Sea Dragon

Chapter One: Beginnings

“Last night, the CER ceased all negotiations in regards to releasing our troops.”

People in every State looked at the vid-feeds, showing a young man, reading from the papers in front of him with a clear and concise voice.

“The Council has decreed a state of emergency. All military units have begun mobilization for the safe extraction of our troops from the east.”

Screens flickered, replacing the newscaster with live recordings stemming from UIS military bases worldwide. Infantry divisions were being loaded into trucks, shouting something inaudible over the noise as tanks rolled past.

“The Pacific Fleet has been confirmed as regrouping after the successful completion of Operation Kaiser in response to the mobilization order.”

The scene changed to an airborne view of the fleet, compromising of thirty ships, powering its way east, back to the mainland. The hulking aircraft carrier, US Victorious, was easily identifiable from the old F22s it was carrying on its deck. There were muted whisperings at this.

“This mobilization has been approved by the Chief of the Military, who has declared that all available forces will be employed in the safe return of battle group Kennedy, and there are beliefs of an armored strike against Ivangrad to unveil the reasons for the CERs actions.”

Pictures of the Chief appeared on vid-screens across the continent, making his claim confidently, soon replaced by a map of CER territory, stretching away from what used to be once called Eastern Europe, and encompassing everything east and south on the continent.

“This is the final resolution of the Council,” continued the newscaster. “All attempts at peaceful negotiation have failed, and the last ambassador in the CER was reported killed in an accident some days ago. Having no option left, our esteemed Council has regretfully decided on the last avenue open for the sake of battle group Kennedy”

The young man on the vid-screen looked straight at the camera, his face set in stone.

“Citizens, we are at war.”

There was a storm raging. Rain plummeted from a blackened sky, falling into the churning sea. Waves reared up and crashed down erratically, spraying water over the windows. Thunder rolled overhead, and sparse flashes of lightning pierced the clouds from time to time, illuminating the scene for a moment before fading away.

A fitting herald for an amphibious assault force consisting of three battleships, twelve cruisers, nine frigates, two submarines, an aircraft carrier and over one thousand landing craft.

The massive escort ships pitched slightly as the colossal waves passed below, cresting each swell before plunging back downwards into the icy water. Far below the surface, the two Manhattan class submarines, the Havoc and the Devestator, ran long range sonar scans for any enemy activity whilst constantly communicating with the surface ships via encrypted data bursts.

Atop the turbulent sea, US Victorious, the California class super-carrier ran simulated combat drills versus a computerised squadron of fighter jets. About four hundred metres to it’s left one of the battleships, a hulking iron behemoth names Leviathan, intermittently traversed its searchlights across the black water, marking each of the landing craft to make sure none had strayed form their course.

Running next to it at a steady pace of thirty knots, the frigate Kestrel was dominated by smooth curves, not a single turret or bridge blemishing its smooth hull. The stealth ship, dwarfed by its larger cousin, stayed alongside the iron monstrosity, keeping within its shadow, becoming essentially invisible.

The shoal of landing craft was within the ring of escorts, their bulky forms clearly out of place amidst the lethal outlines of the ships surrounding them. Each one was little more than a rectangular slab floating on the water, heading as fast as possible to the landing point. The only armaments upon it were a pair of old M61 Vulcan gatling guns on a rotating turret at the prow, and four missile tubes loaded with SAMs on the stern. A small bridge, little better than a squat tower, was located on the left side of the vessel. The rest of its two hundred metre length, fifty metre width and fifty metre height was dedicated to transportation.

Lander 36215, one of the lead transports, was echoing with the flurry of activity below decks. One of the lowest levels had sprung a leak, the forces being exerted upon the metal by the water being too much for the panels to handle. The leak was a minor one, simply a trickle of liquid pattering off the armour of one of the Mastodon tanks in the lowest hold, driving its crew insane with its monotony.

Sitting on his relatively comfortable command chair, Ensign Kolish sighed as he rubbed his tired eyes. The interior of the tank was dim, the lights having been turned down for the voyage to allow the crew to get some sleep. But the dripping water hitting his tank was echoing in the cramped confines, getting on his nerves.

Drip, drip…

He looked around, checking up on his crew. All were visibly becoming agitated by the sound, some resorting to stuffing their ears with pieces of paper. Two of his men had managed to get to sleep somehow, despite the swaying motion the tank was going through. According to Fleetnet, they were passing through a storm, which would increase their journey time by about two minutes and provide excellent cover against enemy satellites. In theory at least.

Drip, drip…

“You know, you’d think these transports would be better equipped, what with the funding the military gets these days,” said Theo, the gunner of the tank’s main turret conversationally. Several of the closest members looked up at him.

“You forget, everything we use is made by the lowest bidder,” replied Maik, the communications officer with a yawn. “That’s why half this stuff needs replacing every two years.”

“True, true, but still, we could use a lounge or something! I mean, we’re cooped up in here enough as it is!” said Theo, running a hand through his blonde hair.

Drip, drip…

“Care to go for a walk then?” offered the younger man with a grin.

“Hah, no thanks,” answered the gunner, shaking his head. “It’s worse out there than it is in here. At least it’s dry and warm here!” he added to much approval from the other crew members who were bothering to follow the conversation. Maik simply conceded the point wit a shrug before spinning his swivel chair back to face his console, resting his legs on it and settling down to sleep. Theo turned away and made his way over to the metal ladder, clambering up with ease of experience and getting into his hammock, pulling his cap down over his eyes as he began to rock the hammock to lull himself to sleep.

Drip, drip…

Kolish held back a growl of annoyance, standing up and heading over to the metal ladder himself. One or two crew looked up as he passed, but he paid them no heed. He gripped the metal rungs with his calloused hands and began to climb, taking care not too make too much noise. He passed Theo, who was already lightly snoring, and headed on up towards the top hatch.

Drip, drip…

He reached up and undid the latch, opening the small metal hatch with a clang. The tank commander pulled himself out, and sat on top of his vehicle for a moment, savouring the salty tang in the air. He stood up and shoved his hands into his pockets, walking along the turret. Kolish looked around, his breath steaming in front of his face. Another four Mastodon super-heavy tanks were parked on this deck, their angular forms conveying an impression of primal violence.

Drip, drip…

Each one had a main turret with a battle cannon, a sub turret mounted atop that with four linked auto cannons for AA defence, and four sponsors with .42 machine guns and under slung flame-throwers. Those were an unofficial addition, but commonly employed when going into a battle against lots of infantry or when fighting in the confines of a city. The Mastodon was known for its versatility in terms of weaponry. Pretty much any vehicle based weapons system could be attached to its frame, given enough time and technicians of course. But that meant that a force with even one of such tanks could deal with anything thrown in its way, providing they had ample opportunity to prepare.

Drip, drip…

Kolish leapt down from the turret onto the main hull of his tank with a resonating thud. He straightened up and turned to glance at the symbol painted onto the turret. It was also an unofficial practice for the tank crews to give their vehicle a name and to invent some sort of heraldry for it. It was a bonding activity. Everyone had helped out to produce the picture, and took it in turns to maintain it after each battle. It was considered bad luck to go into battle without at least the emblem having been repaired.

Drip, drip…

Their emblem was a jester. The left side of his whole outfit, except the cap, was sky blue. The right side was white with a blue diamond pattern. On his hands he wore black gloves, and he also wore black, pointy-toed elf shoes that ended in white puffballs instead of points. On the head he wore a unique jester’s cap. The cap had two sides and two points. The left side was white whilst the right side was sky blue. Both points were long, starting at the head and ending at knee length. Both ended in white puffballs like the shoes.

Drip, drip…

But, by far the most defining feature was the mask. It was a full face mask that had no more than three colours on it. The upper half, around the eyes over the top half of the bridge of the nose and the whole forehead, was pure black, save for two white circles where the eyes would be. The lower half was snow white and had a line drawing of a pointy toothed smile on it, not unlike one would find on a child’s rendition of a shark. The smile stretched across the mask from left to right. From the bottom centre of the eyes to the smile below ran two, thick, red stripes, one per eye, as if the mask had cried blood. In his hands, the jester held a scythe.

Drip, drip…

The picture had two scrolls painted over its lower portion. The first boldly proclaimed the name of the tank, Death Jester, and the other listed all those who had been part of its crew so far. Only twenty names were inscribed on the painted scroll, the first to crew this tank. And the first name on the list was his own. Edgar G. Kolish. He smiled slightly as he turned form the emblem and continued to walk along the hull of the tank. The vehicle was massive, in keeping with its namesake. It was roughly twenty metres in length and about ten metres in width, and a total height of around eight metres. The total weight of the colossus was about two hundred metric tons. The only way it could move was through a suitably powerful multi-turbine five thousand horsepower engine and four sets of extra wide tracks.

Drip, drip…

Kolish stopped and turned. There was a small puddle, rippling slightly with each drop that fell into it. Looking up, he saw a drop of water glint as it fell from the ceiling. He walked over to the puddle and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small towel. He placed it in the growing pool of water, mopping it up before leaving it there. The drops fell silent as they hit the absorbent rag. The ensign smiled victoriously and began to walk back to the turret, his footfalls echoing around the cargo hold.

Drip, drip…

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me!”

The storm continued to rage as the convoy ploughed on defiantly. Machinery and computers whirred as they guided the ships through. The Victorious took the lead, its gigantic form cutting through the waves in its path, clearing a route for the rest of the convoy which fell in line in the super-carrier’s wake.

The wind howled around the metal craft, lashing rain against their steel surfaces. Lightning crackled overhead, illuminating the whole fleet arrayed in a column as they trailed after the Victorious, like ducklings swimming after their mother. A half-kilometre long mother carrying thirty squadrons of aircraft and numerous close-in weapon systems and anti-air missiles. Powered by four nuclear reactors, the Gerald T. Nimitz class super-carrier could reach a speed of over thirty knots, and could act as a base for any kind of aircraft. The top deck was clear now, the crashing waves and buffeting winds making it foolish to store any aircraft there.

It was a ship designed after a century of war, much like its smaller kin behind. Each ship had been created and refined to fulfil its battlefield role at peak efficiency. The Leviathan, with its two nuclear reactors, was outfitted for brutal ship-to-ship combat with layers of armour plating and packs of heavy cannons. The crew were all trained in boarding operations and carried full body armour and shotguns when in battle.

But the Kestrel, darting away from the Leviathan, was a totally different kind of ship. Sleek and black, it was a dagger to the hammer that was the Leviathan. A flat arrowhead, it swept past the convoy and continued onwards as the sea began to calm, the worst of the storm over. The stealth destroyer glided silently past the Victorious, its sleek hull resting above the water on a thin coating of bubbles excreted by thousands of small nozzles decorating its underside. The lack of actual physical contact with the water meant that drag was radically reduced, making the Kestrel one of the fastest ships in the fleet.

Making it the perfect first strike weapon.

“Good hunting Kestrel.”

Those had been the last words anyone had heard on the bridge of the stealth ship for hours as it had sped off ahead of the main fleet. Sitting on her command chair, Captain Tomlinson narrowed her eyes as she inspected the data being displayed on the console in front of her. Still in her mid-twenties, she was amongst the youngest commanding officers in the fleet. Her long red hair was done up in a ponytail to prevent it falling in front of her face. The data she was inspecting showed a top down view of the entire operation area, images being sent directly to her from the satellite assigned to this sector. The storm clouds were obscuring most of her view, so she reached out and tapped some commands on the touch screen with her elegant hands, overlaying tactical maps and various data, which provided her with a clear map of the area. The coastline was clearly marked by a yellow glowing line, and the convoy ships each had a small blue box surrounding their icons.

But what interested her were the five pulsing maroon icons, located about a mile inland, scattered along the entire coastline the fleet was heading for. Each one denoted the location of a target of military significance. Her targets.

She tapped one of the boxes, and it immediately expanded to fill her whole screen. She was now looking at a missile base, numerous launchers and silos ringed by a heavily fortified perimeter and protected by a slew of turrets designed for shooting down incoming ordinance. A small military base was located adjacent to it, and several vehicles could be seen parked within its perimeter. Tomlinson zoomed out to the previous screen and selected another of her targets. This one was an airfield, and was also heavily defended. She could make out some aircraft on the landing strip, but couldn’t identify their type. She shrugged. It hardly mattered anyway.

“What is our time?” she asked, looking up at the rest of the crew on the bridge, her voice tinged with an Australian accent.

“Three minutes left,” replied Eskridge, her weapons specialist, as he glanced at the old analogue watch strapped to his wrist.

Tomlinson nodded thoughtfully, turning back to the console in front of her. “Hmm, and what is the status of the Titans?” she asked. The brown haired man glanced at her before consulting the small electronic notebook he held in his hand.

“They’re good to go. Just waiting for your order,” he said to the captain. She acknowledged the comment with a nod and a smile, her eyes lighting up in anticipation. “Two minutes,” added Eskridge, as an afterthought before withdrawing.

Tomlinson smiled as she surveyed the bridge. It was dark, lit only by the cool blue glow of the consoles’ touch screens. She felt the adrenaline begin to course through her system, and licked her lips as she selected all her targets. The boxes encompassing them were added to a list. Scanning it to check for errors, the young woman was pleased when she found none.

“One minute,” reported Eskridge.

His commander tapped in the activation password for the Titan warheads. Her console pinged to signify acceptance. Assigning two missiles per target, Tomlinson couldn’t help but grin at her weapons specialist. He looked at her eager face and sighed.

“We are cleared to engage.”

Permitting herself an Australian yelp of delight, Captain Tomlinson of the stealth destroyer Kestrel hit the button.

Outside, the armour of the Kestrel shivered. Hexagonal plates of steel reinforced carbon fibre slid back to reveal ten missile tube. The destroyer shuddered as it launched an entire salvo in one go. The missiles streaked upwards, away from the ship, trailing smoke. The panels slid back as the Kestrel swung around and sped off back towards the convoy.

Meanwhile, the small computer chips embedded in the Titan missiles obeyed their programming and split the salvo into five pairs, each pair assigned to a specific target. The missiles rocketed off towards the coastline, their engines screeching. It took them less than a minute to reach each installation.

Each targeted site was fortified and ringed by defences designed to hold back any force, any ordinance. They never stood a chance. The missiles were travelling at mach three when they struck their targets. Each missile in the salvo had been programmed to inflict as much devastation as possible, and so each pair split part as they approached, and fell at either end of the installation. Their sonic boom shattered equipment as they screamed past, before slamming into the ground.

The shock wave hurtled out, throwing deafened personnel off their feet, shaking buildings apart. All missiles tunnelled to about twenty metres beneath the surface before their warheads detonated. A sphere of incinerating plasma expanded before exploding, shredding the rock surrounding it, and sending super heated fragments in all directions as the blasts devoured everything in a thirty metre radius, instantly incinerating everything in range. Whatever remained was swiftly demolished by the falling chunks of molten rock thrown up by the blast. Two minutes after Captain Tomlinson had fired off the weapons; all the targets had been systematically annihilated, all within twenty seconds of each other.

“Kestrel reports curtain raised,” said Wan reading the message form his console. “They’re heading back now.”

Admiral Hammerson looked up and out the window of his bridge aboard the Victorious. Streaks of grey coloured his black hair, and he stood up, the crew around him hushing as they turned to look at him, awaiting the command. Everyone knew the Admiral’s penchant for theatrics. No one minded. Indeed, it added some entertainment to otherwise mundane duties.

The ageing Admiral cast out his hand imperiously as he gave his order. “Take us in.”

A chorus of agreement and acknowledgements met the declaration, and the bridge dissolved into organised chaos. The low rumble of the thunder was replaced by the louder growling of the turbines powered by the nuclear generators, as their output was pushed to the extreme limit. The massive aircraft carrier lurched suddenly as its speed increased.

About fifty metres behind it, the rest of the convoy spread out, forming up on either side of the Victorious in a wedge formation. All craft shifted their speeds to fifty knots, and hurtled through the clawing water towards the enemy coastline.

Below the ocean’s surface, the two submarines attached to the fleet split away to provide rearguard. One sailed north and the other south, both remaining in radio contact with the fleet, providing situation updates every five minutes.

Sirens were ringing all over the place, drowning out the sound of dripping water. For which Kolish was insanely grateful. He shut the hatch behind him before sliding down the ladder, slowing himself near the bottom by grabbing onto Theo’s hammock, making it spin over and casing the slumbering Theo to crash onto the floor before landing next to him.

“Alright, stations everyone!” shouted the tank commander, striding to his seat, shouting at the slumbering crew. They rose groggily, rubbing their eyes and activating their consoles. The Death Jester growled as power ran through its systems, awakening the dormant machine.

Theo staggered to his feet, clutching his bleeding nose and muttering obscenities under his breath. Kolish shot him a warning look and the turret gunner sullenly began to climb back up the ladder to his station.

The ensign sat down on his command chair, slightly raised to allow him to look down on the rest of his crew’s work stations. “Status report,” he said, tapping some commands into his seats armrest, and a holographic projection of the Mastodon materialised before him.

“Engines are a go,” reported the driver, a stocky man called Raymond.

“Reactor level is at fifty percent,” added Gordon, their engineer. It was sort of obvious what his role was anyway. The man always carried a wrench, spanner, hammer and a small welding torch on his person at all times.

“Larkin,” called Kolish, turning to look at the ladder leading to the turret. “How many rounds do we have?”

It took a moment for the turret loader to check the supplies they had stashed on-board. Perched on an overhang in the turret, just below Theo’s gunner seat, the lanky man scanned the small digital slate he held in his hand before answering. “We have fifteen depleted uranium shells, ten incendiaries, and five air burst shells for the main gun. Secondary turret has enough ammo to fire continuously for about half an hour, and the sponson guns have enough for half an hour. The flame-throwers can fire for about ten minutes. Any more than that and we’ll be using up fuel.”

Kolish assimilated all this information and did some calculations. “Very good Larkin. Load the uranium shell followed by an air burst and then an incendiary,” he said, hearing the nimble loader shift position to personally inspect each shell to be loaded into the main cannon of the Mastodon. The ensign turned back to the rest of the crew. “Radar?”

“All clear. Slight interference from all the iron around us, but we should be fine once we clear the transport.” Tat was Malakai, sitting at the radar station, glaring at the green circular image displaying the Death Jester’s position relative to geographical and military landmarks, provided by Fleetnet. The light from his station made him appear ghostly and ethereal, like a drowned wraith come back to haunt the living. His gaunt appearance only emphasised the resemblance.

Before Kolish could ask, the youth next to him piped up. “All channels are clear. 456 has been assigned to vehicle operations, and 347 to infantry. 987 is for the fleet. Green code is ‘Lincoln’, and red word is ’Kennedy’” conveyed the youngest member of the Jester’s crew. Barely out of his teens, Maik was eager and full of vitality. Yet he was also trained to curb his enthusiasm in battle, and so his delivery was quick and terse. Kolish nodded in approval, and the boy allowed himself a smile before fiddling with the dials of his radio set.

“Understood,” replied the ensign. “But next time, await for my question before answering.”

“Ah…yes sir.”

“Good. Darver, you sorted?”

The gunner’s head materialised, the secondary turret gunner grinning mockingly as he hung upside down and saluted. “Sir Yes sir,” he reported with a wink before disappearing back to his station. Kolish could hear Theo snickering. The turret gunners tended to be slightly more independent, having to take the initiative more often than not once battle was joined. Such circumstance bred men who were proud and daring, but skilled at ensuring the survival of the vehicle they were in. Hence most minor infractions which surrounded their lives tended to be overlooked or lightly dealt with.

Choosing to overlook the lack of respect the AA turret gunner had shown, Kolish sighed as he addressed the final four members of the crew. “Sponsons, status?”

The four men chorused the affirmative from each corner of the tank, their swivel stations attached directly to the guns themselves, located in between the top and bottom of each set of track loops. Jan, Philip, Clyde and Jack. Those were their names, remembered Kolish, cursing himself silently for forgetting. The fact this was a new crew was no excuse, and he chided himself mentally before replying.

“Very good Clyde, Jan, Philip. And you too Jack,” said the tank commander with a wave of his hand. “Maik, send a message to Deployment. Death Jester awaits the show.”

The escort ships reversed engines, killing their speed as they neared the coastline. The Victorious was the first to come to a stop, holding position as the rest of the fleet deployed around it, parallel to the coast in order to bring the full might of their massed gun batteries to bear. The Kestrel sailed past the battle line, its mission fulfilled. Shifting its course slightly, the destroyer headed out to open sea, where it would remain on standby, prepared to provide a cover of missiles should something go wrong and the landings have to be aborted.

If that happened, it would only be the arsenal of the Kestrel and the skill of Captain Tomlinson preventing the entire withdrawal from collapsing and becoming a rout.

Meanwhile, the twin submarines Havoc and Devastator where duelling with two long range patrols of cruisers which had been heading for the convoy fleet, hoping to catch it in a pincer manoeuvre. Instead, both had been ambushed by the submarines, and each accounted for a cruiser each before having to dive below attack depth to avoid reprisals. Eventually they would be forced to fall back to the main body of the fleet once the enemy began to employ depth charges, but not before transmitting the targeting data for the remaining cruisers to the Kestrel, which proceeded to eliminate them with a single salvo of long range anti-ship missiles.

By this time, the landing craft had powered ahead of the fleet, braving the hell storm of enemy fire under a covering bombardment.

A Gorgon class transport craft was built for mass deployment. Its impressive bulk could hold several battalion’s worth of troops and vehicles, all carried on one of its five decks. It can deliver the cargo in relative safety over large bodies of water in mediocre comfort, and was armed for self-defence or to support the ground forces it was disgorging. But it was still an easy target, and whilst all the troops and vehicles were stowed aboard, they could do nothing but hope to make it to the shore.

Three craft didn’t, blown apart by salvoes of gunfire from the artillery emplacements located along the ridge line overlooking the coast. Each of the monstrous weapons roared as they spat hundred pound shells into the water, throwing up great plumes of liquid as they missed. But spotters on the beaches managed to triangulate the predicted movement of three of the Gorgon class transports, and each was hit by three shells in short order.

The heavy ammunition slammed into the top armour of the first craft, tearing through the sheets of metal and plummeting through the decks, leaving a trail of devastation in their wake. One passed clean through the entire transport, exploding ten feet beneath its bottom. One exploded once it slammed into the second deck, hurling out shrapnel to scythe down the infantry waiting to disembark there.

And the third hit the fuel canisters. The fireball was visible for miles in every direction, a tongue of flame rising to the heavens, a funeral pyre for hundreds of soldiers who never stood a chance of survival.

The second unlucky transport suffered two hits to its bridge, which was obliterated utterly, and the third shell lodged itself in the engines before failing to explode. Directionless, the craft simply drifted into range of the pillboxes lining the coast, and was finally sunk after a full minute of suffering sustained fire from three of the defensive emplacements. In that time over a thousand men had managed to get out, and swam for the beach as the landing ship was dragged below the waves, taking all the vehicles with it.

Fate had nothing spectacular for the last unfortunate craft, as the three shells assigned to its destruction all exploded in its innards, shredding the machinery and crew. It defiantly stayed on course, but another salvo was called in, and the third craft sunk, wreathed in flame and smoke.

But those were the only Gorgons sunk on approach. The rest of the shoal made it through the worst of the enemy fire and ground up onto the beach, their front ramps falling with a loud clang and partially burying themselves in the soft sand. With practised precision, the infantry on the upper decks hooked into the rappels and slid down into the shallow water around the transports, whilst the vehicles roared into life and ploughed into the water, their momentum carrying them far enough to gain purchase on the sand, letting them drag themselves out of the water.

Phase one of Operation Sea Dragon had succeeded. The dragon had emerged on the eastern-most shores of the CER, and would move to immolate anyone in reach to fortify its new home. That was phase two.