January 14, 1641

Artticus Ocean

Carrier Strike Group 12, US Navy Seventh Fleet

USS Gerald R. Ford

 

Admiral Hawthorne entered the Combat Information Center with the measured pace of routine. The hum of operations filled the space, officers and crew executing their duties following the aftermath of the Fourth Conquest Fleet’s retreat. With a lack of air cover, capital ships disabled, flagship crippled, and main force on the run, it was now time to clean up the seas. Today’s agenda included establishing a secure line to the battered remnants of the Fourth Conquest Fleet for surrender discussions. Hawthorne didn’t expect for the main force to turn back around and hoist a white flag for them, but removing the leadership and a chunk of their manpower was solid enough.

 

Commander Gutierrez approached, confirming the imminent readiness of the communication setup. “Encryption protocols are in place, Admiral. We’ll be ready to initiate contact shortly.”

 

Hawthorne acknowledged with a brief nod as he surveyed the final checks. The fleeing Fourth Conquest Fleet was a bit of an annoyance, but nothing that DESRON 15 and the Runepolis Fleet couldn’t handle. 

 

“Admiral, the channel to the GVS Bootes is open,” announced the communication officer.

 

Hawthorne stepped forward. “Put me through, Lieutenant.” He took a breath. “Let’s conclude this matter.”

 

Fleet Admiral Mirkenses’ voice filled the room. “Admiral Hawthorne, we’re at your discretion.”

 

Her voice came as a bit of a surprise; intelligence had suspected that the Fourth Conquest Fleet was led by a female admiral, but it was still jarring to have it confirmed. It was an unusually progressive characteristic that he didn’t expect out of the Gra Valkas Empire, but it likely went to show how competent Mirkenses was as an officer. And, judging from her quick surrender, it seemed that she did at least understand how futile fighting was.

 

“Fleet Admiral Mirkenses, your forces will stand down and disarm. Coordinates and timing for the disarmament and your formal surrender will follow,” Hawthorne stated, laying out the initial terms.

 

Mirkenses responded without hesitation. “Understood. We will comply.”

 

Hawthorne turned to Commander Gutierrez. “Detail the disarmament coordinates.”

 

Gutierrez stepped forward, relaying the specifics, “Designated coordinates for disarmament have been transmitted. Disarmament commences at 1500 hours this afternoon. Ensure all weapon systems are deactivated and flagged.”

 

Hawthorne continued, “Following disarmament, your personnel will be secured as prisoners of war. We’re coordinating with our allies for the detention facilities. Expect humane treatment in line with our standard operating procedures.”

 

The conversation shifted to logistics, with Lieutenant Commander Shukla providing the logistical framework. “Your wounded will receive immediate medical attention. A list of all personnel, including the wounded, must be provided prior to the transfer.”

 

Mirkenses agreed, “We’ll prepare the lists.” A short pause followed, then a question. “What about our rescue operations?” 

 

“Continue your operations. We’ll oversee and assist as needed,” Hawthorne stated.

 

Commander Tanaka, the staff judge advocate, then interjected with legal formalities. “We’ll need your formal surrender declaration transmitted within the hour. This will include a full inventory of your assets and armaments.”

 

“Understood,” Mirkenses replied, the fate of her fleet sealed with her words.

 

“Maintain this secure channel open for further instructions,” Hawthorne concluded, signaling for the communications officer to keep the line active.

 

As the connection muted, Hawthorne faced his crew. “Prepare for disarmament oversight. Coordinate with our EDI allies for the POW transition.”

 

Gutierrez spoke up, “Perimeter’s being set up as we speak. The Mirishials know the drill; we’ve danced this dance before. The Valorous and Burnhearth are on approach. Their skippers seem eager, almost too eager.”

 

A smirk tugged at Hawthorne’s lips. The Mirishial forces at Junnaral have been almost completely dismantled by the Gra Valkans. It wasn’t a surprise that they’d be excited to see to their surrender. Lord knows what he’d do if someone bombed New York, then was handed to him on a silver platter. “Eagerness in allies isn’t a vice, Commander. But keep them on a short leash. We don’t want to make surrender down the line a less desirable choice for the Gra Valkans.”

 

Shukla was next, tapping away at his tablet like it held the secrets of the universe. “Admiral, disarmament’s on track, but this resupply… it’s gonna be tight. There’s a chance Otaheit and/or Mykal are gonna be SOL by the time we get there.”

 

Hawthorne nodded, the fact not lost on him. It sure as hell was going to be tight, he just had to hope that the seas were favorable and the Muans would hold on for long enough. “Make it work, Shukla. If a bonus for every sailor in this fleet is what it’ll take, then so be it. And with how much the current administration values the Muans, it would probably be a small price to pay.”

“Sir.” Shukla left to carry out Hawthorne’s orders.

 

All around him, the crew continued their work. As they began processing Mirkenses’ surrender, he began to prepare for a briefing on the Muan situation. He glanced at Tanaka, who seemed busy as ever. In operations like these, the devil was always in the details, and Tanaka had a knack for taming those devils. He could leave it in his capable hands.

 

Finished with overseeing the surrender procedures, Hawthorne knew his next immediate task was to report back home. The partial defeat of the Fourth Conquest Fleet essentially meant that the Mirishient continent was now mostly secured. It also represented a significant, almost capitulation-worthy loss for the Gra Valkas Empire. Why the Gra Valkans have not surrendered yet was a mystery he couldn’t fathom, nor was it a mystery he currently had to worry about.

 

Within the hour, his staff had arranged a secure video conference with the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations back in the States. He stood before the main screen in the ship’s conference room, surrounded by key officers, waiting for the connection to be established. 

 

As the screen flickered to life, Hawthorne wasted no time. “Good day, sir,” he began, addressing the CNO and his staff, “We’ve just concluded a significant engagement with the Gra Valkan Navy’s Fourth Conquest Fleet. Most of their capital ships have been neutralized, and the remaining forces have initiated a retreat. We’re dispatching DESRON 15 to pursue.”

 

He continued, detailing key aspects of the report: the successful disarmament and surrender negotiations, coordination with the EDI, and numbers like expended assets and enemy casualties. “UNREP should take four days at most. We’re estimated to be in range of Otaheit and Mykal within 11 days; by January 25.”

 

The CNO nodded, more interested in the transit estimates than the details of the battle which, to be fair, were rather expected. “Understood. Good work, Admiral. Keep us posted with any updates.”

– –

Ragna, Gra Valkas Empire

 

Chief of Naval Operations Arnalt Karlmann rubbed his face with his hands, sighing. The weariness of war weighed on him more than any physical burden. He should have never supported Marix. But he did. And now, his hands were stained with the blood of tens of thousands more men.

 

As the door to the briefing room creaked open, he straightened up in an attempt to mask his concern. A stream of personnel filed in, the room filling up quickly. Every seat was taken, and some officers leaned on the walls, their attention fixed on Karlmann.

 

He glanced at the clock on the wall, then looked away. If he had stared at it any longer, he probably would’ve gone insane, or at the very least looked the part. Clearing his throat, he prepared to address the room. What could he say about the Fourth Conquest Fleet’s surrender, which happened almost immediately after the complete surrender of the Fifth Conquest Fleet? There were no excuses, only regret.

 

This was no briefing; it was a reckoning, a moment to confront the hard truths of their situation. Chancellor Marix finally strolled in, head held high like he expected a good report. Oh, how disappointed he would be. Oh, how disappointed Karlmann already was in Marix’s leadership, and in himself, for believing in Marix to begin with. As the last whispers died down, he took a deep breath.

 

He stood up and began, “At 0900 hours local time, the Fourth Conquest Fleet faced… an unprecedented assault. Initial long-range missile strikes decimated its carrier group, followed by a systematic dismantling of the fleet’s remaining fighter aircraft. After achieving air superiority, the Americans sent another missile strike targeting our capital ships. All 25 Cygnus-class carriers and 9 Pegasus-class carriers were lost, alongside several battleships and supply ships. The surviving Pegasus-class carrier is severely compromised. Most of the fleet remains intact, but the Fourth Conquest Fleet no longer can project any air power.”

The silence was loud. The officers, each grappling with the scale of the defeat, showed a mix of shock and disbelief on their faces. Some exchanged incredulous looks, while others simply nodded, the news confirming what they already knew. 

 

Whispers soon began to break the silence. “All Cygnus and Pegasus carriers? Impossible,” muttered one, shaking his head. Another murmured, “This is a disaster… We’ve made the Empire of Torellia surrender for less.”

 

General Siegs, sensing the growing unrest, raised a hand. The room fell quiet again. He nodded at Karlmann, signaling for him to continue.

 

Karlmann continued, “Given these developments, the Mirishient theater is closed; we do not have the ability to deploy any forces to the Mirishient continent. Neither technology nor numbers will work against the Americans. It is imperative we consider a strategic… recalibration.” He glanced over the room, appearing to gauge the audience’s reactions. Really, he wanted to see how Marix reacted.

 

His words hung in the air, his proposal of a recalibration echoing around the room. The officers exchanged uneasy glances. In their eyes, Karlmann read both the acknowledgement of the desperate situation and the lingering hope for a different course – the best they could currently obtain this far down the rabbit hole. 

 

Marix, however, reacted differently. His face twisted into a sneer, his eyes narrowing as he listened. When Karlmann finished, Marix stood up, his voice dripping with disdain. “A recalibration? Because of one fleet’s failure?” He shook his head, his tone mocking. “Let’s not forget, this was a girl leading our forces. What did we expect?”

 

Karlmann felt his face souring, an expression he had to tame. Mirkenses was a brilliant tactician on par with Caesar. Even in the male-dominated hierarchy of the Gra Valkan military, her talent alone proved enough to warrant such a high position. He wanted to shake his head at the blatant disrespect. At least Emperor Gra Lux could look past the veil to see the true value of people. That was a quality of a leader. Marix seemed to have no such qualities, instead playing on the pride of the Gra Valkan people. Karlmann crossed his arms, regretting further that he allowed himself to be played.

 

Murmurs of discomfort rippled through the room, the handful of women taking the most offense. Marix, oblivious or indifferent to the unrest, continued, “The Fourth Conquest Fleet’s surrender is unfortunate, but we needn’t overreact. It’s merely a setback. They bought us time, nothing more.”

 

General Siegs shifted in his seat. Marix, as deluded as he was, had just disrespected an entire fleet’s worth of men, dismissing their lives like nothing. He tried to interject, but Marix raised his hand, silencing him. “The Second and Third Fleets are still en route to Otaheit and Mykal. The Fourth Conquest Fleet did their job; the Americans cannot hope to save their Muan lapdogs in time.”

 

Karlmann addressed Marix’s bold declaration, speaking more to the room than to Marix, “ But Chancellor, what tactics do we expect the Second and Third Fleets to employ that the Fourth and Fifth did not? How will they succeed where they failed?”

 

Marix turned to Karlmann, eyes flashing with a mix of defiance and calculated risk. No, this was the look of a man with nothing to lose, caring only about chaos and devastation. “They will succeed in their sacrifice. They will lay waste to Muan infrastructure before they are overwhelmed. Our ground forces in Mu will complete their objectives long before the Americans can land enough troops to make a difference. It’s a war of attrition, and we have the logistical high ground.”

 

Karlmann exchanged a troubled look with Siegs. Both knew the reality of the situation, but Marix’s refusal to face it painted a grim picture for the future. That simple look exchanged the unspoken agreement they had come to understand: they could not allow Marix to continue driving the Gra Valkas Empire into the ground.