We Sail For Celestia

Dearest Brother,

We have scarcely had news from the rest of the front for a week or more. I hope you are well, and safe, if that is possible. Winter is truly here; the city rests beneath a chill blanket, both of snow and ice. I have never known conditions quite like it, and they say it will only get worse. Something to look forward to, I suppose. Perhaps you share my knowledge of these things, but I hope you have been sent somewhere warm (somewhere far away, for the only warm place here would be inside the boilers of one of our ships).

I am well, though cold. My coat is serving me finely, but it can only do so much. Alas it seemed to lose some of its protective qualities once it became soaked through for the first time (it did not take long for that to happen). As much as I usually enjoy the winter and the way it dresses the landscape, this is rather different, not least because I am often surrounded by concrete and steel. I cannot say more for, no doubt, the censors will delete it, and may well delete all of this as well. Such is military life!

Please tell father and uncle that I am well, if you can. I pray that we can all meet again in father's parlour soon, for brandy and cigars. Uncle will have that wicked grin on his face as he tells us of old tales, when the ships were wooden and the crews were iron.

(P.S.) This land is so barren that it makes me long for father's garden, just to wander about in it and smell the honeysuckle, even if it does play havoc with my sinuses.

Your brother,

Greenwood

Another letter written, signed, sealed, but not delivered. Greenwood tossed it in the mail bag with a few dozen others from the soldiers and sailors of Fort V. Whether or not it would ever be delivered would likely remain a mystery to him until he reached home, or until he could meet with his brother again- as long as that was in this life and not the next.

The mailbag was whisked away to one of the trains that would be taking empty ammunition crates back to the city for refilling. Fort V, like the others in the line, was under siege, and had been for some time. The crackle of distant guns that Greenwood had been able to hear from his cabin in the Defiant was no longer some far-off sound to vaguely disturb his sleep and his mind. Now it was a storm breaking overhead, a powerful thunder that shook the earth, the body and the soul. Though the fortress was constructed of thick concrete, reinforced with steel and topped with a layer of cushioning dirt, the shells of the Kirin artillery resonated through the sunken structures like the ringing of a bell; not quite as bad as being inside a warship under constant fire, but not too much better.

The cold, mentioned by Greenwood in his letter, did not limit itself to the outside world. Rather, it permeated the bunkers and tunnels of Fort V like a miasma, hanging in the musty air, clinging to every surface. Ice held fast to everything metal; to pipes where water droplets gathered, to the fixtures in the latrines and showers, to the barrels and breeches of the guns. The forts were not well heated. In truth, they were barely heated at all, though communal living areas had metal stoves which could produce enough heat to warm a couple of squads of infantry or a few gun crews. Elsewhere, heaters and fan blowers made futile attempts to warm up the firing galleries and connecting corridors, where the rails of the internal ammunition supply network could freeze over, preventing passage of the little electric locomotives and their flat shell-carts. When that happened, they had to be defrosted by the liberal application of heat, meaning that what few heaters there were often lent their efforts to improving the lot of the frozen rails, rather than the frozen garrison.

Greenwood's guns had not yet been called into action, for they were meant for closer-range combat. Once the Kirin attacked- and they would attack without question- then his guns would be brought to bear from their gallery, a setup similar to being on one of the secondary batteries aboard a capital ship, slotted neatly into the side of the main fort building to cover a large swathe of no-pony's land, the empty and desolate shell-pocked ruin that already lay between Fort V and the Kirin lines. Though no assaults had yet been launched directly on any of the forts, every pony, soldier and sailor alike, knew it was only a matter of time. The heavy artillery bombardments were just a prelude to soften them up. Endlessly pounding the forts would gain the Kirin nothing unless they pressed forward to capture them, for only then could they unlock their way to the city of Harmony Bay, and the rich prizes it contained for them.

The Kirin guns had been reinforced by something far heavier, dedicated siege artillery of some kind. It identified itself quite easily; instead of a whistling or rushing sound, its shell made a roar, like a giant sky-lion or the ancient, unevolved Griffon, before they developed into their present bipedal form. Whatever it was- siege mortar, railway gun or dismounted naval cannon- it made its presence known each time it fired. Its rounds could pierce concrete several feet thick, and had done so twice. One shell had cracked the strong casemate of one of the outer blockhouses of Fort V, while another had punched right through the roof of the main building of Fort W, farther down the line to the south, killing twenty ponies in the process. The inhabitants of Fort V now lived in fear of just such a fate befalling themselves, for while the rest of the Kirin guns could chip away at their defences, only the Kirin's new devil-gun seemed capable of smashing them in a single blow.

Lying beyond that, beyond the fear of sudden and instant death with the roar of the sky-lion filling one's ears, there was the fear of what else the future might hold. An assault was inevitable. The Kirin would come storming toward the fort, with conquest on their minds, but right now each defender only had one thought on theirs. Could they hold? When the Kirin came, could Fort V hold? Not just that, but could their spirits hold? Their morale? Would it be enough, their faith and courage? Or would they break?

There was only one way to find the answers to those questions, and it was not down to them to decide whether or not they would be tested in the coming days.

The waters around the southern tip of the continent were calm, unusual for that part of the world, but the passage of the hurricane had soothed mother nature in its wake, at least temporarily, and brought fine conditions. The semi-tropical sea was full of life- shoals of fish, great humpback whales migrating south for the winter, porpoises frolicking. But there was other life here too. Life that did not belong.

"Make depth one hundred."

"Depth one hundred, aye."

The sleek silver fish swam silently through the waters, calm but cloudy, silt and dirt having been stirred up by the violence of the passing hurricane which had vacated the area earlier that day. Death had been lurking quietly at the edge of the storm, waiting, hoping for luck, hoping for a bite, for prey. Now, they finally had it.

The interior of the submarine was almost as dark and dank as the sea outside. The cramped conditions were like being in a prison, with dripping, leaky pipes and barely any room to stand. For the tallest members of the crew, the only place on board they could stand up straight was in the conning tower, the fin-like protuberance that jutted from the top of the craft, a slender metal dolphin with hydroplanes fore and aft, the conning tower square in the middle, and a single deck gun, now well covered and sealed with watertight plugs, for use against hostile freighters. Right now, however, the submarine was hunting bigger, juicier prey.

The sweat-soaked crew were quiet, not for lack of enthusiasm but because of standing orders. Any noise that was not strictly necessary, such as the soft whispered orders that guided them, was to be kept to an absolute minimum, for the submarine was an invisible hunter- so long as nobody was looking for her.

"One hundred feet."

"All ahead one third," the captain ordered, sweat dripping from her brow. The warm, temperate waters of the equatorial region were not conducive to easy submarine operation, for the heat and humidity that made tropical beaches a favoured destination of the well-to-do also turned the interior of the vessel into something akin to a sauna, radiating through the hull even in winter, for it never was truly winter this far south. One would have to continue for several thousand miles in the same direction before reaching the antarctic waters of the southern hemisphere.

With their uniforms already soaked through with sweat and moisture hanging in the air all around, the crew crouched at their battle stations, ready to spring into instant life if the situation called for it. An eerie red glow lit each compartment, the emergency lighting used in battle situations as it helped the crew retain their night vision, and when a single malfunction or enemy attack could plunge the entire vessel into darkness, that was important.

The captain's uniform was not exactly up to code, but that was considered acceptable aboard a submarine due to the conditions the crew had to endure. Her peaked cap was in her tiny cabin, her shirt was unbuttoned almost the entire way down to her stomach, and instead of smartly pressed trousers she wore tropical shorts. The rest of the crew were attired similarly. Such a lax attitude to uniform elsewhere in the Navy would see officers and sailors alike given a stern dressing-down and perhaps even a court martial. But not here, not on this submarine.

"Helm, periscope depth."

"Periscope depth, aye."

The bow planes of the submarine tilted, raising her prow as it cut through the water, bringing her closer to the surface. They were still invisible, but they needed to see, to confirm what they thought they knew.

"New contact, captain!" hissed the hydrophone operator, the ears of the ship, headset clasped in his firm grip. "Two screws, heavy...bearing three-one-zero, range...twenty thousand yards. I think it's...yes, it's a battleship."

"Certain?" the captain asked.

"As certain as I can be unless we stop, ma'am," he replied. The underwater acoustic listening devices fitted to the exterior of the submarine's hull were more effective when there was no other noise to distract the operator, such as the sloshing of water moving past them or the thrum of the boat's own props, but even under such conditions they could detect incoming vessels from a good range, anywhere up to twelve or sometimes fifteen miles if the sea was not too turbulent.

"All ahead, dead slow. Up periscope," the captain ordered, grasping the handles and peering into the viewing window as the device was lowered to eye-height, while at the same time the other end of the telescoping shaft rose from the top of the conning tower to pierce the water. A series of lenses reflected the light down to the captain's eyes, allowing her to see what was happening above them.

Dead ahead, as the hydrophone operator had predicted earlier, was a merchant ship of some kind, flying the Equestrian merchant-marine flags. It was no mere freighter, but an Equestrian Naval Support Ship, or ENSS, to use their technical designation, not a combatant vessel of the fleet but an auxiliary. On closer inspection, she was able to identify it as a tanker, a fleet oiler seemingly abandoned by its fellows, for this was no chance encounter.

The Kirin Navy, well aware of Admiral Blueblood's course thanks to their intelligence and the simple fact of it being practically impossible for him to hide his intentions, had positioned several submarines along the route; their entire complement of such craft, in fact, for they only possessed three. This submarine, the IKV Formata, was the farthest out of the three vessels, having been dispatched from a forward base tucked away in the thousand-island archipelagic chain, well outside of Equestrian jurisdiction and set up only temporarily under the noses of nearby pirates purely to fulfill this single mission of intercepting the Home Fleet as it made its way to relieve Harmony Bay. Once the job was done, or the opportunity had passed, the base would be rapidly dismantled and its contents returned to the homeland aboard a fast freighter and a single corvette for escort. The other two submarines, their patrol areas being much closer to the Kirin Empire, had been dispatched directly from their home port.

The Formata and her captain, Cherry Cascade, had been tracking the oiler and preparing to move into position, but now an even more attractive target was coming into view. Battleships were key to the inevitable struggle that would result when the two great fleets finally collided, and Cascade's orders were clear; capital ships were a priority. Anything else could wait. Let them go if she had to; destroyers, frigates, escorts, even cruisers were of no particular interest to the Kirin leadership. Battleships and battlecruisers were, even above the support vessels such as the fat, stately oiler that lay in front of them. Besides, with no other ships anywhere in the vicinity, once they sank the battleship they could return for the oiler anyway.

The storm had been a godsend for the Kirin. It had done a better job of separating the fleet than a dog scattering pigeons. Each vessel had been operating in its own little bubble, cut off by the wind and waves from anything nearby, unable to even see another ship for most of the preceding twenty four hours. While they scrambled about to organise and reunite their fleet, the Formata, lying in wait, had begun to pick up ships on her hydrophones. Though the dispersion meant there was no one huge target for them, it did mean that the fleet's escorts, destroyers and corvettes with hydrophones of their own, would not be hunting them down as soon as they fired, or even before they could get a shot away. For now, nothing stood between them and an easy pair of kills.

Cherry Cascade swung the periscope around to see if there was any sign of the battleship in the distance. Yes, there- smoke, rising above the horizon. Definitely something big, multiple funnels- and multiple screws, according to the hydrophoneer- making good steam across the sea, coming their way, almost directly for them. Lured in by their own oiler, perhaps, moving to link up with the vulnerable supply ship. That would do nicely.

"Bow planes, ten degree rise," Cascade ordered. "All stop. Phones, give me a mark on contact two."

"Bow planes ten degree rise."

"All stop, engine room reports all stop."

"Contact two now bearing three-two-zero...turn count is zero-eight-three. Heavy screws, light vibration...battleship for sure, captain. Province-Class I think."

"Down periscope. All ahead one-half. Maintain heading," Cascade continued her stream of orders to the crew around her, and via the internal circuit to other compartments of the submarine. "Forward torpedo room. Make ready tubes one through four."

The hydrophones were able to detect sound, but only a trained operator could really tell what they were listening to. The dark-green Kirin, Verdant Vision, was appropriately named given his colour, but less so when it came to the second part of his name, for it was his hearing that was excellent, hence his role on board. From listening to the sounds of the propellers of the distant ship, he could determine what class of vessel it was, whether it was military or civilian, how fast the screws were turning and thus the likely rough speed of the vessel, and even how many blades its propellers had. All of these things combined with an encyclopaedic knowledge of the major types and classes of ship they were likely to encounter allowed the submarine's crew to determine exactly what was coming their way.

After several minutes of quiet running, Cascade ordered the periscope raised again and took another look. Now the ship was visible, and she could see exactly what they were dealing with. Four funnels amidships, two tall, spindly masts adorned with various flags, two turrets for'ard and one aft, slab-sided, half-open superstructure, open bridge...yes, that was a Province-Class alright. One of Equestria's older types, not the brand new cutting-edge designs, and crucially, only partially protected by armour.

"All ahead one third. Forward torpedo room, stand by to fire," Cascade spoke over the interior circuit. "Set depth one-zero feet." Her eyes were glued to the periscope. The battleship was steaming on, oblivious to the mortal danger it was now in. With no escorts nearby, it was helpless, like the pheasant in the sights of the hunter's rifle. With a stopwatch in her hand and sweat dripping from her brow, Cascade licked her cracked, dry lips.

"Fire one. Fire two. Fire three."

Torpedoes leapt from the bow tubes, ascending to run slightly below the surface of the sea, ten feet below as ordered by Cascade, their wakes visible to keen-eyed observers.

"One away!" "Two away!" "Three away!" trilled the torpedo-room crew, standing by to reload the spent tubes with fresh missiles if ordered. The three torpedoes raced toward the battleship. If anybody aboard spotted them, it was far too late, for the ship made no effort to turn or to change her speed. The fan of torpedoes struck home, one after the other; first near her stern, then amidships, then toward the bow. The mighty vessel heaved and bucked, spray fountaining skyward from each impact site. A fire rapidly caught hold toward the stern, but it was soon extinguished by the vast volumes of seawater that were now rushing into the interior of the ship.

"Helm, steer heading one-one-five. All ahead one half," Cascade ordered. "Phones?"

"She's going down, captain," Verdant Vision reported, to a silent but jubilant celebration of clenched fists, grins and pats on the back among the crew. "No prop noise. I can hear the water filling her up. Sounds like we might have torn her bottom out."

"Very good," Cascade grinned wickedly. "Forward torpedo room! Make ready tube four, reload tubes one through three. We're not done yet."