The captain’s gig carrying Admiral McConnel reached the USS Lake Champlain and the admiral wasted no time in boarding the ship.
“Action plan?” he asked the moment he reached the bridge.
“We managed to get twenty jets in the air and have three missile cruisers plus whatever’s already armed on the Carl Vinson. That might convince them to cease their attack, but I doubt it. The best we can hope for is that it distracts them long enough to stage a rescue mission and pick up the crew of the Vinson and retreat. Absolute best case scenario, we might cause some damage, though I doubt it. Did you see what happened to our missile swarm? That was thousands of missiles all swatted out of the sky, so our launchers probably won’t even chip the paint on the fleet in front of us,” the captain reported.
“Are you telling me that an entire carrier strike group is helpless against a frigate!? Just. One FRIGATE!?” the admiral spat, his face purpling in rage. “Our navy, the same navy that keeps the entire fucking world in check is incapable of sinking a single fucking frigate from a goddamn third-world shithole!?”
“With all due respect, sir,” the captain began, forcibly keeping himself from wiping Admiral McConnel’s spit from his face. “They’ve got a ship that’s a kilometer and a half long and our best estimate is that that single ship has a displacement of around a million tons. That ship alone completely outmasses our entire fleet, sir. So whether we can sink a frigate is a moot point, because even if we do sink it, its big brother will remove us from existence shortly afterward.”
The captain was trying his best to deal with the admiral with the worst reputation in the entire US Navy. He was known as Admiral David “Captain’s Mast” McConnel, and not because he was fond of bringing any sailor that displeased him before a captain’s mast, but rather because it was said that he had a stick up his ass the size of an old tallship’s mast from the glory days of the Age of Sail.
A tense silence filled the bridge as the admiral weighed his options against his reputation. But just as he was about to speak up, a voice rang out from every speaker on every ship in the strike group.
“Attention USS Carl Vinson Carrier Strike Group, this is the EV Beowulf. You have two minutes to strike your colors and offer your unconditional surrender and parole. Should you fail to heed our surrender demand, you will be sunk. Repeat: surrender or sink, you have two minutes to decide. Beowulf out.”
“Those fuckers!” the admiral shouted in anger. It was the first time someone had so blatantly looked down on him. “Attention to orders: the fleet will attack. No quarter! Get those jackasses out of my ocean!” He had obviously lost his ability to think rationally after having his pride pricked so severely.
“But si—”
“Shut the fuck up, captain. I know the capabilities of my own goddamn fleet, and until now they’ve only damaged the Vinson, but they haven’t touched any of her escorts! Now stop talking and sink those miserable peasants!”
“Yes, sir. Comms, transmit orders from the flag: no quarter.”
The strike group began firing in unison moments after receiving the order. The target of their combined firepower was a single frigate from a developing nation. As they fired, they also began maneuvering to put distance between each ship in the American fleet. The theory was that it would give them time to fire multiple times before being wiped out. Nobody in the fleet thought that any of the remaining escort ships would survive more than a single barrage from the main gun battery on the deck of the EV Heidrek.
After all, none of them had ever seen an aircraft carrier hit so hard it skidded across the water like a skipped rock.
As the American missiles launched, guns spoke, and torpedoes were fired, the twenty F/A-18 Super Hornets that had managed to launch before the USS Carl Vinson was crippled had gathered into one oversized flight wing and were headed toward the technologically superior Edenian fleet, the only thing saving them from a blue on blue incident being the IFF (Identification Friend or Foe) systems they had installed broadcasting a friendly signal.
The pilots tried their best to stay calm, but they couldn’t keep their hands from shaking and their hearts from pounding. One pilot was even so gunshy that, when he was passed by the missiles launched from behind, he prematurely ejected from his jet. And as he drifted down, he caught his first glimpse of the enormous EV Beowulf, which was no less than five times the size of a Nimitz class aircraft carrier, one of the biggest ships on the planet. He didn’t know whether he should be in awe of the mighty vessel, or despair at the stupidity of the people in power that thought they ever stood a chance against the incredibly advanced enemy.
As they said, sufficient strength was an absolute counter to all schemes. And if an aircraft carrier that would put five of the US Navy’s best to shame wasn’t a display of that very “sufficient strength” then he didn’t know what would be.
But he was afraid he was about to find out.
……
Aboard the EV Beowulf.
“Well, I guess that’s as good an answer as any,” Admiral Gutierrez, sitting in his captain’s chair on the flag bridge chuckled. “Comms, pass my order to the Heidrek: sink the USS Carl Vinson Carrier Strike Group. God speed and good hunting, gentlemen.”
“Orders to Heidrek, aye, sir,” responded the flag comms officer.
“Lieutenant Wilson, I’m going to get a headstart on my paperwork. I’ll be in my office, you have the conn.”
“I have the conn, aye, sir,” the flag lieutenant echoed. He moved to the captain’s chair on the flag deck and settled in, then turned on the real-time display in his AR glasses in anticipation of the fireworks show that was about to begin.
