Follicus Island (2)

Author's Note (Story and Patreon Updates):

Go read Manifest Fantasy, my new portal isekai story where the modern U.S. discovers a fantasy world.

NOTE: Manifest Fantasy (rewritten) is ONLY available through RoyalRoad.

https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/75057/manifest-fantasy

Note 2:

163 is now out for all Tier 2 Patrons and higher! Tier 2 Patrons and higher will be able to read one chapter ahead!

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January 4, 1641

GVE-Occupied Follicus Island

Captured HME Base

Dietrich looked through the latest update from Mirkenses' Fourth Conquest Fleet, which had dealt a telling blow to the Mirishials in Junnaral. Ports destroyed, industrial centers under siege – impeccable execution. On top of that, the Third Conquest Fleet was now setting sail from the Conshal Islands, ready to aid the First Conquest Fleet in the subjugation of Mu. Excellent news for the overall war effort, but would it be enough?

His train of thought was derailed by a sudden knock on the open door. "Sir, we received an emergency transmission on the manacomm relay network – it's from the Erlkonig," a communications officer announced.

Dietrich raised an eyebrow. Manacomms were to be used only in the event of American jamming. For a submarine over a thousand miles out to break its cover and use a last resort was concerning, to say the least. "What did it say?"

The officer handed him the transcribed message. "Priority One, Priority One. This is GVS Erlkonig to Fleet Admiral. Unidentified objects surfacing and ascending. Position far beyond patrol zone. Possible missiles. Urgent."

Dietrich's eyes narrowed, his nails digging into his palms. "Assemble the officers. Now."

The man left the room in a hurry, and within minutes the room was filled with Dietrich's top advisors and connections to the fleet's commanding officers.

"We have unidentified objects breaking surface around the Erlkonig's patrol zone, deep in the Cartalpas Strait," Dietrich announced, his eyes darting to the radio panel as he awaited responses.

"The Erlkonig?" Admiral Steinberg's voice fizzled in. "That– No, they're more than a thousand miles away! What could those missiles possibly be targeting? We have nothing out there!"

"Exactly. That's the conundrum," Dietrich replied, unconsciously tapping his fingers on the table. "Any thoughts?"

"Could be uh- a decoy, a feint," Admiral Feldt's voice offered from the radio. "Force us to divert resources or panic, perhaps?"

Commander Holtz, an anti-submarine warfare officer, looked up from the tabletop map. "If they were torpedoes, sir, I could give you a dozen countermeasures. But torpedoes don't ascend. I'm of the opinion that the Erlkonig's guess was quite right: these are missiles – ones with farfetched ranges."

A telling silence fell upon the room as Dietrich's tapping grew quicker. All of their war games and simulations against the Americans ended in one way – utter annihilation. "Their capabilities exceed even the worst-case scenario during our war games…" Dietrich muttered silently, out of ear's reach.

"It makes no sense for this to be a decoy," Halvard reasoned, "Everything we know about the Americans suggest efficiency and logic in their weapons and tactics. If they launched missiles that far, and there are no viable targets in the region, then we can only suspect that those missiles are targeted at us."

Dietrich's tapping stopped, his hand becoming limp. "Our existing battle plans are woefully inadequate… futile, even."

The room erupted into overlapping voices: a cacophony of disbelief, speculation, and rapid-fire strategic spit-balling. But amidst the noise, a singular truth emerged. Each officer, whether through tightened jaws or narrowed eyes, displayed a sense of impending vulnerability that went beyond military posture. It was primal; the instinctual realization of facing an unfamiliar predator.

Dietrich raised a hand, and the room hushed. "Enough," he said, voice steady but eyes betraying a storm of thought. "The attack has already begun, there is no turning back now. We'll need to adapt quickly, whatever the case. Prepare for evasive action, and get our fighters in the air to form a defensive screen."

"Yes, sir," came the responses from the admirals.

Dietrich returned to the table, his eyes darting over the radio panel, then the map. His hand hovered over it, as if he could somehow ward off the incoming missiles by sheer will. A dull rumble echoed in the distance, barely audible through the walls – fighters being launched. He glanced at the Muan clock. The ticks gnawed at him as his mind grasped onto hope, but deep down he knew the truth: those ticks were merely counting down the seconds until annihilation.

Voices started breaking in over the communication officers' radios – confirmations of takeoff, repositioning ships, sectors being cleared. Amidst the chatter, Dietrich's ears strained for one crucial update.

"VF-55 at Odin, no contacts," one of the pilots chimed in.

"VF-52 at Erde, just missed them! They're moving to Asgard," another one said.

Then, finally, a voice broke in with the news Dietrich had been anticipating. "VF-50 reports radar confirmation on Asgard, twelve contacts!"

Dietrich moved briskly to the corresponding station, seizing the transmitter. "This is Fleet Admiral Dietrich. Do you have visual confirmation?"

The few seconds of pause were unbearable. Finally, the pilot's voice came through, tense but clear. "VF-50 to Fleet Admiral, we've got eyes on. Engaging now. Over."

Amidst the murmur of voices and the ambient noise of machinery, everyone in the room stopped, listening intently to the radio. Another string of rapid chatter came through as the pilots of Fighter Squadron 50 attempted to intercept the missiles.

"Scratch one, scratch one!"

"Good shots, Gritz!"

Rare smiles graced the room upon word of the successful hit, but the moment was short lived.

"Shit, they're too fast!"

"Fuck, we can't keep up! Get Squadron 72 to intercept!"

The chatter died down, and the squadron leader was finally able to condense the intense action into a simple report. "VF-50 to Fleet Admiral, we got one missile. Others proceeding. Over."

Dietrich felt the eyes of every officer in the room upon him. He didn't have to look to know that each gaze was heavy with anticipation and dread. That hit was pure luck – something they would not be able to repeat again. He picked up the transmitter. "Fleet Admiral to all air units. Resume defensive formation."

More chatter flooded the channels, but it was punctuated by another voice. "VF-63 to Fleet Admiral. New radar contacts. Second wave. Over."

Dietrich clenched his jaw.

Then another report came in, detailing a third group of missiles. Dozens upon dozens of missiles, all nigh-unkillable, and all heading toward his fleet.

Dietrich felt the room tighten around him. He was thankful that he decided to remain on the base instead of returning to his flagship, but the lack of a radar system in the recently captured base had essentially rendered him blind. Instead, he found himself relying on the ocean of reports crackling over the radios.

The communications officers kept their hands steady on the dials, their eyes scanning the incoming transcriptions, as Dietrich's own eyes flitted between them, hanging on every syllable that spilled into the tense air.

"Fleet Admiral," one of the officers piped up, "VF-72 reports they have visual on the first group of missiles. Attempting interception…" A pause, then he continued, "Interception unsuccessful. VF-72 is pulling back to defensive formation."

A sigh, heavy and collective, flowed through the room.

"The Inhibitor reports radar contact! AA guns on the ships are preparing to fire," another officer announced.

It wasn't much, but it was all they had left. A last line of defense.

Dietrich glanced at the clock; its ticking now resonated like a drumbeat in a funeral march. He looked out of the window. For a moment, there was nothing sparse white clouds plastered against the blue sky. Soon enough, streaks of light – distant pinpricks growing brighter by the second – flew over the horizon. The sky turned into a whirlpool of tracer rounds and flak, conversations around the room already being drowned out by the sound of anti-aircraft guns echoing outside.

"AA guns firing, sir," the officer confirmed, his voice flat but tinged with an edge of desperate hope.

The ambient noise in the room dwindled to a muted backdrop, overtaken by the thunderous symphony of warfare that Dietrich could see and hear outside. The streaks of light – 35 in total – continued their relentless approach, each aimed at a ship, mostly carriers. His ships.

The sky outside was ablaze with human ingenuity focused on survival. Contrails crisscrossed, creating a chaotic tapestry as the AA guns sought their marks. Dietrich's eyes remained on the spectacle, but his ears perked up as a different sound intruded – a rising, high-pitched whine that cut through all other noises. The missiles were passing overhead. The sound grew in intensity until it felt like a physical pressure, a horrifying scream in the sky that seemed to echo the dread within him.

He pivoted sharply, walking to the open window on the opposite side of the command center that overlooked the port. His hands clenched into fists at his side as he saw tracers converge onto singular points above the carriers, followed by bright flashes of light. He held up his hand, squinting as he shielded himself from the scene. Then came a series of thunderous booms – the sonic footprints of nightmares – each one marking the fate of a ship. He staggered backward, braving the pressure waves from the shore. Billowing plumes of black smoke and fire began to rise from where his fleet lay anchored.

"Direct hits on multiple carriers!" one of the officers reported.

Dietrich turned back to face his officers. The room had changed. This was no longer a command center. It was the nucleus of a disaster, a place where the next decisions would dictate whether that disaster turned into an unrecoverable catastophe. He let out a small chuckle, startling some of the nearby personnel. Now he knew what the Mirishial officers in this command center felt when faced with waves of unending planes.

"Fucking shit," he muttered, being careful not to speak too audibly. With a twitching eye and a deep breath, he collected himself. "Damage report. Now," he ordered.

An officer, listening in to reports from his colleagues, tallied up the losses on a notepad. "Fleet Admiral, 18 carriers are confirmed destroyed. We lost 5 Pegasus-class fleet carriers and 13 Cygnus-class escort carriers. Two were damaged significantly, and 10 other carriers and battleships suffered varying degrees of damage. The flagship – the Valhalla – was hit, but remains operational."

Dietrich lowered his head slightly, lips tightening. "Casualties?"

"Estimates are still coming in, but it's severe. Thousands, at least."

His eyes tightened, the only outward sign of the turmoil within him.

An officer held his headset closer, leaning in and listening intently before facing Dietrich. "Sir, we have long-range communication coming in. It's our encryption, but –"

"What? Out with it," Dietrich said.

"It's the Americans, sir!"

A murmur encircled the room. Their own encryption? How?

Dietrich clenched his jaw so tightly he could feel his molars pressing against each other. "So, they've cracked it. Of course they have… Of course… Decrypt it and patch it through."

As the officers got to work, Dietrich looked out the window again. His eyes flicked to the Valhalla, still intact in the distance. The sight would have normally offered him some reassurance, but today, it was a mocking reminder of vulnerability.

"We have the decryption, Fleet Admiral."

The voice that came over the loudspeaker carried an air of calm assurance. It was robotic, and perhaps even smug. "Fleet Admiral Alaric Dietrich, this is Admiral Hawthorne of the United States Navy Seventh Fleet. We are proposing an immediate ceasefire and are prepared to negotiate your unconditional surrender. Do you acknowledge?"

Dietrich felt a ripple of laughter climb out of his throat, so harsh and cold it startled even him. They had him cornered, his codes deciphered, and they had the gall to be polite about it.

"Acknowledged," he managed, clearing his throat. "Let's hear these terms."

Hawthorne's voice returned, detailing the conditions – disarmament, detainment of key personnel, limited humanitarian aid. As the American spoke, Dietrich scanned the room. He took in the tightness in the posture of his officers, the slight furrow of brows, the way hands clenched into fists or tightly gripped paper. It was like looking at a room of tightly wound springs, each waiting for a trigger to release.

"And do we have a timeframe to consider these terms?" Dietrich asked, once Hawthorne had finished.

"You have one hour to comply," the voice from the speaker responded, rough and final.

Dietrich nodded to himself. The silence was as thick as the tension. It was one of the communication officers – Lieutenant Gruber – who broke it first. "Fleet Admiral, surely we cannot be considering this? We still have hundreds of ships – destroyers, cruisers, battleships, submarines, and a few operational carriers."

Ah, there it was, the break in the dam. Dietrich looked at Gruber. "And what would you propose we do with them?"

"Fight, sir," Gruber retorted, a shade too hastily.

"With what air cover?" Dietrich gestured to the map on the table, dots representing the fallen carriers extinguished. "We have guns that can't hit them and ships they can sink from a thousand miles away. They cracked our encrypted channels; next, they'll crack our hulls."

Captain Frisch, a longtime ally, stepped in. "With respect, sir, surrendering might be the only way to ensure the survival of our men."

A murmur of agreement rippled through some corners of the room. Others exchanged glances of dissent, as though sharing an unspoken language of defiance. Dietrich took a deep breath. It was a delicate line to tread. "We will reconvene in thirty minutes. I suggest you all think very carefully about what you will advise me."

As his officers dispersed, Dietrich walked back to the window, staring out at the fleet that had, until today, been the source of his pride. Now, it was a chessboard after a losing game – pieces still on the board but rendered useless.

The weight of the next hour settled onto his shoulders. Would they bow to the inevitable, or cling to a prideful delusion? And whatever they chose, would it even matter in the face of such overwhelming odds?

"Acknowledged, he muttered to himself, as if to answer the multitude of questions swirling in his head. "Let's hear these terms…"