Author’s Note (Story and Patreon Updates):

I will release one free extra chapter for both Manifest Fantasy and Summoning America if any of the following milestones are met:
- RoyalRoad: 3,000 followers on Manifest Fantasy (2000/3000)
- Scribblehub: 1,300 followers on Manifest Fantasy (137/1300)
- r/HFY: 800 concurrent readers (based on average upvotes per chapter) (40/800)
- Patreon: $1,000/month creator income milestone (690/1000)

Note 2:

Chapter 174 is now out for all Tier 2 Patrons and higher! Tier 2 Patrons and higher will be able to read one chapter ahead!

Patreon

-- -- 

Artticus Ocean, off the coast of Junnaral

IGVN Fourth Conquest Fleet

Antares Squadron, VF-45 “Himmelsklingen”

 

As the gravity of the situation set in, Lieutenant Berndt ‘Eisenherz’ Konig gazed in disbelief at the burning carriers below. “By Valhalla, wir sind verloren,” he stammered into the comms, his voice laced with panic. “It is over. We’re doomed. They’ve taken out our carriers!”

 

“Keep it together, Eisenherz!” barked Captain Falk ‘Sturmfaust’ Rohrig. “This is exactly what they want – chaos and fear.” The words he spoke felt hollow in his own mouth; he knew Konig was right, but he didn’t know what else he could aside from keeping his men in line. 

 

First Lieutenant Lars ‘Nordwind’ Mullen interjected, “Captain, they’re not done. These Americans… they won’t leave the skies contested. They’re coming for us next!”

 

“Eject? Should we eject now?” Eisenherz’s voice cracked.

 

Nordwin continued, as if in support of Eisenherz’s panicked suggestions. “Captain, we can’t outmaneuver their missiles. We’ve heard what they can do. The Fifth Fleet is gone, with no losses on the American side. We need to get out of here.”

 

Fuck. He had no time to think. The waters below were cold – not freezing, but enough to result in hypothermia. There was no safe place to land, and no way to fight back. Would he prefer a slow death in the waters or risk a gruesome death at the fins or tentacles of a sea monster? Or would he prefer a fiery but quick death in his cockpit?

 

The other pilots in his squadron seemed to have the same uncertainties, with Eisenherz’s solution looking more enticing by the second. Hoping to at least buy some time, he asked Nordwind, “Have you heard of any maneuver we can pull off?”

 

“We can try diving, reducing altitude. The waves are rough; it might be enough to throw off –” Nordwind’s transmission was cut off, replaced with garble and static. 

 

American jamming. It could only mean one thing: an attack was imminent. He watched as Eisenherz ejected from his Antares. The coward immediately bailed as soon as they got jammed. He and the other pilots who had caught Nordwind’s explanation dove toward the surface. If the American missiles did rely on radar, then this would hopefully improve their chances of survival, if only marginally. 

 

He angled the nose of his Antares downward, his body becoming weightless for a moment before being pushed back into his seat as the dive picked up speed. Before he could even descend under a thousand meters, bright fireballs erupted around him followed by the muted sounds of explosions. It seemed Eisenherz, in his paranoia-induced cowardice, had made the right call.

 

The sheer velocity and precision of the missiles that struck them had left no room for the maneuverability of their Antares to make a significant difference. He instinctively jerked his plane left as he continued the dive. Not even a second after his comrades were shot down, a missile detonated almost a dozen meters behind his aircraft, slightly off to the side. The shockwave violently rattled the plane, fragments pelting the rear. He closed his eyes, accepting his fate. A couple seconds passed, but – nothing. He was still breathing. He didn’t feel any pain in his body. Was he dead?

 

He opened his eyes. No, he was not dead; neither was he even injured. The realization hit Sturmfaust like a thunderbolt. He was alive, miraculously unscathed. His heart pounded in his chest, echoing his bewildered relief. He sucked in a sharp breath as he rapidly assessed his situation. 

 

The Antares was in bad shape. The control panel flickered erratically, sensors completely wrecked by the missile. The right wing was basically gone, the aircraft groaning under his desperate attempts to stabilize it. It was futile. He knew what he had to do. Ejecting was his only chance.

 

With sheer force of will, Sturmfaust pushed aside the encroaching panic. He reached for the canopy release, a manual lever under his left hand. He wrestled against the G-forces, using up all his strength. With a hard yank, the canopy detached, opening the cabin to the roaring of wind as it was ripped away by the sheer velocity of the dive. 

 

Now, the seatbelt. His gloved fingers, numb from the adrenaline, fumbled briefly before releasing the harness that kept him secured in the plummeting aircraft. He glanced quickly at the falling planes of his squadron, disintegrating as they plunged toward the frigid, merciless ocean below. With a deep breath, he gathered every ounce of his resolve and grasped the edges of the cockpit. Then, with a quick burst of energy, he propelled himself out into the open sky, leaving the doomed aircraft behind.

 

The tail, once sleek and sturdy, was now a mangled mess of metal, its rudders obliterated by the missile’s impact. The wings were now asymmetrical, the right one almost completely shorn off, leaving jagged edges. Below him, the remains of his squadron’s planes fared far worse; twisted metal careening uncontrollably towards the ocean. Some were engulfed in flames, others eerily silent, but all suffering far more damage than his own. From the looks of it, the only survivors were likely him and Eisenherz.

 

As he cleared the tumbling wreckage, he grabbed the ripcord of his parachute. His heart raced as he plunged through the cold, thin air, the vast expanse of the ocean rushing up to meet him. The seconds before pulling the parachute felt like a lifetime. He yanked the cord, the parachute flowering open and tightly jerking him upward out of the freefall. Now, all he could do was hope that the fleet would spare a ship for rescue operations.

 

– –

 

Grade Atlastar-Class Battleship, GVS Bootes

 

The skies above burned – more literally than figuratively. Gleaming squadrons of Antares fighters, once the pride of the Gra Valkas Empire, were now cascading down in flames. Fireballs dotted the horizon, each one marking the brutal end of another plane, another pilot. Shimmering fleets of ships, once rulers of the high seas, were now rendered blind, deaf, and mute. The radio chatter had been cut off and the radar was now useless; American electronic warfare had ensured that. 

 

Fleet Admiral Mirkenses had studied enough reports and heard enough rumors to know what would happen next. Her fleet was nothing more than a set of large, vulnerable targets that had no way to fight back. She scanned the horizon for the inevitable flock of missiles.

 

“Admiral, visual assessment indicates complete annihilation of our Antares squadrons,” a junior officer reported.

 

Mirkenses stifled a sigh, feeling a tightening in her chest. It was as if every new report brought them closer to the edge of a precipice. Everything was falling apart, the situation becoming more unsalvageable, more fucked by the second. The loss of the Antares squadrons stripped them of crucial air cover; there would be no intercepting the missiles. They were now at the mercy of their ships’ anti-aircraft guns, a meager – almost useless – defense against the overwhelming onslaught.

 

Her mind raced, grappling with the grim reality. A part of her wanted to scream, to rage against the unforgiving tide of war, but duty anchored her to composure. Grasping for any semblance of control, she forced her voice to remain steady, “Send a manacomm transmission and allocate a destroyer squadron for rescue operations. What’s the status of our fleet?”

 

The junior officer seemed on the verge of a breakdown – an understandable reaction. He fidgeted with his hands anxiously as he responded, “Jamming has disrupted our communications. We’re attempting to reestablish connections using manacomms and visual signals. The fleet is currently in disarray, but we’re holding the retreat formation as best we can.”

 

Mirkenses nodded, the scene outside reflecting the officer’s report. The once orderly fleet now resembled a scattered array of desperate survival instincts. She could see destroyers and cruisers breaking formation, frantically signaling with flags and lights. Unlike the capital ships, which had backup manacomm systems, these smaller vessels had their only connection to the fleet rendered useless by the enemy’s jamming.

 

“Send out a manacomm transmission and have all available ships relay: anticipate missile engagement,” she ordered.

 

The officer nodded, directing his comrades in communications. Mirkenses watched as the fleet responded, order gradually reemerging from the chaos. Destroyers consolidated around the vulnerable capital ships, bolstering their air defense networks by adding layers of interlocking fields of fire that could increase their chances of survival, however marginal. It wasn’t much, but even a sliver of hope of saving the crew of even one ship was worth it.

 

The scene continued to unfold before Mirkenses as the GVS Bootes underwent preparations herself. The ship’s speakers came online as the captain gave orders. “General quarters, general quarters. All hands, man your battle stations! Anti-aircraft gun crews, stand to. Prepare for immediate missile defense upon enemy contact.”

 

Across the decks, sailors scrambled into action. Men in helmets and flak jackets rushed to the anti-aircraft guns and took their positions, aiming the barrels overhead in anticipation of the incoming missile strike. Fire suppression teams remained on standby, clad in heat-resistant suits and helmets. If a missile managed to hit their ship, they would be the most important personnel – and the ones most likely to die.

 

Bereft of technological aids due to the crippling jamming, the Gra Valkan fleet could only rely solely on the naked eye and instinct. Soon enough, missiles came from the distance. They hugged the water, appearing suddenly from the mist and spray of the turbulent sea. Mirkenses watched, heart thundering in her chest as the anti-aircraft crews sprung into action.

 

The guns thudded, sending a storm of lead skyward. The gunners worked in unison as they swiveled the bulky cannons in a desperate attempt to track the low-flying missiles. It was chaotic: loaders rammed shells into breaches, spotters shouted adjustments, and gunners corrected their aim.

 

Mirkenses saw tracers arcing through the air, filling the skies with streaks of light. They carved bright lines of hope against the grim backdrop, but deep down, she knew how futile it all was. The anti-aircraft fire formed a lethal barrier, an intricate web that could pulverize any of the Kainians’ or Mirishials’ aircraft. However, it was nothing to the missiles.

 

The missiles arced upward as they approached their targets, leaving the embrace of the water and preparing to unleash their fury. Each missile was designed for stealth and destruction, skimming the sea’s surface to avoid early detection – complete overkill, Mirkenses thought, especially combined with jamming. Their sudden ascent was a prelude to the havoc they were about to wreak. 

 

The gunners adjusted their aim, trying to track the almost invisible, high-speed targets. The air filled with the deafening roar of guns, audible even through the confines of the bridge. They tried to anticipate their trajectories, leading their shots ahead. Their guns spat out flak, creating deadly clouds of shrapnel in the path of the incoming missiles.

 

Mirkenses’ heart lifted as one of the missiles exploded in the air, but sank back as she realized it was only a fluke – almost never to be repeated again. The remaining missiles raced toward their targets faster than a dive bomber ever could, more accurately than a pilot could ever aim, and without the fear of death. The realization that they could not fend off all the missiles settled in like a cold weight in her stomach.

 

“Brace for impact!” she shouted, acting swiftly. She dropped to a low crouch, lunging toward a heavy metal console, its structure bolted firmly to the deck. Wrapping one arm securely around a support beam of the console, she pressed her back against its cold surface. Her other hand gripped the edge of the console tightly, her knuckles whitening against the effort. The console would serve as a barrier, offering some protection against the blast’s shockwave and any shrapnel that might follow.

 

Mirkenses lowered her head, protecting it from any debris from the windows. The gunfire grew louder, like the bullets were no longer tracking the missile in the sky, but attempting to desperately cut it down right over the ship. The distant whistle of the approaching missile swiftly turned into an ever-present howl, lasting milliseconds in reality but forever in her mind.

 

Then, an explosion. The impact was near the bow, sending a shockwave that rippled through the ship. Another impact struck the stern, and another somewhere in the midsection followed by secondary explosions from detonating ammo caches. She felt the deck lurch beneath her, shuddering violently and nearly throwing her against the bulkhead. Her ears rang, the sound of the explosion melding with the cries of alarm, orders being shouted, and the horrible groaning of metal.

 

One of the crew ran up to check on her, speaking a few words that sounded like gibberish. She couldn’t hear a thing. Was he asking if she was okay? She simply nodded and the man left her to tend to someone else. 

 

After a few seconds, she finally regained the ability to make out some words. 

 

“Damage control teams to stations!” someone called out.

 

Another man’s voice was more frustrated than anything else. “We only have two fucking medics up here?”

 

“The aft turret is gone!” an officer yelled, voice stricken with shock.

 

She stood up, bracing herself against the console. The view outside was desolate; a part of the bow was completely missing and dozens of fires burned in the distance, each one a ship destroyed or currently sinking. It was over just as quickly as it began. It occurred to her that this is what Dietrich must’ve faced – hopelessness wrought from a blitzkrieg they could never match, despair brought down upon them by technology that seemed more fantastical than the magic of the EDI.

 

“Status report,” she stammered out, placing her hand on the junior officer’s shoulder.

 

The officer couldn’t even respond. Shell shock. She turned away from him, approaching the captain instead. “Status?”

 

“We’re listing water,” the man replied. His response sounded more like an incredulous question than a report. “We can’t steer… We’re going in circles… We… have to abandon ship.”

 

There wouldn’t be time for that. “No. We cannot drag down the rest of the fleet. We stay here and…” Mirkenses trailed off.

 

“And what? Surrender?”

 

“That is our only option,” Mirkenses responded. “The rest of the fleet will continue north. We’ll do what we can to coordinate rescue operations before surrendering.”

 

“I…” It seemed like the man wanted to voice his disagreement, but he found no argument. “I understand.”

 

Mirkenses nodded. She didn’t like it either, but there was no other option. The least she could do now was preserve the Empire’s strength as much as possible, and preserve the lives of its citizens.