Main Bridge, USS Telesforo Trinidad (DDG-139)
Puget Sound, WA
Commander Mason Robertson, USN
Commander, USS Telesforo Trinidad (DDG-139)
0750 Local JUNE 4, 2042
Commander Mason “Maso” Robertson looked on in awe at a sight he could barely watch, let alone comprehend. His eyes bulged, and the edges of his mouth curled ever so slightly in awe and horror. He had been the captain of the USS Telesforo Trinidad (DDG-139)—the Fightin’ Teletubby—for almost two years since her previous captain, Everett Simmerton, caught a neckfull of fragmentation off Taipei on the very last day of Second Sino. But in all his time in the Navy, he had never seen something like this.
The tearing of flesh echoed over the quieted bridge. Every eye was affixed to the horror-show plain before them. No one dared to whisper a word. They were frozen.
“What in th—” The skipper broke the silence with spluttering confusion.
His new XO stopped eating and turned around, “What, sir?” He removed his second lemon of the morning from his mouth, having spent the prior minutes eating its predecessor like an apple, skin-and-all.
What kind of fuckin’ sicko eats lemons like that?
Maso gave the newbie a half-glazed glare, “Miyake, do you normally start your morning with a… uh, lemon?”
“Oh no, sir.” Lieutenant Commander Lane Miyake scoffed with a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed smile. Maso took a breath in relief a moment too soon. “I normally eat three.” The captain deflated like a two-piece blue-coverall-wearing balloon as his executive officer produced a third lemon from his working uniform like a pocket egg.
Robertson looked away and slapped himself on the forehead. “Fuck me,” he murmured.
“At least he won’t be getting scurvy, sir.” The ship’s master chief chimed from across the bridge. The chief was just as dumbstruck as everyone else, an occurrence that Mason had not seen previously.
You’re not helping, Benny.
“Oh yeah, I definitely won’t be getting that again. No, sir,” Lane replied cheerily.
That just begs more questions!
The skipper shook his head and looked out the bridge windows. The sky was a smokey dove grey. The water was a dark blue, almost black. A bank of heavy, low clouds was rolling over the Olympic Peninsula. As his eyes panned across Puget Sound, he saw ship after ship after ship; their flags fluttered in a cool morning breeze. Trinidad was in the center—the uncomfortably cloistered heart—of a great column of steel. There were ships everywhere. The United States First Fleet assembled under the umbrella of Task Force 11 had become the Composite Testing Force and was sailing for the largest naval exercise since the end of the Second Sino-American War.
Mason was annoyed. The sea-traffic controller had screwed him over and separated him from the rest of DESRON 23—they were about three miles up the line with the flagship. They were packed into the Sound like sardines, but sardines loaded down with enough munitions to turn a mid-tier country into a parking lot. Right now, DDG-139 was surrounded by the ships of Surface Action Group Seven, Rear Admiral Jed MacGregor’s task group. That made Mason uneasy. You could never trust Jed’s people to be sane, let alone reasonable.
A daunting image chewed at the back of his mind. One wrong move and a single collision could take out three or four warships. And Hell if Robertson would put his ship back in drydock after he had just gotten her out of it. Fuckers just gave us a new goddamn bow. Don’t anyone be a mook and Clarke and Dawe us. The Teletubby hadn’t gotten eighteen battle stars without getting her paint scratched, and the post-war refit/repair had taken longer than expected. At least we aren’t missing the Fleet Problem.
Then, as if to insult Robertson, the auto-nav started squawking. The computer and a lookout had seen somebody sailing too fast. The officer of the deck moved quickly to increase their distance from the hazard. Mason didn’t even need to say a word. His crew were all old hands. They could run the ship like devils in their sleep, and bad traffic was hardly the most daunting challenge they’d faced.
A few moments later, a slate grey form came charging past, lunging through the water like a drunken dolphin. He saw the hull number, FFG-75. “Oh, of course, it’s fuckin’ him,” Maso snarled. “Goddamn battle-cat douche.” He strode across the bridge and out onto the port wing. Just barely outside, Mason bellowed, “FUCK YOU, HOP!” Causing the pair of already anxious enlisted on lookout duty to nearly jump out of their coveralls. Goddamn Murder Hobo Society Schmucks.
He saw one of the lookouts on the USS Monitor (FFG-75) go bug-eyed and dart inside to her bridge; a moment later, Commander Jack “Hop” McIver, captain of the Monitor, came striding out on his bridge wing, a pipe hanging from his lip. McIver didn’t say anything back. He flipped Robertson the bird. Maso replied in kind. Hop laughed, and Mason smiled. That’s when Mason remembered that Jack owed him a hundred bucks from their last card game on Ulithi, a debt almost two years old.
“Tin-can bastards,” Mason groused. Fucker loves to cut a line.
Monitor was a Flight II Constellation-class Guided Missile Frigate. Though “Flight II” undersold things. She was a new breed—the new breed. She’d been redesigned around nanocomposite steel, non-polymer composites, and printer-fabricators. She was built with electrothermal chemical guns and direct energy weapons from the get. Trinidad had most of that kit now, too—after her three refits. Monitor could be built faster and for less than her predecessor with more firepower and survivability.
What still blew his mind was that Monitor and her sisters were at the bottom of the ladder of the new breed. They were the little guys of Fleet Architecture 2040—they had nothing on the monsters like the Long Beach or Saratoga cruisers. The Slate Navy Babies rolled deep and rolled heavy. It had only taken more than a decade of brutal Navy infighting, half a trillion dollars or so, and a couple of wars to get there too.
Mason snarled to himself one last time before walking back inside the bridge. He somewhat resented that he was aboard one of ten non-FAX 2040 combatants in this clown show but really resented everything that had led up to it. FleetPro 36 had been put together in six weeks. I should’ve taken at least six months. It had been all chaos all the time. Trinidad’s refit had been sped up and pushed out of the dock with almost wartime urgency. Repair and refit schedules up and down the Pacific Coast had been absolutely fucked.
It almost felt like an impromptu first strike, but surely no one in the Ocasio-Cortez Admin would be dumb enough to start a war, least of all one in the mold of Putin’s Tell-No-One-Thunder-Run. Regardless, One Fleet had pulled it off. Eighty ships were sailing from Puget Sound to regroup with another thirty-seven off Hawaii—all in the same of the most melodramatic dick-wagging since the Allied Powers and the People’s Republic of China had signed Malmö Accords in August ‘40.
Just about the only person in the Navy patient and stubborn enough to pull off this circus was three miles ahead of Trinidad aboard USS Harriet Tubman (CVCN-84).
She earned her name as a hot-headed tin-can driver in First Sino and Gulf IV. She was the Hero of Second Paracel—the up-jumped XO who had taken four Independence-class light frigates into a gun duel with a PLAN surface action group after they’d both run out of missiles—and won. That not-so-last-stand had bought enough time for Fifth Fleet, with assistance from the Vietnamese, to extract 3rd MLR and 31st MEU from Woody Island. She was up there with Zumwalt and Rickover—even after the Anzio Incident. It was said she played dirty to get the Naval Act of 2030 through Congress as the Director of the Office of Critical Procurement. Not like Senator Cruz is around to deny the rumors. Not least of all, she had been COMBATPAC-ALFLT for almost the entirety of Second Sino—Commander, Battle Force, Allied Fleet—nabbing US First Fleet and her third star after the war ended. Vice Admiral Kimberly Scott was not called “Kill Something” for no reason, and thank goodness for it.
By the time Roberston returned to his chair, Miyake was on his third lemon. A shiver went down his spine. Christ, I forgot that Corpos are weirder than us. He looked at his watch. 0803. Should be out of Puget Sound in ten. Thank fuck. Can’t wait to get out of here.
Then, something outside the ship caught his eye. Fog.
He turned his head as one of the lookouts shouted on the radio something about the sea boiling. “The fuck is goin’ on over there?” It took him a moment to process what he was seeing. Great palls of fog were lifting off the water like an art-house impression of a Halloween smoke machine.
BAYRUM? His mind started to race, thinking of MOPP suits and decon. The officer of the deck made the call and pulled in the lookouts. This couldn’t be natural. Maso watched the fog lift over the bow and wash over the deck like a silent wave of grey-white smoke. It kept growing and growing, clawing up the ship until there was nothing but a cloudy grey-white blanket beyond the glass. Things had just gotten a whole lot more claustrophobic. He prayed the auto-nav wouldn’t snag or fritz out.
Mason took a deep breath, his mind filled with images of a ten-ship collision in a chemical attack. Fuck. “Sniffers?” He requested an update from the ship’s nuclear, biological, and chemical detection system.
“We’re green. No foreign agents in the air, sir,” one of the bridge crew replied. All eyes were locked on the solid wall of fog. Mason couldn’t even see the prow, couldn’t even see the ship’s electrothermal chemical Mark 47 5-inch gun. There was only fog.
One minute passed.
Then another.
Then one more.
BOOM
A thunderclap that was powerful enough that it made Mason’s eyes water cut across the sky. A ring of fog, about one story tall, was ejected from the miasma as if by a shockwave. Suddenly, light burst through the opening like a great-bright-scythe. It stung, and he raised his hand to shield his eyes. The fog began to burn off. At first, it was like pinpricks in a black-out curtain. Rays of light cut down from the sky. It was brilliant, too brilliant. As the fog began to burn away, Mason’s eyes widened.
They were not returning to an overcast day in Puget Sound.
Commander Robertson looked upon a brilliant blue sky clawing through layer after layer of fog. It ripped and tore through the mist, reaching down to the horizon. He didn’t notice as the gasp escaped his lips and the lips of everyone on the bridge. The horizon was empty. Only royal blue water and baby-blue sky filled their view. It was a panorama fit for a postcard; everything thing sparkled under a resplendent morning sun.
Lane scanned the horizon, “Where’s Canada, sir?”
Robertson felt something wet and warm creeping down his face, he touched just above his lips, and he looked down to see his fingertips painted in dark red blood. “Well, shit,” the skipper murmured. “Sound general quarters.”
Wardroom, USS Telesforo Trinidad (DDG-139)
Puget Sound, WA
Lieutenant Commander L.N. Miyake, USN
Executive Officer, USS Telesforo Trinidad (DDG-139)
0834 Local JUNE 4, 2042
Lieutenant Commander Miyake pressed a bag of frozen peas to his forehead. He had the headache of all headaches. He could feel his pulse in his eyeballs. He was seated in the wardroom along with the department heads, the command master chief, and the captain. Commander Robertson looked like a walrus, with two wads of cotton shoved up his nose.
About half the crew had been hit with massive nosebleeds. The rest had the worst hangovers for the best party they never attended. They had been pulled off general quarters by a lasflash from Tubman, but still had no idea what was happening.
He’d been on the Trinidad for a week. He didn’t know everything, but he knew these people were professionals, almost all stone-cold Slate Navy axe-draggers—and they were scared. Frazzled in a way that Lane recognized. He’d been a flag aide at PACFLT when Second Sino had popped off in March of 2037; he had seen a similar muted mix of panic, fear, and determination at Makalapa that awful day when the sky fell.
“So, folks what’s the damage?” Robertson sighed as he looked out the window, out to the disquieting paradise outside. It had been about twenty minutes, but he already looked twenty years older.
The ship’s doctor went first, “Lots of scrapes, headaches, and bloody noses. Two broken arms, and a dislocated shoulder, sir. Plus, some lacerations. My orderly got a damn scalpel impaled in her hand. Nothing permanent, at least from what I can see; we probably need CT scans though.”
“Well, as things go, that isn’t too bad, Doc.” Robertson paused for a second. He squinted, “How the hell did Valley stab herself?”
“She didn’t, sir.” Doc groused, a non-alcoholic Natty Light pressed to his skull, “The damn scalpel went all Betelgeuse and flew across the G-damn compartment and hit her in the hand when she was getting an Icy-Hot out o’the cabinet.”
Robertson just sighed into the table, “The fuck did you do to Shaq, Doc?”
“Think he might have done more than just that, sir.” Chimed in the ship’s CHENG. “I saw a wrench levitate for like thirty seconds.” She shook her head and scoffed. “This is fucked. I didn’t sign up for Criss Angel Mindfreak, sir.”
Mason rubbed his temples, his face contorting, trying to process everything, “Was the fog laced with LSD? Are we tripping balls?”
“Sniffers would have picked that up, sir,” Lane replied.
The commander shot Lane a pained glare, “I was being rhetorical, XO.” He gutturally exhaled, “Fuck.” He turned toward the ship’s communications chief, “Comms, we heard anything since the lasflash from Moses?”
“N-no. No, sir.” The lieutenant was green, and he was really rattled. “Only Tubman and Redwood are radiating, and no one is squawking. Satcom is still toast, as is astro-nav. Mag-nav is giving a ballpark, but the computer is crying misalignment and giving an error code for a major system fault. We’re in the dark, sir. Moses said hold until the conference wraps.”
Robertson shifted his body in Lane’s direction. “Miyake, you spent time under the Old Lady on Majuro, right?” Lane nodded, “How many times did she call a council of war with all her squadron commanders?”
Lane thought for a moment and was flooded with memories. He started his career as a real Corpo Navy type—proper Annapolis stock. That had changed after he was sent to work on the operations staff of Battle Force, Allied Fleet on Majuro in April of 2037. The atoll had been the forward-most main operating base in the Combined Pacific Command and was dominated by Slate Navy types after Scott was brought out of OCP in the wake of the worst defeat in US Navy history. It was a liminal space—a paradise with perpetual intermediate-range-ballistic precipitation—an ever-shifting sea of faces, ships, and units.
“Twice,” Miyake paused, “when she first arrived in theatre, and the night before Second Trench. Otherwise, it wasn’t her style. She usually preferred to—Oh—” He paused again. He gathered what Robertson was intimating. “It means it’s really bad.”
Robertson sighed, “That’s what I thought. I don’t even know what worse than…” He indicated out the porthole, “…could possibly even entail. But we’re in the suck now, so just keep lookouts ready and keep our ears and eyes open. And let me know if astro-nav or mag-nav starts working,” He sighed again as he looked up at Lane, “What a week, huh?”
Lane returned a blank stare, “Sir, it’s Wednesday.”
Hangar, USS Telesforo Trinidad (DDG-139)
Puget Sound, WA
Commander Mason Robertson, USN
Commander, USS Telesforo Trinidad (DDG-139)
1214 Local JUNE 4, 2042
Mason Robertson watched the HV-29N Albatross on approach to Trinidad’s landing deck. The quad-tiltrotor was chugging along; its four engines rotated for landing. It was normally reserved for intra-fleet COD from the carrier or the fleet support ships. It was one of the many children of the V-280 Valor. It was a reliable workhorse and a relatively new design, but the V-35 Thunderbird tiltjet was slowly replacing it. This Albie was not hunting subs; it was ferrying something much more valuable, DESRON 21’s commodore. That made his skin crawl. In-person briefings were never a good thing.
A moment after the light-grey QTR came to rest and was fastened to the ship, two figures clambered out from its forward hatch. The first was whom Robertson was expecting—the lanky figure, aged caramel skin, curled school-board-chalk hair, and class-A RBF of Commodore Milton “WR” Wójcik-Robinson. But following the Tallest Little Beaver was someone who caused Mason’s eyebrow to go crooked—the bald, squat form of a demon hidden in man-flesh. The fuck is Chucky Jeung doing here?
Before Mason could salute, WR had extended his hand, forcing the skipper into a rapid, awkward salute-to-shake. “Maso,” WR never called Mason by his nickname, “We need to have a conversation with your wardroom. All of them.” Mason suppressed the urge to go bug-eyed. Oh, so it’s even worse than I thought.
“Of course, Dubber, sir,” Mason replied. Wójcik-Robinson grinned at his old moniker. “And, uhhhh, Commodore Jeung, wasn’t expecting you, sir.”
Charles Entertainment Jeung was the ur-battle cat. The renowned Slate Navy bomb-thrower, one of Kill Something Scott’s most infamous protégés, and the commodore of ESCRON 8 attached to the Long Beach SAG. That combination would be lethal for most officers—Jeung was not most officers. The short, bald, rotund Korean-American sharpshooter Olympian made quite the odd pair with the spindly, grouchy Little Beaver.
“Neither was I, Robbo.” Of course, he got Mason's name wrong. “They put me on the wrong bird—but think of me as an independent authority.” He smirked; he was always smirking. Even when Carl Jeung frowned, his eyes were filled with mischievousness.
Mason held back from rolling his eyes until he turned around and snapped his fingers at the petty officer nearest the intercom: “Mackenzie, call forward and assemble the wardroom.” Mason turned back to Wójcik-Robinson and Jeung: “Gentlemen if you’ll please follow me.”
As the three officers darted through passageways and up and down ladders, Maso clocked a massive smile on WR. “How are you liking the refit? Mare Island did a good job on her.”
“Damn right, sir. Can’t complain a lick.” Mason answered as he sprang up a ladder, “The new turbines are slick, the Super SPY-6 is a leap forward, and the new SEWIP V is mean, and a damn sight prettier than getting jowls on the ole gal. Shame we had to cut our PD armament by half even with a fresh Duracal superstructure, but them’s the break—but shit, even then, we’ve got enough dakka to hold our own against a Perc heavy aviation brigade.”
“Dakka Doctrine don’t pull punches, Commander. What they’d leave you with?” WR inquired politely.
“We got the Hitman Mark 47 upfront plus a pair of Ip-Doo and Phalanxes each. We also kept four PDCs—Mare Island let us keep ‘em cus Jan Murelenski—”
The commodore interrupted. “That long-haired hipster, the wanna-be hippy?”
“The one! Yeah, he owes me a favor, so technically, we don’t have any 50-mike-mikes on paper.”
WR was smiling. “You know, I thought you were always a stick in the mud; glad to see I was wrong.” He loved few things more than the tactical acquisition of additional firepower. “I saw you got two Boxls and a pair of ADLs?”
“Aye, but it’s a quartet of Marks 145s—they wanted to downgun us to the two cell Mark 146s off a Connie but uh—
“Jan from admin came in the clutch with ‘waivers’ from on-high?”
Maso reflected the grin that had just moments prior been fired at him by WR’s pearly whites. “Yessir. It makes me feel like the captain of the Weevee in ‘44.” WR’s mouth curled in displeasure. It was barely perceptible but sent a shiver down Maso’s spine.
“You know my first command was a Flight III. Sam Nunn.” WR stopped cold for a second. She went down at First Trench.” A pained grimace bubbled up. " I lost a lot of good friends that day.”
Maso looked back at the commodore, reflecting that sorrowful look, “We all did, sir.”
“I miss passageways like these.” WR continued, “You lose something on the Slate Navy Babies, too damn clean. They feel as if the Amish Spock built Ikea.” That analogy didn’t land with Mason, but he kept chugging toward their destination.
The wardroom was filled to the brim; almost every seat was taken by a warm body, and there were plenty of people standing, including a few hanging just outside the hatch in the passageway. There was a palpable air of anxiety, and that stirred up something in Robertson. Half of these people had been on Trinidad longer than him, another quarter came aboard with him, and the rest had seen their share of combat elsewhere in the fleet. They were not unblooded, but they were not unafraid.
WR and Jeung walked into the compartment and were met with confused looks. The room fell deathly silent, like an awkward funeral. WR cleared his throat, which caused a butter bar to almost jump, “Commander Robertson, you’re going to want to sit for this one too.” Mason traded looks with Ops for a second but kept on his feet. Wójcik-Robinson took a breath and shared a look with Jeung. “Folks—I…” His voice faltered immediately, “I think we’re all used to living through history, but…” He faltered. He searched for the words to proceed. The hairs on Mason’s arms stood up like tentpoles.
“Commodore,” Mason interjected, “Permission to speak freely?”
WR looked relieved. “Of course. And that goes for all of you. Dispense with the pleasantries. I’m here for real talk.”
Mason took a breath, “Stop beating around the bush and just drop the bomb, sir.”
WR covered his mouth with the crook of his hand, making his mind up before he continued, “We just got dropkicked two thousand miles across the Pacific and a hundred years into the past.” His voice didn’t falter once in that insanity. He had said it all without a hint of irony or sarcasm. Mason looked into his eyes and saw wells of alarm and tension like he almost didn’t believe what he had said. No, he didn’t want to believe it. Mason took a gulp of air.
“Fuck you, Milly.” Mason whipped his head around to see his Master Chief not even looking up from his cup of coffee. He was old salt stuff, knew Wójcik-Robinson from back in First Sino, and obviously was having none of it today.
“Benicio, I ain’t pulling your leg,” WR replied. “I wish I was. We are through the goddamn looking glass. And you know, if I wanted to jerk you off—I would’ve brought sandpaper.” The chief snorted dismissively but said nothing.
Mason started blinking rapidly, “This isn’t a joke?” He scoffed defensively, “It isn’t even possible.” His words were peppered by nervous looks to either side, hoping to find supportive faces. The rest of the wardroom was still, silent—processing.
Jeung sighed, “Yeah, we’ll we’re here. No sats in the sky, even the fuckin’ stars are in the wrong place. We’ve got radar contacts that the super-Clippy on the Tub has ID’d as WW2-spec, and our hummers have used their AQM-205s to get us P-ID on the god-damned fuckin’ Kido Butai, Mason.” Jeung sternly enunciated the end of his sentence; his voice reverberated through the silent compartment. “The Old Lady doesn’t fuck around. She isn’t fucking around now. This is real.”
So, that’s why astro-nav has been fucked.
A light bulb clearly went off in Miyake’s head, “Wait, sir, one-hundred years back… Kido Butai… is it still June 4th? June 4th… 1942?” The entire wardroom snapped their heads toward Miyake before snapping back toward the commodores.
There was not a moment’s respite. “Yep,” Jeung answered flatly. For once in his life, he wasn’t smirking. His eyes were calm, piercing, and unflinching in their seriousness.
Fuck. Mason stumbled backward and planted his ass on a tabletop. Half of him wanted to laugh at this nonsense; the other half wanted to hurl.
One of the wardroom tried to speak up, “So does that mean—”
“Yep,” Wójcik-Robinson interrupted. He took a gulp of air and ran a hand over his hair, “We’re about one-hundred-fifty nautical miles northeast of the Battle of Midway.”
The entire wardroom had one response to that, “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck.”
Mason’s mind raced with scattered, fragmented thoughts. Kids. Lucy. Mom. Dad. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He raised a curled fist over his mouth. He felt the shifting motion of the ship now more than ever. His eyes widened and twisted in shock. He looked up at WR, who just gave him a hollowed, somber look.
Mason’s voice exited his lips with a harshness he had not heard in years; his eyes narrowed, and his heart steadied, “So, what the fuck is the plan, sir?” He needed to stop himself from spiraling, at least for now.
Jeung spoke up, “Wasps are in the air. They’re going to provide CAP to Yorktown. If things go well, the Old Lady wants a strike against the IJN today.” He frowned, “We will operate under the assumption there is no back, only forward.”
WR continued where Jeung left off, “We’ve been dealt a harsh hand by… only God knows what, but we’re going to play the best of it. We can do a lot of good, a historical amount of good. So, that’s what we’re gonna do. In good order and in keeping with the highest traditions of the Navy and Fleet Force.” There was quiet. Everyone was still processing the hammer blows. WR forced a smile, “Shit’s fucked. We’re going to do what we do best and unfuck it, just a little a bit.”
The ship’s greenest butter bar spoke up, “Sir, more of a question than a comment, but how are we really sure that this has actually happened?”
Main Bridge, USS Telesforo Trinidad (DDG-139)
Approx. 275 NMI North of Ellice Islands
Commander Mason Robertson, USN, CERFOR
Commander, USS Telesforo Trinidad (DDG-139)
0803 Local DEC 20, 1942
The skies of the South Pacific were a marbled grey, and the water was wine-dark. A strong breeze whipped up foamy white caps on all the waves. USS Telesforo Trinidad rocked with those waves but continued to charge ahead. Commander Robertson’s eyes were locked on an object off in the distance. Everyone on the bridge was staring out to sea in reverent silence.
It had been thirteen days since twenty-thousand Allied sailors had been sent to the bottom with most of the Gennie carrier fleet. They’d been joined by twenty-thousand Japanese sailors. Thirteen American and Japanese carriers had gone down within an hour, five with all hands. That blood had finally broken the seven seals. The ghosts of futures past had been unleashed.
A Certain Force, what the fuck kind of name is that?
Mason watched as the scarred, charred hull of USS Enterprise (CV-6) charged through rough seas, the last operational General Forces carrier in the Pacific. The Big E had gotten brief repairs at Espiritu Santo, along with a new complement of aircraft and aircrew stitched together from the remnants of seven carrier air groups. Her train of escorts was dwarfed by the ships of the CTF. Robertson was watching as the Flying Dutchmen joined their procession of vengeance.
He was struck at once by how quaint the legendary flattop was in comparison to the fleet’s supercarriers, the USS Doris Miller (CVN-81), USS Harriet Tubman (CVCN-84), and USS Okinawa (LPVN-29). Her teak flight deck was only partially repaired, and her gun line was partially out of action. Enterprise had the shit beaten out of her, yet she was in much better shape than USS Essex (CV-9) or USS Saratoga (CV-3); they were being towed to Pearl, escorted by the battered remnants of Battle Force Tare and the HMS Agincourt, a ship that did not exist in the history that Mason knew.
Robertson turned and looked at his XO, “Whatcha listening to Lemonade?” Mason briefly cocked his head before his XO could reply, “You know what? Hit the aux, might as well drop a beat.” He smiled and returned to staring at the Enterprise, “Your taste in music is just about the only taste of yours that isn’t fucked.”
Lieutenant Commander Lane Miyake turned on the balls of his feet, a smile wide on his face, his last lemon of the morning consumed, and a single Bluetooth headphone in his ear. “Oh, you know how I like oldies, skipper.” He hooked his phone into the 1MC, already jury-rigged with an aux cord. A moment later, the main circuit echoed over their grim surroundings, the voice of Kesha dissonantly radiating over the dark waters and grisly sky.
“I hear your heart beat to the beat of the drums; Oh, what a shame that you came here with someone; So while you're here in my arms.”
A pair of F-27 Blackcats roared overhead. The huge arrowhead-shaped stealth sixth-generation air-dominance fighters shrieked. Their adaptive cycle engines glowed a soft blue-white. The wails of the jets grew distant as they cut up through the clouds like blackened spearpoints jutting into elephant flesh. Mason took a deep breath as he shook his head gently. His mind drifted back to his home, his family—all that had been lost. He silently looked over the Pacific and the force that could shatter the Hosts of Heaven that lay in front of his eyes. The slight hint of a smile creased his face, pained with sorrow.
Gibraltar of the Pacific, eh?
“Let's make the most of the night like we're gonna die young.”
Mason looked, and he saw a black banner with thirty-five stars. Emblazoned on the tenebrous standard were eight words in stark white that echoed across the water like a shattering seal. It whipped through the air, dancing on the harsh wind—fluttering off the island of the USS Harriet Tubman (CVCN-84).
DEATH TO THE MASTER
GLORY TO THE SLAVE
What does CVCN Designate, I'm familiar with CVN but the extra C is new, at least to me
AAV: The first vignette deserves a comment. Here it is. Good stuff.