Author Notes:
Thank you, all of you, for letting my Mom and me have a wonderful holiday and covering our rent! Happy Vietnam National Day! And peace and good fortune be upon all of you!
Monthly Recruitment Drive is also up from here to the 23rd of September, so don't miss out!
https://www.patreo-n.com/Heartbreak117
https://ko-fi.com/heartbreak117/goal?g=0
Income goal 788/880 USD (UmU)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Force H, Vice Admiral James Somerville. Somerville considers himself an accomplished man, evidenced by his Admiral status in the Erusean Adm
Force H, Vice Admiral James Somerville.
Somerville considers himself an accomplished man, evidenced by his Admiral status in the Erusean Admiralty. Contradictingly, however, Somerville takes no pride in his noble status as a high-ranking officer in the Royal Navy, at least not anymore, and for good reasons. The Admiralty, and perhaps the Erusean government as a whole have been showcasing an overwhelming degree of incompetence and sheer idiocy when dealing with their neighboring peer. Having suffered one major defeat after another, they're desperate enough to recall someone who is on tuberculosis sick leave to active duty. Yet, it's not the frontline they're sending Vice Admiral Somerville to. Oh no, the frontline is already a lost cause, but the Erusean government doesn't want to acknowledge it. So, in one last gamble, they assign Somerville to raid and capture the warships of their supposed ally, or at least a neutral, Ustian Mediterranean Fleet.
Instead of actually combating or at least figuring out a way to stop the active threats, which is the Reichsmarine, Somerville is tasked with being the mugger in the dark of the night. It's an utterly abhorrent and dishonorable task for someone with a civilized upbringing. You don't come up behind the back of someone you have been fighting side by side and stab them for, well, pretty much anything. Ain't no code of honor that permits such an action, and, quite frankly, this operation is a blatant violation of all the wartime conventions the Eruseans used to harp for all the parties to sign. Ironic, and it's also the straw that broke the camel's back for Admiral Somerville. The man is rightfully exasperated and even livid at the hypocrisy of the leadership. Yet, orders are orders, especially when they bear the sigil of the Erusean Crown. They, however, don't stop the man from expressing the sheer stupidity in carrying out this high-risk, low-return maneuver.
On his sickbed, Somerville hypothesizes that the Belkan Reich must have a way to spot Erusean warships and aircraft at long range; a portable yet high-function radar system for the Reichsmarine is a significant possibility. This hypothesis, when combined with the open secret that the Erusean Kingdom is infiltrated by Belkan spies, sheds light on why the Admiralty consistently loses the intelligence war and the long-distance gunnery duel. However, much to Somerville's confusion, the Admiralty ignored yet another one of his warnings. Then there are Somerville's biggest disappointments, the cancellation of the construction of Erusean aircraft carriers and the stall in funding of their shipborne radar systems. Had the Kingdom of Erusea followed through on these two projects, perhaps the war could have developed much differently. Alas, a Vice Admiral is just that, a Vice. Somerville couldn't influence much, if any at all, and this damned operation is launched anyway with a warning that someone more willing will replace Somerville if he doesn't comply with the tasking. Somerville could have torn off his epaulets then and there, but the thoughts of these sailors being sent under the flag of another commander with less wisdom didn't sit right with the Vice Admiral. So, off to the Meds he goes, with a troubled mind that is filled with thoughts about the unknown future.
He does know that if the Belkans are tracking their movements, of that there's no doubt, then all it takes is a missive for the entire Ustian Mediterranean Fleet to wake up and come out gun blazing against Force H. Worse, in a stand-up fight, Force H stands no chance, pitting its aging fleet against the freshly minted and more modern Ustian warships. The Vice Admiral's formation can't even outrun any of the warships in the Ustian Mediterranean Fleet, bar the two Bretagne-class battleships. This close to the Ustian colony, the risk of incurring a Ustian aerial attack is also great. Force H has no air cover and is ill-equipped to handle any aircraft at night. Worst case scenario, an alarm is raised, and Force H will be outnumbered, surrounded, and overwhelmed by the speedier Ustian warships before being finished off by hostile aircraft. To prevent this, all hope rests on the boarding parties that are still infiltrating Mers-el-Kebir. Force H only stands a chance when the Ustian's capital vessels are disabled or captured.
Still, if the worst is to happen, what will someone like Somerville do? Frankly, other than turn tail and run away before the Ustial fleet can break harbor, the Vice Admiral doesn't see any other sensible recourse, at least not anything that won't involve a major loss of lives for his side. The consequences of retreating at the first sign of trouble be damn for all he cares. What are the Admiralty gonna do, relieve him of his duty? Somerville already has one foot through Death's door. To him, it's more important to preserve the next generation of sailors from the failures of the higher-ups.
Vice Admiral Somerville has his heart in the right place, alright. He also has enough of a brain to deploy all the precautionary measures he can think of. The question is, will they be enough when the future is far, far catastrophic than his worst-case scenario?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Mediterranean is a beautiful place... Or it was once. Even now, the effects of the Cataclysm linger, with ash clouds regularly blocking a large swath of the sky and the Meds' famous blue being polluted to an unattractive gray. Even breathing in the air itself feels like it will clog up your lungs, although the overall air quality has improved massively for reasons unknown to man. Night time, however, is especially unpalatable, being pitch black with barely any ambient lighting from above. This being a night operation, Vice Admiral Somerville was advised to run the gamut with all the external lighting off. However, fearing that deckside sailors on patrol may fall overboard due to the very limited lighting, the Vice Admiral allows the use of handheld torches. To maintain ship formation and a modicum of threat detection, a few searchlights are allowed to be operated by the capital ships and cruisers. While Admiral Somerville's effort bears some modest fruit in maintaining Force H's combat effectiveness, it doesn't do much in improving the morale of the sailors being put on sentry duty. Unlike Belka and even Japan, where ships and aerial radars are getting more and more abundant by the day, these salty sailors of Force H have to make do with the good old Mark I Eyeball. The same can be said for the Ustian Mediterranean Fleet as well. However, there exists a rumour from a long time ago that the Ustian Mediterranean Fleet is homebrewing their own brand of a naval search radar. It's something that Vice Admiral Somerville is hoping not to ever see anywhere in a thousand nautical miles of him.
"This night mate..." A sentry aboard HMS Resolution, a Revenge-class battleship, complains. "Ain't no night as cursed as this one. No stars, all clouds, and these damn ashes are getting into all the annoying places."
The complaining sailor then removes his cap, dusting it off of the tiny particulates that had made themselves at home on his hair for the last hour or so. His patrol pal shrugs with a wry, exasperated smile.
"Hey, look on the bright side, at least we won't be stuck shoveling coals for the morgue with this deployment."
"Yeah, but we're still breathing all the gnarly stuff all the same. Who can say for sure we're not breathing in the ass of some chap in Sardegna that got vaporized by a volcano? I thought we would finally sail somewhere with cleaner air for once, but lo and behold, back to the Meds we go."
"... Gosh, now you're making me regret not taking out a gas mask."
"Between not being able to spot anything and actually living it past my fifty, I will take the latter all day, any day."
"Oh yeah?" Another sailor comes up from behind them, saying. "How is that panning out for you, mate?'
The complaining sailor quip. "I will keel over and die before my thirties."
The group of sailors then laughs morosely, an act that comes about from the need to comfort themselves. Unlike the boarders that are still out there, somewhere, this group of seamen doesn't have any high expectations for a turnaround in their lives. Many like them thought signing up for the Royal Navy would be their ticket to the ladies' homes. Little did they know back then that they would be assigned to a godforsaken corner of the world on a vessel that's even older than they are. Big guns or not, the thing is a half-rusted bucket of bolts already. They know that because they get assigned to cleaning duty more than anyone else on this Resolution.
Then one of them suddenly stops laughing. Under the confused gaze of his peers, this sailor walks closer to the railings of the rear conning tower.
"Yo, you see a mermaid or something?" One of his friends asks, joining the sailor in viewing the blackened horizon as well.
"... I think I see something weird." The wary sailor then moves to the nearby spotting scope, trying to clean its lenses with his coat.
"Weird? Probably not a mermaid then."
"I highly doubt a mermaid would want to swim in this tar pit, my friend."
"True that."
The sailor, having found that the spotting scope is at last somewhat good on the eye to take a look through, immediately uses it to the exasperation of his fellow sailors.
"This dark, I highly doubt you can see anything with that thing, Timmy."
"Who knows, maybe he can somehow see a chick from Spain. Heard they're eating well nowadays. More filling up here," The chatty sailor rudely makes a gesture around his upper torso." You know?"
"God, I hope so. Unironically, that is actually good news."
"You don't say, one less hungry person means one less sadness on this bleak world."
The mood suddenly turns somber enough to warrant a change in subject. The friends chat while the other sailor is still trying to get a good look at whatever is on the horizon.
"Come on, Timmy, mate, you can't possibly be serious about using that in this weather."
The sailor replies. "I'm serious here, I think I saw a couple of blinking lights, or even multiple earlier. It's why I am trying to see whether ot not we're coming across a passenger or something. We are on watch duty, remember?"
"Mate, directly North of us is Spain. If it's close enough for you to see lights, then it's probably a Spaniard convoy heading wherever the fuck they need to be. The last time around, we bombed their vessel by mistake, and it cost the top brass dearly. Now, I don't wanna be the ones to trigger a second happenstance, or it will be on our heads this time around."
"..."
"..."
"Timmy?"
"Mate? You're hearing me talking?"
"You think we lost him?"
"The guy is right there, just smack his head awake."
"Guys, seriously, stop! I... I think I'm actually seeing something... God almighty, there are a lot more than it should be for a convoy, right!? Guys, I think we're being attacked from the North!"
"What did you just say!?"
If one could look through the view of the spotting scope of the now alarmed sailor, one could see a hazy line of vessels illuminated only by the cannon fire of the leading warships. The number being spotted is already enough cause for a concern, but a chilling sensation washes over the sailor when he lays his eyes on the hulls that tower above the rest, visible only in amberish illumination. And then, the sky splits apart as the suns, multiple suns, cast their light down a Force H that is not at all prepared for an attack from their very rear.
As countless star shells bring the full formation of Force H into the light, the grim voice of Vice Admiral Somerville can be heard broadcasting to all Erusean warships.
"Action Stations! All hands to your Action Station! Lights on for all vessels, we've been made!"