engineer, frowned so deeply that it cast his face into lines of stress. "Guderian is far from the worst, but we all know that the Germans will take everything we have, given the chance. Even should they win."

Another admiral nodded along, "They are losing in the East. And the Americans will be here in force soon enough. Should we continue fighting for the losing side?"

All of them began arguing about that, while Iachino continued to stare at Lombardi and Turbine. The admiral seemed thoughtful and not at all suspicious. It was hard to read exactly what he thought, though it seemed apparent that he didn't see Lombardi as a threat. Nor as a spy or traitor. That was...good, if nothing else. Certainly it was better than being arrested as a spy for the British or something along those lines. Or even a spy for the Germans, considering his relationship with Schreiber. Which was hardly a secret considering the German's interest in Turbine.

They were still fighting off the odd German who was interested in her in ways that Schreiber had made clear were problematic.

"You feel we will lose the war, no matter what, don't you?" Iachino finally said, leaning back and rubbing his chin.

Lombardi nodded, "We don't have the ability to win. I'm not sure we even should. The Fascists and Nazis...do we really want them in control of Europe?"

If it were any other service in the Italian military, that question would probably have ended poorly. In the Regia Marina, few were the senior officers who were fans of the Fascists. Even before Mussolini's imperialist adventures had crippled so much of the fleet. They had never wanted to fight the British and certainly not the Americans.

"I can hardly deny your point," Iachino sighed and shook his head. He stopped rubbing his chin and pointed it at Lombardi, instead. "So. You suggest that we make a peace with our enemies before they invade."

That had been what he told his contacts to bring up, yes. If we don't, the Germans will...

"...if we wait until we are invaded, the Germans will push hundreds of thousands of men into our country. We would never be able to get them out." Lombardi winced at the thought. Schreiber had told him as much.

'I know the Nazis. They're looking for any excuse they can to take over Italian industry and your navy. Given the chance, they will send army upon army south to 'protect' Italy.'

'Even though you're losing in the East?'

'Even so. I don't need to tell you how my countrymen feel about yours. About your military and what it is worth.'

Iachino stared at Lombardi, frowning, as he realized what the engineer was thinking. "Ah. Your German admiral. He told you that, did he not?"

Seeing no point in denying it, Lombardi sighed and looked away from the admiral. His eyes landed, instead, on Turbine. The destroyer had been studiously silent, sitting with her hands in her lap as her big brown eyes watched with clear interest. Noticing Lombardi's glance, Turbine flushed a little, her tanned cheeks darkening. Her smile was bright and comforting, however, as she reached a hand over to squeeze that of her father figure.

Her eyes spoke what her voice didn't. 'You can do it, sir. You won't give up and neither will I!'

Smiling in spite of himself, Lombardi squeezed her hand back. They relied on each other more than he would ever admit.

"I see," Iachino noticed the gesture, yet he chose not to comment on it. He just got to his feet and waved at the other admirals to follow. He looked down on Lombardi and gave a heartfelt grumble. "I will...speak with His Majesty. About what you've told me."

As Lombardi opened his mouth to say his thanks, Iachino held up a hand. His eyes were suddenly very, very tired.

"I can make no promises. The King is a stubborn man. Convincing him to stand against the Fascists will be no easy task, not even for the sake of our country. Even should I convince him, we must prepare. It will do no good to overthrow Il Duce and plunge our home into civil war."

Lombardi nodded, "I understand. Turbine and I will continue to build our network."

"I will not ask about that," Iachino smiled the faintest of faint smiles.

Nothing more was said, as the admirals set off and Lombardi was left alone with Turbine, a waitress coming to serve them food. The kind of food they couldn't get anywhere else. The engineer would be lying if he said he had an appetite, however. He picked at the food as Turbine ate her own food like a woman possessed. It was enough to make him smile and pat her head. He had learned, long ago, that the destroyer had an appetite that made a starving teenage boy look quaint.

It was one of many things he was fond of in regards to his adopted daughter.

"Do you think this will work, sir?" Turbine stopped inhaling her lunch, long enough to stare up at Lombardi with her bright brown eyes.

The engineer stared back, picking at his own food, as he sighed softly. "Perhaps. We should continue our own work, nonetheless, if only to be secure. I feel I'm...close. Da Vinci is not that far away from us."

"It would be nice to meet her!" Turbine chirped, returning to her food.

Lombardi smiled at her and continued to eat at a far more sedate pace. His work was progressing. Just as Schreiber's was. The German and the Italian were working towards the same purpose, in the end. To save their countries from their leaders. It was a thankless and difficult task...yet it was a task they must do. No one else could.

USS Saratoga, Solomon Islands

"Squadron away, ma'am. Ready to send out the dive bombers on your order, Captain."

Those words, spoken on Saratoga's bridge, were directed at both the spirit of the ship and her Captain. Sara, standing beside the man, smiled her gentle smile and nodded. Her Captain began to send out orders to prep her Dauntlesses for take off, even as the ship moved away and towards where her Admiral stood at the back of the bridge. She wasn't required for this, even though her crew- by now all of them able to see her -insisted on keeping her involved. It had long since stopped being weird for those veterans who had been serving since the war began.

There was actually a betting pool, well hidden, in regards to the man the carrier was walking towards. The crew would never say it in the open, but they knew very well how close Sister Sara and Admiral Thompson were. That was actually stranger to think about than the fact the ship had a female spirit in the first place.

Of course, neither of the people in question were aware of it.

"Hey, Sara," Admiral Thompson looked up from a stack of papers. He smiled happily at her, a smile that Sara returned beneath a light flush.

She brushed a lock of blue hair back from her face and moved to stand beside him, keeping a professional- if small -distance between them. "Your plan is in action, James." She didn't even hesitate to use his first name now. Even as the crew gave knowing smiles to one another. "It seems to be a well-thought out action, from my perspective."

"I should hope so, considering you planned it with me." Thompson didn't comment on how close she was, focused as he was on the papers. He bit his lip and frowned slightly, though. "Hmm. Even with the Japanese doing things I'm not expecting, they're still reinforcing Rabaul and Bougainville. I wonder if they plan on moving to Guadalcanal after all..."

At the top of his stack was a map of the Solomon Islands, with known Japanese bases- and bases from his past -marked in red. To the North was a sea of the color, the Japanese in control of the entire upper chain, along with most of New Guinea. The south was colored in a light blue, centered on Guadalcanal and its Australian bases. Admiral Thompson had been very clear on securing that island, the moment he was forced into giving up his knowledge of a possible future. Preempting the Japanese there would prevent a costly conflict and secure the lines of communication between America and Australia.

That the Japanese hadn't marched on it, yet, worried and confused him in equal measure.

That's why I'm bringing Sara up here and bombing Rabaul. We can't let them build up. Thompson forced the frown off his face and set the papers down. His hand searched for Sara's, something she was all too willing to give.

As their hands met, the two looked out her small windows, staring at her expansive flight deck. The last of the SBDs was lifting off at that very moment, winging into the sky to join the already airborne Avengers and Wildcats. A strike force that would join up with planes from her sister, Lexington, sailing in the distance. Yet further away, Enterprise and her sisters were hitting other Japanese bases, as far away as the Marshalls. The American carrier forces, yet to suffer substantial losses, were taking full advantage of the evident passivity of the Japanese. They had yet to sail any closer to the Philippines or Marianas, though.

"I trust in you, James, but are you certain this is our best option?" Sara whispered, leaning up to speak into his ear. Both carrier and Admiral flushed, a little, at the contact of her chest against his arm. They would be proper in front of the crew, though, as she said, "Should we consolidate and hit Truk? My entire career, before I met you, was about launching attacks before we were attacked in turn..."

Thompson sighed softly, "It may seem like we're being reactive, but Rochefort and his men will tell us what we need. I trust them and I...know the Japanese. Maybe not as good as Richardson, but still."

"They want a battle against us at full strength." Sara repeated what he'd told her, so long ago.

"Yes," Thompson nodded and squeezed her hand. She squeezed his back, while he continued to sigh. "I don't like the idea of being reactive, but if we can force another Midway...I don't like the idea of fighting piecemeal. It just lets them gather strength and makes it harder to keep you girls alive."

That was what it always came down to. Admiral Thompson wanted to keep as many ships and their crews alive as possible. Both because of his lingering concerns about the Abyssals and because he was fond of them all. It wasn't the best mindset for an Admiral who had to be willing to throw lives into the grinder if it was needed to secure victory. Yet it was one of the things that his crews and ships most admired about him. Even Halsey appreciated the thought, though he was far more aggressive with Enterprise and her sisters.

Hence the reason those ships were bombing the Japanese up and down the Central Pacific, while the Lexington sisters fought in the Solomons.

"They'll attack somewhere, soon. I don't know why they've waited this long, but I can feel it. The 'decisive battle' is coming." Thompson, first, looked at Saratoga. He stared into her green eyes with his own, her blue hair falling in front of her face.

Then he looked at the papers again, and sighed one last time, "I'll figure it out if it kills me. Want to help, Sara?"

"Always, James. I will always be at your side." Sara smiled at him and picked up the papers herself.

They returned to work, while the bridge crew shared another smile and did their own tasks. From her Captain right down to her lowliest ensign. War waited for no one and just because her planes were on the offensive, it didn't change that fact. Sara was a ship at war and her crew never truly rested.

AN: Well. There we are.

Apologies on this. The summer job has been...incredibly draining. Far more draining than we expected it to be. It took a long time to get the energy and motivation to write this and we're not sure if that is reflected in the quality or not. Did the best we could with how we feel, though. Now that we're dropping the summer job today, it shouldn't take as long. Subbing is much less tiring and far easier to work on writing with.

(on top of the couple weeks we have between quitting and the start of school)

We're also going to work on an update for Holding the Line now that we can work on that without spoiling this fic. In point of fact, we're planning on working on several chapters of the spin-off, now. Cover how we went from where that left off, to where we are in here. A lot of ground to cover and material to work with. Hopefully that will prove fun to work with and read.

Hope that people enjoy the chapter, even with the wait.

Skywalker_T-65 · Aug 27, 2022

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Obligatory Warning: Mildly racist dialogue in one section. 'tis the problem with writing in the 1940s. We avoid the worst of it, but still, advance warning.

Chapter 63

Pearl Harbor, July 4th, 1942

The first Independence Day since the terrible Japanese attack had proven to be a...somber affair. Admiral Richardson reflected on that as he walked towards the dock and the imposing battleship resting alongside it. Celebrations had been few and far between. With the burnt-out hulk of California still laying where she had been sunk? The ongoing salvage of less damaged, yet still crippled battleships hardly helped. Nor did ships such as West Virginia, sitting in drydock as they were repaired, and bodies were still found deep inside. It was impossible, if you looked towards the Harbor, to forget what had happened at the end of the previous year.

That wasn't even touching on how many people had left for the war. Or the constant coming and going of warships or planes for the front. America was at War, and that was nowhere more obvious than right here, where it had all begun. No one could ignore the war in Hawaii, for better or worse.

Least of all myself. I doubt I can ever forget that day. Richardson resisted the urge to sigh. He still woke up, often, from nightmares of that attack.

"Admiral! You came out to see me?!" A cheerful voice wrenched him away from that line of thought, however. A cheerful voice and an equally cheerful face, framed by long- interesting that it changed -red hair. "I didn't think you'd do that! Where's Admiral Thompson, though?"

Richardson raised a hand of his own to wave back, while his other hand pushed his glasses up his nose. "Not here, I'm afraid. How have you been, Arizona?"

Once upon a time, he would have considered it strange to be talking to the battleship. He knew it would have been even stranger to those watching. That had changed. Even for those who hadn't already met Utah, the news was spreading, if only in fits and spurts of rumor. As for Arizona...well. If anyone aboard her couldn't see the spirit after what she had done during the attack, he would be amazed.

"Great! That new refit was just what I needed, Admiral!" Arizona leaned over the railing at the side of her hull without a care in the world. A few members of her crew did, in fact, see her and shake their heads fondly.

If she noticed at all, the battleship certainly didn't show it. She just grinned down at the Admiral while her long hair fluttered beneath her old cap. Her uniform hadn't changed all that much, even if her hair had. The brown eyes were the same, as well. It seemed that the spirits of the ships didn't change, no matter the extent of the refit. Or perhaps that was just Arizona. Richardson would have to ask Thompson about that whenever the next time Saratoga came back to port was. There were still far too many things he didn't understand about the ship spirits.

He didn't like not knowing things when it came to something so very important.

"Good to hear," he didn't say that, of course. He simply smiled and walked up to her deck, returning the salutes he received along the way. It was quite an extensive refit. I should thank Admiral Thompson for making it clear how useful these old girls can be for it being done so quickly, I suppose. As well as the fact she wasn't that terribly damaged in the first place. Certainly not like some of the others.

His gaze drifting over the distinctive twin five-inch turrets, the old Admiral grunted in appreciation. Oh yes. He could already see how she could be useful, even if still far too slow to escort a carrier properly.

"So, where is Admiral Thompson, anyway?" Arizona had rushed over to his side, unsurprisingly, the moment he reached her deck. The only visible change on her, save for her longer hair, being perhaps a slight increase to her bustline. Not that Richardson cared to look.

He was both happily married and not a man like Thompson.

"I was hoping to see him and show off a bit," Arizona continued, her voice filled with a teasing undertone. The woman who had been so borderline depressive after the attack had clearly recovered. "Though, from what I hear, Sister Sara is going to---"

Richardson held up a hand, "I've heard of the betting pool myself, Arizona. No need to remind me. I still find the very idea...strange. At best."

It was an enduring mystery how neither Thompson nor Saratoga knew about the betting pool. Willful ignorance, perhaps. Or they were well aware and chose to ignore it. Richardson would like to believe that the younger man wasn't enough of a fool to miss it, but...hrm. Well. It was hardly his problem. Let the men have their fun. He knew very well how rare that could be during wartime. The paperwork waiting for him when he returned to his office was all the proof needed, and he wasn't even seeing frontline combat

"Aww," Arizona didn't comment on his thoughts. She just pouted and giggled a little, "Well, I'm sure they'll figure it out eventually! Sometimes, I wonder how it took this long..."

The flush on her face spoke to embarrassment about something. Richardson resisted a sudden strong urge to roll his eyes. Ah. She must have felt the same at one point. What was this, a cheap film at the cinema?

"As amusing as this is, it is not why I came here." The old Admiral waved a hand towards Arizona's superstructure. More importantly, towards where he could talk in private, without the crew eavesdropping as they did. "I visited for business, I'm afraid. As unwelcome as that may be."

Instantly dropping her pout, Arizona straightened and nodded seriously. "Ah--of course. Right this way, sir!"

It was always fascinating to see, Richardson reflected, as he walked alongside the spirit of the battleship. How quickly these girls could shift from acting like rowdy teenagers- if not younger -to proper sailors. It was one of the few things that served to always remind him that, yes, as crazy as it was...they truly were the spirits of the warships. Given reason to, they would act every inch what one would expect of a sailor, no matter their gender. He still felt uncomfortable thinking about women in combat, but these ships weren't normal women. When he saw Arizona snap to attention and walk in prefect parade ground formation next to him...he could remember that.

The world has gone insane, and some days, I wonder if I have as well.

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"So, what did you need to talk to me about? I haven't got any news from home or anything. At least," here, Arizona frowned, as she sat at a table across from Richardson. The two of them alone, as her Captain went about his tasks and her crew did much the same. Frown deepening, the battleship shrugged, "I don't know anything you probably don't already know!"

Richardson idly sipped a mug of coffee that the battleship had placed before him, only slightly wincing at the bitter flavor. Oh, remind me to never allow Utah to cook for my meals. These ships don't seem to understand the concept.

Putting that aside, he set the mug down and sighed softly, "That isn't what I came here for, no. I wanted to talk about two topics."

He pulled two stacks of paper from the briefcase he had brought aboard. One, he sat to his left. One, to his right. The Admiral pushed the one on the right forward first and let Arizona scan the first page. Her lips pursed into a frown as she did so, clearly absorbing what she was reading. Richardson let her reach the end of the page before he spoke up again. Her brown eyes flicked up to him, before continuing to read, her lips pressed into a thin line.

He didn't mind, just continuing without missing a beat, "As you're reading, my question is simple. Have you noticed anything different about ships under construction? Are they manifesting as well?" Richardson placed his hands on the table and gave the battleship a serious glance, "I need to know the answer to that question, I'm afraid. Thompson doesn't know and if it is the case, that is something we should get ahead of."

"Why, sir?" Still frowning, Arizona looked up with a confused glint in her eyes. She even tilted her head to the side, red hair shifting with the movement, as her cap didn't shift even an inch. "Does it matter when we're born? I haven't...really thought about that, to be honest? It's just...a thing...?"

Perhaps it doesn't matter. Perhaps it does. Richardson tried not to concern himself with the ship spirits and allow Thomspon to focus upon that, while he focused on the war. Sometimes, though, the two coincided. We know the Italians have a ship spirit. The Germans likely do as well. Who's to say the Japanese don't? Who's to say what they have under construction, even as we speak?

And that, really, was why he had to ask. "I need to know, Arizona, because of our enemies."

"Our...oh. Oooohhh," Arizona was a bit slow, as befitting her class of battleship, but she wasn't that slow. And it was more in relation to her though process in general, anyway.

Richardson just nodded and sipped his bitter drink once more. Yes. That was the problem. He didn't like to admit it, but it could very rapidly become a very real issue. From Italy, to Germany, to Japan, to even Russia, should Stalin get ideas.

"If your spirits are born when the keel is laid, who can say how many potential enemies we have? I would like to trust Thompson when he claims that most of you ships are too attached to your crews to want to leave. That you can be reasoned with." Richardson set the mug down again and gave Arizona a sharp, piercing, stare. "I can't believe that about ships that have just been laid down by such...reprehensible governments."

Both battleship and admiral fell silent at the idea. Imagining a battleship freshly laid down by the Nazis and immediately torn from her hull and force-fed their ideology. They still didn't know exactly how to bring ships back. How would they ever manage if it was possible to...cheat the system like that? Japan almost certainly had dozens of ships on the slipways that could be pulled out like that. Dozens. And they had the slipways to make even more, it was likely. Germany could build hundreds of U-Boats and do the same. The image caused a shudder to run down Arizona's spine and Richardson to sigh wearily.

Nothing was simple. Not anymore.

"Ah...I..." Arizona dropped the papers and pulled her cap from her head, twisting and turning it in her hands. "I don't know for sure? I didn't think to ask. I..." Frown welded to her face, the battleship shook her head and bit her lip. "The earliest thing I remember is going down the slipway, back in '15."

Nodding along, Richardson pushed his glasses up, "Nothing before that?"

"Nothing that I can remember," Arizona clarified. She placed her cap on the table and shrugged helplessly. "I don't know if I was awake or alive before that. Do you remember anything when you were a child, Admiral?"

While he would love to say he did, Richardson knew that would be a lie. Reach a certain age and everything from your childhood became a blur. That didn't exactly help matters here, either. Hm. "Well, if you are unaware, I will simply have to send a message stateside and have it looked into. A few men who served on Utah have gone back to work in dockyards. They're in a position to check, given time."

He shrugged at Arizona's stare and chuckled softly. It was painfully obvious what she was thinking and not asking vocally.

"No, the idea hadn't just occurred to me. The question, yes, which is why I asked you instead of trying that first. Running a war keeps me quite busy, I'm afraid, and I hadn't thought of this being an issue prior to now."

That Thompson hadn't either was no surprise. The man spread himself thin trying to cover every possible base. Think of every strategy he knew of, every Japanese or German action he remembered, and every technology he could possibly supply. That the man hadn't worked himself to death was an enduring mystery.

Arizona sighed softly and replaced her cap upon her head, idly running a hand through her silky hair, "What about the second question, then?"

Her question prompted a small smile and a laugh from Richardson. This one was a much simpler thing to ask about. One that didn't have such drastic consequences for the war, the world itself, as the previous one. Just idle curiosity as much as anything.

"Are you aware of where the Marines you helped during the attack are serving now? I wanted to bring them in to thank them for helping you and get their opinion on how to involve you girls more aboard your hulls." Richardson's smile turned a tad fatherly, at the way Arizona instantly flushed the same shade as her hair. Ah, for the joys of youth. Even if she was a warship.

Coughing into her hand, probably trying to hide her flushed face, Arizona spoke in something resembling a strangled tone, "Last I he--heard, Tommy was in the South Pacific with the Raiders, sir!"

"Tommy, is it?"

As the battleship sputtered and covered her face with her cap, now...Richardson smiled. Who said he didn't know how to lighten the mood? Still, though...the South Pacific with the Raider Battalion, eh?

Fuck fuck fuck---

The sharp 'twang' of bullets flying over his head was all that one Tommy Conlin needed to fall flat on his stomach. A chopped-off grunt announced one of his fellow Raiders falling with a bullet through his helmet. Sightless eyes stared back at Tommy as he fought down the urge to lose his last meal. Forcing it down, he pulled the rim of his helmet up, just enough to see tracers flying from a treeline a short distance away. He didn't even notice the mud and muck getting into every open spot on his uniform. He hadn't noticed that in a long time.

It wasn't as if he hadn't been coated in mud to begin with. These godforsaken islands were never, ever, dry.

"Here we go again, eh? You alright there, Tommy?"

That was another Marine, plopped down next to him, battered and weathered Springfield pointing towards the Japs. He had a wicked scar down his left cheek and a crooked grin upon his face. The man's stubble was coated in muck, and he didn't say anything about it. Tommy wished he could ignore it so easily. He kept himself clean-shaven for a reason.

"I'm fine. Wish I could say the same for Hollister back there." Tommy jerked his head towards the fallen Raider, slumped face-first in the mud. "Poor bastard never even saw it coming."

Grunting, the other Marine worked the bolt of his Springfield and shrugged. "That's what happens. Japs are sneaky little buggers at the best of times. Dunno how those slant-eyed bastards see so well through all this shit, though."

Tommy bit his lip to keep from saying anything back. He didn't much care for the Japs himself, but really?

"Anyway, keep your head down. I'll blast them if they show their faces---"

The man would never finish his sentence, as a bullet blew through the eye that had been looking down his sights. He slumped onto his rifle and Tommy cursed rather heavily and heartily. Rolling through the mud to get away from being an obvious target, the young Marine managed to slip into a little creek. The water, muddy as it was, did little to clean him off. The cover was appreciated, however. Bullets kept whizzing back and forth over his head, but the creek kept him well below the line of sight of either side. He was completely fine with that.

I'm no coward, but on one likes getting shot in the face. Now. Can I sneak up on the assholes this way?

Tommy grunted a little, working his rifle out and above the water. Giving it a critical once-over to make sure it was clean and functional...he began to crawl. Slowly and steadily through the muddy water. The creek was shallow and hardly an obstacle, even if a bit uncomfortable. Nothing he wasn't used to though. Continuing to crawl as the sounds of battle rang out all around him, the young Marine was soon close enough to the Japanese positions to hear the sound of their voices. He'd picked up enough Japanese since the War started to at least understand every other word, though barely.

"American fools---"

"--ammo, now---"

"Taishi! You foreign---"

And many other things that he didn't understand or just didn't care about. Judging himself close enough for what he needed, Tommy carefully set his rifle aside and reached to his waterlogged belt. His hand came away with a pineapple grenade, fully uncaring of the fact it was soaked. With a savage little grin on his face, he pulled the pin and lobbed it up out of the creek. A second or so later, screams began and the sound of panicked men starting to run. They didn't have the chance. The dull thump of the grenade, dulled even further by the muddy ground it landed in, rather successfully silenced the gunfire.

Before it picked up again, though nowhere near where Tommy lay.

"Must have gotten their nest..." He muttered to himself, waiting a few seconds more before slowly, carefully, crawling to the rim of the creek. He poked his head out, dark eyes scanning the area.

Yup, got the bastards.

A spread of about six or seven, it was hard to tell, bodies lay nearby. Alongside a machine gun, unoccupied and still loaded with one of those dumbass hoppers. Tommy scanned further, left and right, before deciding the coast was clear. He lowered himself back into the creek and grabbed his rifle. He wasn't getting out of that little hole, yet, though. No. He called out with a raised voice, instead.

"Clear! Anyone else alive back there?!"

To his eternal relief, another voice answered, "You're a crazy SOB, you know that, Conlin?!"

"Ha! Didn't think they'd be able to get you, Frank. You're too stubborn to die!" Tommy couldn't help his grin. Frank Minoso, the heavyset sergeant, was the toughest Marine that Tommy had ever met. He wouldn't go down that easily. "Now why don't you get up here and help me out of this thing? I think I feel leeches already!"

He didn't, thank god, but hey...no need to tell Frank that, eh?

"Would do you some good, Tommy. You can stand losing some weight!" Frank's heartfelt laugh made it clear he knew how hypocritical that was. He was a giant of a man, himself. "I'm coming, don't get your britches in a bundle."

It was only the fact that the gunfire had shifted down the jungle that they could joke around like that. Contrary to what the Army or Navy thought, Marines didn't casually joke around in the middle of active battle. They were deadly serious when the need arose. But with no immediate danger and the adrenaline of battle wearing down...well. Might as well joke around. It'd keep them from thinking about how many comrades they'd just lost again. Tommy still vividly saw the two dead Raiders behind his eyes, staring back judgmentally, as if it was his fault they had died. They always did.

Things were simpler back on Arizona, strange girl or not. Tommy still found it incredibly odd to write letters directed to the Arizona, but he did, once in a blue moon. There was something about that ship that he couldn't quite shake. Maybe it had been how goddamn heroic she had been back at Pearl. He'd probably be dead if not for her.

Still, though...

"Get your heads out of the clouds, Conlin..." Tommy pulled himself out of the creek, reaching a hand up just as Frank reached him. The massive bear of a man pulled him out of the creek, setting Tommy down beside him with a wide grin on his square-jawed face.

Frank never did give up a chance to grin like an idiot. It was his charm. "Good job there, Tommy. Would have been a hell of a lot harder without you there. Guess we're lucky you rolled down there, though we're not going to think that in a few hours."

Tommy looked down at his mud-encrusted uniform and grimaced, "Damnit. Never getting this off, am I?"

"Nope!"

Hefting his BAR on his shoulder, Frank waved in the distance, where the gunfire could still be heard. He didn't need to say anything to make it clear what he was thinking, and Tommy was going to suggest it if Frank hadn't. No point in resting on their asses. Kill one machinegun nest and another waited. No rest for the weary. Marines weren't known for that and the Raiders sure as fuck weren't.

"Guess Willy and the others are off that way?" Tommy asked, looking over his Springfield once more. Frank nodded, as he handed Tommy fresh grenades...probably taken from their fallen brothers. "Figured. Lead the way, Sarge."

A snort came from his friend, "Says the one who keeps charging up like you're some sorta hero. Miller is less suicidal than you are, and I think he's actually trying to get himself killed, the mad bastard."

The two old friends shared a chuckle at that before sobering up. They shared a sober look back at the fallen Raiders before marching on. They could come back for the bodies later. For now, battles needed to be fought. Tommy had forgotten the name of this island, some weird native thing he couldn't hope to pronounce. It was just one of hundreds in the Solomons. But high command said they wanted the Raiders to knock the Japs around, so here they were. No matter how many of them fell like those poor bastards...they would keep moving forward. It was what Marines did.

It was what Raiders did.

I'm not going to end up like them. No way in hell.

AN: No Thompson, here, but we wanted to cover a bit of different things this time. Don't worry, we'll be in the South Pacific for a little bit here. Well, and the Central Pacific when we get back to E and Halsey, but same difference. Got a lot of ground to cover and all of that fun stuff. Hopefully still worth the read?

At any rate, we'll see when we can get the next one together. That one will likely bring us back to our main protagonist. Probably.

Skywalker_T-65 · Sep 27, 2022

Chapter 64

If there was any one thing she had learned, Enterprise reflected, it was that war- real war -was hell. That had seemed self-explanatory. An easy assumption to make. Yet she had never quite understood it before. No amount of exercises or training could have prepared her for the real deal.

At least I'm in good company?

No one had been ready for it. Not her Admiral, not her pilots, not anyone. The operational tempo wore them all down. Combat saw men come back battered and bruised at the best of times. Coated in blood from shrapnel or bullets at the worst, if they came back at all. Her runners and anti-aircraft gun crews were scythed down by strafing or run ragged fending off attacks. Even her Admiral was clearly being worn out by the stresses placed on him. His skin was taking on an unhealthy pallor and he constantly scratched at his neck.

If even Bull Halsey was being worn down by the War...

"I'm lucky, I suppose," Enterprise muttered to herself, sequestered in the back corner of her bridge. She looked at her unblemished hands. Tugged a little at her long blonde hair, doing her best to ignore the odd grey strand here or there. Bit her lip and sighed before continuing, "I don't actually get tired like they do. And I haven't really been hurt yet, either. Am I lucky like Admiral Thompson said I was?"

She tried so hard to not think about what her 'future' had brought. That wasn't her. At least, that was what she told herself. The future where she fought Japan alone, where all her sisters- even little Wasp -were sunk. Where Lex was gone and only Sara and Ranger survived alongside her. That was a future that Enterprise never wanted to see. Maybe that version of her had been strong. But, well, Little E liked to think she knew herself. That kind of strength would have been brittle. Shielding a broken figure beneath it all.

It didn't stop a grey-haired figure from haunting her nightmares. Cold red eyes staring into her soul. Judging her.

That isn't luck. That's just pain and suffering---

"Enterprise. Are you listening to me?" A rumbling voice startled her out of those thoughts. Admiral Halsey, for his part, just stared and scratched at his chin when he spoke, again, "Stop drifting off like that. I need you clear and focused. Understood?"

While particularly colorful language from her crew flashed through her mind, Enterprise snapped to attention and gave a sharp nod, "Yes! Apologies, sir, I was just..."

"Lost in thought, yes." Halsey let the gruff Admiral act drop, a small smile crossing his lips. He patted Enterprise on the shoulder, and moved to stand beside her. "How have you been holding up, Enterprise? Damn war is keeping us all busy. Haven't had time to check in with you in a couple weeks at this point." Scratching his cheek this time, Halsey glared at his hand and grumbled. "And if this nonsense keeps up, they'll pull me off the line. Goddamnit."

Any other woman and even Bull Halsey would have moderated his language. Hell, if Enterprise were his blood daughter, he would have moderated his language. But she was a warship and no matter their father and daughter dynamic...well, she had heard far worse. Sailors were not exactly known for holding back on their foul language.

For her part, Enterprise just looked at him with worried red eyes, "Are you sure you're alright, Admiral? Your skin is getting worse." She looked closer and her frown deepened, "Have you lost weight, too?"

Halsey grumbled, yet made no move to deny the statement. He scratched at his hand and grunted, "Can't get any damn sleep like this. Constantly scratching. You're lucky, Enterprise. You don't have to deal with things like this."

In another time and place, Bill Halsey would have already been in Hawaii, recovering from his skin condition. Soon to be sent stateside as it reached the point where he required specialized care to treat it. In this world, having Enterprise there to help him and take some stress off of his shoulders had allowed him to stay at sea longer. Fight harder and faster. But even Bull Halsey could only push back the inevitable for so long. And, with every passing day, his skin got worse.

"You really need to get that looked at, sir. You're only making it worse!" Enterprise's reproving tone said everything she felt about her stubborn father-figure. At least I can stand up to him now. I remember when I would do anything to keep him from being mad at me.

If the short snort he produced was any indication, the Admiral well remembered those days as well. "If I ever doubted you might as well be my daughter, moments like that remind me how much I've rubbed off on you. Keep that steel in you, Enterprise. You'll need it."

While most of the bridge crew chuckled to themselves, just as aware of Enterprise as Saratoga's crew were of her...one of the men walked up to the pair with a message form in his hand. He came to attention, patiently waiting for Halsey to grumble again as he scratched at his chest. The Admiral was stiff and slow in his movements, as his irritated skin scratched against the rough cotton of his service uniform. At least his crew knew how irritable the situation was making him. So they were careful not to step on his toes.

"What is it, son?" Halsey asked, resisting the urge to roll his shoulders for some much needed relief. Enterprise was probably right, damn her, about getting his skin looked at. "That's a report from the scout group, I take it?"

The younger officer nodded, "Yes it is, sir. Captain Murray wanted you and Enterprise to take a look at it. There's something...strange?" With a helpless shrug, the officer handed over the report, "That's what the Captain said, anyway."

Halsey arched his brow and took the report. Enterprise joined him, curious red eyes gazing over his shoulder. Halsey internally chuckled at that. Who knew warships could have a growth spurt? The young teenager had grown into a tall young woman, perhaps eighteen or nineteen in physical appearance. It was a brave- or foolish -man who commented on that, though. Entirely ignoring the ribbing of the crew over 'falling for a hunk of metal', none wanted to test just how far Halsey's fatherly feelings went. Bull Halsey was terrifying to the enemy and none wanted to imagine what he would be like as a- probably -shotgun toting protective father.

As his eyes scanned the report, however, Halsey's good humor faded faster than his sleep schedule. He tilted his head, his square and pugnacious jaw setting into a hard line. That is bizarre. What are we looking at? Can't be the Japs...can it?

"This make any sense to you, Enterprise?" He didn't move or pass the paper over, quite aware that Enterprise could easily see it over his shoulder.

For her part, the carrier bit her lip and frowned. On her youthful face it looked odd. "No. That's not like anything I've ever seen before."

That was about what the Admiral had expected, as he continued to puzzle over what the scouts had seen. "So it seems we have a mystery on our hands. As if there haven't already been enough of those in this damn war. Ever since Thompson started sticking his nose into things."

That was said with a grudging sort of respect. Halsey was still distinctly displeased with Thompson keeping his origins secret, even as he understood the reason why. That the man had managed to keep such a secret so long while doing everything he could to help the nation? It was worthy of respect, at least.

"Get a message out to the scouts, then," the Admiral looked back up at the messenger. "Have them get as close as they feel safe doing. I'd rather not be surprised by anything out here. We still don't know what the damn Japs are up to, as it is, and I don't want to be caught with our pants down!"

Snapping off a quick nod, the younger officer set off to do just that. As he did so, and Halsey continued to scratch at random parts of his body, Enterprise felt her frown deepen. She stepped back and let blonde hair fall down, shielding her face and her worried red eyes. There was one thing that Thompson had refused to let anyone outside the warships know and that she still maintained as a secret, even from her father figure. Something far worse than the Japanese could ever hope to be.

It can't be...can it?

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"Damn weird thing, innit?"

Winging his Dauntless over in a wide turn, Lieutenant Carl Francis frowned deeply. His observer/gunner wasn't wrong in that statement. The young pilot, already a veteran of several raids, had never seen anything quite like it. When he and his squadron had come across this while scouting for the Japanese, they had ignored it at first. It had seemed like one of many just like it and nothing to care for. Why bother with something they had all seen many, many times before?

Yet, as they came closer, it just became stranger and stranger.

I have never seen a storm like this in my life. What the fucking hell is that?

The casual blasphemy didn't even register to the man, really, as he looked at the dark and roiling mass far below. Pacific squalls were nothing new. Enterprise had hidden in them before to avoid air attack. This one was strange. Cropped up out of nowhere without any warning, short as any warning could have been. It was small and localized in a way storms normally weren't. Strangest of all, though?

It was stationary. It hadn't moved an inch since they found it. A storm that just sits in place and doesn't move?

"You got the message back to Enterprise, yeah?" Francis continued to circle the storm, the rest of his flight following along in formation. At a respectful distance, mind you. None of them wanted to be the first one trying to dive into that mess.

The chuckle that came over the line made clear the answer even before the man spoke up again. Still, formalities and all that required a proper response. "Yeah, yeah, they got it. Not that they're gonna know any better than we do, you know."

"No, they probably won't, at that." Pulling up on the stick slightly, Francis angled his Dauntless to try and get a better look at the storm. "Goddamn, but does that thing weird me out. I don't like it."

There was silence for a moment, before his observer sighed, "Yeah, I feel you. And I feel that thing, even all the way up here. You feel cold?"

Now that you mention it...

Francis shivered, just a little, when he winged a tad too close to the storm. As if he was dunked in a vat of water. His Dauntless wasn't exactly pressurized or anything, but that sudden chill was unexpected to say the least. A couple of his flight mates said as much themselves, in their own cockpits, as the wing pulled away again. The pilot frowned deeply and reached for his radio...only for the chill to fade as soon as it came.

In fact, before his disbelieving eyes, the storm rapidly began to vanish. Contracting in on itself instead of blowing away like any normal squall would. Before he could even hope to get a message to Enterprise, the storm was completely gone. An empty and calm patch of ocean sitting right where it had been. What the fu---

"...what in the fucking shit was that?" His gunner's voice was subdued and quiet, barely able to be heard over the sound of the engine and the rushing wind. Quite the contrast from his normally energetic and cocky tones.

"I don't know. That was..." For his part, Francis trailed off and did the best he could to not think about what that was. A pop up storm that vanished without a trace wasn't necessarily weird. But the way that had happened...

Shaking his head in disbelief, Francis waved a hand at his wingman. Waggled his Dauntless' wings. And swung back for home with a mutter of, "Going to need a good drink after that. And a talk with Enterprise."

It was telling, really, that 'talking with the spirit of my ship about the weird storm' was...well. Less weird than the storm had been. For beneath the dive bombers, the sea had returned to a completely flat calm, as if there had never been a storm at all.

Far away, in the South Pacific, Admiral Thompson sat down the paper he was reading and leaned back in his chair with a soft sigh. Across from him were the captains of his two carriers, staring right back at him. They had been at this meeting for some time now, planning out their next moves against the Japanese. Perhaps more importantly, attempting to figure out exactly how to counter Japanese moves. When no one, least of all Thompson himself, was entirely sure where their fleet was. Or where it would strike.

With Coral Sea, the Guadalcanal Campaign, and Midway all completely derailed, well, who even knew?

My foreknowledge is pretty much useless at this point. At least at one point I could have made an educated guess as to what the Japanese would do. That point has come and gone now. Thompson rubbed at his brow, internally wincing a little at the deep lines he felt. War really did age you far too fast. "So. Our best guess is the Japanese will try and lure us to strike Rabaul before hitting us while we're unprepared?"

Captain Ramsey, Sara's captain, nodded along, "From what you've told us of Japanese strategy, yes. Makes the most sense for them if they really do like these complicated ambushes."

"That is what Admiral Richardson says," Captain Sherman, of Lexington, raised his own finger up. A thin smile alighted upon his lips when he tilted his head back, just a tad, "Quite handy to have an Admiral like him, hmm? The man knows Japan better than any of us could ever hope for, right, Lex?"

In a break from tradition for him, Admiral Thompson had insisted upon this meeting taking place aboard Lexington instead of her sister. Lady Lex was nowhere near as familiar with him as Sara was, and perhaps more importantly, was a relatively unbiased viewpoint if he suggested something stupid. While he trusted Sara to tell him if he was doing something wrong, he also knew that she would try to do it gently. And would quite possibly miss something since they tended towards operating on the same wavelength, as it were.

Lex...not so much.

"Hmm." Tapping her chin, the old carrier smiled slightly. Her long silver hair fell in front of her face, held back by only a single hairclip and a jauntily angled cap atop her head. "It certainly does make things easier, I suppose. Though I am under the impression that Admiral Thompson knows quite a bit as well. Or so my sister says."

When she said that, and the captains weren't looking, Lex sent the Admiral a sly smirk. And a wink, damn her. Along with a wiggle of her wide hips, beneath her heavily customized officer uniform. It was probably only to avoid attention from the captains that she didn't walk forward and strut her pantyhose-clad legs at him, too.

Lex...Sara and I aren't like that, damnit.

"She's worse than Shira was, I swear..." Thompson muttered under his breath, before sighing again. Time to be serious and all that. "Well, if we don't know where their fleet is, best to act like they're right over the horizon at all times. The crews could use the practice in case of an actual attack, anyway."

Ramsey frowned, "Going to wear the men down doing that, sir. Respectfully, I have to log a protest."

"Noted," Thompson nodded, a frown on his own lips. "And for the record, I do agree with you. But I'd rather have men who know what to do than an ambush where we can't even fight back. I still remember what Pearl looked like."

All of the officers wore a troubled look at that reminder. Would drilling the men and acting as if they were at war, even if they were not yet there, have led to less losses in that attack? It was impossible to say. It was impossible even for Thompson, who now had seen the aftermath of two different attacks on Pearl Harbor. One in archival footage and one in person. He would never get the image of either out of his head, and sometimes when he was unwary, he would dream about the two mixing. Arizona burning while California sat in pieces on the harbor bottom.

For her part, Lex swayed back in forth in place, staring at the men with a contemplative expression. If you asked her, they worried too much. But, what else could you expect out of officers? Worrywarts, the lot of them.

"The men will be fine." She finally declared, placing one hand on her hip and the other in the air. When Sherman sent her a dry look, she giggled and shook her head, "No, really, they'll be fine! I've been with some of these men as long as they've been in the Navy, and that goes double for Sara. We know our crews." Letting her airborne hand fall, Lex placed it on the table and leaned over it.

All three men did an admirable job of not acknowledging how that emphasized her bust, though Lex didn't seem to notice nor care. A Lady she was, but that meant a very different thing when one was a warship. A Lady of War, not a Lady of High Society.

"My crew, Sara's crew, the others..." Trailing off, she sent a grin at Sherman before turning a serious look on Thompson. "The Admiral is right. They could use the practice! Mark my words, these men know what they got into. They won't protest...much. And that aside, we can keep an eye on them. Better than the doctors or officers ever could!"

Sherman chuckled softly with a bemused smile tugging at his lips. He had been Lex's captain for two years by this point. Even before knowing she could do...this...he had always been in tune with her. No one in the navy could maneuver one of these big girls quite like he could.

So he was quite comfortable around Lex in a way that most men weren't, when they first learned the truth of the ships.

"Well said, Lex. We do tend to think too much about how the men will grouch and moan about work," Sherman sent Ramsey a look. One that said 'I agree with you, but...'

Ramsey sighed heavily and shook his head, "I don't disagree, but I do worry. If we run the men too hard on drills, they won't respond fast enough when an actual action happens. Drills are one thing, acting as if the enemy is just over the horizon at every moment..." With a shrug and a scowl, the man finished, "I can't help but feel there is a difference between readiness and paranoia. We are always ready to fend off an attack, but acting as if the enemy is stalking our every move, even when they're nowhere near us?"

With both captains having said their piece, Thompson stepped back in. He sent an appraising look at Lex, first, who winked back again. Then he turned to his own captain. He gave Ramsey a sharp nod of appreciation, too.

"I do appreciate the extra viewpoint, for what it's worth," Thompson smiled at the man, who returned it with a slight inclination of his own head. "I get lost in my own plans too much, as it is. I want a captain who disagrees with me. I'm self-aware enough to know that Sara doesn't."

A round of chuckles went around the room. Well, chuckles from the men and giggles from the ship spirit. Lex smirked at Thompson and raised a challenging eyebrow, "Sara doesn't disagree with anything, does she?"

Electing not to rise to that bait, Thompson just coughed and continued, "I actually agree with you, at least on the subject of not wearing the men down. I want them to be ready for anything and everything, but not too tired to do anything about it." He waved a hand at the two captains. "I won't presume to step on either of your toes, in that regard. Train the men how you feel best. My only request would be a focus on damage control."

His green eyes locked onto Lex's blue. She gave him a slight, so very slight, nod. Good. Message was received loud and clear.

Sara and I made it clear to Lex how she died. She knows to watch for that and I'm sure she's told Captain Sherman as well. And he would have made sure his crew drilled to avoid the issues with fumes and the like. I can only hope that's enough. Thompson sighed, internally, and reflected that Lex had already outlived her counterpart. And because of that... CV-16 will probably stay Cabot. I will miss Lexie, but if that's what it takes to keep Lex alive and Sara from losing her sister...well, I'm sure we'll have another Lexington or Saratoga at some point.

This all assuming that Lex- or Sara, a dark part whispered -didn't get sunk by overwhelming force. That was part of why he was insisting on this.

"I'll organize more scouting parties, then," Ramsey gave a sharp nod.

Sherman did much the same, though he added a significant look at a suddenly-innocent-looking Lex, "I will do the same. Lex? You know which pilots are best for this, I'm sure."

As the captains went about their business, Thompson leaned back with a groan of discomfort. A sigh of frustration. Things had been so much simpler before. Now he was operating without any real foreknowledge and without the proper experience for something like this. Though, he supposed, it wasn't as if anyone else had that experience. Halsey or Spruance or Kinkaid. They were all learning as they went, to some extent. Training and studying could only do so much compared to proper combat experience.

"Admiral, I have a message for you," a harried looking aide rushed into the room, pressing a slip of paper towards Thompson. "From Admiral Halsey and Enterprise, sir."

Thompson raised an eyebrow, "Bull...?"

Halsey tended to do his own thing and didn't really keep in close contact with Thompson. They communicated with each other, sure, but only for formalities. Coordinating efforts with Pearl, such as it was. War didn't leave a lot of time for personal messages as it was. And while Halsey and Thompson were probably friends, they weren't abusing the systems to stay in contact. So an unscheduled message like this?

It was, if nothing else, concerning on its own merits.

"Hmm." Thompson read the message, humming along at the usual formalities. Until he started to get into the meat of it, at which point he felt his eyes widen and his skin pale. Oh. Oh that is not a good sign...

While neither of the captains quite realized what was going on, when Thompson sent a look at Lex, her own blue eyes widened in turn. She didn't mouth what she was thinking, nor say it. Settling instead of a tilt of her head.

One that Thompson returned with a slight nod, before turning to the curious captains, "Ah...Admiral Halsey says that there is no sign of the Japanese carriers near his location. He recommends that we send a couple of our submarines to scout Truk and is doing the same on his end."

"That's all?" Sherman asked, sending a look between Lex and Thompson. A contemplative look overtaking his face.

Not willing to talk about this in public, as it were, the Admiral nodded, "That and a message that he may be replaced soon. Evidently a skin condition is getting to the point he won't be able to keep serving properly."

"Ah." Ramsey nodded, "That makes sense. Bull Halsey won't let anything short of medical leave take him off the front."

It was hard to tell if either captain bought that excuse. But this was one topic, alongside his time travel, that Thompson wouldn't share with people he didn't trust with his life. Maybe not even then, as he hadn't told anyone but a handful of the warships, either. It was something that he hoped would never become necessary. That he hoped his adventure into the past- alongside that of the mysterious Schreiber -hadn't brought forward. It was, after all, why he was an Admiral in the first place.

I hope this isn't what it seems. I truly do.

Apologies. Meant to have this done sooner, but then Discord drama (on our birthday, at that) kinda killed the muse dead. We're here now, though. And things continue moving forward. Remember that this arc is entering the endgame as sparring in the Pacific continues, things are going down in Russia, Italy schemes and Schreiber gets closer to making his move. There'll still be a timeskip here or there, simply because of not wanting to do a day by day thing, but we're closer to the end than away from it. Not going to give a firm chapter count since that could (and probably would) change.

...but probably no more than 20 more. At the high end.

As for the storm, that isn't a Destroyermen reference

We want to get the next chapter up in two weeks, on the high end, maybe sooner. That'll largely depend on how subbing goes, though.

Skywalker_T-65 · Oct 18, 2022

Chapter 65

'Where was the Japanese fleet?'

That was a question consuming the minds of many an American planner. A question that, really, had a simple answer. At sea. Not the entirety of it, of course, yet a significant enough chunk for it going missing to be very easily noticed. Even if the exact location eluded Allied forces. Japanese planners were, in their own right, not blind to what the Americans were doing with their own fleet. Splitting their carriers into two primary forces. One raiding in the Central Pacific and the other supporting the grinding campaign in the South Pacific.

The surprise of the Americans and Australians putting so much into reinforcing the Solomons had, in that regard, caught the Japanese off-guard.

Coupled with the continued resistance in the south of the Philippines and the losses at Pearl Harbor and Wake, and the Japanese Navy's carefully planned timetable was in complete ruin. So, with nothing else to do but forge ahead, a new plan had been put together. With the Kido Butai- sans Kaga -back to operational capacity, it was perhaps inevitable. Certainly, it was in-character for Isoroku Yamamoto. A compulsive gambler and one who had no issue with throwing overcomplex plans out. In another time, this tendency would have seen the Kido Butai crippled off Midway. In this time, it would see the fleet preparing another attack on their American counterparts.

If, in this case, one that relied rather less on setting a trap and waiting for the Americans to take the bait.

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I am not at all prepared for this.

Kojiro Takeda had, more or less, gotten used to Zuikaku by this point. He still treated her with the respect one would expect of a kami, at least most of the time. Sometimes it was hard when she acted every bit her apparent age. Yet, while he had gotten used to that, he was still a junior officer and not at all one expecting to be hauled before more senior officers. And most assuredly not Admiral Yamamoto himself.

Here he was, though, and he would have to accept the repercussions of that. He really should have expected it in all honesty. Keeping a secret like this? It was never going to last. And he had been the one who told Zuikaku to try talking to others in the first place. He shouldn't be surprised she had gone to her Captain or that she had ratted him out, as it were.

That was why he stood in a meeting with Yamamoto, alone save for Zuikaku and guards on the other side of the door. The meeting room was small, cramped, and entirely too personal. The only light came from the ceiling and a small porthole. A metal table, bare of anything, sat at the center. Takeda stood at one end, Yamamoto on the other. Zuikaku stood to the side of the Admiral, well away from comforting the pilot.

He rather doubted she would do so anyway.

"Lieutenant Takeda," Yamamoto's deep voice tore away Takeda's musings. The great man, seeming both grander and shorter in person, stared at the young officer. "You have served our Emperor with distinction and downed many American planes. You are a fine pilot and officer."

Takeda shifted in place, resisting every urge to look away from Yamamoto's eyes and at Zuikaku. The first glance he had gotten of the kami had been one of a guilty girl, who was wringing her hands as she realized what she had done. Imperial Japan...the Imperial Japanese Navy...did not pride itself on keeping secrets from superiors. Something of this magnitude?

It won't matter that I was worried about my sanity. I will still be expected to have reported it the moment I saw her. Even if it would have seen me thrown from service. At best.

"Why, then, did you keep this secret from your Captain?" Yamamoto continued, his voice giving away exactly nothing about what he felt. Nothing at all.

The younger officer fought down a flinch. Kept away the urge to look away from the silent judgement in the Admiral's eyes. And simply said, "I wasn't sure I hadn't lost my mind, sir."

"Even after seeing the American kami in the harbor?" The Admiral continued, still giving nothing away.

Well, the man was a legendary gambling addict. It would make sense he had the ability to hide what he was thinking or feeling. Takeda still felt inadequate. His own emotions and concerns were writ large on every inch of his face and he couldn't hope to hide it if he tried. So he didn't even try.

If he was going to be thrown out of the service by his ear, at least he would do it with honor.

"I could not be certain I wasn't seeing things there, either. The stress of the attack, of the Americans being prepared to fight back..." Takeda trailed off at the slight rise of an eyebrow on Yamamoto's face. "I apologize, Admiral. I should have reported the moment I first saw Zuikaku."

The old man cracked the barest hint of a smile. As quick as it appeared, it was gone, as if a skittish animal. The man didn't smile often.

Still, when he spoke again, his voice was marginally softer, "So you should have, though I can understand why you would not. I have sometimes felt as if Nagato was staring over my shoulder, yet I would certainly never claim to have seen her. Now that I have seen Zuikaku-" here, he looked at the kami who had the grace to blush and tug down on her entirely-too-short skirt. Yamamoto simply raised his eyebrow again and shook his head. "I do find myself wondering if I should be ordering her, or Yamato for that matter, to dress more befitting a warship of the Imperial Navy. I suppose it is too much to hope that the pride of our fleet would dress like a proper lady..."

Takeda wisely kept his mouth shut on that subject. He hardly knew what Nagato or...Yamato?

He had never heard of such a ship nor did he claim to know what her, or the more famous Nagato, actually looked like. If Zuikaku was any indication...then again, the American kami had been dressed formally, from what little he saw? Maybe it was just Zuikaku's relative youth that had her dress like she did. Who knew.

All of this is very mysterious.

"In any event, I am reassigning you to my staff, for the moment." Yamamoto continued, not even reacting to Takeda's flash of disappointment.

No pilot liked being taken off the frontline, especially with this war on and Japan having need of every trained aviator they could get. They were running out of veteran pilots at a truly alarming rate and the replenishment pipeline was slow, at best. They desperately needed everyone at the front to stem the American tide before it truly got going.

"If that is what you require of me. I will serve as the Admiral and Emperor request." Takeda was still far from dumb enough to say such a thing aloud, though. Certainly not to this man.

"Hmph." Yamamoto was neither dumb nor blind, as it turned out. "You'd rather remain flying. Am I wrong?"

Takeda looked away, fighting the urge to sigh. "No pilot likes being taken from his plane. I am not so arrogant to think I am our best pilot- there are certainly arrogant enough men to make that claim -but I still feel I am more use in my Reisen than on any staff." He didn't turn back, or sigh, as he continued, "I will do as ordered, of course. Though I don't know what use I would actually be to you, Admiral."

Frowning deeply, Takeda let his eyes flick to Zuikaku. The little girl seemed to be on the verge of exploding from holding in whatever she wanted to say. That or she was terrified of what the Admiral would say if she opened her mouth at that moment. One or the other. Takeda felt a wave of fondness for the girl. She truly was like a younger sister.

"I was simply lucky enough to be the first to see Zuikaku for what she is. I rather doubt there is anything special about me, beyond that." Takeda couldn't stop the soft sigh. "I have certainly never believed myself that special."

Silence returned to the meeting room at that point. Though it wasn't a brooding kind of silence. It was a thoughtful one. The Admiral tapped a finger idly upon the table while his other hand rested upon the dull metal chair beside him. The hand that Takeda endeavored not to look at. That old wound was famous, and he wasn't--he couldn't--

He refused to stare. Even if the Admiral didn't care about it being seen in this room.

Fortunately for Takeda, the Admiral gave a deep sigh and what- on any other man -would be a rueful shake of the head. On the Admiral, it was just a slight jerking motion. "So, it is. Very well, then. You may remain aboard Zuikaku as you wish. However." Yamamoto held up one finger and gave a sharp stare. "You will remain my liaison with Zuikaku, herself. Should anything be relevant to the war effort, you will tell me without hesitation. You will converse with her about how the American kami may have come into being. I..."

Yamamoto looked...honestly confused. It was a strange look on such a famous man.

"Sir?" Takeda took a chance, stiffening into rigid attention when the man looked his way. "Apologies, sir. I won't interrupt again."

A soft chuckle was all the Admiral did in response, before saying, "You should relax, Lieutenant. I will not throw you overboard if you ask a question."

Takeda blinked, "I...if you are sure? I would never want to insult you, sir."

"Quite." Yamamoto walked around the table and looked at Takeda, who stared back warily. The old Admiral simply looked between him and Zuikaku, before waving a hand between the two. "The Emperor wishes to know why the Americans can bring out their ship kami and we cannot. Find out, if you are able. I will be doing much the same. As will all our Captains and other officers."

Stepping past Takeda and moving to leave the meeting room, Yamamoto looked back one last time. His eyes narrowed slightly.

"If we cannot do the same, we will lose this war. The Americans can drown us under, should they be so inclined." He looked at Zuikaku when he said his next words, deathly seriously, "Should they possess an advantage in ship kami as well...I am afraid we are all doomed."

He swept from the room, leaving a very confused and worried pair behind him.

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Sometime later, Isoroku Yamamoto sat down with a heavy sigh. His body was feeling every single one of its years. The last year had not been an easy one. His grand plan in attacking the Americans at their Hawaiian base had...proven to be both more and less successful than he could have hoped. On the one hand, the strike had certainly crippled their battleship forces. On the other, it had seen the savaging of the Japanese air arm and- albeit at Wake -loss of Kaga.

Were it just that, he would likely still have written it off as an overall success. The Americans were limited to their carrier arm and they were less experienced than his own fleet in how to use it. Or so it should have been. He had no idea who on the American side was responsible for the shocking effectiveness of their tactics, yet the American fleet was proving the equal of the Japanese one. Perhaps the pilots were less experienced or skilled, but the tactics they used were tailored exactly to counter his own.

How? He didn't know.

And that does not even touch on the kami. Utah, was it?

Descriptions of the weapons the woman used would indicate such. Yamamoto was torn between wonderment and cursing in equal measure the pilots who wasted ordinance on such a useless target and the woman herself.

"You must rest, Isoroku."

Yamamoto looked up at the soft voice. He could hardly be surprised that Yamato would show herself now. Nor that she would speak so informally.

I have never been one to be held up by formality with women. He felt a slight spark of amusement at that. His wife would have choice words over his choice of feminine company, he was sure.

Still, he focused less on his dalliances with the geisha and more on the woman who had appeared before him. On one hand, he reflected, at least her skirt was slightly longer than Zuikaku's. "Ah. Yamato. I see you have the same sense of...fashion...as Zuikaku."

The woman, Yamato, looked down and flushed a little. The light dusting of pink on her cheeks speaking to her embarrassment, "I apologize, Isoroku. This is...how I have always been? I have no choice in how I appear."

Her clipped and formal diction made Yamamoto wonder if it was something to do with her relative youth, having so little service to speak of. Or, perhaps, it was because of her position in the Combined Fleet? Hmm.

"So, it seems. We will be looking at a proper jacket and skirt, should that be possible." Yamamoto knew that, were Yamato to walk out showing that much leg- and the slits at her hips! -that men would not focus on their duties in favor of staring. Kami or not. "If you are here now, I presume there is a reason to it? And why you refer to me so informally?"

With the dusting of pink on her cheeks remaining firmly in place, Yamato brought a hand to her mouth and coughed lightly. To cover her cheeks as much as anything, it seemed. "Would you prefer that I refer to you as Admiral, then? I assumed---"

"There is no need for that here, not in my personal quarters." Yamamoto held up his hand, as he sat up more properly in his chair and gave the battleship's kami a flat stare. "Though, in the future, I would prefer that you allow me my privacy. I understand this entire ship is your domain, however, this room is mine."

"Of course, Isoroku. My sincere apologies," Yamato was so painfully formal that it almost hurt to watch. The very embodiment of Yamato Nadeshiko.

Not, he supposed, surprising. Were any kami to embody that, it would certainly be her. Though he was not fooled. He could see the steel beneath the woman. In the way she moved, her limbs carrying a weight that no mortal woman had. A grace that a geisha would murder for. The way her hair, tied back behind what looked like bridgewings, swayed from side to side. He must remember that this woman was still the spirit of the battleship.

No matter how sweet the smile on her pale face was.

Ignoring the way her eyes were filled with warmth and compassion.

She could likely break him in half with a twitch of her arms. He could only imagine the power she possessed.

I am becoming far too accepting of the idea of these kami. Yamamoto reflected, as he leaned back in his chair once more. Yamato had somehow conspired to place a teacup, steaming away, before him. He wondered when she had found time to brew that. Or how. "I see you are making yourself at home, Yamato. Or, should I say, making yourself felt upon your home?"

Her smile was still soft, even as it widened. "This is my hull; you should be aware. Anything aboard is subject to my will."

Anything aboard. Hmm. I have wondered how far they can influence the world around them.

"It would appear so," Yamamoto smiled slightly, himself, as he reached for the tea. If he couldn't trust the spirit of his own flagship, then who could he ever hope to trust?

As soon as the tea reached his lips, his smile widened. The brew was some of the finest he had ever tasted. He could say it was better than tea in the Home Islands, even. If the way he saw Yamato staring at him was any indication, she was hoping he felt that way. Like a child, he supposed. Understandable considering the age of her hull. Even younger than Zuikaku, herself a child in many ways.

"This is excellent tea, Yamato. Better than any teashop or hotel in the Home Islands." He meant the words as a compliment. He frowned deeply when Yamato flinched as if struck. Her smile shifting to something more brittle and hard-edged.

She twiddled the strange umbrella in her hands and gave that brittle, fake, smile. "I see. Well. The crew do enjoy considering me a hotel, Isoroku, so I suppose that only makes sense. I will endeavor to fill their expectations."

Even her cadence had slipped into something less formal. Hmm. A soft spot. A chink in her armor.

"And I shall avoid calling you such a thing, my dear." Yamamoto sipped the tea again, genuinely enjoying it. Yamato lost a little of the edge in her smile or the tenseness in her form, as she moved to stand beside him.

The two of them stayed like that until the Admiral finished his tea. The soft rolling motion of the ship was quite easy to miss, her sheer size negating most of the natural roll of a ship. He was also not going to mention that. Women could be sensitive about the silliest things and no evidence had arisen to say the kami were any different.

"If you are here now, I assume it is about my plan." Yamamoto sat the cup down and steepled his fingers instead. He stared at Yamato, who had snapped to attention in a way that most sailors would be envious of. "And your reaction confirms it. Do you have doubts, Yamato?"

Twiddling her umbrella once more, Yamato shook her head. Her nervous tick refused to go away, even as she spoke, "I don't...I have no doubts of your plans, Isoroku. I simply wonder if the Americans are drawing us..."

"Into a trap?" The old Admiral bit out a sharp laugh at the way Yamato flushed again. Honestly. "I can assure you that is not the case. They have no knowledge of our fleet movements and are still splitting their own carriers. I see no reason to believe they are preparing to entrap us."

In all honesty, I doubt they are capable of it. Our submarines would know. And, in spite of the effectiveness of their carriers, I doubt they are anywhere near as capable as we are. Yamamoto was firmly confident in his own fleet. And dismissive of the American one.

Add in his gambling tendencies and his plan made perfect sense.

"We will be the one springing our own trap. The Americans have no idea where we are or what we are planning. We will take advantage of them tying themselves to the islands and attack when they least expect it." Yamamoto moved the teacup aside, revealing the map on his table. A map of the Solomons, where a sea of blue ever so slowly crept north.

He knew that the blow would have to fall here. The other American carriers were maddeningly elusive, but these two...these two were focused on their campaign up the islands. He still didn't know exactly where they were, as of yet, but he had a far better idea. And sometimes, that was all that one needed. No success could come without risks. Yet the reward was potentially great. Destroying two American carriers in one fell swoop? Rolling up the Solomons while they were reeling from the blow?

It would probably not win the war.

It would buy time to build the defensive wall that the Americans would break against. Even as they outbuilt anything Japan could hope to build.

"I trust you, Isoroku." Yamato nodded along. Her words not matched by the way she bit the edge of her lip.

Yamamoto didn't mind. He was a gambler through and through. This was another in a war filled with gambles. He saw no reason to believe he would fail now. He had yet to do so, after all, save for Wake and that had been because Nagumo had left behind two depleted carriers without support.

He would not make that mistake again. Yamamoto was sure of that.

We will sink those carriers and push the Americans back. They have no idea of our plans and no way to prepare.

AN: Good enough point to end this. At least if we want any chance of doing two chapters this month

Not entirely sure how well this turned out. Difficult characters to write. Especially since Yamato cannot be the same as her KC counterpart, even if there are certain similarities. Hopefully worked well enough. We'll see.

Anyhoo, staying in the Pacific for a bit, as you can tell. We'll move back to Schreiber once this mini-arc is done.

Skywalker_T-65 · Nov 16, 2022

Chapter 66

"Hey...you seeing this too, Conlin?"

With a soft groan of protest, Tommy Conlin crawled on his stomach towards the harsh whisper. The deep muck beneath him shifted with each movement, even as it clung to every open spot it could find. It had long-since ruined the camouflage pattern on his uniform, even as it added its own dirty disguise to him. Not least because it had become impossible to tell when his uniform began and where it ended, since his skin was the exact same dull color. The mud took no prisoners in what it stuck to.

He was lucky that he had a rifle and not a Reising, or he would probably have never even been able to fire the damn thing.

"What are we looking at, Frank?" Tommy whispered back when he reached his old friend. The burly marine, only his head visible from his little foxhole, turned to give Tommy a small smirk.

It was never good when Frank smirked like that. Tommy sighed again and shook his head. Great. Why do I get the feeling we're about to go raiding a Jap base or something?

Frank would quickly prove Tommy right, when he waved a hand in the direction of a gap in the trees. His smirk, though, shifted into a more pensive expression as he said, "I think that's their airstrip down there. Keep hearing the sound of engines. A lot of 'em, too. More than we've seen on any of these little shit stains of islands."

"Planes?" Tommy frowned back, idly scratching at his scalp as he plopped down into Frank's foxhole. He grimaced at the caked mud that came away, before shaking his head. What I wouldn't do for a hot shower... "Do you think something is going on down there?"

"Dunno, I'm not a general. But that many planes can't be good, and I trust my ears. I know what those little radials sound like."

It took everything Tommy had to not send a dry look at Frank's BAR when he heard those words. Frank's hearing had to be tougher than the man himself to still be that good, considering how often he fired that beast right by his face. Still, he wasn't lying either. Tommy had heard plenty enough Japanese planes to recognize the sound. It was a sound he could never forget, as a flash of a redhaired woman came and went behind his eyes.

"So, what do you want to do about it?" Instead of doubting his friend, Tommy just looked up over the rim of the foxhole. The gap in the trees gave little away. He couldn't even see flashes of silver. "There's not exactly a lot of us here, y'know. We've got what...a company? Maybe?"

The young marine turned his head to look back over his shoulder. He couldn't see any of the other marines, of course, but he knew they were all there. Hard not to. He'd been serving with these men through thick and thin. They were brothers in the truest sense of the word. He didn't need to see them to know they were watching his back, even now. No way the Japanese were slinking up on them right now.

Frank sighed deeply, "Yeah...I get it. But are you going to tell me that you'd rather sit up here while they hit the fleet?"

"Of course not."

Those words got a snort from Frank, who was at least somewhat aware of Tommy's letters. The burly mountain of a man rolled his eyes and hauled his BAR up from the bottom of the foxhole. "Probably won't be our choice anyway, Conlin. Can guarantee you that the Major is going to want to hit that place while we have the chance." His eyes bored into Tommy's soul with the rare seriousness in them, as he spoke again, "Like it or not, we can't just let them build up like this."

As he followed Frank in climbing free from the foxhole, Tommy grunted in annoyance. Yeah. He knew that. He had known the moment Frank brought up the planes. It wouldn't be the first Japanese airfield the Raiders had stormed, and it probably wouldn't be the last. It sometimes felt like a never-ending parade of the things. Every little island the Japanese had; they plopped an airfield on.

"Getting tired of all these goddamn---" before Tommy could finish his sentence, Frank said one more thing to make him flinch in place.

Frank didn't even notice, as his words echoed around Tommy's head, "'sides, Conlin, it ain't like it's just us. You're forgetting that girl we picked up."

It was an idle comment, but there was so much wrapped up in it that Tommy couldn't help but wince. Ah. Her. How could I possibly forget her?

As it turned out, Frank was completely right, damn him. Major Parker, the ranking- surviving -officer in their ersatz company had been quite keen on taking the airfield out of commission. Something about some big thing going on with the fleet. In that fine manner of officers everywhere, the Major knew things he refused to tell anyone else. It would have annoyed Tommy more than it did, but he was used to it at this point. And the Major actually had his respect for willing to be in the trenches with the others, even when all military logic said he should step back.

He wasn't with this group, though, tromping through dense jungle undergrowth. Through thick trees that hung over their heads with every step they took. The dim and fading sunlight that managed to find a way through the overhanging branches cast them all in shadow.

Even the girl at the front of them all. Maybe especially the girl in front of them all.

"You sure about this, Frank? I mean, I know what she can do, but she's just a kid..." another of the Marines whispered, though not out of Tommy's earshot. He was, after all, right next to Frank.

And if he could hear the jarhead, then so could the girl. Who twitched and sent a baleful glare their way, twisting her head around with her auburn-colored ponytail twitching with the movement. Her reddish-brown eyes could have melted the man on the spot with the intensity of her glare. "What was that?! I bet I'm older than you are, jackass!"

The marine had the grace to flush a bit under the caked mud, though he still had a mulish set to his jaw, "So? You still look like a kid, damnit."

That he cursed at all simply showed he knew she wasn't a kid. Not even a hard-bitten marine would casually curse in front of an actual girl. Certainly not one who looked, for better or worse, as if she was no older than 15 or 16.

"Hmph!" She tilted her nose up and spun around, stomping up next to another marine in line.

With a soft chuckle, Frank placed a hand on the other marine's shoulder and gave it a hearty pat, "You were asking for that one, bud. You know as well as I do what her temper is like." He tilted his head in the direction of the girl in her dirty dungarees, quite unlike the tattered blue dress they had found her in. "Best advice you'll get all year: leave her be and let her do her thing. I can't stop her, you can't, and the Major sure as hell won't."

"Still don't feel right." The other man grumbled.

For his part, Tommy could only shake his head and sigh softly. No, it didn't, but what could they really do about it? "Speaking from experience, here, when one of these girls wants to help...nothing you or anyone else can do to stop them."

"Yeah! Tommy here was on Arizona when the Japs hit Pearl. He knows them better than anyone." Frank clapped Tommy on the back with a wide grin.

Thankfully, he refrained from mentioning the letters. For once. Tommy could still see the humor behind his eyes. One of these days, he was going to find a way to rib Frank about his own girl back home. One of these days...

As for the girl who was with them, she twitched again and came to a sudden halt. Her face titled to the sky and her lips pursed. All of the marines came to a stop, as well, because for all their grumbling about how she looked, they knew the girl could hear things none of them could dream of. Sense things. It was some weird spooky spirit thing, or something like that. She couldn't explain it and they'd all given up on asking.

It just...worked.

"That place is packed with planes." She spoke without preamble, her words firm and controlled. "Not many guards. They aren't expecting an attack."

Well, it had been firm and in control. When she mentioned the lack of guards, her voice lowered, dangerously. Anyone who could see the girl's face would have seen a vicious smirk appear, beneath her scars. The kind of smirk that wouldn't be out of place on the more bloodthirsty of the marines. On a teenage girl it seemed incredibly out of place.

On this girl, it was par for the course.

"How many?" As the more-or-less leader of the group, Frank stepped up beside the girl, Tommy trailing alongside him.

The girl looked over and kept the smirk on her face, "Maybe one hundred. Not counting the pilots and ground crew, I guess. But they don't matter."

Arizona was nicer than her, Tommy reflected, as even Frank hid a shudder at the bloodlust in the girl's voice. Then again, this girl had a lot worse happen to her than Arizona did. More like Utah. And even Utah didn't...

"Can't ask you to stay behind, can we?" Tommy asked that question, even though he already knew the answer. As the closest thing to an 'expert' they had, it needed to be him. "I guess I already know the answer, but someone has to ask."

"Never." The girl proved him right, hefting a Thompson that no one was quite sure how she had obtained, over her shoulder. Her molten eyes daring him to say anything else. "You can't keep me from tearing those bastards a new one if you tried. They owe me." Her smirk turned downright deadly when she continued with, "And I intend to collect."

More than a few marines shuddered, in spite of themselves. Their feelings on the Japanese ranged from downright racist to 'they deserve what's 'comin to 'em' at the best of times. But anyone who had seen what this girl considered justifiable revenge still winced. Not in sympathy. But because of the idea of such a violent girl. She didn't go out of her way to torture the enemy or anything like that, but she certainly didn't show mercy either. She tore through them like a hurricane. Or, perhaps more pertinently...

...like a destroyer among defenseless transports.

"Well. That's settled then!" Frank looked at the others and jerked his head towards the thinning treeline. "Let's get moving while we have the chance. Sun's going down soon and I'd like to be in position before sundown. Less chance we'll lose someone."

Tommy nodded, "And more chance we'll know where we're going. Don't fancy stumbling around in the dark to get stabbed by some idiot with a sword."

He spoke from experience, there. He'd seen a Japanese officer charge a group of marines when they were clearing a base on another of these endless islands, chopping one man's arm clean off before stabbing another through the chest. That the idiot had been pumped full of so much thirty-aught-six that he looked like minced meat hadn't mattered in the end.

It had also given Tommy a very healthy respect for Japanese officers. Or, at least, for how willing they were to go down swinging. Metaphorically and very, very, literally. The only one here that could take a sword strike was, well, the girl. Though if anyone got near her with one of those samurai swords, they were quickly going to regret that mistake.

She had a...thing for Japs with swords. A very violent and unending rage filled thing.

"You're on point, Conlin," Frank continued, sending a grin at his best friend. "Take Edsall there with ya, too. She'll sniff out any traps you miss."

Tommy sent a look at the girl, who sent him a stubborn glare back. If she expected him to say 'no', then she didn't really know him. "Sure. Not the first time I've worked with a girl like this."

As he thought back to Pearl Harbor, he reflected that it really wasn't.

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You know, she isn't bad company. Once you get past the fact she's got more rage than a battalion of angry marines in a body I could carry under my arm.

With the sun now set and a full moon overhead, Tommy and Edsall stood together, hidden from any prying eyes. His rifle was propped on a handy crate, while her Thompson rested in her arms. The two of them maintained a...companionable silence. If only because they couldn't exactly be talking even if they wanted to. Middle of a Japanese base and all that. It turned out, at least, that Edsall had been correct about the relative lack of guards.

Not that Tommy, of all people, had ever really doubted her.

"So." He did whisper, dark eyes shifting to stare at the girl out of the corner of his eye, "Ever figure out exactly how you know what they're doing? Or how many of them are out here?"

Edsall rolled her eyes, "No. Something about my lookouts or something. Speaking of which, Jap right about to walk in front of us."

Tommy winced and clamped his jaw shut. His Springfield shifted, just a little, as his finger inched towards the trigger. He could hear the footsteps now, too, as a Japanese soldier patrolled the area. The man was short and thin, what little of his face that was visible gaunt and tight. Malnutrition. Tommy might once have felt sympathetic, knowing well how difficult it was to get even something as simple as food to these islands.

That sympathy had long-since been burned out of him.

Instead, he looked down the sights of his rifle and held his finger next to the trigger. He held his breath, not even willing to breathe, as the Japanese soldier walked past them. Don't look at us. Don't look at us. Don't look at us.

Repeating that mantra in his head, Tommy only faintly noticed Edsall move up beside him. Her footsteps quieter than a ghost, in spite of the mushy soil beneath them. Her ponytail swayed in the moonlight, as the girl raised her Thompson and pointed it directly at the back of the Jap's head. Tommy didn't fail to notice how her hands clenched the wood of the stock so tightly that they turned pale white.

Luckily for them both, the Japanese soldier never looked their way.

Unluckily for them both, a set of explosions rang out. The mountain howitzer they'd appropriated from another group of now very-dead Japanese soldiers had opened fire. As fast as the gun's impromptu crew could cycle it, the thing was raining fire down upon the airbase. Each explosion relatively small in size, but all the louder for how silent the night had been.

It really shouldn't have surprised Tommy that Edsall fired her submachine gun the moment that the first shell had landed. The unfortunate enemy soldier had his head turned to paste before he had even turned to look at the explosions. Goddamn, I really need to avoid getting on her bad side. I've never seen anyone fire a burst that tight.

Then again...wasn't she using the combined skill of her entire gun crew?

"Come on! Let's get 'em before they figure out what's happening!" Edsall leapt over the rotting crate, not a care in the world. Her shout had been covered up by another explosion, this time a Zero that got unlucky, anyway.

"Edsall!" Tommy snapped after her, cursing under his breath when she didn't even slow down. "Damn girl! She's going to get herself killed one of these days..."

Still, Tommy jumped over the crate, himself, and charged right after her. He wasn't actually sure how much it would take to put her down, sure, but he wasn't inclined to figure it out either. Edsall may have technically been older than him, yeah, but he didn't want to see her hurt. The girl still looked like a girl. It didn't matter if she could bend him over her knee without even trying.

"Over here!" Her responding shout was accompanied by a burst from her Thompson.

Tommy grunted a non-verbal response and stopped just long enough to raise his Springfield to his shoulder and fire a shot at a Japanese soldier who stumbled into sight. The man had wide eyes; fear written clearly across his face. Yet he had still reached for the sling of an Arisaka on his shoulder, and Tommy hadn't hesitated. He worked the bolt of his Springfield, chambered a new round, and ducked beside Edsall as another brace of explosions rocked the base. Ah. That would be the second pack howitzer.

Seriously, did the Japanese not consider the things being used against them?

Edsall, crouching beside a primitive hut as she reloaded her Thompson, simply grinned at him. It wasn't a nice grin.

She enjoys this way too much. I thought what I heard about Utah was... Tommy shook his head. Not worth worrying about. All Edsall's anger was focused on one target, anyway. "So, where are you planning on charging off this time?"

"Right for the planes." Her answer was prompt and entirely expected. As was the way she hefted the submachine gun and looked away from him towards where the fires were raging the hardest.

The marine could only sigh and resign himself to his fate. "That's about what I expected. Wait a sec, will you?"

Turning around, Tommy cupped his free hand to his lips and shouted back towards the darkness. He knew exactly where the other marines were, even if he couldn't see them. He was the point-man for a reason, and it wasn't just because he had the best luck of anyone in the battalion.

"Oi, Frank! We're moving up! Get your asses out here and help out, you lazy bum!"

His words probably wouldn't mean anything to the Japanese. Even if they had someone who could speak English well enough to understand them. He hadn't said anything about where they were or what they were planning. Where they were going. Edsall sent him something resembling an approving look, before racking the bolt on her Thompson and nodding sharply. Tommy returned the nod with a healthy amount of trepidation as he brought up his own Springfield.

This girl was going to be the death of him...

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Explosions continued to rattle the night as the howitzers used what might as well be their entire ammunition load. Why save any when they could just raid the airbase's stocks, since the Japanese always had some on hand? Each shell they fired was less soldiers to deal with. More wrecked planes. Even if they had to abandon the attack, every plane and every destroyed building counted for something. It was the Raider way. Cause as much chaos and mayhem as possible, get out, and do it again. That they were even trying to take the airbase at all was entirely down to the fact they had a factor the Japanese didn't.

One that was currently kicking a Japanese pilot to the ground mercilessly, before firing a bullet between his eyes.

"Never, ever," Tommy panted, as he reached a hand up to his brow. He didn't bother hiding the shaking, the adrenaline pumping through his system. "Getting on her bad side..."

His ears picked up the sound of footsteps, and his head snapped in the direction they had come from. A Japanese soldier, blood running from a gash on his forehead, was raising one of those fancy submachine guns of theirs. The magazine sticking out of the side marked it as loaded and aimed right at him. Oh no you don't!

His Springfield came up to his shoulder once again, barking out a sharp report. The Japanese man fell with a strangled cry, his weapon spinning away into the night. Tommy didn't even bother paying attention beyond that. He simply looked around cautiously for any other surprise guests. All he could see were bodies and flaming debris, however. As another explosion rang out, he saw the wing of a Zero catapult into a flaming hut.

...yeah, they weren't fixing this anytime soon.

"This way, Conlin!" Edsall's shout would have been right at home with the marines, were it not for her tiny, teenage voice. Her hand waved towards a larger building near the airstrip. That one was untouched.

It was probably their command-and-control building. Or the officer's quarters. It was something important, at any rate.

That tracks. Well, into the breach again!

"We're hitting them where it hurts, if you're up to it!" Edsall knew what she was doing, of course. She sent him a taunting smirk. "If you're man enough to keep up with a little girl!"

Part of Tommy reflected that he should probably be worried that this was the situation where she decided to joke. The rest was just happy she wasn't wearing that angry glare for the moment. "I can handle myself, you little brat. I was at Pearl, y'know!"

"So you keep saying!" Edsall shot back, before spinning around and firing a burst from her Thompson. A pained scream was followed by the sound of a body falling to the ground.

He was never going to stop being jealous of her ability to know what was around her like that. Was he?

"Coming, then?" Her cheeky grin still didn't quite reach her eyes. Those were still filled with the pools of rage he only barely understood. Reflecting the fire in their reddish-brown depths.

Tommy opened his mouth to reply, when Edsall spun to the ground. The report of an Arisaka echoed, as the marine bit back a string at curses at his inattention. His head snapped on a swivel, spotting a Jap sniper perched atop one of the flaming buildings. His uniform was scorched and torn, his arms bloody, but the grip on his scoped rifle was steady. It was already swinging in his direction, as Tommy instinctively brought his own gun up.

The sniper and the marine stared at each other. The Japanese man worked the bolt of his rifle. The American brought his own to his shoulder.

It was a matter of which one shot first.

A crack echoed in the night.

That was way too close. FUCK! How did I---

A sniper slumped atop his rifle as flames consumed his body. Tommy lowered his rifle and sucked in a breath. Marines and marksmanship training had come in handy once again. If he ever saw Gunny again, he was shaking the man's hand. For now, though, he shook his head and rushed over to where Edsall was sprawled on the ground. He was worried about her in the way an older brother was, maybe. Even if she was older. Even if she was tougher.

Even if he didn't need to worry, as she rose up and rubbed at her face. An angry red welt was revealed, right between her eyes. A scowl was firmly welded upon her youthful features, as she growled out, "Fucking hell that smarts! Bastard got the drop on me like a greenhorn..."

Tommy slowed down and shook his head, as other marines began to pick their way through the rubble. He never would understand this girl. "Well, guess you're fine then. Didn't need to worry."

"I'm a destroyer. You think a little bullet is going to put me down?" Edsall rolled her eyes and hopped back to her feet. She leaned over to pick up her Thompson and dust it off. "Now, where were we again?"

In answer, one of the other marines rushed over to Tommy. The man had soot across his face and caking his beard, as he panted and thrust a piece of paper out. "Conlin, take a look at this! You read Japanese, right?"

Taking the paper as gunfire continued in the distance, Tommy frowned. "A bit, but I'm not exactly fluent. What's up?"

"It's orders, according to Miller. Orders for the airbase."

Frowning now as Edsall stood on her toes to look over his shoulder, Tommy read the paper. The words were a bit hard to grasp, though he'd picked up enough Japanese to at least kinda understand it. What he could understand had his hands clenching. And Edsall hissing out a curse. She could understand it, because at least one or two of her crew over the years had been able to read Japanese.

As Tommy crumpled the orders in his clenched fist, Edsall let out an inarticulate cry of rage. The sudden pressure of air being displaced told Tommy all he needed to know. It hurt her to do it, something about the weight, but she had just pulled out her real weapons. New cannon roared into the night as Japanese planes exploded and screams in their language picked up in intensity. This airfield would need some serious work from the Seabees if they wanted to use it.

Tommy didn't try and stop her.

They're going to hit the fleet. This is just one part of the plan. He looked at the other marine and grit his teeth. Nothing he could do other than get a message back to the Major. "Get this back to the camp, fast as you can. Tell the Major to get on the horn to Guadalcanal as quick as he can. We've gotta warn the fleet while we have the chance. You hear me?!"

The other marine didn't even question the order, even if he was probably not outranked here. He just gave a sharp nod, took the message back, and sprinted off into the darkness. Tommy watched him go, before looking at Edsall. Her back was surrounded by metal, with miniature 4-inch cannons mounted atop it. One was held in her hand, too, and it was that one that had replaced her Thompson in blasting away.

She wasn't going to listen until she had gotten it out of her system.

This is a mess. We ruined this part of their plan, but Edsall...she's going to hate that she's here instead of out there. Tommy sighed as he thought about that. Yeah. She'd want to be out on the ocean where a destroyer belonged. Escorting the fleet.

She was stuck here, though, and was fighting in the only way she knew how, even if she was going to be curled in a pained ball when it was done.

Well, he'd help her up when the time came. As would any of the other marines. She may have been navy, but she was one of them now. A Marine Raider, through and through. They'd help her just like she'd help them.

That was how the Raiders worked.

South Pacific Area of Operations

"You're still up, James?"

Far away from a blazing airfield, the night air was filled with the scent of the ocean breeze. Even steaming at her cruising speed, the air rushing over Saratoga's bridgewing was enough to make Thompson's short hair flutter slightly. He didn't need to look to know it was sending a blue wave cascading behind the woman at his back. He couldn't help the smile that crossed his face, either. Sara could always find him, no matter where he was, or when it was.

"Sorry, Sara. Couldn't sleep." Thompson didn't turn his head, as the carrier walked up to stand next to him. He just looked down at her, green meeting green, and smiled wider. "I see you can't, either. Worried?"

Sara shook her head and gave him the smile he knew she had been wearing, "Why would I be? I trust you."

"I wish I could trust myself." Smile fading, if only a little, the admiral looked down on her deck. Wildcats were parked and ready for the morning patrol, as the ship never truly slept. Men were darting around the stubby little fighters and the larger Dauntlesses, making sure everything was ready for when the pilots got up and arrived. It was my idea. I want to always have planes ready to launch. The Japanese love their ambushes, and we still don't know exactly where their fleet is.

Sighing to steady his thoughts, Thompson shook his head. He could, and probably would, worry himself to death at this rate. His foreknowledge was becoming less and less useful every day and it did concern him more than he'd care to ever admit. For better or worse. Even the fact he could see the faint form of Wasp in the distance, having joined Sara and Lex, did little to change that.

"You haven't led us astray yet, James, and I don't think you will. At least," here, Sara reached her hand out and pulled his arm to her side. She smiled gently at him and winked slyly. "If you get enough sleep. If you're spending the entire night brooding, you're not going to help anyone. Come on, let's get back to bed."

Thompson couldn't help the smile on his face as he allowed Sara to drag him along, "You always know what to say. It's like you know me or something."

"Perish the thought, sir."

Both of them shared a soft chuckle as they strode onto the bridge proper and towards his cabin. The night watch wore smiles of their own, along with more than a few cases of rolled eyes. The betting pool was getting ever larger each day and it was getting a bit concerning how long it was taking. They weren't getting any younger!

Down on Sara's deck, meanwhile, men continued their diligent work. Her morning patrol would be up in less than an hour, before the first bits of sunlight. Their admiral liked having his patrol up before the sunrise to prepare for any eventuality. If the pilots felt like complaining about the early mornings, they kept it to themselves. Besides, they generally agreed with him anyway. As Sara had said...he hadn't led them astray yet. And if it was worth a little less sleep, then it was fine by them.

They weren't about to let their home sink beneath them.

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Kojiro Takeda pulled his goggles down as he sat in the cockpit of his Reisen. His hands moved in practiced motions over the controls, checking, double checking, triple checking to make certain everything was in good order. It was an automatic kind of motion. It might well be the last time he ever made it.

"The admiral is allowing me this mission. Even though he wants me as his aide." The young pilot looked up, staring out the glass of his cockpit. All around him, the roar of dozens of other radial engines echoed. The first rays of the rising sun shone down upon Zuikaku, an auspicious sign if there ever was one. I should make this a good mission. If I never fly again, be it because he's taken me to his staff or because I'm permanently grounded upon Zuikaku, I won't do it with regrets.

The decisive battle was coming, like it or not. He could hear Zuikaku's words ringing in his ears, even now.

"Don't let yourself die out there, got it! I'll never forgive you if you do!" She had shouted, hands on her hips and hair shifting with every motion. Her eyes had looked him straight in the soul, when she continued, "I won't let the Fifth Carrier Division be disgraced here! We will be the ones to defeat the Americans."

Takeda had smiled and nodded along, "Of course. I have my own honor to uphold, Zuikaku. After my failure at Pearl Harbor."

"Good! Don't forget that we're in this together. We can't lose like that!" She'd given him a cheeky salute and he'd returned it easily.

It was all too easy to fall into the sibling dynamic. He didn't regret it. Even if he should die on this mission, he wouldn't have regretted it. Now that he was past the strangeness of it all...he was at peace with it. He enjoyed having Zuikaku as the closest thing to a little sister he would likely ever have. His eyes returned to his instruments, checking what his hands had done, one last time. Satisfied that everything was in order, he placed his hands on his lap and took in a steadying breath of air.

When he looked up again, he could see Zuikaku's form on the edge of the group of planes. No one else acknowledged her but him, and he was strangely okay with that. He didn't wave or do anything but send a nod her way. He didn't need to do anything else.

She did more than enough, jumping up and down like the girl she appeared to be. Waving frantically and shouting words he couldn't hear. He didn't need to hear them. Takeda smiled beneath his goggles and turned back to the front of his cockpit as the first planes began to take off into the rising sun. She's doing what she can to help me, even if this is all she can do. I must do the same for her. For the admiral and the Emperor.

For Japan.

His Reisen followed the others into the sky and towards a battle that, one way or another, would decide the war.

AN: PHEW

Okay, right, this took longer than expected. Not least because it ended up longer than anticipated. Hopefully good too.

Anyway, reveal we were building towards for a bit there. Edsall. Who, suffice it to say, had a similar experience to her historical counterpart. Identical? Probably not. Similar enough? Probably. She's...not a happy girl. Not a happy girl at all. She had some pretty bad experiences there. And we're operating on the assumption that ship girls can at least kinda-sorta remember/experience what their surviving crew does after sinking, since there's the common trope of 'crew who certainly didn't die aboard' coming back as fairies. Most infamously Halsey with Enterprise being a common trope.

But yeah. Angry DD is angry. Very angry.

Not an Abyssal, though.

We're also getting into the equivalent to Santa Cruz, here. That'll be fun. Well, equivalent to Santa Cruz in 'big South Pacific carrier battle'. Not necessarily in results.

Next chapter will...hopefully be up soon-ish. Then again, battles are our bane. We'll see. Going to at least try working on it this weekend, but again, battles. There's rather a reason that most of the airbase raid was off-screen <.<

Skywalker_T-65 · Jan 1, 2023

Chapter 67
Battle of the Solomon Sea, I

It seemed a morning like any other. Patrols were prepared, men trained and went about their usual duties, and the ships sailed in their normal formations. That fact was misleading. For when Admiral Thompson arrived on the bridge of Saratoga, it was to barely controlled chaos. Her bridge crew were tense at their stations and the carrier, herself, was staring into the distance with the characteristic dull eyes of a ship spirit focused on radio traffic. The Admiral, still wiping sleep from his eyes and cursing the weaker coffee he subsisted on, frowned at that. As well as at the way Thach was arguing with Captain Ramsey in hushed tones. The pilot was waving his hands towards the flight deck and quite animatedly trying to make his point.

"---if those plans are correct, we can't get caught with our pants around our ankles!" Thach ground out, as Ramsey shook his head at the man.

"I'm not inclined to trust plans we found lying around that may, or may not, be accurate." Ramsey sighed heavily and shook his head once more. "Not to mention we're relying on a translation from a Marine who might not even speak the language properly. Do you really believe the Japanese are right around the corner, stalking us?"

That prompted Thompson to sigh on his own end. Still not willing to believe they'll track us before hitting us. Or that we need to be ready at all times. What's that about plans, though?

"Morning, men," Thompson walked up to the arguing pair, instantly stopping it. If only because Thach immediately turned to him. Thompson raised an eyebrow at that, "I have the sinking suspicion I missed something while I was sleeping. That no one thought to wake me for."

Someone on the bridge winced. Thompson didn't see who it was and didn't bother looking.

Thach had all his attention, as he rustled in his pockets and pulled out a dispatch form, "This message, sir. Straight from the Aussies on Guadalcanal."

"Oh?" Taking the message, Thompson unfurled it and looked over the crumpled paper. With every word he read, his heart sank deeper into his boots. Until, in the end, he crumpled the paper in his own hands.

Oh, those clever bastards.

I should have expected this. They've been entirely too passive for too long. It's why I've had everyone training so much. Setting the paper down on his chair, and wondering when he had reached it, the Admiral reached up to rub at his brow. "Captain, I don't much care who translated this or anything like that. They're taking it seriously enough to send this out here and I'm not going to ignore it."

While Ramsey nodded, reluctantly, Thompson turned to Thach again, "Jimmy, get a CAP up now. The Japanese like attacking as early as they can and we're not getting caught flat-footed. Coordinate with Lex and Wasp on this."

"Sir!" Thach snapped off a salute, regulations be damned, and smirked slightly. Before letting that fall away as he continued, "Should we send out scouts too?"

Thompson looked out at the first Dauntless lifting off from Saratoga's deck for the morning patrol and frowned. He had no idea where the Japanese would be. Not from intelligence, not from his own memories, not from future knowledge. Predicting where they would be was pointless. All he could do was flail around in the dark. And...

This was an era when carrier warfare was, ultimately, decided by who found who first. By the one to get the first strike in. And the Japanese seemed to have at least a general idea where his own fleet was. Hmm. It was times like this that he truly wished he had more experience in proper carrier operations. Though, he supposed, Spruance had hardly had much in the way of practical experience at Midway and that had gone well. Lucky. But well. Could he rely on that here?

No. He already knew that answer.

"Get some Dauntless' out there," Thompson ordered Thach, before sending a glance at Sara and sighing. Still busy. He turned to another officer and continued, "And get on the horn to Guadalcanal. I want as many of their fighters as we can get over here. The best defense is fighters, I don't want to rely on our guns."

As the other officer nodded and set about doing just that, Thach tapped his chin, "That sure they'll be angling for us and not the Aussies, sir?"

The Admiral shrugged. Not dismissively, but making his own feelings clear, "Guadalcanal is already lost to them. They could hit it, but it wouldn't stop us. Not even slow us down." He waved at the fleet, instead, "Their best bet to slow us down is to hit the fleet. They still have more carriers than we do, if they haven't split them up. And if I were a betting man, I would say they kept them together."

He also had the benefit of foreknowledge. Keeping the carriers together to hit an American fleet with superior numbers was exactly what Yamamoto would do. If Thompson was surprised by anything, it was only the lack of some spoiling attack as a distraction. Like lighter forces hitting Wake or something to draw attention away. That the Japanese had their own land-based forces- that one airbase aside, now -to route against his fleet was the main reason he was inclined to believe he was the main target, not Halsey.

"Understood," Thach gave a sharp nod. He was a smart cookie, as it were, and wouldn't question things. "I'll get to that, then. Any other orders you got in mind, sir?"

Thompson waved him off and Thach left with another nod. Just in time, too, as Saratoga shook herself and turned away from the window. Her vibrant green eyes locked onto Thompson, as a wide smile crossed her lips, "Ja---Admiral!"

In any other situation, Thompson might have chuckled at her slip up. Not now. He simply sat in his chair with a heavy sigh as Sara walked over to him, with Ramsey joining her. "This is not what I expected to wake up to." He looked at Sara's Captain with a dull stare, "Captain, I don't tell you how to run the ship, but please wake me up for something like that. Even if you think it's nothing."

Ramsey was a good captain, all told. In another life, he captained Sara well. He just wasn't adapting well to the new paradigm of ship spirits or how Thompson ran the ship. It wasn't his fault and he was doing the best with a bad hand. It just wasn't a case where everyone could be like Halsey or Richardson and adapt to things easily. Even Bull messed up sometimes, from Thompson's understanding. No point in worrying about it.

For his part, Ramsey simply sighed and nodded along. There was a tiredness to his face but no bitterness or anything resembling frustration. He was just a tired man thrust into a situation he didn't really prepare for. Better men had performed worse than him in such situations.

"Noted, Admiral," the captain looked properly chastised at least. He continued in the same dull tone of voice, saying, "Do you want me to coordinate with the other captains on this?"

Before responding, Thompson looked out the bridge windows once more. He could see the distant form of Lexington, a smudge on the horizon really. He knew that Wasp was somewhere close by, as well. The same rising sun casting shadows on Sara's deck from her stack would be doing the same on Lex and Wasp. He trusted their captains to be ready to move on a single request from him, too. Captain Sherman and Captain Sherman- and wasn't that a coincidence and a half? -were good men. In their other lives, both had captained their ships well and done excellent work at saving as many of their crews as they could when the ships were lost.

In this life, Thompson couldn't have asked for better men to be captaining the other carriers in his little fleet. He leaned on them, and Captain Ramsey more than he cared to admit. His own inexperience in running a task force like this showed through often enough. He relied on the captains to help when he made mistakes or to give suggestions to improve on things.

Well, I can trust them to do what needs done. Hopefully they'll never have to prove themselves in the same way they did in my past. Thompson belatedly stopped tapping at the arm rest of his chair, the barest hint of a flush on his cheeks when he realized he had been doing so. Coughing into his now free hand, he looked at Ramsey again. "By all means, captain. I'd like a plan of action put together as quickly as you can. I'm sending our scouts out, but that doesn't mean we can't plan for what to do if they find something."

He frowned and lowered his hand with a contemplative expression.

"Or, for that matter, if they don't find anything at all. Contrary to popular belief, I'd vastly prefer if they don't." The relatively young admiral sent a dry look at his captain, "I'd rather we be the ones springing the trap, not the ones walking into one with one hand behind our back."

Ramsey gave a small frown at that, "I understand that admiral. Right. I'll get on the horn with Lex and Wasp then."

He set out to do just that. Thompson watched him go, before tilting his head to look at Sara instead. She had been patiently standing beside him, though the way she idly twirled a lock of blue hair around her finger spoke to her own nerves.

Thompson couldn't even blame her for that. The last time they had faced direct combat with Japanese carriers, back at Wake, he'd come entirely too close to dying. The scars still tugged at him when he moved wrong. And the only reason Sara didn't carry her own, visible, scars was because of the repairs done to her. She wasn't afraid of fighting. She was afraid of him being hurt again.

"Keep in close contact with your pilots, Sara." Thompson smiled at her, taking the hand fidgeting with her hair into his own. He gave a soft squeeze when she smiled at him and continued, "I trust you and Thach to figure out where they're hiding. We won't lose that easily, yeah?"

Sara's smile was a brittle thing, but it still widened a little there, "Of course we won't. They caught us off guard at Wake, but we learned from that. And my children are quite capable of doing what they need to."

Ah, that little quirk. Nice to see some things don't change.

"Duly noted, though don't let Thach hear you call him that." Thompson chuckled along with Sara's soft giggles.

For that moment, and that moment alone, they could pretend they weren't about to sail into a battle they might well not come out of. Sara knew Thompson's innermost worries and concerns. She knew his lessons of a war from a different past. As such, both the carrier and the time traveler knew that if the Japanese were truly planning on hitting them...they were planning on hitting them with everything they had in one, brutal, all-out attack.

No holding back. No mercy.

"Everything all at once, everything all together." Thompson whispered, as Sara held his hand in a tight grip.

Some minutes later, Jimmy Thach leaned back in the cockpit of his Wildcat and bit his lip. He soared high above the task force, watching warily for Japanese planes as the Dauntlesses took off for their scouting missions. The squat scouts winged away into the rising sun while his stubby fighters formed up around him or in formation over the other carriers. Some of the fighters remained aboard, of course, to escort any potential strike that the scouts vectored in. But more than a few of the Wildcats were up in the air now.

I can agree on the Admiral for this one. We're better off shooting the bastards down before they get close. No need to tempt fate here.

Thach respected Thompson and more than just because of his Weave saving who even know how many of his pilots. The admiral may make no bones about his relative lack of experience and claim other officers were more talent than him. It didn't mean a damn thing to Thach. He saw a humble man with a keen intellect who knew what he was doing better than he'd probably admit to. Did Thompson make mistakes? Sure.

Not like everyone didn't do that, every once in a while.

"Stick close to me, Butch," Thach radioed over to his wingman. The two Wildcats were at the front of the formation circling over Saratoga. And, for that matter, the formation in overall command of the three airwings. "This won't be like Wake, I think. Japs are going to hit us a hell of a lot harder this time."

"What makes you think that sir?" O'Hare's voice came back, less with confusion and more with bemusement.

Thach snorted at that. Yup, typical Butch. He keyed his radio again and fired back with, "Because we were the ones surprising them there. This time, they're the ones hunting us. The big man thinks they're going to throw everything at us, and he hasn't been wrong yet, has he?"

The 'big man' was an irreverent nickname for Thompson. An ironic one, too, considering the man was anything but 'big'. Especially in comparison to the statuesque beauty of either Sister Sara or Lady Lex.

O'Hare was silent for a second, before chuckling softly. "Yeah, seems like something he'd say. I'll keep my head on a swivel. Think we can make triple ace this time, Jimmy?"

"Bet on it! Japs have five carriers left, after all. That's plenty for us all to have our share." Thach chuckled back as he looked around the horizon, scanning for any sign of Japanese fighters or bombers. "Yeah...they'll have enough for all of us."

Fighter pilots were infamous for their 'devil may care' attitude. Having radio to talk to each other like this didn't really change that. It just made it easier to do it, even on missions. Thach thought it was a good thing, since it kept nerves from fraying too badly. As he dove his Wildcat through a thick cloud bank and out the other side, he remembered back to what it was like without easy radio access. Much harder to keep everyone together, that was sure.

That said, when he popped out of the clouds, he saw the distant form of Wasp chugging along. The smaller carrier, distinct from the big conversions or the Yorktowns, had turned into the wind to launch a flight of dive bombers. Her stubby little stack was pouring out fumes as she did so, trailing along her flight deck as the sluggish bombers took to the sky.

Dauntlesses...Thach liked them for what they were, but you couldn't pay him enough to take one of those lumbering beasts up.

"See anything yet, Butch?" Thach winged his Wildcat over and pulled into a lazy turn over the fleet.

Beside him, O'Hare did the same thing. The stubby blue fighter easily keeping pace with his wingman. "Nothing yet. Starting to think the big man was wrong. Maybe the Japs aren't ready to hit us yet?"

"Yeah, maybe you're---"

Thach was cut off, as his radio clicked on again. Only, instead of Butch's voice- or any male voice for that matter -a female voice came over it. "Don't get too comfy, boys! I think something's coming up soon!"

That...that wasn't Sara. The voice didn't have the smooth and mature tones of her voice. Hell, it didn't even have the sultry undertone and easy jokes of Lex. It sounded...less like a mature woman and more like a teenage girl. Maybe sixteen or seventeen?

"...Wasp?" Thach asked the, in hindsight, obvious question. Huh, never heard her before. I know Enterprise was younger than you'd expect, so maybe I shouldn't be surprised?

"Got it in one, sir!" Wasp chirped at him. Okay, that was going to take some getting used to.

Chuckling in spite of himself, the pilot tilted his Wildcat enough to get a look at the small carrier. Obviously, he couldn't see the girl from this high, yet when he looked down, he got the strangest sense he could. The sense of a girl with shoulder length black hair and bright blue eyes jumping up and waving at him. He got the impression she did look like she was sixteen, too. Weird. Then again, he had long since stopped questioning anything involving these ships.

It was better for his sanity, that way.

"So, what're you talking about, Wasp?" Thach didn't even hesitate to ask that question. It didn't even really feel weird now. "See something we're not?"

Silence for a moment. Then the radio crackled again, with Wasp's voice losing that 'teenage girl' factor. Instead, while still young, she spoke with perfect military inflection and precision, "Radar has something coming in from eight o'clock. Not sure exactly what it is, not yet, but it's big."

Radar. Thach was even less used to it than the ship spirits, but he appreciated the utility. And Wasp had one of the newest sets in the fleet, too. Hmm.

"You heard her, Butch. Let's form up and check this out." Thach looked over at his wingman, who simply wiggled his wings in acknowledgment. Some other members of Sara's CAP joined up with them, along with Wasp's, to scope out the contact.

It might be nothing, but Thach didn't think they'd be that lucky. They'd been damn lucky this entire war, aside from Pearl, and he didn't expect that to keep up. Betting on that was dumb and he was anything but a dumb man. If Wasp said there was something out there, and they knew from captured plans that the Japs were planning on hitting the fleet...then it stood to reason that was what was coming.

"Also, sir," Wasp spoke up again, a thoughtful tone to her voice. Along with the image of her tapping her leg. "Sister Sara says that the army planes will be here in...about ten minutes. She says, and I quote, 'give them hell until then.' Didn't know she had that in her!"

A lesser man would have broken down into hacking laughter at that. The prim and proper Sister Sara doing that. Thach just laughed softly. Oh, he knew what kind of creative words that carrier could come up with when she wanted to.

"Sounds about right. Don't worry, we'll keep the Japs busy, if that's them. Right?"

His answer was silence and a grim determination.

AN: Thought about including a bit of Japanese perspective...but y'know, this works for a good stopping point. No point in dragging it out to pad the word count when that's basically a perfect 'calm before the storm' ending point.

So, yeah. Sorry about the delay. This break turned out to be a bit more...busy than expected. And that's not even counting being wiped out sick for a good bit of it. Still, with the new year, comes the hope we can get more done faster. Going to definitely focus on that.

(along with the novel, on that note)

Next update will get us to the battle proper. Or so the plan goes.

Changing Destiny (Kancolle)

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Skywalker_T-65

Writer with too many ideas.

Skywalker_T-65

Writer with too many ideas.

Skywalker_T-65

Writer with too many ideas.

Skywalker_T-65

Writer with too many ideas.

Skywalker_T-65

Writer with too many ideas.

Skywalker_T-65

Writer with too many ideas.

Skywalker_T-65

Writer with too many ideas.

Skywalker_T-65

Writer with too many ideas.

Skywalker_T-65

Writer with too many ideas.

Skywalker_T-65

Writer with too many ideas.

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