"Wait, sothing is missing."
Mira hovered her finger over the holographic interface. She stared at the two lonely crimson dots representing the Bismarck and the Prinz Eugen on the nautical chart. She frowned. "Sending two World War II-era ships against a modern escort fleet led by a Zumwalt? The firepower output is asymtrical. This won't be fun."
Regardless of the Bismarck's legendary status, it remained a World War II battleship. Its massive main gun caliber ant nothing against the beyond-visual-range missile capabilities of modern destroyers. Even with the baseline Siren enhancents applied to the mass-produced hulls, going head-to-head with Arleigh Burke-class vessels and a Zumwalt was a coin toss at best. It would fail to deliver the overwhelming intensity she craved. It would lack the necessary punch.
[Mira, shall I supplent the fleet with mass-produced escort destroyers and cruisers? I can simultaneously deploy the Admiral Hipper and Scharnhorst battlecruisers to establish a complete Iron Blood combat formation.] The Builder instantly provided a tactical optimization plan. Strings of warship paraters reflected in her golden eyes.
"No." Mira shook her head. She scrolled rapidly through the database until her finger stopped over a striking line of text. The malicious grin returned to her lips. "If I am going to escalate, I am going to drop a hamr. You cannot stage a historical versus modern naval battle without an aircraft carrier."
The paraters hovered on the screen: [KMS Graf Zeppelin. Aircraft carrier. Standard displacent: 24,500 tons. Full load: 31,367 tons. Designed airwing capacity: 42 carrier-based aircraft. Main armant: eight twin 150mm SK C/28 naval/anti-aircraft guns...]
The Graf Zeppelin was the only aircraft carrier ever launched by the German Navy. Though she was never completed before the war ended—let alone officially commissioned—she remained an iconic "what if" of naval history alongside the Bismarck.
Using the Bismarck, the Prinz Eugen, and the Graf Zeppelin to form an enhanced Operation Rhine raiding fleet and slamming them into Arica's bleeding-edge escort formation? Now that was entertainnt.
"Builder, initiate production of the mass-produced KMS Graf Zeppelin." Mira snapped her fingers, her voice sharp with excitent. "Lock the airwing configuration to -262 jet fighters and navalized Stuka torpedo bombers. Overhaul the fire control radar, hull armor plating, and propulsion systems to Siren mass-production standards. Deploy her alongside the Bismarck and the Prinz Eugen."
[Command verified. KMS Graf Zeppelin production and parater optimization complete. Carrier-based airwing initialized,] The Builder responded instantly. [Shall I retain the deploynt coordinates in the Denmark Strait?]
"No." Mira shook her head. She tapped a point on the holographic map just above a deep-sea trench near the exit of the Denmark Strait. "Open a spatial portal. Drop all three ships simultaneously. Folding space from the New York Mirror Sea into the North Atlantic should be easy for us."
[Acknowledged. No technical constraints detected. Spatial folding channel constructed. Coordinates locked. The three vessels have entered the transit sequence.]
The mont The Builder spoke, three massive, light-blue spatial rifts ignited deep within the waters of the Denmark Strait on the holographic map. The boundless, obsidian water of the Mirror Sea surged through the portals. Seconds later, three leviathans of steel breached into the North Atlantic, tearing through the modern waves.
The Bismarck spearheaded the formation. Her massive hull and sharp geotric lines cut an imposing silhouette. The four twin 380mm main gun turrets rotated in synchronized unison toward the southwest. In the heavy North Atlantic fog, the cold steel muzzles practically glowed.
Trailing close behind, the Prinz Eugen sliced through the surf. The heavy cruiser's streamlined hull rode the wake, its secondary batteries and anti-aircraft guns cycling into standby mode.
Occupying the rearguard was the massive flight deck of the Graf Zeppelin. Neatly arranged across the tarmac sat -262 jet fighters and naval Stuka bombers—all heavily modified by Siren technology. Their wings were folded. Torpedoes and heavy aerial bombs clung to their underbellies. They were fully fueled and ready for launch.
Two warships that belonged to the history books, and one that never saw battle, materialized seventy years later in the North Atlantic, resurrected and weaponized by the Antix System.
[All three vessels successfully deployed. Current velocity: 30 knots. Heading: Southwest. Estimated ti to intercept the USS Hornet formation: 1 hour and 47 minutes. All weapon systems hold maximum charge. Fire control radars have achieved target lock. The airwing is preheated and awaiting launch authorization.]
"Perfect."
Mira whistled at the real-ti teletry feeding across her screen. With a flick of her wrist, the holographic display fractured. It projected the steering interface, fire control reticles, and real-ti external cara feeds across the massive projector screen on her ceiling. In an instant, her living room was transford into an imrsive, third-person HUD ripped straight out of World of Warships.
She grabbed her controller off the sofa. Her fingers blurred across the buttons, seamlessly mapping the warship commands to the gapad. She curled back into her beanbag chair, hugging The Builder tight to her chest. She looked exactly like a teenage gaming addict pulling an all-nighter.
"This is incredible. Early access to World of Warships," Mira laughed, shaking the controller. She pushed the left thumbstick, adjusting the Bismarck's heading, while her right thumb cycled through the Graf Zeppelin's airwing squadrons. "You know, players back ho used to call the devs 'Belarusian YS' for constantly ssing up the ta. It feels way better to pilot the real steel yourself instead of dealing with their garbage balancing. Iron Blood supremacy!"
[Mira, the kinetic command logic has been successfully mapped to your controller. You possess full-dinsional control. Target fleet teletry is actively syncing, including formation geotry, weapon statuses, and crew distribution,] The Builder narrated in her flat, monotone voice, playing the role of a dedicated gaming assistant. [The Bismarck's primary batteries are loaded and hold firing clearance. The Graf Zeppelin's -262 and Stuka squadrons can achieve full launch within ten seconds. The Prinz Eugen is operating under maximum anti-air alert.]
"Patience." Mira smiled. She mapped a command to kill all external navigation lights across her fleet. Taking advantage of the thickening North Atlantic fog, the three leviathans slipped silently toward the USS Hornet. "Let them sweat first. The second we cross into main gun range, we deliver the punchline."
She zood the tactical cara. The USS Hornet fleet formation rendered in crystal clarity. The Zumwalt pushed the vanguard. The three Arleigh Burke-class destroyers flanked the periter. The Hornet sat perfectly anchored in the center of the kill box. It looked like a high-value VIP escort mission just waiting to be ruined.
Mira plotted her opening moves. She would use the Graf Zeppelin's Stuka bombers to overwhelm their point-defense systems. The -262 jets would establish air superiority and shred any scrambled intercept helicopters. Once the sky was clear, the Bismarck's 380mm main guns would systematically blind the Zumwalt's weapon modules, while the Prinz Eugen pinned down the flanking destroyers.
The strategy was simple: perfectly recreate the carnage of the Denmark Strait and throw Fury's fleet into absolute anarchy.
She wasn't trying to sink them. She just wanted to ruin HYDRA's mutiny, give Nick Fury a stress-induced ulcer, and cure her boredom. As long as the hulls stayed afloat, everything else was fair ga.
Entering the combat zone.
anwhile, on the North Atlantic.
Inside the bridge of the USS Hornet, the atmosphere was suffocating.
Gale-force winds and crashing waves hamred the hull. A dense, blinding sea fog pressed against the reinforced glass. Visibility had plumted to under one nautical mile. The rhythmic thud of the ocean striking the bow offered the only ambient noise, but the silence inside the command center was deafening.
Nick Fury stood rigid at the tactical console. His single eye locked onto the primary radar screen. A deep scowl carved lines into his face. An inexplicable irritability coiled in his chest. Goosebumps erupted across his arms and the back of his neck.
He felt hunted. The sensation of being watched from the dark was overwhelming.
He had ordered the radar and sonar technicians to sweep the grid three separate tis. The surrounding ocean was dead. There were no anomalous signals. No rogue submarines. Not even a stray comrcial trawler.
Yet the phantom pressure in his chest refused to lift. It felt like a physical weight pressing against his ribs, making it difficult to breathe.
"Director, you have been glaring at the scope for thirty minutes," Natasha said. She stepped up beside him and handed him a mug of black coffee. Her voice was level. "All early-warning systems read green. Sonar, active radar, and satellite teletry confirm a three-hundred-nautical-mile sterile zone. Our escort is the apex configuration of the Atlantic Fleet. Even a Russian Akula-class sub couldn't breach this net undetected."
Fury took the mug but didn't drink. He shook his head. "No. Sothing is fundantally wrong. Romanoff, you have been in the field long enough to recognize the instinct. When the air feels wrong, sothing is wrong. The absence of evidence does not an the absence of a threat."
Fury had survived the Cold War and climbed to the absolute zenith of S.H.I.E.L.D. by trusting that paranoid intuition. Right now, that intuition was screaming at him. Catastrophe was imminent.
"I understand," Natasha replied with a short nod. She analyzed the radar screen. A faint crease ford between her brows. "This fog is highly anomalous. teorological command predicted clear skies and minimal swells three hours ago. Now we are blind past a nautical mile. OTH radar is experiencing localized static, and our satellite uplinks are stuttering. This is not natural oceanic weather."
The heavy steel doors of the bridge hissed open. The lead dical officer marched over to Fury's station.
"Director. Captain Rogers' biotrics hold steady. His core temperature is climbing at zero-point-two degrees per hour. We project full consciousness within forty-eight hours. The resuscitation protocols are prid. We foresee zero complications."
"Acknowledged. Do not take your eyes off him. I want zero surprises," Fury ordered, his tone leaving no room for debate.
Captain Arica was the beating heart of the Avengers Initiative. The asset could not be compromised. It was the sole reason he had requisitioned the Zumwalt as an escort.
As the doctor exited, Fury returned his gaze to the radar.
"Broadcast a fleet-wide Level Two alert," Fury barked. "Warm up all weapon systems. Double the surface and air watches. Push the active sonar to maximum gain. If a damn seal breaches the surface, I want to know about it."
"Yes, sir!" The communications officer relayed the encrypted orders instantly.
None of the crew realized they were scanning the wrong grid. The threat was not lurking beneath the waves.
The Graf Zeppelin's -262 jet fighters had already breached the periter. Cloaked by the unnatural fog, they circled in the clouds high above the fleet, feeding real-ti teletry back to a teenage girl lounging in a Queens apartnt.
Simultaneously, beneath the decks of the modern warships, the HYDRA sleeper cells moved under the cover of the deteriorating weather to execute their coup.
Deep inside the Zumwalt's weapon control center, the tactical officer—a deep-cover HYDRA loyalist—quietly recalibrated the naval gun targeting algorithms. He keyed his encrypted throat mic.
"The Hornet's bridge is painted. We have a firing solution ready. The mont the fog thickens to zero visibility, we initiate the strike. We take Steve Rogers and deliver him to Pierce."
"Copy that," a voice crackled back. "The assault team on the Hornet is stacked on the dical bay. We breach on your signal."
"Move fast and execute. Do not give Fury a chance to breathe. S.H.I.E.L.D. will never see this coming. They actually believe this is their fleet."
They thought their mutiny was a flawless masterpiece. They had no idea that The Builder was intercepting their encrypted channels and pasting their dialogue as subtitles across Mira Vale's gaming HUD.
Mira read the synchronized text on her ceiling. She let out a cold sneer.
Her left thumb slamd the joystick, pivoting the Bismarck's crosshairs until they locked dead center onto the Zumwalt's weapon control room.
"You want to launch a mutiny? Let's see if my 380mm main guns approve your request."
Her index finger squeezed the right trigger. The grin on her face was predatory.
Out in the blinding fog of the North Atlantic, the four massive turrets of the Bismarck elevated in perfect unison.
The Iron Blood had arrived.
Now Get The FULL AVAILABLE NOVEL at Once!
@patreon/Authorizz/shop
User Comments
0 comments from readers